Stephen Booth - Dying to Sin

‘Oh, there you are,’ he said. ‘I was just wondering whether you’d knocked off and gone home. I thought you might like to know — there’s an extensive burnt area behind the poultry sheds. Do you want us to start sifting through it?’

‘How large an area?’ asked Fry.

‘Like the size of several bonfires. It could have been an entire building that went up, if it was made of wood. But there’s no sign of a concrete or brick base. I’d guess someone was burning rubbish, and used accelerant to make a good job of it. The ash is several inches deep in places.’

‘I suppose you’ll need more resources for that job?’

‘You bet.’

‘Contain it for now, and we’ll let you know.’

‘No problem. Oh, and the builders’ foreman is here. The Polish bloke. He says you wanted him.’

Nikolai Dudzik nodded cautiously, sensing from Fry’s manner that he was in a difficult position. Instead of his yellow hard hat, he was wearing a shapeless woollen cap, indicating that he was off duty.

‘Bones,’ he said. ‘A few bones, that was all.’

‘Yes, bones, Mr Dudzik.’

‘The skeleton of an animal, yes? It’s a farm, after all. There must have been lots of animals buried here, I think.’

‘So you got the men to fill the hole in again and cover it up?’

‘Yes.’

‘For God’s sake, why?’

Dudzik raised his hands apologetically.

‘I knew there would be a lot of fuss if we reported it, Sergeant. It would have delayed the job too much. We’re already behind schedule, you see. Because of the weather.’

‘The skeleton of an animal wouldn’t have delayed anything,’ said Fry. ‘You knew it was human.’

‘History,’ he said. ‘They send in the scientists. They don’t let you build for weeks, for months.’

‘You’re saying you thought the discovery would involve archaeologists coming here to dig up an ancient graveyard?’

‘Yes, exactly.’

Fry could see the second body tent in the background. The thought of an entire graveyard at Pity Wood Farm made her skin go cold.

‘But this isn’t history, Mr Dudzik.’

‘I’m sorry. We thought we were doing the right thing.’

‘Jamie Ward seems to be the only one who wasn’t let in on it.’

‘No, we didn’t trust him. He was different, he would want to speak to the authorities.’

‘Thank goodness he was around. He was the one who did the right thing.’

Fry sighed. It was still too late, wasn’t it? The grave had already been disturbed, and crucial evidence could have been lost.

‘Am I in trouble, Sergeant?’ asked Dudzik, anxious now to get away.

She looked at him thoughtfully.

‘We could sort it out, if you’re co-operative, sir.’

‘Anything I can do to help. I’m at your disposal.’

‘Your workmen — they must sometimes pick up small items for themselves. Things they find, that look as though they aren’t wanted by anyone.’

‘Ah, yes. They do like these old places, particularly. Sometimes they find little bits of treasure.’

‘I’m looking for a specific bit of treasure.’

‘Oh?’

Fry told him about the broken cross that Jamie Ward had dug out of the first grave, which hadn’t turned up in the skip with the rest of the debris. He’d described it as a cheap crucifix on a chain, with part of the base chipped away.

‘Whoever has it, Mr Dudzik, I want it returned,’ she said.

Dudzik pulled his cap back on.

‘Leave it with me, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘I’ll find it for you.’

When he finally got back to his desk in Edendale, Cooper took a return call from his contact in Norfolk, where the horticulture business was totally reliant on transient workers.

‘You don’t need as much accommodation for illegals as you might think, Ben,’ he said. ‘Most gang masters practise a hot-bedding system.’

‘Two men sharing the same bed, working and sleeping in shifts?’

‘Right. It’s incredibly difficult and time consuming to check them all for forged documents. Some are very good forgeries, in any case. There’s nothing special about those IND documents they’re supposed to produce for employers.’

‘Hold on — IND? It’s a Home Office department, I know, but I don’t have my acronym dictionary to hand.’

‘Immigration and Nationality Directorate.’

‘Right.’

‘King’s Lynn is the hub for East Anglia. We have at least two thousand illegals here, at last count. They sleep in sheds and garages, as well as any houses they can find to rent. They’re charged for accommodation and transport, and sometimes up to twenty thousand pounds for a false passport. They’re promised that they’ll earn three or four hundred pounds a week when they get to Britain, but they’re lucky if they get half that, in reality. They’re told they have to work to pay off their fees, and the gang master takes a cut.’

‘I described it to my DS as like being sold into slavery,’ said Cooper.

‘You’re right. Yes, it is like being sold into slavery. Many illegals don’t earn more than two pounds or two pounds fifty an hour, even if the employer pays the legal minimum wage. So workers are trapped — they have to carry on sending money home to pay their debt. Even if they get regular work, that takes about five years.’

‘And from the employers’ point of view, it’s all about convenience, I suppose.’

‘Of course. Farmers simply ask for a certain amount of labour on a certain day and turn a blind eye to where it comes from. When farmers or growers employ illegal workers, it’s because they can’t get legal workers locally, and then they have to rely on a third party to provide them, or lose the crop.’

‘So do you have anything specific for me?’

‘I checked the intelligence when you emailed, Ben. Sorry, mate — there’s nothing in your area. I thought it was all sheep in the Peak District, anyway?’

‘Not quite.’

‘Well, if you want to take it any further, you’ll probably have to tackle the Immigration and Nationality Directorate in Croydon. They’ll have an Enforcement and Removals team that operates in your region.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Oh, and Ben?’

‘Yes?’

‘Watch out for anyone called Ernest Xavier Ample.’

Half an hour later, Fry stood with Hitchens at the tape marking off the freshly excavated patch of ground, now covered by its own tent. Pity Wood Farm was starting to look like a campsite for tourists with strange tastes in sleeping arrangements. Inside the tent, Dr Pat Jamieson was humming to himself, like a mechanic under a dodgy Ford Escort.

Forensic anthropologists were conservative by nature, especially when asked to report on the biological profile of a victim. Jamieson was one of the most conservative of all, likely to suck his teeth and shake his head without committing himself to an opinion.

‘You know I can’t address cause of death, Inspector,’ said Dr Jamieson, his bald head gleaming briefly in the light. ‘That’s a medical determination, for the pathologist to make. An assessment of age, sex, stature and ancestry, yes. Time since death, possibly. But beyond that, well …’

While Hitchens was fidgeting impatiently, Fry took a call from Murfin on her mobile.

‘Bad news, Diane. We’ve lost a couple of those builders.’

‘What?’

‘Two of the East Europeans have done a bunk from their B amp;B, and the agency has had no word of them since Thursday. They suggest they might just have gone off for a long weekend.’

‘A long weekend doing what?’

‘Boozing probably,’ said Murfin. ‘I can’t blame them, personally. We might have to wait until Monday and see if they turn up again.’

‘Damn. Did we check on their status?’