An Advancement of Learning

Chapter 9

“I’m sorry,’ said Sergeant Pascoe helplessly. ‘ you say that again?”

Up till now his sympathy with those living near airports had been casual, unthinking. But for the past hour, ever since he had arrived at the airport, he seemed to have been interrupted either in his talking or his hearing every five minutes.

It wouldn’t have mattered so much if he had been getting anywhere, but the net result of all the repetitions and amplifications was so far nil.

Only the presence at one of the reception desks of a Giant, Unrepeatable Offer, Super-Size pair of breasts had prevented his visit from being utterly pointless. Noting his interest as they walked by to the sound-trap they rested in now, the airport’s Deputy Executive Officer, a cheerful, middle aged man called Grummitt, told him that the girl had wanted to be a hostess, but according to rumour no airline was willing to risk her presence on a plane.

Grummitt remembered the Christmas in question quite well. He had been lower down the airport hierarchy then, out at one of the desks himself.

“It can be hell if you get a bit of fog just as the holiday planes are starting. It’s bad enough in the summer, but at Christmas it’s always worse, not just because it’s more common, mind you, but because it’s so bloody short for most people.

It’s… “

The rest was noise.

“I’m sorry?’ said Pascoe.

“I said, it’s a matter of four or five days for many of them, so if they get held up here for half a day or even a few hours, they see a substantial chunk of their holiday disappearing. And they get mad. Now, I’ve checked as much as I can, and if my memory is correct, that particular day it was thick. Hardly anything got off till the early hours of the next morning. But it was a late-night flight you were interested in, wasn’t it?”

That’s right.”

“Not that that makes any difference if I’ve got the right day.

Everything would have piled up. There’d be bodies lying around everywhere.”

“That’s what we’re interested in,’ said Pascoe drily.

Grummitt looked puzzled, but continued, ‘ course, as you’ll realize, even in normal conditions, after all this time it’s unlikely anyone would recall your Miss.-whatsitgirling? — but in circumstances like that, it’s impossible.” “Flight lists? Customs?’ suggested Pascoe without hope.

“No use, I’m afraid. It’s too long ago. Contrary to popular belief, no one stores up great sheaves of paper for ever. Do you know what flight she was supposed to be on?”

“No,’ said Pascoe gloomily.

“Not to worry,’ said Grummitt, trying to cheer him up. ‘ if you did, it probably wouldn’t help. Everyone would be desperately trying to jump up in the queue, trying to get an earlier alternative flight. It’d mostly be families, of course, and they would stick together. But someone alone would stand a better chance. She was alone, you say?”

“Yes. We think so.’ Pascoe realized guiltily he had not really thought about it at all. Had Dalziel? Naturally.

“What do you mean, an alternative flight?”

Another metal cylinder full of fragile human flesh lifted itself laboriously into the air.

“I’m sorry,’ said Pascoe. ‘, please.” “I said, if you were due on a flight at midnight and shortly after midnight the mid-day flight finally got away — to your destination of course — you’d obviously be interested in getting a seat on it. Or you might even take a flight to another airport and hope to move on from there.”

There wouldn’t be any record kept of people changing flights?” “Oh no. Not now,’ said Grummitt with a laugh.

Pascoe scowled back at him. But a new idea was forming.

“What about baggage? Your baggage is checked in for one flight. You change to another. Does your baggage get shifted automatically?”

“Yes. Of course. It’s a matter of weight, old boy. Someone may pick up the ticket you’ve vacated and he’ll have baggage too.”

“Oh,’ said Pascoe, disappointed.

“Mind you, I’m not saying that baggage and passengers never get separated. Especially in conditions like the ones we’re talking about, anything’s possible. But they’d end up at the same destination. Unless the passenger changes destination as well as flight.”

He laughed again. His cheerfulness was beginning to get on Pascoe’s nerves.

“So you can’t help?’ he shouted through the incipient uproar of another jet.

“Afraid not, old boy. Have you tried the Austrians? They probably keep lists for ever. Very thorough fellows. Or travel agents?”

“What?’ screamed Pascoe.

“Travel agents. Probably someone fixed it all up for her. It might even have been a charter. Perhaps they had a courier running around, ticking off names.”

The noise became bearable. It’s too early in the morning, thought Pascoe. What else haven’t I done?

“You’ve been very helpful,’ he said to Grummitt as they walked out together through the reception area.

“Sorry I couldn’t be more useful,’ said Grummitt. ”s it all about?

Or must I just watch the papers?” “I wish I knew what it was all about,’ said Pascoe. I’ll watch the papers with you.”

