The gate was secured with a weathered padlock the size of a fist. A hand painted sign told him that this was the Steeple Vineyard and that it was open weekdays, 9am till 5pm. But the paint was peeling and the gate shut. Beyond was a gravel track quickly lost in the vines. A walk wouldn't be so bad though. When the sun broke through the clouds it gave a flash of midsummer warmth. David was a big man, carrying a middle-aged paunch, but he scaled the gate more easily than you might expect.

It didn't feel like England. The terracotta red roofed church at the turn-off had a flavour of France or Spain. The vines weren't bursting with grapes but bunches were ripening, dark reds on the right, greens on the left. A jumble of weeds carpeted the ground under the vines, but even here the colours were strange. Big purple leaves between slender yellow flowers, light green fronds danced. David let himself enjoy the warm air and the buzz of insects, the sound of his shoes on the gravel. No thrum of traffic, no shouting on grey streets. A pressure lifted, but the lightness was checked by the familiar feel of his shirt, by the weight of the badge in his pocket. No matter how it felt, this wasn't a holiday.

The track rounded a corner and then stopped dead in front of a wooden shelter. David blinked. The shelter had been patched up, new wood pale and clean against the old, a glint of new bolt heads. It wasn't abandoned but the track he'd expected to take him to a farmhouse ended here. Beyond the shelter were vines, and to the left and right. No signs or a contact number. The number he had for Muiranne had gone straight to voicemail. Not an easy woman to talk to. David studied the shelter and then leaned against one of the posts, as if expecting a lift or waiting for a date. Then it came, on the breeze, a call or maybe laughter off to the right, up a gently rolling hill where rows of vines rose in layer after layer. There was a narrow rutted track up through the rows and he followed it, black leather shoes slipping here and there on the chalky soil.

The laughter belonged to a group of around twenty men and women scattered along a row, paying no attention to the vines but cutting back and digging up some of the plants in between. David saw now that what he'd taken to be weeds were some other crop, a mix of crops, picked by a ragged mix of workers. A babble of languages. Faces furrowed with age and smooth with youth, skin black and fair, a jumble of saris and nike tracksuits and a patched jacket daubed with ink slogans. Love everyone. Respect the Earth. Our Law.

"Can I help you sir?" a small man at the end of the group, weathered skin and an easy smile. That mouth would soon be making jokes about the big guy wearing the ironed shirt.

"I need to speak to Muiranne", several others stopped their chatter at the name and examined David, trying to read his stiffly foreign body language

"She's up on the rise, that's where she works, just keep heading up the track, you can't miss it", the small man gave a shrug and a smile, "unless you get lost", eyes sharpened. I know you, copper, I know you

On the way up the hill David passed another big group off to the left, talk and laughter hidden amongst the leaves. On both sides of the track the weeds were cut making a soft bed of flowers and leaves. Then a family, singing as they worked. Thin but healthy faces. Mum and dad leading the song. Two children who were school age and not at school, joining in on the chorus

"Dolly-szute, dolly-szahh"

Slender fingers reached into cloth bags and scattered something amongst the cut weeds. The mother glanced up, noting his shirt and trousers, ironed creases. David was never a bearer of good news, especially in a place like this

"Dolly-szute, dolly-szahh"

He left them at their work, heading up, sunlight sparkling through the tall vines. So far away from the city, from all the troubles of the world

"Dolly-szute, dolly-szahh"

He saw Muiranne amongst them immediately. Even though there were several women and a few men and children to outnumber them all, he saw her in a moment. It always pays to know who the leader is. A woman with dirty blond hair pointing, assuring, directing. Arms and face and body big enough to gather all of her flock together. Two dark haired girls, no older than five, acted as her assistants, pointing as Muiranne pointed, shaking heads as Muiranne shook hers.

The vines stopped short of a ridge, just short grass and a view to fields in front, a line of the sea. Vegetables and plants were being bunched, laid out on mats, a barn was off to one side, smoke drifting out the top. A chatter of east-European, of Bangladeshi, of east-London, all out of place and out of time

"Muiranne Cullen?", he spoke as she stopped to look at him, glances and looks from all around. He was the one out of place here.

