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 overlooking 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. ‘Fancy 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.
Unless, of course, he no longer has it. In which case … Pascoe looked down at the bundle in his arms and slowly began to smile.
I have it!
It’s in here, ready for sinking in the sea.
He looked up again, opened his mouth, and received a handful of fine silver sand full in his face. The bundle was torn from his grasp. He flung himself forward, still blinded by the sand, and grappled with Roote’s knees. One of them came up violently, crashing into his mouth, and he went over backwards. Blinking desperately, he got a little bit of vision back, enough to roll out of the way of the clubbing punch aimed at his head. Enough also to see the young man’s face and realize that he was no longer fighting just for the letter, he was fighting for his life.
He pushed himself up off his backside and tried to scrabble backwards up the sand dune, hoping to get the advantage of height. But the softness of the sand thwarted him and he slid back into the relentless volley of punches that was being hurled at him. Many of them he was able to ward off with his hands and forearms, but he had little strength to retaliate. In the cinema, Western heroes, and even policemen occasionally, could give and receive enormous blows for any amount of time. But for mere unscripted mortals like himself, things were different.
The onslaught suddenly slackened, but not out of charity or even fatigue, he realized. Roote was merely casting around for a more satisfactory (meaning, lethal) weapon than his bare fists. He stooped and came up with a large ovoid stone in his hand.
The time had come, Pascoe decided, to admit the boot was on the other foot and run.
His initial burst of energy at the decision almost carried him up the sand dune this time but his foot was seized and he was dragged down into the hollow again.
He took the first blow from the stone on his elbow. It hurt like hell, but it was better than his face. And this time he managed to get in a damaging counter-blow with his knee to Roote’s groin. Momentarily the man staggered back, but Pascoe had no romantic illusions about snatching victory from the jaws of defeat. He wanted reinforcements and quick. This time he didn’t waste his energy by trying to climb but set off along the beach, parallel with the dunes; a clumsy sideways kind of run, he thought, but in the circumstances who could expect style?
Amazingly when he glanced back after about thirty yards, he wasn’t being pursued. He didn’t question why, but just felt thankful. It was time to move inland and seek help. His fuddled mind was trying to work out where the nearest point of human contact was. The golf club perhaps? Or that row of cottages in which poor Fallowfield had lived. Poor Fallowfield indeed! God knows what the bastard was responsible for, including this!
The dunes looked less precipitous here. He turned inland and began once more to climb up.
As he pulled himself over the top, clutching at the long, tough sea-grass, he realized why Roote had not pursued him down the beach.
He was here instead, standing over him expectantly, stone still held high in his hand. As it came down, Pascoe pushed himself backwards in a last desperate attempt to escape. As he fell, he saw Roote looming over him, dark against the sky, then the youth’s body came crashing on top of him, knocking all his breath out.
It took him some seconds to realize that the body was moving even less energetically than his own, that he could push it off him quite easily.
He did so. Another figure now stood menacingly against the skyline. Perhaps not so menacingly after all. The walking-stick with which he had clubbed Franny was still held aloft, it was true. But the bright blue eyes, the old, weather-wrinkled face, the happy smile, the old binoculars dangling free from the scrawny neck, none of these seemed to contain much menace.
‘Ee, lad,’ said Harold Lapping with a contented laugh, ‘you do see some funny goings-on just walking round these dunes of an evening.’
It was a few moments before Pascoe could gasp his thanks. Lapping slid down beside him and helped him to stand up. Franny was still lying in the sand, but his eyes were open.
‘Watch him,’ gasped Pascoe. ‘If he moves an inch, hit him with your stick.’
The old man grinned.
Pascoe walked unsteadily down the beach to where he had first encountered Roote. He picked up the shirt-bundle and carried it back. Anything that might be evidence it was as well to find in front of a witness. Silently he tipped out the stones so that they fell a couple of feet from Roote’s staring eyes. Among them was a crumpled envelope. He picked it up and smoothed it out, realizing he had no idea who it might be addressed to.
‘Saltecombe,’ he said. He noticed with surprise that the envelope was still sealed.
‘You haven’t read it? Short of time?’ he asked, then added, ‘No. You weren’t even going to read it, were you? It was ready for disposal. Why not?’
Roote sat up slowly, his eyes on Lapping’s stick. He rubbed the back of his head.
‘I don’t like sticking my nose into other people’s mail,’ he said. ‘That’s constabulary business.’
