Reginald Hill - An Advancement of Learning

“What happened in the end?”

She laughed.

“It was funny really. The others noticed, of course, and most of them sympathized. But it was only Sam Fallowfield who did anything about it.

I suppose in the end I’d have worked my courage up to the point where I’d have told her myself, but I’m not a very bold person, Superintendent. So I was very pleased when Sam took a hand. All he did was join me as soon as Walt came and sat beside me. And he called to see me a couple of times just after she’d arrived. He just sat and smiled at her, nodding sympathetically every time she spoke. After a couple of weeks, she gave up. I was delighted, of course. But she hated Sam. It was obscene to see how pleased she was after this trouble with the girl blew up. She went around saying it was no more than she had expected. I could have killed her.” “I see,’ said Dalziel, wondering if she was speaking purely figuratively.

“You don’t think there was any chance she could have put the girl up to it, do you?”

This was obviously a brand-new thought to Marion. She gave it careful consideration.

“I don’t think so,’ she said slowly. ‘ was a nice girl, Anita. I’m not saying she couldn’t be influenced, but not by Disney. No, I’m certain of that. It would need a very different kind of influence than a woman like Disney could bring to bear.” “Good,’ said Dalziel, standing up to show that the interview was over.

The move was abrupt, but, as Pascoe would have vouched, it passed for courtesy compared with many of his usual modes of dismissing people.

He watched with open pleasure as Marion uncrossed her legs and stood up.

“Thank you for being so frank, Miss. Cargo,’ he said.

“I’m sorry you had to ask,’ she replied. ‘ was silly of me.”

“Not at all.’ Gallantly he opened the door.

“Just one thing,’ he said as she passed through it. The other voice you heard when you knocked on Miss. Girling’s door that night. It was definitely a man? Or men?”

She hesitated, looking back into the study as if somehow projecting herself back in time to the point where she had stood outside this same door vainly waiting to be invited in.

“Yes,’ she said. ‘ a man.”

“But you didn’t recognize it?”

“I’m not sure,’ she said slowly. ‘ was somehow familiar. But it was so distorted, I couldn’t say.”

“Distorted?” “Yes,’ she said. ‘ anger.”

The cricket match was almost over when Pascoe finally reached it. He had been delayed first of all by the task of getting hold of Marion Cargo and escorting her to Dalziel. She had come without hesitation or protest, almost as if relieved. But Halfdane, still nursing his earlier annoyance, had more than compensated for her easiness. It had only been Marion’s own insistence that prevented him from following her into the study.

Pascoe had been tempted to question him very roughly about his last sighting of Fallowfield, but remembering Dalziel’s invocation of his charm, decided he would leave it till later and start elsewhere. So, leaving Halfdane striding sentry-like up and down outside the study door, he set off on his delayed journey to the playing-fields.

He had missed the day’s main excitement, it seemed. Half-way through the afternoon one of the umpires, an elderly man with a gouty toe which made the time-lag between overs even longer than it usually is, had fallen into a kind of sun-induced trance at square-leg and had to be nursed back to consciousness with iced lemonade in the pavilion. Subsequently he had been weaned on to strawberries and cream and the prognosis seemed good. But his place had been taken by the portly figure of Henry Saltecombe who, determined not to suffer the same fate, protected his bald pate with an incongruous porkpie hat. The hat was the most interesting thing on the field as far as Pascoe was concerned. It would bear looking into, as the actress said to the conjuror, he thought.

His informant about the affairs of the day was George Dunbar who masochistically was hanging on to the bitter end, despite his expression of distaste for the game.

Perhaps he wants to establish exactly where he is, thought Pascoe, laughing at his own conditioned suspiciousness, but not dismissing the suspicion. ‘. Fallowfield around?’ he asked casually.

“Fallowfield? He’s got more bloody sense.”

“Oh. What’s he do at weekends then. Golf?’ asked Pascoe at random.

“No, he hasn’t got that much sense. Why’re you asking, eh?’ Dunbar glanced keenly at the sergeant who grunted noncommittally.

“If he’s wise, he’ll be at the quack’s,’ Dunbar went on.

“Quack’s?’ ‘ doctor’s!’ said Dunbar exasperatedly. ‘ you see him yesterday? Man, he looked ill. All this business must have been a strain. I reckon he’s heading for a crack-up, myself.”

He spoke with some relish.

“So you haven’t seen him today?”

“No. Not a sign. Now, why do… “

But Pascoe had already moved on.

He stopped trying to be subtle after a while, deciding that even if he just asked people what time it was, they would start wondering what this had to do with the investigation.

Only with the group of students round Franny Roote and Cockshut did he have any success. ‘, I saw him this morning, going towards college,” said a little square, ugly girl.

Time? I don’t know. About half-nine, wouldn’t you say, hey, Franny?”

“Whatever you say, lovey, whatever you say,’ chanted Roote melodiously, lying on his back still, smiling happily. Pascoe wondered if he was slightly drunk. ‘ you didn’t see him later?’ he pursued.

“Well played, sir!’ cried Roote, clapping his hands, his eyes fixed rapturously on the sky.

“Christalmighty, you’re a detective, go and detect.’ It was Cockshut of course. ‘, why doesn’t that fat crud come out and ask his own questions instead of sending the help?”

A shout from the middle of the field and a ripple of applause round the perimeter drew his attention back to the match. The last wicket had fallen and the players were straggling off. Pascoe started heading for the pavilion with the intention of cutting off Saltecombe but someone called his name and he stopped. It was Halfdane.

But surprisingly Halfdane seemed to be in a much more conciliatory mood.

He was still far from apologetic, but at least he didn’t open with too much aggression.

Not again! he thought with an inward groan. What’s he want? A fight?” “I’ve been thinking,’ he said. ‘ business has got to be cleared up.

It’s stupid for me to withhold information out of pique.”

What’s he want? wondered Pascoe. Applause for acknowledging what nobody but a criminal or a moron would deny? Or perhaps he’s just clearing the decks so that he can get down to disliking me with a clear conscience.

“Mind you,’ said Halfdane, ‘ I’ve got to say is probably irrelevant and I hope you won’t want to do anything about it if it is.”

Again Pascoe produced his noncommittal grunt.

“Anita Sewell,’ said Halfdane, ‘ there any evidence that she’d been taking drugs?” “Why do you ask?’ said Pascoe.

“It’s just that, well, occasionally I’ve been to one or two student parties, or parties where there have been students. There’s usually pot available at these do’s. It’s just like another form of booze these days, and no more harmful.”

He looked defiantly at Pascoe who still said nothing. Is this all the poor bastard’s got to tell me? he wondered. Confession of an ageing teenager.

“Now, a couple of times I’ve noticed Anita, and she’s been really high.

I mean really.”

“And what did you do?”

Halfdane tried to look surprised.