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‘Doesn’t fit the new image, I expect,’ said Dalziel. ‘We’re still in Miss Disney-Land.’
He laughed loudly at his own joke, his flesh shaking till he started an itch in the small of his back. This he erased against the corner of the desk, grunting with satisfaction.
Dinner arrived early, about 6.45, and they were sawing through some rather stringy beef when the lab-report was delivered.
‘You read it,’ said Dalziel carrying on with his meal.
‘Well?’ he said through a mouthful of apple crumble a few minutes later.
‘Female, middle-aged, been in the ground a few years, five or six would fit nicely. Skull is fractured in two or three places, probably the result of blows with a heavy instrument and almost certainly contributory factors in the death, there’s a lot of technical stuff about the bones which isn’t going to be of much help, she wasn’t a hunchback, or lame or anything like that. Height about 5′ 6″. A big-boned woman, normal weight expectation 9 to 9½ stone, but they can’t make a guess at whether she was relatively fat or thin, size 5½–6 in shoes, size 7½ in gloves. That’s interesting, left leg has been broken twice, but old breaks.’
‘Accident prone,’ volunteered Dalziel, scraping the remnants of custard from his plate noisily. ‘What else?’
‘The mouth should be a help. No less than three gold fillings, one a fairly complex job.’
‘We’ll need that dentist. Your Mrs Farish is the only one of your probables that the age fits. Anything more?’
‘Yes. That red hair. It was a wig. Or what was left of a wig. Real hair, mind you, but treated, and remnants of the binding fabric still remained. That could help.’
Dalziel was unimpressed.
‘Too many bloody wigs about these days. You never know whether what you’ve got hold of is going to come away in your hand or not. What about clothes etcetera?’
‘Well, there were traces of fabric in the earth samples we sent along and they’ll let us know if they can make any definite pronouncements on the buttons, bits of metal and so on we picked up. They reckon the body was fully clothed and wrapped up in something, a blanket or a piece of curtaining. But they’re still working on it.’
Dalziel poured himself a cup of coffee and stirred in two large spoonfuls of sugar.
‘The first thing then is for you to go and see that dentist. It’s a long chance, but at the least it will eliminate Mrs Farish. And then …’
‘Then?’
‘Then we’ll have to visit every dentist and doctor in the area. And eventually between here and Central Europe if necessary. Unless we get something else. Well, you might as well be off. You won’t want to finish that, will you? It’s cold.’
‘I thought it was a bit off as well. Didn’t you?’ was the best Pascoe could do as he pushed back his chair.
Dalziel merely grinned, then grimaced as he took a mouthful of hot coffee.
‘Shall I make you an appointment while I’m there?’ asked Pascoe, and closed the door without waiting for a reply.
The dentist’s name was Roberts. He was a round-shouldered gangling man with a small head and a hooked nose. Spider-like, was the thought which came into Pascoe’s mind. He shouldn’t have cared to be loomed over professionally by this sinister figure.
Roberts was not happy at being removed from in front of his television set. It was a song-and-dance show. Perhaps it was close-ups of the singers’ mouths he found so interesting, thought Pascoe, his stomach moving uneasily as the smell of the surgery caught at his imagination.
Roberts had been warned on the telephone that there might be an interest in Mrs Farish’s dental record.
‘You’re lucky,’ he said in a high-pitched voice. ‘I can’t keep things for ever. It would have gone soon. It took me forty-odd minutes to find it as it was. And I don’t need to look at it again to tell you it’s nothing like this.’
He waved the piece of paper on which Pascoe had copied down the relevant details from the lab-report.
‘Really, sir? Why?’
‘Well; those gold fillings. Now this one, at the front here, that was probably essential, nothing else would do the trick. So you’d get it on the National Health, you see? But these two. Not necessary at all. Someone paid for that work.’
‘And it wasn’t you that did it?’
‘No. Well, as far as I can remember. But I think I would, wouldn’t I?’
‘I’ve no idea, sir. I’d be grateful if you could have your records checked. We’ll be asking everyone.’
‘More work. All right then. I’ll have a look.’
He turned to the door. Pascoe didn’t budge.
‘Now, sir, would be as good a time as any. While we’re here. It’ll save me coming back.’
Roberts was displeased.
