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.
