An Advancement of Learning

Chapter 12

The dismissed batsman was not the only one who noticed Dalziel’s sudden departure. Halfdane and his two female consorts did.

“Perhaps he’s off for a swim,’ he suggested.

That’s not a bad idea,’ said Ellie, watching Pascoe picking himself up from among the daisies.

She stretched herself voluptuously, back arched, breasts at maximum projection, legs at maximum exposure.

“I wouldn’t mind myself,’ she added, watching Halfdane carefully. She saw she had his interest.

Something’s happened to me recently, she thought. Suddenly I’m a huntress! I’ve been eyeing this poor bastard hungrily for a month or so now. Then last night; that was me. And what do I want anyway, for God’s sake? Some memories for a lonely old age? Or something permanent? It’s too late for that with PC Pascoe, even if he doesn’t know it yet. And I’m not really going about it the right way with this one. Any lasting erection must have a firm foundation, so they say.

She giggled at herself, let her body relax and pulled her skirt down.

“Do you think they’d miss us if we did?’ said Marion Cargo from the other chair.

Quietly confident! groaned Ellie inwardly.

“Who cares?’ said Halfdane. ‘ we might see the bold gendarmes again and I want a word with Ellie’s mate. Let’s get our things.”

Ellie’s mate! Perhaps Pascoe was the only hope after all. The beach might tell. It was ground of her own choosing. In or out of the water she knew she was physically superb.

“Let’s go,’ she said.

Landor rose to adjust his wife’s parasol against the threatening manoeuvres of the sun. He had met her and courted her in the long winter of 1947. Curled up deep in an armchair before a roaring fire, or muffled against the snow in layers of clothing which permitted only the slight pale oval of her face to show, she had appealed deeply to his protective instincts. They had married in the spring and the tremors of doubt he had felt even then had been confirmed in every summer thereafter.

He looked at Jane Scotby and received from her a cold impersonal smile in return. She had resented him deeply when he first took up the post, he suspected. But he had met the senior tutor on the beach one morning more than a year ago, perilously perched on the back of a huge brown horse, her face slightly flushed with excitement, her eyes brighter than ever. It had seemed odd at first, almost ludicrous, till he realized how completely in control she was. And the beast was no milk-horse, it terrified the life out of Landor. The meeting had subtly changed their relationship.

His wife on the other hand controlled nothing, not even the running of the household. Lunch today had been all right. Salad and strawberries were difficult to spoil.

That young policeman was most brusque this morning, I felt,’ she said, watching Dalziel and Pascoe depart. ‘ police are not what they were.”

Landor caught Scotby’s bright blue eyes again. She gave no sign of any reaction to his wife’s inanities, for which he was grateful. But comfort was pleasant, it was good to be comforted from time to time.

He watched Ellie Soper and Marion Cargo sinuously rise from their deckchairs, helped by young Halfdane.

He sighed deeply, felt the gaze on him of both the women by his side, and turned his sigh into a yawn. Comfort would be nice, but not at the expense of discretion. He glanced over his shoulder back to the complex of buildings which formed the college. That was his comfort. Nothing could come between him and that.

“What did Walt want?’ asked someone after Sandra had been lying in the grass for ten minutes.

“When?”

“When you came over just now.”

“Nothing. I don’t know. Just to talk. You know what she is.” “No, I don’t really,’ said the youth who had asked the question. ”s never bothered me. don’t get invited on the Tour of the Abbeys trip.”p›

There was a general laugh. Miss. Disney’s annual long weekend among the ruins of Yorkshire’s abbeys with a group of specially selected girls was the subject of a great deal of scurrilous folklore.

“Poor you,’ said Stuart Cockshut. ”s that fat bastard off to?”

They watched Dalziel and Pascoe heading towards the dunes.

“I hope he keeps walking and drowns.”

“You don’t like him, Stuart?”

“I don’t like policemen, period. And this one’s out of the original mould. Thick as pig-shit and twice as nasty.” “Stuart love,’ said Franny who was lying on his back chewing a daisy, ‘you are far too positive for a politician. You are as clear and uncomplicated as a pane of glass.

Yon Dalziel saw through you at a glance. I have no doubt he has a file thicker than Miss. Disney on your many misdemeanours. And probably knows better than you the membership and background of these odd little societies you belong to. You must dirty the window a little, keep the inside polished but let rain-drops and bird-crap stop others from looking in.”

“He doesn’t know what’ll happen at the meeting tonight,’ snarled Stuart, angry at the reproof.

