Hanging Valley ib-4

by Peter Robinson

  ‘Anyway,’ Stephen went on, taking a biscuit, ‘I might not be around here for much longer.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve had enough of it, Katie. The plant, the house, the village. Lord, I’m nearly thirty. It’s about time I got out and about, saw a bit of the world before I get too old.’

  ‘B-but you can’t,’ Katie said, shocked. ‘Surely you can’t just up and go like that? What about-’

  Stephen slapped the table. ‘Oh, responsibilities be hanged,’ he said. ‘There’s plenty of others willing and able to run Collier Foods. I’ll take a long holiday, then maybe try something else.’

  ‘Why are you telling me all this?’ Katie asked.

  Stephen looked at her, and she noticed that he suddenly looked old, much older than his twenty-eight years.

  He ran his hand through his short brown hair. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I told you, we’re kindred spirits.

  You’re the only person I’ve told. There’s nobody else, really.’

  ‘But your brother…’

  ‘Nicky? He wouldn’t understand. He’s too wrapped up in his own world. And don’t think I haven’t noticed the way he looks at you, Katie, even if Sam hasn’t. I’d stay away from him if I were you.’

  ‘Of course I will,’ Katie said, blushing. ‘Why shouldn’t I?’

  ‘Oh, he can be very persuasive, Nicky can.’

  ‘What about John?’ Katie asked. ‘Or Sam? Can’t you talk to them?’

  Stephen laughed. ‘Look, Katie,’ he said, ‘Nicky, Sam and the rest, they’re all good drinking friends, but there are things I can’t talk to them about.’

  ‘But why me?’

  ‘Because I think it’s the same for you. I think you’re unhappy with your life and you’ve nobody to talk to about it. Why are you so afraid of talking to me? You’ve got all your problems bottled up inside you.

  Don’t you like me?’

  Katie traced rings on the table with her forefinger. ‘It’s not that,’ she said. ‘I’m fine, really I am.’

  Stephen leaned forward. ‘Why don’t you open up, show some feeling?’ he urged her.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Not for me.’

  ‘It’s not right.’

  ‘Oh, Katie, you’re such a moralist.’ Stephen stood up to leave. ‘Would that I had your moral fibre. No, it’s all right, there’s no need to show me out.’

  Katie wanted to call after him, but she couldn’t. Deep inside, she felt a thick darkness swirling and building in power, trying to force its way out. But it was evil and she had to keep it locked in. She had to accept her lot, her place in life. She was Sam’s wife. That was her duty. There was no point talking about problems. What could she say to Stephen Collier? Or he to her? Why had he come? What did he want from her? ‘The thing that all men want,’ said a strong harsh voice inside her. ‘The same thing his brother wants. Don’t be fooled by talk of companionship. Satan has a sweet tongue.’

  ‘But he was reaching out to you,’ another, quieter voice said, ‘reaching out in friendship, and you turned him away.’

  Katie’s chest tightened and her hands shook as she tried to bring the teacup to her mouth. ‘I’m lost,’ she thought. ‘I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what’s right any more. Help me, someone, please help me!’ And the cup rolled to the floor and smashed as Katie laid her head on the table and wept.

  4

  ONE

  Two days later, on 31 May, forensic information started trickling in. During that time, Richmond and Hatchley had tracked down all but two wandering Canadians who had left local hotels or guest houses between ten and thirteen days ago.

  Events were moving too slowly for Banks. Most leads appear during the first twenty-four hours after a murder has taken place, but this body was about two hundred and forty hours old by the time it was found.

  Still they had very little to go on.

  Therefore, when the first report from the forensic lab landed on his desk at ten thirty that morning, Banks drank in the information like a man stranded in a desert without water for three days.

  Dr Glendenning had established that death was due to a stab wound from a single-edged blade, probably a sheath knife about six inches long. One upward thrust had penetrated the heart from beneath the ribs. After that, the face had been slashed and then beaten with a rock until it was unrecognizable. The victim was white, in his early thirties, five feet eleven inches tall, ten and a half stone in weight, and in good physical condition. That last part always irritated Banks: how could a corpse ever be in good physical condition?

  This one, certainly, had been about as far from it as one could get.

  Vic Manson had finally managed, through peeling the skin off and treating it with glycerine, to get three clear prints. He had already checked these against the Police National Computer and discovered that they weren’t on record. So far no good, Banks thought. The forensic odontologist, a note said, was still working on his reconstruction of the dental chart.

  Calling for Sergeant Hatchley on his way out, Banks decided it was time for a discussion over elevenses in the Golden Grill. The two men weaved their way through the local shoppers and parties of tourists that straggled along both pavements and the narrow street, and found a table near the window. Banks gave the order for coffee and toasted teacakes to Peggy, a plump girl with a bright smile, and looked across at the whitewashed front of the police station with its black timber beams. Black and white, he thought. If only life was as simple as that.

  As they drank their coffee, Banks and Hatchley tried to add up what they had got so far. It wasn’t much: a ten-day-old corpse of a white male, probably Canadian, found stabbed in an isolated hanging valley. At least cause of death had been established, and the coroner’s inquest would order a thorough investigation.

