Stephen Booth - Dying to Sin

Fry stared at the ground. ‘It might depend on who it was that got buried. Nobody seems to have noticed this woman missing, did they?’

Cooper nodded. ‘You know, despite what they say, I think everyone in Rakedale knows everyone else.’

‘Yes, I agree. At least it means there’s no need to spend our time looking for connections with the Suttons. An individual who didn’t have a connection would be the one to stand out.’

‘Which means they all have a potential connection to the victim, too. All of the people we’ve talked to could have visited Pity Wood Farm at some time.’

‘But we have a whole different set of people, too,’ said Fry. ‘These itinerant workers have been in and out of Pity Wood Farm for years, apparently. No one seems to know who they were.’

‘How do we go about tracing itinerant farmworkers?’

‘It depends on the quality of the records, Ben.’

‘Poor to non-existent, I would guess.’

‘They could have been illegals, then,’ said Fry. ‘Derbyshire has had its share of refugees over the last few years. Mostly from Bosnia, Croatia, Afghanistan, Iraq, Somalia … There was a reception centre for Kosovans at Alfreton, wasn’t there?’

‘Yes, but the numbers are quite small. At least this isn’t East Anglia. We don’t have seventy thousand casual workers coming through every year to work in the horticultural industries. There’s nothing in this area that’s labour intensive enough to create a demand for large amounts of cheap labour at short notice.’

‘It sounds bad enough to me.’

Cooper shook his head. ‘Go to somewhere like King’s Lynn, and you’ll see the difference. According to a contact I have on the force there, their illegal immigrants run into thousands, sleeping in sheds and garages. They have to keep working to pay off the money they owe for a false passport and a trip to Britain. Organized crime is entrenched in the casual labour market. I don’t mean foreign students taking part in some seasonal agricultural workers scheme — those are pretty well regulated. I mean the poor bloody Chinese peasants trying to work to send money home to pay off their debts. It takes them years to work their way out of slavery.’

‘Slavery? That’s a bit strong.’

‘It’s exactly what it is, Diane. Gang masters are sometimes unscrupulous operators, but criminals have been moving in. Triad or Snakehead gangs. You see Chinese people standing outside a station with bundles of possessions. They’re very suspicious of police, too scared to report anything. Very few speak English, either — and while police are arranging an interpreter, they disappear.’

‘Can you talk to your friend and get some more information? It would be interesting to hear whether Norfolk have any intelligence about gangs operating in this area.’

‘Of course. I should have thought of that.’

‘It still gives us a lot of suspects,’ said Fry. ‘Too many.’

A weary voice broke in. Suddenly, DI Hitchens was standing behind them, mud ruining the casual look of his jeans.

‘Did I hear someone worrying about the potential number of suspects?’ he said.

‘Yes, sir. Why?’

Hitchens sighed. ‘Well, I don’t know if this makes it any better, or worse. But the digging teams have just found a second body.’

Another body tent was going up, right where Jamie Ward had pointed out the disturbed earth. Fry watched three PCs in high-vis jackets struggling with the fibreglass frame, giving each other conflicting instructions. A few yards away stood a yellow-and-white crime scene tent. It was twice the size, but it seemed to have gone up more easily — perhaps, she thought, because one woman had done it on her own.

‘This one is an older burial, I can tell you that,’ said Mrs van Doon, dusting off her gloves. ‘I bet you didn’t really need me for an opinion, did you? Complete skeletonization is evident. Dr Jamieson will have to watch out for disarticulation when he removes it from the soil. But his team know what they’re doing. This is not my pigeon, Inspector. I need some soft tissue. Preferably a few internal organs.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Hitchens.

‘Both of your victims were wrapped in heavy-duty plastic sheeting before they were buried,’ said Mrs van Doon. ‘It looks like the same material to me, despite the difference in the date of the burials. They were killed, bundled up in plastic, and buried.’

‘We can’t persuade you towards suicide then, Doctor?’ asked Hitchens.

The pathologist gave him a glacial look, but didn’t bother to reply.

Hitchens sighed. ‘Pity.’

The DI was beginning to look worn down. Fry suspected he was starting to reflect on whether his initial decisions had been the right ones. Maybe there should have been a bigger operation from the start, an assumption that they were dealing with murder.

Hitchens looked up and saw Wayne Abbott passing by with a Quickstep ladder over his shoulder and called him over.

‘We’re going to have to dig the rest of this place up,’ he said. ‘There might be more bodies.’

‘Dig it up? Do you know how long that would take?’

‘I think it will have to be done, Wayne.’

Abbott put his ladder down. ‘Ground-penetrating radar — that’s your answer. It’s not much use in woodland or on sloping ground, but we can try it here.’

‘Is it effective?’

‘All it does is use the electrical properties of the soil to identify disturbances in the ground. It’s a lot better than sticking a probe in. You need proper training to use those probes, really. If there is a body, and you go too deep, you can poke the end right in. It doesn’t please the pathologist, I can tell you. I heard of one probe injury that was identified at the PM as the entrance wound of a bullet.’

Fry looked around the farmyard — all those nooks and crannies, corners and gateways, paddocks and overgrown gardens.

‘Where would we start?’

Abbott consulted his watch, as if the time of day might make a difference, or perhaps he had something more important to do. Christmas presents to buy, the turkey to pick up.

‘We could mark out the site and look for depressions,’ he said.

‘Depressions,’ said Hitchens. ‘I think I might be getting one of those.’

‘You and me both,’ said Abbott. ‘Especially since you started talking about digging the whole place up. You do know it’s nearly Christmas?’

‘Why depressions, Wayne?’ asked Fry.

‘Look, a body takes up a major amount of space when it’s buried, so there’s nearly always surplus soil displaced around it. When the internal organs start to decompose, the soil above it sinks, creating a depression.’ He demonstrated with his hands. ‘Eventually, the entire area will sink as the soil settles. And here’s where the weather becomes an advantage. Depressions will collect water and form large pools when it rains.’

‘Look for the puddles, then?’

‘Essentially. I can’t promise you ground-penetrating radar until after Christmas, anyway.’ Abbott hefted the ladder back on his shoulder. ‘At least we can dig the place up without irate householders having fits about the damage to their garden. Do you remember that case we had in Dronfield? You’d think we’d just turned up to vandalize the woman’s property. And all she had was a few old rose bushes and a bit of lawn.’

‘Thanks for your help,’ said Hitchens.

‘I’d say it was a pleasure, but …’

Hitchens didn’t look any happier.

‘There’s no one here to object,’ he said to Fry. ‘That’s part of the problem.’

If Fry had thought it couldn’t get any worse, she’d have been wrong. What would normally have been the front door to the farmhouse was almost inaccessible through the muck and rubble in the yard. From a glance into the porch, Cooper thought it looked unlikely that the door would open, even if they could reach it. There was almost as much debris inside as there was outside.