in one smooth movement brought up the shirt with its burden of stones full into Pascoe’s chest. The sergeant went down, clutching the shirt, rolled over to the left as fast as he could and rose into the crouch to withstand the next onslaught, feeling as though his ribs were crushed in.
Franny had not moved, but stood facing him, only his eyes moving in his impassive face.
He’s thinking, thought Pascoe gasping for breath. He’s working it out.
Three things — to run, to surrender, or to fight. There’s nowhere to run, he knows that. Surrender and bluff it out? What after all have we got on him? An attack on a police-officer. Serious, but without the letter… what the hell was in that letter? But it was gone now.
Wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?
Was it?
That’s why he can’t just give up and talk his way out of it! He’s still got the letter. All right. Why not run now, give yourself enough start to dump it? With me in this condition, it shouldn’t be difficult.
Unless, of course, he no longer has it. In which case… Pascoe looked down at the bundle in his arms and slowly began to smile.
I have it!
It’s in here, ready for sinking in the sea.
He looked up again, opened his mouth, and received a handful of fine silver sand full in his face. The bundle was torn from his grasp. He flung himself forward, still blinded by the sand, and grappled with Roote’s knees. One of them came up violently, crashing into his mouth and he went over backwards. Blinking desperately, he got a little bit of vision back, enough to roll out of the way of the clubbing punch aimed at his head. Enough also to see the young man’s face and realize that he was no longer fighting just for the letter, he was fighting for his life.
He pushed himself up off his backside and tried to scrabble backwards up the sand dune, hoping to get the advantage of height. But the softness of the sand thwarted him and he slid back into the relentless volley of punches that was being hurled at him. Many of them he was able to ward off with his hands and forearms, but he had little strength to retaliate. In the cinema, western heroes, and even policemen occasionally, could give and receive enormous blows for any amount of time. But for mere unscripted mortals like himself, things were different.
The onslaught suddenly slackened, but not out of charity or even fatigue, he realized. Roote was merely casting around for a more satisfactory (meaning, lethal) weapon than his bare fists. He stooped and came up with a large ovoid stone in his hand.
The time had come, Pascoe decided, to admit the boot was on the other foot and run.
His initial burst of energy at the decision almost carried him up the sand dune this time but his foot was seized and he was dragged down into the hollow again.
He took the first blow from the stone on his elbow. It hurt like hell, but it was better than his face. And this time he managed to get in a damaging counter-blow with his knee to Roote’s groin. Momentarily the man staggered back, but Pascoe had no romantic illusions about snatching victory from the jaws of defeat. He wanted reinforcements and quick.
This time he didn’t waste his energy by trying to climb but set off along the beach, parallel with the dunes; a clumsy sideways kind of run, he thought, but in the circumstances who could expect style?
Amazingly when he glanced back after about thirty yards, he wasn’t being pursued. He didn’t question why, but just felt thankful. It was time to move inland and seek help. His fuddled mind was trying to work out where the nearest point of human contact was. The golf club perhaps? Or that row of cottages in which poor Fallowfield had lived. Poor Fallowfield indeed! God knows what the bastard was responsible for, including this!
The dunes looked less precipitous here. He turned inland and began once more to climb up.
As he pulled himself over the top, clutching at the long, tough sea-grass, he realized why Roote had not pursued him down the beach.
He was here instead, standing over him expectantly, stone still held high in his hand. As it came down, Pascoe pushed himself backwards in a last desperate attempt to escape. As he fell, he saw Roote looming over him, dark against the sky, then the youth’s body came crashing on top of him, knocking all his breath out.
It took him some seconds to realize that the body was moving even less energetically than his own, that he could push it off him quite easily.
He did so. Another figure now stood menacingly against the skyline.
Perhaps not so menacingly after all. The walking-stick with which he had clubbed Franny was still held aloft, it was true. But the bright blue eyes, the old, weather-wrinkled face, the happy smile, the old binoculars dangling free from the scrawny neck, none of these seemed to contain much menace.
“Ee, lad,’ said Harold Lapping with a contented laugh, ‘ do see some funny goings-on just walking round these dunes of an evening.”
It was a few moments before Pascoe could gasp his thanks. Lapping slid down beside him and helped him to stand up. Franny was still lying in the sand, but his eyes were open.
“Watch him,’ gasped Pascoe. ‘ he moves an inch, hit him with your stick.”
The old man grinned.
Pascoe walked unsteadily down the beach to where he had first encountered Roote. He picked up the shirt bundle and carried it back.
Anything that might be evidence it was as well to find in front of a witness. Silently he tipped out the stones so that they fell a couple of feet from Roote’s staring eyes. Among them was a crumpled envelope.
He picked it up and smoothed it out, realizing he had no idea who it might be addressed to.
“Saltecombe,’ he said. He noticed with surprise that the envelope was still sealed.
“You haven’t read it? Short of time?’ he asked, then added, ‘. You weren’t even going to read it, were you? It was ready for disposal. Why not?”
Roote sat up slowly, his eyes on Lapping’s stick. He rubbed the back of his head.
“I don’t like sticking my nose into other people’s mail,’ he said.
That’s constabulary business.” “Oh no,’ said Pascoe staring hard at the youth. ‘ were frightened, weren’t you? It worried you what a dying man might say about you. Not just because it might incriminate you, in the sight of the law, but because it might condemn you to yourself.” “Oh, piss off,’ said Franny.
Pascoe looked at the letter, faced with Dalziel’s dilemma when he had found it. Should he open it now or not?
“Open it for me,’ said Franny as though reading his thoughts. ”ve got nothing to worry about.”
He managed to sound quite confident. Pascoe shoved his bruised and bleeding face close to the youth’s and pointed to it.
“What do you think did this? Moths?’ he asked. He reached down and undid Roote’s belt and the top two buttons of his flies.
“Put your hands in your pockets,’ he said. ‘ ‘ up. Come on.”
They made an odd trio as they picked their way over the dunes and through the woodland back to the college. The letter was safely in Pascoe’s pocket. It would keep till they got back to Dalziel. That small part of Pascoe’s mind which wasn’t concerned with watching Roote or exploring the pain round his ribs and face kept on sniffing around the case. He ought to have felt happy. Franny’s actions demonstrated his guilt, the letter in his pocket would probably give some detailed indication of exactly what had happened. But what in fact was the man guilty of? Ever since he’d talked to Dalziel on the phone he’d been trying to construct models of motive and opportunity which would fit Fallowfield and Roote and the known facts together. So far nothing. It had all happened too quickly. A few hours ago he hadn’t been able to foresee an end to this business in six months. Now they had… Well, what did they have?
They found Dalziel in the college sickbay having his back treated by a little Irish matron with Marion acting as dogsbody. Landor was there too, still looking anxious, and Halfdane who did not look over-worried at the sight of Dalziel’s discomfiture. Even Miss. Disney had somehow realized that something was going on, and only her sense of the impropriety of being in the same room as a half naked superintendent kept her hovering in the doorway.
The arrival of Pascoe and Roote caused quite a stir. Roote looked round the room with a lop-sided grin and shrugged his shoulders as though in resignation. The matron came across to Pascoe and looked at his bloody face. He caught a glimpse of himself in a wall-mirror and realized how horrific he looked.
Dalziel swung down from the couch on which he was lying for treatment.
