An Advancement of Learning

Chapter 10

That gentle voyeur, Harold Lapping, would have found much to please him in the college precincts that night. Al 7.30 p.m. the sun was still bright and warm and young bodies turned towards it on every patch of greenery. Even the staff garden, once patrolled with protective fury two or three times an evening by Miss. Disney, was now regarded as common ground in its state of limbo between holy land and a building site. The area immediately around the hole left by the statue was for reasons of decency or superstition unoccupied. But half a dozen small groups were scattered around the rest of the lawn, many stripped for sunbathing, those in swimming costumes practically indistinguishable from those who had merely taken off their outer garments, happy with the doubtful protection of their underclothes.

If Harold, dissatisfied with anything less than total nudity, had been able to glide unnoticed through the college buildings, he would not have been disappointed there. It had been a long, very hot day and there was a growing heaviness in the air, promising thunder. The pleasures of a cold or at least lukewarm shower were attractive even to the least Spartan. The shock to an incorporeal Harold of drifting through the walls of Miss. Disney’s flat would have been great, but not prolonged.

The advantages of complete nakedness while actually showering were too great to be ignored, but it was not a state she chose to remain in for longer than was necessary. Two minutes after turning off the water she was sufficiently clothed to be able to face herself in the mirror.

Something that she saw there, not in her physical proportions because she had long since come to terms with her lack of beauty, but in or behind her eyes filled them momentarily with tears. But they didn’t fall. Instead she picked up from her dressing-table the old Bible which was so often her only comfort and let it fall open at random. Frequent reading in certain places may have reduced the truly random element in some degree, but this did not occur to her. In any case, Miss. Disney did not believe in random openings of the Good Book.

It was one of her favourite passages.

“Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven,’ she began to incant, her eyes full now of a very different light.

Harold, had he remained so long, would have surely drifted on at this stage.

Thirty or forty yards down the corridor from Miss. Disney he would have struck oil.

Marion Cargo too had just taken a shower, and she had none of the older woman’s inhibitions. Lighting a cigarette she sank naked into a capacious easy-chair. Light filtered through the incompletely drawn curtains laying bars of gold across her brown body, turning her into a nymph of summer.

But her mind was contemplating a cold and foggy day nearly five years earlier when her life had changed. She stirred uneasily and made a movement towards the telephone. She felt the time had come to talk to someone.

The ringing of the doorbell prevented her. Quickly she rose and took a towelling wrap from the bedroom. She was still tying it one handed as she opened the door.

“I’m sorry,’ said Arthur Halfdane. ”s inconvenient? I just thought; well you said, come and have a drink some lime.”

“Of course it’s not,’ she said. ‘ long as you don’t mind. Look, come in. I’m glad you’re here. I’d like to talk to you.”

Obviously there would have been no point in Harold’s remaining there for the moment anyway. Had he struck off at a right-angle and drifted through the evening air till he penetrated the next block, he might have found a much more promising situation.

Sandra Firth lay naked on the bed. Beside her, standing looking down at her, was Franny Roote, his shirt in his hands. She reached up and pulled it from him.

“My word,’ he said. ”re impatient, love. Is it my manly charm?” “The others will be coming soon,’ she said.

He glanced at his watch as he took it off and put it carefully on the bedside table.

“So they will. Perhaps we shouldn’t bother?”

She turned her face away from him and he laughed, undoing the heavy brass-buckle of his trouser-belt.

“By the way, love,’ he said, ‘ were you saying to that nice fat policeman today?” “Nothing,’ she said, pushing herself up on her elbows. ‘. I just wanted to ask, well, you know, what they were doing.”

“Oh,’ he said, still again.

“Yes,’ she said urgently. ‘ just wanted to see what I could find out.”

“And what did you?”

“Nothing, of course. What do you expect?”

“I expect discretion.”

“Discretion! Don’t you want to know who killed Anita!’ Her voice rose and he reached out his hand and caressed her gently.

