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.”
Reginald Hill
D amp;P02 — An Advancement of Learning
Ill
He paused as though to study the implications of his last remark.
“Like meself,’ he repeated sadly. ‘ expect he were.”
“I doubt it,’ said Dalziel in his kindly tone, cursing Kent once again for an unthinking fool. What kind of checking on this old man had he done? Was there enough strength in those thin arms to hold a well-built young woman face down in the sand till she choked? Enough desire in that seventy-year-old body to drive him to such a deed?
“You saw someone?’ he asked, breaking the silence which was beginning to run on too long.
“Ay. Just a glimpse through the glasses. Just afore they all ran. Just an outline.”
“Well?’ said Dalziel.
“Nay. It’s no good,’ said the old man sadly. ‘ was just an outline, like ah felt him.”
He nodded at Kent who smiled encouragingly.
The hat,’ said Kent.
“Oh ay. The hat. This fellow that ah saw, or it might’ve bin a woman, wore a hat. A… “
He made a gesture over his head.
“Pork pie,’ said Kent. ‘ did some drawings, didn’t we, Mr. Lapping? A pork pie hat.”
That was that. A mysterious figure in a pork pie hat disturbing what sounded like a Roman orgy. It might mean something or nothing. It was very intriguing whatever it meant.
“Mr. Lapping,’ said Dalziel as Kent led the old man off to have his statement typewritten and signed. ‘ you recognize any of those taking part in this dance?” Lapping thought a moment.
“One perhaps,’ he said. ‘ one in the middle by herself. Ah had a good glimpse of her. But none of t’ithers.”
He turned once more before he left, his original lively smile arcing across his face.
“Not their faces, anyway, mister. Not their faces.” You know, said Dalziel to himself when alone, you could make a name for yourself. You could have the identity parade of the century.
The thought made him happier than anything else he had heard that day.
And there was still the educated, efficient Sergeant Pascoe’s report to come in.
Pascoe was also feeling happy as he pushed open the door of Super-Vacs.
(You Take The Trip We Take The Trouble) Ltd. (Prop. Gregory Aird).
After his abortive trip to the airport he had felt uneasy at the prospect of confronting Dalziel with nothing but negatives. Particularly when they did not remove even one of the many possibilities concerning the movements of Miss. Girling and/or her corpse.
“Elimination is the better part of detection,’ Dalziel on occasion uttered with the smugness of a man specially selected to proclaim an eternal truth.
All Pascoe had eliminated by his journey to the airport had been some public time and public money. But his continental telephone call had opened up new possibilities. He had instigated enquiries in Doncaster as to the present whereabouts of Miss. Jean Mayflower, while he himself drove into Harrogate. The bright sunshine and a comfortable intuition that somewhere in the old records of Super-Vacs Ltd would be useful and revealing information revived in him a pleasure in his work based on a conviction of its positive social usefulness. He had once told Dalziel in an unguarded moment that it was his social conscience which had brought him into the police when many more comfortable careers were open to him.
“Well, bugger me,’ was the fat man’s only comment at the time. But a week or two later Pascoe had found himself ‘ loan’ to a neighbouring force who were drafting in extra men to help control an Anti-Racial Discrimination demonstration. It had been very unpleasant for a few hours.
“How’s your social conscience?’ Dalziel had asked him on his return, but did not stay for an answer. Then, as in the last couple of days, the academic life had seemed very attractive.
Now as he pushed through the plate-glass doors, the lives of those in places like the college seemed pale, thinly-spread, lukewarm by comparison with his own purposeful existence.
The young man behind the counter looked with pleasure on the sergeant and smiled welcomingly, obviously seeing in his demeanour a customer ready, willing and eager to be satisfied.
“Good afternoon, sir. How may we help you?”
Pascoe felt in his wallet for his warrant card.
“I’m interested in ski-ing holidays,’ he said. ‘ Christmas.”
“Certainly, sir,’ said the young man. ‘ am sure we’ll be able to… “
He stopped in puzzlement as Pascoe held out his card for inspection.
“I’m a police officer,’ he said. ”m interested in skiing holidays five years ago.” “Oh,’ said the young man, taking a step backwards. ‘ don’t know… please wait a minute.”
He turned and went through a door behind him which obviously led into an inner office. Pascoe heard a half whispered exchange but could not catch what was said. The young man reappeared followed by a slightly older man, smartly dressed, his hair beautifully set in shining undulations, who stretched out his hand to Pascoe with a slice-of-melon smile.
“How do you do? I’m Gregory Aird. I didn’t catch…?”
“Pascoe, sir. Sergeant Pascoe. I wonder if I might have a few minutes of your time?”
“By all means. Step in, Sergeant, do.”
The inner office was sparsely furnished. A desk, a couple of chairs, a filing cabinet and a small safe.
Pascoe took this in at a glance and felt uneasy. There seemed little space here for long-term storage of old records.
“How can I help you?’ said Aird, putting on the serious, cooperative look Pascoe usually associated with the desire to make a good impression in court.
“You can tell me first of all how far back your records go, Mr. Aird.”
“To the beginning. To when it all started, my dear fellow. To the day I took possession.”
Pascoe felt relieved.