Reginald Hill

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. Parish’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. ‘ 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. ‘ 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. ‘ 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 Lander’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. ‘ 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. ‘ 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. ‘, 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.