Cover the Bones E-Book

Rachel Amphlett

• Herausgeber: Saxon Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

When archaeologists discover a skeleton in secluded woodland, the body is first thought to be related to an ancient Saxon settlement.Then the torn and rotten remains of another woman’s bones are uncovered, her injuries bearing the markings of abuse and a violent death.Detective Mark Turpin is tasked with finding their killer, except the forensic evidence is perplexing and the victims’ bodies are proving impossible to identify.When a third victim is discovered only metres from the first, Mark and his team realise they’re running out of time to find out whoever is responsible.Are the brutal murders the only evidence in a case gone cold, or does a serial killer lurk in the shadows, stalking their next victim?Cover the Bones is the fifth book in the Detective Mark Turpin series from USA Today bestselling author Rachel Amphlett.

Leseprobe

COVER THE BONES

A DETECTIVE MARK TURPIN CRIME THRILLER

RACHEL AMPHLETT

Cover the Bones © 2023 Rachel Amphlett

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. While the locations in this book are a mixture of real and imagined, the characters are totally fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead is entirely coincidental.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

About the Author

CHAPTERONE

South-east of Didcot

Derek Andrews scratched at his greying beard and squinted against the bright afternoon sunshine.

The wide field had been planted with barley until recently, stubble remaining in the tractor wheel ruts under his boots and grain scattered where it had escaped capture.

A cloudless blue sky cradling a late-summer sun warmed his back while he peered up at the fifty-metre-high steel electricity pylon beside him. The static charge from the structure was tangible, tickling the fine hairs on his bare arms.

Keeping a wary eye on the archaeological magnetometer hanging from canvas straps over his shoulders, he reached around to tug at the collar of his polo shirt to stop it sticking to the back of his neck. Adjusting the bandanna that covered his head and provided some protection from the sun’s glare, he lowered his gaze to his notebook, checked the grid references on the screen in front of him, and grunted under his breath.

‘Fancy a quick drink after work, love?’

He glanced over his shoulder at the voice and smiled as Michelle wandered between the series of tiny yellow flags that poked out from the dirt, her skin bronzed after the previous week’s outdoor work.

‘Who else is going?’ he said, jutting out his hip to take the weight of the magnetometer while he waited for her.

‘Gerry said he might – he isn’t planning on heading back to Reading until tomorrow. Tim, too – and I think Helen might come along. She said she was going to phone her other half and see if he can sort out the kids’ dinner. I figured at least that way we could relax while we share the updates from the weekend.’ Michelle stopped next to him and raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she peered at the field boundary. ‘You’d have thought they’d have done this when they finalised the planning application instead of leaving it until the last minute.’

Derek turned his attention to where she looked, running his gaze over the line of heavy plant machinery churning up the soil in the adjacent field. A wide ditch had been carved into the earth over there, the pale grey clay and chalk-heavy soil cast to one side in gigantic piles that baked in the August heat.

‘It was probably too wet in March to get conclusive results. That’s why they opted for a drone survey instead back then, I suppose.’ He swallowed, his tongue scoring the top of his mouth, and he nodded his thanks as Michelle handed him a bottle of water. ‘Anyway, it does us a favour, doesn’t it? Helps us top up the coffers before winter sets in.’

‘True. So, what about that pint?’

‘I think I could be persuaded,’ he said, grinning. He took a swig of the water, then swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘Where’re they planning on going?’

‘Probably the one in the village.’ Michelle shrugged. ‘It’s the nearest, so more convenient for everyone.’

‘Okay.’ Derek held out the water bottle. ‘Thanks.’

‘Put it in your satchel, just in case. I don’t mind driving home after the pub if you want more than one, either. I’ve got an article for the local newspaper to finish writing tonight if I’m going to meet their deadline.’

‘I’d best get a move on, then. How’s it going over there?’

He jerked his chin to where a group of four young archaeologists knelt beside one of the pylons behind his position, their voices just audible over the sweeping calls of larks that swooped and ducked over the field.

‘That anomaly on the readings Tim noticed turned out to be a handful of seventeenth-century nails.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘There were a couple of musket balls nearby, but that was all – nothing to worry about.’

‘I’m not worried,’ he grinned. ‘I’ll bet he’s disappointed though.’

Michelle rolled her eyes. ‘You should never have told him about the Saxon tribe that was based around here. He’s got his hopes up now.’

