Burying the Past Read Online Free PDF

obviously our prime suspect. As for the charity . . . Ah, Don’t Badger Badgers, that’s what it’s called. It didn’t have much to spend its funds on, of course – until recently, I should imagine. Now it’s probably busy organizing protest meetings in the south-west, where dairy farmers have got the go-ahead to shoot them on their land.’
    Looking up from the notes she was making, Kim said, ‘I’ve always thought of badgers as
Wind in the Willows
characters, I’m afraid. What farmers ought to be doing is inoculating the cows, surely?’
    Warming to her at last, Fran said, ‘Since I don’t like guns in anyone’s hands, I couldn’t agree more. But I’m not a farmer, of course. Nor an archaeologist – apparently, badgers do huge damage to as yet unexplored historic sites.’
    Kim nodded grimly at the figures in the vegetable patch. ‘We’ll just have to hope they haven’t been busy here, then.’
    Fran shook her head. ‘I can think of two damned good reasons to hope they have – my home and my budget. Don’t look so shocked, Kim! You must admit that a body that’s lain there for at least twelve years – the charity found it couldn’t shift the place when the bottom dropped out of the housing market – is probably of less interest to us than one that’s just appeared.’
    â€˜That Chinese illegal that turned up by the OAP’s bungalow at two this morning?’
    â€˜Exactly like that. Just one thing, Kim. On my watch we don’t call them “illegals”. It’s a term that seems to diminish, to dehumanize people. And for all I’d rather not have a skeleton in my bean row, if we do find remains, we’ll treat them with absolute decency, even reverence. Won’t we?’
    â€˜Of course, ma’am.’ She was pretty well at attention again, poor girl.
    Fran sighed. She’d picked up rumours that youngsters – and a few old lags – were inclined to find her intimidating. But she rarely meant to be. Oh, when she put her mind to it, she could draw tears, male as well as female. Now all she’d meant to do was remind the newcomer of the CID ethos – OK, her ethos – but it was clear she’d overdone it. Perhaps it was a generational thing. Perhaps it really was time to retire. But not quite yet. Not if it meant letting Kim plough on unrestrained.
    â€˜Look,’ Fran said, ‘they seem to be having some sort of chinwag. Shall we go and put our three penn’orth in? Or rather, Kim – your three penn’orth: you’re the one in charge here, in case
I’d
forgotten,’ she added with a grin.
    Kim managed to respond with a hint of a smile, while not quite dropping a curtsy. Roll on the return of that nice malleable DCI, Harry Chester; with luck, having your gall bladder fished out didn’t require much time off.
    Fran’s phone rang; expecting gossip from HQ, she was surprised to see the caller was Janie Falkirk, the vicar at St Jude’s, Canterbury, whom Mark had mentioned upon their scaffolding the other day. Janie was a tough, laconic Glaswegian, currently based at one of the ugliest churches Fran had ever seen.
    â€˜Fran – sorry to disturb you, but I’ve got a problem. Serious. But it needs a wee bit of sensitivity. Any chance?’
    With all the problems at HQ, and just when things were kicking off here! But she ought to give Kim a freer rein, ought to let her find her feet. And in all the time she’d known her, Janie had never asked for a favour. ‘How urgent?’
    â€˜About as urgent as it can be.’

THREE
    I n its way, not to mention in its day, the Edwardian vicarage next to St Jude’s, a viciously Fifties concrete bunker on the east side of Canterbury, must have been as grand as their rectory. It sat within its own grounds next to the church; together they made a decent and potentially