Dying to Sin. Stephen Booth

crew bus that had brought the builders to Pity Wood Farm. It was a converted Transit, smelling powerfully of cigarettes and muddy clothes. The seats were worn thin, the floor scuffed by dozens of work boots. Fry moved a hard hat aside, slid in next to him, and wound the window down to prevent the interior steaming up. Rain covered the windscreen, blocking out the view of the farm.

      ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

      ‘I’ll be OK.’

      He didn’t sound very sure, but Fry let it pass. The sooner she finished with him, the better it would be. If he went into shock, he’d be useless.

      Murfin had been right about Jamie Ward. He was younger than any of the other men she’d seen standing around the site, and he had an entirely different look about him. His hair was streaked blond, and was gelled up at the front – hardly the typical builder’s style. But he was a well-built lad, six feet tall at least, a good build for a rugby player. His hands were powerful and broad, just as suitable for hard physical work as for playing rugby.

      ‘I’m studying Microbiology at Sheffield University,’ said Jamie when she asked him. ‘But I need to find work whenever I can, you know – to get some dosh.’

      ‘You work as a builder’s labourer? That’s a bit of an unusual vacation job for a student,’ suggested Fry.

      Jamie shrugged. ‘It suits me. It beats working in McDonald’s, anyway. I like to be outside in the open air, doing a bit of physical work. I’d go mad otherwise. I don’t have any skills or training, but I can use a spade and push a wheelbarrow about.’

      ‘And carry a hod full of bricks?’

      ‘We’re not allowed to use hods any more,’ said Jamie. ‘Health and Safety – you could do your back in, or drop bricks on someone’s head.’

      ‘Really?’

      He nodded. ‘Besides, we’re not using bricks on this site. It’s going to be entirely stone on the outside, to match the original walls. Breeze block on the inside, of course.’ Jamie wiped off a few inches of condensation and looked at the figures moving about in the rain. ‘Funny, really, when there’s all this clay lying about. But stone is much more fashionable. That’s what the owner wants.’

      Fry saw him relaxing a little, now that he had managed to get off the painful subject of the body he’d found.

      ‘So you like to be outside in the open air?’ she asked, thinking that Jamie Ward reminded her a little of Ben Cooper. ‘Are you from a farming family, by any chance?’

      ‘Well, I used to help my grandfather around his place when I was a teenager. Just at weekends and during the school holidays. He doesn’t have the farm any more, though – Granddad sold up when it stopped making money.’

      ‘Sensible man.’

      ‘Right. Well, I wouldn’t have wanted to spend my life doing the job that Granddad did. He was at it twenty-four seven. There was no let-up from looking after the animals. Livestock farming is for losers, don’t you think? Anyone with any sense is getting out as fast as they can.’

      They both sat for a moment peering through the patch of cleared glass at the buildings of Pity Wood Farm, like divers examining a deep sea wreck.

      ‘I mean,’ said Jamie, ‘look at this place, for example.’

      ‘You’re right there.’

      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?’

      ‘In a barrow, then they went into the big skip round the back of the house.’ Jamie paused. ‘Why are you asking questions about the rubbish?’

      ‘Because some of the items you dug out might have belonged to the victim,’ said Fry as gently as she could.

      ‘Oh, God. I never thought of that.’

      ‘An old, broken cross, you said.’

      ‘It was nothing. Just a cheap crucifix on a chain, with part of the base chipped away. A bit of worthless tat.’

      ‘You didn’t notice any personal items, did you?’

      ‘Such as?’

      ‘A purse, jewellery, coins,’ said Fry. ‘Items of clothing.’

      An entire handbag would be nice, she was thinking. A driving licence, credit cards, a letter from an embittered ex-lover?

      ‘No, nothing like that,’ said Jamie.

      ‘I don’t know if anyone has mentioned that the body is that of a female, fairly young?’

      Jamie swallowed again. ‘Well, some of the blokes have been listening in, you know. Word got around.’

      ‘I mention it because there might have been items you were unfamiliar with.’

      Jamie shook his head. ‘Only the – what do you call them? Mason jars.’

      So she might have been making pickles when she was buried, thought Fry. That helps. But she knew she was being unfair on the young labourer. Why should he have taken any notice of what he was tossing away in his wheelbarrow? It would be up to the SOCOs to go through the contents of the skip. Who was going to tell them about that