Or perhaps the stupid bastard didn’t write one at all. Unlikely, he thought scornfully. Bloody words were all these fairy intellectuals were good for. Pascoe, thank God, had learned the art of silence, sometimes the hard way. And there was nothing puffy about Pascoe, lots of lead in his pencil. Randy young bastard, thought Dalziel, surprised to find himself feeling almost affectionate. A good-looking woman, that Ellie Soper. Something there to grapple with. Not many of those in a pound.
His train of thought had carried him almost unconsciously out of the admin, block into the fresh air of another glorious evening. He glanced at his watch. Twenty past nine. The shadows were very long now. There were still no clouds in the sky but the sun had almost disappeared. The air-staining grime of the industrial North lay all to the west here and the whole horizon was breaking out in a multi-coloured rash.
Nice, thought Dalziel automatically. He had been brought up to think that sunsets, along with the Royal Family and the Liberal Party, were nice. It was difficult to lose all your conditioning.
Now for the senior common room, probably a wild goose chase. But a necessary diversion first, it being Sunday and the police being what they were about licensing hours.
The bar was packed. It was the first time he had been in here, he realized with surprise. (I’ve been working too hard, he told himself.) They did themselves well too. None of your spit and sawdust; plush, well-padded comfort. But some of these bloody students — talk about out of place! They looked more suitable for a Sally Army doss-house than these comfortable, middle-class lounge bar surroundings. And some of the staff he could see dotted around didn’t look that much different. At least the students stared honestly.
“A bottle of scotch, malt if you’ve got it,’ he said to the barman.
“I’m sorry, sir,’ said the man, ‘ have you been signed in?”
“What? Oh, no.’ Of course, it was a club.
Then you can’t buy drink, can you?’ said Cockshut’s voice just behind him.
“That’s right, Mr. Cockshut,’ said Dalziel calmly. ”m glad to see you’ve got some grasp of the law.”
The student secretary was obviously well on the way to being drunk. This could be unpleasant. But Dalziel had never bothered to avoid unpleasantness.
“That’s all right, Bert,’ said another familiar voice. It was Roote talking to the barman. ”ve signed the superintendent in.”
Bert’s eyes widened at the title. He wouldn’t have had the nerve to refuse me if he’d known, thought Dalziel. Cockshut would have been on to that.
“What would you like, Super?’ said Franny with a smile. Tint?”
“No thanks. I just wanted a bottle of scotch to take out. Can you manage that?”
Franny spoke quietly to the barman who bent down and surfaced with a bottle of Glen Grant.
“That’s your brand, isn’t it?’ asked Franny politely.
“That’s right.”
“Nice drop of stuff that,’ leered Cockshut.
To those who are mature enough to appreciate it. That right?’ he said counting out some money on to the bar. ‘ you, Mr. Roote. Good night.”
He turned to go and almost bumped into Marion Cargo who smiled. Behind her was Landor who looked worried.
“I’m glad I’ve found you, Superintendent. Our switchboard operator — she’s one of our secretaries really, they take turns at weekends — told me you were in the registrar’s office. I wondered what… ” “Just prowling,’ said Dalziel blithely. The door was open. Bad security that after last night.”
“Oh dear,’ said Landor. ‘ see. Well, could we talk for a moment?”
“Fifteen minutes suit you? In the study. I just have something to do. I want to pop into the SCR. Is that all right?”
He kept his voice down, conscious of the crush of people around them.
“Yes. Of course. But you won’t be able to get in. No one uses it on a Sunday, well very rarely, and after last night, I’ve had it locked all day. It was rather badly damaged once before in a rag of some kind. So the locks were changed and I took the precaution of limiting the number of keys. Here you are.”
He undid a key from his key-ring and handed it over.
“Shall I come up with you perhaps,’ he suggested diffidently.
“Oh no. Not necessary. I’ll lock up. Fifteen minutes then in the study?”
He glanced at his watch. It was nearly half past nine.
The block in which the SCR was situated was quite deserted. It was the block in which the main lecture rooms were to be found. Presumably the common room had been placed there for maximum convenience during the working day.
The outer door was locked, but once again the bunch of keys he had taken from Sandra came in useful. But it was fortunate he had met Landor as the lock on the common room door was quite different from any of the others.
Protect your comfort. It’s the only thing the bloody state won’t replace immediately, thought Dalziel. But at least it probably meant it would have been difficult for anyone to get in here during the day.
Anyway it was three floors up and there was no lift. No wonder people kept away on Sunday, he thought puffily.
The room faced east and it was quite dark inside. He put his bottle of whisky down on a table by the door and looked for a light switch. There was a block of half a dozen in the wall. He flicked one down at random and a light went on in the far corner. That would do. It was silly to draw attention to his presence here. He felt strangely uneasy.
