Ruling Passion
Ruling Passion
Reginald Hill
‘One of the modern masters of the police procedural’ Sunday TelegraphPeter Pascoe is in shock. A weekend in the country with old friends turns into a nightmare when he finds three of them dead and the missing fourth a prime suspect in the eyes of the local police.They want his cooperation, but Superintendent Dalziel needs him back in Yorkshire where a string of unsolved burglaries looks like turning nasty.As events unfold, though, the two cases seem to be getting entwined…
REGINALD HILL
RULING PASSION
A Dalziel and Pascoe novel
Copyright (#u73653413-60cb-5a2a-98c9-c96f5697afb8)
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.
Harper An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF
Previously published by HarperCollins in 1993
and by Grafton in 1987
First published in Great Britain by
HarperCollinsPublishers 1973
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
Copyright © Reginald Hill 1973
Reginald Hill asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks.
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.
Source ISBN 9780586072608
Ebook Edition © July 2015 ISBN 9780007370320
Version: 2015-06-18
Dedication (#ulink_855650d2-f7bb-5c39-a3e0-ba8ba941cd28)
For Pat again – with love and thanks
Epigraph (#ulink_528dd1fb-9132-5530-977d-1995821ba112)
Search then the ruling passion: there, alone,
The wild are constant, and the cunning known;
The fool consistent, and the false sincere;
Priests, princes, women, no dissemblers here.
This clue once found unravels all the rest …
ALEXANDER POPE
Contents
Cover (#u7cfef9c1-9512-5980-bb74-b843ca4f66e4)
Title Page (#ue5284cdf-c3ad-568a-821b-04338773f94d)
Copyright (#u68257f7b-3a8e-598a-99fe-30c3b1192b8f)
Dedication (#ub234459b-b094-5d3a-aa28-817726b1723d)
Epigraph (#u8592cb73-ead6-5199-8215-71d429423778)
Part One (#u9eb8bfe8-28d7-5545-aabc-8c3eae29aafc)
Chapter 1 (#u9d707b64-07f0-58c0-9a74-847a841f4054)
Chapter 2 (#u7ad8fa4b-9d2f-5f2a-81a6-137218bdeefc)
Chapter 3 (#uacd5db1f-c416-543c-a88c-30fb7f75d94b)
Chapter 4 (#u47a3d900-4c12-54fc-8a8d-23ee49224f78)
Chapter 5 (#uea5bfcd9-0506-5daf-8b95-20043734aecd)
Chapter 6 (#u518a78dc-47c0-56ce-934b-b9b152994f0f)
Chapter 7 (#u95d4e62b-15de-5cf6-b895-c2e9b967215e)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 1 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 2 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 3 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 1 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 2 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 3 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
PART ONE (#u73653413-60cb-5a2a-98c9-c96f5697afb8)
Chapter 1 (#u73653413-60cb-5a2a-98c9-c96f5697afb8)
Brookside Cottage,
Thornton Lacey.
September 4th.
Well hello, Peter Pascoe!
A voice from the grave! Or should I say the underworld? Out of which Ellie (who gave me the glad news of your existence when we met in town last month) hopes to lead you, for a while at least, back into the land of the living.
Ironic, thought Detective-Superintendent Backhouse, his gaze flicking momentarily to the pale-faced man who sat opposite him. He did not speak the thought aloud. He was a kind man, though he never shunned the cruelties of his job when they became essential.
He read on.
Doubtless she told you we’ve been doing up this rural slum to make it a fit place for pallid cits to recuperate in. Well, now it is complete and we’d love for you and Ellie to week-end with us in a fortnight (constabulary duty permitting, of course!). Timmy and Carlo are coming down from the Great Wen so there will be much nostalgia! Not quite as squalid as that other cottage in Eskdale (I hope) – but oddly enough life in Thornton Lacey is not without its correspondences!
‘What’s he mean by that?’ asked Backhouse.
Pascoe stared at the sentence indicated by the superintendent’s carefully manicured finger. It took him a second to bring the words into focus.
‘When we were students,’ he said, ‘we spent a few weeks one summer in Eskdale. In Cumberland.’
‘The same people?’
Pascoe nodded.
‘Colin and Rose weren’t married then.’
‘What’s this about correspondences?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t remember much about it.’
Except one evening, the six of them, golden in the low-stooping sun, walking in companionable silence across a diagonally sloping field towards the distant village and its pub. The slope had separated their courses, pulling them apart so that they were strung out across the coarse, tussocky grass, only coming together again at the wooden gate in the lowest corner of the loose-stone wall.
Make it Friday evening if possible, but bright and early Saturday if not. Do not fail us in this our command or our wrath shall be terrible and you know just how terrible my wrath can be!
Seriously, it will delight me more than I can say if you come. It’s not every day that we see Abelard reunited with Eloisa (and his vital equipment, I hope!) Love from us both,
Colin (and Rose)
Backhouse finished the letter with a sigh, made a note on a slip of paper, clipped it to the single pale lemon sheet and put it into a bright green plastic folder.
‘I’ll hang on to this,’ he said. ‘If I may.’
Not that it had any value at the moment. Probably it never would. But he preferred to work that way. Meticulousness is the better part of serendipity.
‘Would you like another cup of tea?’ he asked.
The door opened before Pascoe could answer. An ancient constable creaked wearily in, holding some typewritten sheets.
‘Mr – that is, Sergeant – Pascoe’s statement, sir.’
He laid the sheets carefully before Backhouse and retreated.
‘Thank you, Crowther,’ said Backhouse, turning the sheets round and pushing them towards Pascoe.
‘Read it,’ he said gently as Pascoe picked up a ball-point and made to sign at the bottom of the first sheet. ‘Always read before you sign. Just as you always tell others to read before they sign, I hope.’
Without answering, Pascoe began to read.
Statement of Peter Ernest Pascoe made at Thornton Lacey police station, Oxfordshire, in the presence of Detective-Superintendent D. S. Backhouse.
On the morning of Saturday 18th September, I drove down from Yorkshire to Thornton Lacey. I was accompanied by a friend, Miss Eleanor Soper. Our purpose was to spend the week-end with some old friends, Colin and Rose Hopkins of Brookside Cottage, Thornton Lacey. Other guests were to include Mr Timothy Mansfield and Mr Charles Rushworth, also old friends, though I had not seen them nor the Hopkinses for more than five years. I do not know if anyone else had been invited.
It was our intention to arrive at nine-thirty but we made such good time that it became clear we were going to be there by nine …
It was a glorious morning after a night of torrential rain. A light mist lay like chiffon over the fields and woodlands, yielding easily to the gentle urgings of the rising sun. The roads were empty at first. Even the traditionally dawn-greeting farmhouses seemed still to sleep in the shining wet fields.
‘I like it,’ said Ellie, snuggling contentedly into the comfortably sagging passenger seat of the old Riley. ‘There are some things it’s worth being worken up for.’
Pascoe laughed.
‘I know what you mean,’ he said with hoarse passion.
‘You’re a sex maniac,’ she answered.
‘Not at all. I can wait till we reach a lay-by.’
Ellie closed her eyes with a smile. When she opened them again it was an hour later and she was leaning heavily against her companion’s shoulder.
‘Sorry!’ she said, sitting upright.
‘So much for the attractions of the early morning! We’re making very good time, by the way. You’re sure they really want us for breakfast?’
‘Certain. When I talked to Rose on the phone she was very angry we had to cry off arriving last evening and insisted on first thing today. Poor girl, she probably had a fatted calf roasting or something.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry. It was a shame.’
Ellie put on her indignant look.
‘Shame! That fat sadist Dalziel doesn’t know the meaning of the word.’
‘It wasn’t his fault. It’s this string of break-ins we’ve been brought in on. The phone rang just as I was leaving.’
‘So you said,’ grunted Ellie. ‘Bloody queer time for a burglary. I bet Dalziel did it.’
‘The break-in happened some time earlier in the week,’ explained Pascoe patiently. ‘It was only discovered yesterday when the people got back from holiday.’
‘Serves them right for coming back early. They should have stayed away for the week-end. Then we could have enjoyed all ours too.’
‘I hope we will,’ said Pascoe, smiling fondly at her. ‘It’ll be good to see them all again.’
‘Yes, I think it will be. Especially for you,’ said Ellie thoughtfully. ‘You’ve been cut off too long.’
‘Perhaps so. I didn’t do all the cutting, mind. Anyway, cutting’s the wrong image. They were always there. Like securely invested capital! I’ve never doubted that one day I would see them all again.’
‘It took an accident to bring me to light again,’ admonished Ellie.
‘There is a something power which shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we may,’ proclaimed Pascoe solemnly. ‘Colin’s not the only one who can quote.’
‘Here’s to it,’ said Ellie, relaxing in the window-warmed light of the now completely triumphant sun.
We arrived at Thornton Lacey at eight-fifty. I noted the exact time as I looked at my watch to see how close to our forecast time of arrival we were. I suggested to Miss Soper that we should wait for half an hour before proceeding to Brookside Cottage, but after discussion we decided against this. Thus it must have been two or three minutes before nine o’clock when we reached the cottage. The curtains were all drawn and we received no reply to our knocks.
‘We should have waited,’ said Pascoe smugly.
‘Nonsense. If they got so pie-eyed last night that they can’t hear us knocking, they weren’t to be ready for nine-thirty either.’
The professional part of his mind felt there was some flaw either of logic or syntax in this statement, but this week-end he was very firmly and very consciously off duty. So he grinned and stepped back from the doorway, craning his neck to spot any signs of activity behind the bedroom curtains.
It was a lovely cottage, just stopping this side of biscuit-tin sentimentality. Tudor, he told himself, half-timbered, doubtless full of wattle-and-daub whatever that was (those were?). A not very successful attempt had been made to train a rambling rose around the doorway. Above the thatched roof a flock of television aerials parted the morning breeze and serenely sang their triumph over charm and Tudory.
‘Colin’s quite ruthless,’ said Ellie, following his gaze. ‘If you modernize, modernize. He doesn’t see any virtue in pretending that a pair of farm-labourers’ cottages was once a desirable sixteenth-century residence.’
‘Nor in keeping farming hours, it seems,’ said Pascoe, banging once more on the door and rattling the worn brass handle.
‘Though perhaps,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘they do preserve some old country customs, such as never locking your door.’
He pressed the door-handle right down and pushed. The hinges creaked most satisfactorily as the heavy oak door slowly swung open.
Now it was Ellie’s turn to show reluctance.
‘We can’t just appear at the foot of the bed,’ she protested, hanging back.
‘Well I’m not going to go and get a warrant,’ answered Pascoe. ‘At least we can find the wherewithal to make coffee and a lot of noise. Come on!’
The front door opened directly into a nicely proportioned lounge, with furnishings which, though comfortable looking, were antiquated rather than antique. Two or three whisky tumblers stood on a low table in the middle of the room; they were still half full. An empty bottle of Teacher’s stood beside them. A Churchillian cigar had been allowed to burn out in a large cut-glass ashtray. Ellie sniffed the air distastefully.
‘What a fug! I was right – they must have been having themselves a quiet little ball last night.’
She began drawing curtains back prior to opening a window. Pascoe too was sniffing gently, a faintly puzzled look on his face. He crossed the room to the door in the farthermost wall. It was ajar and he pushed it fully open and stepped through into the next room. It was clearly the dining-room. The round, highly polished mahogany table still bore the debris of a meal.
But it wasn’t the table which held his attention.
White-faced he turned to stop Ellie from following him. She had moved to the rear window now and was just drawing the curtains there.
‘Ellie,’ he said.
She froze, her hand on the window-latch, staring incredulously through the pane.
A thin, single-noted scream forced its way from the back of her throat.
Two men were lying on the dining-room floor in the positions indicated in the police photograph ‘A1’. They had both received severe gunshot wounds, and had been bleeding copiously. The nature of the wounds and the strong cordite smell I had noticed in the air led me to assume the wounds had been caused by a shotgun fired at close range. The man lying beside the dining-table (position ‘X’ on the photograph) I recognized as Timothy Mansfield of Grover Court, London, NW2. The other man I was not able to recognize immediately as he had received the greater part of the gun-blast in the neck and lower face, but later I was able to confirm he was Charles Rushworth of the same address. I turned to prevent Miss Soper from following me into the room, but she was clearly disturbed by something she could see from the rear window. I looked out into the garden at the back of the house and saw the figure of a woman lying at the base of the sundial in the centre of the lawn (photograph ‘C3’) I could not recognize her from the window as her face was pressed to the grass. There had been a great deal of bleeding from the head.
‘It’s Rose,’ said Ellie, not believing herself. ‘There’s been an accident.’
She made for the dining-room, seeking a way into the garden. Pascoe caught her by the shoulders.
‘Telephone,’ he said, his voice low, his mind racing. From the dining-room a narrow flight of stairs ran to the next floor. His ears were alert for any slight sound of movement above.
‘Yes,’ said Ellie. ‘Doctor. No, ambulance is better, there was a hospital sign, do you remember?’
There was a telephone on the floor beside one of the two armchairs. She bent over it.
‘No,’ said Pascoe, taking her arm and pushing her towards the front door. ‘We passed a phone box down the road. Use that. And get the police. Tell them they’ll need an ambulance and a doctor.’
‘Police?’ repeated Ellie.
‘Hurry,’ said Pascoe urgently.
He heard the Riley start as he placed his foot carefully on the first stair. It creaked, the second even more so, and, abandoning stealth, he took the rest at a run, narrowly missing cracking his head against the ceiling cross-beam halfway up.
He went through the nearest door low and fast. A bedroom. Empty. Bed unslept in.
The next the same. Then a bathroom. A tiny junk-room. One more to go. Certain now the first floor was uninhabited, he still took no chances and entered as violently as before.
Looking down at the bed, his heart stood still. A pair of children’s handcuffs lay across the two pillows. In one bracelet was a red rose. In the other a young nettle. On the bedhead above was pinned a paper banner.
It read Eloisa and Abelard, Welcome Home.
Pascoe felt the carapace of professionality he had withdrawn behind crack across. The room overlooked the rear of the house. He did not look out of the window but descended rapidly. With a great effort of will, he forced himself to confirm by touch what his eyes had told him, that the two men were dead.
Timmy used to play the guitar and when in funds gave presents of charming eccentricity to those he loved. Carlo (it was Carlo, the one eye which remained unscathed told him that) had a fiery temper, adored Westerns, demonstrated for civil rights, hated priests.
These were memories he didn’t want. Even less did he want to kneel beside this woman, turn her gently over, see the ruin of soft flesh the shotgun blast had made in Rose Hopkins.
She was wearing a long silk evening gown. Even the rain and the dew had not dulled its iridescent sheen of purple and green like a pheasant’s plumage. But her eyes were dull.
The sundial against which she lay had an inscription on its pedestal. He read it, desperately trying to rebuild his carapace.
Horas non numero nisi serenas.
I number only the sunny hours.
He was still cradling the dead woman in his arms when Ellie returned, closely followed by the first police car.
Chapter 2 (#u73653413-60cb-5a2a-98c9-c96f5697afb8)
‘Dalziel here.’
‘Hello, Andy. Derek Backhouse here.’
‘So they said.’ Dalziel’s voice fell a long way short of enthusiasm. ‘It’s been a long time. And you must be after a bloody big favour, to be ringing on a Saturday morning.’
‘No favour,’ said Backhouse. ‘I’m ringing from the station at Thornton Lacey. I’ve got one of your men here. A Sergeant Pascoe.’
‘Pascoe!’ said Dalziel, livelier now. ‘He’s not been crapping in the street again, has he?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Joke,’ sighed Dalziel. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Nothing really. He’s down here visiting some old friends.’
‘So?’
‘So when he arrived this morning, three of the old friends were dead. Shotgun at close range.’
Now there was a long silence.
‘Christ,’ said Dalziel finally. Another silence.
‘That’s rough,’ said Dalziel. ‘I don’t think he’s got enough old friends left to spare three.’
Backhouse made a moue of distaste at the callousness of the comment, though he thought he detected a hint of real concern in the intonation. But he might have been mistaken.
‘Anyway,’ said Backhouse, ‘I’m just interested in confirming that he and Miss Soper didn’t arrive till this morning.’
‘She’s with him, is she?’ grunted Dalziel.
‘You know her?’
‘Vaguely. Hey listen, my lad, you’re not thinking Pascoe had anything to do with this, are you?’
‘Just checking, Andy. He says he got held up on a case last night.’
‘Too true, he did. He wasn’t best pleased, but he’s a dutiful lad. He was here till about nine-thirty. Then we had a drink till closing. That suit you?’
‘I think so. We haven’t had the PM yet, but the doctor was very certain it happened last evening. I wasn’t really concerned about the sergeant, but I wanted to be sure. He may be a great help to us.’
‘Now watch it!’ said Dalziel threateningly. ‘We’ve got work to do here too, you know. Nothing glamorous like a multi-murder, but someone’s got to catch thieves. And I need Pascoe. He’s due back Monday. I’ll expect him Monday.’
‘We do have experienced detectives of our own,’ said Backhouse drily. ‘No, the way he can help is with his knowledge of the missing man.’
‘Missing man?’
‘Didn’t I say? We’re one light. The host, the man whose cottage it is, Colin Hopkins. Your sergeant’s special mate.’
‘I see,’ said Dalziel. ‘You reckon him for it, then?’
‘I’d like to talk with him,’ said Backhouse cautiously.
‘I bet!! Anyway, what you’re saying is you want Pascoe to help pin this on his mate? You’re asking a bit much, aren’t you?’
‘It was his friends who died,’ said Backhouse quietly.
‘Well, he’s a good lad. Is he there? I’d better have a word.’
What kind of grudging condolence did he propose? wondered Backhouse.
‘He’s with Miss Soper at the moment. She is badly shocked.’
‘Later then. But I want him Monday. Right? I’ll look for you on the telly!’
Bloody old woman, thought Dalziel as he replaced the receiver. He scratched the back of his left calf methodically from top to bottom, but derived no relief. The itches you scratch are internal, someone senior enough to dare had once told him. He looked with distaste at the mound of files on his desk. Suddenly they seemed trivial. Stupid twats who spent good money on pretty ornaments, then didn’t take the trouble to look after them properly. Somewhere in that lot there was a pattern, a flawed system. There was always a flaw. A man lay at the bottom of that pile and they’d find him in the end. But today, this moment, it seemed trivial.
It was a rare feeling for him. He wasn’t a man who took his work lightly. But now he stood up and went in search of someone to drink a cup of tea with and talk about football or politics.
The enormity of what had happened had not struck Ellie for some time after her return to the cottage. She had not gone into the building but made her way along the side of the whitewashed garage into the garden. At the bottom of the dew-damp lawn, audible though not visible, ran a stream in a deep cutting, shaded by alders and sallows. The murmuring water, the morning-fresh garden unheated yet by the lemon sunlight, the flight of a white-browed blackbird from a richly laden apple-tree, all helped to make unreal the tableau formed by the man on his knees by the dead woman at the foot of the sundial. Only the gnomon of the dial, cutting the fragrant air like a shark’s fin, seemed to be of menace.
