His good humour had diminished markedly when he’d got to site only to discover firstly that Clare had abandoned the excavation in favour of some weekend jaunt to heaven knows where. And further still when he’d heard Jo’s explanation for exactly why his site director had taken it upon herself to award herself time off when the entire future of the Hart Unit depended on the dig she was supposed to be running.

Jo had tried to persuade him it wasn’t a good idea to do anything rash, but by then all David could see in front of him was Paul Marshall’s overweight carcass. And his ears had entirely ceased functioning.

He pulled up outside the offices of Marshall Construction, leaving the Land Rover slewed across the front steps of the building, the driver side door open. As he entered the air-conditioned lobby he scanned the room for any clues to the whereabouts of Marshall’s office. The receptionist was dealing with a young man in a cheap-looking suit who appeared to be showing her a briefcase full of samples of some sort. David walked away and one by one started exploring each of the three corridors that lead off from the reception area.

The receptionist, who must somehow have escaped the clutches of the sales rep, clattered after him. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

Opening a door to discover only a vacuum cleaner and a mop bucket behind it, he turned to the woman. ‘You can if you can show me where Paul Marshall is?’

‘Do you have an appointment with Mr Marshall, Mr …?’

‘Doctor. Dr David Barbrook.’ The woman looked him up and down disbelievingly. He obviously didn’t fit her idea of what a doctor looked like. ‘No, I don’t have an appointment. But I need to see him. And I need to see him now!’

‘I understand you’re anxious to see Mr Marshall, Dr’ – she stuttered over the word – ‘Bellbrook, but he’s an extremely busy man. If you’d like to come to reception I’d be happy to see when Mr Marshall might have a gap in his schedule.’

‘Don’t worry about that, I’ll put a gap in his schedule when I find him.’

David tore off down the corridor, the hapless receptionist trailing after him, making a series of increasingly desperate appeals to his better nature as she went.

As David tore open door number four he hit the jackpot. Paul Marshall’s name was emblazoned across his desk in neat metallic letters.

‘Marshall. I want a word with you.’

Paul Marshall was talking on the phone. ‘I’ll give you a call later. Something’s come up.’

‘Too bloody right it has.’

Paul Marshall pushed his swivel chair away from his desk and got to his feet.

David faced him down across his desk. ‘Where do you get off threatening my staff?’