Professor Amos looked down at the skull his hands were caressing. 'Anyway, to continue the lecture, the human skull, gentlemen, is a veritable mine of information to the anthropologist.
‘This chap, for instance, is a Caucasian. You can tell that by the skull's high and wide appearance and by the fact that neither the cheek bones nor the jaw project. The jaw falls behind a vertical line from the forehead.
‘The Negroid skull, by contrast, can be easily recognised by several features: the wide nose opening, the tendency to larger teeth than other races and that the skull tends to be long and narrow with moderately projecting cheek bones.’
‘OK,’ said Rafferty. ‘I understand that – I think. But how do you know he's male if you haven't even got the pelvis to work on?’
Llewellyn answered before the professor could reply. ‘Because the skull itself, just like the pelvis, is also a prime indicator of gender, not just an indicator of racial characteristics. Isn't that so, Professor?’
Much to Rafferty's irritation, Llewellyn received another approving beam. ‘Right again, sergeant. For the gender, we look at three particular points on the skull: the ridges above the eyes; this bone here, below the ear and this one – the occiput – at the lower back of the skull. The last two are what are known as muscle attachment sites and are more prominent in males than in females.’
‘With you so far,’ Rafferty said in an attempt to regain some of the intellectual ground that he had managed to lose to Llewellyn. ‘So how old would he have been, this chap, if he'd lived to see his next birthday?’
The professor laughed. ‘You've got me there, inspector. It's impossible to be precise on age. But this chap is likely to be somewhere around the late teens or early twenties as two of his four wisdom teeth have appeared.’
‘Very impressive. What's his name? Arnold?’
‘I don't know this one's name. Not yet. But that one,’ he nodded towards another reconstruction. ‘He's called Anthony. We had a confirmed ID just before your arrival.’
The face certainly looked incredibly lifelike. Rafferty wasn't surprised that it had gained a confirmed ID. He just hoped they were as lucky with their cadaver.
‘So when will you be able to fit in our chap?’ Rafferty asked.
‘I've almost finished this one. It's the only customer I have at the moment. So if you send your man's skull over this afternoon, I'll make a start.’
‘Not having his identification has delayed things terribly,’ Rafferty began.
‘Don't tell me, inspector: you want a rush job. Right?’
‘You're a mind reader, too?’
‘No. Let's just say the human nature of the average policeman when it comes to wanting things done is much the same as that of every other policeman. I'll be as quick as I can.’
Rafferty thanked Professor Amos for his time, his explanations and his agreement to get the reconstruction done as speedily as possible, then he left, his mobile clutched to his ear as he went, in order to arrange the transport of their Joe Doe's skull from the mortuary to the professor's work room. Now that he had set the reconstruction in motion, he was keen to waste no more time.
Llewellyn, undoubtedly aware that, in showing off his knowledge about the professor's work, he had trodden on one of Rafferty's most sensitive corns, trailed some way behind. But he trailed with the sprightly step that told Rafferty his sergeant had gained some little amusement, in his dry way, for his nicely judged irritation of his superior officer.
Chapter Thirteen
While they waited for Professor Amos to perform his ‘magic’ Rafferty, with Llewellyn in tow, returned to the convent to again question the postulant, Teresa Tattersall, about her past.
Unsurprisingly, as on the earlier occasion that Rafferty had questioned her about it, she showed a marked reluctance to talk about her previous life at all. It was only when Rafferty appealed to Mother Catherine to speak to the young woman in her care that Teresa agreed to open up further.
Rafferty, believing she would speak more easily out in the open and away from the rest of the community, found them a bench well away from the vegetable garden where Sisters Rita and Benedicta were working. Rafferty sat beside her, with Llewellyn propped a few feet away against a tree, so the young woman didn't feel they were crowding her.
‘You know Mother thinks it would help you to talk about your past experiences more fully?’ Rafferty began.
Teresa smoothed her calf-length brown skirt and raised a distressed gaze to Rafferty. ‘I'm not sure Mother is right in this instance. It's a life I want to put behind me.’
