An Advancement of Learning

by Reginald Hill

  Dalziel chuckled to himself as he walked towards the block in which his room was situated. The students saw him and a cry of mockery and abuse went up.

  ‘Sieg Heill’ shouted some wit. ‘Fascist bastard!’

  Roote detached himself from the crowd.

  ‘Is there something else, Superintendent?’

  ‘No, thank you, Mr Roote. I’m just away to my bed.’

  ‘You’re not so brave without your bully-boys, are you, Dalziel?’ said Cockshut. ‘Weren’t there enough of them? Have they gone for help?’

  ‘It’s provocation that’s what it is!’ shrieked a hysterical little girl. ‘Bloody deliberate provocation.’

  She was an ugly little thing, hardly coming up to Dalziel’s chest, and he felt a pang of pity for her. This was obviously the most exciting experience she had ever had in her life.

  ‘Provocation!Provocation!’ Others took up the chant. It only lasted a minute, however, and as it died down Dalziel shouted, using all the projection power of his large lungs, ‘Well, if I can provoke all you lot just by myself, I’d better become a pop-singer! Now I’m off to my bed. Good night!’

  There was a ripple of laughter, then someone started singing, ‘Good night, Dalziel. Good night, Dalziel. Good night, Dalziel, it’s time to say goodbye.’

  They all took it up and opened up an avenue through their midst.

  Feeling relieved, though showing nothing on his face, he began to walk towards the now very attractive sanctuary of the entrance to his block. He had nearly reached it when another sound became audible above the singing, which died away as the students too became aware of it. Dalziel’s first reaction was incredulity, followed immediately by anger.

  It was the noise of a siren, swiftly approaching, and the glare of strong headlights was already visible at intervals along the main road which swung in a broad curve away to the west.

  ‘The bastards are coming back,’ said someone.

  ‘You rotten lying pig.’

  ‘Fat, stinking ‘Liar!Shitting liar!’

  ‘Bugger bugger bugger!’

  It was the little ugly girl again. She began to rain futile blows on his chest with little fists clenched like pigs’ trotters. The others began to press round and Dalziel felt himself being shoved and pulled with increasing violence. He did not retaliate, concentrated on keeping his balance, mentally promising to do a grievous injury to whoever had brought in this police car with all systems blaring. Disney again? Very probably. Stupid bitch. But at least the men waiting at the main gate would stop it.

  But the noise got nearer and he realized it must be in the college grounds now. Fools! he groaned. ‘Fools,’ he shouted aloud. But someone else was shouting now, a girl’s voice, a cry taken up by others.

  ‘It’s not the police! It’s not the police!’

  The headlights swept round the last bend in the long driveway which wound through the college precincts, lighting up the struggling mob of students and dazzling the eyes of those who stared into them. But the vehicle was close enough now to be identified.

  It was an ambulance.

  The students parted before it and it slowed down almost to a stop. A girl ran out and spoke to the driver. It was Sandra Firth and Dalziel realized it was her voice he had heard before. The ambulance swung off the drive and ploughed across several yards of lawn towards one of the teaching blocks, with Sandra Firth running ahead, a strange unearthly figure in the luminance of the headlights. She disappeared inside, followed by the ambulance men. Dalziel began making his way after her, but his progress was impeded by the press of students, mostly completely oblivious of his presence now. By the time he forced his way to the front, the men were coming out again, carrying someone on a stretcher. The onlookers went quite silent except for an excited voice which said over and over again, ‘Who is it? Who is it?’

  The ambulance lights touched the face of the figure on the stretcher, but it was not just their brightness which made the skin seem unnaturally white and drawn. The face was like a rubber mask which had slipped awry and no longer clung to the outline of the bones below. But it was still recognizable.

  It was Sam Fallowfield and as he was carried swiftly by, Dalziel found himself unable to say whether he was alive or dead.

  Sandra Firth came out of the building after the stretcher and Dalziel seized her arm as she went by.

  ‘Did you call the ambulance?’ he demanded.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Could you bloody cure him?’ she asked scornfully, pulling herself free.

