Reginald Hill - An Advancement of Learning

“Oh,’ said Kent. ‘, of course. But it seems likely. It obviously hasn’t been lying long.” “No,’ said Dalziel, taking it from him. It was slightly damp from the dew. But the metal adjusting rings and fastening hooks were bright and shiny still.

“May I see?’ It was Landor, at the door. Dalziel looked at him in surprise, but held out the garment without demur. Landor took it between his thumb and index finger.

“No,’ he said. ‘ don’t think it’s hers.”

Kent opened his mouth and began to say something, but Dalziel silenced him with a glance.

“Now, why do you say that, sir?” “She, Miss. Sewell, was larger,’ he said, enunciating the last word with meticulous precision.

“I see. Well, thank you, Mr. Landor.”

He took the brassiere back and laid it on the table.

“Still, it will be interesting to find out who it does belong to,’ he said.

Franny Roote woke instantly as he always did, with no interim stage of gradual revival. It was late. He was already missing his only lecture of the morning. Not that it mattered. It was only people like Disney who moaned about absentees. In any case as President of the Student Union, his official duties often kept him otherwise engaged. He smiled.

This morning, he thought as he dressed, Miss. Cargo. About the art exhibition in the Union building. That would do. An attractive woman, Miss. Cargo. He must keep an eye on her.

Someone tried the handle of his door. It was, as always, locked.

“Who?’ he called.

“It’s me, Stuart. Open up, Franny.”

“Wait.”

He fastened a single button of his white silk shirt, leaving it open from the throat almost to the navel. There was a speck of dirt on his white tennis shoes which he flicked off before fastening them, making sure the laces were nowhere twisted.

A careful glance in the full-length mirror fixed behind his wardrobe door; he held his own gaze steadily for half a minute; the door handle was rattled impatiently, but he did not move.

“Franny! For Godsake!”

He closed the wardrobe door and turned the key in the main door to admit Cockshut.

“Nothing is worth hurrying for, Stuart, love,’ he said amiably.

“You moved as fast as anyone last night,’ snapped Stuart. ‘, haven’t you heard? About Anita? They’ve found her. Dead! Out in the dunes. Oh Christ, this is terrible.”

He sat on Franny’s bed and put his head between his hands. The other did not move but stood stock-still, a pale outline in the light of the single heavily-shaded lamp which was the room’s only source of illumination.

“Can’t you open these bloody curtains?’ said Cockshut finally. ”s the middle of the bloody afternoon.” “No,’ said Franny. ‘ is an ambience I wish to preserve here.

Besides, now it is fitting. Tell all you know.”

It came pouring out of Stuart. It was all over college. The plain fact of Anita’s death was certain, and the place — there were policemen all over the golf course. The rest was rumour. Her body was naked, half-clothed; she had been drowned, strangled, stabbed.

“Take your pick,’ said Stuart. ‘ are we going to do, Franny?”

“I must go and have a word with Landor,’ said Franny. ”ll be things to do. The poor love won’t know whether he’s on his arse or his head.”

“But what about the police? Shouldn’t we…?”

“Anything we do must be a democratic decision, Stuart. Surely I don’t need to tell you that? We meet for recall this evening. Then we’ll talk.

Now I must act as befits a President of the Union. You, I suggest, should be thinking as befits a pragmatic Marxist. There could be a new basis for action here.”

Cockshut looked at him with distaste.

“You’re a cold bastard, Franny.”

“No,’ he replied with something like passion. ‘ live in balance. I am all I should be, but not in each part of me. There is no place for weeping in that part of me which wishes to survive.”

Stuart shrugged his shoulders.

“You can’t survive without humanity.”

Franny laughed.

“Go and start a revolution, Stuart.”

The door opened again and Sandra Firth rushed in, her hair more dishevelled than usual and a flush burning through her sallow skin at the cheekbones.

“Franny, have you heard? What are we going to do?”

Roote looked at her long and steadily.

“Nothing,’ he said, giving each syllable a full value.

“Later we will talk. There are things we must talk about, you and I, Sandra.”

The flush ebbed away from the girl’s face.

“Stuart, we’ll need a full Union meeting. Tomorrow night; no, Saturday.

Get the word around, posters up, you know the drill.”

“Surely it’s up to the committee…?”

“Oh, see them first then,’ said Franny impatiently. ‘ arrange it.”

“It’s a bad night, especially at short notice. You might be pushed for a quorum.” “Quorum forum,’ said Franny. ‘ get the notices out. Right? I’ve got to go.” He took Sandra by the hand and smiled at her, the smile lighting up his whole face.

“Don’t look so down, love,’ he said pressing her hand reassuringly.

She responded instantly, coming close to him, pleasure and relief in her face.

“Oh, Franny,’ she began, but he interrupted her, still smiling.

“After all, you didn’t even like Anita, did you? So why so glum?”

She pulled away from him, her face set again, and ran out of the door without replying.

Franny waved Stuart out before him, then followed, locking the door behind them.

“What the hell do you keep in there, Fran?” “Memories,’ said his companion. The distillation of experience. See you later, love.”

Stuart Cockshut watched him stride confidently away through the windy sunlight, strangely indistinct in the shifty dapplings cast by the old beeches which had survived the building programme. Turning back into the hostel building they had just left, he ducked into a plastic shielded telephone booth, an unnecessary movement for one so small. With the end of a pencil, he dialled the London coding, followed by a number he knew by heart.

“Hello,’ said a noncommittal voice at the other end.

“Cockshut,’ he said. ‘ me speak to Christian… Listen, Chris, we’ve got a situation here which might be useful… “

The trouble with a college, Dalziel was finding, was that you had a hell of a job putting your hands on people. If they were teaching, they were reluctant to be interrupted and Dalziel was reluctant to provoke open antagonism. Yet.

If they weren’t teaching, they might be anywhere. In their rooms if they lived on the campus; at home if they didn’t. In libraries, laboratories, bathrooms, bars or beds.

There was a copy of the staff time-table on the wall of Landor’s room but he gave it up after ten seconds. He found he was missing Pascoe.

There were plenty of other ‘-men’, uniformed and CID, at his disposal, but Pascoe knew his ways and was at home in this kind of territory.

Kent he had left up at the golf club.

Landor had been in and out a couple of times. At first Dalziel had suspected he was going to turn out to be a ”, but he was obviously doing a fairly efficient job of keeping the college in balance. The news would be in the evening papers, on the television.

Already reporters were beginning to pester. Soon it would be anxious parents. Dalziel had already arranged with the local exchange that one of the college lines was to be kept completely free for his own incoming and outgoing calls.

“I’ve called a staff meeting for first thing tomorrow morning,’ said Landor. ‘ the staff are informed, it helps to cut down student rumour.” “Good idea,’ said Dalziel, uninterested. ‘ least I’ll know where the bugg… they are.”