In a Dry Season (15 page)

At least Brian had got a third-class honours, which beat a mere pass, or equivalent. Christ, it sounded like a poker game. Was he in competition with his son all of a sudden?

Luckily, the phone rang before he could frame an answer. It was John Webb.

“I've just picked up the stuff we dug up with the Hobb's End skeleton,” he said. “Dr Williams's lads have given it a good clean.”

“What did you find? Not much after all this time, I imagine.”

“Actually, you'd be amazed at some of things that
do
survive. It's all very unpredictable. I found a few buttons and some metal clips that look as if they might have come from a brassiere or a suspender belt. I also found some small leather shoes which look as though they might have belonged to the corpse.”

“So you're saying she was buried in her clothes?” “Looks like it.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes, some other material, black and heavy. Definitely not clothing.”

“Any ideas?”

“Some sort of curtains, perhaps?”

“Did you find a wedding ring, or anything that looked as if it might have been one?” he asked.

“I think so. I wasn't sure at first because of the corrosion, but that's what it looks like all right.”

“I don't suppose there's a name and date engraved on the inside, is there?”

Webb laughed. “Even if there was, I wouldn't be able to read it after this long.”

“Thought not. Any sign of the murder weapon? Most likely some sort of knife.”

“Nothing like that.”

“Handbag or a purse? Anything with identification.” “Sorry, no. Just what I've told you. And a locket, no inscription and nothing inside. Nothing that survived the years underground, anyway. If there was a photo or something like that, it probably disintegrated.”

“Okay, thanks a lot, John.”

“No problem. I'll have it sent over to you later today.” Banks walked over to the window. The heat was still getting to him; he felt sleepy and woolly-headed, as if he'd had a couple of drinks, which he hadn't. The cobbled market square was chock-a-block with tourists, coaches from Leeds, Wigan and Scunthorpe, cars parked in every available nook and cranny, a riot of primary colours. All summer the tourist hordes had been coming to the Dales. Pubs, hotels, shops and
B&BS
had all done record business. Of course, it hadn't rained in two months, and even before that there had been nothing much more than minor showers since April.

Though the health fascists had finally succeeded in
banning smoking from every police station in the country, Banks lit a cigarette. He had been quietly ignoring the no-smoking order for a while now. In the larger open-plan stations, you couldn't get around it, of course; you simply had to go outside. But here, in the old Tudor-fronted warren, he had his own office. With the door closed and the window open, who would know? What did he care, anyway? What were they going to do, put him in detention?

Watching a couple of pretty young tourists dressed in T-shirts and shorts sitting eating ice lollies on the raised parapet of the market cross, Banks started to drift into pleasurable fantasies involving Annie Cabbot and her red wellies. He had been
fantazising
a lot lately, and he didn't know whether it was a healthy sign or not.

Officially, of course, fellow police officers did not sleep together. Especially
DCIS
and sergeants. That was a real no-no. From one perspective it could be called sexual harassment, and from the other, sleeping your way to the top.

In reality, it happened all the time. All over the country, coppers were shagging one another like rabbits, fucking away like minks, regardless of rank. Murder scenes in particular got them going: sex and death, the old aphro-disiac combination.

Dream on, he told himself, snapping out of the fantasy. The truth was that Annie Cabbot wouldn't have him, and he wouldn't try it anyway. Any facility at chatting up women he may have had as a teenager had deserted him now. How do you start that sort of thing all over again? He was too old to go out on dates and worry about whether a good-night kiss would be welcome. Or a nightcap. Or an invitation to stay the night. Or who should take care of the condoms. The whole idea made him feel
nervous and awkward. He wouldn't know where to begin.

He had had only one sexual encounter since Sandra left, and that had been a complete disaster. In his cups at Susan Gay's farewell party in the Queen's Arms, Banks had picked up a woman called Karen something-or-other. Or perhaps Karen had picked
him
up. Either way, the beer was boosting his confidence, and Karen was tipsy and definitely frisky. Instant lust. Without much preamble, they went back to his place where, after only the briefest of hesitations, they got into a clinch and fell onto the sofa, clothes flying everywhere. Despite the booze, everything worked just fine.