‘Oh no,’ said Pascoe staring hard at the youth. ‘You were frightened, weren’t you? It worried you what a dying man might say about you. Not just because it might incriminate you, in the sight of the law, but because it might condemn you to yourself.’<
br />
‘Oh, piss off,’ said Franny.
Pascoe looked at the letter, faced with Dalziel’s dilemma when he had found it. Should he open it now or not?
‘Open it for me,’ said Franny as though reading his thoughts. ‘I’ve got nothing to worry about.’
He managed to sound quite confident. Pascoe shoved his bruised and bleeding face close to the youth’s and pointed to it.
‘What do you think did this? Moths?’ he asked. He reached down and undid Roote’s belt and the top two buttons of his flies.
‘Put your hands in your pockets,’ he said. ‘Hold ‘em up. Come on.’
They made an odd trio as they picked their way over the dunes and through the woodland back to the college. The letter was safely in Pascoe’s pocket. It would keep till they got back to Dalziel. That small part of Pascoe’s mind which wasn’t concerned with watching Roote or exploring the pain round his ribs and face kept on sniffing around the case. He ought to have felt happy. Franny’s actions demonstrated his guilt, the letter in his pocket would probably give some detailed indication of exactly what had happened. But what in fact was the man guilty of? Ever since he’d talked to Dalziel on the phone he’d been trying to construct models of motive and opportunity which would fit Fallowfield and Roote and the known facts together. So far nothing. It had all happened too quickly. A few hours ago he hadn’t been able to foresee an end to this business in six months. Now they had …
Well, what did they have?
They found Dalziel in the college sick-bay having his back treated by a little Irish matron with Marion acting as dogsbody. Landor was there too, still looking anxious, and Halfdane who did not look over-worried at the sight of Dalziel’s discomfiture. Even Miss Disney had somehow realized that something was going on, and only her sense of the impropriety of being in the same room as a half-naked superintendent kept her hovering in the doorway.
The arrival of Pascoe and Roote caused quite a stir. Roote looked round the room with a lop-sided grin and shrugged his shoulders as though in resignation. The matron came across to Pascoe and looked at his bloody face. He caught a glimpse of himself in a wall-mirror and realized how horrific he looked.
Dalziel swung down from the couch on which he was lying for treatment. The top of his back was very nastily bruised and he held his head thrust forward in a rather becomingly aggressive pose. He began pulling on his shirt, despite the matron’s protests.
‘I’ll see the quack when he condescends to come,’ he said. ‘You too, Sergeant. Meanwhile we need a bit of privacy to talk with Mr Roote here.’
‘There seem to be quite a lot of students outside,’ said Landor diffidently. Miss Scotby who had just arrived nodded in confirmation of this.
‘The boy, Cockshut, is there,’ she said in her precise tones, as though that explained everything. ‘Shall I go and disperse them, Simeon?’
She probably would too, thought Pascoe. And it’s ‘Simeon’ now, is it? If she’s out to supplant Mrs Landor, please God let her do it by legitimate means.
‘That’s unnecessary,’ said Dalziel. ‘Your office will do, if we may, Matron.’
She nodded and led the way into a small room opening off the sick-bay.
Roote sat down uninvited and smiled up at them. He seemed quite recovered from his knock and mentally unperturbed.
‘If you beat me, I shall scream,’ he said with a grin.
‘I think I can promise you that,’ said Dalziel softly. Pascoe, who was sponging blood off his face at the small wash-basin in the corner, suddenly felt happy to be himself despite his aches and pains.
Roote had stopped smiling and was fingering the lump on the back of his head where Lapping had hit him. Pascoe caught Dalziel’s eye and nodded at the youth’s head, making a chopping motion. Dalziel’s eyes gave a flicker of understanding. Solicitors made a lot of fuss about their clients being questioned while suffering from untreated injuries, and the courts didn’t like it much either.
Now Pascoe brought the letter from his pocket and held it up for Dalziel to see. The fat man’s eyes rounded and he began to look pleased. He obviously had not expected to see it again. Pascoe hoped it was going to be worth all the trouble.
Dalziel picked up the telephone on the desk and after a moment spoke to the operator.
‘Get me Mr Saltecombe at his home please. Ask him if he would come to see me as soon as possible. Yes, I’m in the matron’s office.’
It was almost possible to sense the switchboard girl’s disapproval of Dalziel’s free movement round the college.
He replaced the receiver and looked solicitously at Franny.
‘Now, Mr Roote, we’ve got a doctor coming to have a look at that bump on your head. Is there anything you’d like to say before he turns up?’
Pascoe expected some flip obscenity, but strangely the youth seemed to be considering the suggestion carefully.
