Monday: Week Two

North Jutland Police District


Chief Inspector Pernille Madsen and Inspector Peter Lundquist stared at four plastic bags laid out on a desk in the Forensic Science Laboratory.

“Is that all?” said Pernille. “You’ve been in that flat for three days and that’s all you’ve found? It’s not much for the file.” 

Magda Johanssen, who’d supervised the team which had searched the studio flat in which Jolene Karlssen had been assaulted, held up her gloved hands.  

“We went over it twice. There wasn’t much to go on. They didn’t have sex. He didn’t jerk off. There’s no semen. Jolene’s panties have her saliva, vomit and blood. There was urine on the mattress. She wet herself. The poor woman was terrified. We swept the bedroom and the bathroom for prints. Nothing. Every surface had been wiped clean,” said Magda. 

“He must have cleaned up before he followed Jolene into the alley,” said Peter Lundquist.

“She thinks she was on the ground for no more than five minutes before he came after her,” said Pernille. “Five minutes to clean up? He’s done this before. He’s got it down to a fine art.”

“Item one,” said Magda, holding up a bag containing a scrap of blue fabric and a button. “Jolene had this in her hand. He was wearing a blue shirt. If we can find the shirt, we can match the threads.”

“Half the men in Sweden wear blue shirts,” said Peter Lundquist. “I’m wearing one myself.”

“This is from a high quality shirt.” Magda held the bag up for inspection. “It’s very fine cotton and best quality thread. The button is pure bone, not plastic, and nicely finished around the edges.”  

“Not like one of mine, then,” said Peter. 

“Item two,” said Magda. “Jolene’s bra. I’ll send it to the national lab. If there’s anything on it, they’ll find it. But he was wearing plastic gloves, wasn’t he?”

“According to Jolene,” said Pernille, “he wore clear, skin-tight, plastic gloves. She didn’t notice them at first. Pity. They’d have warned her she was dealing with a pervert. Who knows how to remove all trace of himself.” 

“He didn’t manage to remove all trace of himself,” said Magda with a satisfied air. “Item three.” 

She held up a plastic bag containing a skein of grey-blond hairs. “They were pulled out, roots and all. Jolene had them in her left hand. They were bagged and kept by the ambulance crew. We found other hairs in and under the bed but they’d been shed naturally. You can’t get DNA from them. You need follicles for DNA. So, well done, Jolene. It will take a bit of time, but I think we’ll get DNA from these.” She waved the bag in triumph.

“He picked the wrong victim,” said Pernille. “Tenacious woman, Jolene. Did you know she used to be a female contortionist until she broke her leg?”

“I thought that stuff was all faked,” said Peter Lundquist.

“She tripped over a rope in a circus tent about ten years ago,” said Pernille. “Discovered there was more money in prostitution. What’s item four?”

“I’m not sure.” Magda opened the bag and tipped a round metal object, the size and thickness of a coin, into her gloved hand. One side was enamelled pale green. The other side had a clip.  

“We found it in on the second sweep. It was in a gap between two floorboards. There was fluff and dust underneath it so it was dropped recently. It’s some kind of badge or clip. There are three initial letters embossed on it. I can make out an S but the surface is worn and there are scratches.” She slipped it under a microscope. “Have a look. See what you think.” 

Pernille peered through the eyepiece. “It looks like the badge of some institution or club. I think the third letter is N.”

Peter took his turn at the microscope. “Yes. Some kind of badge.” He took his eye away from the microscope and blinked before taking a second look. “It could also be a golf ball marker.” 

“Golf ball marker?” said Pernille.

“You use it to mark the position of your ball on the green.” Peter straightened up. “I’ve often pulled something out of my pocket and my ball marker has dropped out as well.” 

“Jolene’s attacker was wearing chinos,” said Pernille. 

“He might have been wearing them for golf,” said Peter. “He might have had a ball marker in his pocket. The initials could identify the club. And some companies give out golf ball markers with their company logo. It’s a form of advertising.”

“So he’s a member of a company, or organisation, or golf club with first and third initials S and N,” said Pernille. 

“If it’s a golf club, he mightn’t be a member,” said Peter. “He might just have played there and bought the marker, or been given it on a corporate golf day, or just played at the club and picked up the marker on the course. I’m always finding markers.”

“That’s a big help,” said Pernille drily. “Tell me something useful.”

