The man spun round. It was Paul Marshall. He was waving a copy of a newspaper at her. It took her only seconds to recognise it as yesterday’s copy of the Western Daily Press. She had the same edition sitting on the Portakabin desk, waiting for her to cut out the temple article for the team noticeboard.

‘Oh yes, you can. You can tell me what the fuck you think you’re playing at.’

‘I don’t quite follow you, Mr Marshall.’

‘Well, you bloody well should. I thought I’d stopped all of this sort of bullshit when I spoke to your boss about the last lot of bollocks you splashed all over the media. But apparently I didn’t make myself clear.’ He walked forward until he was standing toe to toe with her. ‘I won’t have it. I won’t take any more of this shit from you.’ He threw the newspaper to the floor.

Clare stepped back and took a deep breath, trying to control her escalating heartbeat. ‘If you’d like to come into my office, I’d be happy to discuss any concerns you might have, Mr Marshall.’

His face was on fire. He looked like he was about to have a heart attack.

‘Your office!’ He bellowed. ‘You’ve got a sodding nerve. I own this site. All of it. Do you hear me? And I won’t have anyone trying to tell me where I can and can’t go on my own property.’

Clare said, ‘I was just trying to suggest we might be more comfortable sitting down talking this through like two reasonable human beings.’

She could see an embarrassed Malcolm edging his way round Marshall and creeping back to the cutting.

Marshall jabbed a finger at her. ‘I’ll tell you what would make me feel more comfortable. You stopping shit-stirring and starting to do the job I’m paying you for.’

Clare drew in a deep breath. She fervently hoped she looked a whole lot more directorial than she was feeling right now.

‘If by “shit-stirring” you mean speaking to the press about what we’ve discovered on the site, I’d have thought you would welcome the publicity. We do credit Marshall Construction as funders in the article.’

‘I should sodding well hope so. I’m paying your wages, girlie, and don’t you forget it. And let’s get one thing straight: I’m not paying you to do my PR for me. I’m paying you to clear this site and bugger off to whatever godforsaken hole in Wiltshire you lot crawled out of.’

He bent his head down towards her until he was so close she could smell stale wine and garlic on his breath. ‘Understand?’