“Can’t you open these bloody curtains?’ said Cockshut finally. ”s the middle of the bloody afternoon.” “No,’ said Franny. ‘ is an ambience I wish to preserve here.
Besides, now it is fitting. Tell all you know.”
It came pouring out of Stuart. It was all over college. The plain fact of Anita’s death was certain, and the place — there were policemen all over the golf course. The rest was rumour. Her body was naked, half-clothed; she had been drowned, strangled, stabbed.
“Take your pick,’ said Stuart. ‘ are we going to do, Franny?”
“I must go and have a word with Landor,’ said Franny. ”ll be things to do. The poor love won’t know whether he’s on his arse or his head.”
“But what about the police? Shouldn’t we…?”
“Anything we do must be a democratic decision, Stuart. Surely I don’t need to tell you that? We meet for recall this evening. Then we’ll talk.
Now I must act as befits a President of the Union. You, I suggest, should be thinking as befits a pragmatic Marxist. There could be a new basis for action here.”
Cockshut looked at him with distaste.
“You’re a cold bastard, Franny.”
“No,’ he replied with something like passion. ‘ live in balance. I am all I should be, but not in each part of me. There is no place for weeping in that part of me which wishes to survive.”
Stuart shrugged his shoulders.
“You can’t survive without humanity.”
Franny laughed.
“Go and start a revolution, Stuart.”
The door opened again and Sandra Firth rushed in, her hair more dishevelled than usual and a flush burning through her sallow skin at the cheekbones.
“Franny, have you heard? What are we going to do?”
Roote looked at her long and steadily.
“Nothing,’ he said, giving each syllable a full value.
“Later we will talk. There are things we must talk about, you and I, Sandra.”
The flush ebbed away from the girl’s face.
“Stuart, we’ll need a full Union meeting. Tomorrow night; no, Saturday.
Get the word around, posters up, you know the drill.”
“Surely it’s up to the committee…?”
“Oh, see them first then,’ said Franny impatiently. ‘ arrange it.”
“It’s a bad night, especially at short notice. You might be pushed for a quorum.” “Quorum forum,’ said Franny. ‘ get the notices out. Right? I’ve got to go.” He took Sandra by the hand and smiled at her, the smile lighting up his whole face.
“Don’t look so down, love,’ he said pressing her hand reassuringly.
She responded instantly, coming close to him, pleasure and relief in her face.
“Oh, Franny,’ she began, but he interrupted her, still smiling.
“After all, you didn’t even like Anita, did you? So why so glum?”
She pulled away from him, her face set again, and ran out of the door without replying.
Franny waved Stuart out before him, then followed, locking the door behind them.
“What the hell do you keep in there, Fran?” “Memories,’ said his companion. The distillation of experience. See you later, love.”
Stuart Cockshut watched him stride confidently away through the windy sunlight, strangely indistinct in the shifty dapplings cast by the old beeches which had survived the building programme. Turning back into the hostel building they had just left, he ducked into a plastic shielded telephone booth, an unnecessary movement for one so small. With the end of a pencil, he dialled the London coding, followed by a number he knew by heart.
“Hello,’ said a noncommittal voice at the other end.
“Cockshut,’ he said. ‘ me speak to Christian… Listen, Chris, we’ve got a situation here which might be useful… “
The trouble with a college, Dalziel was finding, was that you had a hell of a job putting your hands on people. If they were teaching, they were reluctant to be interrupted and Dalziel was reluctant to provoke open antagonism. Yet.
If they weren’t teaching, they might be anywhere. In their rooms if they lived on the campus; at home if they didn’t. In libraries, laboratories, bathrooms, bars or beds.
There was a copy of the staff time-table on the wall of Landor’s room but he gave it up after ten seconds. He found he was missing Pascoe.
There were plenty of other ‘-men’, uniformed and CID, at his disposal, but Pascoe knew his ways and was at home in this kind of territory.
Kent he had left up at the golf club.
Landor had been in and out a couple of times. At first Dalziel had suspected he was going to turn out to be a ”, but he was obviously doing a fairly efficient job of keeping the college in balance. The news would be in the evening papers, on the television.
Already reporters were beginning to pester. Soon it would be anxious parents. Dalziel had already arranged with the local exchange that one of the college lines was to be kept completely free for his own incoming and outgoing calls.
“I’ve called a staff meeting for first thing tomorrow morning,’ said Landor. ‘ the staff are informed, it helps to cut down student rumour.” “Good idea,’ said Dalziel, uninterested. ‘ least I’ll know where the bugg… they are.”
“I wondered if you could perhaps spare five minutes. Just a statement, you understand. It could help.”
Dalziel laughed shortly and rudely, but stopped before translating the noise into words. It might not be a bad idea to see this lot as a group.
“Right,’ he said. I’ll try. Now listen, Principal, I’d like to get hold of… “
There was a knock at the door, Landor opened it. Outside stood Halfdane with Marion Cargo coming up behind him.
“Oh, you’ll do,’ said Dalziel. Halfdane, aware now of Miss. Cargo’s presence, stood back and indicated that she could go in first. She shook her head.
“Both of you!’ snarled Dalziel impatiently. Together. And if one of you is superfluous to requirements, I’ll decide.” Landor smiled wanly at his colleagues and left.
“I’m Arthur Halfdane,’ began Arthur. ‘ wondered if Sergeant Pascoe
… “He’s away. Working. He has a full-time job. You’ll have to make do with me.”
Dalziel’s supporters claimed his rudeness was calculated; others, impressed by his record, were willing to concede it might be intuitive; Pascoe asserted it was merely digestive.
Whatever it was, Halfdane didn’t like it.
“No thanks,’ he said icily. I’ll wait till later.” “Please yourself,’ said Dalziel indifferently, looking at the young man’s long hair with distaste. ‘ presume you’re not withholding information relevant to our enquiries?”
“No. I merely wanted to ask something.”
“Oh. And you, Miss. Are you giving or just asking?”
Marion Cargo was obviously not reacting very strongly to external stimuli. The expression on her classical features was brooding, inward-looking. She would never have won a run-of-the-mill beauty competition, but she had a fascinating face and a figure which invited speculation.
Halfdane, who had no further reason to stay, made no move to go but looked at the girl with open admiration. Dalziel was suddenly conscious of his paunch, his bald patch and his shortsightedness.
He scratched his right thigh viciously.
“I’m asking, I’m afraid, Superintendent. It’s about Miss. Girling.”
Another! groaned Dalziel inwardly.
“Miss. Disney screamed it was Miss. Girling when those bones were dug up.
It just seemed absurd, and I thought it was just the result of this when I heard the students talking about it later. They, the ones I heard, were certain it was Miss. Girling.” Again, thought Dalziel. Interesting.
“But now Mr. Dunbar says he’s seen you and you confirmed it was. But I don’t see how… “
There was real pain on her face, Dalziel was surprised to see.
“You knew Miss. Girling then?’ Dalziel asked gently.
“Yes. Of course. She was very very kind to me. And it’s worse because of the statue somehow. If it was her, that is. But I don’t see how it could be?”