‘Don’t tell Bill that – he’ll never forgive us if we find something significant now. It’ll completely cock up his project schedule.’

‘True. How much longer are you going to be?’

‘Not long.’ He pointed towards the thick line of trees a few metres away. ‘The cables are going to go under the stream that forms the boundary beneath those, so I’ll map the area beside it before I call it a day. I can pick up the cable route from the other side in the morning.’

‘Okay. See you in a bit.’

She threw a wave over her shoulder and turned away, her long strides easily covering the ground between him and the small group.

Derek turned back to the magnetometer screen, rolled his shoulders to take the weight of the straps, and checked the grid settings.

Satisfied he hadn’t strayed from his bearings while chatting with his wife, he looped the headphones over his ears, his brow furrowing in concentration.

He set off at a brisk pace, keeping time with the constant beep emitted by the machine, easing into the familiar routine.

When the National Grid had announced that their nationwide beautification project would extend to other parts of the UK, he and Michelle had kept a weather eye on the contracts awarded to construction companies, pouncing on the opportunity to bid for the second phase of archaeological surveys.

They had narrowly missed out to a competitor from Milton Keynes for the first phase, but their local presence won over the contracts manager for this final check ahead of the cable route being carved through the countryside south of Didcot. Once that was done, the pylons would be torn down, returning the view of the horizon to one not seen since the 1930s.

Derek sighed with relief when he reached the trees.

A mixture of oak and alder provided welcome shade, light dappling on thick foliage that swayed above his head as he paused beside a blackthorn bush.

The thread-like path that lay beyond the brambles was rarely used, according to the farmer whose land bordered the stream, despite it having an access point that emerged beside a twisting B road half a mile away.

Taking a deep breath, relishing the coolness under the trees, he paused at the sound of water bubbling along at a leisurely gait beyond his position.

He could sense the history here, and, despite his words to Michelle, he appreciated Tim’s excitement.

Named after a Saxon chieftain, Hacca’s Brook wound its way between here and the Thames, carving a path through the landscape over centuries. The stream had witnessed the waxing and waning of the Roman invasion, the English Civil War and more, and yet here it was, almost forgotten beneath a tangle of fallen branches and leaf litter.

He found an opening to the path overgrown with long grass and stinging nettles, a pale blue butterfly rising into the air as he kicked a rough track through and lowered the magnetometer once more.

He would complete the required grid layout this afternoon, and, if anything gave him cause for concern, he would flag it and return with the metal detector in the morning.

His heart rate increased as he worked, the thrill of the chase kicking in as he began to sweep the ground.

Yes, Bill McFarlane would be frustrated if they did find something of archaeological significance, but surely the site manager would be swayed by the publicity. If only…

The machine chimed, and Derek’s gaze snapped to the screen.

He froze on the spot.

Something was down there.

He glanced over his shoulder.

The path had curved to the right, following the watercourse, but in his trancelike state, he had drifted off to the left by accident, scuffing against the longer grass without noticing.

Derek cursed loudly. If any of his post-graduate assistants had done the same thing, he would have berated them for sloppiness, but…

This was how the big finds were made.

The ones that made headlines.

By accident.

Swinging the magnetometer away from his body, he used the toe of his boot to gently prise away an errant bramble, and stooped to take a closer look.

The ground was undisturbed, lush grass carpeting the area so the indentation the specialist equipment had identified was years old, rather than recent.

He couldn’t make out any signs of animal disturbance, and there were no tracks in the thin mud at the fringes of the path either.

Gently, he unclipped the straps and lay the magnetometer on the path a few metres behind the target area, then fished a trowel from his satchel and dropped to a crouch.

After making a series of well-practised cuts to the earth, he lifted out a section of the grass and felt around in the soil. Whatever had caused the alert on the machine was close to the surface, he was sure.

Clenching his jaw, he used the trowel to scrape away a little more of the clay soil, its texture damp now that the sun-dried top layer had been removed, and pushed back the dirt with his fingers.

He blinked in surprise.

A pale green material, similar to that of his polo shirt, emerged from the small indentation he’d created. A strip of cotton perhaps, firmly stuck under the rest of the soil that still covered the area he’d swept with the magnetometer.

He followed the direction of the material to the left, farther away from the stream and into the thicket of brambles that separated his position from the arable field.

Frowning, Derek reached out and pulled back a tangle of ivy.

He lurched backwards with a startled cry.