  ‘Where’d you find him? Show me,’ he said. The girl hesitated, looking at the ambulance which was now ready to depart.

  ‘You can do nothing there,’ he said brutally. ‘You can’t work miracles either.’

  The ambulance moved away, siren wailing once more.

  ‘Now show me.’

  Without a word she turned and went back into the building. Dalziel paused only to speak to Roote who was standing looking after the disappearing vehicle with a concentration of thought so intense that Dalziel had to speak to him twice.

  ‘Get these people out of here,’ he said curtly. ‘Get them out of the offices. Get them back to bed. There’ll be plenty of opportunities for this foolishness. Now isn’t the time.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Roote distantly. ‘Yes. I will. I will.’

  Dalziel looked at him doubtfully but now the youth seemed to wake up and before Dalziel had followed Sandra through the door he was already shepherding students towards the dormitory blocks.

  Sandra had disappeared when he finally got into the building.

  ‘Miss Firth! Sandra! Where are you?’ he shouted up the stairs.

  ‘Up here.’

  Here was a small laboratory whose frosted glass door opened on to the long corridor which led away from the landing. An even smaller storeroom-cum-office opened off the laboratory itself and it was here that Sandra took him, pointing to the small desk shoved against the wall beneath the window and the institutional plastic and metal chair which stood beside it.

  ‘He was sprawled over the desk,’ the girl said. ‘I thought he was asleep. I thought …’

  For the first time, Dalziel looked closely at the girl and realized just how shocked she was.

  ‘Sit down, for a minute, love,’ he said in his best kindly voice, spoiling it a little by snapping. ‘No, not there!’ as the girl uneasily felt for the chair in the storeroom. He led her back into the lab where the best that could be managed was a rather tall stool. Taking a beaker off a shelf, he sniffed it, rinsed it thoroughly and filled it with water.

  ‘Here, sip that.’

  She took it gratefully.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘what the hell were you doing up here anyway?’

  She drank the water as though she had a heavy thirst and handed back the beaker.

  ‘More?’ he asked. She shook her head.

  ‘I just got fed up,’ she said suddenly. ‘I was up in the general office. The place was packed, everyone being very jolly, and permissive and just a little bit hysterical. It was like those scenes you sometimes see on the old newsreels during the war - everybody in a shelter, all united and smiling through, you know what I mean. And then there were the organizing ones, hammering away at the typewriters, producing lists and schedules, like the revolution had come or something, instead of just a crummy little demo in a crummy place like this years after everyone else had had theirs. So I just helped myself to a bunch of keys and went for a walk.’

  ‘I see. Why here?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well,’ said Dalziel thoughtfully, ‘it’s not the first place you’d come to, or the most comfortable, or attractive, I shouldn’t have thought.’

  ‘Anyway, what’s it matter? I came. It was eerie. I suppose I felt brave, being here all by myself. I came up the stairs in the dark -‘

  ‘Was the lab door locked?’

  ‘Yes. But I had a master key
for all the rooms in this block. So in I went, this other door was a bit ajar, I peered in. I’d got my night eyes by then and I could see quite clearly. I just took one look and ran outside. There’s a phone in the corridor. I knew the girl on the switchboard, so she gave me a line though she wasn’t supposed to, not according to the planners. And I asked for an ambulance.’

  Dalziel digested the information for a while.

  ‘Was he dead?’ he asked finally.

  ‘I don’t know. He was very still. And when I touched his hand he felt - funny.’

  ‘You didn’t say you touched him.’

  ‘No, that was when I went back in, to see if there was anything I could do. But I couldn’t think of anything, and I was scared, so I went and stood in the corridor till I heard the ambulance coming.’

  ‘You’ve been very brave indeed,’ said Dalziel sincerely. ‘Would you mind having another look inside?’

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  She slid off the stool and followed him back into the room.

  ‘Now you say he was sprawled out over the desk? Good, good,’ he said. ‘Now, did you touch anything in here?’