Franny sat up.

“But surely no one knows that? Isn’t that one of the mysterious joys of the democratic process? Well now, everyone seems to be heading for the beach.”

The others peered through the grass at Halfdane and the two female lecturers.

“Perhaps there’s an orgy going on,’ said someone.

“Oh, I took my organ to an orgy, but nobody asked me to play,’ sang Franny softly.

“Anyone fancy a walk down there?’ said Sandra. ‘ see what’s on?”

They looked at Franny who lay down once more and resumed his daisy-chewing again.

“Not me,’ he said. ”m enjoying the cricket far too much to drag myself away. If someone will substitute a smoke for this flower, I’ll be perfectly content.”

There was a pause. He lay with his eyes closed till he felt the thin cylinder of paper put to his lips. He inhaled deeply.

“Of course,’ he said, ‘ anyone else wants to go, don’t let me keep you.”

No one moved. Only a breeze touched the grass and died with the touch.

Pascoe was sweating as much as Dalziel by the time he caught up with him. ”re we going?’ he asked.

“Fallowfield. Look,’ said Dalziel, waving Jessup’s papers at him. ‘ was here, being interviewed. The day Girling probably got killed. How’s that for coincidence? Just like the coincidence that he had a date to see the girl he wasn’t really sleeping with the night she got killed.

That’s another coincidence, eh?”

“It might be,’ said Pascoe, cautiously.

“We’re just going to ask,’ said Dalziel, as though answering a warning.

“There’s no harm in asking, is there?” “No, sir,’ said Pascoe, a little breathlessly. The previous night must have taken more out of him than he’d imagined.

The sea was now in sight. They were off course a little and had to bear to the right to get a line on the little row of cottages where Fallowfield lived.

There was no sign of life in or near any of the buildings, though there were quite a few people on the beach. The sea was absolutely still and there was a soft blue haze on it, drawn up by the sun, like something invented by a Hollywood colour technician. Those bathing in the shallow waters seemed distant, enchanted, their voices and laughter overheard from another world.

There was nothing distant or enchanted about Dalziel’s knock on the door.

He paused a second, scarcely long enough for anyone within to recover from the shock, thought Pascoe, and then hammered away again.

There was no sound from inside.

“Have a look along the beach. See if he’s there,’ ordered Dalziel, making his way round to the little cobbled yard behind the cottages.

Pascoe had only gone about twenty yards, walking awkwardly on the soft sand, when he heard his name called. Turning, he saw Dalziel standing in the open front door of the cottage. Quickly he retraced his steps.

“I got in through the back,’ said the fat man, adding sardonically in response to Pascoe’s unasked question, ‘ door was open.”

He went back into the house. Pascoe followed.

The front door opened into the main living-room, probably a draughty arrangement during the winter gales. But Pascoe’s mind dwelt for a split second only on design problems. He blinked at the translation from bright sunlight to the shadowy interior then stared wide-eyed around him.

The place was a shambles.

The floor was covered with torn paper, most of it, as far as he could tell, pages ripped from the books which had once lined the shelves along one side of the fireplace. Mingled with the paper were the innards of cushions, pillows, chairs; flock, feathers and horsehair lay inches deep in many places. There was a strong smell of spirits, and, lined neatly on the old dresser, Pascoe saw the empty bottles. Someone had carefully poured their contents down on to the general mess below. The walls also had been defaced. Scribbled over them was a variety of obscene drawings, mostly outrageous caricatures of a penis, being attacked by a knife or scissors, with a selection of accompanying slogans, equally simple and direct. Their common burden seemed to be that Fallowfield was a bastard pig who co-habited with his own mother.

No matter how often you saw it, it was always a shock to see a room reduced to this kind of chaos, but Pascoe quickly recovered and stood stock-still, not wanting to disturb anything till he had taken it all in. Dalziel stood quietly by his side.

Impressions began to form.

This shambles was not the kind created by a struggle. Indeed far from it, Pascoe decided. This was a very quiet kind of wrecking. So far as he could see, nothing had been broken, no glass anyway. The empty bottles had been put safely down, the small glass-fronted cabinet from which they had probably been taken was intact, as were the glasses it contained. The old plates which lined the big old-fashioned dresser were undisturbed. A grandmother clock stood in a corner. The face had been opened and the hands torn off, but no glass broken. Nowhere had anything large or heavy been overturned.

Dalziel spoke his thoughts.