Reaching up between a sapling’s tentative roots, its pale grey skeletal fingers clawing from the earth, was a hand.

CHAPTERTWO

Detective Sergeant Mark Turpin rolled up the sleeves of his pale blue shirt and peered over the top of the pool car.

Beyond the hedgerow that lined the narrow potholed lane, a weather-beaten and dusty collection of machinery had been abandoned in the middle of a barren field, the grubby yellow paintwork of excavators, dump trucks and bulldozers at odds with the lush greenery that bordered the landscape.

The drivers stood beside their vehicles, heads lowered and hands in pockets while they scuffed at stones, occasionally pausing to glance over their shoulders towards a line of trees half a mile away from Mark’s position, then turning back to their colleagues, the occasional shake of a head replacing words that were left unsaid.

Above their heads, a steady line of electricity pylons marched across the field, weaving their way past a pair of enormous barns before disappearing from view.

Mark turned his attention to the vehicles lining the lane, running his eyes over the liveried patrol cars belonging to Thames Valley Police as uniformed officers turned back traffic and created a detour away from the crime scene.

He sighed, aimed his key fob at his borrowed vehicle and walked towards a young constable at the outer cordon.

The blue and white crime scene tape that was stretched between a signposted public footpath and a sycamore trunk lifted in the breeze as he approached, the cool air providing welcome relief from the sweltering heat that had baked the countryside these past two weeks.

‘Afternoon, Sarge.’ The constable – Knowles, according to the name badge over his left pocket – held out a clipboard and a pen. ‘Word just came back – they reckon it’s female, probably buried within the past couple of decades or so.’

‘Christ.’ Mark wrinkled his nose. ‘Definitely not a historical find, then?’

Knowles shook his head. ‘One of the archaeologists confirmed the clothing’s too modern. What’s left of it, anyway.’

‘Is DC West along there?’

‘Yes, Sarge – she got here twenty minutes ago.’

Voices filled the air while he signed his name on the log sheet – shouted instructions tinged with panic from the construction site mixing with the more practised tones of three crime scene investigators. He watched while they unloaded equipment from a nondescript white van parked beside a five-bar wooden gate on the opposite side of the lane, then turned back to Knowles and handed him the clipboard. ‘New to the area, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, Sarge. I finished training six weeks ago.’ The constable noted the time beside Mark’s signature and held up the blue and white tape that blocked access to the public footpath. ‘Follow it along about four hundred metres – you’ll find the inner cordon after that bend you can see from here. There’s a spot there where you can get suited up.’

‘Thank you. And Knowles – keep those details about the victim to yourself for now, all right? Speculation about the circumstances won’t help her, or her family.’

The young constable’s cheeks flushed. ‘Absolutely, Sarge.’

Mark ducked under the tape and hurried along the dirt path.

It was cracked in places down the middle where the sun had broken through the tree canopy and baked the surface, but a thin layer of mud clung to the verges on each side.

To his right, a ribbon of water twisted and edged its way beneath the trees, sunlight sparkling on the surface as the brook bubbled over rocks and fallen branches.

A thick swathe of long grass filled the left side of the path, insects buzzing past his face as he picked up his pace.

There was nothing to suggest the path was well-used before the discovery of the woman’s body.

How long had she lain there?

And why?

‘Sarge.’

Detective Constable January West raised her hand in greeting as he rounded the bend, her hair gathered up under a hood attached to the white protective suit she wore.

She excused herself from the group of three similarly clad figures she’d been talking with and made her way over to him, pausing at the second barrier of crime scene tape.

Peering past her, he nodded in greeting to the Home Office pathologist, Gillian Appleworth, who was standing beside the grave site and talking to two colleagues.

‘Hell of a way to start the week, Jan. What do you know so far?’ he asked, wobbling to keep his balance on the uneven ground while he tugged plastic booties over his shoes and then took the sealed bag she held out to him. ‘Thanks.’

‘As soon as Gillian got here she called in a forensic archaeologist and an anthropologist – we can’t risk excavating the grave until they’ve got a full record of what’s here.’ She paused while he dragged the protective suit over his suit trousers and zipped it up to his neck. ‘It’s not ancient, that’s for sure, and given the sort of clothing that they’ve uncovered so far, they think it’s female. Off the record, of course, until they get the remains out of there and back to the lab.’

Mark pulled the hood up over his hair, snapped gloves over his hands, and entered the crime scene.