“Of course I do. Very much.”

Something in his voice chilled her.

“Listen, Franny, let the police do it. It’s their business.”

“Everyone to his trade, eh?’ He laughed again. ‘, you stick to yours in future. I thought I could trust you. Everyone’s getting all independent. Stuart thinks he’s laying the base-work of the people’s bloody revolution. Now you’re off Sherlocking about the place.”

“I’m sorry, Franny. Really.”

“All right,’ he said, pushing his trousers down.

Harold would have been puzzled to observe he did not seem in the slightest degree excited. But Sandra seemed capable of remedying that.

Unfortunately once again there was an interruption, a sharp banging at the door.

“Franny? Open up. Stuart here. I wanted to see you before the others arrived.”

“Hang on a sec! Sorry, love,’ he said to Sandra as he rolled off the bed. ‘ don’t think I can concentrate with Cockshut listening at the door. Later, eh? OK?”

With a blank expression almost amounting to despair Sandra rose up and began to dress.

Harold with a shrug of resignation would surely at this point have launched himself seawards to the more certain delight of bird-song and the golf club.

Miss. Scotby and Simeon Landor were strolling in the garden of the principal’s house, apparently admiring a fine display of roses. The house itself standing on the edge of the college grounds was only two years old. The long line of spinster principals had been easily accommodated in a flat in the Old House. But the ready availability of college-employed labour had already turned the garden into a thing of beauty.

They had been discussing matters of college business. Miss. Scotby still held a writing-pad in her hands in which she had been jotting down notes.

“Roote came to see me today,’ said Landor. ‘ polite. He expressed student concern. He said they were worried.”

“Aren’t we all? We must be careful. That boy Cockshut will be out to cause trouble. Roote’s just a pawn.”

“You think so?”

“Yes. I saw him today. Cockshut. Mr. Fallowfield was passing. Some very unpleasant things were said. Mr. Fallowfield looks quite ill which was a blessing in a way as I don’t think he heard them. But he ought to see a doctor.” “I’ll speak to him,’ said Landor. ‘ it’s a hard one this. He’s still officially suspended, but now of course… ” “With the girl dead,’ concluded Miss. Scotby, ”s not much that can be done.”

“No. Well, I think that’s all, isn’t it? Shall we go in?”

They turned back to the house. Behind a closed upstairs window, the pale gleam of a face was visible, staring down at them. Landor raised a hand in acknowledgement and it turned away.

Among the roses the principal and the senior tutor stood still for a moment before moving over the lawn to the open french window.

“Nice of you to come back,’ said Dalziel. ‘ was beginning to think you’d bloody well gone to Austria.”

It wasn’t as bad as Pascoe expected. Dalziel listened to his report with hardly a comment till he came to the end.

“So,’ he said. ”re no further on? What about her car?”

Pascoe was ready.

“At the airport in the long-term car-park. Where you’d have expected it to be.”

“You spoke to the attendant?” “It’s five years, almost,’ said Pascoe protestingly. ‘ can you remember about that Christmas?”

It was, to say the least, an unwise question. By itself it smacked of impudence when directed at a superior officer. In terms of Dalziel’s broken domestic life, God knows what significance it had. Once again Dalziel’s reaction was surprisingly mild.

“Not much,’ he agreed. ‘ you asked?”

“Yes. Nothing.”

“So all we have is that Disney saw her drive off into the fog that night, and that is that, till her bones turn up back here two days ago.”

“What about the girl, sir? Anything there?’ asked Pascoe hoping to strike a more promising vein.

“Not much. What there is is bloody puzzling.”

Briefly Dalziel filled his sergeant in on the events of the day.

That’s very interesting!’ said Pascoe when he heard Harold Lapping’s story. ‘ sounds like a coven.”

“A what?”

“Witches, sir.”

“You mean black magic? That stuff? Perhaps.”