‘Look, here! I’ll get my receptionist … this is out of working hours.’
Pascoe felt his own resistance stiffening, which he knew was foolish. He just was not in the mood for the Robertses of the world that night.
‘Hello, Julian, here you are,’ said a voice from the door. ‘I saw a light so I came through. What’s this? An emergency?’
The newcomer was in his forties, a strongly-built distinguished-looking man with an engaging smile.
‘Oh no. It’s nothing. The police. This is my partner, James Jackson. This is …’
‘Sergeant Pascoe, sir. We’re hoping that someone in your way of business will be able to help us by recognizing this set of teeth. Unfortunately it will probably be more than five years ago since they received treatment.’
Roberts seemed to have diminished since the arrival of his partner.
‘James is more the man for you,’ he said irritably. ‘He gets most of our private patients.’
Jackson laughed.
‘You’re too modest, Julian,’ he said. Pascoe doubted it. ‘Let’s have a look.’
He took the description of the dead woman’s jaws from the sergeant’s hands and glanced at it, casually at first, then with growing interest.
‘Now wait a minute,’ he said.
‘You recognize it?’ said Pascoe, hardly daring to hope.
‘It rings a faint bell. The gold work, you see. But it’s absurd … let’s see.’
He glanced rapidly through the drawers of the filing cabinet before him.
‘No, no,’ he said, nonplussed.
‘Perhaps where Mr Roberts got Mrs Farish’s record …’ prompted Pascoe.
Roberts pointed wordlessly to the bottom drawer of an old wooden cabinet shoved almost inaccessibly into a corner. Jackson got down on one knee and began to toss out an assortment of papers with gay abandon.
Suddenly the fountain of stationery ceased.
‘Now wait a minute,’ he said again, this time triumphantly. ‘How about that? The artist always recognizes his own work!’
He held a record card in his hand. As he stood up, his expression turned from triumph to polite bewilderment.
‘Tell me, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Just what is the nature of the enquiry you’re making?’
Pascoe didn’t reply, but almost rudely took the card from the dentist’s hands.
The diagram and its symbols meant little to him. He’d have to take the dentist’s word that it checked with his own written description. And of course it would be double-checked by a police-surgeon.
But the name at the top of the card took him completely by surprise. Expert though he was at keeping a poker-face, the two men facing him would have no difficulty in reading the shock in his eyes.
The middle-aged woman, the vicissitude of whose teeth were recorded on the card in his hands, was Miss Alison Cartwright Girling.
Chapter 6
… sometimes a looker-on may see more than a gamester.
SIR FRANCIS BACON
Op. Cit.
‘You’ll never believe this,’ Pascoe had said.
‘I’ll believe anything,’ Dalziel had answered. ‘But let’s make sure. I don’t trust dentists.’
‘Who then?’
‘Doctors. I trust doctors. And policemen.’
It hadn’t been difficult to find out who Miss Girling’s doctor had been.
Yes, the general description of height and proportions seemed to fit. Yes, Miss Girling had twice broken her left leg while ski-ing. She was an enthusiastic ski-er, went to Austria every Christmas.
And yes, he knew about the wig. It wasn’t merely vanity. In one of her ski-ing accidents, she had hit her head against a tree and torn part of the scalp away. The result had been a scar and a small bald patch. Hence the wig.
‘Now we can ask the question,’ said Dalziel. It was nearly 10 P.M. He was sitting at Landor’s desk. In his hands was the commemorative plaque removed from the base of the statue.
‘And the question is, what is Miss Girling doing here, under her own memorial, when best report places her firmly in some Austrian cemetery?’
‘That’s a good question,’ said Pascoe. ‘Mind you, it did strike me as odd that she should have been left over there in the first place. Why not bring her body back to be buried in the land of her fathers with all due military and civic honours?’
‘Expensive.’
‘She can’t have been short of a bob or two, a single woman with a job like this. Someone must have got it.’
‘What do you know about the way she died?’ asked Dalziel. ‘Or was supposed to have died?’
‘Nothing. I just assumed she’d run into a tree or over a cliff or something. If I’d known she’d had two broken legs and a stripped scalp, it wouldn’t even have surprised me. It’s not possible, I suppose, that she could have cracked her head in the accident and some nut had her corpse brought home and secretly buried here?’