They passed the Giant Super-Size Unrepeatable Offer. Grummitt nudged him.

“No wonder they built Jumbo jets, eh?’ he said.

“You can say that again,’ said Pascoe lasciviously.

Grummitt with a look of polite resignation began to say it again.

Superintendent Dalziel had breakfasted early and well. Unless the college domestic staff were putting on a special performance for his benefit, they did themselves rather well here, he thought. As he was still segregated from the communal breakfasters in the dining-hall, he had no chance to make comparisons. And, a cause of relief, no need to make conversations.

Perhaps this was the reason why his wife had left him. Often breakfast was the only waking period they spent together during the whole day, and try as he might (which hadn’t been very hard) he could not force himself to be sociable.

Unwilling to cause offence by leaving anything (there was another school of working class gentility which believed that something always should be left, but not in his family, thank Heaven!) he took the last slice of toast from the rack, spread the remaining butter on it to a thickness of about a quarter-inch, scraped his knife round the sides of the cut-glass marmalade dish, and took two thirds of the resulting confection into his mouth at one bite.

The door opened and the pretty young girl in the blue nylon overall entered. She seemed to have been told by the powers that were in the kitchen to look after his needs. Dalziel approved. Paternally, of course, he assured himself, dismissing a mental image of himself slowly unbuttoning the overall which in the height of summer was probably over very little. His fingers compensated by unbuttoning his waistcoat, leaving dabs of butter on the charcoal grey cloth.

“Are you finished, sir?’ she asked.

He swallowed mightily.

“I think I am, my dear. My compliments to whoever prepared it.”

She began to gather together the dishes.

“Tell me,’ he said, ”s your name?” “Elizabeth,’ she said. ‘ Andrews.”

“Well, Elizabeth, have you been here long?” “Over a year,’ she said.

“Do you like it?” “It’s all right,’ she said.

“It’ll fill in the time till you find a lad and get married, eh?’ said Dalziel jovially. If they’re going to regard you as a bloody uncle, you might as well act like a bloody uncle, he thought.

The girl didn’t reply. Slightly flushed, she swiftly piled the remaining dishes on her tray and moved gracefully out of the room.

Even in his faint surprise, Dalziel was able to admire her figure in retreat, which was more than he could do for the advancing form of Detective-Inspector Kent which appeared through the door before the girl could close it.

“Lovely morning, sir,’ said Kent happily, peering through the window at the sun-drenched garden, whose border and rockeries were ablaze with colour. The winds of the previous day had quite abated and only the canvas cover over the hole left by the base of Miss. Girling’s statue obtruded into the pastoral idyll which lay without.

Had things gone according to Landor’s plans, the garden would by now have been trenched and torn by foundations for the new laboratory.

Dalziel had asked for the work to be postponed. He was almost certain now that nothing new could be learned from an examination of the earth.

But you never knew — and in any case it was much pleasanter to sit here undisturbed by the unbeautiful cacophony of the building trade.

“Sergeant Pascoe not here?’ asked Kent.

“No,’ said Dalziel. ”s off doing some work.”

There was little subtlety in his stresses, but Kent took it in his stride.

“Just thought I’d call in before going up to the clubhouse,’ he said.

“I’ve brought in the medical report on the girl. 1

“Stick it on the desk,’ said Dalziel. ‘ it confirm what the doctor said on the spot?”

“Yes. Not nice. Suffocated in the sand,’ said Kent. ‘ throat and nostrils were absolutely blocked up with it.”

“Anything strike you?”

“Not really. Just the obvious. Between 10 p.m. and 3 a.m. And no sexual assault. That’s a bit odd.”

“Why?”

“Well, in the circumstances. I mean, why take off her clothes?”

“Why, indeed? Well, you’d better get on with it. Though I doubt you’ll find anything more up there. How’s the questioning?”

The difficulty is finding anyone to question,’ said Kent. ”s not exactly overcrowded out there. By the by, talking of finding, is there anything on that bra?” “What? Oh that. Yes,’ said Dalziel, annoyed at having to be asked. ”re looking for a girl with a 34 inch bust whose initials might be F or E, N or A. They had been marked, but many washes ago. It’s probably nothing to do with this anyway. It must be a popular spot in those dunes and a few articles of clothing are bound to go adrift.” “Ay,’ said Kent gloomily. ‘ found any number of old French letters.

But a bra’s a bit different, isn’t it? And if it had the owner’s initials on, that must have been for a reason. Like identification in communal living, I mean. Like here.”

