Peter Lovesey: Skeleton Hill

‘You got out of the office, anyway,’ she said when he’d finished. ‘It wasn’t a bad day to be getting some fresh air.’

‘Agreed,’ he said. ‘A simple walk across the down would have been very agreeable. Instead, we were standing around like dummies all afternoon in the hope that the crime scene people would find something.’

‘Well, they did.’

‘In the end.’

‘It could have been worse, then.’

He gave a grudging nod.

‘Personally, I like Lansdown,’ Paloma said, doing her best to lighten his mood. ‘The history isn’t as obvious as it is down here among all the old buildings, but you get a sense of it whichever way you look.’

‘The Civil War, you mean?’

‘The Civil War, ‘Not just that.’

‘Iron Age settlements?’

Her eyes widened. ‘You have hidden depths.’

‘I was briefed today by Ingeborg, our pet culture vulture.’

‘Did she mention Beckford’s Tower?’

He’d often driven past the folly towards the city end of the hill, two miles from the crime scene. On the hill today he’d noticed its octagonal gilt lantern on the skyline catching the sunlight. ‘He was a weirdo, wasn’t he, William Beckford?’

‘An extremely rich weirdo,’ Paloma said. ‘I provided some costume drawings for a TV company doing a documentary on him, so I read the books.’ She had amassed a huge collection of archive material on historical costume and built a successful company much used by the lucrative film and television markets. ‘An amazing man. He had a much taller tower built at his family seat, at Fonthill Abbey, twice the height of Nelson’s Column. Can you imagine that?’

‘A Victorian skyscraper.’

‘Pre-Victorian. Early nineteenth century. But it lasted only about thirty years. Soon after he sold up, it collapsed.’

‘Why?’

‘Poor building, bad foundations, something like that. He’d moved to Bath by then.’

‘He wasn’t so daft, then.’

‘Weird, but not daft.’

‘You’re well up on all this.’

‘Another culture vulture in your life – is that what you’re thinking?’

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget I took you to the theatre once.’

She smiled. ‘On two complimentary tickets. And it was An Inspector Calls. ’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘Nothing. I enjoyed it.’ Another smile. ‘Next time let’s see something unconnected with the police.’

She told him more about the eccentric Beckford, how he created a mile-long landscaped walk across country to his tower and would set off each day from his home in Lansdown Crescent accompanied by a dwarf servant and four dogs. ‘I’ll lend you a book. You’ll enjoy him – witty, wilful and scandalous, too.’

‘Thanks.’ He doubted if he’d do more than dip into the book. His preference in reading was true crime of the trench coat and trilby days.

The food arrived. Paloma’s was a crab and prawn salad. For a while eating had priority over conversation. Only when they’d each confirmed that the food was up to Hop Pole standards did Paloma ask, ‘What have you got lined up for tomorrow? Another day watching the dig?’

He shook his head. ‘Some chance.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘But it’s a murder case, isn’t it? You said you’ve got a headless body.’

‘A skeleton without a skull.’

‘That’s murder, surely?’

‘War injury. My best guess is that the head was blown off by a cannonball in the Civil War. A case for Time Team , not me and my lads.’

‘Don’t you have to investigate, even if it’s history?’

‘The forensics lot are doing that. They may dig up some bits of armour when they go deeper. Fun for them, but no help to us. I’m outta there.’

‘Doesn’t the coroner get involved?’

‘Too true, he does. And when they report to him they’re stuck with all the paperwork. I’m not daft. Anyway, I’ve got other fish to fry.’

‘Keeping the streets of Bath safe?’

‘Exactly.’

On cue, a patrol car’s siren sounded from somewhere in the city. ‘Here’s a thought, then,’ Paloma said. ‘All this talk of Lansdown reminds me that one of my well-heeled clients offered me a free day at the races any time I want. How would you like a flutter on the horses?’

‘He was chatting you up.’

‘ She.’

‘Oops.’

‘A lady owner, in a long term relationship with a very rich rock star, who shall be nameless. She really means it. She has a double annual badge for the Premier Enclosure.’

‘You think you can pass me off as the rock star?’

She laughed. ‘That would be a challenge. No, it’s perfectly legit. We go as ourselves. Shall I check the date of the next meeting?’

‘Why not?’ he said, thinking this was a long term suggestion. ‘Do you know, I’ve lived in Bath all this time and never gone racing.’

She took out her mobile and fingered the keys. ‘We can remedy that.’

It turned out that there was an evening of racing at Lansdown the next day. Cynic that he was, he suspected she’d planned this all along.

Police work has a knack of springing surprises. In the morning Diamond took a call from Dr Peake, the forensic anthropologist who had been given the femur to examine.

‘You said it was found up at Lansdown?’ Peake said in that way academics have of double-checking everything before committing themselves.

Diamond had nothing to hide. ‘Correct – and now we’ve found the rest of him, bar the skull. It’s a good bet he was a Civil War victim who failed to duck when a cannonball came his way.’

‘Have you any evidence for that?’

‘Heads don’t get parted from bodies that easily.’

‘I meant the Civil War connection,’ Peake said. ‘Are there relics as well as bones?’

‘Give us time. We’re still digging.’ He made it sound as if he wielded a spade himself.

‘Now that you’ve found more bones, I’d better visit the site and see for myself.’

‘Be my guest.’

‘Mr Diamond, are you certain that the femur I was sent belonged to the skeleton you’re talking about?’

‘Put it this way, doc. It came from the same hole in the ground and the headless soldier is missing a thigh bone. Why?’

‘Because the first indications are that this bone is comparatively modern.’

Diamond said nothing for several seconds. ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’

‘Not from the Civil War era. More recent. Say within the last twenty-five years.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘“Sure” isn’t a word much favoured in my profession. We prefer “probably” or “maybe”. There are too many variables. Going by the state of the bone I wouldn’t say it’s been buried more than a quarter of a century.’

‘Did you carbon date it?’

‘I hate to disillusion you, but radiocarbon dating isn’t of the slightest use for the short periods in forensic medicine. There was no indication that this bone is ancient.’

‘We’re not talking ancient , doc. A few centuries.’

‘Anything over fifty years is classed as ancient in my work.’

‘Ouch. You don’t have to get personal.’

Peake didn’t get the joke. To be fair he hadn’t met Diamond to know he was over fifty. ‘These are the terms we use.’

‘What are your reasons?’

‘For saying the bone is modern? For one thing, the appearance. A modern bone has a smooth, soapy texture. And for another, the density. Bones a hundred years old or more are lighter in weight and tend to crumble.’

‘That’s observation. Have you done lab tests?’

‘On the femur? Indeed we have. The nitrogen content is a good indicator. It reduces with time. Typically, a bone three hundred and fifty years old contains a percentage of 2.5. Your femur came in at 4.3.’