There seemed to be a good deal of mail in the pigeonholes. Of course it was a large staff, over eighty, and many of them would not have been near the place since Friday. He had no idea who Fallowfield would have been most likely to write to. In any case, it was best to be systematic.
He started at A and began to work his way along. In his pocket was a page from Fallowfield’s letter of application to the college which he had removed from his file. All handwritten envelopes he checked against this. Typewritten ones he examined more closely, occasionally cutting open a small flap with a razor-edge penknife to check on the contents.
From time to time, he halted all movement and listened carefully. This was an invasion of privacy after all and he had no desire to be caught at it. There would have been other ways, but not without delay and letting everybody know what he was at. In any case, he decided, replacing the R letters back in their hole, it was probably going to be a waste of time.
The top letter in the S pigeonhole changed his mind. The handwriting was unmistakable. He compared it carefully with Fallowfield’s letter, checking and rechecking. There was no doubt. This was it.
It was addressed to Henry Saltecombe.
Dalziel stood for a moment, uncertain now what to do.
The proper course was to contact Saltecombe and ask him to open the letter in his presence. It was his letter after all. It was only theory that it had any importance whatsoever to the police.
On the other hand it might be of vital importance.
Still uncertain, Dalziel bent forward to replace the other letters. And the blow aimed at his skull crashed with great violence on to the bunched muscles of his powerful shoulders just below his neck. He pitched forward, his mind registering with horror the feel of a thin but rapid flow of dampness running over his head, around his ear, finally dripping to the carpet from his brow.
Pascoe slowed to fifty to turn into the college gates. Why he had driven so fast he did not know. But once out of the town streets he had put his foot on the accelerator and kept it there. Now as he slackened speed still more to navigate the sweeping bend in the college driveway, he felt his whole body relax comfortably, in an almost postcoital Languor.
New kicks for jaded appetites, he thought. Only his appetite wasn’t at all jaded. He wondered whether Ellie would still be available after this morning’s row. He doubted it. Which was a pity. Still there must be any amount of enthusiastic crumpet available in a place like this for the true believer.
But Da
lziel first, not the most aphrodisiac of thoughts.
The study was empty. He went outside again and glanced up towards the SCR block. A dim light glowed in one of the upstairs windows. Perhaps the fat man was still up there. Perhaps he had found something.
He went through the main entrance, pushing the heavy door to behind him.
It crashed shut as he began to climb the stairs. The noise reverberated up the stair-well for a moment. He stood and looked up the uninviting flights of stairs.
“Are you up there, sir?’ he called.
The answer came as though cued on a television thriller.
A woman’s scream.
Pascoe set off up the stairs three at a time. Each landing had a corridor leading off it, a grey tube leading to an identical landing at the other end and another flight of stairs. On the second landing, Pascoe caught a brief glimpse of movement at the other end of the corridor. He paused for a moment. Distantly he heard footsteps, pattering desperately down the stairs. He was undecided whether to pursue or go on up.
“Oh help, please help!’ It was the woman’s voice again. That decided him. Up to the next floor, down the corridor a little way, through the open door which let a feeble rectangle of light fall out of it.
The first thing that struck him was the smell. It was like the aftermath of a distillers’ orgy. The place reeked of whisky.
Squatting on the floor looking desperately up at him was Marion Cargo.
And in her lap she cradled Dalziel’s head.
“Thank God!’ said Marion. ‘ me please. We must get a doctor.”
Pascoe knelt beside her and took Dalziel’s weight. He seemed to be the main source of the whisky fumes, his shoulders were soaked and the floor was strewn with broken glass.
“Sir!’ he said anxiously. ‘!”
Dalziel opened his eyes and groaned. The groan turned into a sniff. He put a hand up to his face, looked at it, then licked his fingers.
“Oh my God,’ he said weakly. ‘ thought it was blood.”
He tried to stagger to his feet and Pascoe pushed him without much resistance into a chair. He leaned back, then yelped with pain and bent forward again.
“The bastard!’ he said. ‘, the bastard. He’s broken my whisky.”
“Does it hurt much?’ asked Pascoe anxiously.
“Aye, man. Mentally and physically. The letter, has he got the letter?”
“Where? You found it then?”
“On top of the pigeonholes there.”
The letter was gone.
Pascoe turned to Marion.
“What happened?’ he snapped.
“I don’t know. I came across to get a briefcase I’d left in here on Friday. The place was locked before because of the trouble last night I think. But I heard Mr. Dalziel say he was coming up.”
“You heard”? When? Where?”
“Why, in the bar a few moments ago.”
“Anybody else there?”
“Nearly everybody,’ she said, puzzled. ‘, I finished my drink, came out, saw the light so thought I’d just pop up.”
“Did you see anybody else come in?”
“No. But when I got to the landing of this floor, I heard a crash from inside the common room and as I reached the door, someone came running out and knocked me down.”
She rubbed her left buttock expressively.
“And then?”