“What did the autopsy say?”

“If you’re thinking it’s a nice ritual murder, you can forget it. It was a straightforward case of jumping on her back and holding her face in the sand till she stopped breathing. No frills. No white cocks, black candles or any of that how’syour-father.”

“No. Well, there wouldn’t be, would there? Obviously something or someone disturbed them and it was after they all split up that this happened.” “Likely. The time fits,’ said Dalziel without much enthusiasm.

“Do we know who else was in on it?’ asked Pascoe.

“Nothing definite. I’ve a feeling this girl, Firth, can tell us something. But everyone seems to have shut up tight as a virgin’s knees.

We’ve been asking around. Nothing. Landor expresses amazement at the thought of such goings-on. I’m beginning to think he’s as wilfully blind to realities as Disney and Scotby. Perhaps more.”

Moodily the superintendent pulled a bottle of scotch and a couple of glasses out of a desk drawer. He filled them both and pushed one towards Pascoe who took it quietly and raised it to his lips.

He had seen this pessimistic, almost self-doubting mood come upon his superior before but was still at a loss how best to deal with it. Nor was he certain whether his presence at these sessions was a mark of favour or a potential source of disfavour when Dalziel recalled his own weakness.

The sun was still bright outside, though now the shadows lay long. Very distantly there came the mumble of thunder.

The sound seemed to rouse Dalziel.

“Look,’ he said. ”ve a feeling I’m missing something about this bloody place. Perhaps that’s what comes of leaving school at fourteen. I talked to those buggers this morning but I’m not sure we really made any contact. They’re meant to be educating these kids about society, but all the time I could feel they didn’t trust me themselves. Not that I give a toss about that. I’m not looking for love.”

Pascoe essayed an expression which he hoped could pass for either amused appreciation or serious agreement depending on what Dalziel’s comment required.

“But it worries me, not knowing what makes the place tick. I thought I had it sorted out. An old guard, represented by Disney and Scotby and what-have-you, and a new guard represented by Landor and his supporters.

Reaction and radicalism. Christ, I come from a good trade-union background, I know all about that. But suddenly people start making nasty cracks at Landor, as if he belongs in the dark ages. And he’s obviously shit scared of the students. Someone wants to tell him about appeasement in the thirties.”

“He has a degree in history, I believe,’ ventured Pascoe.

“Christ, what’s that mean? Flint axes, stately homes and kitchen gossip!

That’s the trouble, most of these sods have spent all their bloody waking lives in schools and colleges and universities. It’s all inbreeding, like a Welsh village’

Dalziel refilled his glass but didn’t offer a second helping to Pascoe.

It was pure malt, Glen Grant, and not to be wasted.

“I don’t think you’re quite fair,’ said the sergeant diffidently. ”s the nature of the institutions which matters rather than people’s backgrounds. You’re bound to get a certain special kind of underlife developing. Like in a prison.”

Dalziel studied the analogy for a moment.

“You mean there’ll be gangs? tobacco rings? that sort of thing?”

“Not quite the same, but something like it. Initiation ceremonies for instance. An encouragement to belonging, a threat to not belonging. Food fiddles. Gambling schools. Witches’ covens even.”

“But OK so that could happen, well, but why isn’t something done? I mean, there are rules. Who knows? If you know, then a hell of a lot of other people must have worked it out too.” “Of course,’ said Pascoe impatiently. ‘ knowing and acting, or even admitting are different things.” “No,’ said Dalziel, finishing his drink once more. ‘ sounds — well, there’s something not right. It isn’t a prison after all. They don’t seem to have any rules at all here!” “Perhaps not,’ said Pascoe. ‘ in a place like this, it can be more than just rule-breaking. There must exist whole areas of shadow where self-deception is necessary because clarity would be too awkward to deal with.”

Dalziel slapped his broad knee violently, evidently found it pleasurable, and did it again.

“Like me at school!”