‘Jasper’s got a demarcated route set along this side.’ Jan pointed to a series of pegs set into the dirt to the right of the path as she led the way. ‘We can get to within a metre or so of the grave along here. They can’t risk us getting any closer at the moment – they’re still searching the ground either side of it for evidence.’

He followed her mutely, eyeing the pile of stinging nettles and brambles that had been cut away and laid farther up the path, away from where Jasper Smith stood next to a mound of earth, his head bowed while he watched his team work.

Beside the grave, three CSI technicians grappled with a temporary white tent, ready to place it over the gaping hole and protect it from the elements.

Jasper took a step back as Mark and Jan approached, lowered his tablet computer and scratched his head. ‘I’ll never get used to wearing these suits in this heat.’

‘Then I’ll try not to keep you from your work for too long.’ Mark jerked his chin at the grave. ‘Jan mentioned the grave was well-hidden.’

‘Considering it’s not even a metre deep, yes.’

Mark craned his neck to see the overgrown path snaking between the trees alongside the stream, narrowing as it headed east from their position.

The route seemed forgotten, abandoned – just as Jan had said.

‘Dug in a hurry, perhaps,’ he said, turning back to the CSI lead. ‘So, was this footpath used more often at one time, I wonder?’

‘There’s an old faded wooden signpost at the far end that’s pretty rotten and some of these trees blocking the path have been here a while.’ Jasper shuffled in his protective suit until Mark could see his tablet screen, then flicked through the photographs. ‘The grave itself is shallow but sheltered under the trees, so over time the leaf litter built up and covered it even more. If the project survey team hadn’t been assessing the area for the cable route, the grave might never have been discovered. Add to the fact that the path looks more or less abandoned – you can see the vegetation’s grown over it as well. I looked at the route on a satellite image – it doesn’t link up to any of the more popular walking routes nearby, either.’

‘There aren’t that many houses around here,’ Jan said. She pointed through the thick foliage to the field where the construction vehicles and their drivers idled. ‘The farmer that owns this land told uniform he never used the path, which goes some way to explain why none of the hedgerows have been cut back this side, and the land on the other side of the stream is privately owned. Again, the family that live there say they keep a small flock of sheep in the field, and never use the path – in fact, they were surprised to hear it was through here. The wife said she thought the field was just bordered by the stream.’

Mark grimaced as the images on the screen changed to close-ups of the contents of the grave, the twisted skeleton visible amongst the soft dirt and knotted tree roots as the specialists worked methodically to uncover its final resting place.

‘We’ll speak to the other property owners in the area as soon as we can, then.’ He shivered and turned his gaze from the screen to watch the work in progress. ‘Who’s the tall bloke at the far end, Jasper?’

‘Robert Kerridge – he’s the forensic anthropologist that Gillian called as soon as she realised what we’ve got here, and the man crouching in the trench at the moment is Hayden Bridges, a forensic archaeologist from Banbury.’

‘Kennedy’s going to have a heart attack when he sees what they charge.’

The CSI lead grimaced. ‘I hope they both live up to their reputations, then.’

Beside Mark, Jan used the heel of her hand to wipe away a bead of sweat between her eyebrows, the protective suit crackling with the movement. ‘Do you want to speak to the project archaeologist who found her, Sarge?’

‘Might as well – and then we’re going to have to speak to Kennedy about wrangling some extra manpower to start going through the missing persons database as soon as we have more information about her.’ He sighed. ‘Whoever she is, she was someone’s daughter, perhaps someone’s mother. We owe it to them to find out what happened to her, and why she ended up here.’

CHAPTERTHREE

Jan scrunched up the discarded protective suit and stuffed it into a biohazard bin outside the cordoned-off grave site.

Over her shoulder, she could hear the gruff tones of the forensic anthropologist assigned to the find as he barked orders to the other experts. She turned to watch while Gillian’s archaeology expert calmly explained that it would take at least another hour or more to assess the grave before they could begin the gentle process of removing the remains.

A breeze shivered through the sycamore trees above her and she lifted her chin to catch it against her face, relishing the coolness across her skin after the brutal reality of the crime scene.

Raking a hand through her hair, she fell into step behind Turpin as he led the way back to the lane with his phone to his ear, bringing Detective Inspector Ewan Kennedy up to date, and giving him the bad news about what was going to happen to his overtime budget.

‘Christ, the boys…’ she muttered, then pulled her phone from her bag and quickly typed a message to her husband Scott about what he might find in the freezer for their twins’ dinner.