  ‘Perhaps he wasn’t travelling alone,’ Banks said. ‘Maybe he was with someone who killed him. That would explain the need to disfigure him - to give the killer plenty of time to get back home.’

  ‘If that’s the case,’ Hatchley said, ‘it’ll be for the Canadian police to handle, won’t it?’

  ‘The murder happened on our turf. It’s still our problem till the man at the top says different.’

  ‘Maybe he stumbled into a coven of witches,’ Hatchley suggested.

  Banks laughed. ‘They’re mostly bored accountants and housewives in it for the orgies. I doubt they’d go as far as to kill someone who walked in on them. And Glendenning didn’t mention anything about ritual slaughter. How’s the search for the elusive Canadians going?’

  Hatchley reached slyly for another cigarette to prolong the break. ‘I’m beginning to feel like that bloke who had to roll a rock up a hill over and over again.’

  ‘Sisyphus? Sometimes I feel more like the poor sod who had his liver pecked out day after day.’

  Hatchley lit his cigarette.

  ‘Come on then,’ Banks said, standing up to leave. ‘Better get back.’

  Hatchley cursed under his breath and followed Banks across the street.

  ‘Chief Inspector Banks!’ Sergeant Rowe called out as they passed the front desk. ‘Telephone message.

  You’re to call a Dr Passmore at the lab. He’s the odonto… the odotol… Oh, the bloody tooth fairy, or whatever they call themselves.’

  Banks smiled and thanked him. Back in his office, he picked up the phone and dialled.

  ‘Ah, Chief Inspector Banks,’ said Passmore. ‘We’ve never met, but Dr Glendenning brought me in on this one. Interesting.’

  ‘You’ve got something for us?’ Banks asked eagerly.

  ‘It’s a bit complicated. Would it be a great inconvenience for you to drop into the lab?’

  ‘No, not at all.’ Banks looked at his watch. ‘If I leave now I can be there in about an hour. Can you give me some idea over the phone?’

  ‘I think we’ll be able to trace the identity of your corpse before too long, if I’m not mistaken. I don’t think his d
entist is too far away.’

  ‘With all due respect, I don’t see how that can be, Doctor. We’re pretty sure he was a Canadian.’

  ‘That’s as may be,’ Passmore replied. ‘But his dental work’s as English as yours or mine.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  Still puzzled, Banks slipped a cassette into the machine and eased the Cortina out of the car park at the back of the station. At least something was happening. He drove slowly, dodging the tourists and shoppers who seemed to think Market Street was for pedestrians only. The breathy opening of Donovan’s ‘Hurdy Gurdy Man’ started on the tape.

  He passed the new estate under construction on the town’s southern edge, then he put his foot down once he got out of the built-up area. Leaving the Dales for the plain, he drove through a patchwork landscape of green pasture and fields of bright yellow rape, divided by hawthorn hedgerows. Bluebells and buttercups, about the only wild flowers Banks could put a name to, were in bloom among the long grass by the roadside. A frightened white-throat darted out in front of the car and almost ended up, like so many unfortunate rabbits and hedgehogs, splattered all over the tarmac.

  The forensic lab was a square three-storey red-brick building just north of Wetherby. Banks identified himself at reception and climbed up to Passmore’s second-floor office.

  Dr Passmore gave new meaning to the term ‘egghead’. The Lilliputians and the Blefuscudians could have had a fine war indeed over which end to open his egg-shaped skull. His bare shiny dome, combined with circumflex eyebrows, a putty nose and a tiny rosebud of a mouth, made him look more like an android than a human being. His mouth was so small that Banks wondered how there could be room for teeth in it.

  Perhaps he had chosen his profession out of tooth-envy.

  Banks sat down as directed. The office was cluttered with professional journals and its one glassed-in bookcase was full to overflowing. The filing cabinets also bulged too much to close properly. On Passmore’s desk, among the papers and pencil stubs, stood a toothless skull and several sets of dentures.

  ‘Glad you could make it, Chief Inspector,’ Passmore said, his voice surprisingly rich and deep coming from such a tiny mouth. ‘I’m sorry to drag you all the way down here, but it might save time in the long run, and I think you’ll find it worth the journey.’

  Banks nodded and crossed his legs. He looked around for an ashtray, but couldn’t see one; nor could he smell any traces of smoke when he surreptitiously sniffed the air. Bloody hell, another non-smoker, he cursed to himself.

  ‘The victim’s teeth were very badly damaged,’ Passmore went on. ‘Dr Glendenning said that he was hit about the face with a rock of some kind, and I concur.’

  ‘He was found close to a stream,’ Banks said. ‘There were plenty of rocks in the area.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Passmore nodded sagely and made a steeple of his fingers on the desk. ‘Anyway, I’ve managed to make a rudimentary reconstruction for you.’ He pushed a brown envelope towards Banks. ‘Not that it’ll do you much good. You can hardly have every dentist in the country check this against every chart he or she has, can you?’

