Tim was about to discover what made Josh Marriott tick. He and Ricky had just been taken to the next part of the Silverdale Farm development. It consisted of another yard – this one tarmacked, and not nearly as pristine as the first – on which two tanker lorries had been parked. A small hut, evidently fashioned from a much older structure, stood at one corner of the yard. A large space separated the two lorries. Josh Marriott pointed to it.
‘That one’s out on a job,’ he said. Tim noted that he’d become more authoritative and decidedly more affable as soon as they reached this place.
‘This is mostly what I do,’ said Marriott. ‘I oversee the rest of it, but this is where I do the grafting: matching the tankers to jobs and sometimes taking them out myself. It’s proper work: I can’t think of owt more worthwhile.’
‘The tankers are booked out to empty cesspits?’ Tim asked.
‘That’s the bulk of the work. Cesspits and septic tanks – there is a difference, though most people don’t know it. We do other pumping jobs as well – blocked drains, flooded roads, you name it. Emergencies, often. But there’s lots of houses in this part of the world that isn’t on mains sewage. Deep in the Fens, there’s even places that still have earth closets.’
‘You say there are three tankers?’
‘Aye. Nathan’s out on a job with the one as goes there. It’s not a big job – that tanker’s smaller than the others.’
‘Is Nathan one of the permanent farm hands you told us about?’
Marriott threw him a withering look.
‘Not him. This is skilled work. You need to know what you’re doing with the gear and you have to get what it’s all about. Septic tanks is delicate things – they run on microbes, you’ve to be careful not to upset the balance.’
‘Fascinating!’ said Tim. ‘But who is Nathan, then?’
‘He’s subcontracted from a company based out Peterborough way. Sometimes we have two subcontracted blokes – usually in the winter, when there’s more work. Nathan’s been working for us for six months, which is longer than usual. I’m trying to persuade the boss that it’s not just a blip, that the business is growing. If he agrees, we could take Nathan on permanent, like. He’s a good worker.’
‘Where is he at the moment?’
‘He’s out Twenty way. There’s a couple of houses there as shares a cesspit. We’re called out to empty it every twelve weeks or so.’
‘That must be an expensive business. For the owners, I mean.’
Josh Marriott grinned.
‘You’re right there. You wouldn’t want to buy a house with a cesspit unless you’d got plenty of dosh. Even a septic tank’ll cost you. Still, one bloke’s meat…’
‘What did you say the difference is between cesspits and septic tanks?’
‘I didn’t, but if you’re interested, a cesspit is just a holding tank. It contains raw sewage, which has to be pumped out when it’s filled up. A septic tank still needs emptying, but it has a bit of a sewage treatment system. Nothing fancy, but the microbes I mentioned help to break the sewage down and there’s some basic drainage for the liquid effluent. It’s called a soakaway. Septic tanks are cheaper to run, because they only need emptying about once a year, but you can get into a right mess with them. You’ve to have regular soakaway tests done, to make sure the soil isn’t getting contaminated. Right up the boss’s street, that is, of course. He started the tanker business because he was dead keen on people getting it all done properly.’
‘Do you carry out these soakaway tests as well?’
‘Not officially. It’s done by the Environment Agency. But folk as uses our services regularly stands a good chance of passing the tests. And unofficially we can do a sort of pre-test, tell them whether they’re likely to pass or not.’
‘Isn’t that much the same sort of testing that Martha Johnson does to the soil here?’
Josh Marriott scowled.
‘In a way, I suppose. She’s just a tinkerer, though.’ He put on a mincing voice. ‘That last lot of compost was far too acidic, we really must try to get a better balance.’
Ricky grinned. Tim could see that Marriott’s no-nonsense attitude appealed to him.
‘Talking of Martha Johnson,’ said Tim, ‘we’d better not keep her waiting too much longer. There’s nothing else to see here, is there?’
‘Only the root crops you asked about. They’re in the fields beyond that dyke.’
‘How many fields are there?’
‘Just four. Two abreast and then another two abreast. About eight acres altogether.’
‘Mr Fovargue told me that there’s a quad.’