“We’ll make a detective out of you yet,’ said Dalziel only half sarcastically. ‘ a look at the student list. See if any of the initials fit.”

“OK, sir,’ said Kent. ‘, I’m off. Who’s for golf, eh?”

He went out of the door making minute swinging motions of the arm and clucking his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

Dalziel turned to the desk and began organizing his day’s business.

Already he had accumulated an amazing amount of paper in the form of reports, statements, directives, instructions etc., etc., and the two drawers vacated for him by Landor in the filing cabinet were quite full.

The principal had by no means completed his removals to the new administration centre and even Dalziel felt reluctant to urge him to get a move on.

He called in a uniformed constable to help sort things out and to answer the telephone. He was beginning to feel the irritation which always grew on him if he found himself cooped up unproductively for no matter how short a length of time.

It came as a relief when Simeon Landor arrived in midmorning and reminded him about the staff meeting.

“You said you’d come and say a few words,’ he said apologetically. ‘ just want to put everyone formally in the picture, that’s all. It’s just ten minutes during coffee break so that everyone can attend without cutting lectures. If you’re too busy, please say so, and I’ll

… ” “Not at all,’ said Dalziel expansively. I’ll be glad of the chance to meet them all collectively. After all, you’re the people who must know what goes on round here. You’ve a right to all the information we have.”

He gave a few quick instructions to the constable, then left with Landor, enjoying the feel of the sun on his balding pate as they made their way towards the building which housed the Senior Common Room.

Conversation stopped for a moment as Landor ushered him into the crowded room, but almost immediately some of the more ancient inmates, the Misses Scotby and Disney much in evidence, demonstrated their good breeding by continuing their conversations at a higher pitch than before and looking fixedly away from Dalziel.

Landor supplied him with a cup of coffee and led him to a chair behind a table at the far end of the room.

“May we begin?’ he said in a voice so conversational that Dalziel imagined he was being addressed directly despite the fact that Landor had half-turned his back on him. But he quickly realized that the principal was addressing his staff. Evidently in these circles you didn’t shout or ring a bell to bring a meeting to order, you merely spoke to those nearest you and by some aural osmosis the message eventually reached the other end of the room.

Thank you,’ said Landor. ‘ this is not a formal meeting so there will be no minutes either read, or taken. But as far as possible I suggest we stick to our usual modes of procedure. Most of you will know, by sight at least, Superintendent Dalziel. He has kindly agreed to come along today to put us in the picture, as it were. Everyone here will be aware of the double set of tragic circumstances which have necessitated his presence in the college. However, it is often difficult to separate truth from rumour and the better informed we are, the better informed the student body will be. Superintendent Dalziel.”

Dalziel stood up heavily and viewed his audience. Up until this moment he had had no real idea of what he was going to say. Now, faced by this polite blank of faces, he reacted to their common denominator (bloody clever bastards, all of ‘, he thought mockingly) by selecting a role Pascoe would have recognized with an inward groan. The blunt, unsubtle policeman.

“I’ll be brief,’ he said. ‘ things first. The remains found in the college garden on Wednesday have been identified as those of Miss. Girling, the former principal of this college. We are treating it as a case of murder.” He paused. One or two shifted slightly in their chairs. Miss. Disney’s face was a mask of stoically-borne grief.

“Yesterday, Thursday, the naked body of a student, Anita Sewell, was found in the dunes by the golf course. She had died of asphyxiation as a result of having her face forced down into the sand some time late on Wednesday night or early Thursday morning. She had not been sexually assaulted. This too we are treating as murder.” He paused again. Now there was a general shifting of position. Several cigarettes were lit. Halfdane leaned over to Henry Saltecombe and said something. The older man nodded vigorously. A man recognized from Pascoe’s description as George Dunbar was smiling faintly with the complacent look of one to whom this was all very old stuff. He couldn’t spot Fallowfield at all, but the pretty woman sitting between Marion Cargo and Halfdane (triumphantly?) was possibly Pascoe’s old mate.

Miss. Disney opened her mouth to speak. He let the first syllable get out, then continued, overriding her without a glance in her direction.

“I’ve told you nothing you won’t read in the newspapers. Probably have read already. But it’s often useful to have it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.”

A slight ripple of laughter.

“You’re the people who ought to know. You’re the ones who can reassure the students here.”

“You haven’t really given us much to reassure them with, Superintendent.’ It was Halfdane. ‘ don’t you propose to talk to them direct? After all, they’re just as important as we in this institution.

