‘First thing is, we need to know who the bugger was!’ said Meirion Thomas in his forthright manner. ‘No fingerprints, as he had no fingers left. All we’ve got so far is a flaming tattoo!’
‘What’s this Batman business?’ demanded the DCC, who was hardly up to date with modern trends.
‘Apparently he’s a character in Yankee comics and films, sir,’ said Gwyn Parry.
‘At least it can give us an earliest date for this chap,’ declared Richard. ‘Though how you discover when the Batman character was first published, I’ve no idea.’
Their earlier doubts of the sex of the body had been solved by the pathologist’s brief study of the pelvic bones, which were largely exposed in the collapsing corpse. The front of the cadaver was in a far worse state than the back, with hardly any skin left and all the organs degenerated, including the genitals. With no head, sexing it was down to an interpretation of the bones, but both Richard and Priscilla were in no doubt of its maleness — added to which was the fact that women rarely went in for tattoos.
‘Have we any idea of his height, doctor?’ asked the detective inspector.
‘Looks about average from his bones, but Doctor Chambers here is the real expert. No doubt she’ll need to take some accurate measurements of the leg bones when we get back to base.’ Privately, he knew he could have done it equally well himself, but he wanted to give Priscilla as big a role as possible.
Superintendent David Jones looked quizzically at his two CID staff.
‘Any outstanding missing persons in the last few years?’ he demanded.
‘Problem is, sir, we don’t know how many years are involved,’ replied Meirion. ‘No one comes to mind from this part of the county, but I’ll have to go through the records.’
‘And you can’t even hazard a guess as to the time this fellow died, doctor?’ persisted the deputy chief.
Richard shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t want to mislead you by picking a figure out of the air. I’m sure he’s been in that bog more than a few years — but it could be ten or even twenty, perhaps much more.’
He turned to Eva Boross, who had the inevitable cigarette in her fingers. ‘Any possibility of the depth it was buried in the ground being helpful — or something to do with the vegetation at that depth?’
The Hungarian also shook her head despondently. ‘I doubt it, but it might be worth me asking the botany people at the university. The body could never have sunk that deep from the surface in a few years, so it must have either been put into a hole dug in the peat — or there may have been a pool there then. The bog changes all the time, according to rainfall and changes in underground water.’
They talked around the apparently insoluble problems for a little longer, then the meeting broke up.
‘I’ll have to go and tell the Chief Constable what’s happening,’ muttered David Jones. ‘I’ve no doubt he’ll contact Scotland Yard tomorrow. Meirion, you can let the coroner know what’s going on.’
With mutual thanks and promises to keep closely in touch, Richard and Priscilla made their escape, saying goodbye to the archaeologist, with whom Priscilla already seemed to have made firm friends. It was beginning to get dusk as they drove up into the hills on their way home across Mid-Wales, with some of the unknown body’s bones wrapped in newspaper in a margarine box in the boot.
‘I don’t know about you, but I’m starving,’ complained Richard. ‘Sandwiches and endless cups of police tea are fine in their way, but I could do with a square meal.’
They found a hotel in Builth Wells able to satisfy their pangs of hunger. It was an old-fashioned hostelry in the main street, a gloomy place with everything varnished a dark brown, but it had a dining room and quite an extensive menu. The food turned out to be surprisingly good, even though they seemed to be the only patrons that evening. Once again, Priscilla marvelled at the quality and choice on offer, considering that wartime food rationing had only ended the previous year. Over oxtail soup, roast beef and apple tart with fresh cream, they went over the events of the past thirty-six hours.
‘I’ve really enjoyed it, Richard, thanks so much for letting me come,’ enthused Priscilla. ‘I thought mysterious strangled and beheaded bodies were only found in London and the big cities, not in a little place out in the sticks like Borth! What on earth can it be all about?’
Richard grinned at her. ‘You English people, you think you have a monopoly on violent crime! There’s as much intrigue and vendettas in rural areas as in any city, we’re just better at concealing it.’
They went into the adjacent lounge for coffee and Richard ordered a couple of brandies to go with it.
‘So what happens next?’ asked the auburn-haired biologist. ‘There seems little more we can do to help identify this fellow.’
‘We urgently need the head, though God knows what state it would be in. At least we had a bit of bog tanning to preserve the trunk. We’d not have seen that tattoo but for that.’
‘There’s no doubt about him being strangled, I suppose?’
Richard warmed the brandy glass in his hand. ‘There was that double ligature tied in a knot and what was left of the larynx had a crack through the cricoid cartilage. Of course, he might have been shot through the head as well, but as we haven’t got it, we can’t tell!’
‘And the poor chap’s hands were tied together,’ said Priscilla, with a shudder. ‘A nasty, sadistic sort of case.’
‘More like some gangland killing,’ agreed Richard. ‘But there are not many gangsters in sleepy Cardiganshire.’
Eventually, they reluctantly dragged themselves away from the fire in the lounge and Richard went to find the landlord to settle the bill. Priscilla offered to pay her share, but Richard waved it aside.
‘Like last night at Mrs Evans’, we can legitimately charge it to the partnership as expenses. The police or the coroner will foot the bill eventually.’
Before they left, Richard used the coin telephone in the hotel corridor to ring Garth House. When he pressed Button A, he was strangely happy to hear Angela’s calm tones, reassuring him that all was well and that she was looking forward to seeing them arrive home.
‘It’s not a bog body, but it’s a murder, though heaven knows when it happened,’ he told her. ‘We’ll tell you all about it in about an hour and a half.’
The rest of the journey seemed to take longer than that, as he peered down the tunnel cut by the headlights through the dark countryside. After her good meal and a brandy, Priscilla soon dozed off and only woke when the Humber revved up the driveway to the house. Angela had tea and biscuits ready for them and they sat in her lounge for a while, giving her a detailed account of their activities in Cardiganshire.
‘So you’ve no idea who he was or when he was killed?’ she asked at the end.
Priscilla raised her hands in mock despair. ‘Not a clue, Angela! At least the only one is that he had this Batman tattoo. Have you any idea when that idiotic business began?’
The other woman shook her head. ‘I’ve just about heard of it. Isn’t it an American comic strip or something? Perhaps the dead man was a Yank?’
‘Well, that’s not our problem,’ said Richard, yawning mightily. ‘Let the police follow it up — probably your pals from Scotland Yard.’
He immediately felt that he might have said the wrong thing, for Angela was still bitter about the defection of her former fiance in favour of another woman — and he was a detective superintendent from that same famous institution. However, she made no sign that it had registered, though he knew that Angela was adept at concealing her feelings.
‘Time for bed, folks,’ suggested Priscilla and soon Richard drove her the short distance to Tintern Parva, where she had comfortable lodgings in a bed and breakfast establishment used mostly by summer walkers and holidaymakers.
Angela waited up until he returned, then they both made for the stairs. ‘Did you enjoy your night away with our glamour girl, Richard?’ she said without a trace of sarcasm. ‘I think Moira was afraid that you’d be led off the path of righteousness!’