Somehow, later, they must have crawled up into the bed, because Banks awoke around four in the morning with a pounding headache, a naked woman wrapped around him and a burning desire to be alone. He had used Karen—as perhaps she had used him—and now all he wanted to do was discard her. Instead, he lay awake beside her thinking gloomy thoughts until she stirred in the early dawn and said she had to go home. He didn't object, didn't show any tenderness on parting, and he never saw her again.

The telephone dragged him out of his depressing memory and back to his desk. It was Geoff Turner, the forensic odontologist. This reminded Banks that he had a dentist's appointment looming, and he had hated the dentist's since his school days. Maybe he would have an excuse to cancel if this case went anywhere.

“Alan?”

“Geoff. You're fast. Any news?”

“Nothing dramatic. Too soon for that. But I was keen to make a start. I've always been fascinated by skeletal remains.”
Banks thought of Dr Williams caressing the skeleton's pelvic region. “Pervert.”

Turner laughed. “Scientifically, I mean.”

“Go on.”

“I'm calling from the lab. What I wanted to do first of all was confirm Dr Williams's estimate of her age at the time of death. He's right. The third molars are up—that's wisdom teeth to you laymen—but the apexes haven't quite closed yet, nor have the medial sides of the incisal sutures. The third molars don't usually come up until your early twenties, so there's our first clue. Then the apexes are usually closed by the age of twenty-five and medials by thirty. Which makes her mid-twenties, give or take a year or two.”

“Thanks, Geoff. Any idea how long she's been down there?”

“Hold your horses. I told you I've only managed a quick look so far. What few fillings there are seem to indicate fairly recent dental work, if that's of any interest to you. And by recent, I mean twentieth-century.”

“Any closer? A rough guess?”

“By the look of the material and techniques, probably not later than the forties, if that's any help.”

“Are you sure it's not more recent? Like nineties?” “No way. You might not believe it when you're sitting in the chair, but dentistry's come a hell of a long way in the past thirty years or so, and this mouth shows no signs of that. No modern techniques or materials. You'd expect some acrylic resins to be used in restoration work, but there are none in evidence here. There are also several missing teeth.”

“Could that have happened after death?”

“You mean could the killer have pulled her teeth out?” “Could he?”

“Possible, but unlikely. They look like pretty clean extractions to me.”

“She can't have been buried between
1953
and this summer, if that's any help.”

“Then I'd say definitely before
1953
. Acrylic plastics came into general use in the forties.”

“Are you sure it couldn't just be someone who neglected her teeth?”

“It's not a matter of neglect, Alan, though I'll get back to that in a moment. It's materials and procedures.”

“Go on.”

“There's not much more to tell, really. Just a couple of vague ideas.”

“Where would we be in our business without vague ideas?”

Turner laughed. “You shouldn't say that to a scientist. It's heresy. Anyway, I can't be certain until the X-rays, but we're not talking top-quality dental work here and we're also not talking regular visits. If I had to guess, I'd say this lass only went to the dentist's when she had a problem.”

“What do you mean?” asked Banks, who was beginning to feel even more empathy with the victim. He felt exactly the same way about dentists.

“The fillings might have lasted a few years longer, had she lived, but in one case the decay wasn't quite eradicated. That sort of thing. A bit sloppy. Also, as I said, there are signs of neglect, which may indicate we're dealing with someone from a poor background, someone who couldn't afford the best treatment. Quite often, you know, girls had all their teeth pulled out in their twenties
and wore dentures for the rest of their lives.”

“Right. Thanks, Geoff.” Banks had always thought that the idea of
paying
for so much pain was the quintessence of masochism.

“Another possibility is wartime.”

“Really? Why do you say that?”

