‘Did she describe these people at all?’

‘No, why should she? It was only a passing remark, that she’d been chatting to a couple of people. I expect they were just talking about the weather, or the difficulty in finding somewhere to park, or whether the tea was any good. Why would she describe them? It’s as if you’re suggesting it’s Lindsay’s fault she didn’t say anything.’

Seeing Mr Mullen becoming agitated, Fry paused and let him subside.

‘I can’t remember any more than that,’ he said. ‘Do you think these people might have been responsible for the fire?’

‘We don’t know, sir. But it’s very important that you try to remember anything your wife might have said. If it occurs to you who she might have been meeting, or any little details she let slip, please inform us straightaway.’

‘All right. Of course.’

Fry stood up to go. She hadn’t achieved anything by the visit. In fact, she wondered if she’d just given Brian Mullen a get-out for the arson. Mysterious strangers didn’t fit into her scenario.

 A pool of light ran slowly over the corpse. It started at the feet and travelled up the legs to a distended stomach. Pale skin showed through burst shirt buttons. The hand holding the Maglite tilted, and the beam moved across the chest, paused at the throat, and finally hovered over the face.

‘Was there a fight in here?’

‘I don’t know. I think this might have been its normal condition.’

The light focused on Ben Cooper’s face. He blinked in the glare and smiled uncertainly.

‘Is it possible to tell how he died?’ he asked. ‘There’s a bruise on his cheekbone, but I suppose he could have got it when he fell.’

The pathologist ran her torch over the face of the corpse again. ‘I’ll be able to confirm that after the PM. It depends what damage I find underneath the tissue. If the bone is fractured, it might suggest blunt-force trauma – an injury caused by a greater impact than a simple fall.’

‘A blow to the head?’

‘Possibly. It might not be as plain as that in my report.’

‘He’s been lying here a while. He’s already starting to smell a bit.’

‘Yes, he’s been dead a couple of days. That might make it more difficult. Post-mortem changes can mask small injuries. There’s a very strong smell of alcohol, too.’

‘Yes, I noticed that.’

Nichols’s body lay wedged between a bench seat and a fold-up table. The angle of his limbs gave the impression he’d been struggling, but whether against an attacker or just to get up, it wasn’t clear. He was face-up, and had vomited at some time – well, a couple of days ago, at least. His stomach was white and bloated where it was exposed, but his face and hands looked thin to the point of gauntness. He was unshaven, and his dark hair was receding.

The interior of the caravan was strewn with clothes, and a number of empty lager cans stood on the drainer by the tiny sink. A scatter of papers and magazines lay on the table next to a little portable TV set, but Cooper was afraid to touch them. Best to let the SOCOs sort them out after the body had been removed.

‘I presume he lived on his own,’ said Hitchens later, as he stood well clear of the smell.

‘Yes, I think it would be safe to say that, sir.’

‘What else have we got, Ben?’

Cooper flicked open his notebook. ‘He’s known as Simon Nichols, but that’s probably not his real name. He’s aged about fifty-five, and he’d lived here for eight months. The caravan belongs to the farmer, who doesn’t seem to have asked many questions.’

‘I hope he didn’t pay too much rent. I’ve never seen such a dump.’

‘I gather it was in exchange for his work on the farm. Free accommodation and probably less than the minimum wage. It was originally used for accommodating foreign students who came over in the summer to help with the harvest. But this farm hasn’t produced a decent crop for years.’

‘How can you tell?’

‘Didn’t you notice the field on the way in? It’s full of bracken and ragwort. The place has been neglected.’

‘OK. And this is Nikolov?’

‘Well, Nichols certainly wasn’t his real name. Mr Finney admits that his worker wasn’t British. He never asked him about his nationality, but guessed he might be Polish. Nichols didn’t speak much English, only what he needed to get by.’

‘I bet “beer” was a word he knew,’ said Hitchens.

A Scientific Support van crawled into the field and parked next to the silage bags. Wayne Abbott got out.

‘My God, this took some finding.’

‘Better get the masks out, Wayne,’ said Hitchens. ‘We’re going to need you to take this caravan apart.’

Flood lamps were already up, and a crime-scene tent was going over the caravan.

‘I asked Wayne to bring a gunshot residue kit,’ said Hitchens. ‘I don’t know how this man is connected to Rose Shepherd, but we’re not going to miss anything.’

The latest GSR kit was designed for a presumptive test at the scene, and another in the lab later. Previous tests had involved swabbing the hands of a suspect and sending the swabs to a lab. Since results from the scanning electron microscope took weeks or even months, many officers had saved time by just not bothering with GSR.

‘Negative. Sorry,’ said Abbott a few minutes later.

‘Damn.’

‘There’s hardly any food in this caravan,’ said Cooper. ‘Just cans of beer and half a bottle of vodka. He looks ill, too.’

‘Dead people usually do,’ said Hitchens.

‘Not always.’

The DI ran a hand across his forehead. ‘No, you’re right, Ben.’

Cooper took a walk around the field where the caravan was sited. There were lots of gaps in the drystone walls, easy enough for anyone to get in or out of the area without having to come down the track or past the farmhouse.

‘If the farmer can be believed, Simon Nichols lived a quiet, reclusive life and was hardly seen in daylight, except when he was working.’

‘Great,’ said Hitchens. ‘He’s already starting to sound like Rose Shepherd.’

21

‘You see what I meant about not being able to cut yourself off completely?’ Fry said later, when she had Cooper and Murfin together in the CID room.

‘Miss Shepherd, you mean?’ said Cooper.

‘Of course. She not only had the postman, the meter reader, and God knows who else coming by the house, but she was forced to have Eric Grice in to do a few odd jobs, the repairs she couldn’t manage.’

‘I wonder if he was handy for a few really odd jobs,’ said Murfin.

Fry gave him a look. ‘She had to take a gamble on Eric, didn’t she?’ she said. ‘It must have been a toss-up whether to get a complete stranger in every time she needed something doing, or to stick to one local man. She must have known Eric would talk about her in the village, but she decided a bit of gossip was preferable to having people in the house she knew nothing about. At least she could be sure that Eric was the genuine article.’

‘Yes, she had to let someone a little way into her life,’ said Cooper. ‘I wonder if Mr Grice realizes how privileged he was.’

‘Privileged, right.’ Fry began to count on her fingers. ‘Then there was the estate agent and the solicitor. She wasn’t in a position to buy a property without professional help, and they had to know something about her. Her bank account details, for a start.’

‘And –’

Fry held up another finger. ‘And then she met Lindsay Mullen in Matlock Bath.’

‘But do you think that was entirely by chance, Diane? A random encounter between strangers? Or could there have been some connection between them?’

‘Maybe she wanted to give Lindsay something?’ said Murfin.

‘Why, Gavin?’

‘Miss Shepherd seems to have known that she was in danger and people were trying to find her. What if she had an item in her possession that she didn’t want anyone to get hold of? Why not pass it on to someone entirely unconnected? A stranger, in fact.’