The Thread of Evidence by Bernard Knight

could study the remains in comparative comfort. Leighton Powell began to explain:
    â€˜It forms when the body is exposed to a lot of damp – the fats are changed to a kind of soap. This change is permanent, as far as I know. It lasts for many years, anyway – unless rats come and eat it, which is quite common.’
    Pacey looked a little disappointed.
    â€˜So it doesn’t help to time the date of death?’
    â€˜No, only that it must be at least a few months since death, it doesn’t happen in a shorter time than that.’
    Pacey looked with revulsion at the two decaying legs lying on the white tray.
    â€˜I was hoping that the persistence of flesh meant that death couldn’t have taken place more than a short time ago.’
    â€˜It isn’t really flesh,’ explained the pathologist. ‘It’s only the fat – the actual flesh has gone long ago.’
    The detective abandoned the subject and started on another.
    â€˜Well, Professor, you’ve seen all the stuff we’ve got – and you’ve been up to the mine yourself. Everything we’ve found is on those trays.’
    He waved at another pair of white surgical trays belonging to the surgery, on which were heaped the polythene bags full of trophies from the shaft.
    â€˜So if we could have a quick recap, I can get some sort of preliminary story ready for my chief constable. He’s expecting me to ring him at about four o’clock, to tell him what the situation is.’
    Pacey’s mind was flying ahead to this telephone call. He knew from experience that the chief, an ex-infantry colonel, would expect a detailed account of the day’s findings presented to him with military precision. In arriving at this summary for the police chief, Pacey was glad that he had such a sensible man as Powell to work with. He had known other pathologists who were either misleadingly dogmatic, or so woolly-headed that they could not be pinned down to any opinion, even if it was a firm ‘I don’t know’.
    â€˜What do you want to know first?’ asked the professor cheerfully, polishing his glasses with a flourish of a dazzling white handkerchief.
    â€˜All about that lot,’ requested Pacey, with a sweep of his great hand towards the heap of debris on the trays.
    â€˜Right-oh. One body, as far as I can tell now. I’ll have to get the anatomy people to check on the small and broken stuff, but I don’t think there’s any duplication at all.’
    â€˜How much is missing?’
    Powell pursed his lips. ‘Mmm, very little, really. All the limb bones are there, though some are broken. The skull, pelvis and most of the spine are there. Probably some ribs and toe and finger bones are missing. But that’s about all.’
    Pacey nodded and scribbled on a piece of paper for the benefit of Colonel Barton. Then he looked up.
    â€˜The next thing is sex, Professor.’
    Leighton Powell almost giggled. ‘Yes; it usually is, Mr Pacey – even at my age. But seriously, that’s easy here. Definitely a woman. I’ll get the anatomy boys in Swansea to make dead sure. But there’s almost no doubt at all; it’s female all right.’
    â€˜And what about her age, sir?’
    The doctor’s eyes twinkled above his chubby pink cheeks. He had a round, almost babyish face, with a shiny, scrubbed look about it, which extended up to his polished pink bald head.
    â€˜Yes, Superintendent, that’s an Eleven-plus question, isn’t it! I can give you a definite age bracket now, but to narrow it down within that range will take a day or two. I’ll have to get X-ray and other things to get as near as I can to the actual year.’
    â€˜And what’s your bracket, Professor?’
    â€˜Definitely more than eighteen, and probably less than thirty-three.’
    Pacey’s face registered his disappointment. ‘That’s a pretty wide range, isn’t