Then We Die by James Craig

the bone situated just below the ear, and the occiput, the bone located at the lower back of the skull.’ For the benefit of her colleague, Simpson pointed out each in turn. ‘The occiput has been badly damaged, but the bone below the ear is a muscle attachment site, more prominent in men and indicating greater physical strength.’
    ‘I see,’ said Carlyle, enjoying this quick reminder of why he’d never had any interest in O-level Biology at school.
    Phillips nodded in the direction of the plaster over his eye. ‘How’s your head?’
    ‘It’s fine.’ Carlyle gestured towards the skull. ‘Better than his, anyway.’
    ‘He was found by some council workmen who were digging up this corner of the park to build a kiddies’ playground.’
    Carlyle didn’t remember seeing any workmen hanging around outside. ‘Where are they now?’
    ‘Roche took their statements while she was waiting for you, and then she let them go home. One of them seemed quite upset.’
    ‘Upset?’ Carlyle scoffed. ‘It’s only the bloody skeleton of some poor sod who’s been dead for fifty years. What is there to get upset about?’
    Phillips ignored his little outburst. ‘He may well have been buried here for
more
than fifty years,’ she observed.
    Carlyle wished more than ever that he had stayed at home in bed. Why did Helen decide to answer his damn phone?
    ‘I need to get him back to the lab to do some proper tests,’ Phillips continued.
    ‘No need to go all trainspotter-ish on me,’ Carlyle grunted.
    ‘You are in
such
a good mood this morning,’ Phillips teased, bouncing the skull gently in her hand. ‘No wonder they call you the rudest cop in Westminster.’
    ‘Do they fuck,’ Carlyle retorted, not even stopping to consider who, in this instance, ‘they’ might be.
    ‘If you say so,’ Phillips teased. ‘Anyway, this guy could have been buried here for seventy or eighty years, maybe more.’
    ‘Excellent,’ Carlyle sighed. ‘Just what I need – a fucking historical murder mystery.’
    ‘It makes an interesting change,’ Phillips mused, ‘from teenagers knifing each other, or husbands trying to batter their wives.’
    ‘I don’t know about that.’
    ‘Come on, John,’ she chided. ‘Aren’t you even a little curious about how this guy got here? He must have an interesting story to tell.’
    Her forced good humour was making him feel grumpier by the second. ‘I’m a copper,’ he complained, ‘not a sodding archaeologist.’
    ‘But still—’
    ‘I bet you love that show on the telly . . .’ He struggled to think of the name but couldn’t dredge it up from the back of his mind. Helen watched it sometimes; she would watch any old crap.
    ‘
Time Team
? I watch it now and again,’ Phillips admitted.
    ‘Gripping stuff,’ Carlyle said sarkily. ‘Anyway, I need to speak to those workers from the council.’
    Getting to her feet, Phillips placed her hand on his forearm and said gently, ‘You should relax a bit. It’s not a big deal. What are they going to tell you that they didn’t already tell Roche? They came in, started digging up the grass – and found some bones.’
    ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’ Carlyle held up a hand, finally conceding defeat. ‘Okay, Tony bloody Robinson, let me have the report when you’re done.’
    ‘Of course,’ Phillips smiled. ‘It may take a little while, though.’
    ‘No rush,’ said Carlyle, exiting the tent. ‘No rush at all.’

EIGHT
    ‘Hey, Marcello! Where have Trapattoni and Platini gone?’
    Carlyle returned to Il Buffone just as the breakfast rush hour was coming to a close, allowing him and Alison Roche to grab the tatty booth at the back, next to the counter. Looking up, he realized that the crumbling poster of the 1984 Juventus scudetto winning squad had disappeared, leaving a lighter patch on the back wall. Torn and faded, curling at the edges and only held together with Sellotape, it had enjoyed pride of place in the café for as long as he could