buried on the beach near Halangy Point. Her dog dug it up.”
“And we’re speaking of a human bone here, sir?” Polite attention, but no real interest. As Madeleine had said, the odd human bone turning up now and then wasn’t that unusual.
“Definitely, yes, but the main thing is that I think there’s a good chance that it came from someone who’s been dismembered. My guess is that it’s something that happened within the last ten years, probably in the last five, so I thought I’d better bring it in. I’m supposed to ask for Sergeant Clapper.”
A stray bone might be nothing to get excited about, but violent crimes, let alone dismemberments, were not common fare on St. Mary’s. Robb’s mouth hung open for a moment before he replied. “I think Sergeant Clapper is very much the man for that, sir.”
He picked up his telephone and explained. “Shall I send him in, sir?”
Gideon heard the rumbled answer come through the door at the end of the corridor, delivered with a won’t- they-ever-leave-me-in-peace sigh. “No, I’ll come there.”
Sergeant Clapper was a broad, heavy man of fifty-five or so in civilian clothes—black corduroy trousers and a white shirt folded back over thick, hairy wrists—with a sad, dull-brown slick of hair pulled across his scalp, a heavy red drinker’s face, and tired, seen-every thing, don’t - even - think - of - putting - anything - over - on - me eyes. He stuck out a blunt-fingered, big-knuckled hand that looked as hard as a shovel but turned out to be about as emphatic as something dragged out of a pond in late August.
“I’m Sergeant Clapper.”
“Gideon Oliver.”
“What’s all this about a dismemberment?”
“Well, I have it here.” He looked for someplace on Robb’s desk on which to put it, and with a sweep of both hands Robb cleared a space. File folders and their contents flopped to the floor.
“Kyle, your desk is a damned disgrace,” Clapper muttered.
Robb seemed undisturbed. “Sorry, Sarge.”
Gideon opened the bag and put the tibial fragment on the old-fashioned blotter that was now visible on the desktop. When, he wondered, had he last seen a desk blotter, let alone one that was actually stained with ink? The three men stood looking down at the bone. Robb seemed eager to comment but waited for his chief.
“That’s it?” Clapper said. “That’s your dismemberment?” He made a small dismissive gesture with his hand. Gideon noticed that the fingernails were chewed to scraps and the thick fingers were deeply tobacco-stained, down almost to the first joint.
“Well, it’s an indication, a possible indication, of a dismemberment.”
“Ah, so it’s a possible indication, is it?”
Gideon was beginning to get irritated. “Sergeant—”
“American, are you?”
“That’s right, I’m here just for the week, for the consortium at Star Castle.”
“Oh, yes? One of the participants?”
“Well, no, my wife is a Fellow. I’m just here to… I’m just along.”
Clapper’s lips parted to show a set of big brown teeth. “Are you now? Well, well.”
Now Gideon was irritated. What the hell was that supposed to mean?
“I’m also a professional anthropologist,” he said hotly. “I do quite a lot of forensic work. I assure you, I know what I’m talking about.”
“No offense, Mr. Oliver.”
“Doctor Oliver,” Gideon said. “Or professor, if you prefer.”
Now he was not only annoyed with Clapper, but with himself for letting the guy get under his skin. And ashamed of himself as well for acting like a stuffed shirt. This was not going as planned.
He summoned up what he hoped was convincingly friendly smile. “Well, let me show you what I have,” he said mildly, “and you can take it from there.”
“Chairs, Kyle,” Clapper ordered from the side of his mouth.
Robb was obviously used to being treated like this. Docilely, he cleared off a couple of fabric-seated metal chairs and set them in front of the desk. When the three men sat, Clapper put an ankle-booted foot against the desk front and shoved himself back a few feet. He was putting some space between himself and them to show that he wasn’t committing himself to anything yet. This was between his constable and his visitor; he was merely observing.
So be it. Gideon addressed himself directly to Robb while Clapper, looking preoccupied, thumbed open the lid of a red-and-white pack of Gold Bond cigarettes and lit up.
“What this is—” Gideon began.
The telephone on Robb’s desk chirped. He picked it up, listened, and covered the mouthpiece. “It’s for you, Sarge: Exeter. Policy and Performance Unit, Chief Inspector Cory. What should I tell him?”
“Tell him to sod off, the vile bugger,” Clapper growled.
“Sarge, this is the third time in the last two—”
“Tell him to sod off.”
Robb removed his hand from the mouthpiece. “Chief Inspector? Sergeant Clapper is in conference with village
