But she’d made the offer on the house before she’d discovered quite what a precarious financial situation the Hart Unit was in. If the institute folded, she’d be out of a job and she could kiss goodbye to her dreams of a new home and the next steps in her new life. The vendors had been prevaricating for weeks. It was clear that they wanted more money than she could feasibly offer, but she’d left the offer on the table and it would seem they hadn’t had as much interest as they’d hoped. As she’d pointed out to them, the whole place needed gutting. They’d inherited it from their elderly mother, and it was patently obvious that there’d been little or no work done to it since she’d moved in – which, judging from the swirling carpets and avocado bathroom suite, had been some time in the 1970s.

Then finally this morning she’d had a call from the estate agent. The vendors had accepted her offer. So all she needed to do now was to keep the Hart Unit afloat. And she was determined to do just that – whatever it took.

CHAPTER THREE

A deep, musty smell like rotting leaves pervaded the atmosphere in the Portakabin. It had been locked and off limits for over a month. Clare had finally managed to persuade the hire company to hand over the keys, but only on condition that they took over the contract at what seemed to her an exorbitant price. And that certainly wasn’t going to help the unit’s precarious financial position. But the truth was they were between a rock and a hard place.

She ran her hand across the torn fabric on the back of the swivel chair.

David said, ‘Go on, try it for size.’

Clare shook her head. The chair had belonged to Beth Kinsella.

‘Surely you’re not worried about directing the fieldwork on your own, are you? I’d have taken it on myself if I had the time. But the Runt has been piling on my teaching commitments this year. You’re perfectly capable and, besides, you’ll have Jo with you a lot of the time. And you know you can always call on Margaret if you need advice.’

Clare knew that the Runt, aka Professor Donald Muir, head of the archaeology department at the University of Salisbury, had, as usual, been doing his very best to make David’s life as much of a misery as possible. And she had no desire to add to his woes.