An Advancement of Learning (28 page)

Squatting on the floor looking desperately up at him was Marion Cargo.

And in her lap she cradled Dalziel's head.

"Thank God!' said Marion. ' me please. We must get a doctor."

Pascoe knelt beside her and took Dalziel's weight. He seemed to be the main source of the whisky fumes, his shoulders were soaked and the floor was strewn with broken glass.

"Sir!' he said anxiously. '!"

Dalziel opened his eyes and groaned. The groan turned into a sniff. He put a hand up to his face, looked at it, then licked his fingers.

"Oh my God,' he said weakly. ' thought it was blood."

He tried to stagger to his feet and Pascoe pushed him without much resistance into a chair. He leaned back, then yelped with pain and bent forward again.

"The bastard!' he said. ', the bastard. He's broken my whisky."

"Does it hurt much?' asked Pascoe anxiously.

"Aye, man. Mentally and physically. The letter, has he got the letter?"

"Where? You found it then?"

"On top of the pigeon-holes there."

The letter was gone.

Pascoe turned to Marion.

"What happened?' he snapped.

"I don't know. I came across to get a briefcase I'd left in here on Friday. The place was locked before because of the trouble last night I think. But I heard Mr. Dalziel say he was coming up."

"You heard"? When? Where?"

"Why, in the bar a few moments ago."

"Anybody else there?"

"Nearly everybody,' she said, puzzled. ', I finished my drink, came out, saw the light so thought I'd just pop up."

"Did you see anybody else come in?"

"No. But when I got to the landing of this floor, I heard a crash from inside the common room and as I reached the door, someone came running out and knocked me down."

She rubbed her left buttock expressively.

"And then?"

"I screamed. Then I came in here and found the superintendent. Next thing I heard you running up the stairs so I shouted for help. Don't you think we should get a doctor?"

"Yes. We will. Look, did you see who it was?"

"No. I'm afraid not. It all happened so quickly and I was dazed for a minute. Mind you,' she added slowly, ' was something familiar about him. I'm sure it was someone I know."

"Roote,' said Dalziel, groaning as he tried to straighten up.

"What? Are you sure?' said Pascoe.

"It has to be. Anyway I saw his shoes, those fancy tennis shoes he wears. Between my bloody legs I saw them."

"Are you sure?' repeated Pascoe. Marion looked amazed.

"For Christ's sake, go and get him!"

"Yes, but you ... "

"We need that letter. We've bugger all else. Go and get him!' snarled Dalziel. His face was recovering a bit of colour, though it still looked grey. ''ll be able to smell him. Glen Grant. My God!"

"Miss. Cargo, get on the telephone will you?' began Pascoe.

"Go!' screamed the fat man.

Pascoe went. Dalziel was right, of course. Speed was of the essence. The letter itself would only take a minute to dispose of. He had little hope there. But at least if they got Roote straightaway they'd be able to check for certain if he was the attacker. He could hardly have avoided whisky stains and minute fragments of glass getting on to his clothes.

But the man was no fool. He would realize this too. His mind worked fast and it was matched with ice-cold nerves. He must have overheard Dalziel talking in the bar, had the same flash of realization that he, Pascoe, had had an hour earlier and instantly set out to thwart the fat man. He probably stood at the SCR door, absolutely still, watching the search, content to fade away quietly if nothing turned up, but moving instantly Dalziel's demeanour revealed he had found something. Into the room, picking up the bottle of scotch on the way, bring it down club-like on to the detective's back, then away with the letter. Perhaps he had meant to do more. The bottle had shattered on the superintendent's shoulders. If it had caught him on the head ... Perhaps Marion Cargo's arrival had stopped another killing.

With this thought in mind, he went into Franny's room in the best film-detective fashion, fast and low, crouched ready to ward off attack.

The place was empty, but bore the signs of a recent and hurried visit.

The wardrobe door was ajar, a couple of drawers in the chest were pulled out. Pascoe looked around longingly. It might be well worthwhile searching the place.

But not now. If he read the signs aright, Roote had been as quick as he suspected, and realizing that his clothes were a possible giveaway, had got back quickly for a change, but was too clever to do it here. Where then? Someone else's room? Possibly.