Perhaps more so.”

A couple of mutters of agreement. More indignant snorts.

“I can’t talk to them all at once. Not without turning it into a rally.

In any case, you’re the ones who are paid to talk to these youngsters.

You’re their teachers.”

Halfdane started up again indignantly, but Dunbar beat him to it.

Tell me, when did you find out it was Miss. Girling in the garden?” This was confirmed on Wednesday evening,’ said Dalziel. ‘?”

“I just wondered how half the college seemed to have this information on Wednesday afternoon?”

Dalziel nodded for the want of anything else to do.

“You mean, staff?”

“I mean students.”

There was a confirmatory murmur from half a dozen places in the room.

“You surprise me,’ said Dalziel. ‘ Miss. Girling died nearly six years ago, I should have thought it unlikely that any student could have known anything about it.”

The implications of the stress were caught immediately, but Dalziel was not impressed by this display of sharpness of wit. Anyone with half a mind must have realized days earlier that he’d be interested in the old-established members of staff.

Landor obviously decided he must take back control of the meeting.

“Thank you, Superintendent. I know we will all assist you in every way we can. What is important I think is that we carry on as normal, and I know that you will be eager to assist us in this.” “Of course,’ said Dalziel, still standing. ‘ our work comes first.

Let’s be clear about that. Disruption of your work is unfortunate.

Disruption of mine amounts to obstruction of the law.”

Again the raised eyebrows bit, the exchange of glances, the pursing of lips. Henry Saltecombe stood up waving his pipe apologetically, scattering warm embers over his neighbours.

“One question,’ he said. ‘ you think these two dreadful businesses are connected in any way? Or is it merely some terrible coincidence?” Pascoe had asked this. Dalziel wondered how he was getting on at the airport. Even if he got nowhere, he’d get there thoroughly. He would probably have made a damn sight better job of this side of the business as well. He might have some understanding of these people. Dalziel tried not to despise them because that could easily lead to underestimation of ability (criminal, of course), and misinterpretation of motive. But six months’ holiday a year and a working life centred on reading books… I The scientists he could go along with to some extent, but surely someone, some day, was going to sort out the rest!

“As a policeman, I distrust coincidence,’ he replied.

“And I, as a historian,’ said Saltecombe. Those about him smiled. He must have made a funny, thought Dalziel.

The woman who might be Pascoe’s friend now rose with a suddenness that suggested she had been hurled by a spring through a stage trapdoor.

“What I’d like to know is how we’re expected to maintain hard fought-for personal relationships with our students in an allegedly democratic institution when we permit the civil authorities to so blatantly take control of our decision-making. I would remind the principal that his loyalties ought to be to the college and its members,’ she rattled out at a great rate, then sat down as abruptly as she had risen.

Miss. Disney swelled visibly, as though someone was pumping air into her body through some inimaginable orifice, but she took too long about it and it was Miss. Scotby who stood up, arrow-straight, and spoke first.

“I would suggest that Miss. Soper thinks less about personal relationships and more about pastoral responsibilities.”

The sat down. Dalziel did not have the faintest idea whether this was a match-winning riposte or not. There was a small outbreak of probably ironic applause from the back of the room. Ellie Soper rolled her eyes upwards in mock despair.

Landor rose.

“Yes, I agree there are one or two purely internal and academic matters we ought to discuss, but I see no reason to keep Superintendent Dalziel from his very important duties.”

He wants me out, thought Dalziel. Before they get too rude. Perhaps he thinks I’m sensitive!

The thought pleased him and he smiled benevolently at the staff who were obviously sitting in tense expectation of the hand-to-hand fighting which seemed likely to follow his departure.

“It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Landor,’ he said. ‘, I can find my own way back. Good day to you all. Ladies. Gentlemen.”

It might be interesting to hear what they say, he thought as he closed the door behind him. But it’d only have curiosity value. He rarely questioned his own powers of perception, but he now admitted he’d probably have difficulty in taking in whatever the hell it was they were going on about. They seemed to treat words as things of power, not as tools. They could get stuffed. He had work to do.

A girl started walking by his side as he descended the stairs. He glanced sideways at her. Long hair, sallow skin, hive-shaped breasts inadequately supported under a darned grey sweater.

“I want a word with you,’ she said casually.

Lords of the bloody earth, he thought. First that lot back there. Now this.

“Why?’ he said, not slackening his pace. They passed through the main door of the building out into the sunlight. She made a concession to it by thrusting the sleeves of her sweater up over her elbows, producing as a side effect a gentle breast-bobbing, which caught his eye.

