Free The Hanging Valley by Peter Robinson Page B

place, but this body was about two hundred and forty hours old by the time it was found. Still they had very little to go on.
    Therefore, when the first report from the forensic lab landed on his desk at ten-thirty that morning, Banks drank in the information like a man stranded in a desert without water for three days.
    Dr Glendenning had established that death was due to a stab wound from a single-edged blade, probably a sheath-knife about six inches long. One upward thrust had penetrated the heart from beneath the ribs. After that, the face had been slashed and then beaten with a rock until it was unrecognizable. The victim was white, in his early thirties, five feet eleven inches tall, ten and a half stone in weight, and in good physical condition. That last part always irritated Banks: how could a corpse ever be in good physical condition? This one, certainly, had been about as far from it as one could get.
    Vic Manson had finally managed, through peeling the skin off and treating it with glycerine, to get three clear prints. He had already checked these against the Police National Computer and discovered that they weren’t on record. So far no good, Banks thought. The forensic odontologist, a note said, was still working on his reconstruction of the dental chart.
    Calling for Sergeant Hatchley on his way out, Banks decided it was time for a discussion over elevenses in the Golden Grill. The two men weaved their way through the local shoppers and parties of tourists that straggled along both pavement and the narrow street, and found a table near the window. Banks gave the order for coffee and toasted teacakes to Peggy, a plump girl with a bright smile, and looked across at the whitewashed front of the police station with its black timber beams. Black and white, he thought. If only life was as simple as that.
    As they drank their coffee, Banks and Hatchley tried to add up what they had got so far. It wasn’t much: a ten-day-old corpse of a white male, probably Canadian, found stabbed in an isolated hanging valley. At least cause of death had been established, and the coroner’s inquest would order a thorough investigation.
    “Perhaps he wasn’t travelling alone,” Banks said. “Maybe he was with someone who killed him. That would explain the need to disfigure him—to give the killer plenty of time to get back home.”
    “If that’s the case,” Hatchley said, “it’ll be for the Canadian police to handle, won’t it?”
    “The murder happened on our turf. It’s still our problem till the man at the top says different.”
    “Maybe he stumbled into a coven of witches,” Hatchley suggested.
    Banks laughed. “They’re mostly bored accountants and housewives in it for the orgies. I doubt they’d go as far as to kill someone who walked in on them. And Glendenning didn’t mention anything about ritual slaughter. How’s the search for the elusive Canadians going?”
    Hatchley reached slyly for another cigarette to prolong the break. “I’m beginning to feel like that bloke who had to roll a rock up a hill over and over again.”
    “Sisyphus? Sometimes I feel more like the poor sod who had his liver pecked out day after day.”
    Hatchley lit his cigarette.
    “Come on, then,” Banks said, standing up to leave. “Better get back.”Hatchley cursed under his breath and followed Banks across the street.
    “Chief Inspector Banks!” Sergeant Rowe called out as they passed the front desk. “Telephone message. You’re to call a Dr Passmore at the lab. He’s the odonto . . . the odotol . . . Oh, the bloody tooth fairy, or whatever they call themselves.”
    Banks smiled and thanked him. Back in his office, he picked up the phone and dialled.
    “Ah, Chief Inspector Banks,” said Passmore. “We’ve never met, but Dr Glendenning brought me in on this one. Interesting.”
    “You’ve got something for us?” Banks asked eagerly.
    “It’s a bit complicated. Would it be a great inconvenience for you to drop