Read The Thread of Evidence for Free Online Page A

annoyance.
    â€˜It’s that ruddy woman in the post office – she knows the medical history of most of my patients better than I do myself.’
    A thoughtful expression came into Peter’s face.
    â€˜Talking of this, there was some funny backchat in the Lamb about my uncle and these remains. I couldn’t make head nor tail of it. But when I mentioned it to old Roland, he acted most oddly. He’s not right even this morning – won’t say anything – but I can tell that he’s upset. Have you any ideas, Gerry? You’ve got your fingers on the local pulses – in more ways than one.’
    The younger of the doctor brothers looked blankly at Peter.
    â€˜Sorry, not the faintest. But the gang that get into the Lamb of a night have always got some damn silly yarn to spin.’
    â€˜What about you, David. Any idea what the mystery is?’
    David shook his head. He dropped his gaze and began fumbling with a cigarette.
    â€˜No – no, I’ve no idea, I’m sorry,’ he said rather shortly.
    Before Peter had time to speculate on the lack of conviction in the doctor’s voice, there was a crunching of boots from inside the entrance of the shaft. A figure emerged blinking into the morning sunlight.
    He was a thickset man, with a bull neck and shoulders like a wrestler. Though actually quite tall, his barrel-like body seemed to take inches off his height.
    Peter had met him when he had asked permission to come up at eight o’clock; and he was able to introduce him to the Ellis-Morgan brothers as Detective-Superintendent Pacey, the CID officer in charge of the investigation.
    Gerry immediately taxed him with one of his flippant remarks.
    â€˜What’s going on down at the jaws of hell, there, Super?’
    Charles Pacey rubbed a handkerchief over his chubby face to remove the sweat and mud splashes.
    â€˜Looks like Hades too, Doc,’ he said cheerfully, ‘Still, the boys have done well; they’ve moved all the big rock already. It’s just a question of scratching through the rubble and sieving some of it now.’
    Pacey had a strong Welsh accent, but of the South Wales valleys, not the Cardigan twang. His bass voice suited his burly shape to perfection. He turned to the three men still sitting on the grass.
    â€˜Give them another quarter of an hour, then go in and let ’em have a break. OK?’
    â€˜But what have you found, Super?’ persisted Gerald.
    The detective grinned at him and deliberately prolonged the suspense.
    â€˜If you’re Dr Gerald Ellis-Morgan, then you must be our police surgeon, sir.’
    Gerry shrugged his shoulders and laughed.
    â€˜I am, in theory. But, in practice, it means that I have a look at a couple of drunks every year, that’s all.’
    Pacey beamed. Peter thought that his outward good humour was an effective way of covering his dealings with any unwary suspect. Beneath the benign ‘farmer’s boy’ manner, the journalist sensed a flinty shrewdness.
    â€˜Well, here’s your chance, Doc!’ went on the detective. ‘You can have first crack at this lot.’
    He waved a ham-like hand at the entrance, where another raincoated figure was emerging, his arms full of polythene bags.
    â€˜Bring ’em over here, Willie,’ Pacey said to his colleague – a tall, emaciated detective-inspector.
    Willie Rees carried his load over to the spot that Pacey had pointed out and dumped them at the side of a photographer’s holdall and a large wicker pannier, which stood on the grass.
    The superintendent took a large plastic sheet from the pannier, which was the ‘Major Incident’ box of the CID. It contained all sorts of bags and bottles, protective sheets and gadgets that could prove useful at the scene of a crime.
    â€˜We’ll spread the stuff out on this, Willie. Now, Doctor, could you tell me something about this little lot?’
    Pacey crouched by the