‘I could have got rid of the letter,’ he said inconsequentially. ‘I didn’t think you’d be so quick.’
‘We’re lightning when roused,’ said Dalziel.
‘I wish I’d read it now. Then I’d know what - not that it matters. I’m rather tired of it all. It’s about time I went off on a new tack. And Sam’s probably said it all.’ He laughed. ‘He was a great one for words, Sam. Ideas. But not so hot on action.’
‘Perhaps you should try words for a change.’
‘You may be right, lovey. Anyway, what the hell. We’ll see. There’s an old police proverb, isn’t there? He who talks last serves longest? I’ll tell you what, Superintendent. You’d better get used to me as a picture of misguided innocence. I’ll bring character witnesses.’
He’s nervous, thought Pascoe. Somewhere deep down inside him there’s a little bit of fear fluttering. He doesn’t like to sit and wait. He likes to be doing, doing, doing. He likes to feel the initiative to action lies with him.
Dalziel obviously caught this feeling too. He looked uninterested, glanced at his watch.
‘Well, we’ll just get the doctor to look at you. Then we can talk later at the station.’
He opened the door and stepped into the sick-room.
‘Any sign of that doctor?’
From the window the matron said, ‘I think that his car is coming down the drive now. Come along, everybody. I can’t have you all hanging around here. What will the doctor think?’
They began to move reluctantly, Halfdane sticking close to Marion Cargo, Landor patting Miss Scotby’s elbow reassuringly, Disney walking backwards as though from a royal presence. ‘Superintendent.’
The voice stopped them all. It was Franny standing at the office door. Behind him Pascoe hovered, ready to pounce.
‘Murderer!’ hissed Disney magnificently.
‘Mr Dalziel. When Mr Saltecombe comes, may I be there when he opens his letter? I’d like to see it.’
Something about his intonation bothered Pascoe.
‘I bet you would,’ said Dalziel. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll find out what’s in it soon enough.’
Disney snorted and left. Marion, looking ill after the strain of the evening, went out with Halfdane’s arm supporting her waist, followed by Scotby and Landor.
Pascoe watched them all go, vaguely disturbed. Roote had sat down again and was whistling softly to himself. Pascoe looked at him with great dislike.
When the doctor arrived he was accompanied by Constable Shattuck. Pascoe turned over his supervisory duties to him and went and joined Dalziel at the sick-bay window, looking down at a sizeable group of students hanging round the entrance to the block.
‘Landor’s talking to them. Not very successfully,’ grunted Dalziel.
A car coming up the drive had to bleep its horn to clear a path through the students. It was a silver-grey Capri.
‘Halfdane,’ said Dalziel. Pascoe wondered how he knew. ‘Vulgar bloody cars.’
They watched it out of sight through the main gates.
‘Get the doc. to have a look at you,’ said Dalz
iel and obediently the sergeant went through into the other room. Behind him he heard Dalziel picking up the telephone.
Roote had been pronounced perfectly fit, Pascoe’s rib had been strapped, though the doctor didn’t think there was a break, and Dalziel was just putting his shirt back on for the second time when Henry Saltecombe turned up.
‘I couldn’t believe it when they told me this morning. Sam! I’ve been just walking up and down the beach all day.’
He seemed genuinely upset.
‘There’s a letter for you here, Mr Saltecombe,’ said Dalziel sympathetically. ‘We have reason to believe Mr Fallowfield wrote it. I would like you to open it in my presence, read it, and then permit me to read it. It may be relevant to my enquiries and the coroner too will want sight of it.’
Henry seemed to turn even paler.
‘From Sam?’
‘Yes. Sergeant, just hold that door firmly closed, will you?’
Pascoe took a tight hold of the handle of the office door behind which Constable Shattuck was watching over Roote.
Henry unsealed the envelope awkwardly, tearing it diagonally across the face. There were three handwritten sheets inside. He read them silently, once, twice.
‘Here,’ he said handing them to Dalziel and turning away. Dalziel read slowly and methodically, then passed them over to Pascoe.
‘Mr Saltecombe,’ he said. ‘A word in your ear.’
They muttered in a corner as Pascoe read the letter.
‘Well, that’s that,’ he said to Dalziel who shook his head warningly.
‘Fetch Roote through,’ said the fat man.
Pascoe tapped on the door and Shattuck opened it.
‘Bring him out,’ he said to the constable.
Franny stood framed in the doorway.
Henry took a step forward from his corner.
‘You bastard,’ he said. ‘You slimy bastard! I hope they jail you for ever.’
An Advancement of Learning Page 23