Something shone, brighter than dewdrops, in the grass around the body. Pieces of broken glass. Her first concern was intimate, domestic. Pascoe’s trousers might be torn or, worse, his knees cut.
She knew, and had known since she first looked from the window, that Rose was dead. Calling for an ambulance was a gesture, the drowning swimmer’s last clutch at the crest of the wave that will sink him. The ugliness of it, visible now as Pascoe laid the woman on the grass once more, was the greater shock. But even that she assimilated for the moment as she turned back to the cottage, looking for the others. Pascoe stopped her before she went in through the open french window.
But it had been too late to stop her seeing what lay inside.
The police-station at Thornton Lacey was merely the front ground-floor section of the pleasant detached house in which Constable John Crowther and his wife lived and which they would give up with great reluctance when Crowther reached retiring age in a couple of years. Neither he nor his wife was particularly impressed by the arrival of major crime in their little backwater. There was nothing in it for the constable except trouble. At this late stage in his career, not even personal solution of the crime and apprehension of the criminal could bring him promotion. But he was a conscientious man and, unasked, was already preparing for the superintendent a résumé of all local information he felt might be pertinent.
His wife, a craggy woman whose outward semblance belied her good-heartedness, took one look at Ellie on her arrival at the station and led her into the kitchen for tea and sympathy. Ellie had deteriorated rapidly under the treatment (a necessary process, well understood by Mrs Crowther) and by the time Pascoe came away from Backhouse, she had been given a mild sedative by the doctor and removed to a bedroom.
Doctor Hardisty, a rangy, middle-aged man whose unruly grey hair gave him a permanently distraught look, met Pascoe at the kitchen door. They had encountered once already at Brookside Cottage.
‘You all right?’ he now asked diffidently.
‘Fine,’ said Pascoe. It wasn’t altogether a lie. The act of signing the coolly formulated statement had produced a temporary catharsis. Momentarily the morning’s discoveries had been reduced to the status of a ‘case’. He even found himself prompted to question the doctor about his examination of the bodies, but decided against it. Hardisty was the local man, living and practising in the village. By now the bodies would be on their way to the mortuary and the probing knife of the pathologist.
By now Timmy and Carlo and Rose would be on their way …
He nipped the thought off smartly.
‘Miss Soper?’ he asked. ‘How is she?’
‘Resting upstairs. I’ve given her something.’
‘May I see her?’
‘If she’s awake. It’s straight ahead on the landing.’
Pascoe turned and began to climb the stairs.
Ellie opened her eyes as he came through the door. Her dress was draped tidily over a chair and she lay under a patchwork quilt in her slip.
‘OK, love?’ said Pascoe, taking her hand.
‘Doped to the back teeth,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to sleep. It’s always worse remembering when you wake up.’
‘You’ve got to sleep,’ he said gently. The sight of her lying there so palely moved him almost as deeply as the discovery of the three corpses had done.
She nodded as though he had performed some feat of subtle persuasion, and closed her eyes. But as he opened the door to leave, she spoke again.
‘Peter,’ she said. ‘Where’s Colin? He’s got to be told.’
‘It’s all in hand,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Sleep now.’
On the stairs he felt dizzy and had to pause, leaning heavily on the banister. It was certainly in hand, the business of finding Colin. But the searchers’ motives were far from humane.
‘You OK, Sergeant?’ said Backhouse from the foot of the stairs. He sounded more concerned than the doctor had done.
‘Yes sir,’ said Pascoe, descending.
‘Miss Soper asleep?’
‘I think so.’
Backhouse looked closely at him, his thin scholarly face solicitous, assessing.
‘I’m going back to the cottage. The lab boys should be finished now. I wondered if you felt up to coming with me. I’d appreciate your assistance.’
The ghost of a grin flitted involuntarily over Pascoe’s lips at this semi-formal courtesy. Fat Dalziel, his own superintendent, must have missed out on this part of the senior officers’ training course.
‘Certainly, sir,’ he said.
Some minor telepathy must have operated. As they climbed into the waiting car, Backhouse said, ‘I’ve been talking to Mr Dalziel on the phone.’
‘Oh.’
‘He was naturally sorry to hear what had happened.’
Naturally. But I bet the sod didn’t make the normal polite distressed noises. Backhouse was doing a translation job.
‘He says you’re too important to be spared past the week-end, but I would appreciate what help you can give me in that time.’
Appreciate again. He was being given kid-glove treatment. You didn’t have to be a detective to work out why. But let them say it. He was damned if he was going to broach the matter.
Them. With surprise Pascoe realized that he was thinking of the police as them.
‘Stop here,’ said Backhouse to his driver. The car pulled up outside a high-roofed, pebble-dashed building with narrow, church-like windows. A well-kept notice advertised that this was Thornton Lacey Village Hall. Beneath the gold and black lettering a typewritten sheet supplied the menu of activities that could be sampled in the hall during the current week. Last night, for instance, the Village Amenities Committee had met. And tonight the Old Time Dancing Group was scheduled to waltz, fox-trot, two-step, and polka its way down Memory Lane. But the light fantastic would have to be tripped somewhere else, thought Pascoe as he followed Backhouse into the building.
The large musty-smelling room was full of activity. Shirt-sleeved policemen were arranging tables and two Post Office men were fixing up telephones. All the lights were on to supplement the meagre ration of sunlight the windows let in.
‘The station’s too small,’ said Backhouse. ‘Especially if this turns into a large scale operation. Which I hope it won’t.’
He glanced sideways at Pascoe, then looked quickly away. A uniformed inspector came to meet them.
‘Anything new?’ Backhouse greeted him.
‘Just a couple of things, sir.’
The inspector glanced assessingly at Pascoe, then led Backhouse away to the far end of the hall. Pascoe thought of following. He was desperately keen to discover what was going on but also very conscious of his ambiguous position. He was merely a witness, he had no official standing here.
‘What the hell’s going on here?’
The interrupter was a big man, barrel-chested and strong-jawed. He was wearing a polo-necked sweater and jodhpurs. Pascoe felt sorry for the horse that would have to carry that bulk which he estimated at fifteen stone. It was all pretty solid stuff. The man was in his forties but still a long way from turning to flab.
‘Well? Come on, man. Who’s in charge?’
Backhouse’s attention had been caught and he came across to meet the man.
‘Good morning, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m Detective-Superintendent Backhouse. And you …?’
‘Angus Pelman. What the hell are you up to?’ asked the man in a rather more moderate tone.
‘We’re conducting a murder inquiry, sir,’ responded Backhouse. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t heard.’
Yes, that is surprising, thought Pascoe. Over two hours had elapsed since the crime had been reported. He had no doubt that shortly – perhaps already – the TV cameras would be rolling and the press-men patrolling around Brookside Cottage. But Angus Pelman had contrived to remain ignorant till he entered the hall.
He was also contriving to look completely taken aback at the news. When Backhouse filled in a few details, he sat down violently on the nearest chair.
‘The Hopkinses at Brookside Cottage?’ he repeated incredulously.
‘You knew them, sir?’ asked Backhouse.
‘I should do,’ Pelman answered. ‘I sold them the damned place.’
A memory started up in Pascoe’s mind, beautifully clear. The cottage in Eskdale, six (or was it seven?) years ago. The owner had been a farmer who lived half a mile down the valley. He was a big, randy bastard, full of himself, and he took to dropping in from time to time – exercising his right of inspection, he claimed, though his main objects of inspection were clearly the two girls, particularly Rose. They suspected also that he visited the place while they were out walking on the fells. In the end they did something, some kind of joke … but the memory faded as quickly as it had come. He would have to ask Ellie.
‘Shot, you say? Both shot?’ said Pelman.
‘Not both the Hopkinses, sir. Mrs Hopkins, and their two guests.’
‘And Colin Hopkins?’
‘We hope to contact him soon, sir.’
‘You mean, he doesn’t know? But he was around yesterday evening. I saw him in the village.’
Suspicion dawned, followed by outrage.
‘You’re not suggesting he had something to do with it, are you? Man, you’ve got to be mad. I haven’t known him long, but it’s out of the question!’
Suddenly Pascoe liked him a lot better.
‘We’ve reached no conclusions yet, sir,’ answered Backhouse reasonably. ‘By the way, if you weren’t expecting to find us here, why did you come in?’
Pelman looked puzzled.
‘Why did I …? Oh, here you mean. Simple. I’m the chairman of the Amenities Committee; we had a meeting last night and on the morning after these meetings, the secretary brings the minutes along here. She’s got them typed out by then. We check through them together, then pin them up on the notice board so that everybody can see what’s been going on.’
‘Nice,’ said Backhouse approvingly. ‘Nice.’
He was looking towards the door as he spoke, and Pascoe, following his gaze, was uncertain whether he was commenting on the democratic process or the woman who stood there.
She was nice, if you liked that kind of thing. Early thirties, well groomed brown hair, expensively but quietly dressed, good figure; Pascoe had no objection to any of these. But he felt himself antagonized by her look of amused self-possession as she surveyed the scene.
Upper-middle class, certain of her place in the scheme of things, full of common sense and good works, committee woman, is or will be a magistrate, cardboard cut-out of the good Tory MP’s wife, or even the good Tory MP. Complacent bitch.
Pascoe was surprised at the violence of his thoughts. And at the ridiculous speed of his entirely intuitive analysis. There was a spring of rage in him which would have to be tapped with the greatest care. He tried to wipe the slate clean and start again with this woman, but she seemed bent on confirming his conclusions.
‘Hello, Angus,’ she said in a clear, high-pitched, well-educated voice. ‘You’re well protected. The minutes aren’t that explosive, I hope.’
She came forward holding a leather folder in her hand. So this was the secretary of the Amenities Committee. That figured.
‘Hello, Marianne. Haven’t you heard?’
Pelman briefly told her what had happened. As he spoke, Pascoe observed the woman keenly. Two important members of the village community and neither had heard the news. He would have to revise his ideas about the tribal nature of the English village.
‘Would you like a seat, Mrs … er …?’ asked Backhouse politely as Pelman finished.
‘Culpepper,’ supplied Pelman.
‘Thank you,’ said the woman. She did not look too overcome to Pascoe’s jaundiced eye, but then her upbringing probably laid great stress on the stiffness of upper lips. It worked both ways. She placed the leather folder on a nearby table, but it slipped and fell open to the floor. Pascoe picked it up and stood with it in his hands, glancing down at the neatly typewritten sheets. He took in the topmost of them with the casual ease of a thousand-words-a-minute man. It seemed to have been a lively meeting, mainly centred on the alleged pollution of the stream which ran through the village. Downstreamers suspected upstreamers of having inefficient or even extra cesspools. Upstreamers vehemently denied this. The water in question was presumably the brook which ran behind Brookside Cottage. The sundial in the garden rose vividly in his mind. Only the sunny hours …
‘I’ll take that,’ said Pelman, seizing the folder from Pascoe’s unresisting hand. ‘We won’t hold you up any more, Superintendent. Come on, Marianne. Let’s get you a stiff brandy in the Bird.’
Exit John Wayne with the lady, thought Pascoe as the jodhpured man steered Marianne Culpepper doorwards by the elbow. She gently disengaged herself before passing out into the street.
‘Put someone on that door,’ said Backhouse mildly, ‘before they establish a right of way. I’ll be at the cottage.’
He motioned Pascoe to move out before him, and let him wait by the car while he exchanged a few more words with the inspector. The street was surprisingly empty. The sun had grown warm as the morning progressed, but Pascoe shivered from time to time as he waited for Backhouse to come and start the short journey back to Brookside Cottage.
Chapter 3 (#u73653413-60cb-5a2a-98c9-c96f5697afb8)
Their driver parked the car on the grass verge about forty yards from the cottage. The assortment of vehicles scattered in the immediate vicinity prevented a closer approach.
Three or four newspapermen intercepted the superintendent as he walked along the road. Locals mainly, Pascoe assessed. It was still too soon for anyone to have emerged from the chaos of Saturday morning London. But they would do. Three dead from shotgun wounds was too big to leave in the hands of a local runner.
Backhouse dealt with them kindly but firmly. No, there were no developments yet. They were looking for a man who might be able to help them with their inquiries. Mr Colin Hopkins, yes, that was him. A photograph and description might be issued if it was felt to be necessary.
Pascoe had dropped behind as the questioning proceeded. When Backhouse and his interrogators stopped in front of the cottage, he found himself, deliberately blank-minded, looking up the side of the building between the garage and the wall. There was activity in the back garden and beyond. They would be looking for the weapon. Everything they found would be carefully scrutinized, of course, but it was the weapon they were hoping for. It made a difference if you knew the man you were searching after didn’t have a shotgun in his possession.
He doubted if they’d find it so near. Hurled in panic into the woods over the stream, it would have been found by now. Whereas if the killer were cool enough to make a more deliberate attempt to hide it, he would surely wait until his car had taken him a safe distance from the village.
The killer. He tested himself gently from the vantage point of disembodied objectivity he had scrambled on to in the last two hours. Was he ready yet to consider whether Colin … why Colin …
No. He wasn’t quite ready. He walked up to the garage and peered in. What he saw surprised him.
‘Sergeant!’ Backhouse called authoritatively. Pascoe instinctively obeyed the summons and had joined the superintendent at the threshold before he started wondering about the tone of command. A new step in the psychology of their relationship perhaps. A reminder of his official subordination.
Or perhaps his service with Dalziel had made him too suspicious of all detective-superintendents’ motives. Perhaps all Backhouse was doing was using his police rank as a red herring to divert the interest of the newspapermen from him. Clearly, as they moved off in a friendly, almost light-hearted, little group, they had no suspicion that the discoverer of the crime was so close.
In the cottage, much had changed. No effort had been made to tidy up after the rigorous search and fingerprinting examination which had taken place. Why bother when there was no chance of an irate householder turning up to complain?
Backhouse thought differently.
‘For God’s sake, Hamblyn,’ he said to the ginger-moustached detective who came to greet him, ‘get this place tidied up. And those cars outside. If I want a road-block here, I’ll ask for it.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Hamblyn unemotionally.
‘Anything new?’
‘Nothing useful, sir. Not as far as I can see. Anything on the car yet, sir?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
Pascoe spoke lowly, diffidently.
‘There’s a car in the garage,’ he said. It sounded daft as he said it but, hell, he had to say it. Not that it was possible they wouldn’t have looked. Was it?
‘Yes, yes; I believe there is,’ said Backhouse. Then he laughed.
‘Oh, I see your dilemma. Yes it’s true the Hopkinses’ car is in the garage. But it’s the other one we’re interested in. Royal blue Mini-Cooper according to best report. The one Mr Rushworth and Mr Mansfield arrived in.’
Pascoe was abashed. Hamblyn was looking at him with faint distaste.
‘Let’s step into the garden,’ said Backhouse, like a kindly host desirous of stirring his guest’s digestive juices before lunch.
They went through the dining-room, passing the chalked body-outlines and ringed bloodstains, and out of the french window into the garden, halting near the sundial.
I’m really getting the treatment, thought Pascoe. What does he expect from me? Colin’s present address?
‘The Hopkinses’ car was in the garage, the visitors’ car on the driveway,’ said Backhouse. ‘This is the arrangement you’d expect and this is what the few people we’ve found who passed early last evening saw.’
‘They couldn’t see into the garage,’ objected Pascoe.
‘True,’ said Backhouse. ‘Now, here’s what happened, or what possibly happened supported by a strong scaffolding of what did happen. There was a lot of broken glass scattered around here. Did you notice? From a whisky bottle, that was easy enough to establish. Were they hard drinkers, your friends?’
‘Only on occasions,’ answered Pascoe, recognizing the start of interrogation. ‘And the occasion rarely merited the expense of scotch. But that was years ago. Things change.’
‘Yes. Of course. Well, we’ve got a thorough house-to-house on now, but the first place my men called was the Eagle and Child, the second the Queen Anne. That’s where she bought it.’
‘The whisky?’
‘That’s right,’ said Backhouse pensively. ‘At about quarter to nine last night. Curious that. The Eagle and Child’s nearer. No matter. The landlord’s wife, who sold it to her at the off-licence counter, didn’t see the car, but heard it drive away. She reckons it sounded more like the Mini-Cooper than the Hopkinses’ Cortina.’
‘A good ear,’ commented Pascoe, watching a pair of thrushes which had decided the policemen were harmless, and were drilling for worms.
‘No doubt we’ll find someone to corroborate it,’ said Backhouse. ‘As things stand, it seems likely that they started drinking after dinner. When the scotch began to get low, Mrs Hopkins volunteered to fetch more; she used her visitors’ car as it would have to be moved anyway to get her own out. On her return she either walked straight into the garden or went through the front door into the lounge, then the dining-room and out of the french windows.’
‘And then she was shot,’ said Pascoe.
‘It seems likely. Very soon after she came back. She was still holding the full bottle, you see. We found the cap with the seal complete. She must have held the bottle in front of her, either to ward off the shot or to use as a weapon. The blast from the shotgun went right through it. There were splinters of glass embedded deep in the wound. Would any of your friends own a shotgun, do you think?’
‘I don’t know. I just don’t know,’ said Pascoe irritably. ‘I’ve told you, Superintendent, this was a kind of reunion. I hadn’t seen these people for years. How should I know what they were likely to do now?’
‘Do people change that much?’
‘They change all right. When someone’s put a couple of ounces of lead pellets into your face, you change!’
Pascoe realized he was nearly shouting. Jesus, he thought, I should be back there too, lying on one of Constable Crowther’s comfortable beds with some of Doctor Hardisty’s comfortable pills inside me.
‘Sir!’ It was Hamblyn from the french window. Behind him stood two men.
‘It’s Mr French, the coroner, sir.’
‘Hello, Superintendent,’ said the taller of the two men who now stepped into the garden. He was over six feet, rather gaunt of feature, well tanned, his nose showing the pale indentations left by a frequent wearing of spectacles. His companion was a good nine inches shorter, less dramatic in every way, but his pale oval face was intelligent and far from weak. Both men wore casual, sporting clothes, French going in for bright colours, his companion much more subdued.
‘Sorry to take so long. You must have thought I’d be first on the spot, living on the doorstep so to speak. But I was half-way round the golf-course with Culpepper here. Dreadful business, this. Dreadful. You’d better tell me what I need to know.’
Culpepper, thought Pascoe, as Backhouse and the coroner moved back into the cottage together. The committee secretary – Marianne Culpepper. Her husband?
The man spoke to him and his words seemed to confirm this. His eyes were taking everything in. Despite his air of quiet authority, he felt a need to explain himself.
‘Excuse me, could you … You are with the police, I’m right?’
‘Pascoe, sir. Sergeant Pascoe.’
‘It’s not just morbid curiosity that brings me here, Sergeant. I live close by. I knew these people, the Hopkinses, I mean. When Mr French told me why he had to come back, I couldn’t believe it.’
He fell silent.
‘How close do you live, sir?’ asked Pascoe. It was easier to fall into the policeman role than explain his true position.