“I was a friend of Anita’s.”

She didn’t look as if she were about to cry on his shoulder, so he continued the hard line.

“So what?”

“So either bloody well listen or not.”

He stopped and faced her.

“Haven’t you got a bra on?’ he asked.

“No. Does it disturb you?”

“What’s your name?”

“Sandra. Sandra Firth.” “Oh,’ he said, disappointed. ‘ right. I can give you five minutes.”

They set off walking once more.

Thanks,’ she said. ‘ you wear a corset?”

“Please,’ he groaned as he led the way into Landor’s study. ‘ one thing. My interpreter’s away at the moment. So just keep it simple, eh?”

“All right,’ she said. ‘ you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.”

“Hello? Hello!’ said Pascoe. ‘. Ja. Ich bin Pascoe. Pascoe! Hello!

Was ist… oh, for Christ’s sake!”

He resisted the temptation to slam the ‘ down only because he knew that the small beach-head he had achieved would then have to be laboriously reestablished.

“Hello?’ said a female voice, loud and clear.

“Yes? Ja. Ja. Pascoe hier.”

“This is the operator, Sergeant Pascoe,’ said the voice in icy tones.

“Your call to Innsbruck will be through in one moment. Please wait.” Thanks,’ he said. ‘! Hier ist Pascoe!”

He was beginning to have doubts about the wisdom of his actions in all kinds of ways.

The previous day he had with Dalziel’s authority telegraphed a request for assistance to the Innsbruck police. It had seemed a good idea at the time to suggest the information required be transmitted through a direct telephone link twenty-four hours later.

Now he recalled uneasily how keen Dalziel was on economy in matters of public money. Other people’s economies, of course; Dalziel himself was very ready to spend any money thus saved.

In addition, Pascoe was having doubts about the adequacy of his German.

It had been some years since he had used it and he was beginning to fear the old fluency had gone.

The next couple of minutes seemed to prove him right. The ” he had surrounded himself with were more of a nuisance than a help. The carefully looked-up words for ‘ list’, ‘ officer’, ‘passport control’, even ”, seemed to present considerable difficulty to the man at the other end.

“Wiedersagen bitte,’ said Pascoe for the fifth or sixth time. ‘. Ein Moment.”

He began ruffling through the pages of his English-German dictionary once more, unable to discover anything vaguely resembling the word he had just heard.

Finally there was a strange noise from the receiver which might have been a polite cough squeezed and contorted through several hundred miles of telephone cable.

“Say, Sergeant, how would you like it if I tried my English out on you?

It’s a vanity of mine and I’d appreciate the practice.”

The shame of the moment was almost lost in Pascoe’s surprise that the words were spoken with a strong American accent.

That would be fine,’ he said, with relief. He hoped the operator was not listening in.

The only difficulties now were minor variations of American usage soon overcome.

“We checked out the airport and the hotel without much joy from either.

No records of arrivals here are kept for so long and I can’t discover that anyone made a formal check that your Girling did in fact arrive that night. Why should they? If someone gets listed as dead, and they ain’t, you’d think they’d come running, wouldn’t you?”

“What about the baggage?”

“It seems the hotel bus was expecting a full load that night, both from the rail-station and the airport. It’s a distance of about fifty kilometres from Innsbruck to Osterwald. Some of the guests arrived both at the station and the airport well before midnight. We know this because when they realized they weren’t going to get on their way till well into the morning because of the delays in the English flights, some passengers insisted on hiring cars to take them or spending the night in Innsbruck and being picked up the following day. They were the lucky ones, the way things broke. Anyhow, they filled us in on the story at the time.”

“Look, Lieutenant, could the coach-driver have picked up Miss. Girling’s luggage without picking up Miss. Girling?”

It was a silly question. It must have happened unless someone had dug Al out of an Austrian avalanche and smuggled her back to England to bury her under her own memorial.

“Yeah. Why not? It’d be labelled. Do I gather you’ve got a corpse you think might be this dame?”

That’s right.”

“You don’t say! Now your other questions. No, her passport wasn’t in the baggage removed from the wreck. It seemed likely she’d have it in her hand-luggage which would be with her in the coach. At least, that’s what was thought at the time. They got the driver’s body out and a list.

Girling’s name was on it, and ticked off. But that might just have meant the luggage in the light of what you say. And that’s about it.” “Oh,’ said Pascoe. He was sure there was something else he ought to ask before cutting off finally (at least it seemed an act of finality) this connection.

“Hey, you still there?”

“Yes.”

