Little fingers, some ribs, a toe or two. They were laid out on plastic sheets on top of a gurney, the pieces of the skulls at the top, and the rest of the bones articulated below. Aidan cast a professional eye over the skeletons and turned to the forensic anthropologist the police had called in to examine the remains. Lisa Greene: petite, thirty-five, with reddish hair in a pixie crop that lent her an elfin look; famous for her extensive repertoire of filthy songs and respected for her uncompromising approach to life and disregard for people she regarded as tossers. ‘Old?’ he asked, twitching his head at the skeletons. ‘Old,’ she replied. ‘My report will put the age of the remains at over a hundred years. They’re really crumbly so I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re two hundred years old, but I’d need carbon dating to confirm it.’ ‘Will the police pay for that?’ She laughed, a throaty growl that betrayed a dedicated cigarette habit. ‘Not a hope.’ ‘We found the tip of a blade when we dug out the rib cage,’ Aidan said.