‘About half a mile. Round the side of the hill.’ He gestured vaguely towards the rising ground which lay to the south of the village.
‘What happened here, Sergeant? Is it true they are all dead?’
‘Mrs Hopkins is dead, sir,’ said Pascoe evenly. ‘And Mr Mansfield and Mr Rushworth, two guests who were spending the night with them.’
‘Oh, my God. What about Colin, Mr Hopkins? And the other guests?’
‘Other guests?’ said Pascoe sharply.
‘Yes. I ran into Mrs Hopkins in the village yesterday evening when I got back from the office. About five o’clock. It seems impossible … anyway, I asked them round for a drink tonight, but she explained they would have a houseful of guests. Four, she said. At least.’
It had been five-thirty when Pascoe had rung to say he and Ellie couldn’t make it that evening. If only that case hadn’t come up … or Dalziel hadn’t insisted … another two made the odds very strong against anyone trying anything with a double-barrelled shotgun. What an adaptable thing blame was; so easy to shift or attract.
‘Had you known Mr and Mrs Hopkins long, sir?’ asked Pascoe, evading the question about the guests.
‘Not long. Two or three months only, since they bought Brookside, in fact. They have worked so hard on it. The place was not in a good state of repair when they acquired it, you know. And they did wonders, wonders.’
He tailed off into silence.
‘Mr Pelman sold them the cottage, I believe,’ said Pascoe.
‘That’s right.’
Something in his tone made Pascoe pursue this line.
‘Did he live here himself before he sold the place?’
Culpepper smiled without much humour.
‘No. The cottage stands at the boundary of the land he bought when he came here five years ago. His house is the other side of the woods, his woods. That’s what he really wanted, of course. A place where he could pit his wits against the intelligence of various small beasts and birds. A most uneven contest, I fear.’
Am I supposed to be too thick to get the double irony? wondered Pascoe.
‘It’s strange, isn’t it, that the chairman of the Village Amenities Committee should let such a property fall into disrepair?’ murmured Pascoe.
Culpepper raised his eyebrows at him.
‘You glean your information fast, Sergeant.’
‘We spend our working life amidst the alien corn, sir.’
Culpepper suddenly nodded twice, as though something had been confirmed.
‘You’re the Hopkinses’ policeman friend, aren’t you? One of their week-end guests.’
Clever Mr Culpepper.
‘Yes. I am. How did you know?’
‘Mrs Hopkins, Rose, said something about you, when we talked yesterday.’
So I was an object of interest, worth a special mention. Like a literary lion. Or a two-headed man. What now, Mr Culpepper? wondered Pascoe. Indignation at my mild deceit?
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. This must be an unbearable situation for you,’ said Culpepper with apparently unforced sympathy. ‘Were you here when it happened?’
‘No,’ said Pascoe shortly. ‘I found them this morning when we arrived.’
‘How terrible. You say we?’
‘A friend. She’s resting now. It was a shock.’
‘Terrible. Terrible. Such things are a puzzle and a torment to the mind.’
Backhouse and French appeared.
‘Are you ready, Hartley?’ called the coroner.
‘Two-thirty this afternoon then, Superintendent. I hope you find your man quickly.’
He looked sideways at Pascoe and shook his head slightly, but didn’t speak. Culpepper held out his hand.
‘Goodbye, Mr Pascoe. I’m sorry we had to meet in such circumstances. Your friends were delightful people to have in the village. We counted ourselves lucky that they came here.’
Pascoe shook his hand. There was nothing to say in reply except perhaps that Rose would scarcely have counted herself lucky in coming here; nor Colin, wherever he was.
That was the only thing really worth talking about. Where Colin was. And why. Backhouse must be ready to get round to it now.
He was. French and Culpepper had scarcely disappeared from the garden before Backhouse asked the big question.
‘You’ve had time for reflection now, Sergeant. So tell me. Why should a man like Colin Hopkins take a shotgun and kill his wife and two close friends?’
Chapter 4 (#u73653413-60cb-5a2a-98c9-c96f5697afb8)
He had been expecting the question and had felt reserves of angry indignation building up inside him, ready to explode when it was asked. But for some reason the spark did not catch.
‘We don’t know he did,’ he protested weakly.
‘You’re a policeman,’ answered Backhouse. ‘Suppose this were your case. What assumption would you be working on?’
‘It’s all circumstantial. If you knew Colin, you’d know that it’s just impossible.’
‘I’ve encountered quite a few murderers,’ said Backhouse patiently. ‘I dare say you’ve met one or two yourself. One thing they nearly all had in common was a handful of close friends willing to attest with the most vehement sincerity that the accused was quite incapable of such a crime. Am I right?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Good. In any case, as you told me before, a few years can change things. Situations certainly. People as well, though to a lesser extent. So tell me what you know, what you remember. Is he a quick-tempered man?’
‘What the hell does it matter?’ said Pascoe. If he was going to be questioned as an ordinary witness, he would assume some of the privileges of an ordinary witness. Such as the unnecessity of politeness towards questioning policemen.
‘You’re going after him anyway. You’ll track him down, question him. If there’s enough evidence, you’ll put him in court. So why waste time talking to me?’
‘You know why, Sergeant,’ said Backhouse coldly. ‘Of course we’re going after him. And of course my men – your colleagues – will assume it’s very likely he has committed a triple murder. They’ll also assume he has a double-barrelled shotgun which he is willing to use. I want information, all the information I can get. I want to know the best way of dealing with him, which way he’s likely to jump. I thought I was lucky when I learnt you were in the force. A professional first on the scene. It was your bad luck. I thought it was my good luck.’
‘Every point taken,’ said Pascoe with tight-lipped emphasis. ‘Only, I cannot believe that he did it.’
‘Fair enough. Then why so antagonistic? Tell me things to prove his innocence. Was he a jealous man, do you think? Would his wife give him cause?’
‘Unlikely,’ said Pascoe with a frown. ‘At least they seemed set up for life. Ask Ellie, Miss Soper. She’s seen them much more recently. But we’ve talked a lot about them and she would certainly have mentioned any signs of a rift.’
‘There were two single men in the house last night,’ said Backhouse casually. ‘Old friends. Going back to before she married.’
Pascoe laughed now.
‘I see it! The triangle. Or even the quadrilateral. It’s a non-starter, Superintendent. Timmy and Carlo were, if anything, even more devoted than Rose and Colin.’
‘I see,’ said Backhouse softly. ‘I see. But things do change, as you say. Even … tastes. What kind of thing was it that would put Mr Hopkins into one of his terrible wraths?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘In the letter you showed me,’ said Backhouse, ‘he says something about his wrath being terrible if you don’t turn up, and adds that you know just how terrible his wrath can be. A figure of speech merely?’
Pascoe walked slowly forward and came to a halt on the edge of the bank which sloped steeply down to the brook. All the police activity was in the woods on the other side now. A slow, methodical and, as yet, completely unproductive search. Despite the warmth of the sun, many of the policemen were wearing waterproof overtrousers as the undergrowth was still soaked from the previous night’s torrential rain. It would have obliterated any sign of human passage, but it couldn’t wash away a shotgun.
‘No, not a figure of speech,’ said Pascoe. ‘He had a quick temper. Not a violent temper though, it never led him into violence against people. Certainly he never got anywhere near the kind of fury which could make a man pick up a shotgun, kill two of his friends, reload, and shoot his wife. What about the gun, by the way?’
‘A 410, we know that from the cartridge cases. But that’s it. There’s no sign of a licence anywhere in the cottage. Was Hopkins the kind of man to want to do some shooting? Game, I mean.’
‘Never knew him express an interest. Though he wasn’t an anti, like Carlo and Timmy.’
‘And his wife? Was she anti also?’
‘Rose? Hell, no. Rose grew up in the country, was used to the idea of birds tumbling from the tree-top straight into the pie-dish.’
‘So the presence of this’ – Backhouse waved at the woods – ‘in his back garden may have been a temptation?’
‘Why not ask Pelman? He’d be sure to know who was shooting on his land.’
Backhouse grinned.
‘Oh, he’s being asked, never fear. And we’re checking on all shotgun licences issued locally in the past three months. Mr Dalziel would be proud of us. So you reckon there was no chance of his doing it in a blind rage?’
Pascoe was beginning to adapt to the man’s questioning technique. He answered without pause.
‘No chance of his doing it. Period.’
‘In a blind rage. So, how about doing it in cold blood? What kind of thing might make your high-tempered extrovert friend consider shooting someone dead in cold blood?’
‘That’s even less likely than the other!’
‘So it’s more likely he did it in a blind rage?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ protested Pascoe.
‘I’m sorry. I thought you said it was less likely that he would do it in cold blood?’
‘For God’s sake! We’re not in court!’ snapped Pascoe, tiring of this word play.
‘It’s as well for your friend we are not,’ said Backhouse, turning and beginning to walk back to the cottage. Pascoe followed glumly and caught up with the superintendent in the dining-room. Together they stood and looked down at the chalked outlines on the floor.
‘These were your friends too,’ said Backhouse. ‘Innocent, guilty, have you any idea where a man like Colin Hopkins would head for after something like this?’
‘The nearest police station,’ said Pascoe.
Backhouse shrugged in resignation.
‘That’s where I’ll drop you, Sergeant. Thanks for your help.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Pascoe. ‘There doesn’t seem to be anything I can say. I’m sorry.’
‘No matter. Get back to Miss Soper. I’ll have another talk with her when she feels up to it. If she’s seen your friends more recently, it might help.’
‘Yes,’ said Pascoe, leading the way to the car. He stepped out of the cottage with a great sense of relief.
‘The inquest will be opened in the village school this afternoon,’ said Backhouse. ‘Just identification and causes of death, I should think. The usual procedure. Two-thirty. We won’t need Miss Soper at this stage. I’ll send a car for you.’
‘Yes.’
The rest of the short journey passed in silence. I’m a serious disappointment to him, thought Pascoe. All that kindness wasted.
Ellie was still asleep, so Pascoe went downstairs once more. Mrs Crowther put her head out of the kitchen door and asked how the lady was.
‘Sleeping,’ said Pascoe. ‘But she’s got her colour back.’
‘Good. It’ll do her good. You’ll be hungry, I don’t doubt. What about a gammon rasher and egg?’
‘No, I couldn’t put you out,’ protested Pascoe, realizing, slightly to his surprise, how hungry he was.
‘Not a bit. Crowther’ll be in any minute for his, so it’s no bother at all.’
It was a well cooked meal, interrupted twice by the telephone.
The first time it was Dalziel.
‘You all right?’ he asked.
‘Fine,’ said Pascoe.
‘I’ve got your report on the Cottingley break-in here. You write like a bloody woman’s magazine advertiser. When you mean he pissed in the kettle, why the hell don’t you write he pissed in the kettle?’
‘Sorry.’
‘He’s a dirty bastard this one. But clever with it. If we don’t get him soon, he’ll be retiring. How’s your girl?’
‘Resting. She’ll be OK.’
‘Good. They’re going after your mate, I hear.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Aye. We’ve had the look-out notice up here. What do you think? Did he do it?’
‘It looks bad.’
‘But you don’t think so? Well, listen. A word of advice. Don’t get mixed up more than you have to. Say your piece, sign your statement and get on home. Leave it to Backhouse. He’s a bit of an old woman, but he’s not a bad jack. And don’t be taken in by his good manners. He’ll drop you in the cart if he thinks it’ll help.’
‘Yes, sir. We’ll probably get back tomorrow.’
‘I should bloody well hope so. You’re due in here at eight-thirty on Monday morning. Don’t be late. Cheeroh.’
And up you too, thought Pascoe, looking at the receiver. The fat bastard was probably congratulating himself on his subtle psychological therapy.
The phone rang again as Mrs Crowther reached into the oven for his warming plate. This time to his surprise it was Hartley Culpepper.
‘I hoped I’d find you there, Mr Pascoe. Look, it struck me after I left you at the cottage, are you staying in the village tonight?’
‘Well, yes,’ said Pascoe, surprised. ‘Yes, I expect we are.’
‘Have you fixed up anything yet?’
‘No. Not yet. I haven’t really thought,’ answered Pascoe. It was true, he hadn’t given a thought to what they would do that night. The Crowthers, he suspected, would at a pinch keep Ellie, but it would mean a great deal of inconvenience for them.
‘Perhaps one of the pubs,’ he mused aloud.
‘Nonsense,’ said Culpepper firmly. ‘We would be delighted if you would stay with us. I was going to ask you and your friend to come to dinner, anyway. So why not bring your bags with you? This must have been a terrible strain for both of you. It’ll do you good – it will do us all good – to be in friendly company. Please come.’
‘It’s very kind of you,’ said Pascoe doubtfully.
‘Good,’ interrupted Culpepper. ‘We’ll expect you, about tea-time then. The Crowthers will be able to direct you. Goodbye.’
Everyone else is having the last word today, thought Pascoe.
Constable Crowther had arrived home and was taking his place at the other side of the kitchen-table. He nodded an acknowledgement at Pascoe and settled down to eating his meal. Either hunger or some form of diplomacy kept him silent, and Pascoe himself did not speak until he had disposed of his food without further interruption.
‘This will mean a lot of work for you,’ he said finally.
Crowther nodded.
‘A bit. There’s a beer in the cupboard behind you if you fancy it.’
‘Thanks,’ said Pascoe. ‘This’ll be a quiet patch normally?’
‘Quiet enough. Popular for break-ins.’
‘Is that so?’
Crowther nodded and chewed his gammon systematically. About thirty chews to the mouthful, Pascoe thought.
‘It’s mostly business people now, you see,’ resumed Crowther. ‘Working in the town. There’s been a lot of building.’
Another mouthful. Another thirty chews.
‘And renovation.’
‘Like Brookside Cottage?’
‘That’s right,’ said Crowther, nodding vigorously.
‘Was it empty when Mr Pelman decided to sell it?’
‘That’s right.’ Another mouthful. This time Pascoe counted. Twenty-eight, twenty-nine. ‘Mr Pelman didn’t like that. It was a handy way into his woods from the road for anyone wanting to pot a few birds. And the cottages themselves was always getting broken into. Not that there was anything to take, you understand. Practising for bigger stuff, I reckoned. But they did a lot of damage.’
So. Vandals and poachers all swanning round Brookside Cottage. Homicidal? It was surprising how many people were under the right conditions.
Even people you knew quite well.
‘Pelman put it on the market then?’ mused Pascoe. ‘That was quite clever. He’d make a bit of money and have someone there to man his frontier post.’
‘Hardly that,’ objected Crowther. ‘You can get into Pelman’s woods at a dozen places. And there’s not all that much in there anyhow.’
‘No red deer and grizzly bear?’
‘No,’ answered Crowther, adding, as though in reproach of Pascoe’s mild levity, ‘just a lot of coppers at the moment.’
Pascoe sipped his beer. Crowther’s tastes ran to lukewarm brown ale, it appeared. The thought put him in mind of the two village pubs, in one of which Rose Hopkins had last been seen by anyone alive to tell the tale. Except one person.
‘What’s the difference between the Eagle and Child and the Queen Anne?’ he asked. It sounded like a child’s conundrum, but Crowther didn’t seem puzzled.
‘The Eagle’s a free house. Owned by Major Palfrey. The Anne’s tied to the brewery. Mr and Mrs Dixon just manage it. Not just. They manage it very well, I mean. Nice couple.’
‘Who uses which? Or is it just the nearest that people go to?’
Crowther looked at him closely.
‘Couldn’t say,’ he said. ‘I use the Anne myself.’
‘Just because it’s the nearest?’ insisted Pascoe. ‘I should have thought the local law would have had to preserve a fine show of impartiality towards licensed premises.’
‘I do,’ said Crowther. ‘When I’m on duty. But off, I like to be comfortable where I drink.’
He seemed to make his mind up that Pascoe had a sympathetic ear and leaned over the table confidentially.
‘Difference is, and this is just me, mind you,’ he went on, ‘the Dixons make you feel welcome, the Major always makes me feel he’s doing me a favour by pulling me a pint.’
He nodded emphatically and started rolling an absurdly thin cigarette in an ancient machine. Pascoe laughed knowingly.
‘Major Palfrey thinks he’s the squire rather than the landlord, does he?’
‘That’s the trouble with this place now,’ averred the constable, lighting his cigarette which burnt like a fuse. ‘It’s full of bloody squires. Trouble is, there aren’t enough peasants to go round.’
Constable Crowther, it appeared, invariably took a ten-minute nap after his lunch and could see no reason to interrupt his routine today. Pascoe was sorry about this. The man’s conversation interested him and he was still desperately in need of things to interest him. He decided to take a walk, down to the village perhaps, find out what was going on. As he stood up, he realized he hadn’t mentioned the arrangements that had been made for the evening.
Mrs Crowther came into the kitchen and bustled around her snoozing husband, clearing the table with no effort at noise-evasion.
‘Miss Soper and I are going to spend the night at Mr Culpepper’s house,’ said Pascoe. ‘I’d like to let Miss Soper sleep, though, as long as possible. Is that OK?’
‘We could have kept you here,’ answered the woman. ‘Our lad could have used the camp-bed.’
‘Thank you very much. But I didn’t want to trouble you. And Mr Culpepper was most insistent.’
Crowther opened his eyes and looked straight at Pascoe.
‘Culpepper,’ he said. He made it sound like an accusation. Then he went back to sleep.
In Crowther’s book, Culpepper was probably one of the self-appointed squires, thought Pascoe as he stood outside the station in the bright sunlight and took his bearings. He wasn’t certain if he altogether liked what he saw. Not that it wasn’t pretty. In the rememberable past Thornton Lacey must have been a roadside hamlet of a couple of dozen houses plus a church, a shop and a pub which served the numerous farms in the rich surrounding countryside. But things had changed. Over the hill one day, perhaps only a couple of decades ago, had come the first – the first what? He remembered the phrase in Colin’s letter. Pallid cits. The first pallid cit. Soon there must have been droves of them. And they were still coming. He recalled as he had driven in that morning an arrowed notice on the outskirts of the village had directed their attention to a High Class Development of Executive Residences. It had made them laugh to think of Colin and Rose in such company. Many things had made them laugh on the journey.
With an effort of will he returned his attention to the village. Pallid cits had to be catered for. There was a ladies’ hairdressing salon very tastefully slotted beneath an awryly-timbered top storey. At least two Gothic-scripted antique shops were visible. Passing pallid cits had to be tempted to stop and invest in the past. But not to stop permanently, he suspected. No one defends the countryside and its traditions more fiercely than he who has just got planning permission for his own half-acre. The Village Amenities Committee didn’t sound like a farmworkers’ trade union, somehow.
It’s that bloody woman again, thought Pascoe gloomily. Why have I taken against her so much so rapidly? And I’m spending the night under her roof.
But why the hell should I? I didn’t want to.
That anger which had been bubbling under the surface all morning suddenly broke through again. He had progressed about a quarter of a mile down the long, winding village street and now realized he was opposite the Queen Anne. On an impulse he crossed over and went in.
It wasn’t long till closing time and the bar was empty.
