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…’
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.
As she neared the road, a grey Jaguar passed by with Stephen Collier behind the wheel. He slowed down at the intersection, and Katie became flustered. She half raised her hand to wave, but dropped it quickly. Stephen didn’t acknowledge her presence at all; he seemed to be looking right through her. At first she told herself he hadn’t seen her, but she knew he had. Perhaps he was thinking of something else and hadn’t noticed his surroundings. She often walked around in a daze like that herself. The blood ran to her face as she crossed the road and hurried on to the shops.
‘Afternoon, Katie love,’ Mrs Thetford greeted her. ‘A bit late today, aren’t you? Still, I’ve saved you some nice Brussels sprouts.’
Katie thanked her and paid, her mind still on Stephen Collier. Why had he called last night when he knew Sam was out? Katie couldn’t understand his desire to talk to her about his problems, or his apparent concern for her.
‘Your change, dearie!’ Mrs Thetford called after her.
Katie walked back to the counter and held out her hand, smiling. ‘I’d forget my head if it was loose.’
She called at the butcher’s and bought some pork loin chops, the best he had left, then turned back towards home. Stephen really had sounded as if he needed a friend. He had been tired, burdened. Katie regretted letting him down, but what else could she have done? She couldn’t be his friend; she didn’t know how. Besides, it wasn’t right.
She noticed the speeding Mini just in time to dodge it and crossed the green again. A few people, mostly old women, sat on the benches nattering, and a light breeze rustled the new pale green leaves on the trees. What Stephen had said about her being unhappy was true. Was it so obvious to everyone, or did he really sense a bond between them? Surely with all his money and success he couldn’t be unhappy too.
Katie tried to remember when she had last been happy, and thought of the first weeks in Swainshead. It had been hard work, fixing up the house, but they had done it. And what’s more, they had done it together. After that though, when everything was ready, Sam left the running of it all to her. It was as if he’d finished his life’s work and settled into early retirement.
‘Ideas above his station,’ her granny had always said of Sam. And sure enough, no sooner were they in residence than he was off to the White Rose ingratiating himself with the locals. As soon as he found out that the Colliers, who owned the big house over the road, were the dale’s wealthiest and most powerful family, there was no stopping him. But give him his due, Katie thought, he never fawned or lowered himself; he just seemed to act as if he’d found his natural place in the order at last. Why they accepted him, if indeed they did, she had no idea.
When she wasn’t busy running the guest house, Katie became an adornment, something for Sam to hang on his arm at the summer garden parties. She was a kind of Cinderella for whom the ball was always ending. But unlike the fairy-tale character, Katie hated both her roles. She had no love for gowns and glass slippers. Finery, however stylish and expensive, made her feel cheap and sinful. Once, a workmate fortunate enough to go on holiday to Paris had brought her back a pretty green silk scarf. Her granny had snipped it into pieces and scattered them like spring leaves into the fire.