Wall Heath was primarily a residential area located on the edge of the West Midlands conurbation bordering Staffordshire to the west. It was at the very edge of Kim’s safety zone before the roads narrowed, traffic lights disappeared and roadkill was waiting around every corner.
‘That’s Holbeche House,’ Bryant said as she passed what looked like a stately home. ‘It’s famous for being where the flight of the Gunpowder Plotters ended. The mansion was originally built around 1600 but is now a private nursing home.’
‘Splendid,’ Kim offered. ‘Apparently we’re looking for a place called Westerley Farm,’ she said, glancing to her left.
‘Not signposted as a site of rotting corpses then, boss?’ Stacey asked.
‘Funded research?’ Dawson asked.
Kim was relieved that they had returned to grown-up questions.
‘Yes but not exclusively,’ she answered. ‘The programme is funded by a mixture of universities and police forces.’
‘Unlikely to be featured on the annual “look how we spent your money” leaflets,’ Stacey acknowledged.
Kim suspected not. It was definitely on the ‘not for public consumption’ list.
‘And you just passed it on the right,’ Bryant said, looking behind.
The lane was a one-track road. She drove along for almost a quarter mile before reaching a driveway she could use to reverse.
She drove back down the lane and slowed as she saw the break in the seven-foot-high hedgerow. A simple wooden sign with the name burned into it hung from a gate that offered a one-foot gap either side of the car width.
Bryant jumped out and unlatched the gate, waving her through. He closed the gate behind.
‘No lock?’ Kim asked, frowning.
The road narrowed further and became two strips of dirt with a central line of grass and weeds. The hedgerow grew higher and began to impose itself around them. Kim was reminded of taking the car through the car wash.
The track ended at a second wooden gate but, unlike the first, this one rose to a height of eight feet and was made of solid wood. The gate wore a hat of black, wrought-iron spikes. This gate was locked. She was guessing they’d reached the business end of the property.
Kim lowered the window and spoke into the speakerphone on her right.
‘DI Stone, West Midlands Police.’
There was no reply but the solid gate began to move along a single runner. Halfway across it juddered and then continued. Kim drove the Golf through as soon as the gap was wide enough. Although the thought of viewing the facility held some interest for her, real police work was stacking up on her desk. Her mind was already apportioning the one armed robbery, two sexual assaults and a vicious ABH to her team.
Kim brought the car to a halt beside a light grey prefabricated structure that was probably the length of two eight-berth caravans. Two red doors punctuated the row of perfectly square windows.
A collection of cars and pickup trucks were parked beside a double Portaloo.
The vehicles were all squeezed into a small gravel patch. Kim could see that some effort had been made to provide a line of gravel from the makeshift car park to the Portakabin, but the majority of the stones appeared to have been trodden into the ground.
Kim was forced to park the car on the dirt behind a red pickup truck. Bryant looked at the vehicle before a slight frown shaped his face.
‘Glamorous, eh?’ Stacey noted, opening the rear door.
‘Shit, these shoes were expensive,’ Dawson said, trying to find a place to put his feet where they wouldn’t get swallowed by the mud.
A figure walked towards them with a smile and an outstretched hand.
Kim guessed him to be mid-fifties with a well-stocked girth giving him an ambling gait as he approached. Black wellington boots rose over green corduroy trousers to the knee. A patterned jumper completed the look of a farmer who still lived with his mother.
‘Detective Inspector Stone, so pleased to meet you. Chris Wright, Professor of Human Biology and person in charge of Westerley.’
His palm was warm, fleshy and pumped her hand enthusiastically.
Kim took a moment to introduce the rest of her team and the professor ensured that he shook the hand of everyone.
She followed as he led them to the red door on the left that had two wooden steps denoting it as the main entrance.
She was immediately struck by the TARDIS element of the space as her team filed in behind her.
The door had opened into the mid-section of the Portakabin, which was clearly the office. Fixed to the walls on either side were light beech-effect counters. The front edge was fluid with indents for the ergonomically positioned chairs pushed snugly underneath.
There were three clearly defined working spaces. The first, directly opposite the door, held three flat-screen monitors, the largest keyboard Kim had ever seen and a mouse lying idle next to a wrist support. The screens on either side of the workspace had been turned to form a wall of privacy from the next workspace.
‘Jameel is running late,’ Professor Wright said, nodding towards the screens. ‘I’m hoping he’ll be here before you leave to demonstrate the analytical software systems we use.’
Kim would swear she could see the envy dripping from Stacey’s eyes.
He pointed to sliding doors that took up the final third of the Portakabin. ‘That’s our preparation area. The second door leads directly into there to avoid us having to bring corpses through the office.’ He smiled widely. ‘But I’d imagine it’s our residents you really want to see.’
What she really wanted to see was that heavy wooden gate closing behind her, but she did not wish to offend the professor. She understood that the work carried out here was valuable, but the vision of important witnesses forgetting vital information related to the cases on her desk was ever present in her mind.
She stepped to the side as the professor turned away from the sliding doors and moved back towards the centre of the space. The rest of them filed around and followed like some kind of disjointed snake.
The professor moved through the office section to the far end of the space. The left-hand side held a kitchen area with all the normal appliances. Kim wasn’t so sure she wanted to take a look in the fridge or the freezer. The rest of the space was taken up by a three-seater leather sofa and a round meeting table made of the same light beech as the desks.
A woman stood before a boiling kettle, spooning instant coffee into an array of mugs. Her legs were encased in dark jeans and what appeared to be compulsory-issue wellington boots. Her tawny hair was pulled back in a functional ponytail that rested on the back of a college emblazoned sweatshirt.
‘This is Catherine Evans, entomologist. She’s our resident maggot lady.’
The woman turned her head, smiled and nodded. The smile was neither warm nor welcoming. It was functional and reminded Kim of a toddler being told to smile for a tolerated aunt.
She couldn’t help but feel that Catherine Evans had heard that introduction a hundred times already and briefly wondered how the woman felt about her extensive journey of education and study being reduced to a description of ‘maggot lady’.
Professor Wright stopped and turned, clasping his hands before him. ‘We have a couple of consultants roaming the site at the moment but they are currently observing Ant and Dec so will not interfere…’
‘Excuse me?’ Kim said, perplexed.
He smiled. ‘I will explain,’ he said, leading them outside. He closed the door behind him and began walking slowly, heading east.
‘Officially we are categorised as a research facility specialising in forensic anthropology and related disciplines,’ said the professor. ‘More commonly known as a body farm.’
‘Isn’t there one in America?’ Dawson asked.
‘There are actually six in America. The largest belongs to Texas State University and covers an area of seven acres.’