“Pardon?”

“When I was a lad at school, about ten, I was supposed to be an innocent little boy, playing football and so on with other innocent little boys.

But what I was really interested in was chasing girls into the lavatories and if possible having a look at their crotches. But no one ever seemed to notice this. They all must have known, parents, teachers and all, but no one ever said owt!” That’s the kind of thing,’ said Pascoe drily.

“So what you’re saying is that those buggers on the staff probably know a lot more about what the students do than they let on?” What did I expect? Pascoe asked himself. A nice philosophical discussion on the nature of institutions?

“That’s about it, sir,’ he said. ‘ vice-versa, of course. There’s a whole range of non-official relationships which offer access to areas of privacy like baby-sitting, car washing, that kind of thing.” “And we mustn’t forget friend Fallowfield,’ said Dalziel. ‘ seems to have been offered plenty of access.”

He glanced at his watch.

“Right,’ he said. ”s not late. Let’s get to work.” “What at?’ said Pascoe.

“Well, you go and exercise that charm of yours on the staff. Take a trip down memory lane with your Miss. Soper, see if you can soften her up. Oh, and that lad, Halfdane, the one who looks like a consumptive haystack, he was after you earlier. Wouldn’t say anything to me.”

“And you, sir?’ prompted Pascoe. ‘ will you be?”

“With my own kind,’ said Dalziel rising and patting his paunch. “They hate us youth.” That shakes you, eh? Erudition in unlikely places. I’ll be with the top student brass. I think there’s something on tonight.

Something that girl Firth said. We’ll see. Give us a hand to clear this stuff away, will you?”

He began to shuffle the papers which lay on the desk before him. Pascoe hurriedly joined him, knowing from experience who would be held responsible for the superintendent’s chaos.

Rapidly, efficiently, he began transferring material to the appropriate files in the large cabinet Landor had loaned them. One piece of paper caught his eye and he paused to read it.

“What’s that?’ said Dalziel whose own sole contribution to the clearing-up operation had been the careful removal of his bottle of scotch from the table.

“It’s just the information from CRO,’ said Pascoe.

“Oh, ay. We sent them all in, staff and the student officers just for good measure. Don’t want to discriminate, do we?”

“And nothing’s known. Only to be expected. Except… “

That lad, Cockshut? Yes. Quite a list, isn’t it? Obstruction. Damage to property. Resisting arrest. A big demo man. And I bet the bloody state subsidises him heavily enough to pay his fines.”

“I’ve heard of these people.”

“The International Action Group? Student bloody communists. We’ve had our eyes on them,’ said Dalziel darkly.

Pascoe smiled, wondering whether Dalziel would shed his Fascist Beast role before he started talking to the students. Possibly not. He worked mainly through antagonism.

“Still I can’t see any political motives for what’s happened here.”

“Someone probably said that about Lincoln,’ said Dalziel.

He dropped the bottle he was still clutching into the top drawer of the filing cabinet, slammed it shut, tested it and nodded.

“Safety stowed,’ he said. ‘ to work!”

The room was heavy with smoke. The heat of the day, fading now outside as the evening wore on, was trapped in here by the heavy richly patterned curtains which also cut off the mellow light echoed from the sun. The only lumination here came from two candles on a double-branched candelabra on the mantelshelf above the boarded-in fireplace.

The room was full of people. Overfull. It could take at the most half a dozen in any kind of comfort. Now there were over twenty. The smell of smoke had to compete with the smell of human sweat.

“All right, my loves, now hear this,’ Franny Roote was saying. He was seated cross-legged in the middle of the floor.

“I didn’t expect much from recall tonight. Interruptions like that shatter all the links. But not to worry. There’ll be other times. As for what happened later, to poor Anita, we know this has nothing to do with any of us.” He paused. Somewhere outside a girl laughed.

“Help the police, my loves. Even you, Stuart. It’s your bounden duty under the state.”

