employers.’
‘Hold on — IND? It’s a Home Office department, I know, but I don’t have my acronym dictionary to hand.’
‘Immigration and Nationality Directorate.’
‘Right.’
‘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 …’
While Hitchens was fidgeting impatiently, Fry took a call from Murfin on her mobile.
‘Bad news, Diane. We’ve lost a couple of those builders.’
‘What?’
‘Two of the East Europeans have done a bunk from their B amp;B, and the agency has had no word of them since Thursday. They suggest they might just have gone off for a long weekend.’
‘A long weekend doing what?’
‘Boozing probably,’ said Murfin. ‘I can’t blame them, personally. We might have to wait until Monday and see if they turn up again.’
‘Damn. Did we check on their status?’
‘You said it could wait,’ pointed out Murfin.
‘No, Mr Hitchens did.’ Fry couldn’t disguise the small surge of relief. ‘Which two are missing?’
‘A Slovak and a Czech. I’d give you the names, but I can’t pronounce them.’
‘I’ll get Ben Cooper on to it. He has some contacts.’
Fry ended the call and switched her attention again.
‘The pathologist’s preliminary report on the first victim said there were no signs of major trauma,’ Hitchens was saying to the anthropologist.
‘Oh, well — there’s your other difference, then,’ said Dr Jamieson, with a patronizing smile. ‘Apart from the age of the burial, that is.’
‘What difference is that, Doctor?’
‘The bodies might appear to be intact and free of major trauma as far as the torso, but beyond the upper vertebrae we’re in quite different territory.’
‘Injuries? A cause of death?’ said Hitchens hopefully.
‘Not necessarily. But your second body is definitely different, Inspector. This one is missing a head.’
12
There was plenty of work for SOCOs and the photographic unit to do now. Before it could be moved, any item of physical evidence would be photographed in situ from several angles with a ruler for scale, and a sketch containing accurate dimensions with locations and measurements of all objects would have to be made.
‘Well, I can only give my view if the pathologist requests it,’ said Dr Jamieson. ‘And most of them think anthropologists are charlatans when it comes to the manner of death.’
‘But the missing head — ?’ said Hitchens.
‘- wasn’t necessarily the cause of death. Not that I can pronounce on the subject.’
‘Removing someone’s head is a sure way of causing death. Even I can pronounce on that.’
The anthropologist shook his head. ‘Postmortem removal. Do I need to say more?’
‘Oh.’
‘I understand you’re bringing in ground-penetrating radar to examine the site for more burials?’ said Jamieson. ‘I’ll be here if you need me.’
‘Thank you, Doctor.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘Postmortem removal,’ said Hitchens to his detectives, when they were out of earshot of the anthropologist.
‘Somebody removed the victim’s head after she was dead,’ said Fry.
‘Yes, I know what it means, Diane. Well, I know what the word means. But what’s the significance of the act? Who would take a head from a dead body?’
‘Collectors?’ suggested Murfin. ‘There are people who collect anything.’
‘Oh, yes. I bet it’ll be worth a fortune on eBay.’
‘Do you want me to check?’
‘No, Gavin. We’ll leave that for later.’
‘Serial killers love dismemberment,’ said Fry. ‘The psychologists say that taking body parts from their victims as trophies gives them a feeling of control, a sense of achievement previously lacking in their lives.’
‘We’re not dealing with a serial killer,’ said Hitchens firmly. ‘Don’t even joke about it. This is Edendale, not Ipswich.’
‘We have two bodies already,’ pointed out Fry.
‘Two doesn’t make a series.’
‘Well, perhaps …’
‘I’m serious here. The last thing we want is to start a scare. Besides, there might be no connection between these two victims, apart from the fact that they were buried a few yards apart. Heck, we don’t even know they were murdered. They might be accidental deaths, or they might be suicides. So let’s have no talk about serial