‘Lager, please,’ he said to the attractively solid-fleshed woman who came to take his order.
‘Thirsty weather,’ she said with a smile.
‘Do you put people up?’ he asked, sipping his drink.
‘Sorry. You might try the Eagle and Child. They have a couple of rooms there they sometimes let.’
‘Thanks. Is it Mrs Dixon, by the way?’ Pascoe asked.
‘That’s right,’ the woman answered, looking at him with sudden wariness. ‘Why?’
‘You served Mrs Hopkins, Mrs Rose Hopkins of Brookside Cottage, last night I believe.’
‘Yes. Yes, I did.’ She glanced through into the other bar.
‘Sam. Sam, love. Got a moment?’
A red, jolly-faced man, solid as his wife, stepped through, a smile on his lips. Pascoe could understand how Crowther felt made welcome.
‘Lovely day, sir. Yes, my dear?’
‘This gentleman’s asking about Mrs Hopkins.’
Sam Dixon composed his features to a solemnity they clearly weren’t made for.
‘A dreadful business. Are you from the Press, sir?’
‘No,’ said Pascoe. The man looked nonplussed for a moment.
‘The thing is,’ he said finally, ‘it’s an upsetting business. Molly – my wife – has spoken to the police already. Now, we don’t like talking about our customers at the best of times, but in circumstances like this, especially with friends of the poor woman …’
‘I’m a friend,’ said Pascoe suddenly. He appreciated the man’s diplomacy but he couldn’t keep the abruptness out of his voice. ‘I was a friend. I’m not just after a bit of sensational titillation.’
‘I never suggested you were, sir,’ said Dixon quietly.
‘No. Of course you didn’t. I’m sorry,’ said Pascoe. ‘The thing is, well, I found them, you see.’
Absurdly he found himself unable to go on. One part of him was detached, viewing the phenomenon with a sort of professional interest. He had seen this kind of thing a hundred times in his job, had come to watch for it, the moment when a witness to a crime or an accident suddenly feels what he has seen. It was a completely unforecastable syndrome. Sometimes it was accompanied by complete collapse. Or mild amnesia. Blind panic. Or, as now, temporary paralysis of the speech organs.
A large brandy appeared under his nose from nowhere. If you had to act like this, his detached portion thought, here was clearly the place to do it.
‘Sit down, sir. Drink this up. Nothing like it for clearing the head.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Pascoe, suddenly regaining control of his tongue. ‘It’s ridiculous.’
‘Nonsense. Go on, knock that brandy back.’
He did so and felt much better.
‘You’re very kind,’ he said, trying to regain control of the situation. ‘I’m sorry. I should have said who I was before I started asking questions.’
‘Not at all.’ Dixon eyed him with the calculating scrutiny of one long expert at diagnosing the condition of his customers. Pascoe evidently passed muster.
‘What did you want to know?’
‘Just what happened when Mrs Hopkins came in. What she said. That kind of thing.’
This was silly. It would all be on record. Backhouse might let him see it. Certainly he could arrange unofficially to have a look. What did he expect to do, anyway? Spot some incredibly subtly concealed clue which would reveal precisely what happened last night and prove Colin … innocent? He must be innocent! Then where the hell was he?
‘There was nothing special about last night,’ Molly Dixon was saying. ‘We were very busy. You’d expect that at that time on a Friday night, but it was worse than usual as I was on my own with just our barmaid, and she’s a bit slow. Sam was at the Amenities Committee Meeting. Rose came to the off-licence counter there.’
She pointed at a small hatch which was visible through a door in the wall joining the two bars.
‘There’s a bell in there. She rang it. I went through as soon as I could. “A bottle of scotch,” she said. “First that comes to hand will do. I can see you’re busy.” I gave her a bottle. “Will this do?” I asked. “Anything,” she said. “They’ve had so much I could give them cold tea.” “I’d try hot coffee if they’re that bad,” I said. She paid me, took the bottle and went. There should have been a penny change. I shouted, but she didn’t hear, and next thing I heard a car starting, so I went back to the fray.’
‘The Mini-Cooper? You heard the Mini?’ asked Pascoe.
‘I’m not that expert! It sounded a bit sporty, that’s all.’
‘And she said nothing else?’
‘Not that I can remember. It was a very busy night.’
‘Of course. I’m very grateful to you,’ said Pascoe. ‘Just one thing. You called Mrs Hopkins “Rose”.’
‘That’s her name, isn’t … wasn’t it?’ said Molly, puzzled.
‘Yes, of course. What I meant was, you knew her quite well?’
‘Oh yes! We got on very well right from the start. I’d only known her and Colin a couple of months, but we soon got on friendly terms. That’s why it came as such a shock … I still can’t believe it.’
‘They didn’t use the other pub, then? The Eagle and Child.’
He intercepted a quick glance between the man and his wife. Intercepted and, he thought, interpreted.
‘They may have done on occasions,’ said Dixon in a neutral tone.
‘Come on!’ said Pascoe. ‘Rose is dead and God knows what’s happened to Colin. So you can forget professional etiquette for once, can’t you?’
Another glance. This time the woman spoke.
‘They went there to start with, I think. It was a bit nearer to the cottage. And it’s popular with …’
She hesitated.
‘The squirearchy,’ supplied Pascoe. ‘What happened?’
‘There was a bit of trouble. A row or something.’
‘With the Major?’
‘I’m not sure. They didn’t mention it till we’d got to know them quite well. I mean, they wouldn’t come in here right away and start complaining about the other pub. They weren’t that kind of people,’ protested Molly.
‘You’re right,’ said Pascoe. ‘They weren’t.’
‘They only mentioned it at all as a joke. Saying how lucky it was they had been driven out of the Garden of Eden. Felix culpa, Colin called it. He loved to make quotations.’
‘Yes, he did,’ said Pascoe. ‘But whose culpa,I wonder.’
He stood up.
‘You’ve been very kind. Colin and Rose were always fortunate in their choice of friends.’
It sounded corny. Or at best vain. But he meant it and the Dixons obviously appreciated it. He left, promising to call back later.
His talk with the Dixons had cheered him and he felt in an almost happy mood as he turned into the Eagle and Child. It was a pleasant room, cool and well wooded. And almost empty. They didn’t drink very hard round here. Not at lunch-time anyway. A half-eaten sandwich and half-empty glass on a corner table hinted at someone in the gents. But the only visible customers were seated at the bar. One was a grey-haired, lantern-jawed man in shirt-sleeves. The other was much more colourful. Long auburn hair fell luxuriantly on to shoulders over which was casually draped a soft-leather jacket in pastel yellow. His intelligent face was set in an expression of rapt attentiveness as he listened to the other man.
Pascoe went up to the bar and waited for someone to appear to serve him. He was not impatient. There was a timeless aura about this old room which suited his mood very well. It was comforting somehow to think of Rose and Colin so quickly making friends in the village. Pascoe was used to death bringing out the best in people’s memories, but there had been a genuine ring about the Dixon’s tributes. And Culpepper’s, and even Pelman’s for that matter.
Along the bar the lantern-jawed man’s voice rose in emphasis and became audible. It was impossible not to hear.
‘But if you want the truth about this fella, Hopkins – and don’t quote me on this, mind – I would say there’s no doubt at all the man is completely unbalanced. Off his chump. I said it from the start.’
Chapter 5 (#u73653413-60cb-5a2a-98c9-c96f5697afb8)
Pascoe’s anger broke at last. The professional part of his mind told him he was being very silly, but it didn’t slow him down one jot.
He crossed the floor in a couple of strides and seized the lantern-jawed man by the shoulder, dragging him round so forcefully that he half slipped off his stool and only saved himself from falling by dropping his glass and grabbing at the bar.
The leather-jacketed drinker leapt clear with great agility and without spilling a drop of his drink, then settled down to view the situation with interest.
‘Who the hell are you?’ asked Pascoe in a low, rapid voice. ‘Some kind of doctor? A psychiatrist? A trained social worker, perhaps? Or perhaps just specially gifted with superb bloody insight?’
He found he was punctuating his phrases with violent forefinger jabs into the man’s midriff. Far from being distressed by the discovery, he found himself contemplating the greater satisfaction he might derive from putting all his pugilistic eggs into one basket and smashing his fist into this fellow’s unpleasant, sneering face.
To give him his due, the man did not look frightened, merely taken aback by the unexpectedness of the attack.
‘What the hell – look here – you bloody madman!’ he expostulated.
Pascoe had almost made up his mind. Even the memory that last time he had thrown a punch in anger the result had been a mild contusion for the recipient and a broken forefinger for himself did not deter him. He clenched his fist.
‘Pascoe!’
It was the authentic voice of absolute authority. It might have been Dalziel. He turned. Standing up out of the shadows of the corner near the gents was Backhouse.
A violent push in the back sent Pascoe staggering a few paces forward. His adversary had taken advantage of the interruption to get both feet firmly on the floor and counter-attack. Pascoe looked round at the grey-haired figure crouched in the standard aggressive posture. He looked as if he might in fact know how to handle himself. But this didn’t prevent him from seeming faintly ludicrous, and Pascoe felt his anger ebb away as he recognized his own absurdity.
‘Go to hell,’ he said wearily and pulled out a chair and sat down opposite the superintendent.
Backhouse still looked angry but didn’t say anything. Instead he picked up his not quite empty glass and went towards the bar.
‘A light ale this time, please, and a scotch.’
‘For him? He gets no service here. In fact if he’s not out in thirty seconds, I’ll get the police to throw him out.’
Pascoe turned, surprised. His late adversary was confronting Backhouse with undiminished aggression. This must be Palfrey, the pub-owning major.
Pascoe groaned inwardly. Even the toughest toughs worked to the principle that if you had to fight in pubs, you never picked on the landlord. Backhouse, he realized, was now in an awkward position. The leather-coated fellow might well be a reporter. Almost certainly was from the tone of Palfrey’s remarks to him. He couldn’t know yet who the participants in this little drama were, but he would soon find out.
Pascoe rose and made for the door.
‘It’s all right,’ he said to Backhouse as he passed. ‘I prefer pubs where the barman sticks to his own side of the counter.’
Thirty yards along the street he paused and waited for Backhouse to overtake him.
‘Mr Dalziel never mentioned you were such a violent man,’ said the superintendent conversationally.
‘He wouldn’t,’ said Pascoe. ‘I wear a heavy disguise whenever I attack him. Will he do anything?’
He gestured back towards the pub.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Backhouse. ‘For once the publican’s well-known reluctance to call in the police could work on our side.’
‘He didn’t know who you were?’ asked Pascoe unnecessarily.
‘No. I was just having a quiet sandwich and listening with great interest to the major’s reminiscences of your friends to the Press when you so rudely interrupted him.’
‘So that thing in the kinky gear was a reporter?’ asked Pascoe.
‘Yes. Not, so far as I could gather, a regular crime man. Some kind of feature writer who happened to be on the spot and is looking for an interesting angle. That’s why he’s in the Eagle chatting to the major instead of herding with the others at the village school, waiting for the inquest to begin.’
‘Already?’ Pascoe was surprised. He glanced at his watch. It was just on two.
‘Somehow they got the notion it was starting at one-thirty instead of two-thirty. Hence I was able to grab a bite of lunch in peace.’
Backhouse’s voice held no irony in either sentence. Superintendents don’t need to be ironic, thought Pascoe bitterly.
‘What was Palfrey saying about Rose and Colin?’ he asked abruptly. ‘They had a row, you know. That’s why they used the Queen Anne.’
Backhouse sighed deeply.
‘You know, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘you really must try to break the habit of a lifetime, or however long you’ve been in the force, and not investigate this sorry business. Trust your colleagues. If you don’t, it can only lead to grief. You might even end up, heaven forbid, obstructing the police in the execution of their duty.’
‘Yes,’ said Pascoe, not bothering much to infuse repentant sincerity into his voice. ‘Now what was Palfrey saying? Sir.’
‘Little enough. I think your friends were a little – what would be the in-character word? – Bohemian for his taste. According to his version of the quarrel, he barred his doors to them because their language and behaviour gave offence to many of his old and valued customers. There are, and I quote him now, some words which even in this day and age he would not wish a woman to hear nor expect a lady to use. I think I’ve got that fine antithesis right. Did Mrs Hopkins swear a lot?’
‘When the occasion arose.’
‘But not enough to give rise to the occasion?’
‘Not when I knew her,’ answered Pascoe.
‘But that, as you frequently remind me, was some years ago. To continue. Palfrey under the influence of a couple of gins became confidential, said he was not altogether startled that such a household could come to such an end, and had just launched into his attack on your friend’s balance of mind when you interrupted him.’
‘I should have broken his bloody neck,’ said Pascoe dispassionately.
Backhouse sighed once more.
‘I suggested to your boss I might like to keep you by me for a while. I was wrong. The sooner you head back to Yorkshire, the better. And don’t go near the Eagle and Child again before you go. That’s an official warning. Understand?’
‘Sir,’ said Pascoe. ‘What about you?’
‘Oh, never fear. I’ll see him again and ask him a few questions. It was hardly an opportune moment just now, was it?’
He laughed and burped slightly.
‘I won’t touch his draught again, though. His pipes must badly need decoking.’
Their conversation had brought them to the village hall. A uniformed constable now stood on duty at the door. He stiffened to attention as the superintendent passed. Pascoe hesitated on the threshold.
‘You’d better come in,’ said Backhouse. ‘Then I can keep an eye on you. We’ll go up to the inquest together.’
The hall now contained a neatly deployed and efficient-looking unit, though at a glance Pascoe could tell there was very little happening at this precise moment. There was a slight acceleration of tempo for Backhouse’s benefit as he walked the length of the room, but the atmosphere of the place was one of straightforward, almost drowsy routine. A few dust-filled buttresses of sunlight from the narrow window leaned against the shadowy walls. It might have been a summer’s afternoon in a Victorian bank.
Backhouse came up, looking at his watch.
‘It’s about ten minutes’ walk to the school. We won’t bother with the car, if that’s all right with you.’
‘Surely.’
‘Good. I like to get what exercise I can. There’s nothing new by the way. I’ve brought the men out of the woods. Waste of time. They’ll be better on house-to-house.’
Outside they almost ran into the man in the yellow leather jacket. He raised his eyebrows comically as he saw them.
‘Hello, darlings,’ he said. ‘I thought you looked a bit peelerish back in the pub.’
‘It was kind of you not to comment, sir,’ said Backhouse courteously.
‘That’s all right. I’m strictly an observer, aren’t I? You can reward me, though. How do I get to the village school? I thought I might look in on this inquest thing.’
‘We’re going there ourselves. Perhaps you’d care to join us?’ said Backhouse, somewhat to Pascoe’s surprise.
‘Well, I suppose it’s either that or following you, which might look a trifle odd. This is definitely not a place to look odd in, is it, don’t you think? I imagine they stone you if you look odd.’
‘You seemed to get on very well with the landlord back there,’ remarked Backhouse as they set off up the winding sun-mellow street.
‘Yes. Well, I’m Press, you see, and these village publicans are always hoping for a little puff in the colour mags, if you see what I mean. I’ve done one or two country-pub gourmet features, you know the kind of thing; horse-brass up your ass, and a beautifully kept pork pie.’
‘You must be Anton Davenant,’ said Backhouse.
‘That’s right. How clever. Sounds like a dirty French song, doesn’t it? And you …?’
‘Backhouse. Detective-Superintendent. And this is Sergeant Pascoe.’
‘Oh.’
Pascoe felt the man’s gaze run swiftly over him as though taking a blueprint and laying it aside for future reference. He recognized the name Davenant faintly. He rarely had time to get as far as the colour supplements on a Sunday, but on some occasion recently he had come across the name.
‘How envious all these hard-bitten crime men will be when I turn up in such illustrious company,’ said Davenant.
‘As a matter of interest,’ said Backhouse, ‘just what are you doing here among all these hard-bitten crime men?’
‘I was fortunate enough to be in the vicinity, that’s all. And my current editor, knowing I was hereabouts, instantly got in touch when this dreadful business was bruited abroad. I think he hopes for something rather quaint from me. A Vintage Murder perhaps. Or First Catch Your Killer. He used words like atmosphere and human interest, and eventually (and here I capitulated), money. But enough of interesting me. What of interesting you? What have your fascinating investigations upturned?’
‘Very little so far, Mr Davenant,’ said Backhouse cheerfully, pausing to admire a magnificent dahlia border and being admired in his turn by at least three shadowy figures Pascoe could see behind lace-curtains.
Curiously enough, Davenant seemed satisfied with this answer.
‘That must be the old village school at the top of the hill,’ he said. ‘And over there I spy the old village shop. I must stock up with ciggies. Please don’t wait for me. I may find myself compelled to linger, soaking up atmosphere.’
‘Don’t take too long,’ said Backhouse. ‘It’ll all be over very quickly I should think.’
The journalist disappeared into the tiny shop and the two policemen continued their walk.
‘He showed a less than fervent interest in your investigations,’ said Pascoe thoughtfully.
‘True. Not at all like the mob I’m sure we will meet up here.’
Backhouse was right. There was quite a crowd of reporters waiting outside the school. And an equal crowd of local children had gathered to watch the reporters. Backhouse promised them a statement after the inquest, spoke a few sympathetic words to a television film crew who had got lost on their way to Thornton Lacey and were desperately trying to make themselves operative, then he went inside. Pascoe followed close, still anonymous.
French, the coroner, was there already, his golfing gear exchanged for a grey suit. He and Backhouse exchanged a few words, then very quickly he got the inquest under way.
The superintendent was right about this too. Pascoe was called upon briefly to give evidence of identification and time of discovery; Dr Hardisty gave medical evidence of the cause of death, based partly on his own observation and partly on the pathologist’s preliminary report which had just arrived. Death resulted in all three cases from shotgun wounds. The two men had been shot at close quarters with one cartridge apiece. Timothy Mansfield had received his shot full in the chest and had died as a result of the damage inflicted on his lungs and heart. Charles Rushworth had been shot in the neck and lower face. His windpipe had been severed. Rose Hopkins had been shot from a greater distance than the other two, but both barrels of the gun had been used on her. No vital organ had been hit, but her jugular vein had been severed and she had bled to death as she lay unconscious from the shock of the onslaught.
Pascoe put his head in his hands and stared desperately at the floor. The wood was old and tending to splinter. Dangerous that for children.
Time of death was between eight and eleven pm. The full autopsy results might be more precise, but the coroner would appreciate that with three bodies to work on, it had not yet been possible to deal fully with them all.
The coroner appreciated this, spoke briefly of the horror of the event, wished the police inquiries an early success, and declared the inquest adjourned.
Pascoe had had enough to do with inquests to know what this meant. An early arrest was expected. No attempt would be made to resume the inquest if this happened and someone was charged. The coroner would wait until the criminal court proceedings were over, then make his return to the registrar of deaths on the basis of that court’s verdict.
And if an early arrest was looked for, there could only be one person they had in mind.
