An Advancement of Learning dap-2

by Reginald Hill

  Roberts had been warned on the telephone that there might be an interest in Mrs. Parish’s dental record.

  “You’re lucky,’ he said in a high-pitched voice. ‘ can’t keep things for ever. It would have gone soon. It took me forty-odd minutes to find it as it was. And I don’t need to look at it again to tell you it’s nothing like this.”

  He waved the piece of paper on which Pascoe had copied down the relevant details from the lab-report.

  “Really, sir? Why?”

  “Well; those gold fillings. Now this one, at the front here, that was probably essential, nothing else would do the trick. So you’d get it on the National Health, you see? But these two. Not necessary at all.

  Someone paid for that work.”

  “And it wasn’t you that did it?”

  “No. 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. ‘ 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. ‘ gets most of our private patients.”

  Jackson laughed.

  “You’re too modest, Julian,’ he said. Pascoe doubted it. ”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. Parish’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. ‘ 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. ‘ 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.

  Chapter 6

  … sometimes a looker-on may see more than a gamester.

  SIR FRANCIS BACON

  “You’ll never believe this,’ Pascoe had said.

  “I’ll believe anything,’ Dalziel had answered. ‘ 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 Lander’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. ‘ 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. ‘ 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. ‘, 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.”

  There was a list of staff numbers beside the internal phone. Neither Miss. Scotby nor Miss. Disney answered.

  “They keep later hours than I’d have thought,’ said Pascoe.

  “Or else they’re in bed. Look, scout around see if you can dig up either of them. I’ve got some phoning to do.”

  Pascoe left, not certain where he was going. The building they were in seemed completely deserted. Outside, his gaze was immediately attracted to a row of brightly-lit windows in one of the new buildings. The curtains were only partly drawn and inside he could see what looked like a colourfully decorated lounge bar.

  Ellie! The memory of their appointment for a drink after dinner rushed back into his mind. Their first encounter had not gone particularly well. This could kill it dead, he thought as he pushed open the door.

  He was certain she would have left long before. Five minutes had always been her limit even in the days of their closest relationship.

  But she was still there. His mind had become used even in their short previous meeting to the changes half a dozen years can make; and now, comparisons over, he was suddenly reminded of how attractive she was.

  She looked up and smiled. For a moment Pascoe thought she had seen him, then he saw a tall, slim youn
g man moving from the bar clutching a couple of glasses before him.

  He would have retreated at this point, not wanting to compound unpunctuality with unwanted interruption, but Eleanor glanced his way and he was forced to go on, though the smile had faded and the line of her jaw became set in an aggression as memory-stimulating as her beauty.

  “Sorry,’ he said. ‘ was work to be done.”

  “A bore,’ sympathized the young man putting a gin in front of Ellie. He looked with interest at Pascoe.

  “I’m Halfdane,’ he said. ‘ Halfdane.”

  “This is Sergeant Pascoe. I was telling you about him,’ said Ellie, making it sound unpleasant.

  “Can I get you a drink?’ asked Halfdane.

  “No, thanks,’ said Pascoe.

  “Duty,’ murmured Ellie. ‘ on the telly.”

  “It’s quiet in here,’ said Pascoe, attempting the light touch. ‘ expected wild revelry.”

  “It usually is pretty quiet mid-week. But even the regulars haven’t turned up tonight. Roote and his mob haven’t been in, have they?” “No,’ said Ellie. ‘ since I arrived and that was a long time ago.

  Perhaps there’s a party.” “Roote?’ said Pascoe.

  “Franny Roote, the student president. A man of power.”

  “Oh. One of those.”

  Ellie and Halfdane exchanged glances.

  “Better clap him in irons before he demonstrates against you,’ said Ellie.

  Pascoe shrugged. He reckoned he’d just about compensated for being late.

  “I must be off,’ he said. ”m looking for Miss. Scotby and/or Miss. Disney. Do you know where I’ll find them?” “Next block,’ said Halfdane cordially. ‘ left through the main door. There’s a Christian Union meeting. They’re having a drive. It’s Find-a-Faith week. I believe Walt does a nice line in turning water into Nescafe. It should be over just now. You’re not going to arrest one of them, are you?”

  Halfdane spoke lightly, friendlily, his attitude conciliatory. Even Ellie looked interested. Pascoe toyed with the idea of telling them what had happened. Why not? Everyone would know soon enough.

  But why should he have to use tid-bits of professional information to attract friendship? No one else did.

  The door burst open and a small knot of students entered.

  “You’d better hurry,’ said Halfdane. ”s half the congregation.” “Thanks,’ said Pascoe. I’ll see you again. Sorry about being late.”

  The Misses Scotby and Disney proved difficult to prise apart. He made the mistake of approaching Disney first, who claimed to be irretrievably committed to an important discussion with two students who looked desperate for escape. Scotby then came into view, so Pascoe quickly switched the attack. The senior tutor said yes, she would be pleased to spare the superintendent a few minutes of her time, upon which Disney cut herself off in the middle of a reminiscence of her last tour of the Holy Land and joined the party before they had gone three paces.

  So Pascoe, poker-faced, ushered them in together; Dalziel to his credit took it in his stride. He came from behind the desk to greet them like a headmaster welcoming important mothers.

  All rubbery smiles like the Michelin-tyre man, thought Pascoe.

  But once they were all seated, he put on his bad-news face.

  “Now Miss. Scotby, and you too, Miss. Disney, I would like to ask you one or two questions whose relevance may not at first be apparent to you.”

  “He’s been rehearsing,’ thought Pascoe.

  “I would be grateful if you would just answer the questions, painful though this may be, without requiring from me any further information to start with.”

  That’s a bit tortuous, thought Pascoe. Get on with it!

