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likely to know than I am.’
    ‘It was a dog that found the femur in the first place.’
    ‘I know that. Its teeth marks were all over the surface. The chances are that she was killed elsewhere and the head removed to hinder identification and if they go to that trouble they’re not going to drop the head into the same grave as the body. But you have to search the area.’ He asked for his cardboard box and started the task of collecting the bones, lowering them onto layers of tissue paper. ‘It goes without saying that the forensic team will collect the soil samples,’ he said as he worked. ‘We might learn something.’
    ‘Fibres?’ Diamond said.
    ‘Hopefully. Clothing deteriorates pretty rapidly in damp, acid soil like this. Cotton won’t last longer than a year and a half. Silk and wool are gone in three years. Synthetic fibres such as acrylic may last longer. Leather is fairly durable. The micro-organisms win in the end.’
    ‘If you can estimate how long she’s been here, we’ll run a check of missing persons for the years in question.’
    ‘In the fullness of time, superintendent. A lot of factors come into it.’ He prepared to raise one of the large pelvic bones. ‘Do you see how we know she’s female? This area below the pubis has to be wider in females to accommodate the birth canal. The baby’s head must pass between these two bones.’
    ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Diamond said.
    ‘It’s very obvious.’ Lofty transferred the bones to his box and then turned back to the soil and lifted something that had dropped with a chunk of earth as he raised the pelvis. ‘Hey-ho.’ He held the thing up. Not bone, for sure, it was about six inches long. He gave it a shake to show how flexible it was.
    About the length of an earth worm.
    ‘Proof positive that she isn’t ancient,’ Lofty said.
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘It could do with cleaning up and then you’ll know for sure. I think it’s a zip fastener.’

5
    T he two-year-olds cantered down to the start for the main race of the evening and Paloma was looking at the filly she’d backed at 17 to 2, called My Stylist. ‘Mine’s moving well,’ she said, holding the binoculars to her eyes.
    ‘You’ve done this before,’ Diamond said.
    ‘Mm?’
    ‘I said you’ve done this before. Are you sure these badges belong to your rich client?’
    ‘I don’t know about yours. It’s looking nervous.’
    ‘You’re not listening, are you?’
    ‘Not now, Peter. This is the exciting part.’
    He’d been under pressure from Paloma to put his ten pounds on a runner called Lady Policeman at 25 to 1. Instead he’d preferred Best Brew, the 11 to 8 favourite. As a rare visitor to racecourses, he knew enough about gambling not to fritter away his money on a name with a chance connection to his life. Sentimental betting wasn’t clever. Best Brew had the form, a top jockey and was tipped in the papers. It wasn’t a bad name either, but that was not a factor, he’d made very clear to Paloma.
    The course looked velvet in the evening sun. On a clear, windless day, Lansdown is unequalled. All three enclosures were well filled and there was a buzz of expectation about the main race of the meeting.
    Down at the start the handlers were having difficulty persuading some of the young fillies into the stalls. Bucking and whinnying, one pulled back for the second time.
    ‘I think it’s yours,’ Paloma said.
    ‘I’m not worried,’ he said, determined to stay calm. ‘The frisky ones start the best.’
    ‘If they start at all,’ she said. ‘It is yours, I’m certain.’
    ‘It’s the favourite. It’s got to start.’
    ‘It’s the favourite. It’s got ‘Tell that to the horse.’
    His calm was beginning to evaporate. ‘May I borrow the glasses?’
    Now he had the magnified view of another attempt to steer Best Brew forward. All the others were in position and the starter was gesturing to the handlers to hurry. They tried covering the filly’s eyes