‘It’s bloody unlikely,’ said Dalziel. ‘Listen, we can’t sleep on this. Someone must know. There must be a doctor’s report. A death certificate. Something. I know. That woman, the senior thing.’
‘Miss Scotby?’
‘That’s right. She was a great mate, wasn’t she? Get her over here.’
‘I thought it was Miss Disney who claimed to be the bosom friend, sir?’
Dalziel groaned.
‘I couldn’t bear them both at once. Scotby preferably, but Disney if you must.’
There was a list of staff numbers beside the internal phone. Neither Miss Scotby nor Miss Disney answered.
‘They keep later hours than I’d have thought,’ said Pascoe.
‘Or else they’re in bed. Look, scout around see if you can dig up either of them. I’ve got some phoning to do.’
Pascoe left, not certain where he was going. The building they were in seemed completely deserted. Outside, his gaze was immediately attracted to a row of brightly lit windows in one of the new buildings. The curtains were only partly drawn and inside he could see what looked like a colourfully decorated lounge bar.
Ellie! The memory of their appointment for a drink after dinner rushed back into his mind. Their first encounter had not gone particularly well. This could kill it dead, he thought as he pushed open the door.
He was certain she would have left long before. Five minutes had always been her limit even in the days of their closest relationship.
But she was still there. His mind had become used even in their short previous meeting to the changes half a dozen years can make; and now, comparisons over, he was suddenly reminded of how attractive she was. She looked up and smiled. For a moment Pascoe thought she had seen him, then he saw a tall, slim young man moving from the bar clutching a couple of glasses before him.
He would have retreated at this point, not wanting to compound unpunctuality with unwanted interruption, but Eleanor glanced his way and he was forced to go on, though the smile had faded and the line of her jaw became set in an aggression as memory-stimulating as her beauty.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘There was work to be done.’
‘A bore,’ sympathized the young man putting a gin in front of Ellie. He looked with interest at Pascoe.
‘I’m Halfdane,’ he said. ‘Arthur Halfdane.’
‘This is Sergeant Pascoe. I was telling you about him,’ said Ellie, making it sound unpleasant.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ asked Halfdane.
‘No, thanks,’ said Pascoe.
‘Duty,’ murmured Ellie. ‘Like on the telly.’
‘It’s quiet in here,’ said Pascoe, attempting the light touch. ‘I expected wild revelry.’
‘It usually is pretty quiet mid-week. But even the regulars haven’t turned up tonight. Roote and his mob haven’t been in, have they?’
‘No,’ said Ellie. ‘Not since I arrived and that was a long time ago. Perhaps there’s a party.’
‘Roote?’ said Pascoe.
‘Franny Roote, the student president. A man of power.’
‘Oh. One of those.’
Ellie and Halfdane exchanged glances.
‘Better clap him in irons before he demonstrates against you,’ said Ellie.
Pascoe shrugged. He reckoned he’d just about compensated for being late.
‘I must be off,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for Miss Scotby and/or Miss Disney. Do you know where I’ll find them?’
‘Next block,’ said Halfdane cordially. ‘First left through the main door. There’s a Christian Union meeting. They’re having a drive. It’s Find-a-Faith week. I believe Walt does a nice line in turning water into Nescafé. It should be over just now. You’re not going to arrest one of them, are you?’
Halfdane spoke lightly, friendlily, his attitude conciliatory. Even Ellie looked interested. Pascoe toyed with the idea of telling them what had happened. Why not? Everyone would know soon enough.
But why should he have to use tid-bits of professional information to attract friendship? No one else did.
The door burst open and a small knot of students entered.
‘You’d better hurry,’ said Halfdane. ‘That’s half the congregation.’
‘Thanks,’ said Pascoe. ‘I’ll see you again. Sorry about being late.’
The Misses Scotby and Disney proved difficult to prise apart. He made the mistake of approaching Disney first, who claimed to be irretrievably committed to an important discussion with two students who looked desperate for escape. Scotby then came into view, so Pascoe quickly switched the attack. The senior tutor said yes, she would be pleased to spare the superintendent a few minutes of her time, upon which Disney cut herself off in the middle of a reminiscence of her last tour of the Holy Land and joined the party before they had gone three paces.