“Think about it. Most of the good young dentists and doctors were in the forces, and there were only old dod-derers left. Poor equipment. Repairs were hard to get done. Military got priority over everything.”

“Right. I didn't think of that.”

“And there's another thing.”

“There is?”

“We didn't get the National Health Service until
1948
.

Before that you had to pay for dental work. Naturally, the working class had the hardest time of it.”

“Didn't they always,” said Banks, remembering his father coming home silent and exhausted after long shifts at the steel factory and his mother falling asleep in the evenings after spending her day cleaning other people's houses. “So possibly wartime, possibly poor?”

“Right.”

“Thanks again. I owe you, Geoff.”

“It'll be my pleasure to collect. Of course, if you could track down her actual dentist, if there are still records . . . ”

“We're trying,” said Banks. “But it happened a long time ago. How long is a dentist likely to hang onto old records, even if he is still alive?”

“True enough. Best of luck, Alan. Talk to you later.” Banks put down the receiver and leaned back in his chair to think about what he had just heard. Both Ioan Williams and Geoff Turner agreed that the skeleton had
not been put there after Thornfield Reservoir dried up earlier in the summer, and Dr Williams had estimated the late thirties at the earliest. So the victim wasn't a hundred years old or more; she was more like fifty or sixty. Which meant that if she had been between twenty-two and twenty-eight when she was killed, she would probably have been between seventy or eighty had she lived. Not only might she still be alive, then, but so might her killer, and so might a witness, or at least someone who
remembered
her.

This was quickly turning into a real case. What had been dug up from Thornfield Reservoir was no longer just a collection of filthy old bones; in Banks's mind, she was slowly assuming flesh. He had no idea what she had really looked like, but in his mind's eye he could already see a sort of amalgam of the wartime film stars in the fashions of the period: Greer Garson, Deanna Durbin, Merle Oberon. What he needed to know next was her name; that would make her even more real to him.

He looked at his watch. Just turned four. If he set off now, he could be in Harkside in an hour or so. Plenty of time to compare notes with Annie.

Five

A
s weddings go, Matthew and Gloria's was a relatively small affair. A few family members came from as far away as Eastvale and Richmond, some of them distant uncles, aunts and
cousins I hadn't seen for years. Gloria had no family, of course, so the rest of the guests were made up of people from the village. Mrs and Mrs Kilnsey from the farm were there, though Mr Kilnsey looked terrified for his mortal soul to find himself in the Church of England, that hotbed of idolatry.

Gloria had also insisted on inviting Michael Stanhope, as they had become quite close friends, and he looked almost as uncomfortable as Mr Kilnsey to find himself in such hallowed surroundings. He was sober, though, and at least he had made the effort to shave, comb his hair and wear a decent, if rather frayed and shiny, suit. He also remembered to remove his hat during the service.

I must say Gloria looked radiantly beautiful. With her angelic face and earthly figure, she had a natural advantage to start with. Wizard as she was at making things, she had decided it was more expedient to buy her wedding dress. She had found one on sale at Foster's in Harkside for two pounds ten shillings. It was a simple white affair, neither voluminous nor trailing half a mile of material, both elegant and tasteful. She did, however, make her own veil out of lace, which wasn't rationed. Whether she had set them with sugar and water or not, I don't know, but her glistening blonde sausage-curls tumbled to her shoulders in an even more dazzling array than usual.

Gloria had bought her wedding dress almost as soon as Mother gave her blessing, so she was all right, but wouldn't you know it, clothes rationing came into force the Sunday before the wedding. Luckily, we had all got used to mending and making do by then. Matthew dug out his only suit and we had it cleaned and pressed. It would have cost him almost an entire half-year's clothes ration to get newly kitted out. Mother put on her best flowered frock, adding a belt here and a little lace there, just to make it look new, and she bought a hat for the occasion, hats being one of the few items of clothing, along with lace and ribbon, not rationed.