Reginald Hill

Looking round, Pascoe had to agree with Dunbar’s theory, much as he disliked the man. The thinly delineated oval of spectators, ‘ in brightly striped deck chairs, others recumbent in the grass, was positively Keatsian in its projection of indolence. But, he thought, as in all great works of art, realism alone did not do the work; realism only existed at a single level. What was needed for art was the living symbol at the centre, and the almost motionless white-clothed figures inside the oval were precisely that symbol. Yes, it was more than just a demonstration of indolence, it was an act of worship.

But Pascoe also saw with a policeman’s jaundiced eye; and that part of his mind was very ready to accept the hypothesis that machinations were being masked.

Roote, for instance, and that little gaggle of students almost hidden in the tall grass at the end of the oval farthest away from the pavilion.

They looked as if they

were merely enjoying the innocent pleasures of sun on flesh. A bit perhaps of the less innocent pleasures of flesh on flesh. But nothing more. Yet he wished he could listen in on their talk.

Or Miss. Disney. Her deckchair as upright as it would go, her long skirt pulled challengingly low over her short, chubby legs. Her face showed nothing except the usual indignation at life’s insults it always seemed to bear. She spoke to a passing girl, Sandra what’s-‘er-name, who paused, obviously reluctant even at a distance, shook her head twice, answered briefly, and moved on towards the Roote group. The Disney basilisk gaze shot after her, but, happily, she did not look round. What had been said? What was she now thinking? And why, even as Pascoe watched, did she stand up and stride purposefully away?

Or Halfdane, still to be talked with, but now reclining elegantly between two deckchairs in which Ellie and Marion Cargo were competing in a whose-leggoes-farthest competition. Ellie, he felt, was just inching ahead, but looked to have little in reserve. Perhaps he should stroll over and talk to them, but if Ellie still had ambitions in the Halfdane area, he was unwilling to butt in. Or worse still, despite the previous night, appear as a competitor. Though why it should be worse still, as memories of the previous night flooded back, he could not really imagine. In any case, the point was, what was really going on inside those three minds?

Or Jane Scotby, listening with the obvious dislike sometimes called deep interest to Mrs. Landor’s sparrowy voice twittering from under the eaves of a broad-brimmed hat, which was supplemented by a fringed parasol of golf umbrella dimensions. The principal himself sat slightly apart, though still in his wife’s penumbra, and viewed the two women thoughtfully. Perhaps, thought Pascoe, he and Scotby are busily deceiving poor Mrs. Landor and even now are throbbing with frustrated lust after a brief passionate embrace behind the pavilion.

The thought made him smile but his policeman’s eye continued on its beat and the next tableau it paused at swung him wholeheartedly towards Henry Saltecombe’s view of the situation.

Two elderly gentlemen, one corpulent, bald, jolly, the other spare, white-haired, straw-boatered, their heads, wreathed in cigar smoke, nodding like mountain peaks through the mist as some piece of action in the central ritual caught their attention, their hands clapping, once, twice, even three times in moments of wild excitement; old friends relaxing together watching the youngsters carrying on in ancient, revered tradition.

One was Captain Ernest Jessup, chairman of the governors. The other was Superintendent Andrew Dalziel.

Of one thing Pascoe was convinced - however involved in a ritual of indolence the others might really be, here at least there were mental machinations aplenty.

Not a bad sort of chap, Jessup was thinking. Self-made of course, with the stitching poorly concealed, but there was nothing wrong with that.

He himself belonged to a service with a long tradition of advancement through merit. And at least the fellow could relax. He had feared total interruption of his afternoon’s cricket when Landor had introduced the man. Not that he wouldn’t have been willing to talk with Dalziel all day and all the next day too if it promised to help get to the bottom of this business.

But all was going well, it seemed. The assistant chief’s confidence in the man seemed justified (though he had been less than warm about his personal merits) and their conversation so far had been restricted to the field changes between overs. It looked like being a good game.

What a bloody way to spend an afternoon! groaned Dalziel to himself.

Rugby he could enthuse over, soccer could move him deeply, but these flannelled fools moved to a music too refined for his coarse ears. And the deckchair! A direct descendant of the rack out of the Iron Maiden!