There was a slight murmur of amusement at the heavy irony of his tone.

“But remember our responsibilities to each other. Beware especially of the fat man. Let me know instantly if you are approached.”

Sandra Firth shifted uneasily. Franny clapped his hands once.

“Now off you go,’ he said. ‘ what we decided. We have done nothing wrong.”

There was a general rustle of movement about the room as people stood up and made for the door. But no one spoke. Shadows flickered wildly on the walls as the open door let in a draught of slightly cooler air. Even the heavy curtains stirred, though the window behind them was closed, and suddenly the candles went out. The last few to leave stumbled in the darkness as they made for the narrow rectangle of light visible through the half open door. Finally one of those who remained pushed the door shut at the same time as Stuart Cockshut relit the candles.

Only five faces were now revealed by the flames. Franny still sat motionless on the floor. Sandra seated herself beside him. Two other girls sat facing them and Cockshut pulled from under the bed a highly polished square of wood on which rested a crystal wineglass and a pile of plastic letters from a Scrabble set. These he arranged swiftly in a large circle round the glass, placed the board in the centre of the seated group then retired to sit on the bed.

“Thank you, Stuart,’ said Franny. ‘, let me see.”

He closed his eyes and bent his head. The others followed suit, breathing deeply through the nose. After a full two minutes, Franny slowly stretched out his hand and laid a finger on the glass. One by one the others did the same. The glass stirred uneasily as though eager to move.

“Who is there?’ called Franny in a clear, steady voice.

Again the glass stirred, then suddenly set off sliding round the table, emitting a vibrant, bell-like noise as the rim rubbed against the polished wood.

Too fast. Too fast,’ said Franny.

The glass came to rest again in the middle of the board.

“If it’s Anita, she won’t have had the practice yet,’ said Stuart from on the bed, a touch of scepticism in his voice.

“Hush, hush,’ said Franny. ‘. Are you there?”

Slowly, jerkily the glass began to move again.

“Yes!’ breathed one of the girls. There were beads of sweat on all their faces now, except for Franny’s.

“Ask who killed her,’ said Sandra fiercely.

“Hush,’ repeated Franny.

“No. Ask!’ said Sandra. ‘! Who did it? Who did it?”

The glass moved rapidly round the ring of letters, pausing nowhere, gathering speed all the time. At first its path followed the circle itself, but suddenly it began to dart across from one side to another, till finally it broke through the barrier of letters, scattering them violently, and ran off the board altogether. It fell sideways as it caught the pile of the carpet and the stem cracked. One of the girls shrieked and started to suck her cut finger.

“It’s no good,’ said Franny. ”s too much fear there. The ambience is not right somehow. There’s some interference somewhere.”

He peered intensely around the room. A dark shadow moved from behind the Chinese screen which stood against the wall by the corner nearest the door.

“I expect that’s me,’ said Dalziel, flicking the light switch on. ”s have outward illumination at least.”

He moved over to the window, wrinkling his nose like a bulldog, pulled back the curtains and with some difficulty threw open the window.

“There!’ he said, breathing deeply. That’s better.”

Cockshut stood up from the bed and approached him fiercely.

“What the hell right have you got in here? Have you got a warrant?”

Dalziel looked puzzled.

“Mr. Cockshut, isn’t it? Ah yes. You’d know all about warrants, wouldn’t you, laddie? No, we never use them these days, we prefer illegal methods as I’m sure you know. Now shut up or I might demonstrate a bit of police brutality.”

He turned to where Franny was still seated on the floor. The girls had all risen.

“This is your room, isn’t it, Mr. Roote?”

“Yes.”

“Forgive me if I’ve intruded. There were a lot of people coming in and out earlier so I just joined them. I could see you were busy, so I sat and waited rather than interrupt. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not at all.” “There!’ said Dalziel triumphantly to Cockshut. He squatted down cumbersomely beside Franny and looked with interest at the board and the letters.

