“I’m interested in a woman who booked a skiing holiday through you. It wouldn’t be the first time, you understand; it was something she did every Christmas, but I believe your firm handled the arrangements.”
“Aha,’ said Aird. ‘, let’s see. Let’s see.”
He jumped up and strode across to the filing cabinet which he unlocked.
“Now,’ he said opening a drawer.
“I’m interested in her flight number,’ said Pascoe, delighted by this display of efficiency. ‘ I wondered if for instance it was a charter flight, you might not have had a courier who would have made his own check list at the airport. It’s a Miss. Alison Girling. And the date was Christmas 1966.”
Aird’s reaction was surprising. He crashed the drawer shut with a flick of his fingers and returned to his seat, shaking his head.
“I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘ can’t help you there.”
“Why not, sir?’ asked Pascoe, half-suspecting the answer.
“I’ve only been here three years,’ said Aird. ‘ March ‘68. You’re before my time, Inspector.” “Sergeant. But you said… “
“Ah. I see your difficulty. No. The Super-Vacs you want went out of business in ‘67. No scandal, nothing like that, you understand. The parent firm in Leeds folded up, so their half-dozen branches went too.”
“But the name?” “As I said, there was no scandal. No dissatisfied customers, not here anyway. So when I became interested in the premises for my own agency, well, among other things I found stored here enough stationery for four or five years. All with the Super-Vacs heading, of course. So I just kept the name.” He smiled again, brilliantly, apologetically.
“What about the rest of the stuff that was here? Files, records, that kind of thing?”
“We had a clearing-out. And a bonfire. I’m sorry, Sergeant.”
He stood up and escorted Pascoe to the door. Disappointed though he was, Pascoe still sensed the man’s relief at getting rid of him.
Vindictively, he promised to mention Aird’s name to the locals. There might be something there.
But that didn’t help his own present investigations. Nor would Dalziel be very impressed.
Perhaps the academic life wasn’t so bad after all.
When, on his return to Headquarters, he found waiting for him a message from Doncaster saying that Miss. Jean Mayflower had died four years earlier as a result of a brain tumour, the academic life appeared as a very desirable haven of peace in a storm-battered, thunder thrashed, Dalziel-haunted sea of troubles.
Chapter 10
… the arts which flourish in times while virtue is in growth are military; and while virtue is in state, are liberal; and while virtue is in declination, are voluptuary.
That gentle voyeur, Harold Lapping, would have found much to please him in the college precincts that night. Al 7.30 p.m. the sun was still bright and warm and young bodies turned towards it on every patch of greenery. Even the staff garden, once patrolled with protective fury two or three times an evening by Miss. Disney, was now regarded as common ground in its state of limbo between holy land and a building site. The area immediately around the hole left by the statue was for reasons of decency or superstition unoccupied. But half a dozen small groups were scattered around the rest of the lawn, many stripped for sunbathing, those in swimming costumes practically indistinguishable from those who had merely taken off their outer garments, happy with the doubtful protection of their underclothes.
If Harold, dissatisfied with anything less than total nudity, had been able to glide unnoticed through the college buildings, he would not have been disappointed there. It had been a long, very hot day and there was a growing heaviness in the air, promising thunder. The pleasures of a cold or at least lukewarm shower were attractive even to the least Spartan. The shock to an incorporeal Harold of drifting through the walls of Miss. Disney’s flat would have been great, but not prolonged.
The advantages of complete nakedness while actually showering were too great to be ignored, but it was not a state she chose to remain in for longer than was necessary. Two minutes after turning off the water she was sufficiently clothed to be able to face herself in the mirror.
Something that she saw there, not in her physical proportions because she had long since come to terms with her lack of beauty, but in or behind her eyes filled them momentarily with tears. But they didn’t fall. Instead she picked up from her dressing-table the old Bible which was so often her only comfort and let it fall open at random. Frequent reading in certain places may have reduced the truly random element in some degree, but this did not occur to her. In any case, Miss. Disney did not believe in random openings of the Good Book.
It was one of her favourite passages.
“Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven,’ she began to incant, her eyes full now of a very different light.
Harold, had he remained so long, would have surely drifted on at this stage.
Thirty or forty yards down the corridor from Miss. Disney he would have struck oil.
Marion Cargo too had just taken a shower, and she had none of the older woman’s inhibitions. Lighting a cigarette she sank naked into a capacious easy-chair. Light filtered through the incompletely drawn curtains laying bars of gold across her brown body, turning her into a nymph of summer.
But her mind was contemplating a cold and foggy day nearly five years earlier when her life had changed. She stirred uneasily and made a movement towards the telephone. She felt the time had come to talk to someone.
The ringing of the doorbell prevented her. Quickly she rose and took a towelling wrap from the bedroom. She was still tying it one handed as she opened the door.
“I’m sorry,’ said Arthur Halfdane. ”s inconvenient? I just thought; well you said, come and have a drink some lime.”
“Of course it’s not,’ she said. ‘ long as you don’t mind. Look, come in. I’m glad you’re here. I’d like to talk to you.”
Obviously there would have been no point in Harold’s remaining there for the moment anyway. Had he struck off at a right-angle and drifted through the evening air till he penetrated the next block, he might have found a much more promising situation.
Sandra Firth lay naked on the bed. Beside her, standing looking down at her, was Franny Roote, his shirt in his hands. She reached up and pulled it from him.
“My word,’ he said. ”re impatient, love. Is it my manly charm?” “The others will be coming soon,’ she said.
He glanced at his watch as he took it off and put it carefully on the bedside table.
“So they will. Perhaps we shouldn’t bother?”
She turned her face away from him and he laughed, undoing the heavy brass-buckle of his trouser-belt.
“By the way, love,’ he said, ‘ were you saying to that nice fat policeman today?” “Nothing,’ she said, pushing herself up on her elbows. ‘. I just wanted to ask, well, you know, what they were doing.”
“Oh,’ he said, still again.
“Yes,’ she said urgently. ‘ just wanted to see what I could find out.”
“And what did you?”
“Nothing, of course. What do you expect?”
“I expect discretion.”
“Discretion! Don’t you want to know who killed Anita!’ Her voice rose and he reached out his hand and caressed her gently.
“Of course I do. Very much.”
Something in his voice chilled her.
“Listen, Franny, let the police do it. It’s their business.”
“Everyone to his trade, eh?’ He laughed again. ‘, you stick to yours in future. I thought I could trust you. Everyone’s getting all independent. Stuart thinks he’s laying the base-work of the people’s bloody revolution. Now you’re off Sherlocking about the place.”
“I’m sorry, Franny. Really.”
“All right,’ he said, pushing his trousers down.
Harold would have been puzzled to observe he did not seem in the slightest degree excited. But Sandra seemed capable of remedying that.