‘We could mark out the site and look for depressions,’ he said.

‘Depressions,’ said Hitchens. ‘I think I might be getting one of those.’

‘You and me both,’ said Abbott. ‘Especially since you started talking about digging the whole place up. You do know it’s nearly Christmas?’

‘Why depressions, Wayne?’ asked Fry.

‘Look, a body takes up a major amount of space when it’s buried, so there’s nearly always surplus soil displaced around it. When the internal organs start to decompose, the soil above it sinks, creating a depression.’ He demonstrated with his hands. ‘Eventually, the entire area will sink as the soil settles. And here’s where the weather becomes an advantage. Depressions will collect water and form large pools when it rains.’

‘Look for the puddles, then?’

‘Essentially. I can’t promise you ground-penetrating radar until after Christmas, anyway.’ Abbott hefted the ladder back on his shoulder. ‘At least we can dig the place up without irate householders having fits about the damage to their garden. Do you remember that case we had in Dronfield? You’d think we’d just turned up to vandalize the woman’s property. And all she had was a few old rose bushes and a bit of lawn.’

‘Thanks for your help,’ said Hitchens.

‘I’d say it was a pleasure, but …’

Hitchens didn’t look any happier.

‘There’s no one here to object,’ he said to Fry. ‘That’s part of the problem.’

If Fry had thought it couldn’t get any worse, she’d have been wrong. What would normally have been the front door to the farmhouse was almost inaccessible through the muck and rubble in the yard. From a glance into the porch, Cooper thought it looked unlikely that the door would open, even if they could reach it. There was almost as much debris inside as there was outside.

‘What in God’s name happened here, Ben? Did somebody drive a herd of buffalo through, or what?’

‘Not the front door, Diane. Don’t you know that yet?’

Like many houses in these parts, the occupants of Pity Wood Farm must have come and gone mostly through the back door. Neighbours would know never to call at the front of the house, and the postman had his own routine. Only strangers and DEFRA officials would try to approach the front door. When you realized that, the obstacle course of foul-smelling rubbish might start to look like a message.

For a moment, Fry seemed determined to get in anyway, as if she couldn’t accept that things weren’t done in a logical way.

‘Hold your noses. It’s like entering a kind of hell,’ said Wayne Abbott as he passed a few yards away.

‘Why is he always around?’ said Fry.

‘It’s his job,’ pointed out Cooper.

‘It’s not his job to annoy me.’