Free In a Dry Season by Peter Robinson

celebrity status of a kind among his pals for a while.
    Banks stared at the filthy, twisted shape at his feet. It hardly looked human. The bones had taken on the muddy brown colour of the earth they had lain in for so long; they were also crusted with dark grungy muck. It stuck to the ribs the way a hearty stew was supposed to do, and it clung to various joints, clogging the cavities and crevices. The skull looked full of it—mud in the mouth, the nose, the eye-sockets—and some of the long bones looked like old, rusted metal pipes that had been underground for years.
    The sight of it all made Banks feel vaguely sick. He had seen much worse without throwing up, of course—at least there were no gaping red holes, no spilled intestines, no legs cut off at the thighs, skin riding up over the raw edges like a tight skirt—but he hadn’t seen much uglier.
    The SOCOS had already photographed the skeleton during every stage of its excavation, and once they had finished carrying it up the hill, they went back down and started their detailed search of the area, digging deeper and farther afield, leaving John Webb to give it a poke here and a scrape there. Webb also searched through the dirt for any objects that had been buried at the same time—buttons, jewellery, that sort of thing.
    Banks leaned back against a tree trunk, as if on sentry duty, kept his nausea under control and watched Webb work. He was tired; he had not slept well after his late-night musings. Most of the night he had tossed and turned, waking up often from fragments of nightmares that scuttled off into dark corners when he woke, likecockroaches when you turn on the light. The morning heat made him drowsy. Giving in to the feeling for a moment, he closed his eyes and rested his head on the tree. He could feel the rough bark against his crown, and the sunlight made kaleidoscopic patterns behind his eyelids. He was at the edge of sleep when he heard a rustling behind him, then a voice.
    â€œMorning, sir. Rough night?”
    â€œSomething like that,” said Banks, moving away from the tree trunk.
    DS Cabbot stared down at the bones. “So this is what we all come to in the end, is it?” She didn’t sound particularly concerned about it; no more troubled than she seemed about turning up so late.
    â€œAny luck?” Banks asked.
    â€œThat’s what took me so long. The university year hasn’t started yet and a lot of profs are still away on holiday, or busy running research projects overseas. Anyway, I’ve tracked down a Dr Ioan Williams, University of Leeds. He’s a physical anthropologist with a fair bit of experience in forensic work. He sounded pretty excited by what we’ve found. Must be having a dull summer.”
    â€œHow quickly can he get to it?”
    â€œHe said if we could get the remains to the university lab as soon as possible, he’d have his assistants clean them up, then he’d manage a quick look by early evening. Only a preliminary look, mind you.”
    â€œGood,” said Banks. “The sooner we know what we’re dealing with here, the better.”
    If the skeleton had been lying there for a hundred years or more, the investigation wouldn’t really be worth pursuing with any great vigour, as they would be hardly likely tocatch a living criminal. On the other hand, if it turned out to be a murder victim, and if it had been buried there during or since the war, there was a chance that somebody still living might remember something. And there was also a chance that the killer was still alive.
    â€œWant me to supervise the move?” Webb asked. Banks nodded. “If you would, John. Need a mortuary wagon?”
    Webb held his hand over his eyes to shield the sun as he looked up. A few of the silver hairs in his beard caught the light. “My old Range Rover will do just fine. I’ll get one of the lads to drive while I stay in the back and make sure our