“They took their time, didn’t they? Took their time and did it quietly.

You could have come to the door and knocked and not known anyone was in here.”

“Perhaps we did,’ suggested Pascoe.

“I hope not,’ said Dalziel gloomily. ‘ all the buggers likely to have done it were sitting back there watching the cricket.”

“It looks recent, though.”

“I presume it bloody well is recent! It’s not the kind of decor you choose to live with for a long time, is it?”

“No, sir.”

“Right. Let’s have a good look around. But tread carefully.”

Pascoe felt rather slighted that Dalziel needed to give the instruction.

The fat man caught his expression.

“I mean, watch where you tread. Literally. They often crap or piddle all over the place when they make this kind of mess.”

Pascoe trod carefully but it turned out there was no need. The cottage was not large — living-room, kitchen, lavatory, shower, one bedroom and a boxroom. The damage was restricted almost entirely to the living-room.

Even those things belonging elsewhere which had been damaged — like the pillows and some clothing from the bedroom — had been taken downstairs first. There was a drawing in the lavatory — rather more care had been taken this time, but the theme was the same as below 164 and on the shower floor a tumbler had been shattered, whether by accident or malicious design it was hard to say.

As he stood looking out of the back window, Pascoe saw Halfdane coming over the dunes, making for the beach, with Ellie and Marion Cargo. All three had towels bundled under their arms and were obviously going swimming.

Swiftly he moved downstairs, out of the back door, and intercepted them.

“Hello,’ said Halfdane cheerily. ‘ met by sunlight! Come and join us, do.” “I’d love to,’ said Pascoe, smiling at Ellie. ‘ duty and modesty forbid. Look, I’m sorry to hold you up, but I just wanted to ask if you’d met anyone making their way back to the college?”

They looked at each other, then shook their heads.

“Sorry,’ said Halfdane. ‘ we couldn’t have been far behind you.

Why do you ask?”

“It’s not important,’ said Pascoe casually. He saw Ellie roll her eyes with exaggerated exasperation, but surprisingly it was Marion Cargo who made the usual complaint.

“If you people never say what it is you really want to know, how do you expect anyone to cooperate?”

“Us people?’ said Pascoe looking over his shoulder as though in search of them. ‘, you mean me! Never’? a bit strong to someone you’ve only met twice, isn’t it, Miss. Cargo?”

He pulled himself up. It was foolish to let these people get up his nose. These people! There, he was doing it now. It was just that, somehow, a shared background and many shared interests seemed to separate rather than bring them closer. He might have ended up like them if… if what? If there hadn’t been something in him which made it necessary to be a policeman.

In any case, as a policeman he could be conciliatory and seek information at the same time.

“I’m sorry,’ he said with his best smile. ‘ just wanted a word with Mr. Fallowfield, that’s all, and as he’s not at home, I wondered if I might have missed him in the dunes. You haven’t seen anything of him today, have you?”

Again the exchange of glances and the shaking of heads.

“In that case, I’ll go back and wait a bit,’ he said. ‘ a nice swim.”

He smiled once more. Ellie rolled her eyes again, but this time in a mock amazement at his performance which invited him to be amused with her. He grinned warmly. Marion remained impassive.

He had only gone a few steps when Halfdane overtook him.

“By the way, Sergeant, I wanted to have a quick word with you.”

“Yes?’ said Pascoe, rather brusquely he realized as he saw Halfdane’s eyes narrow.

But, Christ! why did he have to be grateful just because people condescended to talk to him?

“It’s probably nothing. I would have mentioned it to your superintendent, but his manner’s a bit off-putting.”

Suddenly Pascoe was fed up.

“What is it you want to tell me? Sir?”

“There’s a lot I could tell you,’ said Halfdane ironically, ‘ I really wanted to ask you something. In a case like this, a serious case I mean, if some minor breach of the law comes to light incidentally, while you’re pursuing the important enquiry, what do you do?”

“I don’t follow,’ said Pascoe woodenly.

“I think you do.”

“We don’t make bargains. And we don’t make judgments.”

“No? But you pay informants, don’t you?”

Pascoe shook his head, not in denial but in sheer impatience.

“Look,’ he said. ‘ you’ve got information, it’s your civic duty to pass it on, no matter what it is.” “Get knotted,’ said Halfdane, turning back to where the two women waited.

Pascoe did not wait to hear more but set off smartly back to the cottage.

“Well?’ said Dalziel.