“At the hotel there was evidently another dame, a particular buddy of Girling’s. It seems a group of them, half a dozen or more, used to meet up for the winter sports every Christmas vacation, but this one was a special friend. And they usually travelled together, the manager thought.” “Did she now?’ said Pascoe with interest. ‘ don’t suppose… “

“You want her name? Miss. Jean Mayflower. Like an address? It’s old; she stopped coming after your girl bought it. 17, Friendly Villas, Doncaster, Yorkshire. Got it?”

“Got it. Many thanks. I don’t suppose the hotel had any correspondence from Miss. Girling herself?”

“Oh no. I checked. All they had was a confirmatory note from her travel agent. He did all the arranging every year.” “I don’t suppose

…’ said Pascoe again.

“Hey, I like that

“I don’t suppose”, I can use it. Wait. I’ve got an address. Super-Vacs Ltd, Harr-oh-gate, that make sense?”

“Very much so, I can’t say how grateful we are.”

Think nothing of it. It breaks the routine. Let’s know how you make out, huh? I mean, if she ain’t at the bottom of that ravine, then that’s one less cadaver we’ve got lying about.”

“I will. Goodbye.”

“OK. Grussgott:

Oh, I will, I will, thought Pascoe as he heard the receiver go down 900 hundred miles away. Public money well spent!

“Are you finished?’ asked the cool, efficient, female voice.

“Oh no,’ said Pascoe in a husky, passionate whisper. ”re just starting.”

The line went dead. He replaced the receiver with a smile.

Perhaps things were beginning to break for him after all.

Sandra Firth had been a grievous disappointment. Something somewhere had gone wrong. She had carried on for a while in the cool, self-possessed manner in which she had started, but after offering a brief outline of her own background and position in the college, there had been a hiatus.

Finally Dalziel had tried his earlier bluntness once again.

“Look,’ he said. ‘, Miss. Firth, whatever you want me to call you, if you’ve got something to say, then say it. If you haven’t, then we’re wasting each other’s time.”

“I just wanted to find out,’ she began. ‘ mean I was a friend of Anita’s… ” “So you said. Were you with her last night?”

“No!’ she said sharply. ‘ mean, when?”

“Any time?”

“No.”

“Wasn’t there a party on somewhere?”

Pascoe had mentioned the emptiness of the bar to him earlier.

“No.’ Again very sharply.

“Nowhere? You surprise me. I thought there were always parties!”

“Not that I was at, I meant.”

Exasperated, Dalziel struck the desk with the flat of his hand.

“Is there anything you do know about these murders?”

“Murders?’ She stressed the plural.

“That’s right. There’s been two.”

She looked at him frightened.

“Your friend, Miss. Sewell. And Miss. Girling, the late principal.”

“Oh, that.” She laughed, relieved.

“Doesn’t that matter?’ he asked.

“No. I didn’t mean that. I mean, we didn’t know her, so it didn’t bother me when the name came up. It was interesting really, rather than tragic.”

“When the name came up,’ echoed Dalziel. ‘ does that mean?”

“Nothing really,’ she said.

“Why were so many students certain it was Miss. Girling’s body?” persisted Dalziel.

“No reason. Oh, it was nothing. Coincidence, I expect. It’s just that some of us — them — play around with the wineglass thing. And the letters. Or a ouija board.”

“You mean, you had a seance? Asked the bloody spirits?’ asked Dalziel incredulously.

That’s right. Not really a seance, just a bit of fun.”

“And it — this thing — told you it was Miss. Girling?” “Yes,’ she said defiantly. ‘ spelt it out quite plainly.”

“Well,’ laughed Dalziel. ”d better ask it about your friend!”

Something about her silence made him lean forward and peer closely into her face.

“You’re going to, aren’t you?’ he said gently. Then with greater violence, ”t you?”

“I don’t know. We might!”

“My God,’ he said sadly. ‘ think of the money that’s being spent on educating your tiny minds.”

She stood up, breasts swinging disturbingly.

“Thanks for seeing me,’ she said. I’ll be off now. I have a lecture.” “You didn’t do it, did you?’ he said shaking his head.

“Do what?’ She looked frightened.

“Tell me what you wanted to tell me. Or ask me what you wanted to ask.

Why not? I’m sorry if I’ve put you off. Why not sit down, lass, and let’s try again?” For a second he thought she was going to agree but after only a perfunctory knock, the door burst open and Kent strode in, his face awash with good tidings.

“Excuse me, sir,’ he said. ‘ we’ve come up with something, a chap who was out along the dunes last night and saw something which could be relevant.”