Pascoe ran lightly down the corridor, pushing open doors. Most of the rooms were empty. In one an unfamiliar youth was leaning out of his open window smoking a pipe which was far too old for his placid, child-like face. He looked round in surprise.

"Roote?' said Pascoe, retreating as he spoke.

"Franny? I've just seen him heading out towards the beach. He must be going for a swim. I think he had his things."

He gestured largely with his pipe out of the window. Pascoe went into the room and peered out towards the invisible sea.

"When?"

"About a minute. Less."

Pausing only to check on a possible bluff by opening the youth's wardrobe, much to his surprise, Pascoe hurried from the building and set off at a gentle trot towards the dunes. His hopes were fading as fast as the light. Roote would know this stretch of coastline like the back of his hand. It had been a good move not to stop in the building. Clothing was always difficult to get rid of indoors. Whereas ... Whereas if I were Roote thought Pascoe, I'd get down to the beach, strip off, make sacks out of my trousers and shirt, fill them with stones, swim out as far as I could and let them go. Then gently back, having given myself a thorough washing in the process, and up the beach to where I have left my new gear. The letter could go too if it hadn't been disposed of already. What the hell had Fallowfield said that was so damning? Was it about Girling? It still seemed unlikely. Anita? Or even both?

He doubted if they would ever know now. But if he played his hunch for once and made straight for the beach instead of scouting around the dunes, they might still get enough to make things very difficult for Roote.

He increased his pace to a run, stopping only when he breasted the last line of sand hills and stood overlooking the sea.

It was like a scientist putting his hypothesis to the practical test and finding it worked out perfectly in every particular.

Below him, about thirty yards to the right Franny was kneeling, dressed only in his trousers, thrusting stones into a bag made from his light cotton shirt. The rest of the beach was completely empty, the tide was out and the sea was a mere line of brightness in the hazy distance.

"It's a long walk for a swim,' said Pascoe conversationally. He had moved unobserved along the ridge of the dune till he stood right over the youth.

Franny looked round. His voice when he spoke was the same as ever, but there was a tightness round his face which should have been a warning.

"Hello, lovey,' he said. ' a dip, do you?" "No thanks,' said Pascoe, leaping lightly down. At least he meant to leap lightly, but his feet slithered in the soft loose sand and he was thrown off balance. Franny came to his feet and in one smooth movement brought up the shirt with its burden of stones full into Pascoe's chest. The sergeant went down, clutching the shirt, rolled over to the left as fast as he could and rose into the crouch to withstand the next onslaught, feeling as though his ribs were crushed in.

Franny had not moved, but stood facing him, only his eyes moving in his impassive face.

He's thinking, thought Pascoe gasping for breath. He's working it out.

Three things - to run, to surrender, or to fight. There's nowhere to run, he knows that. Surrender and bluff it out? What after all have we got on him? An attack on a police-officer. Serious, but without the letter ... what the hell was in that letter? But it was gone now.

Wasn't it? Wasn't it?

Was it?

That's why he can't just give up and talk his way out of it! He's still got the letter. All right. Why not run now, give yourself enough start to dump it? With me in this condition, it shouldn't be difficult.

Unless, of course, he no longer has it. In which case ... Pascoe looked down at the bundle in his arms and slowly began to smile.

I have it!

It's in here, ready for sinking in the sea.

He looked up again, opened his mouth, and received a handful of fine silver sand full in his face. The bundle was torn from his grasp. He flung himself forward, still blinded by the sand, and grappled with Roote's knees. One of them came up violently, crashing into his mouth and he went over backwards. Blinking desperately, he got a little bit of vision back, enough to roll out of the way of the clubbing punch aimed at his head. Enough also to see the young man's face and realize that he was no longer fighting just for the letter, he was fighting for his life.

He pushed himself up off his backside and tried to scrabble backwards up the sand dune, hoping to get the advantage of height. But the softness of the sand thwarted him and he slid back into the relentless volley of punches that was being hurled at him. Many of them he was able to ward off with his hands and forearms, but he had little strength to retaliate. In the cinema, western heroes, and even policemen occasionally, could give and receive enormous blows for any amount of time. But for mere unscripted mortals like himself, things were different.

