An Advancement of Learning (14 page)

"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 wine-glass 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."