‘Bleak, from what I’ve seen of it.’
‘Ah, but you aren’t seeing it at its best. God’s own country, especially for an archaeologist. Largest concentration of Bronze Age remains in Britain, and the whole moor’s like an industrial museum. You can still find the old lead and tin mine workings dotted about like flies in amber. Wonderful! Well, to old dinosaurs like me, anyway. You married?’
I was having trouble keeping up. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘Sensible man. A good woman keeps us sane. Although how they put up with us is another matter. My wife deserves a medal – as she frequently reminds me.’ He chuckled. ‘Any children?’
‘A little girl, Alice. She’s five.’
‘Ah. A good age. I have two daughters, both flown the nest now. Enjoy them while they’re young. Believe me, ten years from now you’ll be wondering where your little girl went to.’
I smiled, dutifully. ‘We’ve a while yet before she’s a teenager.’
‘Make the most of it. And may I give you a tip?’
‘Go ahead.’ This wasn’t the Wainwright I’d been expecting.
‘Never take your work home with you. I’m talking figuratively, of course. But detachment is essential in our business, especially when you have a family. Otherwise this will suck you dry. No matter what you see, no matter how appalling, remember that it’s just a job.’
He picked up his trowel again and turned back to the remains.
‘Actually, I was talking to someone recently who knew you. Said you’d originally trained as a medic?’
‘I did a medical degree before switching to anthropology, yes. Who told you that?’
He frowned. ‘Do you know, I’ve been racking my brains trying to remember. My memory’s not what it was. I think it was at some forensic conference. We were talking about the new generation making their mark on the field. Your name was mentioned.’
I was surprised that Wainwright would admit even having heard of me. Despite myself I was flattered.
‘Quite a leap, anthropology from medicine,’ he went on, busily scraping the soil from around an elbow. ‘I gather you trained in the US? That research facility in Tennessee, wasn’t it? The one that specializes in decomposition.’
‘The Anthropological Research Facility. I spent a year there.’
It had been before I’d met Kara, after I’d switched careers and exchanged working with the living for the dead. I waited for the put-down. It didn’t come. ‘Sounds like quite a place. Although probably not for me. I have to confess I’m not a great fan of Calliphoridae. Disgusting things.’
‘I’m not a big fan myself, but they have their uses.’ Calliphoridae was the family classification for the blowfly, whose life cycle provided an effective clock for charting decomposition. Wainwright was obviously keen on Latin names.
‘I expect they do. Though not in this instance, sadly. Far too cold.’ He pointed with his trowel at the remains. ‘So, what do you make of it?’
‘I’ll have a better idea once the body’s at the mortuary.’
‘Of course. But I’m sure you’ve already drawn some conclusions.’
I could see the mouth smile under the face mask. I was reluctant to commit myself, knowing how easily things could change once the remains were cleaned. But Wainwright was nothing like the ogre I’d been expecting, and it was just the two of us there. Given his past antipathy to forensic anthropology, it wouldn’t hurt to let him know he wasn’t the only expert there.
I sat back on my heels to consider what we’d uncovered.
Peat is a unique substance. Formed from partially decayed plant, animal and insect remains, it’s an environment that’s inimical to most of the bacteria and insects that usually populate the earth beneath our feet. Low in oxygen and almost as acidic as vinegar, it can effectively pickle organic matter, tanning it like specimens in a lab jar. Whole mammoth tusks have been found in peat bogs, while human corpses buried hundreds of years before can emerge uncannily intact. The body of one man discovered in the village of Tollund, Denmark in the 1950s was so well preserved that at first it was thought he was a recent murder victim. Given the rope tied around his neck he probably had been murdered, though if so it was over two thousand years before.
But the same properties that make peat an archaeological gold mine can also make it a forensic nightmare. Determining an accurate time-since-death interval is difficult at the best of times: without the natural markers supplied by decomposition it can be all but impossible.
In this instance, though, I doubted it would be such a problem. About half of the body was now exposed. It was lying more or less on one side, knees roughly pulled up, upper body curled in a crumpled foetal position. Both the thin top that clung to the torso, through which the outline of a bra could be seen, and the short skirt were synthetic, and contemporary in style. And while I couldn’t claim to be an expert, the high-heeled shoe on the now exposed right foot looked to me like a relatively new fashion.
The entire body – hair, skin and clothes – was caked in viscous black peat. Even so, nothing could disguise the horrific damage that had been inflicted. The outlines of broken ribs were clearly visible beneath the muddy fabric, and jagged bones poked through the flesh of the arms and lower legs. Beneath the clinging mat of hair, the skull was crushed and misshapen, the cheeks and nose caved in.
‘Not much yet, apart from the obvious,’ I said, cautiously.
‘Which is?’
I shrugged. ‘Female, although I suppose there’s an outside chance it could be a transsexual.’
Wainwright made a scoffing noise. ‘God help us. In my day that would never have been an issue. When did things get so complicated? Go on.’
I was beginning to warm to my theme. ‘It’s difficult to say yet how long the body’s been buried. There’s some decomposition, but that’s probably explained by how close it was to the surface.’
Proximity to the air would allow aerobic bacteria to break down the soft tissues even in a peat grave, albeit at a slower rate. Wainwright nodded agreement. ‘So the right timeframe to be one of Monk’s victims? Less than two years, say?’
‘It could be, yes,’ I conceded. ‘But I’m not going to speculate just yet.’
‘No, of course. And the injuries?’
‘Too soon to say if they’re ante- or post-mortem, but she was obviously badly beaten. Possibly with some kind of weapon. Hard to imagine anyone breaking bones like that with their bare hands.’
‘Not even Jerome Monk?’ Behind his mask Wainwright grinned at my discomfort. ‘Come on, David, admit it. This does look like one of his.’
‘I’ll have a better idea once the body’s been cleaned and I can see the skeleton.’
‘You’re a cautious man: I like that. But she’s the right sort of age, you can see that just from the clothes. No one over twenty-one would dare wear a skirt that short.’
‘I don’t think—’
He gave a bass chuckle. ‘I know, I know, that isn’t very politically correct. But unless this is a case of mutton – or even ram – dressed as lamb, then we’ve got a teenage girl, young woman or whatever, who’s been savagely beaten and buried in Jerome Monk’s back yard. You know what they say, if it looks like a fish and smells like a fish . . .’