She paused for a moment to catch her breath. Standing in front of her, securely tucked behind iron railings, was a little brick building. Across the top of its facade ran Hebrew lettering. It must be a synagogue. Set back from the road and unassuming, she wondered how many people even noticed it was here. She smiled. ‘Head in the clouds, but feet on the ground.’ That was what her mum used to say about her when she was a kid. And in Clare’s experience it was exactly how most archaeologists spent their lives. Bringing the obscure, the overlooked, the people who lived in the cracks into the light. But often missing what stood right in front of them – in plain sight.

In the end that’s why she’d come to the conclusion that she needed to do the obvious thing. If she was going to have any chance of discovering whether Bailsgrove had been a major ceremonial centre, or if it was just the product of Beth Kinsella’s deranged fantasy, she needed to speak to the one person who had known her better than anyone. She glanced down at her watch. Five past eleven. She hated being late.

Ten minutes later she found herself outside the office door of Dr Stuart Craig, Beth’s ex-boyfriend. She took a moment to straighten the collar of her blouse and then knocked. No reply. She waited and knocked again. Still nothing. He must have given up on her. He hadn’t waited long, had he? Caught between being angry with Craig and mad at herself for being so disorganised, she headed back downstairs to reception to see if she might be able to catch him later.

But as she stood talking to the receptionist there was a tap on her shoulder. She turned to be greeted by a figure she recognised instantly from his photo on the university website.

Stuart Craig was shorter than she’d imagined, with a thick head of hair and a neatly trimmed beard. In fact, her overwhelming impression was one of neatness and control. And though she couldn’t have explained why, there was something about him that reminded her of a shop window mannequin.

He offered an unpleasantly damp and clammy hand. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing. You must be Mrs Hills.’

‘Clare, please.’

He inclined his head in recognition and gestured to the mug of coffee in his hand. ‘My caffeine addiction waits for no one, I’m afraid, Clare.’ He smiled. ‘Shall we go up to my office?’