“You can also buy simple plastic markers with no logo,” said Peter. He dodged the fake punch Pernille threw at him. 

“I’ll tell you something useful,” said Magda. “There’s half a thumb print on it.”


Tobias picked up a hire car at Ostersund airport and programmed the satnav to take him to where Berit Hansdatter lived in Vasterbotten county. Aarhus to Copenhagen, then Copenhagen to  Ostersund. Four hours. Now he had a long drive to northern Sweden. Three and a half hours the satnav told him. And it was almost lunchtime. At least it was Spring. It would stay light until well into the evening. 

He drove through what seemed to him a haphazard sort of area. He was on a dual-carriageway lined with factories and housing estates interspersed with forest. After about half an hour, the forest appeared to be winning. Instead of factory buildings and blocks of houses, there were clearings with cabins. Then there was only forest. The road wound round a lake. Then forest again. Forest and lakes.  Forest and lakes. 

He played over in his mind the information he’d gleaned from a search for persons missing in Sweden. Three men had gone missing between 1997 and 1999. One was fifty and an alcoholic. One was from Pakistan. One was twenty-six, but he had an artificial leg. The bones of Bogman’s legs were intact. There were no Swedish citizens reported missing in Denmark, or in any other country. 

He stopped the car in a quiet town and parked outside a lakeside bar. The interior was dark and cool. The barman handed him a menu. Tobias, who was curious about food, ordered a suovaskebab from the “local specialty” section, and a glass of beer. He usually had beer at lunchtime – and smorssbrod with herring and pickle and hard-boiled egg and salad. He looked doubtfully at what seemed to be a pitta bread sandwich when it arrived. It didn’t look very Laplandlike. 

Tobias spoke reasonably good Swedish. “What’s in it?” he asked the barman. 

“Smoked reindeer, cucumber, salad and garlic dressing,” said the barman. “Sami fusion cooking.”

The combination was surprisingly tasty. 

Tobias sipped his beer and reviewed what he knew about Bogman. He wore a bracelet inscribed ‘Encircled By Your Love.’ He wore the badge of an environmental group. And yet no one reported him missing. Had his lover killed him? That was possible, yes. His lover, or maybe someone he picked up. But if it was some casual pickup, why didn’t the person who gave Bogman the bracelet report him missing? It didn’t make sense. He thought about the bracelet he had given Karren. She probably had more expensive jewellery now. He would know if Karren disappeared. Bad example. What about the women he’d been involved with since his divorce. If any of them went missing, would he know about it, if he wasn’t in the police? Hilde, of course. She was a neighbour. Of course he’d hear about it if she disappeared. Marli Andersen, with whom he was still on friendly terms. But the others? He wouldn’t notice if the librarian at Silkeborg disappeared – unless it made headlines. He’d given a necklace to a girlfriend at college. Mette Svensen. L O V E in gold letters linked by a gold chain. He’d been crazy about her for at least six months. Where was she now? He had no idea. But somebody cared enough about her, he was sure, to report her missing if she disappeared. Why had nobody cared enough about Bogman? Maybe he was a vagrant after all, and had stolen the bracelet. They’d have to trawl through all the stolen item reports in Denmark. The thought wearied him. Agnes didn’t know anything about S S N, or any other Sami group. But she’d heard that one person in the wind farm protest had been in northern Sweden helping Sami protect their reindeer herding rights. That might be worth following up, if he had no luck with the silversmith. He drained his beer glass. Here’s to Berit Handsdatter. His best bet so far. 

He got back into the car and headed north again. The countryside changed from lake and forest to tundra. The sky was grey. A wide plain spread out before him. It looked empty, until he noticed reindeer grazing beside a lake, and one or two low wooden cabins. He passed a signpost for Asele and Umea. Less than a hundred kilometres to go. 

Just before Vilhelmina, he stopped the car beside a lake and got out to stretch his legs. The landscape looked flat, dull, unexceptional. He was about to get back into the car when the sun came out. The air was suddenly crystal clear, luminous. The black lake turned from oily black to glittering turquoise. The grass sparkled. Yellow lichen on the grey rocks gleamed like gold. The forest looked almost fluorescent. 

Tobias thought about Agnes protecting trees in West Jutland. Was it warmer there than it was here? The air had a definite chill in it. He could see snow on the mountains in the distance. He shivered and got back into the car. Only another fifty kilometres now.