‘Understandably.’ Rafferty was surprised that he hadn't previously noted the remains of the ravages left by drug use. He could only suppose he had unconsciously put the hollow-cheeked pallor and the dark-smudged eyes down to a life too devoted to proving her vocation. ‘And you're succeeding in doing that?’
Teresa bit her lip and began to blink rapidly. It was an indication to Rafferty that the young postulant wasn't at all sure that she was succeeding. Certainly, she didn't attempt a reply.
‘It must be hard for you.’
She nodded. ‘Yes. But the sisters are very supportive. And Mother is patient with me. She tells me to take one day at a time and to pray to God for strength. She has been very kind and has even tried to convince me that my sin wasn't so great that it is beyond God's forgiveness.’ A ragged smile appeared and was as quickly gone. ‘Though I'm not sure I agree with her.’
‘You haven't had any contact with your ex-boyfriend since the sisters agreed to take you in?’
‘Contact? With him? No. I haven't had any dealings with him.’
Unfortunate choice of word, was Rafferty's thought. He couldn't help but wonder what sort of ‘dealing’ she might actually be referring to. However, he didn't push it. If they could find her ex-dealer, it would remove him from the list of possible cadaver candidates. Besides, if they managed to trace the scumbag, Rafferty was sure he would find it far more satisfying to direct any questions to him.
‘I'd like you to let us have the name of your ex-dealer, Miss Tattersall,’ he said.
She looked alarmed at this. ‘Why? I'm not looking to have him punished for what he did to me. I was weak and foolish, I admit that, but that is no one's fault but my own.’
‘Maybe so. But you were encouraged in your weak foolishness by this man.’ Only half ironically, he added, ‘Maybe I can succeed in bringing him to the path of enlightenment? Not to mention prevent him leading other young women astray.’
Even the naïve Teresa seemed to find this possibility unlikely for she looked askance at him before she shrugged. ‘Anything is possible, under God's guidance, inspector. I wish you joy in your quest.’ She paused, then reluctantly added: ‘his name was Ray Payne. He always used to spend a lot of time at the Green Man in the High Street. He used it virtually as his office. I think he gave the landlord a percentage to encourage him to turn a blind eye to his drug dealing.’
Rafferty nodded and noted the information for further investigation. He was curious to note that, like Cecile, Teresa had used the past tense in describing her ex-boyfriend. But maybe that was simply because he was part of the past tense of her life rather than his own. The same reasoning could, of course, apply to Cecile also.
Previously, Rafferty had wondered if someone had been making threats against the convent – a property developer perhaps, as the convent was on a prime site, just crying out to be purchased and redeveloped. But he had put aside this possibility when it occurred to him that it would, presumably, be the Bishop of the diocese who would make any decision to sell the property rather than the sisters.
But later that day, they learned that someone had indeed been making threats. Though not against the nuns, which was one of the possible reasons Rafferty had thought the body could have ended up in the convent's grounds.
No, the threats had been made against Dr Peterson. Their reluctant, but voluntary informant had been Dr Peterson's wife.
She had rung the station and asked to speak to Rafferty. Intrigued, he had made an appointment for himself and Llewellyn to go and see her.
Dr and Mrs Peterson lived in a large, detached house in the exclusive residential district on the eastern extremities of Elmhurst. Among the wide and leafy avenues lived some of the more successful of the town's residents. The Oakhill Estate housed doctors like Dr Peterson, barristers like Toby Rufford-Lyle – he of the Made in Heaven investigation and other comfortably off professionals.
Mrs Peterson herself opened the door. She was tall and slim. A nervy slenderness Rafferty thought as he observed the tightly-clenched hands and the anxious way she kept smiling at them once they were all seated in the too-fussy drawing room.
Her smiles were those of a person over anxious to please. From the thin lips that looked more naturally inclined to purse than smile, to the way she kept fiddling with her clothes and hair, to the way she kept fidgeting in her seat, she exuded tension.