That done, she paused on the footpath while Turpin strode on ahead.

The low voices around the graveside had receded the minute she’d passed the bend in the path, and the knowledge that the lane was only a few hundred metres away from where she stood did nothing to ease the sense of eeriness that descended around her.

Apart from the gentle flow of the stream as it wound its way past, she could hear nothing beyond the tangled hedgerow leading to the field where the construction team waited.

She couldn’t even see their dirt-streaked yellow vehicles.

On the opposite side of the stream, dark green ivy strangled thick oak trunks, the space between them cluttered with tall ferns that blocked out any indication that another field stretched beyond.

Jan shuddered, and hurried to catch up with Turpin.

He ended his phone call as she drew near and shoved his phone back into his shirt pocket.

‘What’s the name of the bloke who found her?’

‘Derek Andrews. Runs the company with his wife, Michelle, who’s also on site this week.’

‘Do you know where he is?’

‘Sam Owens did the initial interview with him when we got here. I’ll ask him. Hopefully they haven’t been sent home yet.’ Jan smiled in thanks as Knowles lifted the crime scene tape above their heads, then paused to scuff the worst of the dirt from her shoes. ‘Where’s Sam, Ian?’

Knowles pulled his radio from his vest and jerked his chin towards the neighbouring field. ‘I’ll call him for you. He managed to corral the archaeology team into a corner of the site car park while we were taking statements earlier. I think he was just waiting for the nod to let them go.’

‘Tell him to hang fire,’ said Turpin. ‘I want a word first.’

‘Will do, Sarge.’

Moments later, Jan walked through an open metal gate and into the field that bordered the footpath.

A thick-set man in his fifties wearing dirty safety boots hovered beside one of the uniformed constables. He checked off the names of those who passed, and she recognised the logo of the private security company emblazoned across the left-hand side of his hi-vis vest.

His face was glum as he watched the police hovering outside the three temporary cabins that bordered the gravel car park in a rough U-shape, and Jan noticed the weary smile he gave to one of the construction workers as he passed by.

Sam Owens raised his hand in greeting and excused himself before crossing to where Jan and Turpin waited.

‘Ian said you wanted a word with the bloke who found the body,’ he said, and pointed to the cabin on the far right-hand side of the car park. ‘They’re all in there at the moment.’

Jan frowned as she eyed the powder-coated aluminium sides of the rectangular dirt-spattered building. ‘How the hell did they all fit in that?’

‘There were only six of them on the site today – they just use that Portakabin for keeping their equipment secure at night. And the coffee machine.’ Sam shrugged. ‘I figured they’d be more amenable to hanging around if I asked them to wait in there rather than out here.’

‘Any complaints?’ Turpin asked.

‘None, Sarge. Michelle Andrews said they’re used to being patient in their line of work. I think they’re using the time to log the results from today’s finds.’ His smile faded. ‘The historical ones, I mean.’

‘Introduce us, then.’

‘This way, Sarge.’

Jan noticed the door to the Portakabin was already open, as was the single-paned window facing out onto the site car park, no doubt in an attempt to allow a modicum of air to pass through the tiny office space where the archaeologists worked.

A set of three metal steps led up to the door, and someone peered out through the window at them as she and Turpin drew closer.

Sam rapped his knuckles against the door and waved them inside.

Six faces turned to them, a mixture of inquisitiveness and apprehension in their eyes.

Two rectangular trestle tables took up most of the space inside the cabin, set up along the middle of the room and covered in small bags similar to the evidence bags Jan kept in the car for emergencies. Inside those, she noticed small shards of pottery, lead musket balls, and a rust-covered coin nearest to where she stood.

At the far edges, the archaeological team had set up their laptop computers, the hum of the machines’ fans whirring in the background like errant flies.

Around the tables, shelving units sagged with paperwork and thick well-thumbed reference books, and towards the back she spotted a small refrigerator with a coffee machine on top, the aroma of burnt beans tinging the air.

‘Everyone, this is Detective Sergeant Mark Turpin, and Detective Constable Jan West,’ said Sam. ‘They have some questions they’d like to ask you.’

Jan watched as a man in his early sixties pushed back his chair, the legs scraping across the linoleum floor.

His brow furrowed, crinkling weather-beaten skin and exposing a weariness in his eyes.

‘I’m Derek Andrews,’ he said, moving around the table with his hand outstretched. ‘I’m the one who found the grave.’