The desk sergeant in Vilhelmina was expecting him. 

“Chief Inspector Lange? Grete Lindberg. I’m the duty sergeant today.” They shook hands. “I’ve read the file you sent us. It’s an interesting case.” She sounded envious.

“Let’s go.” She picked up a set of keys. “It’s not far as the crow flies but the road is bad for the last ten kilometres.” She ushered Tobias out of the police station and locked the door behind them. 

“There are only four of us,” she said. “My colleague on duty is helping to get a cow out of a ditch. The others are on the late shift. But not much happens up here. Whatever turns up can usually wait until morning. To tell the truth, I’m glad of something interesting to do.”

Berit Hansdatter’s house was a single-storey wooden house painted dark red, in a lakeside clearing. Further along the lake, were four similar houses, two painted in the same red, two painted sky blue. A shared landing stage jutted into the lake. Five rowing boats rested on the water. Tire tracks were clearly visible in the damp ground around Berit Handsdatter’s house, but there was no sign of a vehicle. 

Tobias parked where the forest ended and the clearing began. He and the sergeant got out of the car and walked towards the house. Poppies and marguerites fluttered in the window boxes on either side of the front door. A white card with a telephone number and message in Swedish - “If I’m not here, call my mobile!“ - in bold black handwriting, was sellotaped to a window. 

Tobias was tapping the number into his phone when an elderly red Saab came bumping down the track and parked at the side of the house. A wide-shouldered, tousled-haired woman, a good head taller than Tobias and Grete, got out. She raised the carrier bag in her hand in a kind of greeting. “Come in.”

They followed her into the house where she shook their hands and introduced herself -  “I’m Berit” - without waiting to hear their names, not seeming to notice the police badge on Grete Lindberg’s jacket.  

“I assume you’ve come to collect the rings? They’re on the blue cloth. Take a look at them. I’ll just take these things into the kitchen and make coffee. When’s the wedding?” 

She disappeared into the kitchen before either Tobias or Grete could speak.

Tobias looked at Grete and raised an eyebrow. 

“We’re not here about wedding rings,” Grete called out. “We’re here about something else.”

Berit appeared in the kitchen doorway. “So it’s something else? Did you make an appointment? Did I send you a design? I’ll be in with coffee in a moment. Sit down.” She disappeared again. 

Grete and Tobias took seats at a long pine table by the window. Berit returned, carrying a tray with a coffee pot, mugs, milk jug, sugar bowl and a plate of spiced biscuits. 

 “I don’t have a website. People steal your ideas. I send out designs on request.” She put the tray on the table and poured coffee into the cups. “Milk? Sugar? I made the biscuits this morning.” She settled herself at the table. “Now, what can I do for you?” 

“We’re police officers,” said Grete without preamble. “I’m Sergeant Lindberg from Vilhelmina and this is Chief Inspector Tobias Lange from Aarhus. He is investigating a murder committed in Denmark.” She looked at Tobias to continue.

“The victim was a male aged about twenty. We have not yet identified him,” said Tobias. “We hope you can help us.”

Berit rocked forward in surprise. “Me?”

“We think you made a bracelet found with the,” he hesitated, “remains.” He took a photograph from his briefcase and handed it to her. “Do you recognise it?” 

Berit studied the photograph. “Of course,” she said. “I made this bracelet about ten years ago. I remember it well. Encircled by your love. In Danish. The words were her idea. She wasn’t sure if it should be a necklace with the letters in silver, then they both decided on a bracelet instead.”

“She? Both?” Tobias and Grete spoke in unison.

“They were a beautiful couple,” said Berit. “Very much in love. You could see it in their eyes. It was shining out of them. I met them at a concert in Fatmomakke. They were musicians. She played the guitar and he played the fiddle. They picked up tunes as though they had heard them in the womb. She was full of life. I saw a lot of them at that time. They played many concerts. It was during the protests against nuclear waste dumping. They were involved in demonstrations about Sami grazing rights as well.”

She paused for breath. 

Tobias said quickly, “What were they called?”

“Emily and Lennart,” said Berit. “I liked them very much.” 

“What were their surnames?” 

“I don’t remember,” said Berit. “I don’t know if anyone knew their surnames. We all knew them as Emily and Lennart or the Danish pair. You never saw one without the other. They were so attached to each other. They drove an old ambulance. It was painted sky blue with clouds and a rainbow. It was highly visible on the roads around here. You must have noticed it, Sergeant.”

