Why, oh why, couldn’t he spend his day recovering from a hangover at a stone circle like every other pagan of her acquaintance? Though, thinking about it, Crabby was probably the first real pagan she’d ever spent any time with.

‘I greeted Sol at the dawn ceremony at the Rollrights this morning, but I wanted to come and say a solstice blessing for the old souls.’

He looked towards the two now empty pits where the first two infant skeletons had been found the day before, his dismay only too evident. Clare stood ramrod straight, frozen to the spot, suddenly realising that she was blocking his view to the pit behind her where Jo was still working.

‘Where have they gone?’

‘We finished lifting them this morning. We had to make sure they were safe, Crabby, with the weather coming.’ She pointed skyward towards the thickening clouds.

Before the Druid had chance to reply, a metallic blue Mitsubishi four-by-four swung into the gateway at considerable speed. On its roof it was sporting what looked like a small satellite dish. Every head in the place turned to watch as a man in an impeccably cut dark grey suit, with shoes you could see your face in stepped out. He was followed by a stick-thin young woman in her early twenties who lost no time in retrieving a shoulder bag and a camera that looked big enough to crush her from the rear of the vehicle. She hurried after the besuited man who was heading straight for where they were standing.

Crabby held up a hand in greeting. Clare stood dumbstruck. Jo, meantime, was now standing beside her.

‘Ah, there you are, Mr Crabbs.’ The besuited man ran his fingers through his immaculately cut head of hair. He turned to the young woman, who was valiantly puffing her way up the slope a few yards behind him. ‘Are we ready to roll, Sophie?’

The young woman nodded, withdrawing what looked like a large furry animal from the shoulder bag and slipping it over the microphone on the camera.

Clare stepped out of the trench. ‘Excuse me. No one is rolling anywhere until someone explains to me exactly what’s going on.’

The besuited man turned and bestowed a smile as wide as the Severn on Clare. ‘Ben Jackson. Syndicated News Network. Are you one of the dig team? Is there any chance we’d be able to have a word with your boss?’

Clare drew herself up to her full five feet six and declared in what she hoped was her most confident voice, ‘Clare Hills. Site director. And for the avoidance of doubt, I am the boss.’