“They’ve seen no one.” “There’s none so blind,’ said Dalziel. ”m beginning to think they’re all in a gigantic conspiracy.” “Perhaps so,’ said Pascoe, trying (unsuccessfully he was sure) not to let his chief see his own annoyance at the encounter. ‘; where’s Fallowfield? That’s the big question.”

“It’s bigger than you think,’ said Dalziel. ‘ and see what I’ve found.”

He led the way into the bedroom where he had obviously done a fairly comprehensive search.

“Look,’ he said, pointing into a suitcase which lay open on the bed.

In it were a flowered mini-skirt; some underwear; a pair of sandals.

Pascoe looked at the superintendent who nodded.

“They fit the description,’ he said. ”d lay good money they’re Anita Sewell’s.”

Pascoe snapped the case shut.

I’ll check it out,’ he said.

“Hold on a minute!’ said Dalziel. ”ll keep. No, you keep on sniffing around here for a bit. See if you can do a bit of detecting for a change. You should be well up on the psychological stuff. Well, tell me what kind of person would tear up a place like this? And what kind of person would have a place like this to tear up?” “All right,’ said Pascoe cautiously, uncertain how serious Dalziel was.

He went back downstairs to the living-room. Behind him he heard the bed creak protestingly. Dalziel was a great believer in taking rest when and where you got the chance. Pascoe was always ready to recognize the wisdom of others. He turned the slashed cushion of the deepest armchair upside down, gathered up an armful of paper from the floor and sat down.

Something about the drawings which defaced the walls caught his attention first. Some had been done in some kind of chalk. Bright yellow. There had been no sign of it during the search. He made a mental note to look more closely.

Other drawings and pieces of writing had been done more primitively by scoring the plaster with a sharp edged object. The brass candlestick on the mantelshelf? He stood up and looked more closely. The corners of the square base were scratched and smeared with powdered plaster.

Perhaps the chalk had just run out. It had been laid on pretty thickly.

He sat down again and began looking at the papers he held. It was a disappointing task at first. The only sheets which were not out of books were typewritten lecture notes, or at least so he assumed from the subject-matter. The books from which the majority of the pages had been ripped were again mainly text-books, easily identifiable as the pages had merely been torn whole from their covers. But here and there he noticed were smaller fragments of pages, some reduced almost to confetti, and he began to fit some of these together to see why they had been given special treatment.

It wasn’t an easy task and after a few minutes he chucked the whole lot on the floor in annoyance and began to do what he ought to have done in the first place — look for book covers.

It didn’t take long to sort out the odd ones — or rather the non-biological ones, for they were not particularly odd in themselves.

Huxley’s The Doors of Perception, Leary’s Politics of Ecstasy, Professor Thorndike’s History of Magic and Experimental Science (only three volumes out of eight), Aleister Crowley’s Magic in Theory and Practice and the same writer’s translation of Eliphas Levi’s The Key of the Mysteries, Allegro’s The Sacred Mushroom and the Cross (particularly badly damaged — Pascoe could find no piece of a page larger than a postage stamp), Eros and Evil by R.E. Masters; the covers from these and a score of others on related topics Pascoe stacked in the space he cleared on the floor in front of him. He heard the stairs creak and Dalziel appeared in the doorway.

His eyebrows went up when he saw what Pascoe had been doing.

“Pornography?’ he said hopefully.

“No, sir,’ said Pascoe with a poorly muffled groan.

“No?’ said Dalziel, poking around. ‘, it’s odd, isn’t it? A bit bent.”

“I’ve read most of them myself,’ said Pascoe challengingly.

“Still, you thought it was worth picking out this lot specially,’ said Dalziel mildly. Pascoe found he didn’t have a reply.

“Anything else?’ Dalziel went on. ‘. Let’s get things moving. First thing is, where’s Fallowfield? Failing that, who did this lot? Perhaps he’ll know where Fallow field is.”

“Unless it was Fallowfield himself,’ suggested Pascoe. Dalziel looked unimpressed.

To confuse the picture, I mean, while he makes off,’ the sergeant added.

“But why make off at all? And he was a bit careless leaving those clothes lying around, wasn’t he?”

“I suppose so.”

“Still not happy?’ said Dalziel sympathetically.

“Yes. That is, well, I don’t know, sir. There’s something… “

“Perhaps it’s the fact that two people did the wrecking that bothers you,’ Dalziel went on, the sympathy oozing out now.

Oh God, thought Pascoe. I’ve missed something. I should have known as soon as he started sounding pleasant!