As he rose to leave, he found himself surrounded by newspapermen. From being just an anonymous policeman, he had been pitched into the current star role. For the discoverer of the deaths to be a detective himself, and an old friend of both the murdered trio and the chief suspect, was a splendid bit of gilt for this lily of a murder. They were as decent and compassionate as it is possible to be when a dozen or more people are all trying to have their questions answered at the same time. To Pascoe it felt like having his head in a cloud of amplified midges. He tried to answer their questions for a few minutes, then, trailing them with him, he pushed his way to the door.
Backhouse’s car was parked by the school-gate. Pascoe opened the door and climbed in.
‘The super says to take me back to the station,’ he told the driver, who set off without hesitation.
A piece of mind-reading rather than a lie, thought Pascoe as he settled back in his seat.
As the car passed the little shop on the hill, he saw the colourful figure of Davenant just coming out. The man gave a cheery wave, apparently little disturbed at having missed the inquest. Pascoe ignored him. You didn’t wave at people from police cars.
The main street traffic had suddenly become very heavy and they had to wait a few minutes at the intersection.
‘It’s been on the news,’ said the driver knowledgeably.
‘What?’ said Pascoe.
‘The murders. That’s what this lot are after. It’s better than Grandstand on a nice afternoon.’
It was a phenomenon that Pascoe was not unused to. The spectator syndrome he had once called it to Dalziel, who had shrugged and said that it was better than watching cock-fighting and cheaper than watching strippers and what the hell kind of word was syndrome anyway? Before today it had often fascinated him as a sociologist and sometimes annoyed him as a policeman. But now it made him sick and angry. It did no good to tell himself that most of the shirt-sleeved drivers and their family-packed cars were probably going about their legitimate Saturday afternoon business. The thought that any of them had driven out of their way especially to look at the cottage where last night three people were shot to death filled him with an indiscriminate loathing.
At Crowther’s house he stepped from the car with the curtest of nods to the driver and went quickly inside.
To his surprise Ellie was up and dressed. She looked pale but alert and warded off his attempt at a comforting embrace.
‘Have they found Colin?’ was her first question.
He shook his head.
‘What happened at the inquest?’
‘It was adjourned.’
‘I asked you what happened. They didn’t just open the thing and adjourn it, did they?’
‘No. They took evidence of identification and cause of death.’
‘Tell me.’
At first he demurred, but she pressed him hard and his own powers of resistance were so low that in the end it was easier to answer her questions than evade them.
‘So it happened between eight and eleven?’
‘Yes. They reckon so.’
‘And Rose bled to death, lying there unconscious?’
‘Yes.’ He spoke very low. He knew what was coming, didn’t want her to say it, but knew no way of preventing it.
‘So then. If it hadn’t been for you and your bloody job, we’d have got there last night. We might have got there in time to stop all of this happening. We’d certainly have got there in time to help Rose. Is that right?’
‘I suppose so. Yes. I’ve thought of it too.’
‘Have you now? I should hope you have. What I wonder, Peter, is how the hell are you ever going to stop thinking about it?’
She turned from the window at which she had been standing and faced him accusingly.
‘Have you thought about that?’
Chapter 6 (#ulink_528dd1fb-9132-5530-977d-1995821ba112)
‘What I should like from you, Miss Soper, if you feel up to it,’ said Backhouse sympathetically, ‘is background information. Anything at all you can tell us about Rose and Colin Hopkins. And the other two as well, of course.’
He had turned up midway through the bitter quarrel which had followed Ellie’s accusations. The news that Ellie had recovered sufficiently to leave her bed had been given him by Crowther and he had come as quickly as possible. Not that there was any real urgency about interviewing the woman. The trouble was that now the machine had been started and was running smoothly, there was no real urgency about anything. It had been decided to issue photographs of Hopkins to the Press and television services. He was still being described as ‘a man the police wish to interview’. At the same time, the public were being warned that if they saw him or his car, they should make no approach themselves but call the nearest police station.
So now it was mainly a matter of sitting back and waiting for the reported sightings to start flowing in.
He looked impassively at the photograph in his hand. It wasn’t bad. The police photographer had had a good selection to choose from. The Hopkinses had been hoarders of snapshots. There had even been a couple with a very youthful but instantly recognizable Peter Pascoe grinning merrily at the camera. But this he held in his hand was the face they were after. An intelligent face. Wide-eyed, a humorous mouth easily pulled into a smile or opened for laughter, yet something restless haunted those features. The picture of his wife gave a much greater impression of calm reliability. Perhaps he needed this in her. Had needed it. Was without it now.
‘You’ll have to ask me questions,’ said Ellie. ‘I don’t know where to start.’
‘Of course. It’s difficult, I understand. I’ll put the big question first. Have you any idea where Colin Hopkins might be?’
‘No, I haven’t. I’m sorry, but …’ she looked from Backhouse to Pascoe who sat, pale and withdrawn, staring through the window. She hasn’t caught on yet, thought Backhouse suddenly. She thinks Hopkins was called away unexpectedly last night, is going to appear full of horrified amazement at what’s happened, will need to be calmed, comforted, consoled. For God’s sake, what the devil has Pascoe been saying to her?
He remembered the atmosphere when he arrived. Strained, tense, there had been great hostility in the air. Any minute now, some of it was coming his way. He might as well get it over with.
‘Miss Soper,’ he said gently, ‘I think you should understand the position. Mr Hopkins was almost certainly with his wife and friends last night. He had had dinner with them. He had been drinking with them after dinner. We know this. There was a half-filled glass with his fingerprints on in the lounge.’
‘What are you saying, Superintendent?’ asked Ellie, pushing her hair back from her brow.
Pascoe interrupted from the window.
‘He’s saying that they’re not searching for Colin so they can give him the bad news. They want him as the chief – in fact, the only – suspect,’ he said.
Ellie froze, her hand still at her brow.
‘Of course,’ she said after a while. ‘I’ve been silly. It must be those bloody pills they gave me. That’s what you would think, isn’t it? It’s nonsense, of course, but that’s how your minds would work.’
At least she’s taking it quietly, thought Backhouse. Too soon. She turned towards Pascoe.
‘So while I’ve been sleeping, you’ve been helping them hunt down Colin?’ she uttered vituperatively. ‘And now they’ve pumped you dry, they want to see if I can put them on to any other scents!’
‘For a would-be novelist you do mix your metaphors,’ said Pascoe coldly.
‘Please, please,’ said Backhouse soothingly. ‘Let’s keep things calm. Miss Soper, if it’s any consolation to you – though, as an intelligent and no doubt public-spirited woman, I don’t see why it should be – Sergeant Pascoe has been most unco-operative, even antagonistic, with regard to our search for Mr Hopkins. In fact, I had to intervene to prevent him from physically assaulting one man who talked critically of your friend. Such loyalty, I hasten to add, I do not find touching but foolish. The circumstantial evidence against your friend is strong. But now if it turns out to be misleading, he’s got to be found. Now, will you help?’
Ellie nodded, her eyes on Pascoe.
‘Yes. If I can,’ she said quietly.
‘Right. Tell me about Colin Hopkins then.’
‘We were all at university together,’ she began. ‘Colin, Rose, Timmy, Carlo. And Peter and me. We were pretty close. There were plenty of others, of course, but we were close.’
‘You all went on holiday together,’ prompted Backhouse.
‘That’s right. So we did. In Eskdale.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘Life seemed fairly cut and dried then. In the nicest way. Rose and Colin. Peter and me. And …’
‘The other two men were homosexual,’ said Backhouse neutrally.
‘Yes. That’s right,’ said Ellie challengingly. Backhouse ignored the challenge.
‘Things seem to have worked out as you anticipated,’ he said. ‘But you seem uncertain?’
‘I didn’t anticipate this,’ she snapped, relenting instantly. ‘Sorry. No, after we all finished, it was only Colin and Rose who stuck together. They got married about a year later. I don’t think they’d have bothered, but Colin had joined a publishing house and they thought it was worthwhile observing the conventions till he got stinking rich. Timmy was a linguist and got a job in the Common Market HQ in Brussels. Carlo went to work for some firm in Glasgow. I finished my research.’
‘Research?’ interrupted Backhouse.
‘That’s right. I was a graduate research student. I just condescended to mingle with the children. I’m a couple of years older than the others,’ she added defiantly.
Backhouse studied her slim figure, held the gaze of the grey eyes set in the finely-sculpted head with its close-cut jet black hair.
‘You carry your burden of years very well,’ he murmured.
‘Thanks.’ She smiled, the first time he had seen her do so. ‘I got an assistant lectureship in the Midlands. And Peter, of course, put on the helmet of salvation and became a policeman. I think the only time we all met together again was at Colin and Rose’s wedding.’
‘Not Timmy,’ interjected Pascoe. ‘He couldn’t make it.’
‘That’s right. He couldn’t. Well, we all kept intermittently in touch and saw something of each other. Except Peter. Within a couple of years or so he’d fallen almost completely from sight.’
‘I was very busy. Besides being poorly paid with very limited vacation periods,’ said Pascoe.
‘A policeman’s lot,’ said Backhouse.
‘Of course, he got a bit of a complex too. Felt that he would be a bit of a nuisance, perhaps even a butt, in the liberal academic and cultural circles his friends inhabited,’ said Ellie mockingly. But her tone was light.
‘But you saw the others?’
‘Sometimes. A couple of years ago, Timmy returned from the Continent. I think Carlo had already been working in London for six months or so. They took a flat together. Colin meanwhile had been going from strength to strength and had become the darling of his bosses to such an extent that he got them persuaded a few months ago to give him a year’s sabbatical so that he could write his book which would make everybody’s fortune. Brookside Cottage was where he decided to settle for the period. And he planned to keep it on as a week-end retreat after his triumphal return to London.’
‘I see,’ said Backhouse thoughtfully. ‘And did you know all this before you met him in London recently?’
Ellie shot a quick glance at Pascoe.
‘It was in the letter of invitation which the sergeant showed me,’ explained Backhouse.
‘I knew vaguely about it,’ said Ellie. ‘But it wasn’t till I met him that I got all the details.’
‘A chance meeting, was it?’
‘That’s right. Chance. Oh hell, no. Not chance. I’ve been trying to flog a book of my own, a novel. Without much success. I laid an ambush for Colin. I thought he might be able to help.’
‘You never told me that,’ said Pascoe, surprised.
‘No,’ said Ellie sheepishly.
‘Peter had told me to get in touch with Colin from the start,’ she added to Backhouse. ‘But I was too proud. And I don’t like putting my friends on the spot. But when things didn’t go too well with the book …’
‘You laid an ambush,’ said Backhouse. ‘Any luck?’
‘I didn’t even mention it,’ sighed Ellie. ‘He’d just got everything organized for his own move and was bubbling over. It didn’t seem fair to take advantage. And when I told him that Peter and I had re-established contact, he was genuinely delighted, took his address, said we’d be the first to sample his rural hospitality. Here we are.’
‘So he was a man who had everything going for him at the moment?’
‘Everything,’ echoed Ellie.
There was a knock at the door which opened almost simultaneously.
‘Cup of tea,’ said Mrs Crowther, coming into the room with a tray and the expression of one with whom superintendents cut very little ice.
She put the tray down in front of Ellie and took a small bundle of typewritten sheets out of her capacious apron pocket.
‘Here. These are for you,’ she said to Backhouse. ‘I’ve been typing them for Crowther. If you take them now, it’ll save him a journey later. Not that I’d pay them all that much attention. It’s his job to hear things, but they were a nice young couple, the Hopkinses. That’s what counts, not a lot of malicious gossip.’
She left with the shadow of a wink at Ellie.
‘Interesting woman,’ commented Backhouse, riffling through the papers. ‘We could do with her on the strength.’
‘I think you’ve got her,’ said Pascoe drily.
Backhouse folded Crowther’s report carefully and slipped it into his pocket.
‘To get back to business,’ he said. ‘Can either of you think of anything at all which might cause stress and strain in the relationships between these four?’
‘Not really,’ said Ellie. ‘Rose and Colin always talked most affectionately of the other two. And vice-versa as far as I know.’
She glanced across at Pascoe. Backhouse could not read her expression.
‘You talked to Mrs Hopkins on the phone last night,’ he said. ‘Did she say anything specific about their plans for the evening?’
‘Well, she may have done. We talked for about ten minutes. But nothing’s stuck, nothing specific. I’m sorry.’
She looked bewildered. Backhouse patted her hand where it rested on the arm of the sofa.
‘Never mind. If anything comes to mind, you can let me know. Anything new from you, Sergeant?’
Pascoe shook his head.
‘I’d better get back to work then,’ said the superintendent, standing up. ‘What are your plans for tonight?’
‘We’ve been asked to stay with the Culpeppers,’ said Pascoe, recalling his earlier decision to find somewhere else. It didn’t seem worth the bother now. And if the Eagle was the only place in the village which let rooms, his chances of success were slim.
‘Culpeppers? I remember. The committee secretary woman?’
‘And the man who came to the cottage with the coroner. I’m sure they’ll be in Crowther’s dossiers.’
‘No doubt. I’ll know where to find you, then. Thank you, Miss Soper. You’ve been most helpful. Please believe me when I say you have my deepest sympathy.’
He did it better than Dalziel. Not that Dalziel wasn’t good when he wanted, but good in the style of the old actor-managers. There was always a sense of performance. Backhouse was more natural. There was even a chance that he was sincere.
‘Just one thing more,’ he said, pausing at the door. ‘What was Mr Hopkins writing his book about?’
‘His book? Poverty! He laughed when he told me. Coming to Thornton Lacey to write a book about poverty in modern Britain was like hunting polar bears in Africa, he said.’
‘It doesn’t sound a best-selling subject,’ opined Backhouse cautiously.
‘I don’t know. Full of case histories, hard-luck stories, people driven to crime, the effect of inadequate diets on sexual performance, that kind of thing. It’s the kind of pop sociology that could sell.’
‘You sound disapproving.’
‘Not at all. Envious perhaps. Until this morning.’
‘Yes. Not much cause for envy now. Goodbye.’
They sat in silence for a while after he had gone. Ellie spoke first.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘What for?’
‘For before, what I said. Grief’s a selfish emotion really. I had forgotten they were your friends too.’
‘Yes. And Colin still is.’
‘Do you think he did it, Peter?’
Pascoe made a hopeless gesture.
‘I don’t know. I can’t believe it, but I’ve got to admit the possibility. People kill those they love all the time.’
‘But you were willing to attack some poor bloody stranger because he accepted the possibility? Odd behaviour for a policeman,’ she mocked affectionately.
‘I’m an odd policeman,’ he said, kissing her gently.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Now I’m going to pull myself together and face the world. Whatever the truth, Colin will need friends when they catch up with him.’
She stood up and stretched her arms as though newly roused from sleep.
‘Do I gather you’ve got us invited somewhere for the night?’
Pascoe explained briefly about the Culpeppers, concealing his own irrational dislike of Marianne.
‘I see,’ said Ellie. ‘Sounds all sweet sherry and sympathy. I’ll go and freshen up, then I wouldn’t mind sampling the country air for half an hour or so before we present ourselves to our hosts.’
‘A good idea. There’s plenty of time,’ said Pascoe.
The door opened and Mrs Crowther reappeared.
‘He’s gone then,’ she grunted. Her gaze fell on the tea-tray.
‘And no one wants my tea?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ exclaimed Ellie. ‘It’s my fault. I just forgot.’
‘Look,’ said Pascoe. ‘Why don’t you two sit down and have a cup? It should still be hot. I just want to pop out and check the car. It seems to be eating oil lately.’
Ellie shot him a curious look, but he left quickly before she could say anything. As he had expected, the office section of the house was empty. Crowther would be very busy about the village this afternoon. He made straight for the table which carried the solid old Imperial typewriter, and saw what he was looking for straightaway. In the wooden tray by the machine were Crowther’s notes on local colour plus the carbon of the typewritten version given to Backhouse. He ignored the original in the constable’s crabbed hand and picked up the copy.
He had just started on the first of the five quarto sheets when a voice spoke behind him.
‘Excuse me.’
Pascoe started so violently that his leg twitched and cracked painfully against the rim of the desk. Christ! he thought, your nerve ends really have been exposed today, my boy.
Instinctively he let the sheets of paper slide out of his hands into the tray before he turned.
Standing behind the small counter across which the public could seek audience with their local guardian of the law was a rather frail old lady who seemed to be wearing a military uniform of sorts. WVS? wondered Pascoe.
‘Yes?’ he said.
‘I was hoping to find Mr Crowther.’ She had a slow, gentle voice. Definitely good works, he decided. Moral samplers and nourishing broth round the farmworkers’ hovels.
‘I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment. I don’t know when he’ll be back. Is it urgent?’
‘I’m not sure.’
She stared hard at him and asked dubiously, ‘Are you a policeman?’
‘Well, yes. Yes, I am,’ said Pascoe. ‘Sergeant Pascoe.’
‘Sergeant? That ought to be all right then. I am Alicia Langdale.’ She paused. For effect? thought Pascoe. Is she the lady of the manor? Should I be impressed?
‘Yes?’ he prompted.
‘And it’s connected with my job, you see. That’s what makes it so delicate.’
‘What is your job, Mrs Langdale?’
‘Miss. Can’t you see? I’m a postman.’
Oh my God! thought Pascoe. That’s what the gear is! He could see he had lost what little ground the revelation of his rank had gained him.
‘Of course,’ he said with a smile.
‘My sister, Anthea, and I keep the post office. She takes care of the internal business and I look after deliveries. Normally what happens, of course, is that people post their letters, they are collected in a van and taken to the main post office in town where they are sorted.’
‘I see,’ said Pascoe.
‘But sometimes, if it’s a matter of local mail – things that I’m going to have to deliver anyway, you understand – some people just leave them on the counter or push them through our letter-box.’
She raised her chin and looked defiantly at Pascoe, who suddenly knew what this was all about. He took the letter Miss Langdale produced from her large pocket and stared down at Colin’s distinctive handwriting. J. K. Palfrey, Esq., The Eagle and Child, Thornton Lacey.
A flock of thoughts rose and fluttered around Pascoe’s mind. The proper course of action was clear. Take the letter to Backhouse who would then take it to Palfrey and require it to be opened in his presence. If it was not relevant to the inquiry that would be an end to it. But if it was … ! Pascoe did not feel somehow that Backhouse would be keen to let him read it.
He realized with a start that Miss Langdale was still speaking.
‘I was almost at the Eagle and Child this morning when I met Mrs Anderson who told me the news. She picks up everything very quickly, I’m afraid. Normally I pay no heed, but this was different. This was dreadful, dreadful. So I finished my round but kept this letter. Anthea and I have been discussing all day what we ought to do. It’s our duty to deliver the Queen’s mail, you see. But if, as seemed possible in the circumstances, it might cause distress … and in a sense, it had not in fact been posted, had it? So here I am. Will you give me a receipt, please?’
Her voice was suddenly brisk, businesslike. Pascoe looked round for a piece of paper and a pen. He had made up his mind to open the letter and damn the consequences. Every instinct in his body warned him against it, but told him at the same time how important the letter was. He had to see. This might be his only chance.