“I screamed. Then I came in here and found the superintendent. Next thing I heard you running up the stairs so I shouted for help. Don’t you think we should get a doctor?”
“Yes. We will. Look, did you see who it was?”
“No. I’m afraid not. It all happened so quickly and I was dazed for a minute. Mind you,’ she added slowly, ‘ was something familiar about him. I’m sure it was someone I know.”
“Roote,’ said Dalziel, groaning as he tried to straighten up.
“What? Are you sure?’ said Pascoe.
“It has to be. Anyway I saw his shoes, those fancy tennis shoes he wears. Between my bloody legs I saw them.”
“Are you sure?’ repeated Pascoe. Marion looked amazed.
“For Christ’s sake, go and get him!”
“Yes, but you… “
“We need that letter. We’ve bugger all else. Go and get him!’ snarled Dalziel. His face was recovering a bit of colour, though it still looked grey. ”ll be able to smell him. Glen Grant. My God!”
“Miss. Cargo, get on the telephone will you?’ began Pascoe.
“Go!’ screamed the fat man.
Pascoe went. Dalziel was right, of course. Speed was of the essence. The letter itself would only take a minute to dispose of. He had little hope there. But at least if they got Roote straightaway they’d be able to check for certain if he was the attacker. He could hardly have avoided whisky stains and minute fragments of glass getting on to his clothes.
But the man was no fool. He would realize this too. His mind worked fast and it was matched with ice-cold nerves. He must have overheard Dalziel talking in the bar, had the same flash of realization that he, Pascoe, had had an hour earlier and instantly set out to thwart the fat man. He probably stood at the SCR door, absolutely still, watching the search, content to fade away quietly if nothing turned up, but moving instantly Dalziel’s demeanour revealed he had found something. Into the room, picking up the bottle of scotch on the way, bring it down club-like on to the detective’s back, then away with the letter. Perhaps he had meant to do more. The bottle had shattered on the superintendent’s shoulders. If it had caught him on the head… Perhaps Marion Cargo’s arrival had stopped another killing.
With this thought in mind, he went into Franny’s room in the best film-detective fashion, fast and low, crouched ready to ward off attack.
The place was empty, but bore the signs of a recent and hurried visit.
The wardrobe door was ajar, a couple of drawers in the chest were pulled out. Pascoe looked around longingly. It might be well worthwhile searching the place.
But not now. If he read the signs aright, Roote had been as quick as he suspected, and realizing that his clothes were a possible giveaway, had got back quickly for a change, but was too clever to do it here. Where then? Someone else’s room? Possibly.
Pascoe ran lightly down the corridor, pushing open doors. Most of the rooms were empty. In one an unfamiliar youth was leaning out of his open window smoking a pipe which was far too old for his placid, child-like face. He looked round in surprise.
“Roote?’ said Pascoe, retreating as he spoke.
“Franny? I’ve just seen him heading out towards the beach. He must be going for a swim. I think he had his things.”
He gestured largely with his pipe out of the window. Pascoe went into the room and peered out towards the invisible sea.
“When?”
“About a minute. Less.”
Pausing only to check on a possible bluff by opening the youth’s wardrobe, much to his surprise, Pascoe hurried from the building and set off at a gentle trot towards the dunes. His hopes were fading as fast as the light. Roote would know this stretch of coastline like the back of his hand. It had been a good move not to stop in the building. Clothing was always difficult to get rid of indoors. Whereas… Whereas if I were Roote thought Pascoe, I’d get down to the beach, strip off, make sacks out of my trousers and shirt, fill them with stones, swim out as far as I could and let them go. Then gently back, having given myself a thorough washing in the process, and up the beach to where I have left my new gear. The letter could go too if it hadn’t been disposed of already. What the hell had Fallowfield said that was so damning? Was it about Girling? It still seemed unlikely. Anita? Or even both?
He doubted if they would ever know now. But if he played his hunch for once and made straight for the beach instead of scouting around the dunes, they might still get enough to make things very difficult for Roote.
He increased his pace to a run, stopping only when he breasted the last line of sand hills and stood ov
erlooking the sea.
It was like a scientist putting his hypothesis to the practical test and finding it worked out perfectly in every particular.
Below him, about thirty yards to the right Franny was kneeling, dressed only in his trousers, thrusting stones into a bag made from his light cotton shirt. The rest of the beach was completely empty, the tide was out and the sea was a mere line of brightness in the hazy distance.
“It’s a long walk for a swim,’ said Pascoe conversationally. He had moved unobserved along the ridge of the dune till he stood right over the youth.
Franny looked round. His voice when he spoke was the same as ever, but there was a tightness round his face which should have been a warning.
“Hello, lovey,’ he said. ‘ a dip, do you?” “No thanks,’ said Pascoe, leaping lightly down. At least he meant to leap lightly, but his feet slithered in the soft loose sand and he was thrown off balance. Franny came to his feet and 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.
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