Through the open door, Dalziel saw a white-haired man, with a sun-darkened face in which a pair of bright blue eyes flickered and darted glances of alert interest at the scene before him.

“It’s a Mr. Lapping,’ continued Kent, but Dalziel raised his hand in a silencing gesture.

“If you could just hang on a moment, Inspector,’ he said with suspicious gentleness. ”m rather busy… ” “No. Don’t bother about me,’ said Sandra. ”m finished, and I have to go anyway. Goodbye.”

Head bowed so that her hair covered her face, she walked quickly from the room, past the old man who turned to look at her with undisguised interest.

What was she going to tell me? wondered Dalziel. If only that fool Kent hadn’t come in… But it was more than just the interruption, he felt.

It was the content of the interruption, perhaps… “Will you see Mr. Lapping now?’ asked Kent. There was little choice. The old man had wandered into the room and was peering around with interest.

Round his neck hung a large pair of binoculars. Dalziel sighed inwardly, wondering what Kent had let him in for.

But two minutes later as the old man described what he had seen the previous night, all his little half-formed plans for tearing Kent limb from limb had disappeared.

Harold Lapping told his tale with great gusto, not disguising his wholehearted enjoyment of the show he had so unexpectedly stumbled upon.

“Ah’d niver seen owt like it. Niver in all me days. Some on ‘ had paps as’d have made World Cup footballs!” He paused, bright-eyed in reminiscence then his expression became sombre.

“But when ah heard about that lassie… “

He shook his head distressfully.

“Ah niver thowt, niver… when they all ran… it seemed a joke, someone walking by the shore… like meself.”

Reginald Hill

D amp;P02 — An Advancement of Learning

Ill

He paused as though to study the implications of his last remark.

“Like meself,’ he repeated sadly. ‘ expect he were.”

“I doubt it,’ said Dalziel in his kindly tone, cursing Kent once again for an unthinking fool. What kind of checking on this old man had he done? Was there enough strength in those thin arms to hold a well-built young woman face down in the sand till she choked? Enough desire in that seventy-year-old body to drive him to such a deed?

“You saw someone?’ he asked, breaking the silence which was beginning to run on too long.

“Ay. Just a glimpse through the glasses. Just afore they all ran. Just an outline.”

“Well?’ said Dalziel.

“Nay. It’s no good,’ said the old man sadly. ‘ was just an outline, like ah felt him.”

He nodded at Kent who smiled encouragingly.

The hat,’ said Kent.

“Oh ay. The hat. This fellow that ah saw, or it might’ve bin a woman, wore a hat. A… “

He made a gesture over his head.

“Pork pie,’ said Kent. ‘ did some drawings, didn’t we, Mr. Lapping? A pork pie hat.”

That was that. A mysterious figure in a pork pie hat disturbing what sounded like a Roman orgy. It might mean something or nothing. It was very intriguing whatever it meant.

“Mr. Lapping,’ said Dalziel as Kent led the old man off to have his statement typewritten and signed. ‘ you recognize any of those taking part in this dance?” Lapping thought a moment.

“One perhaps,’ he said. ‘ one in the middle by herself. Ah had a good glimpse of her. But none of t’ithers.”

He turned once more before he left, his original lively smile arcing across his face.

“Not their faces, anyway, mister. Not their faces.” You know, said Dalziel to himself when alone, you could make a name for yourself. You could have the identity parade of the century.

The thought made him happier than anything else he had heard that day.

And there was still the educated, efficient Sergeant Pascoe’s report to come in.

Pascoe was also feeling happy as he pushed open the door of Super-Vacs.

(You Take The Trip We Take The Trouble) Ltd. (Prop. Gregory Aird).

After his abortive trip to the airport he had felt uneasy at the prospect of confronting Dalziel with nothing but negatives. Particularly when they did not remove even one of the many possibilities concerning the movements of Miss. Girling and/or her corpse.

“Elimination is the better part of detection,’ Dalziel on occasion uttered with the smugness of a man specially selected to proclaim an eternal truth.

All Pascoe had eliminated by his journey to the airport had been some public time and public money. But his continental telephone call had opened up new possibilities. He had instigated enquiries in Doncaster as to the present whereabouts of Miss. Jean Mayflower, while he himself drove into Harrogate. The bright sunshine and a comfortable intuition that somewhere in the old records of Super-Vacs Ltd would be useful and revealing information revived in him a pleasure in his work based on a conviction of its positive social usefulness. He had once told Dalziel in an unguarded moment that it was his social conscience which had brought him into the police when many more comfortable careers were open to him.

