He swung his legs down off the sill and stood up.
‘This business interests me. I’ve always had a feeling about that statue. Something compelled me to it.’
Suddenly he laughed and ran his fingers through his hair, looking for a moment about eighteen.
‘I thought it was just the tits.’
The others laughed too, except for Sandra who was seated on the floor next to Anita. He looked down at her thoughtfully and moved his leg till his calf touched her shoulder. She leaned into his leg and closed her eyes.
‘I wonder whose bones they are,’ said a petite round-faced girl from a corner.
‘The police will find out soon enough,’ said Stuart, making it sound like a fault.
‘Perhaps we can beat them,’ said Franny.
They looked at him puzzled for a moment.
‘Of course!’ said the round-faced girl, jumping up and opening a cupboard behind her. From it she took a large box which she put on a low coffee-table. Out of the box she produced a Ouija board which she quickly set up on the table.
Franny knelt down and put his index finger on the planchette. He contemplated Sandra’s pleading gaze for a moment, shook his head minutely and said, ‘Anita.’
The girl touched the other side of the planchette.
Slowly it began to move.
Eleanor Soper was immersed in her favourite recurring day-dream in which her first novel had met with tremendous critical and popular success. Her elbows rested lightly on the untidy sheets of closely scribbled-on foolscap which were scattered over her desk. She was modestly accepting the plaudits of her colleagues and in particular, like a television instant replay machine, her mind kept on bringing Arthur Halfdane forward to offer his obviously deeply felt congratulations.
She was brought back to reality by a knock at the door.
‘Shit!’ she said. Her own subconscious was capable enough of diverting her energies away from her novel without the additional annoyance of external interruption.
The knock again.
Angrily, she opened the door.
‘Hallo, Ellie,’ said Pascoe.
‘For Godsake,’ she said, motionless with surprise.
Pascoe reached out his hand. She took it and they stood there holding hands, looking at each other.
Pascoe felt relieved and disappointed at the same time as he took in her short black hair cut to the contours of her finely structured head; her grey eyes, questioning now; her strong chin, raised slightly aggressively. He had not known what to expect, had half-feared an immediate return of all the old welter of emotions and passions. Looking into his own mind, he could find no trace of them. That was good. But still he felt sorry that something so strong could have gone so completely.
He looked again at the once so dear and familiar features. Nothing. But he knew he was keeping his mind well away from the equally dear and familiar curves and hollows lying beneath the old sweater and the threadbare slacks.
‘Come in,’ she said. ‘Sit down. This is – well, Christ, it’s a surprise. I don’t know … what are you doing here?’
‘Combining pleasure with business.’
‘Business? Oh. You mean the statue?’
‘I’m afraid so. But you’re the pleasure.’
They both laughed and when they stopped, the atmosphere had become easier. They spent the next few minutes exchanging news of old university acquaintances. Or rather Ellie provided most of the news and Pascoe most of the questions. He was surprised to find how eager he was for information.
‘You haven’t kept in touch with anyone then?’ she asked finally.
‘Christmas cards. Wedding invitations. That sort of thing.’
‘Summonses. Warrants. That sort of thing,’ she answered, half-joking, half-serious.
‘I’ve been spared that,’ said Pascoe, wholly serious.
She looked embarrassed for a second, a faint flush touching her cheek-bone.
Pascoe began to reach out a hand to touch her face but stopped himself in time.
‘Well, you’ll be spared it here too,’ Ellie said emphatically. ‘The statue had been up for five years or so when I arrived. What’s it all about, anyway?’
‘We’re still trying to find out. Who has been here since the thing was put up, then?’ asked Pascoe casually. He didn’t need the information. He had a list in his document case which told him exactly.
‘I’m not sure. The oldest inhabitants, obviously. Jane Scotby. And Miss Disney. Not Landor, though. That’s obvious. He came when Miss Girling died. The history man, Henry Saltecombe. And George Dunbar, head of stinks. There might be others, we’re a large staff and I haven’t got to know them all yet. But what’s your interest? You don’t think someone on the staff then was responsible?’
‘Responsible for what?’
‘Why, for killing whoever got killed and burying them in the garden,’ said Ellie in surprise.
‘Someone’s responsible,’ replied Pascoe. ‘Any likely runners?’
The atmosphere was changing again.
‘I should have thought that your best approach was to discover who it was that got killed,’ said Ellie a little stiffly.
‘We’re working on it,’ said Pascoe cheerfully.
He glanced at his watch. Dalziel would be expecting some kind of report soon.
‘I must be off. Look, any chance of seeing you later tonight? There’s lots to talk about.’
Ellie hesitated a moment before saying, ‘Yes, surely. I’m dining in tonight and I usually pop into the bar afterwards, about eight. You’ll still be around then? Good. Anyone will direct you.’
‘Right,’ said Pascoe at the door. ‘It was nice to see your name on the staff-list. See you!’
He went out with a casual wave.
‘No doubt,’ said Ellie to the closed door.
She picked up her pen again but did not start to write for some time. She was trembling slightly. He looked at me like a bloody suspect! she thought. Not a sign of emotion. A useful contact! Sod him.
Convinced soon that all her trembling sprang from indignation, she began to write again but had to stop soon to light one of her infrequent cigarettes. Sod him!
Rather sticky, thought Pascoe with some regret as he walked down the corridor from Ellie’s room.
But I won’t work at not being a policeman. Not just to be liked. Not by anyone. It’s not worth it. He congratulated himself once again on his self-possession during the encounter. Then he bumped into a large beautifully rounded girl in a frivolously short skirt.
‘Sorry,’ he said. She smiled and massaged herself voluptuously. He felt his self-possession crack.
Well, sometimes it may be worth it, he emended cautiously.
When he reached Landor’s room, it was empty. He took the lists Dalziel had requested of him from his case and laid them neatly on the desk.
Then he stood back to view the effect. Dissatisfied, he readjusted them minutely to attain perfect symmetry.
‘You’ll make someone a lovely housekeeper,’ said Dalziel from the door.