‘Thanks for waiting for us while we got our bearings.’ Turpin shook the man’s hand and then turned his attention to the other members of the man’s team. ‘Thanks to all of you. I realise it’s turning into a longer day than you’d have liked.’

A woman standing beside the window with shoulder-length dark hair held up her hands and shook her head. ‘Don’t apologise. We’ve used the time to catch up on work that would’ve kept us here over the weekend. Besides, we know you’ve got your own processes you have to follow.’

‘Do you know who she is?’ blurted one of the younger men at the far end of the table.

‘Tim…’ The woman rolled her eyes at him, then turned back to Turpin. ‘Sorry…’

‘It’s all right. No, we don’t know who she is. Do you?’

Tim’s eyebrows shot up. ‘No. Of course not. I’ve never been here before…’

‘Okay, well let us have a word with Derek and then we’ll want to speak to each of you,’ said Turpin, his tone calm. ‘Just a formality, that’s all. Once we’ve done that, you can head off for the day.’

Jan watched as the young man relaxed back into his seat at her colleague’s words, and bit back a smile.

Derek rolled up his shirt sleeves and jerked his head towards the door. ‘It’s probably cooling down a bit out there now. Do you want to have a chat outside?’

He led them back down the stairs, and Jan nodded her thanks to Sam as he wandered back to his position next to the security gate before she followed Turpin and the archaeologist around the side of the Portakabin.

As soon as the man reached the shade afforded by the building and the one beside it, he pulled a packet of cigarettes from his shirt pocket.

Jan noticed Turpin pause at the corner of the cabin and angle his head away from the first trail of smoke that Derek exhaled with a heavy sigh, attempting to protect his damaged larynx. She extracted her notebook and a pen from her handbag, giving her colleague a moment to recover.

‘Sorry,’ said Derek, lowering his hand and angling the cigarette away from them. ‘Michelle’s trying to make me quit, but after today…’

‘Had you been along that footpath prior to today’s survey?’ said Turpin and loosened his tie.

‘No. No need to – we’d mapped the rest of the cable route across this field over the course of the past day or so, and they won’t reach that stream until the middle of next week with the excavator. It gives us a bit of time to gather anything we find before they make a start.’

Turpin brushed past Jan and walked to the back of the cabins, staring out across the field before turning back to Derek. ‘Seems strange to me that they’d leave it this late to survey the field. Surely they would’ve done that prior to the construction work starting?’

‘They did, in March.’ Derek took another surreptitious drag on the cigarette and blew the smoke away from the DS. ‘Weather conditions were bloody awful back then, though, and they didn’t want to find themselves in a position where a big find had been missed. They’re behind schedule as it is.’

‘Would they have used the same surveying equipment as you back then?’

‘To a certain degree, yes.’

‘And working to the same scope of work, with the same coordinates?’

‘Yes.’

‘And yet they missed the grave.’

Derek gave a sad smile. ‘Unfortunately, as with any equipment, it has its limitations when the ground is waterlogged. And if your victim isn’t wearing any jewellery for instance, then that would make it even harder to pinpoint her grave at that time.’ He sighed. ‘As it was, I only found her because I was tired and wandered off course from the GPS coordinates I’d set. A rookie mistake on my part, but if I hadn’t then she might not have been found until construction work started there. If at all.’

Jan shivered at the thought of one of the enormous bulldozers smashing through the woman’s remains, scattering her within one of the piles of backfill that littered a corner of the field away from the Portakabins.

‘Okay, I think that’s it for now,’ said Turpin. ‘We’ll have someone liaise with you to let you know if we need anything else, but here’s my card.’

‘Do you have any idea who she is?’ Derek asked, his eyes troubled.

Jan shook her head. ‘Not yet. It’s still too early in the investigation.’

‘When you do…’ The archaeologist blinked, then stubbed out his cigarette and shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. ‘Would you let us know? We’d like to do something for her family if she has one… I don’t know what. But something to let them know we care.’

CHAPTERFOUR

The landscape was being claimed by a humid dusk by the time Mark and Jan finished interviewing the rest of the archaeology team and sent them on their way.

As Mark watched the last of the team’s cars leave the parking area beside the security gate, he inhaled the fresh air laced with the thick scent of honeysuckle and elderflower in the hedgerow, turning to face the other temporary cabins set out in a small semi-circle around him.