“I’ve only been here two years,” said Grete. “In fact none of us in Vilhelmina were here at that time.”

“You made the bracelet,” said Tobias. “Who asked you to make it? Who paid for it? How did they pay? Cash or card, or cheque?”

“Oh, I don’t take credit cards,” said Berit. “I don’t have the machine for that. People give me a cheque, or cash.”

“So you keep a record of payments and receipts,” said Tobias. “For tax purposes. With names and addresses.” He held his breath.

“I tell the taxman my income and I keep receipts,” said Berit. “But only for seven years. I don’t have any receipts going back further. Or if I have, I don’t know where they are.” She paused. “I think I only asked Lennart to pay for the silver in the ring and not the workmanship. He didn’t have much money.”

“Just a minute,” said Tobias. “You made a ring as well as a bracelet?” 

“I made a ring for Lennart. For him to give to Emily. He couldn’t afford a bracelet like the one she gave him. So he asked me to make a ring for her instead, engraved with Together Forever in Danish. You could read it both ways. Together Forever. Forever Together. Wasn’t that a wonderful idea as well?”

“It looks like an expensive bracelet,” said Tobias. 

“It was,” said Berit. “Solid silver, hand engraved. But Emily had the money. She insisted on paying me what I’d normally charge. She said she could afford it. I think her people were well-off. She had some kind of allowance.” 

A rich drop-out, thought Tobias. Plenty of money and no inclination to work.

“Emily was a waitress in a fishing hotel for a few months and Lennart had a summer job in a bar,” said Berit. “They played music in the bar as well.”

“The bracelet is dated 1997,” said Tobias.

“So long ago?" Berit shook her head in wonder. “It seems like yesterday.”

You might remember a bit more if it was yesterday, thought Tobias. No records. He kept the irritation out of his voice. “Do you remember when and for how long they were here?”

“I can’t be sure about that,” said Berit. “They were definitely here for at least one summer because I remember going to visit them at the campsite and thinking they were lucky it was a warm summer and it didn’t rain. So that must have been 1996 because that was a good summer. And they must have been here in 1997 because the last thing I do is engrave the date.” 

“You were friendly with them,” said Grete. “Did you never send a letter or postcard or email to them? Did you never ask them for an address?”

“I don’t remember them leaving,” said Berit. “They were probably gone before I had time to get an address. I didn’t have email then. Maybe someone else has an address for them.”

“Who might that be?”

Berit made a helpless gesture. “I don’t know,” she said. “But they were well known around here.”

They heard the sound of a car drawing up outside, the murmur of voices, the slamming of a car door, a shout of “Bye now, thanks.”

“That’ll be Jossi back from Dorotea,” said Berit. “He was getting a lift from our neighbour.” 

The front door opened. A thin, bony-faced man came in. “Johan wouldn’t stay for coffee. He says hello to you, Berit.” He stopped abruptly, on seeing Tobias. 

“These are police officers, Jossi,” said Berit. “They’re asking about a Danish couple that used to come here. Emily and Lennart.”

 “Those two were not criminals,” said Jossi immediately. “Two more honest souls you will not find between here and heaven. They were warriors for the environment. But neither of them would hurt a fly. They had only gentle bones in their bodies.”

He darted forward and shook hands with Tobias and Grete.

“I’m afraid I bring bad news,” said Tobias. “Your wife has identified a bracelet we found with the remains of a body in Jutland. We think the remains might be those of your friend Lennart.” 

Jossi looked shocked. 

“We think he was murdered,” said Tobias. 

Jossi pulled out a chair from the table and sat down.

“We lost touch with them,” he said. “I’m sorry about that.” He shook his head. “Why would anyone want to kill Lennart?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” said Tobias. “First, we need to be sure it was Lennart. Do you know any person who had an address for him or for Emily? Who knows their surnames?”  

“Maybe the Lake Hotel,” said Berit.  “Emily worked there for a while.”

“I know it,” said Grete. 

Tobias took a card from his briefcase. “Here is my number. Contact me if you remember anything more. Thank you for the tea and delicious biscuits.” He added casually, as though he had just thought of it, “Did either Emily or Lennart do drugs?”

Berit and Jossi exchanged a quick glance. 

