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Authors: Reginald Hill
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night.
Chapter 7.
It is in life as it is in ways, the shortest way is commonly the foulest; and surely the fairer way is not much about?
SIR FRANCIS BACON op. at.
The next day dawned as bright as those preceding it, but by breakfast a stiff breeze had sprung up from somewhere and students and staff alike began searching for the cardigans and pullovers they had so recently discarded.
Dalziel set off early in the morning to confer with his superiors.
Pascoe couldn't imagine what such a conference would be like. Who could possibly be Dalziel's superior without having dismissed him on sight? If you needed qualities of wisdom and tolerance like these to get to the very top, Pascoe despaired of his own prospects. On the other hand there was the example of Kent.
Detective-Inspector Kent, who had supervised the digging of the garden and the collection of the remains the previous day, now appeared in Landor's office and gave himself a few airs for a while. But he was too nice a man to keep it up. Pascoe liked him, but, like everyone else, marvelled that he had reached his present eminence. He was married with three young children and his family were devoted to him. But the one real love of his life was golf. It was an obsession with him. A week in which he played less than four rounds was to him a wasted week, though other men found it difficult to fit in nine holes between the demands of the job and their domestic responsibilities.
But Pascoe could feel almost sorry for the man now as he stared out of the window in the direction of the golf course.
Dalziel distrusted him and though he'd left a whole list of instructions for Pascoe, Kent had nothing but a few reports to work on and Pascoe could almost feel him working himself up to take a stroll towards the links.
Which would be foolish, but it wasn't Pascoe's business to say so. He had work enough to do.
The first thing was to get as clear a picture as possible of Miss. Girling's movements on the day of her departure for Austria.
It is remarkable how difficult it is to reconstruct one particular day after five years. Pascoe tried it for himself and found it impossible.
The actual disaster had taken place in the early hours of December 20th.
A Tuesday. Pascoe had arranged for copies of relevant press reports to be discreetly obtained for him. There was no point in provoking interest before they had to. The discovery of the bones had created a small stir, but generally speaking the public preferred fresh, warm blood.
Examination of the relevant year book which had provided much help with his lists the day before revealed that term had ended on Friday December 16th.
This seemed late to him. He consulted Landor who came in from time to time in search of files to take to his new office.
"We are not a university, Sergeant,' he answered drily. ' am realistic enough to fear that many of our students will not deign to open a book once away from us for the vacation. So we keep them here as long as we can. And in Miss. Girling's day, the place was very much a ladies' seminary."
Pascoe was growing to like Landor. Before leaving, Dalziel had told him of the previous night's discoveries. Landor was unamazed.
"How clever of you, Superintendent,' he had said. ' we expect an early solution? It has taken a mere five years to discover that poor Miss. Girling was murdered." Landor now suggested that Miss. Scotby might have preserved some record of the sequence of end-of-term events. He himself was quite unable to help. Nothing in the registrar's office was of any assistance either.
But before he could even start another Scotby-hunt, there was an interruption.
A small aggressive man with a Scottish accent burst in.
"Where's the other, the fat one?' he demanded.
"You mean Superintendent Dalziel?"
"Dalziel? He's a Scot?"
"Only by birth. He's not here at the moment. Can I help?' The man looked doubtful, then nodded.
"Why not? I'm Dunbar. Chemistry." He said it as though he were the
Chapter 7.
It is in life as it is in ways, the shortest way is commonly the foulest; and surely the fairer way is not much about?
SIR FRANCIS BACON op. at.
The next day dawned as bright as those preceding it, but by breakfast a stiff breeze had sprung up from somewhere and students and staff alike began searching for the cardigans and pullovers they had so recently discarded.
Dalziel set off early in the morning to confer with his superiors.
Pascoe couldn't imagine what such a conference would be like. Who could possibly be Dalziel's superior without having dismissed him on sight? If you needed qualities of wisdom and tolerance like these to get to the very top, Pascoe despaired of his own prospects. On the other hand there was the example of Kent.
Detective-Inspector Kent, who had supervised the digging of the garden and the collection of the remains the previous day, now appeared in Landor's office and gave himself a few airs for a while. But he was too nice a man to keep it up. Pascoe liked him, but, like everyone else, marvelled that he had reached his present eminence. He was married with three young children and his family were devoted to him. But the one real love of his life was golf. It was an obsession with him. A week in which he played less than four rounds was to him a wasted week, though other men found it difficult to fit in nine holes between the demands of the job and their domestic responsibilities.
But Pascoe could feel almost sorry for the man now as he stared out of the window in the direction of the golf course.
Dalziel distrusted him and though he'd left a whole list of instructions for Pascoe, Kent had nothing but a few reports to work on and Pascoe could almost feel him working himself up to take a stroll towards the links.
Which would be foolish, but it wasn't Pascoe's business to say so. He had work enough to do.
The first thing was to get as clear a picture as possible of Miss. Girling's movements on the day of her departure for Austria.
It is remarkable how difficult it is to reconstruct one particular day after five years. Pascoe tried it for himself and found it impossible.
The actual disaster had taken place in the early hours of December 20th.
A Tuesday. Pascoe had arranged for copies of relevant press reports to be discreetly obtained for him. There was no point in provoking interest before they had to. The discovery of the bones had created a small stir, but generally speaking the public preferred fresh, warm blood.
Examination of the relevant year book which had provided much help with his lists the day before revealed that term had ended on Friday December 16th.
This seemed late to him. He consulted Landor who came in from time to time in search of files to take to his new office.
"We are not a university, Sergeant,' he answered drily. ' am realistic enough to fear that many of our students will not deign to open a book once away from us for the vacation. So we keep them here as long as we can. And in Miss. Girling's day, the place was very much a ladies' seminary."
Pascoe was growing to like Landor. Before leaving, Dalziel had told him of the previous night's discoveries. Landor was unamazed.
"How clever of you, Superintendent,' he had said. ' we expect an early solution? It has taken a mere five years to discover that poor Miss. Girling was murdered." Landor now suggested that Miss. Scotby might have preserved some record of the sequence of end-of-term events. He himself was quite unable to help. Nothing in the registrar's office was of any assistance either.
But before he could even start another Scotby-hunt, there was an interruption.
A small aggressive man with a Scottish accent burst in.
"Where's the other, the fat one?' he demanded.
"You mean Superintendent Dalziel?"
"Dalziel? He's a Scot?"
"Only by birth. He's not here at the moment. Can I help?' The man looked doubtful, then nodded.
"Why not? I'm Dunbar. Chemistry." He said it as though he were the
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