The onslaught suddenly slackened, but not out of charity or even fatigue, he realized. Roote was merely casting around for a more satisfactory (meaning, lethal) weapon than his bare fists. He stooped and came up with a large ovoid stone in his hand.

The time had come, Pascoe decided, to admit the boot was on the other foot and run.

His initial burst of energy at the decision almost carried him up the sand dune this time but his foot was seized and he was dragged down into the hollow again.

He took the first blow from the stone on his elbow. It hurt like hell, but it was better than his face. And this time he managed to get in a damaging counter-blow with his knee to Roote's groin. Momentarily the man staggered back, but Pascoe had no romantic illusions about snatching victory from the jaws of defeat. He wanted reinforcements and quick.

This time he didn't waste his energy by trying to climb but set off along the beach, parallel with the dunes; a clumsy sideways kind of run, he thought, but in the circumstances who could expect style?

Amazingly when he glanced back after about thirty yards, he wasn't being pursued. He didn't question why, but just felt thankful. It was time to move inland and seek help. His fuddled mind was trying to work out where the nearest point of human contact was. The golf club perhaps? Or that row of cottages in which poor Fallowfield had lived. Poor Fallowfield indeed! God knows what the bastard was responsible for, including this!

The dunes looked less precipitous here. He turned inland and began once more to climb up.

As he pulled himself over the top, clutching at the long, tough sea-grass, he realized why Roote had not pursued him down the beach.

He was here instead, standing over him expectantly, stone still held high in his hand. As it came down, Pascoe pushed himself backwards in a last desperate attempt to escape. As he fell, he saw Roote looming over him, dark against the sky, then the youth's body came crashing on top of him, knocking all his breath out.

It took him some seconds to realize that the body was moving even less energetically than his own, that he could push it off him quite easily.

He did so. Another figure now stood menacingly against the skyline.

Perhaps not so menacingly after all. The walking-stick with which he had clubbed Franny was still held aloft, it was true. But the bright blue eyes, the old, weather-wrinkled face, the happy smile, the old binoculars dangling free from the scrawny neck, none of these seemed to contain much menace.

"Ee, lad,' said Harold Lapping with a contented laugh, ' do see some funny goings-on just walking round these dunes of an evening."

It was a few moments before Pascoe could gasp his thanks. Lapping slid down beside him and helped him to stand up. Franny was still lying in the sand, but his eyes were open.

"Watch him,' gasped Pascoe. ' he moves an inch, hit him with your stick."

The old man grinned.

Pascoe walked unsteadily down the beach to where he had first encountered Roote. He picked up the shirt bundle and carried it back.

Anything that might be evidence it was as well to find in front of a witness. Silently he tipped out the stones so that they fell a couple of feet from Roote's staring eyes. Among them was a crumpled envelope.

He picked it up and smoothed it out, realizing he had no idea who it might be addressed to.

"Saltecombe,' he said. He noticed with surprise that the envelope was still sealed.

"You haven't read it? Short of time?' he asked, then added, '. You weren't even going to read it, were you? It was ready for disposal. Why not?"

Roote sat up slowly, his eyes on Lapping's stick. He rubbed the back of his head.

"I don't like sticking my nose into other people's mail,' he said.

That's constabulary business." "Oh no,' said Pascoe staring hard at the youth. ' were frightened, weren't you? It worried you what a dying man might say about you. Not just because it might incriminate you, in the sight of the law, but because it might condemn you to yourself." "Oh, piss off,' said Franny.

Pascoe looked at the letter, faced with Dalziel's dilemma when he had found it. Should he open it now or not?

"Open it for me,' said Franny as though reading his thoughts. ''ve got nothing to worry about."

He managed to sound quite confident. Pascoe shoved his bruised and bleeding face close to the youth's and pointed to it.

"What do you think did this? Moths?' he asked. He reached down and undid Roote's belt and the top two buttons of his flies.