Reginald Hill

“Are you finished?’ asked the cool, efficient, female voice.

“Oh no,’ said Pascoe in a husky, passionate whisper. ”re just starting.”

The line went dead. He replaced the receiver with a smile.

Perhaps things were beginning to break for him after all.

Sandra Firth had been a grievous disappointment. Something somewhere had gone wrong. She had carried on for a while in the cool, self-possessed manner in which she had started, but after offering a brief outline of her own background and position in the college, there had been a hiatus.

Finally Dalziel had tried his earlier bluntness once again.

“Look,’ he said. ‘, Miss. Firth, whatever you want me to call you, if you’ve got something to say, then say it. If you haven’t, then we’re wasting each other’s time.”

“I just wanted to find out,’ she began. ‘ mean I was a friend of Anita’s … ” “So you said. Were you with her last night?”

“No!’ she said sharply. ‘ mean, when?”

“Any time?”

“No.”

“Wasn’t there a party on somewhere?”

Pascoe had mentioned the emptiness of the bar to him earlier.

“No.’ Again very sharply.

“Nowhere? You surprise me. I thought there were always parties!”

“Not that I was at, I meant.”

Exasperated, Dalziel struck the desk with the flat of his hand.

“Is there anything you do know about these murders?”

“Murders?’ She stressed the plural.

“That’s right. There’s been two.”

She looked at him frightened.

“Your friend, Miss. Sewell. And Miss. Girling, the late principal.”

“Oh, that.” She laughed, relieved.

“Doesn’t that matter?’ he asked.

“No. I didn’t mean that. I mean, we didn’t know her, so it didn’t bother me when the name came up. It was interesting really, rather than tragic.”

“When the name came up,’ echoed Dalziel. ‘ does that mean?”

“Nothing really,’ she said.

“Why were so many students certain it was Miss. Girling’s body?”

persisted Dalziel.

“No reason. Oh, it was nothing. Coincidence, I expect. It’s just that some of us - them - play around with the wineglass thing. And the letters. Or a ouija board.”

“You mean, you had a seance? Asked the bloody spirits?’ asked Dalziel incredulously.

That’s right. Not really a seance, just a bit of fun.”

“And it - this thing - told you it was Miss. Girling?” “Yes,’ she said defiantly. ‘ spelt it out quite plainly.”

“Well,’ laughed Dalziel. ”d better ask it about your friend!”

Something about her silence made him lean forward and peer closely into her face.

“You’re going to, aren’t you?’ he said gently. Then with greater violence, ”t you?”

“I don’t know. We might!”

“My God,’ he said sadly. ‘ think of the money that’s being spent on educating your tiny minds.”

She stood up, breasts swinging disturbingly.

“Thanks for seeing me,’ she said. I’ll be off now. I have a lecture.” “You didn’t do it, did you?’ he said shaking his head.

“Do what?’ She looked frightened.

“Tell me what you wanted to tell me. Or ask me what you wanted to ask.

Why not? I’m sorry if I’ve put you off. Why not sit down, lass, and let’s try again?” For a second he thought she was going to agree but after only a perfunctory knock, the door burst open and Kent strode in, his face awash with good tidings.

“Excuse me, sir,’ he said. ‘ we’ve come up with something, a chap who was out along the dunes last night and saw something which could be relevant.”

Through the open door, Dalziel saw a white-haired man, with a sun-darkened face in which a pair of bright blue eyes flickered and darted glances of alert interest at the scene before him.

“It’s a Mr. Lapping,’ continued Kent, but Dalziel raised his hand in a silencing gesture.

“If you could just hang on a moment, Inspector,’ he said with suspicious gentleness. ”m rather busy … ” “No. Don’t bother about me,’ said Sandra. ”m finished, and I have to go anyway. Goodbye.”

Head bowed so that her hair covered her face, she walked quickly from the room, past the old man who turned to look at her with undisguised interest.

What was she going to tell me? wondered Dalziel. If only that fool Kent hadn’t come in … But it was more than just the interruption, he felt.

It was the content of the interruption, perhaps … “Will you see Mr. Lapping now?’ asked Kent. There was little choice. The old man had wandered into the room and was peering around with interest.

Round his neck hung a large pair of binoculars. Dalziel sighed inwardly, wondering what Kent had let him in for.

But two minutes later as the old man described what he had seen the previous night, all his little half-formed plans for tearing Kent limb from limb had disappeared.

Harold Lapping told his tale with great gusto, not disguising his wholehearted enjoyment of the show he had so unexpectedly stumbled upon.

“Ah’d niver seen owt like it. Niver in all me days. Some on ‘ had paps as’d have made World Cup footballs!” He paused, bright-eyed in reminiscence then his expression became sombre.

“But when ah heard about that lassie … “

He shook his head distressfully.

“Ah niver thowt, niver … when they all ran … it seemed a joke, someone walking by the shore … like meself.”

Ill