‘Receipt book’s in the top drawer, Sergeant.’
It was Crowther, standing quietly in the doorway. His chance had gone.
‘Interesting, this,’ said the constable, holding the letter before him after he had efficiently disposed of Miss Langdale. ‘I’d better let the super have it right away. Thanks for taking care of things.’
He put the letter in his tunic pocket, tidied up the papers on his desk, stared a long moment at the disturbed carbon copy of his notes but did not remove them, and left.
‘Damn! damn! damn!’ said Pascoe. But he shuddered to think of the dangerous course he had been about to steer on. The sooner he got back to Dalziel and other people’s losses, the better.
He went back into the living-room to collect Ellie and take her to the Culpeppers’.
Chapter 7 (#ulink_528dd1fb-9132-5530-977d-1995821ba112)
The Culpeppers’ house was an impressive structure. Built in traditional Cotswold stone, its lines and proportions were unequivocally though unobtrusively modern.
The gardens consisted principally of herbaceous borders and lawns running down to an encirclement of trees. Whether the Culpepper estate extended into the woods was not clear. The lawns themselves were beautifully kept. Only one of them, hooped for croquet, showed any signs of wear. Coming up the drive, Pascoe had glimpsed a bent figure in a bright orange coat slowly brushing away the leaves which the autumn wind had laid on one of the side lawns. A fluorescent gardener, he thought, and prepared himself for anything from a parlourmaid to a full-dress butler when he rang the bell. But it had been Culpepper himself, features etched with well-bred solicitude, who opened the door.
Pascoe could see that Ellie disliked him at once. He recalled his own reaction to Marianne Culpepper and groaned inwardly at the thought of the evening ahead. Not that much social intercourse would be expected of them, surely. Or sexual either, he added to himself as they were shown into separate bedrooms. The bed at Brookside Cottage with its ornamental pillow came into his mind. Half the local police-force would have seen it. It was a good job he hadn’t been having a bit on the side with the chief constable’s wife.
The frivolity of the thought touched him with guilt. This was the way grief worked. It could only achieve complete victory for a comparatively short time. But it filled the mind with snares of guilt and self-disgust to catch at all thoughts and emotions fighting against it.
Ellie felt the same. She had raised her eyebrows humorously at his as Culpepper opened her bedroom door. But it was a brief flicker of light in dark sky.
The evening’s prospects did not improve when Marianne Culpepper returned. Pascoe heard a car arrive as he was unpacking his over-night case and when he left his room a minute later to collect Ellie, he found her standing at the head of the stairs, unashamedly eavesdropping on a conversation below.
Culpepper’s neutral tones were audible only as an indecipherable murmur, but his wife’s elegantly vowelled voice carried perfectly. Pascoe was reminded of teenage visits to the local repertory theatre (now declined to bingo) where hopeful young actresses projected their lines to the most distant ‘gods’.
Even half a conversation was enough to reveal that Marianne Culpepper had no knowledge whatsoever of her husband’s invitation to Pascoe and Ellie. They exchanged rueful glances on the landing. Pascoe moved to the nearest door, opened it and slammed it shut. It might have been more politic to retreat for a while, but Pascoe found himself looking forward to putting all that good breeding below to the test.
‘Let’s go down, shall we?’ he said in an exaggeratedly loud voice.
The Culpeppers presented a fairly united front as introductions took place.
‘Didn’t I see you in the village hall this morning?’ asked Marianne of Pascoe. ‘I didn’t realize then. I thought you were just one of the policemen.’
Oh, I am, I am, thought Pascoe.
‘Look,’ the woman went on, ‘I’m terrible sorry about your friends. I hardly knew them, the Hopkinses I mean, but they seemed very nice people.’
Everyone speaks as if we’ve lost them both, thought Pascoe. Perhaps we have.
‘You’ll be tired of expressions of sympathy I know. They become very wearing.’ She paused as though communicating with herself only, then continued. ‘Which brings me to this evening. You are very welcome indeed to our house, but Hartley and I have got our lines crossed somewhere. I’ve asked a couple of friends along to dinner and a few more people may drop in for drinks later. Please, it’s up to you. If you’d rather duck out, have your meal early, and generally avoid the madding crowd, just say so. Don’t be silly about it.’
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/reginald-hill/ruling-passion-42409678/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
Reginald Hill
‘One of the modern masters of the police procedural’ Sunday TelegraphPeter Pascoe is in shock. A weekend in the country with old friends turns into a nightmare when he finds three of them dead and the missing fourth a prime suspect in the eyes of the local police.They want his cooperation, but Superintendent Dalziel needs him back in Yorkshire where a string of unsolved burglaries looks like turning nasty.As events unfold, though, the two cases seem to be getting entwined…
REGINALD HILL
RULING PASSION
A Dalziel and Pascoe novel
Copyright (#u73653413-60cb-5a2a-98c9-c96f5697afb8)
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.
Harper An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF
Previously published by HarperCollins in 1993
and by Grafton in 1987
First published in Great Britain by
HarperCollinsPublishers 1973
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
Copyright © Reginald Hill 1973
Reginald Hill asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks.
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.
Source ISBN 9780586072608
Ebook Edition © July 2015 ISBN 9780007370320
Version: 2015-06-18
Dedication (#ulink_855650d2-f7bb-5c39-a3e0-ba8ba941cd28)
For Pat again – with love and thanks
Epigraph (#ulink_528dd1fb-9132-5530-977d-1995821ba112)
Search then the ruling passion: there, alone,
The wild are constant, and the cunning known;
The fool consistent, and the false sincere;
Priests, princes, women, no dissemblers here.
This clue once found unravels all the rest …
ALEXANDER POPE
Contents
Cover (#u7cfef9c1-9512-5980-bb74-b843ca4f66e4)
Title Page (#ue5284cdf-c3ad-568a-821b-04338773f94d)
Copyright (#u68257f7b-3a8e-598a-99fe-30c3b1192b8f)
Dedication (#ub234459b-b094-5d3a-aa28-817726b1723d)
Epigraph (#u8592cb73-ead6-5199-8215-71d429423778)
Part One (#u9eb8bfe8-28d7-5545-aabc-8c3eae29aafc)
Chapter 1 (#u9d707b64-07f0-58c0-9a74-847a841f4054)
Chapter 2 (#u7ad8fa4b-9d2f-5f2a-81a6-137218bdeefc)
Chapter 3 (#uacd5db1f-c416-543c-a88c-30fb7f75d94b)
Chapter 4 (#u47a3d900-4c12-54fc-8a8d-23ee49224f78)
Chapter 5 (#uea5bfcd9-0506-5daf-8b95-20043734aecd)
Chapter 6 (#u518a78dc-47c0-56ce-934b-b9b152994f0f)
Chapter 7 (#u95d4e62b-15de-5cf6-b895-c2e9b967215e)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 1 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 2 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 3 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 1 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 2 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 3 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
PART ONE (#u73653413-60cb-5a2a-98c9-c96f5697afb8)
Chapter 1 (#u73653413-60cb-5a2a-98c9-c96f5697afb8)
Brookside Cottage,
Thornton Lacey.
September 4th.
Well hello, Peter Pascoe!
A voice from the grave! Or should I say the underworld? Out of which Ellie (who gave me the glad news of your existence when we met in town last month) hopes to lead you, for a while at least, back into the land of the living.
Ironic, thought Detective-Superintendent Backhouse, his gaze flicking momentarily to the pale-faced man who sat opposite him. He did not speak the thought aloud. He was a kind man, though he never shunned the cruelties of his job when they became essential.
He read on.
Doubtless she told you we’ve been doing up this rural slum to make it a fit place for pallid cits to recuperate in. Well, now it is complete and we’d love for you and Ellie to week-end with us in a fortnight (constabulary duty permitting, of course!). Timmy and Carlo are coming down from the Great Wen so there will be much nostalgia! Not quite as squalid as that other cottage in Eskdale (I hope) – but oddly enough life in Thornton Lacey is not without its correspondences!
‘What’s he mean by that?’ asked Backhouse.
Pascoe stared at the sentence indicated by the superintendent’s carefully manicured finger. It took him a second to bring the words into focus.
‘When we were students,’ he said, ‘we spent a few weeks one summer in Eskdale. In Cumberland.’
‘The same people?’
Pascoe nodded.
‘Colin and Rose weren’t married then.’
‘What’s this about correspondences?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t remember much about it.’
Except one evening, the six of them, golden in the low-stooping sun, walking in companionable silence across a diagonally sloping field towards the distant village and its pub. The slope had separated their courses, pulling them apart so that they were strung out across the coarse, tussocky grass, only coming together again at the wooden gate in the lowest corner of the loose-stone wall.
Make it Friday evening if possible, but bright and early Saturday if not. Do not fail us in this our command or our wrath shall be terrible and you know just how terrible my wrath can be!
Seriously, it will delight me more than I can say if you come. It’s not every day that we see Abelard reunited with Eloisa (and his vital equipment, I hope!) Love from us both,
Colin (and Rose)
Backhouse finished the letter with a sigh, made a note on a slip of paper, clipped it to the single pale lemon sheet and put it into a bright green plastic folder.
‘I’ll hang on to this,’ he said. ‘If I may.’
Not that it had any value at the moment. Probably it never would. But he preferred to work that way. Meticulousness is the better part of serendipity.
‘Would you like another cup of tea?’ he asked.
The door opened before Pascoe could answer. An ancient constable creaked wearily in, holding some typewritten sheets.
‘Mr – that is, Sergeant – Pascoe’s statement, sir.’
He laid the sheets carefully before Backhouse and retreated.
‘Thank you, Crowther,’ said Backhouse, turning the sheets round and pushing them towards Pascoe.
‘Read it,’ he said gently as Pascoe picked up a ball-point and made to sign at the bottom of the first sheet. ‘Always read before you sign. Just as you always tell others to read before they sign, I hope.’
Without answering, Pascoe began to read.
Statement of Peter Ernest Pascoe made at Thornton Lacey police station, Oxfordshire, in the presence of Detective-Superintendent D. S. Backhouse.
On the morning of Saturday 18th September, I drove down from Yorkshire to Thornton Lacey. I was accompanied by a friend, Miss Eleanor Soper. Our purpose was to spend the week-end with some old friends, Colin and Rose Hopkins of Brookside Cottage, Thornton Lacey. Other guests were to include Mr Timothy Mansfield and Mr Charles Rushworth, also old friends, though I had not seen them nor the Hopkinses for more than five years. I do not know if anyone else had been invited.
It was our intention to arrive at nine-thirty but we made such good time that it became clear we were going to be there by nine …
It was a glorious morning after a night of torrential rain. A light mist lay like chiffon over the fields and woodlands, yielding easily to the gentle urgings of the rising sun. The roads were empty at first. Even the traditionally dawn-greeting farmhouses seemed still to sleep in the shining wet fields.
‘I like it,’ said Ellie, snuggling contentedly into the comfortably sagging passenger seat of the old Riley. ‘There are some things it’s worth being worken up for.’
Pascoe laughed.
‘I know what you mean,’ he said with hoarse passion.
‘You’re a sex maniac,’ she answered.
‘Not at all. I can wait till we reach a lay-by.’
Ellie closed her eyes with a smile. When she opened them again it was an hour later and she was leaning heavily against her companion’s shoulder.
‘Sorry!’ she said, sitting upright.
‘So much for the attractions of the early morning! We’re making very good time, by the way. You’re sure they really want us for breakfast?’
‘Certain. When I talked to Rose on the phone she was very angry we had to cry off arriving last evening and insisted on first thing today. Poor girl, she probably had a fatted calf roasting or something.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry. It was a shame.’
Ellie put on her indignant look.
‘Shame! That fat sadist Dalziel doesn’t know the meaning of the word.’
‘It wasn’t his fault. It’s this string of break-ins we’ve been brought in on. The phone rang just as I was leaving.’
‘So you said,’ grunted Ellie. ‘Bloody queer time for a burglary. I bet Dalziel did it.’
‘The break-in happened some time earlier in the week,’ explained Pascoe patiently. ‘It was only discovered yesterday when the people got back from holiday.’
‘Serves them right for coming back early. They should have stayed away for the week-end. Then we could have enjoyed all ours too.’
‘I hope we will,’ said Pascoe, smiling fondly at her. ‘It’ll be good to see them all again.’
‘Yes, I think it will be. Especially for you,’ said Ellie thoughtfully. ‘You’ve been cut off too long.’
‘Perhaps so. I didn’t do all the cutting, mind. Anyway, cutting’s the wrong image. They were always there. Like securely invested capital! I’ve never doubted that one day I would see them all again.’
‘It took an accident to bring me to light again,’ admonished Ellie.
‘There is a something power which shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we may,’ proclaimed Pascoe solemnly. ‘Colin’s not the only one who can quote.’
‘Here’s to it,’ said Ellie, relaxing in the window-warmed light of the now completely triumphant sun.
We arrived at Thornton Lacey at eight-fifty. I noted the exact time as I looked at my watch to see how close to our forecast time of arrival we were. I suggested to Miss Soper that we should wait for half an hour before proceeding to Brookside Cottage, but after discussion we decided against this. Thus it must have been two or three minutes before nine o’clock when we reached the cottage. The curtains were all drawn and we received no reply to our knocks.
‘We should have waited,’ said Pascoe smugly.
‘Nonsense. If they got so pie-eyed last night that they can’t hear us knocking, they weren’t to be ready for nine-thirty either.’
The professional part of his mind felt there was some flaw either of logic or syntax in this statement, but this week-end he was very firmly and very consciously off duty. So he grinned and stepped back from the doorway, craning his neck to spot any signs of activity behind the bedroom curtains.
It was a lovely cottage, just stopping this side of biscuit-tin sentimentality. Tudor, he told himself, half-timbered, doubtless full of wattle-and-daub whatever that was (those were?). A not very successful attempt had been made to train a rambling rose around the doorway. Above the thatched roof a flock of television aerials parted the morning breeze and serenely sang their triumph over charm and Tudory.
‘Colin’s quite ruthless,’ said Ellie, following his gaze. ‘If you modernize, modernize. He doesn’t see any virtue in pretending that a pair of farm-labourers’ cottages was once a desirable sixteenth-century residence.’
‘Nor in keeping farming hours, it seems,’ said Pascoe, banging once more on the door and rattling the worn brass handle.
‘Though perhaps,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘they do preserve some old country customs, such as never locking your door.’
He pressed the door-handle right down and pushed. The hinges creaked most satisfactorily as the heavy oak door slowly swung open.
Now it was Ellie’s turn to show reluctance.
‘We can’t just appear at the foot of the bed,’ she protested, hanging back.
‘Well I’m not going to go and get a warrant,’ answered Pascoe. ‘At least we can find the wherewithal to make coffee and a lot of noise. Come on!’
The front door opened directly into a nicely proportioned lounge, with furnishings which, though comfortable looking, were antiquated rather than antique. Two or three whisky tumblers stood on a low table in the middle of the room; they were still half full. An empty bottle of Teacher’s stood beside them. A Churchillian cigar had been allowed to burn out in a large cut-glass ashtray. Ellie sniffed the air distastefully.
‘What a fug! I was right – they must have been having themselves a quiet little ball last night.’
She began drawing curtains back prior to opening a window. Pascoe too was sniffing gently, a faintly puzzled look on his face. He crossed the room to the door in the farthermost wall. It was ajar and he pushed it fully open and stepped through into the next room. It was clearly the dining-room. The round, highly polished mahogany table still bore the debris of a meal.
But it wasn’t the table which held his attention.
White-faced he turned to stop Ellie from following him. She had moved to the rear window now and was just drawing the curtains there.
‘Ellie,’ he said.
She froze, her hand on the window-latch, staring incredulously through the pane.
A thin, single-noted scream forced its way from the back of her throat.
Two men were lying on the dining-room floor in the positions indicated in the police photograph ‘A1’. They had both received severe gunshot wounds, and had been bleeding copiously. The nature of the wounds and the strong cordite smell I had noticed in the air led me to assume the wounds had been caused by a shotgun fired at close range. The man lying beside the dining-table (position ‘X’ on the photograph) I recognized as Timothy Mansfield of Grover Court, London, NW2. The other man I was not able to recognize immediately as he had received the greater part of the gun-blast in the neck and lower face, but later I was able to confirm he was Charles Rushworth of the same address. I turned to prevent Miss Soper from following me into the room, but she was clearly disturbed by something she could see from the rear window. I looked out into the garden at the back of the house and saw the figure of a woman lying at the base of the sundial in the centre of the lawn (photograph ‘C3’) I could not recognize her from the window as her face was pressed to the grass. There had been a great deal of bleeding from the head.
‘It’s Rose,’ said Ellie, not believing herself. ‘There’s been an accident.’
She made for the dining-room, seeking a way into the garden. Pascoe caught her by the shoulders.
‘Telephone,’ he said, his voice low, his mind racing. From the dining-room a narrow flight of stairs ran to the next floor. His ears were alert for any slight sound of movement above.
‘Yes,’ said Ellie. ‘Doctor. No, ambulance is better, there was a hospital sign, do you remember?’
There was a telephone on the floor beside one of the two armchairs. She bent over it.
‘No,’ said Pascoe, taking her arm and pushing her towards the front door. ‘We passed a phone box down the road. Use that. And get the police. Tell them they’ll need an ambulance and a doctor.’
‘Police?’ repeated Ellie.
‘Hurry,’ said Pascoe urgently.
He heard the Riley start as he placed his foot carefully on the first stair. It creaked, the second even more so, and, abandoning stealth, he took the rest at a run, narrowly missing cracking his head against the ceiling cross-beam halfway up.
He went through the nearest door low and fast. A bedroom. Empty. Bed unslept in.
The next the same. Then a bathroom. A tiny junk-room. One more to go. Certain now the first floor was uninhabited, he still took no chances and entered as violently as before.
Looking down at the bed, his heart stood still. A pair of children’s handcuffs lay across the two pillows. In one bracelet was a red rose. In the other a young nettle. On the bedhead above was pinned a paper banner.
It read Eloisa and Abelard, Welcome Home.
Pascoe felt the carapace of professionality he had withdrawn behind crack across. The room overlooked the rear of the house. He did not look out of the window but descended rapidly. With a great effort of will, he forced himself to confirm by touch what his eyes had told him, that the two men were dead.
Timmy used to play the guitar and when in funds gave presents of charming eccentricity to those he loved. Carlo (it was Carlo, the one eye which remained unscathed told him that) had a fiery temper, adored Westerns, demonstrated for civil rights, hated priests.
These were memories he didn’t want. Even less did he want to kneel beside this woman, turn her gently over, see the ruin of soft flesh the shotgun blast had made in Rose Hopkins.
She was wearing a long silk evening gown. Even the rain and the dew had not dulled its iridescent sheen of purple and green like a pheasant’s plumage. But her eyes were dull.
The sundial against which she lay had an inscription on its pedestal. He read it, desperately trying to rebuild his carapace.
Horas non numero nisi serenas.
I number only the sunny hours.