‘Yes, it’s a bit of a clapped-out old thing. Army surplus, I think. It’s beside the shed where Martha is, if you want to see it.’
‘We will take a look, thanks, though if it’s as battered as you say it’s unlikely to be of interest. I assume the tanker lorries are incapacitated when they’re not in use?’
‘Yeah, but who’s going to take one of those? They’d have to be really full of shit!’
Marriott cackled at his own joke.
‘You’re right,’ said Ricky, smiling. ‘But carry on incapacitating them, all the same. We’re working on the theory that some of the missing vehicles are being stolen to order. And I imagine these tankers aren’t cheap.’
‘Coming back to quads,’ said Tim. ‘Have you ever seen anyone who doesn’t belong here riding a quad across this land?’
‘Can’t say I have. But the local kids get everywhere. I can tell you I’ve had to clear off kids riding those little dirt bikes sometimes. Some kids are given quads, too, or they nick ’em.’
‘You’re right,’ said Tim, ‘although I don’t think we’re looking for joy-riders.’
Josh Marriott gave Tim one of his shifty looks.
‘Let’s go and see milady, shall we? Otherwise she’ll be pulling a long face when we get in there.’
Tim had been in Martha Johnson’s presence for less than a minute when he understood why Marriott found her so irritating. She was a chirpy little woman, rather old-fashioned for someone who hadn’t yet reached thirty, and relentlessly cheerful, but in a superior kind of way. However, what he found most striking about her was not her demeanour, but her uncanny resemblance to Susie Fovargue. She could have been a pocket version of Susie or her daughter, except that Susie was only a few years older. Sister? He wondered if he could find out without asking her directly.
‘…so we take samples of all the soil types regularly,’ she was saying. ‘We make all our own compost, and we mix it differently according to what’s being grown. Each of the Dutch lights and the raised beds has different mixes. What we’re looking for is the optimum blend for each type of crop. And sustainability, obviously. That’s at the very heart of what we do.’ She nodded enthusiastically and gave a chirruping little laugh, her auburn curls bobbing.
‘What about the fields?’ said Ricky.
‘Which fields do you mean?’
‘The ones out beyond the tanker yard. Where the root crops are being grown.’
‘Oh, we don’t bother too much about those,’ said Martha, her laughter tinkling away again. ‘This is an experimental station.’
‘But I thought one of the purposes of the soil appreciation society was to test the soil for the farms round here, see if the farming methods used are stripping it of nutrients.’
‘Certainly we’ll do that, for those who are interested,’ said Martha briskly. ‘Unfortunately, it’s mostly the small market gardeners and what you might call third-agers – incomers who’ve retired young – who really care. The big farmers don’t have much compunction about what they’re doing to the land. They’ll pay for it one day, of course.’ She accompanied her last words with a long trill, as if delighted by the prospect of a local Armageddon.
‘Why not test Mr Fovargue’s fields, in that case? It’s the nearest he comes to ‘big farming’.’
‘Oh, I may very well do, if I have time. Not that it’ll benefit anyone very much, because we don’t publish any results. I wouldn’t be averse to it, myself, but Jack thinks it would be a bad idea to get into naming and shaming, if the big farmers do ask us to do some testing eventually.’
‘I’m sure he’s right about that,’ said Tim, thinking of the Lord Lieutenant and the pompous and belligerent Mr T R Pack. ‘You seem to be very committed to your work,’ he added. ‘It’s an unusual choice of profession. How did you come to be involved with the soil? Are you a farmer’s daughter?’
‘Oh, no, I’m afraid I’m much more boring than that!’ Tim braced himself for the inevitable laugh. ‘My father’s a clergyman.’ (That explains her self-satisfiedness, and the slightly unworldly old-fashionedness of the woman, Tim observed to himself.) ‘And I’m not especially local: I come from North Lincs. I have no connections with this area except through the soil appreciation society. There’s a network of them across Europe, you know. I became interested after reading a newspaper article about them. Mr Fovargue asked the university for a student to carry out some tests here and, as I’d already enrolled for my Masters, it fitted perfectly! I shall write up the work I’m doing here for my dissertation.’
