‘King’s Lynn is the hub for East Anglia. We have at least two thousand illegals here, at last count. They sleep in sheds and garages, as well as any houses they can find to rent. They’re charged for accommodation and transport, and sometimes up to twenty thousand pounds for a false passport. They’re promised that they’ll earn three or four hundred pounds a week when they get to Britain, but they’re lucky if they get half that, in reality. They’re told they have to work to pay off their fees, and the gang master takes a cut.’

‘I described it to my DS as like being sold into slavery,’ said Cooper.

‘You’re right. Yes, it is like being sold into slavery. Many illegals don’t earn more than two pounds or two pounds fifty an hour, even if the employer pays the legal minimum wage. So workers are trapped – they have to carry on sending money home to pay their debt. Even if they get regular work, that takes about five years.’

‘And from the employers’ point of view, it’s all about convenience, I suppose.’

‘Of course. Farmers simply ask for a certain amount of labour on a certain day and turn a blind eye to where it comes from. When farmers or growers employ illegal workers, it’s because they can’t get legal workers locally, and then they have to rely on a third party to provide them, or lose the crop.’

‘So do you have anything specific for me?’

‘I checked the intelligence when you emailed, Ben. Sorry, mate – there’s nothing in your area. I thought it was all sheep in the Peak District, anyway?’

‘Not quite.’

‘Well, if you want to take it any further, you’ll probably have to tackle the Immigration and Nationality Directorate in Croydon. They’ll have an Enforcement and Removals team that operates in your region.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Oh, and Ben?’

‘Yes?’

‘Watch out for anyone called Ernest Xavier Ample.’

Half an hour later, Fry stood with Hitchens at the tape marking off the freshly excavated patch of ground, now covered by its own tent. Pity Wood Farm was starting to look like a campsite for tourists with strange tastes in sleeping arrangements. Inside the tent, Dr Pat Jamieson was humming to himself, like a mechanic under a dodgy Ford Escort.

Forensic anthropologists were conservative by nature, especially when asked to report on the biological profile of a victim. Jamieson was one of the most conservative of all, likely to suck his teeth and shake his head without committing himself to an opinion.

‘You know I can’t address cause of death, Inspector,’ said Dr Jamieson, his bald head gleaming briefly in the light. ‘That’s a medical determination, for the pathologist to make. An assessment of age, sex, stature and ancestry, yes. Time since death, possibly. But beyond that, well …’