He was still cradling the dead woman in his arms when Ellie returned, closely followed by the first police car.
Chapter 2 (#u73653413-60cb-5a2a-98c9-c96f5697afb8)
‘Dalziel here.’
‘Hello, Andy. Derek Backhouse here.’
‘So they said.’ Dalziel’s voice fell a long way short of enthusiasm. ‘It’s been a long time. And you must be after a bloody big favour, to be ringing on a Saturday morning.’
‘No favour,’ said Backhouse. ‘I’m ringing from the station at Thornton Lacey. I’ve got one of your men here. A Sergeant Pascoe.’
‘Pascoe!’ said Dalziel, livelier now. ‘He’s not been crapping in the street again, has he?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Joke,’ sighed Dalziel. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Nothing really. He’s down here visiting some old friends.’
‘So?’
‘So when he arrived this morning, three of the old friends were dead. Shotgun at close range.’
Now there was a long silence.
‘Christ,’ said Dalziel finally. Another silence.
‘That’s rough,’ said Dalziel. ‘I don’t think he’s got enough old friends left to spare three.’
Backhouse made a moue of distaste at the callousness of the comment, though he thought he detected a hint of real concern in the intonation. But he might have been mistaken.
‘Anyway,’ said Backhouse, ‘I’m just interested in confirming that he and Miss Soper didn’t arrive till this morning.’
‘She’s with him, is she?’ grunted Dalziel.
‘You know her?’
‘Vaguely. Hey listen, my lad, you’re not thinking Pascoe had anything to do with this, are you?’
‘Just checking, Andy. He says he got held up on a case last night.’
‘Too true, he did. He wasn’t best pleased, but he’s a dutiful lad. He was here till about nine-thirty. Then we had a drink till closing. That suit you?’
‘I think so. We haven’t had the PM yet, but the doctor was very certain it happened last evening. I wasn’t really concerned about the sergeant, but I wanted to be sure. He may be a great help to us.’
‘Now watch it!’ said Dalziel threateningly. ‘We’ve got work to do here too, you know. Nothing glamorous like a multi-murder, but someone’s got to catch thieves. And I need Pascoe. He’s due back Monday. I’ll expect him Monday.’
‘We do have experienced detectives of our own,’ said Backhouse drily. ‘No, the way he can help is with his knowledge of the missing man.’
‘Missing man?’
‘Didn’t I say? We’re one light. The host, the man whose cottage it is, Colin Hopkins. Your sergeant’s special mate.’
‘I see,’ said Dalziel. ‘You reckon him for it, then?’
‘I’d like to talk with him,’ said Backhouse cautiously.
‘I bet!! Anyway, what you’re saying is you want Pascoe to help pin this on his mate? You’re asking a bit much, aren’t you?’
‘It was his friends who died,’ said Backhouse quietly.
‘Well, he’s a good lad. Is he there? I’d better have a word.’
What kind of grudging condolence did he propose? wondered Backhouse.
‘He’s with Miss Soper at the moment. She is badly shocked.’
‘Later then. But I want him Monday. Right? I’ll look for you on the telly!’
Bloody old woman, thought Dalziel as he replaced the receiver. He scratched the back of his left calf methodically from top to bottom, but derived no relief. The itches you scratch are internal, someone senior enough to dare had once told him. He looked with distaste at the mound of files on his desk. Suddenly they seemed trivial. Stupid twats who spent good money on pretty ornaments, then didn’t take the trouble to look after them properly. Somewhere in that lot there was a pattern, a flawed system. There was always a flaw. A man lay at the bottom of that pile and they’d find him in the end. But today, this moment, it seemed trivial.
It was a rare feeling for him. He wasn’t a man who took his work lightly. But now he stood up and went in search of someone to drink a cup of tea with and talk about football or politics.
The enormity of what had happened had not struck Ellie for some time after her return to the cottage. She had not gone into the building but made her way along the side of the whitewashed garage into the garden. At the bottom of the dew-damp lawn, audible though not visible, ran a stream in a deep cutting, shaded by alders and sallows. The murmuring water, the morning-fresh garden unheated yet by the lemon sunlight, the flight of a white-browed blackbird from a richly laden apple-tree, all helped to make unreal the tableau formed by the man on his knees by the dead woman at the foot of the sundial. Only the gnomon of the dial, cutting the fragrant air like a shark’s fin, seemed to be of menace.
Something shone, brighter than dewdrops, in the grass around the body. Pieces of broken glass. Her first concern was intimate, domestic. Pascoe’s trousers might be torn or, worse, his knees cut.
She knew, and had known since she first looked from the window, that Rose was dead. Calling for an ambulance was a gesture, the drowning swimmer’s last clutch at the crest of the wave that will sink him. The ugliness of it, visible now as Pascoe laid the woman on the grass once more, was the greater shock. But even that she assimilated for the moment as she turned back to the cottage, looking for the others. Pascoe stopped her before she went in through the open french window.
But it had been too late to stop her seeing what lay inside.
The police-station at Thornton Lacey was merely the front ground-floor section of the pleasant detached house in which Constable John Crowther and his wife lived and which they would give up with great reluctance when Crowther reached retiring age in a couple of years. Neither he nor his wife was particularly impressed by the arrival of major crime in their little backwater. There was nothing in it for the constable except trouble. At this late stage in his career, not even personal solution of the crime and apprehension of the criminal could bring him promotion. But he was a conscientious man and, unasked, was already preparing for the superintendent a résumé of all local information he felt might be pertinent.
His wife, a craggy woman whose outward semblance belied her good-heartedness, took one look at Ellie on her arrival at the station and led her into the kitchen for tea and sympathy. Ellie had deteriorated rapidly under the treatment (a necessary process, well understood by Mrs Crowther) and by the time Pascoe came away from Backhouse, she had been given a mild sedative by the doctor and removed to a bedroom.
Doctor Hardisty, a rangy, middle-aged man whose unruly grey hair gave him a permanently distraught look, met Pascoe at the kitchen door. They had encountered once already at Brookside Cottage.
‘You all right?’ he now asked diffidently.
‘Fine,’ said Pascoe. It wasn’t altogether a lie. The act of signing the coolly formulated statement had produced a temporary catharsis. Momentarily the morning’s discoveries had been reduced to the status of a ‘case’. He even found himself prompted to question the doctor about his examination of the bodies, but decided against it. Hardisty was the local man, living and practising in the village. By now the bodies would be on their way to the mortuary and the probing knife of the pathologist.
By now Timmy and Carlo and Rose would be on their way …
He nipped the thought off smartly.
‘Miss Soper?’ he asked. ‘How is she?’
‘Resting upstairs. I’ve given her something.’
‘May I see her?’
‘If she’s awake. It’s straight ahead on the landing.’
Pascoe turned and began to climb the stairs.
Ellie opened her eyes as he came through the door. Her dress was draped tidily over a chair and she lay under a patchwork quilt in her slip.
‘OK, love?’ said Pascoe, taking her hand.
‘Doped to the back teeth,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to sleep. It’s always worse remembering when you wake up.’
‘You’ve got to sleep,’ he said gently. The sight of her lying there so palely moved him almost as deeply as the discovery of the three corpses had done.
She nodded as though he had performed some feat of subtle persuasion, and closed her eyes. But as he opened the door to leave, she spoke again.
‘Peter,’ she said. ‘Where’s Colin? He’s got to be told.’
‘It’s all in hand,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Sleep now.’
On the stairs he felt dizzy and had to pause, leaning heavily on the banister. It was certainly in hand, the business of finding Colin. But the searchers’ motives were far from humane.
‘You OK, Sergeant?’ said Backhouse from the foot of the stairs. He sounded more concerned than the doctor had done.
‘Yes sir,’ said Pascoe, descending.
‘Miss Soper asleep?’
‘I think so.’
Backhouse looked closely at him, his thin scholarly face solicitous, assessing.
‘I’m going back to the cottage. The lab boys should be finished now. I wondered if you felt up to coming with me. I’d appreciate your assistance.’
The ghost of a grin flitted involuntarily over Pascoe’s lips at this semi-formal courtesy. Fat Dalziel, his own superintendent, must have missed out on this part of the senior officers’ training course.
‘Certainly, sir,’ he said.
Some minor telepathy must have operated. As they climbed into the waiting car, Backhouse said, ‘I’ve been talking to Mr Dalziel on the phone.’
‘Oh.’
‘He was naturally sorry to hear what had happened.’
Naturally. But I bet the sod didn’t make the normal polite distressed noises. Backhouse was doing a translation job.
‘He says you’re too important to be spared past the week-end, but I would appreciate what help you can give me in that time.’
Appreciate again. He was being given kid-glove treatment. You didn’t have to be a detective to work out why. But let them say it. He was damned if he was going to broach the matter.
Them. With surprise Pascoe realized that he was thinking of the police as them.
‘Stop here,’ said Backhouse to his driver. The car pulled up outside a high-roofed, pebble-dashed building with narrow, church-like windows. A well-kept notice advertised that this was Thornton Lacey Village Hall. Beneath the gold and black lettering a typewritten sheet supplied the menu of activities that could be sampled in the hall during the current week. Last night, for instance, the Village Amenities Committee had met. And tonight the Old Time Dancing Group was scheduled to waltz, fox-trot, two-step, and polka its way down Memory Lane. But the light fantastic would have to be tripped somewhere else, thought Pascoe as he followed Backhouse into the building.
The large musty-smelling room was full of activity. Shirt-sleeved policemen were arranging tables and two Post Office men were fixing up telephones. All the lights were on to supplement the meagre ration of sunlight the windows let in.
‘The station’s too small,’ said Backhouse. ‘Especially if this turns into a large scale operation. Which I hope it won’t.’
He glanced sideways at Pascoe, then looked quickly away. A uniformed inspector came to meet them.
‘Anything new?’ Backhouse greeted him.
‘Just a couple of things, sir.’
The inspector glanced assessingly at Pascoe, then led Backhouse away to the far end of the hall. Pascoe thought of following. He was desperately keen to discover what was going on but also very conscious of his ambiguous position. He was merely a witness, he had no official standing here.
‘What the hell’s going on here?’
The interrupter was a big man, barrel-chested and strong-jawed. He was wearing a polo-necked sweater and jodhpurs. Pascoe felt sorry for the horse that would have to carry that bulk which he estimated at fifteen stone. It was all pretty solid stuff. The man was in his forties but still a long way from turning to flab.
‘Well? Come on, man. Who’s in charge?’
Backhouse’s attention had been caught and he came across to meet the man.
‘Good morning, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m Detective-Superintendent Backhouse. And you …?’
‘Angus Pelman. What the hell are you up to?’ asked the man in a rather more moderate tone.
‘We’re conducting a murder inquiry, sir,’ responded Backhouse. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t heard.’
Yes, that is surprising, thought Pascoe. Over two hours had elapsed since the crime had been reported. He had no doubt that shortly – perhaps already – the TV cameras would be rolling and the press-men patrolling around Brookside Cottage. But Angus Pelman had contrived to remain ignorant till he entered the hall.
He was also contriving to look completely taken aback at the news. When Backhouse filled in a few details, he sat down violently on the nearest chair.
‘The Hopkinses at Brookside Cottage?’ he repeated incredulously.
‘You knew them, sir?’ asked Backhouse.
‘I should do,’ Pelman answered. ‘I sold them the damned place.’
A memory started up in Pascoe’s mind, beautifully clear. The cottage in Eskdale, six (or was it seven?) years ago. The owner had been a farmer who lived half a mile down the valley. He was a big, randy bastard, full of himself, and he took to dropping in from time to time – exercising his right of inspection, he claimed, though his main objects of inspection were clearly the two girls, particularly Rose. They suspected also that he visited the place while they were out walking on the fells. In the end they did something, some kind of joke … but the memory faded as quickly as it had come. He would have to ask Ellie.
‘Shot, you say? Both shot?’ said Pelman.
‘Not both the Hopkinses, sir. Mrs Hopkins, and their two guests.’
‘And Colin Hopkins?’
‘We hope to contact him soon, sir.’
‘You mean, he doesn’t know? But he was around yesterday evening. I saw him in the village.’
Suspicion dawned, followed by outrage.
‘You’re not suggesting he had something to do with it, are you? Man, you’ve got to be mad. I haven’t known him long, but it’s out of the question!’
Suddenly Pascoe liked him a lot better.
‘We’ve reached no conclusions yet, sir,’ answered Backhouse reasonably. ‘By the way, if you weren’t expecting to find us here, why did you come in?’
Pelman looked puzzled.
‘Why did I …? Oh, here you mean. Simple. I’m the chairman of the Amenities Committee; we had a meeting last night and on the morning after these meetings, the secretary brings the minutes along here. She’s got them typed out by then. We check through them together, then pin them up on the notice board so that everybody can see what’s been going on.’
‘Nice,’ said Backhouse approvingly. ‘Nice.’
He was looking towards the door as he spoke, and Pascoe, following his gaze, was uncertain whether he was commenting on the democratic process or the woman who stood there.
She was nice, if you liked that kind of thing. Early thirties, well groomed brown hair, expensively but quietly dressed, good figure; Pascoe had no objection to any of these. But he felt himself antagonized by her look of amused self-possession as she surveyed the scene.
Upper-middle class, certain of her place in the scheme of things, full of common sense and good works, committee woman, is or will be a magistrate, cardboard cut-out of the good Tory MP’s wife, or even the good Tory MP. Complacent bitch.
Pascoe was surprised at the violence of his thoughts. And at the ridiculous speed of his entirely intuitive analysis. There was a spring of rage in him which would have to be tapped with the greatest care. He tried to wipe the slate clean and start again with this woman, but she seemed bent on confirming his conclusions.
‘Hello, Angus,’ she said in a clear, high-pitched, well-educated voice. ‘You’re well protected. The minutes aren’t that explosive, I hope.’
She came forward holding a leather folder in her hand. So this was the secretary of the Amenities Committee. That figured.
‘Hello, Marianne. Haven’t you heard?’
Pelman briefly told her what had happened. As he spoke, Pascoe observed the woman keenly. Two important members of the village community and neither had heard the news. He would have to revise his ideas about the tribal nature of the English village.
‘Would you like a seat, Mrs … er …?’ asked Backhouse politely as Pelman finished.
‘Culpepper,’ supplied Pelman.
‘Thank you,’ said the woman. She did not look too overcome to Pascoe’s jaundiced eye, but then her upbringing probably laid great stress on the stiffness of upper lips. It worked both ways. She placed the leather folder on a nearby table, but it slipped and fell open to the floor. Pascoe picked it up and stood with it in his hands, glancing down at the neatly typewritten sheets. He took in the topmost of them with the casual ease of a thousand-words-a-minute man. It seemed to have been a lively meeting, mainly centred on the alleged pollution of the stream which ran through the village. Downstreamers suspected upstreamers of having inefficient or even extra cesspools. Upstreamers vehemently denied this. The water in question was presumably the brook which ran behind Brookside Cottage. The sundial in the garden rose vividly in his mind. Only the sunny hours …
‘I’ll take that,’ said Pelman, seizing the folder from Pascoe’s unresisting hand. ‘We won’t hold you up any more, Superintendent. Come on, Marianne. Let’s get you a stiff brandy in the Bird.’
Exit John Wayne with the lady, thought Pascoe as the jodhpured man steered Marianne Culpepper doorwards by the elbow. She gently disengaged herself before passing out into the street.
‘Put someone on that door,’ said Backhouse mildly, ‘before they establish a right of way. I’ll be at the cottage.’
He motioned Pascoe to move out before him, and let him wait by the car while he exchanged a few more words with the inspector. The street was surprisingly empty. The sun had grown warm as the morning progressed, but Pascoe shivered from time to time as he waited for Backhouse to come and start the short journey back to Brookside Cottage.
Chapter 3 (#u73653413-60cb-5a2a-98c9-c96f5697afb8)
Their driver parked the car on the grass verge about forty yards from the cottage. The assortment of vehicles scattered in the immediate vicinity prevented a closer approach.
Three or four newspapermen intercepted the superintendent as he walked along the road. Locals mainly, Pascoe assessed. It was still too soon for anyone to have emerged from the chaos of Saturday morning London. But they would do. Three dead from shotgun wounds was too big to leave in the hands of a local runner.
Backhouse dealt with them kindly but firmly. No, there were no developments yet. They were looking for a man who might be able to help them with their inquiries. Mr Colin Hopkins, yes, that was him. A photograph and description might be issued if it was felt to be necessary.
Pascoe had dropped behind as the questioning proceeded. When Backhouse and his interrogators stopped in front of the cottage, he found himself, deliberately blank-minded, looking up the side of the building between the garage and the wall. There was activity in the back garden and beyond. They would be looking for the weapon. Everything they found would be carefully scrutinized, of course, but it was the weapon they were hoping for. It made a difference if you knew the man you were searching after didn’t have a shotgun in his possession.
He doubted if they’d find it so near. Hurled in panic into the woods over the stream, it would have been found by now. Whereas if the killer were cool enough to make a more deliberate attempt to hide it, he would surely wait until his car had taken him a safe distance from the village.
The killer. He tested himself gently from the vantage point of disembodied objectivity he had scrambled on to in the last two hours. Was he ready yet to consider whether Colin … why Colin …
No. He wasn’t quite ready. He walked up to the garage and peered in. What he saw surprised him.
‘Sergeant!’ Backhouse called authoritatively. Pascoe instinctively obeyed the summons and had joined the superintendent at the threshold before he started wondering about the tone of command. A new step in the psychology of their relationship perhaps. A reminder of his official subordination.
Or perhaps his service with Dalziel had made him too suspicious of all detective-superintendents’ motives. Perhaps all Backhouse was doing was using his police rank as a red herring to divert the interest of the newspapermen from him. Clearly, as they moved off in a friendly, almost light-hearted, little group, they had no suspicion that the discoverer of the crime was so close.
In the cottage, much had changed. No effort had been made to tidy up after the rigorous search and fingerprinting examination which had taken place. Why bother when there was no chance of an irate householder turning up to complain?
Backhouse thought differently.
‘For God’s sake, Hamblyn,’ he said to the ginger-moustached detective who came to greet him, ‘get this place tidied up. And those cars outside. If I want a road-block here, I’ll ask for it.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Hamblyn unemotionally.
‘Anything new?’
‘Nothing useful, sir. Not as far as I can see. Anything on the car yet, sir?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
Pascoe spoke lowly, diffidently.
‘There’s a car in the garage,’ he said. It sounded daft as he said it but, hell, he had to say it. Not that it was possible they wouldn’t have looked. Was it?
‘Yes, yes; I believe there is,’ said Backhouse. Then he laughed.
‘Oh, I see your dilemma. Yes it’s true the Hopkinses’ car is in the garage. But it’s the other one we’re interested in. Royal blue Mini-Cooper according to best report. The one Mr Rushworth and Mr Mansfield arrived in.’
Pascoe was abashed. Hamblyn was looking at him with faint distaste.
‘Let’s step into the garden,’ said Backhouse, like a kindly host desirous of stirring his guest’s digestive juices before lunch.
