Bryn Tilly pulled his vest over his head and threw it down by the old house. He’d never suffered with the heat as a young builder but since his fifties had crept up on him, the weight had become harder to shift and played havoc with his joints.

The biggest investment he’d ever made was standing beside him. The bricks and mortar had been solid, which is why they’d bid so high for it at the auction, knowing that the work would be mostly cosmetic. One hundred and eighty-four thousand pounds had been a bargain for this rundown house with land to the one side and dense woodland that backed onto the garden. It would make him and the investors a tidy profit. He almost wanted to run around the garden, singing with glee as he imagined his soon to be bank balance. Cleevesford was a sought-after area. Good links to the motorways to get to London or Birmingham made it even more appealing.

His phone flashed as an email pinged up. Stan and Elizabeth North wanted the full breakdown of what had been spent to date. As investors they deserved to know but he’d been a bit disorganised. He hadn’t told them that he’d skimped on the country kitchen to have a summerhouse erected at the bottom of the garden. People want more, they want outbuildings, little escapes from everyday stresses – hobby rooms, and he was going to provide that to hike the price up. When Stan and Elizabeth came to see the progress, he knew he’d win them around. At the very least, they’d stop nagging him for not having it done on time. It had only been eight weeks and he had no idea why they were going on at him so much. He had another month and, he guessed, about eleven thousand pounds to reach completion.

The sun was beginning to burn his head. He used his vest to mop the sweat away. Slapping the belly that hung over his shorts, he leaned down and pulled a sausage roll from his cool bag, and began chomping on the buttery pastry. The old lady who had died in the house wouldn’t recognise it if she came back from the dead. She’d died without leaving a will and had no living relatives to leave the house to. The estate had finally been passed to the Crown before being auctioned off.

Finishing the sausage roll, he checked the time. He could go and tackle the shrubs at the back of the garden. Shaking his head, he sat down. He would wait for the mini digger to arrive before tackling the overgrown shrubs and levelling off the back area, ready for the summerhouse to be erected next week. He’d booked his mate Jack and would use him to the full when he got here and that meant not doing sweaty work alone.

In the distance, he heard Jack’s van trundling up the bumpy drive. Right on time.

‘Jack,’ he called, beckoning his old friend over. Sixty-two and still operating diggers for a living. Their paths had crossed on many projects and they quite often met at the Angel Arms for a few bevvies after a hard day’s work. Maybe today he’d treat Jack, but only if they got all the work done.

‘You need to put the T-shirt back on, you fat old sod,’ Jack called back as he pulled the trailer up.

‘You’re a fine one to use the word old!’ Bryn grinned and stuck his middle finger up at his friend. ‘I didn’t start on the garden, thought I’d wait for you.’

Jack backed the mini digger off the trailer as he shouted out the window. ‘Charming. Like you say, I’m old. Now I have to start digging up shrubs before we can start digging the excess earth out.’

‘You love it really.’

Bryn followed Jack to the end of the garden. Jack turned and looked at the house. ‘You know I always take the piss but this… I mean, you’ve done a grand job in such a short time. This house is something. Wish me and Maisie could live somewhere like this. It’s so peaceful around here, no bloody noisy neighbours to ruin the atmosphere with the stink of their weed and loud parties.’

Smiling, Bryn put on some gardening gloves and started to wade through the wild rosebushes, long grass and stinging nettles, until his eye caught on something entangled in the grass. Off white, covered in what looked like gnaw marks. It was probably an animal bone. Curiosity drew him closer.

‘What you fixed on?’ Jack asked as he stepped towards him.

‘Nothing, I think it’s just an animal bone.’

‘Let me see.’ Jack nudged Bryn out of the way and bent over for a closer look. He placed a glove on it and brushed the dry earth aside. ‘It’s not an animal bone. Look!’

‘It could be anything.’

As Jack brushed more earth away, Bryn could see more of it appearing before him as more earth was shifted. Bryn straightened up. Sweat glistened, sliding over his forehead, into his eyes. He wiped it away and refocused. His normal jovial expression now a wash of seriousness. ‘Bloody hell, that’s a human hand.’