‘Which university?’ asked Tim.
‘Lincoln.’
Ricky was not alone in recognising the glance of condescension that flickered across Tim’s face. Martha Johnson was quick to disabuse him.
‘For my current research, that is. For my first degree I studied at Cambridge.’
Ricky turned away, hiding his grin.
‘I didn’t know they taught agricultural subjects at Cambridge. It must be a relatively recent thing.’
‘Oh, I studied in quite a different discipline then. Two disciplines, actually: I did joint honours in Anthropology and History.’ The laugh tinkled away. ‘Actually, it was because of Anthropology that I became interested in all this. I did some work on early cultivation methods, how they affected the way people developed, that sort of thing.’
‘Indeed,’ said Tim. ‘You must be very clever, as well as dedicated.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that!’ she giggled. ‘But I do try hard. I had to try very hard to get this job. There was quite a lot of external competition. And not, I think, complete unanimity internally about my appointment.’
She gave Josh Marriott a pointed stare. He glared back at her, but Tim noticed that he was the first to look away. Tim’s estimation of Ms Johnson rose a couple of notches.
‘Anyway, I’m here now, and I do realise how lucky I am. Not just to be able to do the work on the soil, but to work here. This farm is very ancient, you know. It’s marked on the maps that the Dutch drainage engineers drew up in the seventeenth century. And there are several old buildings! Just the sort of thing I like.’
‘The actual farmhouse is mid-Victorian, isn’t it?’
‘The part you see has a Victorian façade. It’s been built in front of a much earlier structure – bits of it are certainly seventeenth century, probably older. And there was a cottage where this shed stands now. There’s not much of it left to see, but the outhouse at the side is still pretty much intact. It was originally a dairy. And the foundations of the cottage were used again when they erected this shed. They’re still here, including the old cesspit. Not used now, of course.’
‘You must find that interesting,’ Ricky said to Marriott, trying to draw him back into the conversation.
‘Needs filling in, as far as I’m concerned. I told you, cesspits is bad news. Old ones even worse. In this area they get flooded sometimes.’
‘How do you know so much about the history of this place?’ Tim asked Martha Johnson.
‘Oh, Jack – Mr Fovargue – has collected as many records as he can. He knew I was interested, so he showed them to me. He doesn’t want to get rid of the cesspit – he says it adds to the character of the farm, even though no one sees it.’ Tim waited for the laugh, but this time it didn’t come. Martha Johnson’s mood had changed: she was suddenly very subdued.
‘Would you like me to show you some of the testing techniques?’ Her voice was formal now, almost clinical.
‘They haven’t got all day, and neither have I,’ Marriott growled, surprising Tim with the harshness of his tone. ‘If you’ve seen all you want, I’ll walk back to your car with you. I can show you the quad on your way out.’
‘Thanks, but…’
Tim’s mobile began to ring. Superintendent Thornton’s number flashed up on the screen. Thornton, who detested mobiles, rarely called Tim when he was out.
‘I’d better take this call. It may be urgent.’
He stepped outside the shed. It had started to rain and a brisk wind was whipping round the side of the building.
‘Yates? Where are you? You need to get back here, and quickly.’
‘I’m at Silverdale Farm. Has something happened?’
‘Yes, Yates, something has happened. The divers have been searching that river – lock – canal – the place where the headless body was found.’
‘You mean the Fossdyke Canal?’
‘Yes, that, exactly.’
‘Have they found her head?’
‘No, unfortunately. It’s worse than that. They’ve found two more bodies.’
‘Headless?’
‘One of them is. There can’t be any doubt about it, Yates: it’s the work of a serial killer. Michael has asked for you to be seconded to the case, and of course I’ve agreed. He’s asked for Armstrong, too, but we’ll have to see about that.’
‘What about the farm vehicle thefts?’
‘What about them, Yates? Don’t you think a murder enquiry’s more important? Besides, MacFadyen can take charge. He’s up to speed with it, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, but…’
‘Just get back here, Yates, will you?’