Well, as far as I can remember. But I think I would, wouldn’t I?’
‘I’ve no idea, sir. I’d be grateful if you could have your records checked. We’ll be asking everyone.’
‘More work. All right then. I’ll have a look.’
He turned to the door. Pascoe didn’t budge.
‘Now, sir, would be as good a time as any. While we’re here. It’ll save me coming back.’
Roberts was displeased.
‘Look, here! I’ll get my receptionist … this is out of working hours.’
Pascoe felt his own resistance stiffening, which he knew was foolish. He just was not in the mood for the Robertses of the world that night.
‘Hello, Julian, here you are,’ said a voice from the door. ‘I saw a light so I came through. What’s this? An emergency?’
The newcomer was in his forties, a strongly-built distinguished-looking man with an engaging smile.
‘Oh no. It’s nothing. The police. This is my partner, James Jackson. This is …’
‘Sergeant Pascoe, sir. We’re hoping that someone in your way of business will be able to help us by recognizing this set of teeth. Unfortunately it will probably be more than five years ago since they received treatment.’
Roberts seemed to have diminished since the arrival of his partner.
‘James is more the man for you,’ he said irritably. ‘He gets most of our private patients.’
Jackson laughed.
‘You’re too modest, Julian,’ he said. Pascoe doubted it. ‘Let’s have a look.’
He took the description of the dead woman’s jaws from the sergeant’s hands and glanced at it, casually at first, then with growing interest.
‘Now wait a minute,’ he said.
‘You recognize it?’ said Pascoe, hardly daring to hope.
‘It rings a faint bell. The gold work, you see. But it’s absurd … let’s see.’
He glanced rapidly through the drawers of the filing cabinet before him.
‘No, no,’ he said, nonplussed.
‘Perhaps where Mr Roberts got Mrs Farish’s record …’ prompted Pascoe.
Roberts pointed wordlessly to the bottom drawer of an old wooden cabinet shoved almost inaccessibly into a corner. Jackson got down on one knee and began to toss out an assortment of papers with gay abandon.
Suddenly the fountain of stationery ceased.
‘Now wait a minute,’ he said again, this time triumphantly. ‘How about that? The artist always recognizes his own work!’
He held a record card in his hand. As he stood up, his expression turned from triumph to polite bewilderment.
‘Tell me, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Just what is the nature of the enquiry you’re making?’
Pascoe didn’t reply, but almost rudely took the card from the dentist’s hands.
The diagram and its symbols meant little to him. He’d have to take the dentist’s word that it checked with his own written description. And of course it would be double-checked by a police-surgeon.
But the name at the top of the card took him completely by surprise. Expert though he was at keeping a poker-face, the two men facing him would have no difficulty in reading the shock in his eyes.
The middle-aged woman, the vicissitude of whose teeth were recorded on the card in his hands, was Miss Alison Cartwright Girling.
… sometimes a looker-on may see more than a gamester.
SIR FRANCIS BACON
Op. Cit.
‘You’ll never believe this,’ Pascoe had said.
‘I’ll believe anything,’ Dalziel had answered. ‘But let’s make sure. I don’t trust dentists.’
‘Who then?’
‘Doctors. I trust doctors. And policemen.’
It hadn’t been difficult to find out who Miss Girling’s doctor had been.
Yes, the general description of height and proportions seemed to fit. Yes, Miss Girling had twice broken her left leg while ski-ing. She was an enthusiastic ski-er, went to Austria every Christmas.
And yes, he knew about the wig. It wasn’t merely vanity. In one of her ski-ing accidents, she had hit her head against a tree and torn part of the scalp away. The result had been a scar and a small bald patch. Hence the wig.
‘Now we can ask the question,’ said Dalziel. It was nearly 10 P.M. He was sitting at Landor’s desk. In his hands was the commemorative plaque removed from the base of the statue.
‘And the question is, what is Miss Girling doing here, under her own memorial, when best report places her firmly in some Austrian cemetery?’
‘That’s a good question,’ said Pascoe. ‘Mind you, it did strike me as odd that she should have been left over there in the first place. Why not bring her body back to be buried in the land of her fathers with all due military and civic honours?’
‘Expensive.’
‘She can’t have been short of a bob or two, a single woman with a job like this. Someone must have got it.’
‘What do you know about the way she died?’ asked Dalziel. ‘Or was supposed to have died?’
‘Nothing. I just assumed she’d run into a tree or over a cliff or something. If I’d known she’d had two broken legs and a stripped scalp, it wouldn’t even have surprised me. It’s not possible, I suppose, that she could have cracked her head in the accident and some nut had her corpse brought home and secretly buried here?’
‘It’s bloody unlikely,’ said Dalziel. ‘Listen, we can’t sleep on this. Someone must know. There must be a doctor’s report. A death certificate. Something. I know. That woman, the senior thing.’
‘Miss Scotby?’
‘That’s right. She was a great mate, wasn’t she? Get her over here.’
‘I thought it was Miss Disney who claimed to be the bosom friend, sir?’
Dalziel groaned.
‘I couldn’t bear them both at once. Scotby preferably, but Disney if you must.’
