‘What, like they do on the telly? ’ Markers seven to ten were longer, sticking out of the upper and lower jaws. ‘Facial reconstruction’s half science, half art. You have to really know bones. How’s a computer ever going to do that? ’

‘Go on then.’ Logan went into his jacket pocket, pulled out the junior soup starter kit that had been left on his doorstep, and dumped it on the cutting table. The bones rattled against the stainless steel. ‘What can you get from a bunch of chicken bones and some manky herbs? ’

She peered at them, then added the next couple of markers to the skull. ‘They’re not chicken bones, they’re phalanges. Finger bones. Human.’ A smile. ‘Do I pass the test? ’

‘Finger bones? ’

A sigh. ‘OK, we’ll do it properly. . .’ She pulled an A4 lined notepad from beneath one of the books, flipped over to a clean sheet, then stuck her left hand flat down on it and drew around the palm and fingers with a pencil. Then untied the bundle. ‘This one,’ she held up one of the little bones, ‘is a proximal phalanx from the middle finger.’ She placed it on her wobbly outline of a hand in the right place. ‘This one’s an intermediate. . . Might be from the index – going by the growth on the distal articular surface – but it’s impossible to tell for sure without having all the other bones for comparison.’ It went on the drawn hand. ‘And lucky number three is a proximal from the thumb.’

‘They’re human? ’

‘Yup.’ She lowered the last bone into place. Then picked it up again. ‘I don’t know who cleaned them for you, but they seriously need to go on a training course. Boiling bones damages the joints, look,’ she wiggled the end at Logan, ‘see how it’s all pitted and porous? ’

It looked like a pale Crunchie bar with all the chocolate sucked off. She shook her head. ‘Very amateurish.’

Oh God. ‘Boiled? ’

‘Yup – there’s much more efficient and less damaging ways to clean skeletal remains: boiling breaks down the cortical bone, that’s why you can see that cancellous bone underneath. If you haven’t got Dermestid beetles to clean the remains, then simmering’s the way to go – long and slow, like you’re making stock.’ She put it down again. ‘I don’t know who you’re using, but they should be ashamed of themselves.’ Another marker went on the skull.

‘Boiled. . .’ Something cold slithered its way down Logan’s spine.

She picked up the last marker in the set, then frowned at him. ‘Are you all right? You’ve gone all pale.’

‘When? When were they boiled? ’