  Banks was beginning to wonder why he’d come when Passmore stood up with surprising energy and walked over to a cabinet by the door. ‘But,’ he said, pausing dramatically to remove something and bring it back to the table, ‘I think I might be able to help you with that.’ And he dropped what looked like a fragment of tooth and pink plastic on the desk in front of Banks. ‘A denture,’ he announced. ‘Upper right bicuspid, to be exact.’

  Banks stared at the object. ‘You got this from the body?’

  Passmore nodded. ‘It was badly shattered, of course, but I’ve managed to reassemble most of it. Rather like putting together a broken teacup, really.’

  ‘How does this help us?’

  ‘Well, in the first place,’ Passmore said, ‘it tells us that the deceased was more likely to be British than Canadian.’

  ‘How?’

  Passmore frowned, as if Banks was being purposely obtuse. ‘Contrary to what some people believe,’ he began, ‘British dentists aren’t very far behind their North American cousins. Oh, they might instigate new procedures over there before we do, but that’s mostly because they have more money. Dentistry’s private over there, you know, and it can be very expensive for the patient. But there are differences. Now, if your victim had come from Russia, for example, I could have told you immediately. They use stainless steel for fillings there. But in this case, it’s merely an educated guess, or would be if it weren’t for something else, which I’ll get to in a moment.’

  Come on, Banks thought, fidgeting with the cigarette packet in his jacket pocket, get to the bloody point.

  Putting up with rambling explanations - full of pauses for dramatic effect - seemed to be the price he so often had to pay for information from specialists like Passmore.

  ‘The mere fact that your corpse has denture work leads me to conclude that he’s European rather than North American,’ the doctor continued. ‘The Americans go in for saving teeth rather than replacing them.

  In fact, they hardly do denture work at all.’

  ‘Very impressive,’ Banks said. ‘You mentioned something else - something important.’

  Passmore nodded. ‘This,’ he went on, holding up the false tooth, ‘is no ordinary denture. Well, it is, but there’s one big difference. This is a coded denture.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A number of dentists and technicians have taken to signing their work, so to speak, like painters and sculptors. Look here.’

  Passmore prodded the denture with a pointed dental instrument, the one that always gave Banks the willies when he was in the chair. He looked closely at the pink plastic and saw a number of dark letters, which he couldn’t quite make out.

  ‘The code,’ Passmore said. ‘It’s formed by typing the letters in a small print face on a piece of nylon, which you put between the mould and the plastic. During the manufacturing process, the nylon becomes incorporated into the denture and the numbers are clearly visible, as you can see.’

  ‘Why do they go to such trouble?’ Banks asked.

  Passmore shrugged. ‘For identification purposes in case of loss, or fire.’

  ‘And what does the code tell us?’

  Passmore puckered his mouth into a self-satisfied smile. ‘Everything we need to know, Chief Inspector.

  Everything we need to know. Have a closer look.’

  Banks used a pair of tweezers to pick up the denture and looked at the code: 5493BKJLS.

  ‘The last two letters give us the city code, the ones before that are the dentist’s initials, and the rest is for identification of the owner.’

  ‘Amazing.’ Banks put the false tooth down. ‘So this will lead us to the identity of the victim?’

  ‘Eventually. First, it’ll lead us to his dentist.’

  ‘How can I find out?’

  ‘You’d consult the directory in the library. But, luckily, I have a copy here and I’ve done it for you.’

  ‘And?’

  Passmore smiled smugly again and held up a school-teacherly finger. ‘Patience, Chief Inspector Banks, patience. First, the city. Do you recognize that postcode?’

  ‘Yes. LS is Leeds.’

  ‘Right. So the first thing we discover is that our man’s dentist practises in Leeds. Next we look up the initials: BKJ. I found two possibilities there: Brian K. Jarrett and B. K. James.’

  ‘We’ll have to check them both,’ Banks said. ‘Can I use your phone?’

  Passmore rubbed his upper lip. ‘I, er, I already took the liberty. B. K. James doesn’t do denture codes, according to his assistant, so I called Brian K. Jarrett.’

  ‘And?’

  Passmore grinned. ‘The patient’s name is Bernard Allen.’

  ‘Certain?’

  ‘He’s the one who was fitted with the denture. It was about four years ago. I’ll be sending down the charts for official confirmation,
of course, but from what we were able to compare over the phone, I’d say you can be certain, yes.’

  ‘Did you get an address?’

  Passmore shook his head. ‘Apparently Allen didn’t live in Leeds. Mr Jarrett did give me the sister’s address, though. Her name’s Esther Haines. Is that of any use?’

  ‘It certainly is.’ Banks made a note of the first real lead so far. ‘You’ve done a great job, Dr Passmore.’ He stood up and shook hands.

  Passmore inclined his head modestly. ‘If ever you need my help again…’

  TWO

  Katie walked down to the shops in Lower Head later than usual that day. There was no road on her side of the beck, just a narrow path between the houses and the grassy bank. At the junction with the main Helmthorpe road, where the River Swain veered left into the dale proper, a small wooden bridge, painted white, led over to the village green with its trees and benches, and the path continued to the row of shops around the corner from the church.