Stephen Booth - Dying to Sin

‘You said it could wait,’ pointed out Murfin.

‘No, Mr Hitchens did.’ Fry couldn’t disguise the small surge of relief. ‘Which two are missing?’

‘A Slovak and a Czech. I’d give you the names, but I can’t pronounce them.’

‘I’ll get Ben Cooper on to it. He has some contacts.’

Fry ended the call and switched her attention again.

‘The pathologist’s preliminary report on the first victim said there were no signs of major trauma,’ Hitchens was saying to the anthropologist.

‘Oh, well — there’s your other difference, then,’ said Dr Jamieson, with a patronizing smile. ‘Apart from the age of the burial, that is.’

‘What difference is that, Doctor?’

‘The bodies might appear to be intact and free of major trauma as far as the torso, but beyond the upper vertebrae we’re in quite different territory.’

‘Injuries? A cause of death?’ said Hitchens hopefully.

‘Not necessarily. But your second body is definitely different, Inspector. This one is missing a head.’

There was plenty of work for SOCOs and the photographic unit to do now. Before it could be moved, any item of physical evidence would be photographed in situ from several angles with a ruler for scale, and a sketch containing accurate dimensions with locations and measurements of all objects would have to be made.

‘Well, I can only give my view if the pathologist requests it,’ said Dr Jamieson. ‘And most of them think anthropologists are charlatans when it comes to the manner of death.’

‘But the missing head — ?’ said Hitchens.

‘- wasn’t necessarily the cause of death. Not that I can pronounce on the subject.’

‘Removing someone’s head is a sure way of causing death. Even I can pronounce on that.’

The anthropologist shook his head. ‘Postmortem removal. Do I need to say more?’

‘Oh.’

‘I understand you’re bringing in ground-penetrating radar to examine the site for more burials?’ said Jamieson. ‘I’ll be here if you need me.’

‘Thank you, Doctor.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘Postmortem removal,’ said Hitchens to his detectives, when they were out of earshot of the anthropologist.

‘Somebody removed the victim’s head after she was dead,’ said Fry.

‘Yes, I know what it means, Diane. Well, I know what the word means. But what’s the significance of the act? Who would take a head from a dead body?’

‘Collectors?’ suggested Murfin. ‘There are people who collect anything.’

‘Oh, yes. I bet it’ll be worth a fortune on eBay.’

‘Do you want me to check?’

‘No, Gavin. We’ll leave that for later.’

‘Serial killers love dismemberment,’ said Fry. ‘The psychologists say that taking body parts from their victims as trophies gives them a feeling of control, a sense of achievement previously lacking in their lives.’

‘We’re not dealing with a serial killer,’ said Hitchens firmly. ‘Don’t even joke about it. This is Edendale, not Ipswich.’

‘We have two bodies already,’ pointed out Fry.

‘Two doesn’t make a series.’

‘Well, perhaps …’

‘I’m serious here. The last thing we want is to start a scare. Besides, there might be no connection between these two victims, apart from the fact that they were buried a few yards apart. Heck, we don’t even know they were murdered. They might be accidental deaths, or they might be suicides. So let’s have no talk about serial killers. There’s absolutely no justification. Understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Hitchens relaxed a little. ‘We don’t want our new detective superintendent arriving in Edendale and finding us panicking unnecessarily. Now, do we?’

‘No, of course not,’ said Fry.

She looked at Cooper, who had been silent so far. But he lowered his head, refusing to respond. No doubt he had his own theories. She’d get them out of him later.

‘Actually, we’re calling our second victim “she”, but we won’t get confirmation of gender for a while yet,’ said Hitchens. ‘So no assumptions, OK?’

‘No assumptions,’ said Fry.

That taste was in her mouth again. She didn’t know where it came from, or why. It was like a pregnancy craving, but she wasn’t pregnant, thank God. No chance of that.

‘Are you all right, Diane?’

She became aware of Cooper standing nearby, watching her with concern written all over his face, as if he had stumbled across someone who was ill.

‘Of course I’m all right. What are you staring at?’

‘I just thought — ’

‘Ben, were you thinking of hanging around here until the rain stops? We both have work to do back at the office.’

Cooper shuffled his feet in the mud. ‘They’ve found a shoe, about ten feet from the second body, just under the surface of the soil.’

‘A woman’s shoe?’

‘Yes, size four.’

‘Can they get a shoe size from a skeleton?’ asked Fry.

‘I don’t know, Diane.’

Fry paced back towards the house, skirting the crime scene tape. But then her feet slowed as if the weight of the mud was drawing her to a halt, and she stopped.

‘If Raymond Sutton knew those two bodies were buried in the yard, would he have been willing to sell the farm? He must have known there was a good chance a new owner would start digging the place up, if it was going to be developed.’

‘Perhaps he didn’t know it was going to be developed,’ said Cooper.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I’m thinking about all the vehicles and equipment that were left behind. Apart from the livestock, nothing seems to have been sold off at all — not even the furniture in the house. I wonder if Raymond Sutton was under the impression that the farm was being sold as a going concern.’

‘Sold to another farmer, you mean?’

Cooper nodded. ‘If Mr Sutton thought Pity Wood was going to continue as a dairy farm, he might not have worried about the bodies. Farmers have more to keep them occupied than building patios, especially if they’re starting a new herd from scratch.’

‘Did you ever speak to the auctioneers?’

‘No, I never got round to it. It didn’t seem all that important.’

‘Perhaps you’d better do it now,’ said Fry.

‘OK, I will.’ Cooper turned. ‘You talked to the new owner, didn’t you? Goodwin, is that the name?’

‘Yes, I spoke to him on the phone. Why?’

‘Did he seem like someone who’d make a convincing dairy farmer?’

Fry thought for a moment. ‘Not to me, he didn’t. I’d say he sounded more like a moderately successful provincial solicitor. You know — divorces and boundary disputes, that sort of lawyer. Steady business, but nothing that demands too much in the way of brains.’

‘And he lives in Manchester somewhere?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mmm. Dropping out of the rat race, maybe?’

‘Downshifting, they call it.’

‘I suppose that’s pretty much what you did, Diane. Moving from the big city into the country. It was a bit of a leap, wasn’t it?’

Mrs van Doon had the first body on the table in the mortuary. When Fry entered, suited and masked, the pathologist was trying to separate the skin from the mummified hand, easing it off the desiccated fingers like a glove. She would be hoping that someone could get usable fingerprints from it once it was clear of the corpse.

‘Can you estimate a time of death yet?’ asked Fry.

‘Ooh, time of death. That’s a favourite question, isn’t it? Well, by far the best indications of time of death are rigor mortis and body temperature. Anybody want to guess why those aren’t helpful in this case?’

Fry looked at the remains on the table, was about to speak, then realized the pathologist was probably making a joke.