LITMIR.BIZ

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in as many years.’

      ‘Could? You mean there was a choice?’ Dalziel sounded faintly incredulous.

      ‘To some extent. You can’t be too autocratic with an educational system based on liberal principles. Really what it boiled down to was the willingness of those in charge to co-operate. If you dug your heels in, progress was slow. If you went out after money and expansion, it could be relatively rapid. Landor’s obviously an expansionist.’

      ‘And her?’ Dalziel nodded at the portrait.

      ‘It sounds as if she was the other kind. A digger-in of heels.’

      Dalziel suddenly seemed to lose interest.

      ‘What do you think Disney meant by “godlessness”? Are they groping each other during her lectures, or something?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ said Pascoe thoughtfully. ‘Probably just that. Your modern students have come a long way from “Al’s gals” I should imagine. But I can probably find out. I’ve been looking at the staff-list. There’s someone here I was at university with. She’s a lecturer in the Social Sciences department.’

      He kept his tone casual but Dalziel, as always, was on to him in a flash.

      ‘She?’

      ‘Yes. She. It was a mixed university.’

      ‘She,’ said Dalziel again, nodding as if some dreadful fear about his sergeant had been confirmed. ‘A close friend?’

      ‘Close enough. What’s next on the agenda, sir?’

      ‘Still close?’

      ‘Hardly. It’s several years now, and …’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Didn’t you know, sir? I became a policeman.’

      Dalziel let the sarcasm pass unreproved, though not unrecorded. But at least he left the subject.

      ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Now check them all. I want to find out who was here five years ago.’

      ‘I’ve made some enquiries already,’ said Pascoe. ‘Very few.’

      ‘Fine. Similarly with clerical and domestic staff. Next, a list of everyone who was here five years ago and has since moved on.’

      ‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Pascoe deferentially. ‘Can we really make the assumption that five years is the significant period?’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘Can we be certain that this body was put into the hole which had been dug for the statue in the short period between its being dug and the base being dropped into it? Couldn’t the body have been in the ground already when the hole was dug? Or isn’t it even possible that it was buried there later, a hole dug down the side of the base, a groove scraped in the earth underneath the base, and the body pushed into this?’

      Dalziel groaned dramatically.

      ‘It’s all possible, lad,’ he said. ‘It’s possible this was a lost pot-holer trying to dig his way to the surface. But it’s unlikely. I just think it’s unlikely, but then I’m a simple soul, not over-gifted intellectually. But you’re different. And when you’ve done all the other things you’re going to do, just get yourself out there and find me half a dozen good reasons why we can discount your possibilities. Right?’

      ‘Yes, sir,’ said Pascoe.

      ‘Good. Next, I want a list of all persons reported missing in the area between, let’s see, when was that blasted statue put up, January let’s say, all right, between the previous October and the following April. Better make it the whole year, from July to July. And make sure I get the lab-report on the bones as soon as it’s ready. I don’t want any ambitious young officer working at his career prospects through it for a couple of hours first.’

      There was a tap at the door. A pretty, young girl in a blue nylon overall came in carrying a tray which she placed on the desk.

      ‘Thank you, my dear,’ said Dalziel with a beam. ‘We’ll just be needing one cup. The sergeant has to go out.’

      Pascoe ushered the girl out in front of him, then stopped and turned as Miss Disney had done.

      ‘By the way, sir,’ he said. ‘Did you get a look at the statue when we arrived?’

      ‘No,’ said Dalziel, without interest. ‘It’s the base that concerns us here.’

      ‘Of course,’ said Pascoe. ‘It just seemed a little strange, that’s all.’

      He made as if to go. Dalziel’s expected bellow stopped him.

      ‘In what way strange?’

      ‘Just strange that the memorial to a woman like Miss Girling should be an eight-foot-tall bronze nude.’

      He closed the door quietly behind him. Inside, Dalziel sipped his tea with noisy relish and eyed the portrait of Miss Girling with interested speculation.

       Chapter 4

      Men’s weaknesses and faults are best known from their enemies, their virtues and abilities from their familiar friends.

      SIR FRANCIS BACON

      Op. Cit.

      Franny Roote lay back along the window-sill, his still form blocking out the sunlight. He was wearing his usual summer dress of white beach-shoes, light cream-coloured slacks and a white shirt which was almost a blouse. This colour scheme combined with his own fair colouring somehow blurred the edges of his frame. Without moving, he dominated the room. Only twenty-three, he had developed a repose and still self-sufficiency beyond the reach of many twice his age; and these things put together gave him the indistinct almost inhuman menace of a figure magnified and blurred by sea-mist. It was an image he worked at.

      ‘You heard nothing more, Elizabeth?’ he asked quietly.

      ‘No, Franny,’ said the pretty girl in the blue nylon overall. ‘Just about the lists.’

      She sounded apologetic, almost distressed, at having so little to tell.

      ‘You did well, love,’ he said, nodding once, still not looking at her.

      ‘Franny,’ said the girl. ‘Tonight. It is tonight, isn’t it? May I come again?’

      Now he turned his head and looked full in her face with his light blue eyes.

      ‘Of course you may. We were expecting you.’

      Flushing with pleasure, the girl slipped out of the door with the expertise of one used to leaving rooms unobtrusively.

      ‘Is that wise?’ asked a long-haired sallow-faced girl with low-slung breasts.

      ‘Is what wise, Sandra?’ he asked patiently.

      ‘Her, Elizabeth, coming along. I mean, outsiders can mean trouble.’

      ‘What you mean is, she’s a kitchen-maid,’ said a small, dark-haired, moustachioed youth fiercely. This was Stuart Cockshut, the Union secretary and Franny’s right-hand man. ‘God, what’s the point of trying to do anything if you can’t shake off your reactionary concepts of an elitist society?’

      ‘Belt up,’ said Anita Sewell who was sitting on the floor staring moodily into the empty fireplace. ‘Stop talking like a colour-supplement student. It’s not politics that’s bothering Sandra. It’s sex. And she’s right. Franny knows when he’s on to a good thing. He gets an extra slice of juicy meat at dinner. And all the gravy he can manage, don’t you, ducky?’

      ‘Nervous, love?’ Franny said to her gently. ‘Don’t be.’

      ‘She’ll be

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