Inside the mobile incident unit, a cluster of bodies was building up a warm fug. Every time someone opened the door, they were met with a barrage of complaints about letting the draught in. The inner step was a mass of muddy footprints, and more mud had been tracked through the compartments.

‘Any progress towards an ID yet?’ called Hitchens from the office.

‘We’re hoping for some results from the forensics search team, sir.’

‘Oh, the forensics search team. That would be the blokes scavenging through the skip.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Hitchens saw Fry, and shook his head. ‘As you can see, Diane, it’s organized chaos here, as usual. I’ve just had word on the pathologist’s preliminary examination of the body. No signs of major trauma.’

‘Is that it?’

‘Yes, until Mrs van Doon gets a closer look. She’s doing the full PM this afternoon. You can chase her up on that, if you like.’

‘Oh, thanks.’

‘We’ve managed to pull in some more diggers, though,’ said Hitchens. ‘They’re on site now.’

‘That’s good news. Can they …?’

‘Yes, I’ve told them to make a start on the disturbed ground your young builder was bothered about.’

‘Excellent.’

Official-issue packed lunches had been delivered for the team at the scene, one of the few perks of an otherwise tedious and unrewarding job. But even that was causing grumbles inside the trailer.

‘Somebody’s had all the chocolate bars out of our packed lunches,’ said someone.

‘OK, where’s Gavin Murfin?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Fry as she opened the door. ‘But he’s probably got several alibis lined up.’

Outside the trailer, Fry looked at the mud. Her shoes hadn’t recovered from the day before. The clay had caked dry by the time she got round to cleaning them. It was an unforgiving sort of dirt, and practically unmoveable, too.

‘Diane.’

‘Yes?’

One of the SOCOs, Liz Petty, was standing at her elbow, holding a pair of rubber boots.

‘I brought these from the van. Thought you might be able to use them.’

‘Oh, thanks.’

She took them automatically, and Petty walked away. Fry was left holding the boots uncertainly, looking at the mud and wondering how silly she looked.

As soon as Cooper arrived back at the farm, he searched out Fry to report the outcome of his interview.

‘So what was your assessment of Mr Farnham?’ she asked.

‘I think he’d sell his own grandmother, organ by organ.’

Fry laughed. ‘You didn’t believe what he was telling you?’

‘It sounded much too pat, too moulded to show himself in the best light. He’d done his best, put his own money into the farm, but it had gone wrong through no fault of his own, and regretfully he’d had to pull out. If you were inclined to believe him, he’s practically a saint. But he came across more like a used car salesman to me.’