Reginald Hill

“I should be very much surprised. I’ve got a couple of the lads sorting round them; there’s always a chance. I went back to see the girl Firth, and Chairman Cockshut last night. They confirmed Roote’s story.”

“Is it true then?”

Dalziel snorted contemptuously.

“You’re joking! No, our Mr. Lapping had it right, I reckon. Harmless dancing indeed! There was obviously some kind of pretty abandoned sexual rollicking going on. I don’t know what we’re coming to. But the important bit, about the party breaking up, and Roote and the others coming back here, now that’s true, I’d say. The girl was too obviously relieved when she got on to that bit of the story. She might as well have stuck up a notice saying, “Here endeth the lies and beginneth the truth!” So we’re nowhere.” “What do you reckon happened?’ asked Pascoe. ‘ runs off into the night without a stitch on, comes back for her clothes a short while later when things are quiet, meets Mr. X, perhaps the one who interrupted them in the first place, and is quietly done to death?” That’s a good question,’ said Dalziel. ‘ you’ll try leaving a bit to answer in future. Anyway, you didn’t tell me in your question what happened to her clothes.”

“X took them.”

“Why?”

“Kinky?”

Dalziel shook his head.

“This doesn’t smell like a kinky one to me. Look, get Roote, Cockshut, any of them that were in on this bathing party. No, not the lot, any one of them. I’ll pick up Mr. Lapping and we’ll all go and see exactly where it was they were dancing. I want to see how far it was from where the girl was found.”

“Right, sir,’ said Pascoe.

Outside he met one of the constables Dalziel had set to checking up on the names on Franny Roote’s list.

“Anything?” “Not a glimmer, Sarge,’ said the young man lugubriously.

“All right. Look, take a quick walk up to the golf club and tell Mr. Kent the super’s on his way. Make it snappy.”

From behind the half-open door, Dalziel watched the scene with interest.

He too had noted Detective-Inspector Kent’s unnecessarily sporty looking outfit that morning. But now he nodded in approval.

He liked loyalty in junior officers. He was sure Sergeant Pascoe would have done as much for him.

Almost sure.

Miss. Disney and Miss. Scotby were very differently situated, and neither would have changed with the other for love or wealth.

Miss. Disney sat under a hairdrier like a science-fiction monster with a badly fitting space-helmet. For a while the dextrous hands and tongue of Neville, her favourite hair artist, had soothed her mind, but now with only herself and an absurdly frivolous magazine for company, her thoughts were beginning to chase each others’ tails again. She tried to concentrate on the only readable part of the glossy magazine on her lap - the Reverend Ronald Rogers’s weekly message to the housewife - but even this was distasteful, quoting St. Paul in support of his advice to mothers on dealing with the sexual problems of the adolescent.

It would have been even more distasteful, however, to be where Miss. Scotby was. Her face animated in a way which few students would have recognized, she rose and sank rhythmically with the body of her horse as it cantered through the shallows of the outgoing tide. As it approached the groyne which was the usual limit of their outward ride, it slowed down of its own accord, but Miss. Scotby urged it on. Surprised, it scrambled over the groyne, sinking fetlock-deep in the drift of soft sand piled against the farther side, and Miss. Scotby was almost unseated. She recovered expertly, however, and brought her mount to a halt, facing out to sea.

In a moment she would ride back and experience once again the fierce exhilaration of the gallop. But now she sat in thought, a grey-haired little woman with a face long practised at keeping the counsel of the mind that worked so busily behind it.

To be confined in a hairdressing salon on a morning like this would have been a blasphemy beyond anything ever touched upon by Reverend Ronald Rogers.

But so very differently situated though Miss. Scotby and Miss. Disney were, they did for a brief time have a thought in common. It was a deep-down thought, almost unacknowledged, certainly never to be brought out into the light of day.

They each wished someone dead. But for only one of them was the wish to come true that particular day.

Pascoe was having lunch at the golf club with Detective-Inspector Kent, who in the space of a couple of days had established himself as persona very much grata in the clubhouse. His readiness to admire shots, exchange anecdotes, and sympathize over the malevolence of fate, had won golden opinions from the members.

Pascoe’s message had in fact been unnecessary. Kent had been going about his legitimate business when it arrived, but he appreciated the thought.