The Thread of Evidence by Bernard Knight Page B

department, to clinch the facts.’
    â€˜You’re taking all this stuff back with you this afternoon, then?’
    â€˜Yes, all the bits of body, anyway. The other stuff is Inspector Meadows’ pigeon.’
    Pacey turned to the man from the Home Office laboratory, an oldish inspector with slicked-back white hair. His function was to act as the link between the scene of crimes and the actual scientific work. ‘I’d better get my story word-perfect for the chief,’ Pacey said wryly. ‘Otherwise, he’ll have me doing fatigues as if he was still running his damn battalion. Now, Meadows, what have we got there altogether?’
    The liaison officer went through his list and checked it against the collection of plastic bags, cellophane envelopes and glass jars, all of which were neatly labelled.
    â€˜Clasp of an old-fashioned purse, no fabric left on it. Five coins – a florin, shilling and three pennies – all dated from nineteen twelve to nineteen twenty-seven. A narrow, plain gold wedding ring, with hallmarks.’
    Meadows paused while he peered through some of the bags to see what was inside.
    â€˜Oh, yes, this is hair – in a devil of a mess, mixed up with mud and slime. But it looks brownish-red in colour.’
    â€˜I’d like to have a look at a bit of that, if I can,’ asked the pathologist.
    Meadows handed him a small polythene packet.
    â€˜You can have this, sir. I divided the hair into three lots.’
    â€˜What else have you got?’ persevered the superintendent, being intent upon finishing his aide-mémoire.
    â€˜This big bag has got parts of the skirt – looks like a skirt to me – linen, I would say. This one is the remains of a blouse. There are a couple of pearl buttons on it and a few lines of embroidered stitching.’
    Pacey scratched away in his notebook.
    â€˜A couple of pieces of shoe in here,’ went on Meadows. ‘Pointed toe and a strap over the instep. No soles left, but they’d do all right for the styles of the Roaring Twenties, from what I remember of them.’
    Leighton Powell reached out for the bag and inspected the pathetic remnants of shoe.
    â€˜Looks exactly like the blasted things my teenage daughter wears now – “winkle-pickers” they call ’em, don’t they?’
    â€˜What’s in those little bags there?’ demanded Pacey. ‘I’ve lost track of where half the stuff was put.’
    â€˜This one is a broken necklace; gilt-on-brass chain, by the looks of it. This one is a hair-clip, with another bit of hair still stuck in it – a definite reddish colour this time.’
    â€˜Anything else?’
    â€˜Um, just these. Three big wooden beads, pretty rotten, and half a dozen glass ones.’
    â€˜And that’s the lot?’'
    â€˜Yes – unless the boys up on the cliff have found any more by sieving the last of the muck on the floor.’
    Pacey looked at his watch.
    â€˜Morris should be down soon. He said they would finish by half two, or three. Oh, I forgot one thing, Professor. What about the teeth? I seem to remember that they have been important in many identification problems in the past.’
    Powell looked ruefully at the detective.
    â€˜They certainly are important – but this girl’s are a wash-out. Though if you ever get a possible candidate for this body, even the negative evidence might help.’
    â€˜Why is it such a dead loss here?’
    â€˜All the teeth that are left in the jaws are perfectly healthy – no fillings or extractions – so that it’s unlikely that any dental records exist anywhere to give a clue as to the owner.’
    â€˜You said “the teeth that are left”. Where are the others?’
    The doctor shrugged.
    â€˜God only knows – they’re missing from the sockets. They tend to come loose after death and fall out. Perhaps your men will find a few in their sieves,