‘I hope you didn't mind me contacting you?’ she asked Rafferty.
Even her voice betrayed her anxiety. It was high and breathy, quick, too, as if she was scared that if she didn't get the words out in a rush she wouldn't get them out at all.
‘Indeed not. We're always grateful for assistance from the public.’ Hoping to encourage her, Rafferty said, ‘You mentioned that someone has been making threats against your husband.’
‘Yes. Yes.’ A muscle fluttered high in her cheek. 'Oh, I do hope Stephen isn't going to be annoyed that I called you. He told me to ignore the threats made against him. He said the man would soon tire of making them and stop.'
‘And he hasn't?’ Llewellyn put in.
Mrs Peterson gazed anxiously between the two policeman as if worried they would think her a fool, then she admitted, in another breathy rush, ‘Well, yes. He has stopped, actually. Certainly, Stephen, my husband, has said nothing for some time about receiving more threats. But he could be keeping them from me. He knows how anxious they made me.’
‘What exactly was this man making threats about?’ Rafferty now asked. He had asked the same question when he had spoken to her on the phone, but she had been almost incoherent. He hoped, by now, she had managed to gain some clarity. ‘Was this man a patient of your husband's perhaps? One unhappy with the treatment your husband had given him?’
She shook her head. ‘No. He wasn't a patient. It was nothing like that.’ She began to play with the fussy bow at the neck of her blouse, winding the dangling string round and round her finger. ‘Oh,’ she exclaimed. ‘This is very difficult. I'm beginning to think I shouldn't have rung you. Stephen told me not to. He said it might get him into trouble. But really, it was all so long ago and–’
‘This man,’ Rafferty interrupted, afraid that unless stopped, Mrs Peterson would continue in this far from enlightening manner for the rest of the day. ‘Who was he, if he wasn't a patient? Do you know?’
‘I don't know his name. All I know is that he had some grievance with Stephen about his mother's death. Apparently, she died of some pregnancy complication. I don't know the details. But he seemed to blame Stephen.’
‘Do you know when this man's mother died?’ Rafferty asked. ‘Was it recently? And what else can you tell us about him? For instance, did he ever turn up at your home to issue his threats? Or were they all made by telephone and letter? Did you see him? Could you describe him?’
‘My goodness. What a lot of questions.’
Rafferty realised he had flustered her and he cursed himself for his clumsiness. Now, slowly, he repeated his questions one at a time, not moving on to the next till he had received an answer to the previous one.
Bit by bit, slowly, tortuously, they got the story from her. The mother of the man who had made the threats against Dr Peterson had died back in the early sixties. Mrs Peterson wasn't very clear what exactly had caused the woman's death apart from the already given explanation of 'pregnancy complications'. She confirmed that this man had turned up at their home several times, the last appearance being more than two months earlier.
Rafferty and Llewellyn exchanged discreet glances as the significance of the timescale hit them. Because the cadaver in its shallow grave had been dead for around that length of time. He wondered why Mrs Peterson had waited till now to confide in them and when he asked her, she simply said that the man's silence had worried her more than his threats. She had become scared he might have been plotting something.
Mrs Peterson told them that the man issuing the threats had looked to be somewhere in his forties. ‘He was well-built and strong-looking. He seemed wild if not a little mad,’ she confided. ‘He frightened me. I was scared he might turn up here when I was on my own and break in.’
‘Understandably.’ Her description told them this man shared several traits with their still unidentified cadaver. ‘But your husband refused to allow you to contact us?’
'Yes. Stephen just said he was a sad creature who, to judge from his eyes and general demeanour, was on drugs and was to be pitied rather than reported to the police. He said the man needed help, not harassment.'
By now, overcome with her daring in defying her husband, Mrs Peterson looked ready to burst into tears.
‘You did right to tell us all this, Mrs Peterson,’ Rafferty said quickly, in at attempt to avert the latter. ‘I'm sure your husband will understand why you felt you had to contact us. Any threat should be taken seriously.’
