Ward glanced sideways at her. ‘But you want me to tell you what happened, don’t you? How I came to find the … well …’

‘I know you’ll have gone through it before, but it would help me if you could describe the incident in your own words, Jamie.’

‘The incident, yes. I suppose that’s what it was.’

‘Take your time. I’m not going anywhere for a while.’

‘Nik had me digging this trench, see. To put in some footings for a new wall, he said.’

‘And Nik is …?’

‘Nikolai. He’s the gaffer, the foreman. Polish, of course, but he’s OK. He leaves me pretty much to myself most of the time. I don’t get the best jobs, obviously – I’m just a labourer. In fact, they sometimes send me up to the village for cigarettes, if they run out. Anyway… I’d been digging this trench for a couple of days. It was hard work – that soil is so heavy, especially when it’s wet. You can see how wet it is.’

‘Yes, I’ve seen how wet it is,’ said Fry, becoming aware of the dampness soaking into her feet where the mud had overflowed her shoes.

‘And there’s all kinds of stuff in the ground here. You wouldn’t believe the rubbish I’ve turned up. Nothing that’d interest an archaeologist, but I’ve thought once or twice of asking the Time Team to come and give me a hand.’

There was silence for a moment as the full deadliness of his joke drifted through the van like a bad smell. Fry saw him go pale, and thought she was going to lose him.

‘Are you all right, Jamie?’

He gulped. ‘Yeah. Thanks. It was mentioning the hand. Not that I meant that hand, but … Shit, I’m not making any sense. I’m sorry.’

‘You’re doing just fine. You were telling me about the rubbish you had to dig out for the trench. What kind of thing do you mean?’

‘A lot of it was rusty lumps of metal, half-bricks, nails, broken buckets. It looked as though the farmers had used that area for a tip. I cursed Nik a few times, I can tell you. There were even some of those glass jars that people use for making pickles, with lids that have an airtight seal. Do you know what I mean?’

Jamie was making gestures with his hands to indicate the size of the containers he’d found.

‘Mason jars?’ said Fry.

‘That’s it. Oh, and an old, broken cross on a chain, some Coke bottles, and a packet of coffee filters. The things people chuck out. Why don’t they use their wheelie bins – some of that stuff ought to be recycled.’

‘Where did you put all these items you dug out of the trench?’