“Really?’ He was uncertain whether to go on talking about it or not. He decided not. If she wanted to talk about it, she would. The only other novelist he had ever known seemed willing to stop complete strangers in the street and force chunks of his indigestible prose down their throats.
“What about the staff? Don’t answer if you’d rather not,’ he said.
Dalziel would have torn out what remained of his greying hair at such delicacy. Or worse, perhaps admired his hypocrisy. There seem to be a few feuds here. Disney and Fallowfield, for instance.”
She hooted with derision at the names.
“What d’you expect? There’s nothing queerer than two old queers. No, there’s bloodier battlegrounds than that.” She paused enticingly, but Pascoe was not to be drawn by hints. If she wanted to say more she would. But she had made a firm assertion and that was worth pursuing.
“Disney and Fallowfield, two old queers? Why do you say that?”
She looked at him incredulously.
“Come off it, Sherlock. Walt’s so butch she might as well advertise in the local paper.”
“Is this guesswork?’ he said, allowing disbelief to colour his tone.
“Guesswork nothing! When I first came she tried to charm me into her magic circle. What a thought! Poor Walt. It’s mostly sublimated now, I guess. Just girl-talk and confession hour and a bit of shoulder-patting and hair-stroking. She was hit bad when old Girling died, so they tell me.”
Pascoe was surprised.
“I thought they didn’t get on all that well? That this friendship thing was just a posthumous fantasy.”
Ellie shrugged.
“I heard different. Who told you that?”
“Dunbar.”
“That little Scotch git! What’d he know anyway? I bet they paid money to get him out of Scotland.” Pascoe pressed on, ignoring this other invitation to divert.
“And Fallowfield? What about him? Surely this business with the girl… ” “Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘ surprised me, I admit. I hadn’t known him long, of course, or well. But I’d have guessed differently about him.
What the hell, perhaps he’s just got catholic tastes!”
“Perhaps. But why… “
She jumped up. Again the legs were much in evidence.
“Enough’s enough! Drink your coffee and either stop being a policeman or go.”
She went over to a record-player pushed beneath a small sideboard, pulled it out and put a record on.
Pascoe reached into his wallet and produced his warrant card.
There you are,’ he said placing it on the mantelpiece. ‘ now have no official standing.”
Feeling incredibly ham, he took Ellie in his arms and they began dancing, pressed close together.
“Why aren’t you married?’ she asked suddenly. ‘ are you?”
“No,’ he said. ‘ time. Besides I don’t mix with a very nice class of person. You?”
“God no! Half a dozen offers though; I shouldn’t like you to think no one else had ever asked. And a host of odd boyfriends. But nothing ever clicked.”
“No one now?’ he asked diffidently. ‘ wondered perhaps about that chap the other evening, Halfdane…?”
She drew away slightly, then laughed.
“We hardly know each other. But while there’s life… Still, he’s a bit young.” “Rubbish,’ he said drawing her close again. ”re perfect. Mature.”
“Like a good cheese. I’m over thirty now. Hell, I don’t want to be like the others, like Disney and Scotby. Christ, I’m sometimes really sorry that we split up when we did. I even dream about it! Mind you, we’d probably have been divorced by now!”
“Probably.”
She stopped dancing and looked at him.
“Anyway, I wouldn’t like you to get the idea that I’m desperately thrashing around for a husband. Especially you.”
“Of course not,’ he agreed.
“Good. As long as that’s clear,’ she said, coming back into his arms.
“You are stopping the night, aren’t you?”
“Perhaps not all the night,’ he said cautiously.
“Enough of it,’ she said in his ear. ”ll take a trip down memory lane.”
He awoke at two in the morning. They had been too warm to be covered by anything other than a single sheet and even this had been thrust off in the night. He looked down at her sleeping form on the bed beside him.
They had started off on the Persian rug, but eventually transferred here, admitting that comfort came before sentiment. She opened her eyes now.
“I’d like you to read my book,’ she said.
“It’ll be a pleasure,’ he said taking hold of her again.
He left at five. It was light outside. She sat naked in an armchair watching him comb his hair in front of the mirror.
“The book,’ he said.
“If you like.”
He watched with pleasure as she stood up and went over to the bookshelf.
“Thanks,’ he said.
“Don’t forget your card,’ she said.
He picked it up from the mantelshelf.
“They say you always leave something in a place you want to come back to,’ he said laughing.
“You’ve left something,’ she said, opening the door. She seemed keen for him to go, but returned his farewell kiss with enthusiasm.
Outside in the corridor they heard another door open. Pascoe peered out cautiously. A few yards along stood a man, carefully closing a door behind him. It was Halfdane.
Pascoe glanced enquiringly at Ellie, but her face showed no emotion.
They waited in silence a few minutes till Halfdane had moved cautiously away.
“Cheerio, love,’ said Pascoe, kissing her once more. ‘ you later.”
She still didn’t speak and he left, moving swiftly but quietly down the corridor, pausing only to glance at the name on the door Halfdane had come out of.
It was Marion Cargo.
The next name was Miss. Disney’s and normally Pascoe might have noticed that the door-handle was not quite at the right angle as though someone was standing inside, holding it tightly. But he was pleasurably tired, his mind and body full of pleasant impressions.
He paused outside to breathe in the balmy morning air and listen to the birds.
It looked like being a red-hot day. But he could be wrong. For instance yesterday, for all its early lack of promise, had turned out very fine indeed.
Chapter 11
With arts voluptuary, I couple practices jocularly; for the deceiving of the senses is one of the pleasures of the senses.
“What the hell happened to you last night?’ asked Dalziel. ‘ went round to your room three times.” “I’m sorry, sir,’ said Pascoe. ‘ got held up.”
Dalziel looked at him critically.
“Held up, eh? It must be age. Anyway, you should be old enough to look at this.”
Pascoe had found his chief wandering around, apparently merely enjoying the morning sunshine, in an area just beyond the large beech hedge which marked the farthermost bourne of the staff-garden. A couple of old garden-sheds stood against the hedge and, as he spoke, Dalziel dramatically flung open the door of the larger.
The sun poured in and ricocheted off the broad flanks of the woman who lay there on a bed of sacking. Upright she might have been dramatic; on her back she was almost obscene. Pascoe had last seen her on the back of a builder’s truck.
“So this is where they put it,’ he said, patting the statue’s upraised left knee. ‘ much for Miss. Girling’s immortal memory.”
He looked enquiringly at Dalziel.
“You told me to have a look, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘ I tracked her down.
That was a good point you made. Not before time, I might add. Why should a woman like Girling have a memorial like this? And furthermore, how did they manage to get it up so quickly — February someone said. It usually takes ages to organize anything like that — deciding on a design, getting someone to do it, the artistic work — it all adds up.