Reginald Hill

“This is interesting,’ he said. ‘ you know some police forces go in for this kind of thing in a big way? I believe you yourself had a bit of success. Over Miss. Girling’s body, wasn’t it?”

“That was the ouija board,’ said Franny.

“Ah. I see. But tonight didn’t go so well?”

“No. There was interference. You see, Superintendent, these lines of spiritual communication are very sensitive to the presence of scepticism, especially when its physical embodiment is gross and earthy.

Now, what can we do for you?”

“Mr. Roote,’ began Dalziel. ”re the President of the Students’ Union in this college, right? You’ve got the students’ interests at heart. So have I. I want to find out who killed Miss. Sewell. And quickly. For all we know, he might be building up to killing someone else. That’s my interest. I’m not concerned with questions of morality and discipline, at least not officially. Let me give you an example. If a group of people over the age of majority care to run around naked in the middle of the night in a remote area of countryside, far removed from the public view, that’s their business. I’ve no interest in publishing lists of names, or writing to anxious parents. If I can do things quietly, I will do them quietly. On the other hand, if I’ve got to stir things up, they’ll hear the stirring from here to the Brocken.” “You’re not a warlock by any chance,’ asked Franny with a faint smile. ‘ course I’m eager to cooperate in any way I can. This story about naked dancers now, where did you get hold of that, I wonder?”

He eyed Sandra speculatively. She shook her head with pleading eyes.

Cockshut could contain himself no longer.

“You’re threatening us, Dalziel,’ he said. ‘ talk about stirring things up. You’re not the only one who can stir, you’ll find out before the weekend’s done!”

Franny shot him a warning glance. Dalziel merely smiled.

“Perhaps we could talk more comfortably in my office, Mr. Roote?”

“Why not? Stuart, tidy up for me, there’s a love.”

Cockshut bent down and helped himself to a handful of letters from the board.

“Big man!’ he shouted after Dalziel as he went through the door. ‘!

Make a name for yourself!”

The letters whistled past Dalziel’s head and scattered along the tiled corridor. He glanced down at them as he passed.

There were four of them; a U, a C, a T, and an N.

When Roote caught up with him, he was mildly surprised to find the fat policeman shaking with laughter.

“You looking for me?’ asked Ellie behind him.

“Well, I can’t find anybody else,’ said Pascoe before he could stop himself. His remark wasn’t directed at Ellie but arose from his growing annoyance at the way in which these academics seemed to disappear at will. Perhaps they’re all practising witches, he had thought. Perhaps the entire staff of the college are at this very moment chasing each others’ naked backsides round the dunes.

Ellie surprisingly did not take offence. Indeed she seemed glad to see him.

“You’d better make the most of me, then,’ she said. ‘ a coffee?”

“Thanks.”

They were outside the block in which Ellie’s flat lay. He had indeed been on his way to call on her when she came up behind. He had left her to the last from a reluctance to be rebuffed once again for apparently using their old friendship for cold professional ends. But no one else seemed to be around. Knocks on doors had produced no replies and the staff common rooms were deserted.

He experienced a strange feeling as he followed Ellie into her flat, but he was too well trained not to have it isolated within a few seconds.

It was a kind of misty familiarity. There were a couple of pictures, an ornament, a Chinese bowl, a small rather threadbare Persian rug, one or two other things, which had at one time in a different room been as familiar to him as his own possessions.

His eyes returned to the rug again, remembering more. On that very scrap of woven fabric he had laid Ellie down for the first time, ignoring the institutional divan shoved into a corner.

“Take a seat,’ she said with a grin. I’ll make the coffee.”

He had an uncomfortable feeling that she had followed the direction of his eyes and his thoughts very accurately.

“Had a nice evening?’ he asked, sinking into an old armchair.

“Not very,’ she called. ”ve been to the local Film Society. Some dull bloody Polish film. Rotten projection, illegible sub-titles and hard wooden chairs. What I would have given for John Wayne, red plush and a tight clinch in the back row!” “You should have said,’ he answered lightly. ‘ there? From the college, I mean?”

“Not from nowhere. There’s usually half-a-dozen from here but they all wisely stayed away tonight.”

“Does Halfdane go?”

“Sometimes.’ She came in with the coffee. ‘ do you ask?”

“I heard he had been looking for me. I’ve been away most of the day.”

“Oh yes. The great detective. How’s it going?’ she asked sarcastically.

He welcomed the change of mood. It gave him a chance to ask questions without appearing to take advantage.

“Slowly,’ he said. ”s a lot of space to fill in.”

“For instance?”