Murfin stuck his head round a corner. ‘Oh, there you are. Mr Hitchens wants everyone out front for a confab.’

‘We’re coming.’

DI Hitchens was Fry’s immediate boss, the man whose job she might have to get if she planned to stay in Derbyshire E Division. But the thought of staying here wasn’t part of her future plans, and places like Pity Wood Farm only confirmed her view. There were times when she longed for the city, or even for the peculiar urban fusion that was the Black Country where she’d grown up.

Hitchens looked calm and unruffled, allowing the rain to fall on his head without flinching. As he waited for the officers to gather round him at the RV point, he wiped some moisture from his face, flashing the white scar that crawled across the middle knuckles of his fingers.

‘Well, as some of you already know,’ he said, ‘this body has been in the ground for a year or more.’

‘So there’s no point in us rushing around if the case is so old, sir?’ asked someone.

‘Well … that’s not something I want to hear anyone saying publicly. But it does mean we can let the anthropologist and forensics team do their thing for a while yet, and the mince pies might not have to go cold.’

There were a scattering of half-hearted cheers, but the relief was palpable.

Hitchens acknowledged the reaction with a slight smile. ‘Meanwhile, a few basic procedures are in order, to make sure we’ve covered the ground. If we do have to open a murder enquiry later on, I don’t want to hear that we missed vital evidence in the early stages because someone was in too much of a hurry to do their Christmas shopping. Understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘For a start, we need information on all these workmen – anyone who’s been on site. Names and addresses, dates of birth – you know the drill. Then we can run them through the PNC if necessary.’

‘What about their status?’ asked Fry.

‘Status?’

‘I was thinking that some of them might have residency or immigration issues. You know how difficult it is to get information when they’re worried about being arrested or deported.’

‘I thought someone told me they were all Polish?’ said Hitchens. ‘Poles don’t have residency or immigration issues – they’re members of the EU, so they can come and go when they like, and they don’t need work permits either.’

Murfin raised a hand, enjoying being the man with the answers for once. ‘Apparently, most of these blokes work for an agency, which sends them wherever the work is. It means they don’t have a settled address, sir. They live in digs, bed and breakfasts, caravans, whatever is available. They say it’s worth their while – they get about twice the minimum wage, enough to send money home, if their families aren’t in this country.’