Jossi said, “If you mean did they smoke the occasional spliff, yes, they did. And dropped a tab or two of Ecstasy, probably. If you mean were they seriously into drugs? Definitely not. They weren’t even big drinkers. They were more the herbal tea type.”

Berit said, “When you find Emily’s address, let us know. We’d like to be in touch with her again.”

Tobias looked back as he turned the car in the clearing Berit and Jossi were standing contentedly, hand in hand, in the doorway, gazing at the lake. He remembered holding hands with Karren at the northernmost point of Denmark. He saw again in his minds eye the ripple where the North Sea meets the Skaggerak. He recalled his sense of wonder when he looked at Karren, thinking “we’re going to have a baby,” and the rush of tenderness that led him to clutch her hand more tightly, led him to say, “let’s get married.” Where did all that tenderness go? He had reached the main road. Two cyclists, riding abreast, their jackets floating in the wind, dropped into single file to allow the car to overtake them and raised their hands in salute. They looked flushed and happy. Should he telephone Sofie when he got back?

He realised Grete was speaking to him. “We don’t have a big drug problem up here,” she said. “Alcohol, yes. There’s not much to do except get drunk. I’m hoping for a transfer to Ostersund.”

Tobias thought there probably wasn’t much to do in Ostersund either. 

A sign for the Lake Hotel loomed up. Tobias drove along the shores of the lake to a three-storey building overlooking a marina. Waders and fishing rods were stacked on the long wooden veranda. They were greeted by a young dark-haired girl with a foreign accent, Spanish? Portuguese? Tobias wasn’t sure. They showed their ID. The receptionist picked up the telephone. 

“There are two police officers here who wish to speak to you, Hanne.”

A moment later, a harassed looking woman wearing a white chef’s bonnet and apron appeared in the lobby. She ushered Tobias and Grete into a small office behind the desk.

“You have come at a bad time,” she said. “Why did you not warn me you were coming? We could have fixed a better time. What do you want?” She was cross and abrupt.

 Tobias and Grete mollified her with explanations and apologies.

“I’m sorry I was abrupt with you,” she said. “I remember Emily. Emily Rasmussen. A hard worker. She was here for a couple of summers. It was before we built the extension so it must have been before 2001. I don’t know if I had an address in Denmark for her. She lived on a campsite. There might be an address in our records but I haven’t the time to go through them.” She pulled open the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet. “The ledgers from 1990, the year we opened, to the year we did the extension are all in here. You can go through them yourselves.” 

She left like a whirlwind. 

Grete took the ledger for 2000 and sat down at the desk. Tobias balanced the ledger for 2001 ledger on the top of the filing cabinet. They worked in silence.

“No Emily in this one.”  Grete swivelled round and replaced the ledger in the drawer. 

“Or in this one,” said Tobias.  

They had no luck with 2000 and 1999 either. 

Grete was running her eye down a page in April 1997 when she heard Tobias exclaim, “Got her. June sixteen, 1998. Emily. 15 hours. No address. There must be an address somewhere. Maybe with the first entry.” Tobias flicked back through the pages. “Emily. Emily R. Emily R.” He closed the book. 

“Maybe there’s one here.” Grete leafed through the ledger for 1997. “Nothing in April.” Pause. “Nothing in May.” She gave a cry of triumph. “Here she is. June twenty-second. It must be the first day she started working here. Emily Rasmussen. And there’s an address in Denmark.” She gave the ledger to Tobias.

They grinned at each other. Tobias glanced at the address for Emily Rasmussen.

“Skanderborg. Our lake country. But not as much water as around here.” He fished out his phone and composed a text. 

“Bogman Lennart. No surname. Girlfriend Emily Rasmussen. Skandeborg address. Will go there.” He sent the text to Eddy and pushed the phone back into his pocket.


Eddy was sitting outside a canal-side café in Aarhus enjoying the last of the evening sun and drinking beer with a Pilates teacher he’d met three months earlier while investigating a series of robberies at an expensive private gym. The stolen items – money, watches, jewellery – were found in the flat of a part-time receptionist who’d been copying the locker keys. The Pilates teacher, who, along with the rest of the staff had been under suspicion, showed her gratitude, and continued to show it in an enticingly physical way. She was young, blonde, slim and sexually adventurous but, as Eddy soon discovered, otherwise boring and humourless. He was wondering how much longer they were going to sit staring at the canal before one of them suggested going back to his or her flat – and somehow the idea didn’t thrill him as it should - when the text from Tobias flashed up on his phone. Eddy read it with a sense of release. He had an excuse to leave. 

