Dying to Sin by Stephen Booth Page A

practising assessment techniques, ready for her first set of PDRs – personal development reviews for her DCs – next spring. PDRs were dealt with by the Human Resources manager, who had been known to return them with advice on improving their quality.
    ‘It’s this bloody weather,’ she said. ‘There’s no way of avoiding it. I’ve been soaked three times this week. Is it any wonder I’m getting a cold? I’ll probably be off with flu by Monday.’
    ‘It’s a weakness in the immune system, if you ask me,’ said Cooper. ‘It comes with urban life. You don’t get exposed to nature enough when you’re growing up.’
    Fry found a tissue and blew her nose, which was starting to run. Hay fever in summer, and a permanent cold in winter. Welcome to the rural idyll.
    There was no clear evidence yet of murder, but it could turn up at any moment. With no obvious offender, it would be a grade B enquiry, an initial maximum of sixteen officers, the DI probably doing the day-today co-ordination, with Kessen as nominal SIO. Fry knew she was second-guessing, but she liked to see if her assessments were accurate, whether she had learned the same grasp of priorities that her senior officers operated on.
    Of course, there were other factors to be taken into account. Resources, obviously. A major enquiry would generate a ton of paperwork – statements, messages, telexes, personal descriptive forms, questionnaires, officers’ reports, house-to-house forms, transcripts of interviews.
    She sneezed again. ‘Damn.’
    ‘The trouble is, the winters are too mild,’ said Cooper. ‘Bugs don’t get killed off the way they used to. It’s the same with pests on the crops. At one time, no one had to spray insecticide until the spring. Now, it’s a problem all year round.’
    ‘What are you on about?’
    ‘Global warming. I’m saying there are no frosts to kill anything off. We get a warm, wet summer and a mild, wet winter. It’s no good in the long term.’
    ‘I don’t believe in global warming.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I think it’s all just a big scare, to distract us from more important things.’
    ‘What’s more important than the destruction of the planet?’ said Cooper.
    ‘You see? You’re exaggerating. People exaggerate about it all the time.’
    ‘Are we ready for the off, or what?’ said Murfin. ‘The fleshpots of Rakedale await, boys and girls.’
    Fry stood up and brushed some silver glitter off the shoulders of her jacket.
    ‘Damn tinsel. I’m probably allergic to it.’

8
    The mobile incident room was on site at Pity Wood. A thirty-foot trailer equipped with computers, drop-down screens and video and DVD equipment, and a ‘front office’ open to the public. It had on-board generators and floodlight masts. And, most importantly, it had heating, a fully equipped kitchen and toilet facilities. The cold rain falling steadily on the farm was enough to drive officers into the trailer on any pretext.
    The initial body tent had been replaced by a larger crime scene tent to allow more space for working in. The digging team could be heard chatting among themselves sometimes, but they were more often silent and absorbed in their task, oblivious to the presence of the police waiting for them to finish their work.
    As Fry and Cooper arrived, there was a burst of laughter from the excavation area, slightly brittle laughter, a release of tension.
    ‘Anybody want a Pyrex baking dish?’ said someone. ‘It’s still in one piece, just needs a bit of mud cleaning off. I’m giving it away. If you don’t want it, I’ll sell it on eBay.’
    ‘It might be evidence,’ said a police exhibits officer standing nearby with his clipboard.
    The diggers groaned and went back to their task.
    ‘Hello, what is he doing here?’ said Fry as they reported in at the mobile incident unit.
    Cooper looked around, but there were too many people to make out which of them Fry had picked out. ‘Who?’
    ‘Jamie Ward. The builder’s