“This is interesting,’ he said. ‘ you know some police forces go in for this kind of thing in a big way? I believe you yourself had a bit of success. Over Miss. Girling’s body, wasn’t it?”

“That was the ouija board,’ said Franny.

“Ah. I see. But tonight didn’t go so well?”

“No. There was interference. You see, Superintendent, these lines of spiritual communication are very sensitive to the presence of scepticism, especially when its physical embodiment is gross and earthy.

Now, what can we do for you?”

“Mr. Roote,’ began Dalziel. ”re the President of the Students’ Union in this college, right? You’ve got the students’ interests at heart. So have I. I want to find out who killed Miss. Sewell. And quickly. For all we know, he might be building up to killing someone else. That’s my interest. I’m not concerned with questions of morality and discipline, at least not officially. Let me give you an example. If a group of people over the age of majority care to run around naked in the middle of the night in a remote area of countryside, far removed from the public view, that’s their business. I’ve no interest in publishing lists of names, or writing to anxious parents. If I can do things quietly, I will do them quietly. On the other hand, if I’ve got to stir things up, they’ll hear the stirring from here to the Brocken.” “You’re not a warlock by any chance,’ asked Franny with a faint smile. ‘ course I’m eager to cooperate in any way I can. This story about naked dancers now, where did you get hold of that, I wonder?”

He eyed Sandra speculatively. She shook her head with pleading eyes.

Cockshut could contain himself no longer.

“You’re threatening us, Dalziel,’ he said. ‘ talk about stirring things up. You’re not the only one who can stir, you’ll find out before the weekend’s done!”

Franny shot him a warning glance. Dalziel merely smiled.

“Perhaps we could talk more comfortably in my office, Mr. Roote?”

“Why not? Stuart, tidy up for me, there’s a love.”

Cockshut bent down and helped himself to a handful of letters from the board.

“Big man!’ he shouted after Dalziel as he went through the door. ‘!

Make a name for yourself!”

The letters whistled past Dalziel’s head and scattered along the tiled corridor. He glanced down at them as he passed.

There were four of them; a U, a C, a T, and an N.

When Roote caught up with him, he was mildly surprised to find the fat policeman shaking with laughter.

“You looking for me?’ asked Ellie behind him.

“Well, I can’t find anybody else,’ said Pascoe before he could stop himself. His remark wasn’t directed at Ellie but arose from his growing annoyance at the way in which these academics seemed to disappear at will. Perhaps they’re all practising witches, he had thought. Perhaps the entire staff of the college are at this very moment chasing each others’ naked backsides round the dunes.

Ellie surprisingly did not take offence. Indeed she seemed glad to see him.

“You’d better make the most of me, then,’ she said. ‘ a coffee?”

“Thanks.”

They were outside the block in which Ellie’s flat lay. He had indeed been on his way to call on her when she came up behind. He had left her to the last from a reluctance to be rebuffed once again for apparently using their old friendship for cold professional ends. But no one else seemed to be around. Knocks on doors had produced no replies and the staff common rooms were deserted.

He experienced a strange feeling as he followed Ellie into her flat, but he was too well trained not to have it isolated within a few seconds.

It was a kind of misty familiarity. There were a couple of pictures, an ornament, a Chinese bowl, a small rather threadbare Persian rug, one or two other things, which had at one time in a different room been as familiar to him as his own possessions.

His eyes returned to the rug again, remembering more. On that very scrap of woven fabric he had laid Ellie down for the first time, ignoring the institutional divan shoved into a corner.

“Take a seat,’ she said with a grin. I’ll make the coffee.”

He had an uncomfortable feeling that she had followed the direction of his eyes and his thoughts very accurately.

“Had a nice evening?’ he asked, sinking into an old armchair.

