The letters whistled past Dalziel’s head and scattered along the tiled corridor. He glanced down at them as he passed.
There were four of them; a U, a C, a T, and an N.
When Roote caught up with him, he was mildly surprised to find the fat policeman shaking with laughter.
“You looking for me?’ asked Ellie behind him.
“Well, I can’t find anybody else,’ said Pascoe before he could stop himself. His remark wasn’t directed at Ellie but arose from his growing annoyance at the way in which these academics seemed to disappear at will. Perhaps they’re all practising witches, he had thought. Perhaps the entire staff of the college are at this very moment chasing each others’ naked backsides round the dunes.
Ellie surprisingly did not take offence. Indeed she seemed glad to see him.
“You’d better make the most of me, then,’ she said. ‘ a coffee?”
“Thanks.”
They were outside the block in which Ellie’s flat lay. He had indeed been on his way to call on her when she came up behind. He had left her to the last from a reluctance to be rebuffed once again for apparently using their old friendship for cold professional ends. But no one else seemed to be around. Knocks on doors had produced no replies and the staff common rooms were deserted.
He experienced a strange feeling as he followed Ellie into her flat, but he was too well trained not to have it isolated within a few seconds.
It was a kind of misty familiarity. There were a couple of pictures, an ornament, a Chinese bowl, a small rather threadbare Persian rug, one or two other things, which had at one time in a different room been as familiar to him as his own possessions.
His eyes returned to the rug again, remembering more. On that very scrap of woven fabric he had laid Ellie down for the first time, ignoring the institutional divan shoved into a corner.
“Take a seat,’ she said with a grin. I’ll make the coffee.”
He had an uncomfortable feeling that she had followed the direction of his eyes and his thoughts very accurately.
“Had a nice evening?’ he asked, sinking into an old armchair.
“Not very,’ she called. ”ve been to the local Film Society. Some dull bloody Polish film. Rotten projection, illegible sub-titles and hard wooden chairs. What I would have given for John Wayne, red plush and a tight clinch in the back row!” “You should have said,’ he answered lightly. ‘ there? From the college, I mean?”
“Not from nowhere. There’s usually half-a-dozen from here but they all wisely stayed away tonight.”
“Does Halfdane go?”
“Sometimes.’ She came in with the coffee. ‘ do you ask?”
“I heard he had been looking for me. I’ve been away most of the day.”
“Oh yes. The great detective. How’s it going?’ she asked sarcastically.
He welcomed the change of mood. It gave him a chance to ask questions without appearing to take advantage.
“Slowly,’ he said. ”s a lot of space to fill in.”
“For instance?”
“Well, there’s the intangibles. What kind of place is this to work in?
In normal conditions I mean. Everybody draws together in the face of the enemy.”
“Not everybody. It’s a funny atmosphere. All happy and Butlins’-Redcoats on the surface. But lots of oddities. We’re very isolated for a start and instead of improving on lines of communication with the university, socially and administratively I mean, there’s been a kind of contraction into an even tighter little circle. Or groups of little circles.” “For instance?’ asked Pascoe in his turn sipping his coffee and trying to concentrate on what Ellie was saying rather than on her brown, well-fleshed legs draped lengthily over the arm of her chair.
“Well there’s all kind of odd little societies for a start. In the prospectus it looks very good, opportunity to pursue a wide range of interest and activity in the college, that kind of thing. But it’s not really like that. It’s hard to break into these tight little circles.
You’ve got to prove you fit, almost. And I suspect you need more than just a proven interest in stamp- collecting or whatever it is.”
“What for instance? You mean some special sex variation, that kind of thing?”
She made an impatient gesture.
“Christ, man, you’ve had the fine intellectual edges rubbed off you, haven’t you? Sex sometimes, of course. But more often as a symptom than an end in itself. It’s a matter of belonging. How you belong is unimportant except that people generally take the line of least resistance. Anyway I don’t know why I’m bothering to tell you all this.
You can read it in my book.”
She gestured at a fairly bulky file which jutted out of her bookshelves.
“I’ll look forward to that. What is it — a thesis?”
“Christ, no! Thesis faeces! That kind of crap’s all behind me now. No, it’s a novel,’ she replied, a defensive note in her voice.
“Really?’ He was uncertain whether to go on talking about it or not. He decided not. If she wanted to talk about it, she would. The only other novelist he had ever known seemed willing to stop complete strangers in the street and force chunks of his indigestible prose down their throats.
“What about the staff? Don’t answer if you’d rather not,’ he said.
Dalziel would have torn out what remained of his greying hair at such delicacy. Or worse, perhaps admired his hypocrisy. There seem to be a few feuds here. Disney and Fallowfield, for instance.”
She hooted with derision at the names.
“What d’you expect? There’s nothing queerer than two old queers. No, there’s bloodier battlegrounds than that.” She paused enticingly, but Pascoe was not to be drawn by hints. If she wanted to say more she would. But she had made a firm assertion and that was worth pursuing.
“Disney and Fallowfield, two old queers? Why do you say that?”
She looked at him incredulously.
“Come off it, Sherlock. Walt’s so butch she might as well advertise in the local paper.”
“Is this guesswork?’ he said, allowing disbelief to colour his tone.
“Guesswork nothing! When I first came she tried to charm me into her magic circle. What a thought! Poor Walt. It’s mostly sublimated now, I guess. Just girl-talk and confession hour and a bit of shoulder-patting and hair- stroking. She was hit bad when old Girling died, so they tell me.”
Pascoe was surprised.
“I thought they didn’t get on all that well? That this friendship thing was just a posthumous fantasy.”
Ellie shrugged.
“I heard different. Who told you that?”
“Dunbar.”
“That little Scotch git! What’d he know anyway? I bet they paid money to get him out of Scotland.” Pascoe pressed on, ignoring this other invitation to divert.
“And Fallowfield? What about him? Surely this business with the girl… ” “Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘ surprised me, I admit. I hadn’t known him long, of course, or well. But I’d have guessed differently about him.
What the hell, perhaps he’s just got catholic tastes!”
“Perhaps. But why… “
She jumped up. Again the legs were much in evidence.
“Enough’s enough! Drink your coffee and either stop being a policeman or go.”
She went over to a record-player pushed beneath a small sideboard, pulled it out and put a record on.
Pascoe reached into his wallet and produced his warrant card.
There you are,’ he said placing it on the mantelpiece. ‘ now have no official standing.”
Feeling incredibly ham, he took Ellie in his arms and they began dancing, pressed close together.
“Why aren’t you married?’ she asked suddenly. ‘ are you?”
“No,’ he said. ‘ time. Besides I don’t mix with a very nice class of person. You?”
