Free The Ghost Fields by Elly Griffiths

‘We might be able to do carbon dating on any objects found in the grave. The layers around the plane looked as if they’d been disturbed fairly recently. My guess is that the body would have been placed there a few weeks before the digger driver discovered it.’
    â€˜Fairly recently, a few weeks,’ grumbles Nelson, holdingthe gate open and leading the way across the field. ‘It’s all guesswork with you lot.’
    Ruth ignores this. ‘Have you told the family what we’re doing today?’ she asks.
    â€˜I’ve told them that I’m bringing a forensic archaeologist to have a look round,’ says Nelson. ‘I haven’t said that we’re looking for a grave site but they must know that’s what I’m thinking. They haven’t objected though.’
    The way he says this makes Ruth think that the family have raised objections before.
    â€˜What do they think about the investigation?’ she asks, trying to find a pathway between two giant puddles. She is wearing wellingtons but the water looks deep in some places. The last thing she wants is to disappear, like Dawn French in
The Vicar of Dibley
, into a bottomless pit.
    â€˜The old dad is a bit suspicious,’ says Nelson, striding on ahead, regardless of the mud splattering his trousers. ‘The dead pilot was his brother, so I suppose it’s natural that he should be upset. The daughter-in-law is pretty vague about the whole thing and the son doesn’t say much. The thing is, they all thought Fred died when his plane went down over the sea. It’s a bit of a shock to find him in another plane altogether, just a few miles from the family home.’
    â€˜Do you really think someone killed him?’
    â€˜Come on, Ruth,’ says Nelson. ‘You told me yourself that he was shot in the head. Then someone wrapped him in a tarpaulin and buried him. Of course he was murdered. The question is, who killed him and where did they bury him?’
    No, thinks Ruth, following Nelson as he takes the path to the side of the house. The question is, why did they dig him up again?
    Â 
    In the old aircraft hanger, now a farrowing shed, Chaz Blackstock is looking at his pigs. Usually this gives him great satisfaction, but today even the sight of a Gloucester Old Spot sow in full pig can’t lighten his mood. He sighs heavily and his sister, Cassandra, who is standing next to him, asks him what he’s thinking about.
    â€˜It’s just all this business with Grandpa,’ he says.
    â€˜What business?’
    Cassandra has been away, touring in an experimental play about Sylvia Plath, but even so her lack of interest in the family is exasperating sometimes.
    â€˜Honestly, Cass. You must have heard about them finding Uncle Fred’s body. It’s all Mum and Dad can talk about. Did you know the Yanks are making a film about it?’
    â€˜Really?’ From when she was a child, two words were always guaranteed to bring the stars to Cassandra’s eyes—acting and film. See also: theatre, starring, premiere, centre-stage and Oscar.
    â€˜Yes. They want the whole drama, hero pilot returned to his family, dotty aristos wandering about, Norfolk in all its glory.’
    â€˜Handsome pig farmer grandson, gorgeous actress granddaughter.’
    Chaz looks at his sister. She is one of the few people who can use the word ‘gorgeous’ about themselves and get awaywith it. Because, even in jeans and an old Barbour with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, she is effortlessly, film-star gorgeous.
    â€˜Are you imagining yourself in the starring role?’ he asks.
    Cassandra laughs but doesn’t deny it. Chaz reflects, without rancour, that his sister usually takes the starring role in any given situation. He doesn’t mind it; he’s always preferred to stay in the background. Even today, in the bosky gloom of the shed, she looks like an actress ready to play the main part in