She gave them another of her tremulous smiles. ‘Thank you, inspector. That's exactly what I thought. Exactly what I told Stephen.’ She sighed, pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. ‘I just wish he would listen to me sometimes, that's all.’
‘Poor lady,’ was Llewellyn's comment fifteen minutes later, after they had finally managed to extricate themselves from Mrs Peterson's clingy desire for further reassurance. ‘She really doesn't seem to have grasped that we're investigating the murder of a middle-aged man. Or that the death could involve her husband. No wonder he tried to forbid her to speak to us about it. We'll have to question him again, of course.’
‘Nothing more certain,’ Rafferty agreed. ‘Let's just hope, for her sake and her husband's, that this man is still alive and well and just got bored with making his threats.’
They found Dr Peterson in his Orchard Road surgery where they had previously spoken to him.
As on the last occasion, he didn't look pleased to see them. Though when Rafferty explained the reason for their visit, he seemed more exasperated than worried.
‘My wife is of a nervous disposition, inspector,’ he unnecessarily explained. ‘I'm sorry she's troubled you over such a trivial matter. The man issuing the threats against me finally listened to reason and understood when I explained the circumstances of his mother's death to him: that I had tried to save her life, even if it was to no avail. The blood poisoning had too strong a grip by the time she was brought to the hospital. I couldn't save her.’
‘What was she?’ Rafferty asked. ‘Another victim of a backstreet abortionist?’
Dr Peterson just nodded.
'I'd like this man's name, please Doctor. His address, too, if you have it. I'd also like to know why, when we spoke to you before, you told us that no one with any connection to the sixties, when you performed your illegal abortions, had contacted you.'
‘His name's Barry Anders. I don't know where he lives. He never told me. Though I suspect he may be living rough or in a squat somewhere in the town. As to why I chose to conceal the fact of this man's existence and the threats he made against me–’
The doctor shrugged. ‘I suppose I just thought telling you about him wouldn't help and might even delay your investigation. I knew the dead man wasn't Anders, it seemed a needless complication, easier just to keep quiet.’
‘Not so easy now that we've found out about him and that you lied to us, doctor. You must appreciate how bad it looks.’
Dr Peterson shrugged again, but made no further attempt to defend his
deceit.
‘Your wife said he looked to be in his forties,’ Rafferty continued. ‘Would you agree with that?’
‘Something like that, I imagine. Though if, as I said, he was living rough, the life might well have made him look older than he was. I have reason to believe he was a drug-taker, too.’
‘So, what did he look like this man? Can you describe him?’ It would be interesting, Rafferty thought, if the doctor attempted to give them a different description to the one already supplied by his wife. However, he wasn't so foolish as to compound his errors.
‘He was tallish. He looked surprisingly well-built for a drug-taker, most of whom seem to eat little, but I wonder now whether that was more down to all the layers of clothes he wore rather than to his having well-fleshed bones. He had a scrabby beard and unkempt hair, much as you'd expect.’
‘Your wife also said he turned up at your home several times, making his threats. That must have been unpleasant. Your wife certainly found it so.’
‘I told you. My wife is highly-strung. Naturally, she became upset out of all proportion. I didn't feel the man was any real threat. I told her I'd sort it out and deal with him.’
‘And did he, I wonder?’ Rafferty commented as, five minutes later, he and Llewellyn returned to the car and drove back through the pleasant, leafy avenues to the far from leafy environs of Elmhurst's police station. 'Better get a few bodies out to check the doss houses, street sleepers and known squats, Daff and see if we can find this Barry Anders. If he still exists at all, that is, and wasn't dealt with by the good doctor and buried before his threatening behaviour could escalate and cause Dr Peterson problems he would rather have avoided.'
But, fortunately for the doctor, Barry Anders, the man who had issued threats against Dr Peterson, was quickly traced through the Department of Work and Pensions. Social Services had, in the interim, found him a bed-sit and promised to get him on a drug rehabilitation programme as soon as a place became available.
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