“Well, bugger me,’ was the fat man’s only comment at the time. But a week or two later Pascoe had found himself ‘ loan’ to a neighbouring force who were drafting in extra men to help control an Anti-Racial Discrimination demonstration. It had been very unpleasant for a few hours.

“How’s your social conscience?’ Dalziel had asked him on his return, but did not stay for an answer. Then, as in the last couple of days, the academic life had seemed very attractive.

Now as he pushed through the plate-glass doors, the lives of those in places like the college seemed pale, thinly-spread, lukewarm by comparison with his own purposeful existence.

The young man behind the counter looked with pleasure on the sergeant and smiled welcomingly, obviously seeing in his demeanour a customer ready, willing and eager to be satisfied.

“Good afternoon, sir. How may we help you?”

Pascoe felt in his wallet for his warrant card.

“I’m interested in ski-ing holidays,’ he said. ‘ Christmas.”

“Certainly, sir,’ said the young man. ‘ am sure we’ll be able to… “

He stopped in puzzlement as Pascoe held out his card for inspection.

“I’m a police officer,’ he said. ”m interested in skiing holidays five years ago.” “Oh,’ said the young man, taking a step backwards. ‘ don’t know… please wait a minute.”

He turned and went through a door behind him which obviously led into an inner office. Pascoe heard a half whispered exchange but could not catch what was said. The young man reappeared followed by a slightly older man, smartly dressed, his hair beautifully set in shining undulations, who stretched out his hand to Pascoe with a slice-of-melon smile.

“How do you do? I’m Gregory Aird. I didn’t catch…?”

“Pascoe, sir. Sergeant Pascoe. I wonder if I might have a few minutes of your time?”

“By all means. Step in, Sergeant, do.”

The inner office was sparsely furnished. A desk, a couple of chairs, a filing cabinet and a small safe.

Pascoe took this in at a glance and felt uneasy. There seemed little space here for long-term storage of old records.

“How can I help you?’ said Aird, putting on the serious, cooperative look Pascoe usually associated with the desire to make a good impression in court.

“You can tell me first of all how far back your records go, Mr. Aird.”

“To the beginning. To when it all started, my dear fellow. To the day I took possession.”

Pascoe felt relieved.

“I’m interested in a woman who booked a skiing holiday through you. It wouldn’t be the first time, you understand; it was something she did every Christmas, but I believe your firm handled the arrangements.”

“Aha,’ said Aird. ‘, let’s see. Let’s see.”

He jumped up and strode across to the filing cabinet which he unlocked.

“Now,’ he said opening a drawer.

“I’m interested in her flight number,’ said Pascoe, delighted by this display of efficiency. ‘ I wondered if for instance it was a charter flight, you might not have had a courier who would have made his own check list at the airport. It’s a Miss. Alison Girling. And the date was Christmas 1966.”

Aird’s reaction was surprising. He crashed the drawer shut with a flick of his fingers and returned to his seat, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘ can’t help you there.”

“Why not, sir?’ asked Pascoe, half-suspecting the answer.

“I’ve only been here three years,’ said Aird. ‘ March ‘68. You’re before my time, Inspector.” “Sergeant. But you said… “

“Ah. I see your difficulty. No. The Super-Vacs you want went out of business in ‘67. No scandal, nothing like that, you understand. The parent firm in Leeds folded up, so their half-dozen branches went too.”

“But the name?” “As I said, there was no scandal. No dissatisfied customers, not here anyway. So when I became interested in the premises for my own agency, well, among other things I found stored here enough stationery for four or five years. All with the Super-Vacs heading, of course. So I just kept the name.” He smiled again, brilliantly, apologetically.

“What about the rest of the stuff that was here? Files, records, that kind of thing?”

“We had a clearing-out. And a bonfire. I’m sorry, Sergeant.”

He stood up and escorted Pascoe to the door. Disappointed though he was, Pascoe still sensed the man’s relief at getting rid of him.

Vindictively, he promised to mention Aird’s name to the locals. There might be something there.

But that didn’t help his own present investigations. Nor would Dalziel be very impressed.

Perhaps the academic life wasn’t so bad after all.

When, on his return to Headquarters, he found waiting for him a message from Doncaster saying that Miss. Jean Mayflower had died four years earlier as a result of a brain tumour, the academic life appeared as a very desirable haven of peace in a storm-battered, thunder thrashed, Dalziel-haunted sea of troubles.