  ‘Well, yes. I mean I had to. I touched him, Mr Fallowfield, just once. And I moved the chair back when the ambulance men came. And I touched the light switch.’

  ‘But you didn’t remove anything? A piece of paper or anything at all?’

  ‘No!’ she said with some indignation.

  ‘I have to ask,’ he said. ‘If for instance he had tried to kill himself, and left a note it would be wrong of anyone to remove it, even if it was addressed to some specific person. You follow me?’

  ‘I’ve overtaken you,’ she said, recovering her spirits now. ‘And I haven’t taken anything.’

  ‘Good-oh,’ said Dalziel making a minute examination of the room but touching as little as possible. He ended up on his hands and knees peering under and around the desk.

  There was a clatter of feet on the stairs and Pascoe came into the laboratory, halting outside the storeroom and looking down at his superior’s proffered backside with an impassive face.

  Dalziel stood up, dusting his elbows and knees. In his hand he held a broken hypodermic syringe which he wrapped carefully in his handkerchief, ignoring Sandra’s questioning gaze.

  ‘What’s going on outside?’

  ‘There’s still a lot of people standing around, chatting, but the revolutionary spirit seems to have evaporated for the time being.’

  He caught Sandra’s eye and grinned sympathetically. She looked away.

  ‘Is this where he … ?’

  ‘Whatever happened to Mr Fallowfield probably happened here,’ said Dalziel carefully. ‘I’ll want this room sealed off until the lab boys can have a look at it. I’d better have your keys I think, Miss Firth.’

  She passed them over without demur and he locked both the storeroom door and the laboratory door behind them. On the stairs they met one of the uniformed men from the car. He looked apologetic.

  ‘I know you said wait, sir, but after the ambulance … well, we thought one of us should take a walk down. It might have been for you.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you, lad. As you’re so keen, you can bloody well stay here. No one gets into this block without my say-so. Right?’

  They made their way back towards the Old House, ignoring the groups of students and of staff with fine impartiality. Once back in the study, Dalziel gestured towards the phone.

  ‘Is that thing OK?’

  Pascoe lifted the receiver and listened.

  ‘Yes. There’s an outside line.’

  ‘Get the hospital. Find out what’s what.’

  Outside the door they heard voices raised in heated discussion. The door was suddenly opened and a little, balding man strutted in, pushing past Landor.

  ‘Superintendent Dalziel? We met briefly the other day, you’ll recall. I’m Douglas Pearl and I’m here to represent..’

  ‘Pearl?’ bellowed Dalziel, successfully bringing the little man to order; then more quietly, Pearl. Well, Mr Pearl, the swine you wish to cast yourself before have rushed off elsewhere.’

  ‘Mr Dalziel! I must protest …’

  ‘So must I. You weren’t asked in here. Well, what is it, Pascoe? Spit it out, man.’

  ‘He’s dead,’ said Pascoe slowly, replacing the receiver. ‘Fallowfield’s dead. On arrival.’

  The words engendered a silence which spread through the room and out into the hallway beyond.

  ‘How?’ asked Dalziel, no respecter of respect.

  ‘It’s early to say with certainty,’ replied Pascoe. ‘But they’re pretty sure it’s a massive overdose of heroin.’

  Chapter 15

  There is no greater impediment of action than an over-curious observance of decency.

  SIR FRANCIS BACON

  op. at.

  Sunday morning dawned fine; had been dawning fine before most people in the college got to bed. The scent of the sea was in the air, evocative, invigorating; but it was obviously going to become over-warm later.

  Pascoe thought he was probably the first person out of bed, but he gave all the credit for this to the makeshift arrangement of blankets and narrow mattress on which he had finally slept in the study. It was an unnecessary precaution, he was sure, but Dalziel had been adamant. Sheer jealousy, thought Pascoe gloomily.

  He decided no harm could be done by having a quick shower and shave. He felt disagreeably grubby and dull-witted.

  When he returned, he saw that he was no longer alone in the world. Ellie was standing outside the main door of the Old House and he felt a gush of pleasure that she had come so early to see him. Then he saw that she was pinning something to the door. A notice. He came up behind her without being observed and coughed gently. She jumped very satisfactorily.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘It’s you.’