Swallows swooped and glided across the field behind them, chasing the midges and flies that Mark found he was constantly waving away from his face, the birds’ incessant chatter a white noise under the voices of the various uniformed officers and plain-clothed experts who roamed the construction site.

At the sound of heavy boots on gravel, he turned to see a thick-set man in his forties approaching with the force of a bull.

High-visibility vest flapping under his arms, his brow furrowed as he stormed from the direction of the farthest cabin, he stopped in front of Mark and glared at him.

‘Have you finished yet? I saw the archaeologists leaving.’

‘We’ll be a while yet, Mr…?’

‘Bill McFarlane. I’m the site manager.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Mark glanced over his shoulder as Jan approached, then back. ‘We were hoping to speak with you. Got a minute?’

‘I’ve got a project meeting with the owners in fifteen minutes. One of them’s calling in from New York.’

‘And I’m managing a murder investigation. Shall we?’

Mark gestured to the man’s site office, then followed in his wake as McFarlane spun on his heel and stalked towards it.

The site manager waited on the top step, holding the door open for them, then crossed to a well-worn chair at the head of a chipped oblong table and slouched, worry lines etched around his eyes.

‘I’ll apologise if I came over abrupt out there,’ he said, his accent north of his current location. ‘Derek probably told you we’re running behind schedule, and now this… My company has to pay the client for any delays, you see. They’re going to be wrangling about this one for years.’

‘I can’t help that.’ Mark pulled out a chair for Jan, then took the one beside her. ‘Until I have some answers about what a body is doing buried next to that stream and my crime scene investigators tell me they’re releasing the site, there’ll be no more work going on anywhere near it. By anyone. So, in the meantime, and given that your meeting is starting in, what, ten minutes now, shall we get on?’

McFarlane gave a resigned shrug, and Mark pressed on.

‘How long have you been based at this site?’

‘I’ve been back and forth here for the past two years. This set-up you see here was established a year ago. There weren’t as many people back then, of course. We’re expecting thirty more next week when the cabling engineers catch up with us.’

‘Where do you stay while you’re here? Your accent…’

‘Carlisle.’ McFarlane jerked his chin towards the door. ‘The company puts me up at one of the big motels near the dual carriageway on the other side of town.’

‘And you’ve always stayed there while you’ve been working on this project?’

‘Yes. I presume they get a discount rate or something. There’re plenty of blokes like me running sites around the country, especially with this latest project roll-out.’

‘You said you’ve been back and forth from this site for two years. Who else was here with you?’

‘Surveyors, soil testing contractors, that sort of thing.’ McFarlane pointed to a large 3D image that had been printed out and plastered along the length of one wall. ‘They do all the computer modelling for the cable route before we even start. That helps with correcting any oversight with regard to land acquisition as well, to try to give the legal teams time to renegotiate.’

‘Do you recall ever seeing anyone near the woodlands at the far end of the field during that time?’

‘No, can’t say that I did. Like I said, I’m usually busy with meetings. Putting out fires most of the time,’ McFarlane replied, a note of weariness in his voice. ‘That, and arguing for more budget. Speaking of which…’

He broke off and pointed at the computer screen in the corner, and Mark checked his watch.

‘All right. We’ll let you get on.’ He slid a business card across the table to the site manager. ‘If you do remember something that could help us, my email and direct phone number are on there.’

The man ignored the card, and instead pushed his chair back.

Mark took the hint, followed Jan out of the cabin and paused in the middle of the gravel car park.

He watched as McFarlane slammed shut the door. Moments later, the man’s muffled voice sounded through the thin walls of the cabin as his video conference began.

‘What do you think, Sarge?’ Jan asked as he turned away and walked with her towards the gates. ‘Something’s bothering you about him, isn’t it?’

He waited until they’d passed the new uniformed constable on sentry duty and were walking up the lane towards their cars before answering.

‘Out of all the people we’ve spoken to this afternoon, McFarlane’s the only one who’s had access to the site since this project was approved,’ he said. He paused next to Jan’s car while she retrieved her keys from her bag. ‘And yet, he says he didn’t see anything.’

His colleague wrinkled her nose. ‘Well, I suppose if he’s here, he’s working, and he seems to spend most of his time in that pokey little office of his. I doubt he’s ever had much time to stare out of the window.’

Mark moved to one side as a plain white van passed them, raising his hand in greeting to another member of Jasper’s team he recognised, then turned back to Jan.