An Advancement of Learning (18 page)

Meanwhile an hour and a half, two wickets, and thirty eight runs had trickled away with agonizing slowness. But despite his discomfort and his boredom, Dalziel had felt curiously enervated and quite unable to rise from his chair to do something useful. In any case everyone was here, everyone that mattered. Nearly everyone. Big < wheels were moving elsewhere, and all those who had * left the college since Girling's death were being traced and interviewed. But Dalziel was somehow certain the solution was here somewhere.

"Well hit, sir!' boomed Jessup. ' think that's our man, Superintendent." "Oh, yes, indeed. Very promising,' said Dalziel.

"By the pavilion. The man with the minutes,' said Jessup patiently.

"Let's go and see."

The shade of the pavilion was a relief. Dalziel realized his shirt was wringing with sweat; Jessup on the other hand in his absurd hat looked quite cool as he glanced through the papers he had been given.

"No, I'm sorry,' he said. ' doesn't bring anything back at all, except very vaguely. Certainly nothing which might help you, Superintendent.

Though I see now why it was so late in the term. It was an appointments meeting and obviously we hadn't been able to convene the full interviewing panel earlier in the term. Miss. Girling would be eager to get things like this done as soon as possible, before the good candidates got offers elsewhere, you understand." "Interviewing?' said Dalziel sharply. ' what?"

"A post, of course. It was a short list, only three. For a lectureship in the Biology Department." "Let me see,' said Dalziel, unceremoniously removing the papers from Jessup's hand.

Quickly he flicked through them till he found what he wanted. A list of three names. One stood out as though embossed on the paper.

Samuel Fallowfield.

"Excuse me,' he said, moving quickly out of the pavilion leaving Jessup tugging his moustache in exasperation.

Dalziel's cry of '!' as he strode round the outer oval of spectators almost certainly caused the fall of the third wicket. But by the time the angry batsman had returned to the pavilion, Dalziel had disappeared in the direction of the sea and only Pascoe's head was visible as he went in hot pursuit.

Chapter 12.

For many are wise in their own ways that are weak for government or counsel; like ants, which is a wise creature for itself, but very hurtful for the garden.

SIR FRANCIS BACON Op. Cit.

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 deck-chairs, 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."

There was a general laugh. Miss. Disney's annual long week-end 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?"