“Not very,’ she called. ”ve been to the local Film Society. Some dull bloody Polish film. Rotten projection, illegible sub-titles and hard wooden chairs. What I would have given for John Wayne, red plush and a tight clinch in the back row!” “You should have said,’ he answered lightly. ‘ there? From the college, I mean?”

“Not from nowhere. There’s usually half-a-dozen from here but they all wisely stayed away tonight.”

“Does Halfdane go?”

“Sometimes.’ She came in with the coffee. ‘ do you ask?”

“I heard he had been looking for me. I’ve been away most of the day.”

“Oh yes. The great detective. How’s it going?’ she asked sarcastically.

He welcomed the change of mood. It gave him a chance to ask questions without appearing to take advantage.

“Slowly,’ he said. ”s a lot of space to fill in.”

“For instance?”

“Well, there’s the intangibles. What kind of place is this to work in?

In normal conditions I mean. Everybody draws together in the face of the enemy.”

“Not everybody. It’s a funny atmosphere. All happy and Butlins’-Redcoats on the surface. But lots of oddities. We’re very isolated for a start and instead of improving on lines of communication with the university, socially and administratively I mean, there’s been a kind of contraction into an even tighter little circle. Or groups of little circles.” “For instance?’ asked Pascoe in his turn sipping his coffee and trying to concentrate on what Ellie was saying rather than on her brown, well-fleshed legs draped lengthily over the arm of her chair.

“Well there’s all kind of odd little societies for a start. In the prospectus it looks very good, opportunity to pursue a wide range of interest and activity in the college, that kind of thing. But it’s not really like that. It’s hard to break into these tight little circles.

You’ve got to prove you fit, almost. And I suspect you need more than just a proven interest in stamp-collecting or whatever it is.”

“What for instance? You mean some special sex variation, that kind of thing?”

She made an impatient gesture.

“Christ, man, you’ve had the fine intellectual edges rubbed off you, haven’t you? Sex sometimes, of course. But more often as a symptom than an end in itself. It’s a matter of belonging. How you belong is unimportant except that people generally take the line of least resistance. Anyway I don’t know why I’m bothering to tell you all this.

You can read it in my book.”

She gestured at a fairly bulky file which jutted out of her bookshelves.

“I’ll look forward to that. What is it — a thesis?”

“Christ, no! Thesis faeces! That kind of crap’s all behind me now. No, it’s a novel,’ she replied, a defensive note in her voice.

“Really?’ He was uncertain whether to go on talking about it or not. He decided not. If she wanted to talk about it, she would. The only other novelist he had ever known seemed willing to stop complete strangers in the street and force chunks of his indigestible prose down their throats.

“What about the staff? Don’t answer if you’d rather not,’ he said.

Dalziel would have torn out what remained of his greying hair at such delicacy. Or worse, perhaps admired his hypocrisy. There seem to be a few feuds here. Disney and Fallowfield, for instance.”

She hooted with derision at the names.

“What d’you expect? There’s nothing queerer than two old queers. No, there’s bloodier battlegrounds than that.” She paused enticingly, but Pascoe was not to be drawn by hints. If she wanted to say more she would. But she had made a firm assertion and that was worth pursuing.

“Disney and Fallowfield, two old queers? Why do you say that?”

She looked at him incredulously.

“Come off it, Sherlock. Walt’s so butch she might as well advertise in the local paper.”

“Is this guesswork?’ he said, allowing disbelief to colour his tone.

“Guesswork nothing! When I first came she tried to charm me into her magic circle. What a thought! Poor Walt. It’s mostly sublimated now, I guess. Just girl-talk and confession hour and a bit of shoulder-patting and hair-stroking. She was hit bad when old Girling died, so they tell me.”

Pascoe was surprised.

“I thought they didn’t get on all that well? That this friendship thing was just a posthumous fantasy.”

Ellie shrugged.

“I heard different. Who told you that?”

“Dunbar.”