So Pascoe, poker-faced, ushered them in together; Dalziel to his credit took it in his stride. He came from behind the desk to greet them like a headmaster welcoming important mothers.
All rubbery smiles like the Michelin-tyre man, thought Pascoe.
But once they were all seated, he put on his bad-news face.
‘Now, Miss Scotby, and you too, Miss Disney, I would like to ask you one or two questions whose relevance may not at first be apparent to you.’
He’s been rehearsing, thought Pascoe.
‘I would be grateful if you would just answer the questions, painful though this may be, without requiring from me any further information to start with.’
That’s a bit tortuous, thought Pascoe. Get on with it!
‘Please go ahead, Superintendent,’ said Miss Scotby in her precise tones. Miss Disney said nothing.
‘The questions concern Miss Girling, your late principal. Now, I believe she died in Austria, some five years ago.’
‘Five years last Christmas,’ said Miss Scotby.
‘In a ski-ing accident?’ asked Dalziel.
‘Not exactly,’ said Miss Scotby.
‘Asshaschlange.’ The strange outburst came from Miss Disney. The wisp of lace had appeared again and she was having difficulty with her articulation.
‘Sorry?’ said Dalziel.
‘An avalanche,’ she snapped quite clearly. She essayed another sob, Miss Scotby opened her mouth as though to speak, the sob was contained and she went on. ‘Don’t you recall that dreadful avalanche near Osterwald which swept the hotel coach off the road and over the mountainside? She, Alison … Miss Girling … was in it.’
‘How dreadful,’ breathed Dalziel with a light in his eyes which belied the statement. ‘And her body, if you’ll forgive the expression, where …?’
‘They never found it,’ said Miss Scotby. ‘There were half a dozen who were not recovered. It was a terrible business.’
‘There was a service, Superintendent. On the mountainside. It was most moving,’ interrupted Miss Disney. ‘And quite in order. That was later, of course, much later.’
‘You were present?’
‘Of course.’ The Disney bosom swelled. ‘Where else should I be? I was dear Al’s oldest friend, after all.’
Miss Scotby said nothing but shifted her feet in a minutely, eloquent gesture.
‘If they never found Miss Girling’s body,’ said Pascoe, ‘and all the passengers were killed, how were they certain she was on the coach?’
Miss Disney glanced at him coldly but did not deign to answer a subordinate. Miss Scotby had no such qualms.
‘Remember it wasn’t just a coach, any coach. It belonged to the Gasthof where Miss Girling stayed every year. They were expecting her that night. She was probably a little delayed by the fog …’
‘Fog? Which fog?’ asked Dalziel.
‘Well, it was very foggy that December, I remember. There were lots of delays. I remember watching on my television and hoping the principal had got off all right. I’ve often thought that if it hadn’t been for the fog, the coach would probably have picked her up earlier. And she would not have travelled along the road at just that fateful time.’
‘I see. And the coach …?’
‘It was split in half, I believe, before being swept over the edge into a ravine. It was one of those terrible curving roads with a precipice on one side and a cliff-face on the other. The part of the coach with the luggage boot in it was recovered almost intact. Miss Girling’s luggage was there.’
She became silent. Pascoe felt that the memory gave her real pain.
Dalziel having got what he wanted was now keen to get rid of the women.
‘Thank you, ladies,’ he said, now a jovial innkeeper at closing-time. ‘You’ve been most helpful. I’ll keep you no longer.’
The suddenness of the onslaught had them both nearly through the door before Disney dug her heels in.
‘Superintendent! My outcry this morning (was it only this morning!) when those awful … remains were found. You cannot be taking it seriously! I was distraught. You are wasting your time. You …’
Words failed her, but Miss Scotby took up the burden.
‘Do you really believe it might have been Miss Girling, beneath her statue, I mean?’
Dalziel nearly had them over the threshold now. He thrust his great face at them.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes. I really do.’
They took a step back and he closed the door.
‘Well,’ he said rubbing his hands. ‘That’s better. So far, so good. It’s all possible. Now we can sleep. Tomorrow we’ll set about finding out when. Did she get to Austria and come back to be killed? Or perhaps she never got to Austria at all! But she’s kept five years. She’ll keep another day. Not a bad night’s work, this. A bit of luck’s always handy, isn’t it, Sergeant? Wouldn’t you say this has been our lucky night?’