“You noticed the drawings, of course?”

“Why, yes. You mean some are done in chalk, others scratched?”

“Partly that. But have another look. It’s not just the instrument, it’s the style.”

Pascoe looked. It might be true, though he had reservations. One piece of graffiti looked much like another to him.

“So there were two,’ he said neutrally.

“But the question is, lad, together or apart? Anyway, we mustn’t stand around here when there’s work to be done. I’ll get these clothes back to the college. You have a go at the neighbours, though I doubt they’ll be any use.”

“They don’t seem to be in,’ said Pascoe.

Dalziel looked at him pityingly.

“Of course they’re not in. Only fools and policemen are inside on a day like this. Walk down the beach a bit, they’re probably not far. And, Sergeant… “

“Sir?”

“Don’t let all that sunburnt flesh take your mind off the job.”

Even with the jacket of his lightweight suit slung casually over his shoulder, Pascoe felt very much overdressed as he furrowed his way through the soft sand towards the sea.

He had been right, the people next door were out; but in front of the farthermost of the four cottages he found an old woman who preferred the shade cast by the afternoon sun to its direct beam. She directed him to her family who were interested but unhelpful and in their turn they directed him to Fallowfield’s immediate neighbours.

There were a lot of them, three adults, one Selfconsciously almost naked teenage girl, an indistinguishable number of children and a dog.

The adults it seemed were Mr. and Mrs. Plessey and another Mr. Plessey, brother to the first.

No, they hadn’t seen Mr. Fallowfield all day; no, during the brief spells they had spent in their cottage that day, they had heard nothing suspicious, which was hardly surprising, thought Pascoe, listening to the din the children and the dog managed to make even while attending with great interest to what he was saying.

Finally; no, they hadn’t seen anyone, suspicious or not, anywhere near the cottage that day.

Pascoe turned to go.

“Except the lady.”

He turned back. It was one of the children, a happy faced boy of about six years.

“No!’ said one of his fellows, a little girl slightly older, who managed to inject considerable scorn into her voice. That was at night.” “Oh bother!’ said the boy, smacking his left fist into his right palm with a look of mock-exasperation. ”s right. Sorry!”

He jumped on top of the dog which didn’t seem to mind, and the others followed suit.

With some help from the elder Plesseys, Pascoe brought him to the surface again.

“What’s your name?’ he asked.

“Davy,’ said the lad.

“Which night was it you saw the lady? Can you remember?” “I dunno. Last night,’ he said with great charm but little conviction.

The night before last,’ said the little girl with quiet certainty.

Pascoe turned his attention to her as the more reliable witness, but instantly she became shy and tongue-tied, so he went back to Davy.

“What time was it?”

“Very very late,’ he said shooting a sideways glance at his mother.

“How late?” “Midnight,’ he said. ‘ were having a midnight feast. It was her idea.”

He spoke very earnestly, pointing at his sister, but spoilt it by starting to grin as his mother looked accusingly at him.

“It was nearly two-o-clock. Dark two-o-clock, I mean, not light two-o-clock.”

“She can tell the time,’ said Davy proudly. ”s got a clock.”

“It’s an alarming clock,’ said the girl. ‘ wakes you up.”

“What about this feast, Julie?’ asked Mr. Plessey sternly.

“It wasn’t really a feast,’ protested Julie. ‘ should have been, but the others wouldn’t wake up, only Davy.”

“And the lady?’ prompted Pascoe.

The lady whom they had seen going into Fallowfield’s house at two o’clock on Friday morning sounded — once Julie had modified Davy’s extremely sinister description very like Anita Sewell.

Happy, Pascoe offered ice-creams all round. He hadn’t realized quite how many little Plesseys there were and how much the cost of ice-cream had risen since he was a boy. Perhaps, he thought not very optimistically, Dalziel would let it come out of their informant funds.

Only once more did he pause before leaving the beach. Something distantly observed from the corner of his eye tickled his consciousness.

He glanced to the side, did a double-take.

No, he hadn’t been mistaken. The figure was some distance away, but quite unmistakable.

What on earth was Miss. Disney doing recumbent in all her tweedy glory among the hoi-polloi on this holiday beach?

Dalziel had initiated the hunt for Fallowfield very cautiously. For all he knew, the man was merely spending a weekend with friends somewhere, or perhaps even doing some shopping in one of the neighbouring towns. If so, he would come trotting back to Dalziel of his own accord and the superintendent had no intention of sending him to cover by advertising the eagerness of the police to interview him.