“That little Scotch git! What’d he know anyway? I bet they paid money to get him out of Scotland.” Pascoe pressed on, ignoring this other invitation to divert.

“And Fallowfield? What about him? Surely this business with the girl… ” “Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘ surprised me, I admit. I hadn’t known him long, of course, or well. But I’d have guessed differently about him.

What the hell, perhaps he’s just got catholic tastes!”

“Perhaps. But why… “

She jumped up. Again the legs were much in evidence.

“Enough’s enough! Drink your coffee and either stop being a policeman or go.”

She went over to a record-player pushed beneath a small sideboard, pulled it out and put a record on.

Pascoe reached into his wallet and produced his warrant card.

There you are,’ he said placing it on the mantelpiece. ‘ now have no official standing.”

Feeling incredibly ham, he took Ellie in his arms and they began dancing, pressed close together.

“Why aren’t you married?’ she asked suddenly. ‘ are you?”

“No,’ he said. ‘ time. Besides I don’t mix with a very nice class of person. You?”

“God no! Half a dozen offers though; I shouldn’t like you to think no one else had ever asked. And a host of odd boyfriends. But nothing ever clicked.”

“No one now?’ he asked diffidently. ‘ wondered perhaps about that chap the other evening, Halfdane…?”

She drew away slightly, then laughed.

“We hardly know each other. But while there’s life… Still, he’s a bit young.” “Rubbish,’ he said drawing her close again. ”re perfect. Mature.”

“Like a good cheese. I’m over thirty now. Hell, I don’t want to be like the others, like Disney and Scotby. Christ, I’m sometimes really sorry that we split up when we did. I even dream about it! Mind you, we’d probably have been divorced by now!”

“Probably.”

She stopped dancing and looked at him.

“Anyway, I wouldn’t like you to get the idea that I’m desperately thrashing around for a husband. Especially you.”

“Of course not,’ he agreed.

“Good. As long as that’s clear,’ she said, coming back into his arms.

“You are stopping the night, aren’t you?”

“Perhaps not all the night,’ he said cautiously.

“Enough of it,’ she said in his ear. ”ll take a trip down memory lane.”

He awoke at two in the morning. They had been too warm to be covered by anything other than a single sheet and even this had been thrust off in the night. He looked down at her sleeping form on the bed beside him.

They had started off on the Persian rug, but eventually transferred here, admitting that comfort came before sentiment. She opened her eyes now.

“I’d like you to read my book,’ she said.

“It’ll be a pleasure,’ he said taking hold of her again.

He left at five. It was light outside. She sat naked in an armchair watching him comb his hair in front of the mirror.

“The book,’ he said.

“If you like.”

He watched with pleasure as she stood up and went over to the bookshelf.

“Thanks,’ he said.

“Don’t forget your card,’ she said.

He picked it up from the mantelshelf.

“They say you always leave something in a place you want to come back to,’ he said laughing.

“You’ve left something,’ she said, opening the door. She seemed keen for him to go, but returned his farewell kiss with enthusiasm.

Outside in the corridor they heard another door open. Pascoe peered out cautiously. A few yards along stood a man, carefully closing a door behind him. It was Halfdane.

Pascoe glanced enquiringly at Ellie, but her face showed no emotion.

They waited in silence a few minutes till Halfdane had moved cautiously away.

“Cheerio, love,’ said Pascoe, kissing her once more. ‘ you later.”

She still didn’t speak and he left, moving swiftly but quietly down the corridor, pausing only to glance at the name on the door Halfdane had come out of.

It was Marion Cargo.

The next name was Miss. Disney’s and normally Pascoe might have noticed that the door-handle was not quite at the right angle as though someone was standing inside, holding it tightly. But he was pleasurably tired, his mind and body full of pleasant impressions.

He paused outside to breathe in the balmy morning air and listen to the birds.

It looked like being a red-hot day. But he could be wrong. For instance yesterday, for all its early lack of promise, had turned out very fine indeed.