  “Please go ahead, Superintendent,’ said Miss. Scotby in her precise tones. Miss. Disney said nothing.

  “The questions concern Miss. Girling, your late principal. Now, I believe she died in Austria, some five years ago.” “Five years last Christmas,’ said Miss. Scotby.

  “In a ski-ing accident?’ asked Dalziel.

  “Not exactly,’ said Miss. Scotby.

  “Asshaschlange.’ The strange outburst came from Miss. Disney. The wisp of lace had appeared again and she was having difficulty with her articulation.

  “Sorry?’ said Dalziel.

  “An avalanche,’ she snapped quite clearly. She essayed another sob, Miss. Scotby opened her mouth as though to speak, the sob was contained and she went on. ”t you recall that dreadful avalanche near Osterwald which swept the hotel coach off the road and over the mountainside? She, Alison… Miss. Girling… was in it.”

  “How dreadful,’ breathed Dalziel with a light in his eyes which belied the statement. ‘ her body, if you’ll forgive the expression, where…?”

  “They never found it,’ said Miss. Scotby. ‘ were half a dozen who were not recovered. It was a terrible business.”

  “There was a service, Superintendent. On the mountainside. It was most moving,’ interrupted Miss. Disney. ‘ quite in order. That was later, of course, much later.”

  “You were present?”

  “Of course.’ The Disney bosom swelled. ‘ else should I be? I was dear Al’s oldest friend, after all.” Miss. Scotby said nothing but shifted her feet in a minutely, eloquent gesture.

  “If they never found Miss. Girling’s body,’ said Pascoe, ‘ all the passengers were killed, how were they certain she was on the coach?”

  Miss. Disney glanced at him coldly but did not deign to answer a subordinate. Miss. Scotby had no such qualms.

  “Remember it wasn’t just a coach, any coach. It belonged to the Gasthof where Miss. Girling stayed every year. They were expecting her that night. She was probably a little delayed by the fog… ” “Fog? Which fog?’ asked Dalziel.

  “Well, it was very foggy that December, I remember. There were lots of delays. I remember watching on my television and hoping the principal had got off all right. I’ve often thought that if it hadn’t been for the fog, the coach would probably have picked her up earlier. And she would not have travelled along the road at just that fateful time.”

  “I see. And the coach…?”

  “It was split in half, I believe, before being swept over the edge into a ravine. It was one of those terrible curving roads with a precipice on one side and a cliff-face on the other. The part of the coach with the luggage boot in it was recovered almost intact. Miss. Girling’s luggage was there.”

  She became silent. Pascoe felt that the memory gave her real pain.

  Dalziel having got what he wanted was now keen to get rid of the women.

  “Thank you, ladies,’ he said, now a jovial inn-keeper at closing-time.

  “You’ve been most helpful. I’ll keep you no longer.”

  The suddenness of the onslaught had them both nearly through the door before Disney dug her heels in.

  “Superintendent! My outcry this morning (was it only this morning!) when those awful… remains were found. You cannot be taking it seriously! I was distraught. You are wasting your time. You… “

  Words failed her, but Miss. Scotby took up the burden.

  “Do you really believe it might have been Miss. Girling, beneath her statue, I mean?”

  Dalziel nearly had them over the threshold now. He thrust his great face at them.

  “Yes,’ he said. ‘. I really do.”

  They took a step back and he closed the door.

  “Well,’ he said rubbing his hands. ”s better. So far, so good. It’s all possible. Now we can sleep. Tomorrow we’ll set about finding out when. Did she get to Austria and come back to be killed? Or perhaps she never got to Austria at all! But she’s kept five years. She’ll keep another day. Not a bad night’s work, this. A bit of luck’s always handy, isn’t it, Sergeant? Wouldn’t you say this has been our lucky night?”

  But Pascoe was not at all certain that he fully agreed.

  It had certainly been Harold Lapping’s lucky night.

  Harold was ove
r seventy, but still in possession of all his faculties.

  He had served his country with common sense if not distinction in two world wars. He had loved and outlived two wives, and on certain great family festivals he could look with pride on more than twenty legitimate descendants.

  Now in retirement he was a man respected near and far, a church-warden, a pillar of strength in the bowling club, the oldest playing member of the golf club though his handicap had slipped to 12, and an enthusiastic ornithologist.

  He was also a voyeur.

  It started by accident one spring night as he lay silently in the tough sea-grass above the beach vainly watching through his night-glasses (a memento of one of the wars, he forgot which) a weaving of grass which he had optimistically decided was a dunlin’s nest. If it was, the dunlin was obviously spending the night elsewhere. Bored, Harold moved his glasses slowly along an arc, some thirty or forty yards ahead. And found himself peering into a fascinating tangle of arms and legs. It seemed incredible that only two people could be involved. Harold had no desire to disturb the happy pair, so he waited until their demeanour seemed to indicate they were completely oblivious to anything outside themselves before departing. But while waiting he saw no harm at all in continuing to view with expert approval the techniques on display.

  Thereafter whenever his evening’s ornithological research was finished.

  Harold always cast around with his glasses for a few moments before heading for home.

  Tonight was different. It was far too late for any self respecting birds to be on show. Harold was on his way home after a couple of pints of mild ale followed by two or three bottles of Guinness and the remnants of a cold pie at a friend’s house. It was close on midnight, but the sun’s light was not long out of the perfectly clear sky. He had turned off the road and cut across the golf course to the sea, more to prolong than shorten his journey home. The tide was half-way in, still a long way to go, and the surface of the sea was like cellophane, perfectly still. He could not recall a night so calm.

  Then his sharp old eyes caught a flicker of movement among the dunes a furlong ahead.