  ‘Good morning,’ he said reading the notice. It was typewritten and had obviously been run off from a stencil on a duplicating machine.

  We the undersigned members of staff dissociate ourselves completely from the high-handed and provocative actions of the police force last night

  It was dated and signed by about ten people. Some of them were only names to Pascoe, but others he recognized. Halfdane; Marion Cargo; and Ellie herself.

  ‘That’s a bit unnecessary, isn’t it?’ he said.

  Ellie shrugged.

  ‘Halfdane’s idea, I’ve no doubt. You must have got even less sleep than I did.’

  ‘It had to be done quickly. We thought if the notices were there for the students to see first thing this morning, it might help to cool things down.’

  Pascoe laughed without humour.

  ‘Cool things down! You’ve got to be joking! People like Cockshut will be delighted when they see this. It’s carte blanche for anarchy.’

  ‘Piddle diddle,’ said Ellie lightly. ‘You are an old reactionary now, aren’t you? You’ve forgotten what it’s like to be young.’

  He looked at her coldly.

  ‘Don’t try to kid me, Ellie,’ he said. ‘You’re no political animal. You’d better watch yourself. It’s very easy for single women in places like this to mistake sentimental maternalism for radical idealism. But I don’t think you’re as far gone as that, though there’s always the danger. Then what is it you’re after? Pretty boy Halfdane’s approval?’

  She slapped his face, almost dispassionately.

  ‘You can go to jail for that,’ said Dalziel’s voice behind them. The fat man shouldered his way between them and read the notice.

  ‘Bloody cloud-cuckoo-land,’ he said. ‘You all live in bloody cloud-cuckoo-land. Come on in, Sergeant. We’ve got a real job to do.’

  Jesus wept! thought Pascoe as he went inside, not looking back at Ellie, what strange allies we find ourselves lined up with! Dalziel, Disney, Dunbar, Scotby, all the oldies, all the wrong reasons, but facing in the same direction.

  ‘Bloody students,’ groaned Dalziel, once they got insi
de. ‘All social reform and young idealism on the surface, but give ‘em half a chance and they’re just young criminals.’

  ‘Protest is hardly criminal,’ said Pascoe mildly.

  ‘Not protest, no. But I’ve just been talking to Landor. The stuff that’s missing from the admin, block! I warned ‘em. Mostly small stuff, but a typewriter’s gone. And some bright spark broke open all three college posting boxes last night and tore up half the mail. Isn’t that criminal? And the kind of thing they’ve scribbled around the place and left in typewriters for sixteen-year-old typists to find doesn’t bear repeating.’

  He shook his head in what seemed like genuine bewilderment. Pascoe felt an impulse to cluck sympathetically but checked it. Dalziel’s gloom changed into a huge yawn.

  ‘To hell with ‘em,’ he yawned. ‘Landor doesn’t want us officially, so we’ll just stick to our brief. Now, the question is, do we still have a case to investigate or don’t we?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘A good suspect for one, possibly two murders goes and gets himself killed. Very convenient, saves the state a lot of money, us a lot of bother. I want to be convinced he did at least one of ‘em, preferably both. So convince me, Sergeant.’

  He settled himself comfortably in his chair, picked up the phone, dialled, and said, ‘Superintendent Dalziel, love. Breakfast for two in the old study. Kippers are fine. ‘Bye.’

  ‘The only thing we’ve got that connects Fallowfield with Miss Girling,’ said Pascoe, ‘is the coincidence that he was interviewed on the nineteenth of December. Presumably he was offered the job on the spot, accepted, shook hands all round, collected his gear and headed for the station.’

  ‘Or he might have had a car?’

  ‘That makes it worse. If he did knock old Girling on the head while he was here, presumably he drove her car a hundred miles to the airport leaving his own here. How did he pick it up without being noticed?’

  ‘Good point. Check with whoever keeps details of expenses paid. They might still have a record of whether he got his train fare or a car allowance.’