But Pascoe was not at all certain that he fully agreed.
It had certainly been Harold Lapping’s lucky night.
Harold was over seventy, but still in possession of all his faculties. He had served his country with common sense if not distinction in two world wars. He had loved and outlived two wives, and on certain great family festivals he could look with pride on more than twenty legitimate descendants.
Now in retirement he was a man respected near and far, a church-warden, a pillar of strength in the bowling club, the oldest playing member of the golf club though his handicap had slipped to 12, and an enthusiastic ornithologist.
He was also a voyeur.
It started by accident one spring night as he lay silently in the tough sea-grass above the beach vainly watching through his night-glasses (a memento of one of the wars, he forgot which) a weaving of grass which he had optimistically decided was a dunlin’s nest. If it was, the dunlin was obviously spending the night elsewhere. Bored, Harold moved his glasses slowly along an arc, some thirty or forty yards ahead. And found himself peering into a fascinating tangle of arms and legs. It seemed incredible that only two people could be involved. Harold had no desire to disturb the happy pair, so he waited until their demeanour seemed to indicate they were completely oblivious to anything outside themselves before departing. But while waiting he saw no harm at all in continuing to view with expert approval the techniques on display.
Thereafter whenever his evening’s ornithological research was finished, Harold always cast around with his glasses for a few moments before heading for home.
Tonight was different. It was far too late for any self-respecting birds to be on show. Harold was on his way home after a couple of pints of mild ale followed by two or three bottles of Guinness and the remnants of a cold pie at a friend’s house. It was close on midnight, but the sun’s light was not long out of the perfectly clear sky. He had turned off the road and cut across the golf course to the sea, more to prolong than shorten his journey home. The tide was half-way in, still a long way to go, and the surface of the sea was like cellophane, perfectly still. He could not recall a night so calm.
Then his sharp old eyes caught a flicker of movement among the dunes a furlong ahead.
Without thinking he halted and raised his glasses, without whose weight around his neck he would have felt only half-dressed.
What he saw sent him scrambling up a heathery bank to his right to gain a better vantage point. Then his glasses were up again, swinging wildly round in his incredulity.
In a hollow in the dunes ahead there were about twenty naked men and women dancing. At least that was the only name he could give to it. They were roughly in a circle, moving clockwise; generally in pairs, some facing each other, gripping each other’s arms, sinking to the ground together and leaping up again, their heads flung backwards, shaking in apparent frenzy. Others, arms linked behind, danced back to back, spinning round and round with increasing violence.
He could only see two-thirds of the circle because of the fold of the ground, and even with the clearness of the night and the help of his glasses, detail was not all that clear. But it was obvious that all the men were in a state of great sexual excitement.
A girl appeared alone in the centre of the circle. She seemed to be facing something he could not see because it was on the nearer side of the hollow. She knelt down, her arms flung wide, just in his view. Something advanced towards her from the side of the hollow, blocking her from Harold’s view. Something difficult to make out, dark and shadowy, a strange animal-like silhouette, like the head of a bull.
The dancing reached a new pitch of frenzy, the couples leaping high and shaking their bodies at each other with a wild abandon. Finally one pair collapsed in a tight embrace to the ground, another followed, then another, till in a few moments all lay there together, and a new dance began.
But this had no chance to reach any conclusions. Something happened, Harold couldn’t tell what. But a man leapt up suddenly and looked around. He obviously said something to the others, seemed to shout it in fact, but the distance was too great for Harold to hear.
Then they were all up on their feet and moving again. Not now in the convulsive provocative gyrations of sexual frenzy, but the uncertain changes of direction of fear and panic.
The man who was first to his feet disappeared at a run out of the hollow towards the sea. Instantly the rest scattered and in seconds, as far as Harold could see, the hollow was empty. He followed one or two of the naked figures with his glasses for a few moments, but soon they had all passed completely from view.
Still he swung his glasses to right and left hoping for a brief encore. A movement to the landward side caught his attention. He stopped and focused, but immediately snorted in disappointment. It was a figure all right, but obviously fully clothed. For a moment it stood silhouetted against the night sky, just a bulky shape topped absurdly by a pork pie hat. Then it moved forward down into a hollow among the dunes.