Dying to Sin

or on sloping ground, but we can try it here.’

‘Is it effective?’

‘All it does is use the electrical properties of the soil to identify disturbances in the ground. It’s a lot better than sticking a probe in. You need proper training to use those probes, really. If there is a body, and you go too deep, you can poke the end right in. It doesn’t please the pathologist, I can tell you. I heard of one probe injury that was identified at the PM as the entrance wound of a bullet.’

Fry looked around the farmyard — all those nooks and crannies, corners and gateways, paddocks and overgrown gardens.

‘Where would we start?’

Abbott consulted his watch, as if the time of day might make a difference, or perhaps he had something more important to do. Christmas presents to buy, the turkey to pick up.

‘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.’

They walked round the house and Cooper led her inside through the back door, passing the cleared rooms and entering the hallway.

‘They left everything. Look, they even left the family Bible on the hall table,’ said Cooper.

‘So one of them found God, do you think?’

‘It happens.’

‘It must have been Raymond. He sounds the type.’

‘Do you think there’s a type, Diane?’

‘Yes — those who show some signs of having a conscience in the first place. No, wait. There’s another type — the ones who’re already disturbed, hovering close to the edge. We see it all the time among convicted criminals. They get hold of some delusion that they interpret as a spiritual revelation, and suddenly they’re born again. They think they’re one of God’s chosen representatives on earth, redeemed from their sins for some special purpose that He has in mind for them. And, hey presto, they don’t have to feel guilty about their crimes any more.’

Cooper nodded, but reluctantly. He no longer went to church regularly himself, but he did at least feel guilty about not going. The way Fry talked about other people’s religious beliefs made him uncomfortable. The worst thing was that he couldn’t tell her how he felt, because he knew she’d take it as a sign of weakness.

‘Actually, there’s a third type, isn’t there?’ he said.

‘Oh, is there?’ Fry watched him expectantly.

‘There are those who pretend to have found religion, because they think it will help them get parole.’

‘Yes, it’s common enough. But it’s a tough act to keep up, especially when you get on the outside.’

‘I suppose so.’

Fry looked at the Bible, prominently displayed on the hall table. ‘I mean, if someone is genuinely religious, you’d expect to find some sign of it in their house, in private — not just for public show.’

She began to walk back towards the next room, and Cooper followed her. They moved cautiously about the house, looking for anything that resembled an office where the farm records might have been kept. But they ended up in the kitchen.

‘We might as well start here,’ said Cooper.

There were still no cats. Not even the signs of their food bowls or a litter tray. Wasn’t a cat the Celtic equivalent of the dog Cerberus, the guardian at the entrance to the Underworld? If this was a kind of hell, where were the guardians?

Cooper hoped the farm cats had taken themselves off into the woods and fields to find their own food. He didn’t like to think of them becoming roadkill. Their deaths would never be reported, if that was the case. Like the body in the excavated grave, they would never be missed, or even become a statistic.

He saw a Daily Express that lay folded on the kitchen table, gathering dust.

‘This newspaper is nearly nine months old.’

‘Is Winston Churchill still Prime Minister?’ asked Fry.

‘No, but someone’s landed on the Moon.’

They went through all the drawers they could find in the kitchen, the sitting room, and a small parlour. Eventually, their search turned up a large, leather-bound book like a ledger, and sheaves of paperwork left loose or stuffed into boxfiles. Cooper lifted out the book and freed it from the papers.

‘Farm accounts?’ asked Fry.

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Bag everything, Ben, and make sure it’s all logged as evidence. We’ll look at it when we get back to the office.’

‘Fair enough.’

Cooper did as he was told, then continued to poke around in the kitchen cupboards, curious about what the Suttons might have left behind that gave an insight into their lives.

‘This is interesting, Diane.’

‘What have you found?’

‘A Sani Bag.’

‘A what?’

‘A sanitary-towel disposal bag. This one is from a Novotel. They provide them in their bathrooms for guests.’

Cooper turned the bag over in his hand. He’d never looked at one closely before. It was made of a strong,