‘Judging by the monotonous regularity of the voicemail messages he’s left, impatient.’

‘That doesn’t bode well,’ David said sombrely.

‘I know it’s not ideal. But you can’t blame him. This business with Beth has put him weeks behind schedule. And the way things are at the moment that could be enough to put a developer out of business. He must be pretty desperate. After all, who’s going to want to buy a house built on a site that’s been splashed all over the red tops as the scene of some bizarre suicide?’

‘Well, if he’s that desperate for work we’re his best bet of recovering his investment. So he’ll have to cut us a bit of slack.’

Clare raised her finger to her lips. ‘Ssh!’

A low humming sound drifted through the open door.

‘What?’

The hum grew louder, rising and falling with a rhythmic insistence. David made his way to the doorway. Clare followed, standing on tiptoe so that she could peer over his shoulder. The noise was coming from a spot about a hundred metres uphill from where their newly acquired office was located. A broadly built man with greying tufts of unruly hair protruding from beneath a battered blue baseball cap was standing with his back to them, facing the stand of beech trees at the top of the hill. Above his head he twirled a length of rope on the end of which was a flat slat of wood about a foot long from which the whirring sound appeared to be emanating.

Clare whispered to David, ‘What the …?’

David gave her one of his self-satisfied smiles. ‘It’s a bullroarer. Indigenous Australians and some Melanesian peoples use them in their ceremonies.’

Clare dug David in the ribs.

‘Ow! What was that for?’

Trying to keep an even tone, she whispered, ‘I know what it is. But why is there a man in a white sheet waving one about on our site?’

David coughed and flushed uncomfortably. ‘Dunno. Let’s ask him, shall we?’

Clare caught him by the arm as he was about to step down from the Portakabin. ‘We can’t just walk up and demand to know what he’s doing.’

David turned and looked up at her. ‘Why the bloody hell not? It’s our excavation. We’ve got every right to know what he’s up to.’

‘What if he’s performing a ceremony or something. It just seems’ – she struggled to find the right word – ‘rude.’

But it was too late; David was already marching upslope towards the man. Halfway up the hill he turned and beckoned for her to follow him. ‘Don’t be soft. Get up here!’

Hearing David’s words, the figure in the white sheet turned to face them, bringing the bullroarer slowly to rest in a series of low arcs.