"Yes, that's my name, can I help you?", Irish by way of Essex, some of those soft Gaelic vowels sharpened on the chalk hills of England

"I'm detective inspector David Lofthouse, of the National Crime Agency, I'm here investigating a serious crime, I'd like a talk, in private, if possible please", the children kept on playing but the adults were quiet, working or watchful or both

Muiranne pursed her lips and looked about, "Of couse, Farz, look after things will ya?". A woman in a blue sari kneeling amongst others raised her hand in response and nodded. Muiranne turned her large blue-green eyes on him, "I need to see how they're getting on down the way" and she was leading him off back down the slope, shooing the two dark haired girls, promising they'd have to cook for a week if they didn't go and the girls ran away laughing

"You've got a lot of people working here, most farmers seem to struggle for workers nowadays", his shoes slipped again on the rutted track

"Be careful there, can twist an ankle on these paths", a warning, but not an undertone to it, genuine, "they aren't seasonal, they live here for a while, they move on, I can always use the help"

"All documented I hope", the vines stretched away, beyond were fields. If someone were hiding here the whole met couldn't find them

"Of course, there's a couple of charities I work with, you can see the paperwork if you like, I don't let just anyone stay, there's rules, rules for those who want to stay here"

"I'm sure there is. Minimum wage too?"

"They are paid for what they work, take off the bread and board, everyone helps out as well, voluntary", and Muiranne pauses, hand resting on one of the vines, looks along the row, and then to him, "I'm not getting rich off this if that's what you mean. This is a safe place. People need safe places. Too much of this planet has people scratching out each other's eyeballs. Here we give our thanks to the mother for what she gives us, I have a contract for all the grapes, the other food we eat or sell, there's room in the barns and house for a hundred, I gave up the cattle for wine after my husband passed. It's amazing what many hands working together can do"

David nodded, he understood belief, he understood wanting to help, "I'm here about a man, Ghulam Sardar, also known as Glam or Gary, Afghan, twenty three, about five seven or five eight, usually wears a moustache but might have shaved it off, a couple of friends of his came through your place a couple of months ago and we think he followed them here, probably not going by that name"

"Maybe his friends moved on and he went with them, it's quiet here really, not for every young man, did he do something?", she was a head shorter than him, as they stood on this level, but broad as she was tall

"He was involved in the death of a man"

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, not murder I hope?", the face was open but her eyes were intent, the grip on the canes holding the vines had tightened. A mother worried one of her children had done wrong. David knew then. Ghulam was here.

"It's not for me to judge, it may not have been unprovoked"

"Self-defence then?", the grip relaxed

"We need to know who else was there Muiranne, what happened there, we can protect Ghulam", she gave a sceptical raise of the eyebrows but he persisted "for his own safety it would be best if Ghulam came forward"

"If I couldn't find this Ghulam, but I found someone who had spoken with him, could that answer your questions?", an offer of a bargain, not one he could take easily

"He's wanted in connection with a very serious crime"

"Aye, but he's not the one you're after"

David looked out and saw the steeple of the red church poked up between the vines, "the law is the law"

"The law of your land might not be the law of this land", a curve of a smile crept into her face

"Nowhere is exempt Muiranne, even in deepest Essex", he smiled back. He was going to give way, if the information was good, he had let go of far more

"Maybe so, maybe not, we have east Europeans, east Asians, south Asians, south Africans, everyone in between here, country doesn't matter much, the land is the people and the people the land, and this is good land", a wasp sniffs around them and the flies off, Muiranne follows it with her eyes as he watches her

"If this friend of Ghulam's can give me the names of the gangmasters, then yes, otherwise I'll have to question more widely, and I don't want to cause upset here, this is a peaceful place, god knows the world needs more peaceful places", and he liked her, this mother to so many lost children

"And there would be no arrests, no mention of Steeple", a fierce look in those big eyes, "it is peaceful here, people know it as such, it's why they find there way, and find their way from it."

"Just a talk", he held his hands wide, palms empty, nothing hidden, "and I'll follow the law of this land"

"Good, you're a good man, if you carry on being good you can have some of the stew we're making", and the smile again, as warm as the sunshine through the clouds

"Then I'll be on my very best behaviour", and they started walking down the slope to where voices laughed and spoke and sang