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 dentist 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.’