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that’d interest an archaeologist, but I’ve thought once or twice of asking the Time Team to come and give me a hand.’
    There was silence for a moment as the full deadliness of his joke drifted through the van like a bad smell. Fry saw him go pale, and thought she was going to lose him.
    ‘Are you all right, Jamie?’
    He gulped. ‘Yeah. Thanks. It was mentioning the hand. Not that I meant that hand, but … Shit, I’m not making any sense. I’m sorry.’
    ‘You’re doing just fine. You were telling me about the rubbish you had to dig out for the trench. What kind of thing do you mean?’
    ‘A lot of it was rusty lumps of metal, half-bricks, nails, broken buckets. It looked as though the farmers had used that area for a tip. I cursed Nik a few times, I can tell you. There were even some of those glass jars that people use for making pickles, with lids that have an airtight seal. Do you know what I mean?’
    Jamie was making gestures with his hands to indicate the size of the containers he’d found.
    ‘Mason jars?’ said Fry.
    ‘That’s it. Oh, and an old, broken cross on a chain, some Coke bottles, and a packet of coffee filters. The things people chuck out. Why don’t they use their wheelie bins – some of that stuff ought to be recycled.’
    ‘Where did you put all these items you dug out of the trench?’
    ‘In a barrow, then they went into the big skip round the back of the house.’ Jamie paused. ‘Why are you asking questions about the rubbish?’
    ‘Because some of the items you dug out might have belonged to the victim,’ said Fry as gently as she could.
    ‘Oh, God. I never thought of that.’
    ‘An old, broken cross, you said.’
    ‘It was nothing. Just a cheap crucifix on a chain, with part of the base chipped away. A bit of worthless tat.’
    ‘You didn’t notice any personal items, did you?’
    ‘Such as?’
    ‘A purse, jewellery, coins,’ said Fry. ‘Items of clothing.’
    An entire handbag would be nice, she was thinking. A driving licence, credit cards, a letter from an embittered ex-lover?
    ‘No, nothing like that,’ said Jamie.
    ‘I don’t know if anyone has mentioned that the body is that of a female, fairly young?’
    Jamie swallowed again. ‘Well, some of the blokes have been listening in, you know. Word got around.’
    ‘I mention it because there might have been items you were unfamiliar with.’
    Jamie shook his head. ‘Only the – what do you call them? Mason jars.’
    So she might have been making pickles when she was buried, thought Fry. That helps. But she knew she was being unfair on the young labourer. Why should he have taken any notice of what he was tossing away in his wheelbarrow? It would be up to the SOCOs to go through the contents of the skip. Who was going to tell them about that job? Mrs Popularity, she supposed.
    ‘All right. Let’s move on. How far down had you dug before you noticed anything wrong?’
    ‘Nearly three feet. I was shifting a big lump of stone out of the clay. It was heavy, and I was thinking of calling one of the other blokes over to give me … I mean, to help me lift it. But they laugh at me if I ask for help, so I tried to manage on my own. I’d climbed down into the trench, and I managed to get both hands round the stone and hoist it up. I remember it came out with a sort of sucking sound, and it left a big, round impression in the clay where it had been lying. I must have stood there like an idiot for I don’t know how long, watching the water slowly fill in the hole where the stone had been. And there it was – the hand.’
    Fry kept quiet. She could see that he was in the moment now, living the experience. This was the time he might remember the little details best.
    ‘I shouted then, I think,’ said Jamie. ‘And I dropped the stone, too – I’ve just remembered that, I dropped the stone. Somebody came running over straight away, one of the other blokes working nearby. They thought I’d hurt myself, of course. I