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concern.’
    ‘And local gossip?’
    ‘I’ve never heard the local farmers criticise him or gossip about him. He’s always fair in his dealings with them, never gives them reason to complain and always pays his bills on time. If there is gossip, it’s only because he lives alone and never has people in for a meal or a party. Although he is very generous, he is a natural loner, sir, but none the worse for that. I reckon his business keeps him busy round the clock. His life is his work, in other words.’
    ‘That’s a fair assessment to start our investigation.’ Pluke thanked the constable, then turned to Wayne Wain. ‘I do remember his wife dying, Wayne, although I cannot recall the precise details. There was something strange about her funeral… it’ll come to me before long. Now, in spite of the universal high regard for Mr Burholme, we shall have to interview him in depth but I prefer not to do so just yet. Ah, I see our forensic expert is now arriving.’
    A smart red Rover 820 Si had turned off the road and was cruising slowly towards the farm; it turned along the track which led into the quarry and eventually halted near the assembled police vehicles. From it emerged Dr Simon Meredith, a slightly built individual with half-moon spectacles, thinning fair hair and a matching moustache. Clutching a large black case, he walked towards Pluke, instantly recognisable in his heavy overcoat, spats, blue bow tie and blue-banded panama.
    ‘Good morning, Mr Pluke,’ the pathologist greeted him. ‘So what have we this time?’
    Standing with the grave and its occupant in view, Pluke explained and provided an outline of what had transpired since the discovery. Meredith nodded, noting that some photographs had been taken, and that the scene had been subjected to some disturbance and contamination, however minor it might be.
    ‘Right,’ said Meredith. ‘I will begin immediately. Perhaps your photographers will accompany me to record my examination?’
    Under Pluke’s guidance, Meredith approached the grave by using precisely the same route as Michael Wardle and the others. After placing his case carefully on the ground, he stood for a few moments to silently absorb the macabre scene, then produced a small plastic sheet from his case, spread it on the ground beside the grave and knelt upon it. Gently, he touched the dead woman’s face, fingered a pinch of soil and then began to remove the remaining earth. For this he used a small brush and shovel; after lifting aside the turves which remained, he slowly removed the layers of soil, placing some samples in plastic bags and casting the unwanted earth some distance away. The soil was fairly dry, the outcome of a few weeks without rain – the thundery rain of the weekend had not penetrated the ground to any depth, having run from the surface to disappear down natural drains.
    In time, the girl was completely uncovered; she lay on her back with her legs straight before her and her arms down the sides of her body, squeezed between her torso and the sides of her shallow makeshift grave. Meredith ordered photographs at this stage, showing her clothing and the position in which she lay. Then he examined her injures, initially without touching them.
    ‘Mr Pluke,’ he called to Montague. ‘First, note the distinct lack of decomposition and then the puncture wound in her right temple. It is rather like the wound one would expect from a captive bolt humane killer on a pig, is it not? There is very little blood, however, and that suggests the wound is a very deep one. So what on earth caused it, Mr Pluke? Your guess is as good as mine at this moment but even without the benefit of a postmortem, I would guess it caused her death.’
    ‘So you feel this is murder followed by a crude and unsuccessful attempt to dispose of the body?’ invited Pluke.
    ‘That is a very distinct possibility, Mr Pluke.’ 
    ‘It is a starter theory,’ Pluke smiled. ‘I think it is good enough for