Nevertheless the wheels were set in motion, and what little information they had on the man was disseminated. It was very little indeed; there wasn’t even an easily accessible photograph. In fact, the information consisted almost entirely of name, verbal description and car-make and registration number.

This last item produced almost instant results. Within the hour the car was spotted outside a garage only a few miles from the college.

Dalziel’s satisfaction when this was reported to him was short-lived.

Within ten minutes it was established that the car had been left for servicing two days earlier. Fallowfield had not been back to collect it.

Going by the book, Dalziel immediately diverted more of his men to checking local car-hire services, but he felt uneasy. Checks at bus and rail stations had already proved fruitless.

Pascoe on his return from the beach had found an attentive audience as he described Fallowfield’s night visitor.

“So now you think Anita didn’t get killed right after the dancing party split up, but got dressed and later went to keep her appointment with Fallowfield?”

Pascoe was used to being appointed owner of theories until they became certainties, when they returned to his superior.

“It could be,’ he said.

“But why did he undress her after killing her?”

“Perhaps she was naked when he killed her?”

Dalziel shrugged.

“What for? They’d never been at it before. Why start now? Or, if they did start, why stop and kill her before things really got underway?”

“Perhaps Fallowfield couldn’t get underway. Perhaps that was the trouble. She said something… “

“You’ve been reading those dirty psychological books again,’ said Dalziel reprovingly. ‘; if he killed her in the house, then he undressed her and took her out to the dunes. Or took her out to the dunes and undressed her.”

“And brought her clothes back with him?”

“Yes.”

“Odd.”

“It’s fairly straightforward compared with the rest of this business.

No, the interesting thing is, why did he undress her? Eh, Sergeant?”

“To make it look…’ began Pascoe slowly.

“To make it look as if she was killed right after the dancing. Which means?”

Pascoe was there already, but diplomatically looked enquiringly at his superior. He overdid it ever so slightly, hoping Dalziel would wonder if he was being condescended to.

“It means,’ said Dalziel ignoring the subtleties of Pascoe’s facial expression, ‘ means that he knew there had been a wild, orgiastic, Bacchanalian rout.”

He brought the phrase out with mock-triumph.

“Hardly Bacchanalian,’ Pascoe murmured, but Dalziel ignored him.

“And that could tie up with those books, couldn’t it? In Fallowfield’s room?”

“It crossed my mind when I found them,’ admitted Pascoe.

“Well, lad,’ said Dalziel, ‘ you want credit for ideas, you’ll have to spit them out before I do, won’t you? Now, you bugger off out there again. That tedious bloody game’s still going on, I think. You can tell by the roar of the excited crowd. Start asking around about friend Fallowfield. I don’t want people getting ideas, you understand. Not yet.

But find out when he was last seen. Where. Doing what. Anything else you can. Use a bit of charm.”

Someone tapped discreetly at the door.

“Come in, for Godsake!’ he bellowed.

“Hammer the bloody wood, will you?’ he said to the uniformed constable who entered. ”re a policeman, not a butler.” “From HQ, sir,’ said the constable handing over an envelope.

“Right,’ said Dalziel opening it and glancing quickly at the contents.

Pascoe held the door open so the constable could follow him out. It would be quite pleasant to watch a bit of cricket, especially once the cooling breeze which often blew up in the late afternoon put in an appearance.

“There’s one thing you’ve got to give those Krauts,’ said Dalziel.

“They’re bloody thorough.” “Sir?’ said Pascoe, stepping back into the room.

“That Austrian fellow you were talking to at vast bloody expense yesterday. You must have interested him.”

It sounded dirty.

“Sir?’ said Pascoe.

“He’s been doing some more checking round the hotel where Miss. Girling always stayed. And he came up with this.”

He waved a sheet of paper in the air.

“Sir?’ said Pascoe. This was getting monotonous.

“That year, it seems, according to the old booking charts he unearthed, Miss. Girling made an extra booking in October. Her own booking was carried on from year to year, it seems.”

“Oh,’ said Pascoe, trying not to sound too supercilious. ‘ mean Miss. Mayflower? From Doncaster? She’s dead.”

“What on earth are you mumbling about, Sergeant? No, this booking was cancelled in December, at the last moment.”

“Someone at the college?’ said Pascoe. ‘ lord! You don’t mean she was taking Disney!”

“No,’ said Dalziel. ‘. Marion Cargo.”