Reginald Hill - An Advancement of Learning

“So there were two,’ he said neutrally.

“But the question is, lad, together or apart? Anyway, we mustn’t stand around here when there’s work to be done. I’ll get these clothes back to the college. You have a go at the neighbours, though I doubt they’ll be any use.”

“They don’t seem to be in,’ said Pascoe.

Dalziel looked at him pityingly.

“Of course they’re not in. Only fools and policemen are inside on a day like this. Walk down the beach a bit, they’re probably not far. And, Sergeant… “

“Sir?”

“Don’t let all that sunburnt flesh take your mind off the job.”

Even with the jacket of his lightweight suit slung casually over his shoulder, Pascoe felt very much overdressed as he furrowed his way through the soft sand towards the sea.

He had been right, the people next door were out; but in front of the farthermost of the four cottages he found an old woman who preferred the shade cast by the afternoon sun to its direct beam. She directed him to her family who were interested but unhelpful and in their turn they directed him to Fallowfield’s immediate neighbours.

There were a lot of them, three adults, one Selfconsciously almost naked teenage girl, an indistinguishable number of children and a dog.

The adults it seemed were Mr. and Mrs. Plessey and another Mr. Plessey, brother to the first.

No, they hadn’t seen Mr. Fallowfield all day; no, during the brief spells they had spent in their cottage that day, they had heard nothing suspicious, which was hardly surprising, thought Pascoe, listening to the din the children and the dog managed to make even while attending with great interest to what he was saying.

Finally; no, they hadn’t seen anyone, suspicious or not, anywhere near the cottage that day.

Pascoe turned to go.

“Except the lady.”

He turned back. It was one of the children, a happy faced boy of about six years.

“No!’ said one of his fellows, a little girl slightly older, who managed to inject considerable scorn into her voice. That was at night.” “Oh bother!’ said the boy, smacking his left fist into his right palm with a look of mock-exasperation. ”s right. Sorry!”

He jumped on top of the dog which didn’t seem to mind, and the others followed suit.

With some help from the elder Plesseys, Pascoe brought him to the surface again.

“What’s your name?’ he asked.

“Davy,’ said the lad.

“Which night was it you saw the lady? Can you remember?” “I dunno. Last night,’ he said with great charm but little conviction.

The night before last,’ said the little girl with quiet certainty.

Pascoe turned his attention to her as the more reliable witness, but instantly she became shy and tongue-tied, so he went back to Davy.

“What time was it?”

“Very very late,’ he said shooting a sideways glance at his mother.

“How late?” “Midnight,’ he said. ‘ were having a midnight feast. It was her idea.”

He spoke very earnestly, pointing at his sister, but spoilt it by starting to grin as his mother looked accusingly at him.

“It was nearly two-o-clock. Dark two-o-clock, I mean, not light two-o-clock.”

“She can tell the time,’ said Davy proudly. ”s got a clock.”

“It’s an alarming clock,’ said the girl. ‘ wakes you up.”

“What about this feast, Julie?’ asked Mr. Plessey sternly.

“It wasn’t really a feast,’ protested Julie. ‘ should have been, but the others wouldn’t wake up, only Davy.”

“And the lady?’ prompted Pascoe.

The lady whom they had seen going into Fallowfield’s house at two o’clock on Friday morning sounded — once Julie had modified Davy’s extremely sinister description very like Anita Sewell.

Happy, Pascoe offered ice-creams all round. He hadn’t realized quite how many little Plesseys there were and how much the cost of ice-cream had risen since he was a boy. Perhaps, he thought not very optimistically, Dalziel would let it come out of their informant funds.

Only once more did he pause before leaving the beach. Something distantly observed from the corner of his eye tickled his consciousness.

He glanced to the side, did a double-take.

No, he hadn’t been mistaken. The figure was some distance away, but quite unmistakable.

What on earth was Miss. Disney doing recumbent in all her tweedy glory among the hoi-polloi on this holiday beach?

Dalziel had initiated the hunt for Fallowfield very cautiously. For all he knew, the man was merely spending a weekend with friends somewhere, or perhaps even doing some shopping in one of the neighbouring towns. If so, he would come trotting back to Dalziel of his own accord and the superintendent had no intention of sending him to cover by advertising the eagerness of the police to interview him.

Nevertheless the wheels were set in motion, and what little information they had on the man was disseminated. It was very little indeed; there wasn’t even an easily accessible photograph. In fact, the information consisted almost entirely of name, verbal description and car-make and registration number.

This last item produced almost instant results. Within the hour the car was spotted outside a garage only a few miles from the college.

Dalziel’s satisfaction when this was reported to him was short-lived.

Within ten minutes it was established that the car had been left for servicing two days earlier. Fallowfield had not been back to collect it.

Going by the book, Dalziel immediately diverted more of his men to checking local car-hire services, but he felt uneasy. Checks at bus and rail stations had already proved fruitless.

Pascoe on his return from the beach had found an attentive audience as he described Fallowfield’s night visitor.

“So now you think Anita didn’t get killed right after the dancing party split up, but got dressed and later went to keep her appointment with Fallowfield?”

Pascoe was used to being appointed owner of theories until they became certainties, when they returned to his superior.

“It could be,’ he said.

“But why did he undress her after killing her?”

“Perhaps she was naked when he killed her?”

Dalziel shrugged.

“What for? They’d never been at it before. Why start now? Or, if they did start, why stop and kill her before things really got underway?”

“Perhaps Fallowfield couldn’t get underway. Perhaps that was the trouble. She said something… “

“You’ve been reading those dirty psychological books again,’ said Dalziel reprovingly. ‘; if he killed her in the house, then he undressed her and took her out to the dunes. Or took her out to the dunes and undressed her.”

“And brought her clothes back with him?”

“Yes.”

“Odd.”

“It’s fairly straightforward compared with the rest of this business.

No, the interesting thing is, why did he undress her? Eh, Sergeant?”

“To make it look…’ began Pascoe slowly.

“To make it look as if she was killed right after the dancing. Which means?”

Pascoe was there already, but diplomatically looked enquiringly at his superior. He overdid it ever so slightly, hoping Dalziel would wonder if he was being condescended to.

“It means,’ said Dalziel ignoring the subtleties of Pascoe’s facial expression, ‘ means that he knew there had been a wild, orgiastic, Bacchanalian rout.”

He brought the phrase out with mock-triumph.

“Hardly Bacchanalian,’ Pascoe murmured, but Dalziel ignored him.

“And that could tie up with those books, couldn’t it? In Fallowfield’s room?”

“It crossed my mind when I found them,’ admitted Pascoe.

“Well, lad,’ said Dalziel, ‘ you want credit for ideas, you’ll have to spit them out before I do, won’t you? Now, you bugger off out there again. That tedious bloody game’s still going on, I think. You can tell by the roar of the excited crowd. Start asking around about friend Fallowfield. I don’t want people getting ideas, you understand. Not yet.