“Urgent request from my boss,” he said, trying to sound disappointed. “I have to go back to work.” He drained his beer, gave the Pilates teacher a quick hug and sprinted away. 

Katrine was at the reception desk in headquarters talking to a man in blue overalls and an orange visibility jacket when a ptinkle sound from the phone in her right pocket told her she had a text message. She ignored it because she was holding in her right hand, at arms length, a clear plastic bag containing what appeared to be two dirt-encrusted bones. One was approximately 20 centimetres long and 5 centimetres in diameter, the other was shorter, thinner and appeared to be jointed. The man in the blue overalls and visibility jacket had just handed the bag to her. His name was Carl Andersen and he was a supervisor at the city’s waste disposal depot.

 “I didn’t know what else to do with them,” he said. “One of the team saw them when he was emptying one of the underground containers. Orvik, he’s a sensible sort, very reliable. He called me over. They weren’t in a bag. It’s mostly household waste in plastic bags in that sector but they weren’t in a bag. They were just mixed in with a lot of other rubbish.” 

“What sector?”

“Gellerupparken. It looked like someone had just chucked them into one of the bins. We thought at first they might be rubber bones. Some kind of joke. But it isn’t anyone’s birthday. Nobody was leaving the team or getting married. When I picked one of them up. Even with thick rubber gloves on, I could tell it was a real bone. It could be an animal bone I said to Orvik, but I’ve never seen a dog with a femur that length. Unless it’s a bone from a deer. They could be human bones we’d best take them to the police, I said. I put them in a bag for him to take them down here. But he was in the middle of his shift and there was another truck coming in with a load so I brought them here myself. What do you think?” 

“I think you should stop unloading until we know if these are human bones or not,” said Katrine decisively, although inside she was thinking what if I get bawled out for stopping the whole system when the bones turn out not to be human after all? 

“I stopped everything before I left,” said Carl Andersen. “They’re waiting to hear from me.”

“Good,” said Katrine. That was a relief. But what if she couldn’t get hold of Harry Norsk? And even if he came straightaway, could she order the city’s waste disposal system to stop - at who knew what cost and consequences for the always delicate relations between the police and the city council – until Harry decided if the bones were human or not? 

She stood holding the bag and its grisly contents at arms length, wondering if she should telephone the Chief Superintendent whom she knew was addressing a conference in Copenhagen that evening because he’d told the whole office about it, and imagining a range of consequences from Larsen’s endorsement of her decision to Larsen’s rage at having his attention deflected when he was in the middle of a talk about budgets and accountability. And supposing the bones turned out to be from a horse or a deer? 

At which point Eddy Haxen loped into the building. 

Katrine hurried towards him with relief. “I’ve just been given two bones in a plastic bag. They were found at the waste disposal centre. The supervisor,” she gestured to Carl Andersen, idly swinging his orange helmet and staring at his boots, “brought them here. I can’t decide what to do.” 

“Have you stopped all the waste dumping?”

“It’s stopped. But how long can we stop it for?” 

“As long as it takes,” said Eddy. He smiled at her. “Don’t worry. I’ll take responsibility for ordering a shut-down.” He put his hand on Katrine’s arm. “It’s my turn to take the flak. Call Harry Norsk. I’ll speak to the waste disposal chap.”

Harry Norsk came in straightaway. Katrine and Eddy met him in the pathology room. Eddy gave him the bag with the bones. Harry pulled on a pair of gloves, lifted the bones from the bag and laid them on one of the stainless steel tables. 

“They’re definitely bones. You can never be certain until you get a closer look. I’ve had wood and ceramics brought to me because people think they’re bones. These look like radius and ulna to me.” 

“We shut down everything,” said Eddy. “The place is sealed. Forensics will go through it all in the morning.”

Harry picked up each bone in turn and weighed it in his hand. “They could be human. Animal bones are denser and heavier. And the radius and ulna are usually fused. These are separate. I can’t be certain. Karl will want to look at the dirt traces. They might tell us something. I’ll wash them and run a few tests. Any more where these came from?”

“We’ll soon find out,” said Eddy. 


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