Part 18 (2/2)
”He isn't doing anyone now, Inspector, if that's what you mean.”
That was what Sloan did mean.
”Hang on,” said Rita, ”and I'll put you through straightaway.”
If a girl wasn't overawed by death, then neither doctors nor police inspectors were going to carry much weight...
”Dabbe here,” said the pathologist down the telephone.
”We may,” said Sloan circ.u.mspectly, ”repeat may-just have a possible name for yesterday's body.”
”Ah.”
”There's a man called Peter Hinton who was last seen alive about two months ago at his lodgings in l.u.s.ton.”
”You don't,” said the pathologist temperately, ”get a great hue and cry from lodgings.”
”If,” advanced Sloan cautiously, ”we had reason to believe that he might be our chap-your chap, that is-what would be needed in the way of proof?”
”His dentist,” replied Dr. Dabbe promptly, ”his dental records and a forensic odontologist. You'd be half-way there then.”
”And the other half of the way?”
”A good full-face photograph that could be superimposed on the ones that have been taken here.”
”I'll make a note of that,” said Sloan.
He could hear the pathologist leafing through his notes. ”Wasn't there a broken ankle in childlood, too, Sloan?”
”So you said, Doctor.”
”Everything helps,” said Dr. Dabbe largely, ”and when they all add up, why then-well, there you are, aren't you?”
Which was scarcely grammar but which did make sense.
Detective Constable Crosby reported back to the police station with what he had gleaned about Peter Hinton and the death of Mrs. Mundill.
”I checked on her death certificate like you said, sir.”
”Yes?” said Sloan. You couldn't be too careful in this game.
”Cachexia,” spelt out Crosby carefully.
”And?” said Sloan. Cachexia was a condition, not a disease.
”Due to carcinoma of the stomach,” continued Crosby. ”It's signed by Gregory Tebot-he's the general pract.i.tioner out there.”
Crosby made Collerton sound like Outer Mongolia.
Sloan a.s.similated his information about Peter Hinton too.
Soon he was telling the reporter from the county newspaper that he couldn't have a photograph of the dead man.
”We might get an artist's impression done for you,” he said, ”but definitely not a photograph.”
”Like that, is it?” said the reporter, jerking his head.
”It is,” said Sloan heavily. ”But you can say that we would like to have any information about anyone answering to this description who's been missing for a bit.”
”Will do,” said the reporter laconically. He shut his notebook with a snap. If there was no name, there was no story. It was sad but true that human interest needed a name.
”So,” he said, ”there's just the widower...”
”Frank Mundill.”
”And a niece...”
”Elizabeth Busby.”
”And there was a boy-friend,” said Sloan.
”Peter Hinton.”
”It wouldn't do any harm,” said Sloan slowly, ”to check on Celia Mundill's will.”
Crosby made an obedient note.
”Though,” said Sloan irascibly, ”what it's all got to do with the body in the water I really don't know.”
”No, sir.”
”And Crosby...”
”Sir?”
”While you're about it, we'd better just check that Collerton House wasn't where our body fell from. I don't think it's quite high enough. And there are shrubs under nearly all the windows. They wouldn't have healed.”
In time Nature healed all scars but even Nature took her time...
Frank Mundill was ready and waiting at Collerton House when Sloan and Crosby arrived at the appointed time.
”We've just heard about the body that they've found in the estuary,” he said. ”Someone in one of the shops told my niece this morning.”
Sloan was deliberately vague. ”We don't know yet, sir, if there is any connection with it and the boat that was taken.”
The architect shuddered. ”I hope not. I wouldn't like to think of anyone coming to any harm even if they had broken in.”
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