They went through the dining-room, passing the chalked body-outlines and ringed bloodstains, and out of the french window into the garden, halting near the sundial.
I’m really getting the treatment, thought Pascoe. What does he expect from me? Colin’s present address?
‘The Hopkinses’ car was in the garage, the visitors’ car on the driveway,’ said Backhouse. ‘This is the arrangement you’d expect and this is what the few people we’ve found who passed early last evening saw.’
‘They couldn’t see into the garage,’ objected Pascoe.
‘True,’ said Backhouse. ‘Now, here’s what happened, or what possibly happened supported by a strong scaffolding of what did happen. There was a lot of broken glass scattered around here. Did you notice? From a whisky bottle, that was easy enough to establish. Were they hard drinkers, your friends?’
‘Only on occasions,’ answered Pascoe, recognizing the start of interrogation. ‘And the occasion rarely merited the expense of scotch. But that was years ago. Things change.’
‘Yes. Of course. Well, we’ve got a thorough house-to-house on now, but the first place my men called was the Eagle and Child, the second the Queen Anne. That’s where she bought it.’
‘The whisky?’
‘That’s right,’ said Backhouse pensively. ‘At about quarter to nine last night. Curious that. The Eagle and Child’s nearer. No matter. The landlord’s wife, who sold it to her at the off-licence counter, didn’t see the car, but heard it drive away. She reckons it sounded more like the Mini-Cooper than the Hopkinses’ Cortina.’
‘A good ear,’ commented Pascoe, watching a pair of thrushes which had decided the policemen were harmless, and were drilling for worms.
‘No doubt we’ll find someone to corroborate it,’ said Backhouse. ‘As things stand, it seems likely that they started drinking after dinner. When the scotch began to get low, Mrs Hopkins volunteered to fetch more; she used her visitors’ car as it would have to be moved anyway to get her own out. On her return she either walked straight into the garden or went through the front door into the lounge, then the dining-room and out of the french windows.’
‘And then she was shot,’ said Pascoe.
‘It seems likely. Very soon after she came back. She was still holding the full bottle, you see. We found the cap with the seal complete. She must have held the bottle in front of her, either to ward off the shot or to use as a weapon. The blast from the shotgun went right through it. There were splinters of glass embedded deep in the wound. Would any of your friends own a shotgun, do you think?’
‘I don’t know. I just don’t know,’ said Pascoe irritably. ‘I’ve told you, Superintendent, this was a kind of reunion. I hadn’t seen these people for years. How should I know what they were likely to do now?’
‘Do people change that much?’
‘They change all right. When someone’s put a couple of ounces of lead pellets into your face, you change!’
Pascoe realized he was nearly shouting. Jesus, he thought, I should be back there too, lying on one of Constable Crowther’s comfortable beds with some of Doctor Hardisty’s comfortable pills inside me.
‘Sir!’ It was Hamblyn from the french window. Behind him stood two men.
‘It’s Mr French, the coroner, sir.’
‘Hello, Superintendent,’ said the taller of the two men who now stepped into the garden. He was over six feet, rather gaunt of feature, well tanned, his nose showing the pale indentations left by a frequent wearing of spectacles. His companion was a good nine inches shorter, less dramatic in every way, but his pale oval face was intelligent and far from weak. Both men wore casual, sporting clothes, French going in for bright colours, his companion much more subdued.
‘Sorry to take so long. You must have thought I’d be first on the spot, living on the doorstep so to speak. But I was half-way round the golf-course with Culpepper here. Dreadful business, this. Dreadful. You’d better tell me what I need to know.’
Culpepper, thought Pascoe, as Backhouse and the coroner moved back into the cottage together. The committee secretary – Marianne Culpepper. Her husband?
The man spoke to him and his words seemed to confirm this. His eyes were taking everything in. Despite his air of quiet authority, he felt a need to explain himself.
‘Excuse me, could you … You are with the police, I’m right?’
‘Pascoe, sir. Sergeant Pascoe.’
‘It’s not just morbid curiosity that brings me here, Sergeant. I live close by. I knew these people, the Hopkinses, I mean. When Mr French told me why he had to come back, I couldn’t believe it.’
He fell silent.
‘How close do you live, sir?’ asked Pascoe. It was easier to fall into the policeman role than explain his true position.
‘About half a mile. Round the side of the hill.’ He gestured vaguely towards the rising ground which lay to the south of the village.
‘What happened here, Sergeant? Is it true they are all dead?’
‘Mrs Hopkins is dead, sir,’ said Pascoe evenly. ‘And Mr Mansfield and Mr Rushworth, two guests who were spending the night with them.’
‘Oh, my God. What about Colin, Mr Hopkins? And the other guests?’
‘Other guests?’ said Pascoe sharply.
‘Yes. I ran into Mrs Hopkins in the village yesterday evening when I got back from the office. About five o’clock. It seems impossible … anyway, I asked them round for a drink tonight, but she explained they would have a houseful of guests. Four, she said. At least.’
It had been five-thirty when Pascoe had rung to say he and Ellie couldn’t make it that evening. If only that case hadn’t come up … or Dalziel hadn’t insisted … another two made the odds very strong against anyone trying anything with a double-barrelled shotgun. What an adaptable thing blame was; so easy to shift or attract.
‘Had you known Mr and Mrs Hopkins long, sir?’ asked Pascoe, evading the question about the guests.
‘Not long. Two or three months only, since they bought Brookside, in fact. They have worked so hard on it. The place was not in a good state of repair when they acquired it, you know. And they did wonders, wonders.’
He tailed off into silence.
‘Mr Pelman sold them the cottage, I believe,’ said Pascoe.
‘That’s right.’
Something in his tone made Pascoe pursue this line.
‘Did he live here himself before he sold the place?’
Culpepper smiled without much humour.
‘No. The cottage stands at the boundary of the land he bought when he came here five years ago. His house is the other side of the woods, his woods. That’s what he really wanted, of course. A place where he could pit his wits against the intelligence of various small beasts and birds. A most uneven contest, I fear.’
Am I supposed to be too thick to get the double irony? wondered Pascoe.
‘It’s strange, isn’t it, that the chairman of the Village Amenities Committee should let such a property fall into disrepair?’ murmured Pascoe.
Culpepper raised his eyebrows at him.
‘You glean your information fast, Sergeant.’
‘We spend our working life amidst the alien corn, sir.’
Culpepper suddenly nodded twice, as though something had been confirmed.
‘You’re the Hopkinses’ policeman friend, aren’t you? One of their week-end guests.’
Clever Mr Culpepper.
‘Yes. I am. How did you know?’
‘Mrs Hopkins, Rose, said something about you, when we talked yesterday.’
So I was an object of interest, worth a special mention. Like a literary lion. Or a two-headed man. What now, Mr Culpepper? wondered Pascoe. Indignation at my mild deceit?
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. This must be an unbearable situation for you,’ said Culpepper with apparently unforced sympathy. ‘Were you here when it happened?’
‘No,’ said Pascoe shortly. ‘I found them this morning when we arrived.’
‘How terrible. You say we?’
‘A friend. She’s resting now. It was a shock.’
‘Terrible. Terrible. Such things are a puzzle and a torment to the mind.’
Backhouse and French appeared.
‘Are you ready, Hartley?’ called the coroner.
‘Two-thirty this afternoon then, Superintendent. I hope you find your man quickly.’
He looked sideways at Pascoe and shook his head slightly, but didn’t speak. Culpepper held out his hand.
‘Goodbye, Mr Pascoe. I’m sorry we had to meet in such circumstances. Your friends were delightful people to have in the village. We counted ourselves lucky that they came here.’
Pascoe shook his hand. There was nothing to say in reply except perhaps that Rose would scarcely have counted herself lucky in coming here; nor Colin, wherever he was.
That was the only thing really worth talking about. Where Colin was. And why. Backhouse must be ready to get round to it now.
He was. French and Culpepper had scarcely disappeared from the garden before Backhouse asked the big question.
‘You’ve had time for reflection now, Sergeant. So tell me. Why should a man like Colin Hopkins take a shotgun and kill his wife and two close friends?’
Chapter 4 (#u73653413-60cb-5a2a-98c9-c96f5697afb8)
He had been expecting the question and had felt reserves of angry indignation building up inside him, ready to explode when it was asked. But for some reason the spark did not catch.
‘We don’t know he did,’ he protested weakly.
‘You’re a policeman,’ answered Backhouse. ‘Suppose this were your case. What assumption would you be working on?’
‘It’s all circumstantial. If you knew Colin, you’d know that it’s just impossible.’
‘I’ve encountered quite a few murderers,’ said Backhouse patiently. ‘I dare say you’ve met one or two yourself. One thing they nearly all had in common was a handful of close friends willing to attest with the most vehement sincerity that the accused was quite incapable of such a crime. Am I right?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Good. In any case, as you told me before, a few years can change things. Situations certainly. People as well, though to a lesser extent. So tell me what you know, what you remember. Is he a quick-tempered man?’
‘What the hell does it matter?’ said Pascoe. If he was going to be questioned as an ordinary witness, he would assume some of the privileges of an ordinary witness. Such as the unnecessity of politeness towards questioning policemen.
‘You’re going after him anyway. You’ll track him down, question him. If there’s enough evidence, you’ll put him in court. So why waste time talking to me?’
‘You know why, Sergeant,’ said Backhouse coldly. ‘Of course we’re going after him. And of course my men – your colleagues – will assume it’s very likely he has committed a triple murder. They’ll also assume he has a double-barrelled shotgun which he is willing to use. I want information, all the information I can get. I want to know the best way of dealing with him, which way he’s likely to jump. I thought I was lucky when I learnt you were in the force. A professional first on the scene. It was your bad luck. I thought it was my good luck.’
‘Every point taken,’ said Pascoe with tight-lipped emphasis. ‘Only, I cannot believe that he did it.’
‘Fair enough. Then why so antagonistic? Tell me things to prove his innocence. Was he a jealous man, do you think? Would his wife give him cause?’
‘Unlikely,’ said Pascoe with a frown. ‘At least they seemed set up for life. Ask Ellie, Miss Soper. She’s seen them much more recently. But we’ve talked a lot about them and she would certainly have mentioned any signs of a rift.’
‘There were two single men in the house last night,’ said Backhouse casually. ‘Old friends. Going back to before she married.’
Pascoe laughed now.
‘I see it! The triangle. Or even the quadrilateral. It’s a non-starter, Superintendent. Timmy and Carlo were, if anything, even more devoted than Rose and Colin.’
‘I see,’ said Backhouse softly. ‘I see. But things do change, as you say. Even … tastes. What kind of thing was it that would put Mr Hopkins into one of his terrible wraths?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘In the letter you showed me,’ said Backhouse, ‘he says something about his wrath being terrible if you don’t turn up, and adds that you know just how terrible his wrath can be. A figure of speech merely?’
Pascoe walked slowly forward and came to a halt on the edge of the bank which sloped steeply down to the brook. All the police activity was in the woods on the other side now. A slow, methodical and, as yet, completely unproductive search. Despite the warmth of the sun, many of the policemen were wearing waterproof overtrousers as the undergrowth was still soaked from the previous night’s torrential rain. It would have obliterated any sign of human passage, but it couldn’t wash away a shotgun.
‘No, not a figure of speech,’ said Pascoe. ‘He had a quick temper. Not a violent temper though, it never led him into violence against people. Certainly he never got anywhere near the kind of fury which could make a man pick up a shotgun, kill two of his friends, reload, and shoot his wife. What about the gun, by the way?’
‘A 410, we know that from the cartridge cases. But that’s it. There’s no sign of a licence anywhere in the cottage. Was Hopkins the kind of man to want to do some shooting? Game, I mean.’
‘Never knew him express an interest. Though he wasn’t an anti, like Carlo and Timmy.’
‘And his wife? Was she anti also?’
‘Rose? Hell, no. Rose grew up in the country, was used to the idea of birds tumbling from the tree-top straight into the pie-dish.’
‘So the presence of this’ – Backhouse waved at the woods – ‘in his back garden may have been a temptation?’
‘Why not ask Pelman? He’d be sure to know who was shooting on his land.’
Backhouse grinned.
‘Oh, he’s being asked, never fear. And we’re checking on all shotgun licences issued locally in the past three months. Mr Dalziel would be proud of us. So you reckon there was no chance of his doing it in a blind rage?’
Pascoe was beginning to adapt to the man’s questioning technique. He answered without pause.
‘No chance of his doing it. Period.’
‘In a blind rage. So, how about doing it in cold blood? What kind of thing might make your high-tempered extrovert friend consider shooting someone dead in cold blood?’
‘That’s even less likely than the other!’
‘So it’s more likely he did it in a blind rage?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ protested Pascoe.
‘I’m sorry. I thought you said it was less likely that he would do it in cold blood?’
‘For God’s sake! We’re not in court!’ snapped Pascoe, tiring of this word play.
‘It’s as well for your friend we are not,’ said Backhouse, turning and beginning to walk back to the cottage. Pascoe followed glumly and caught up with the superintendent in the dining-room. Together they stood and looked down at the chalked outlines on the floor.
‘These were your friends too,’ said Backhouse. ‘Innocent, guilty, have you any idea where a man like Colin Hopkins would head for after something like this?’
‘The nearest police station,’ said Pascoe.
Backhouse shrugged in resignation.
‘That’s where I’ll drop you, Sergeant. Thanks for your help.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Pascoe. ‘There doesn’t seem to be anything I can say. I’m sorry.’
‘No matter. Get back to Miss Soper. I’ll have another talk with her when she feels up to it. If she’s seen your friends more recently, it might help.’
‘Yes,’ said Pascoe, leading the way to the car. He stepped out of the cottage with a great sense of relief.
‘The inquest will be opened in the village school this afternoon,’ said Backhouse. ‘Just identification and causes of death, I should think. The usual procedure. Two-thirty. We won’t need Miss Soper at this stage. I’ll send a car for you.’
‘Yes.’
The rest of the short journey passed in silence. I’m a serious disappointment to him, thought Pascoe. All that kindness wasted.
Ellie was still asleep, so Pascoe went downstairs once more. Mrs Crowther put her head out of the kitchen door and asked how the lady was.
‘Sleeping,’ said Pascoe. ‘But she’s got her colour back.’
‘Good. It’ll do her good. You’ll be hungry, I don’t doubt. What about a gammon rasher and egg?’
‘No, I couldn’t put you out,’ protested Pascoe, realizing, slightly to his surprise, how hungry he was.
‘Not a bit. Crowther’ll be in any minute for his, so it’s no bother at all.’
It was a well cooked meal, interrupted twice by the telephone.
The first time it was Dalziel.
‘You all right?’ he asked.
‘Fine,’ said Pascoe.
‘I’ve got your report on the Cottingley break-in here. You write like a bloody woman’s magazine advertiser. When you mean he pissed in the kettle, why the hell don’t you write he pissed in the kettle?’
‘Sorry.’
‘He’s a dirty bastard this one. But clever with it. If we don’t get him soon, he’ll be retiring. How’s your girl?’
‘Resting. She’ll be OK.’
‘Good. They’re going after your mate, I hear.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Aye. We’ve had the look-out notice up here. What do you think? Did he do it?’
‘It looks bad.’
‘But you don’t think so? Well, listen. A word of advice. Don’t get mixed up more than you have to. Say your piece, sign your statement and get on home. Leave it to Backhouse. He’s a bit of an old woman, but he’s not a bad jack. And don’t be taken in by his good manners. He’ll drop you in the cart if he thinks it’ll help.’
‘Yes, sir. We’ll probably get back tomorrow.’
‘I should bloody well hope so. You’re due in here at eight-thirty on Monday morning. Don’t be late. Cheeroh.’
And up you too, thought Pascoe, looking at the receiver. The fat bastard was probably congratulating himself on his subtle psychological therapy.
The phone rang again as Mrs Crowther reached into the oven for his warming plate. This time to his surprise it was Hartley Culpepper.
‘I hoped I’d find you there, Mr Pascoe. Look, it struck me after I left you at the cottage, are you staying in the village tonight?’
‘Well, yes,’ said Pascoe, surprised. ‘Yes, I expect we are.’
‘Have you fixed up anything yet?’
‘No. Not yet. I haven’t really thought,’ answered Pascoe. It was true, he hadn’t given a thought to what they would do that night. The Crowthers, he suspected, would at a pinch keep Ellie, but it would mean a great deal of inconvenience for them.
‘Perhaps one of the pubs,’ he mused aloud.
‘Nonsense,’ said Culpepper firmly. ‘We would be delighted if you would stay with us. I was going to ask you and your friend to come to dinner, anyway. So why not bring your bags with you? This must have been a terrible strain for both of you. It’ll do you good – it will do us all good – to be in friendly company. Please come.’
‘It’s very kind of you,’ said Pascoe doubtfully.
‘Good,’ interrupted Culpepper. ‘We’ll expect you, about tea-time then. The Crowthers will be able to direct you. Goodbye.’
Everyone else is having the last word today, thought Pascoe.
Constable Crowther had arrived home and was taking his place at the other side of the kitchen-table. He nodded an acknowledgement at Pascoe and settled down to eating his meal. Either hunger or some form of diplomacy kept him silent, and Pascoe himself did not speak until he had disposed of his food without further interruption.
‘This will mean a lot of work for you,’ he said finally.
Crowther nodded.
‘A bit. There’s a beer in the cupboard behind you if you fancy it.’
‘Thanks,’ said Pascoe. ‘This’ll be a quiet patch normally?’
‘Quiet enough. Popular for break-ins.’
‘Is that so?’
Crowther nodded and chewed his gammon systematically. About thirty chews to the mouthful, Pascoe thought.
‘It’s mostly business people now, you see,’ resumed Crowther. ‘Working in the town. There’s been a lot of building.’
Another mouthful. Another thirty chews.
‘And renovation.’
‘Like Brookside Cottage?’
‘That’s right,’ said Crowther, nodding vigorously.
‘Was it empty when Mr Pelman decided to sell it?’
‘That’s right.’ Another mouthful. This time Pascoe counted. Twenty-eight, twenty-nine. ‘Mr Pelman didn’t like that. It was a handy way into his woods from the road for anyone wanting to pot a few birds. And the cottages themselves was always getting broken into. Not that there was anything to take, you understand. Practising for bigger stuff, I reckoned. But they did a lot of damage.’
So. Vandals and poachers all swanning round Brookside Cottage. Homicidal? It was surprising how many people were under the right conditions.
Even people you knew quite well.
‘Pelman put it on the market then?’ mused Pascoe. ‘That was quite clever. He’d make a bit of money and have someone there to man his frontier post.’
‘Hardly that,’ objected Crowther. ‘You can get into Pelman’s woods at a dozen places. And there’s not all that much in there anyhow.’
‘No red deer and grizzly bear?’
‘No,’ answered Crowther, adding, as though in reproach of Pascoe’s mild levity, ‘just a lot of coppers at the moment.’
Pascoe sipped his beer. Crowther’s tastes ran to lukewarm brown ale, it appeared. The thought put him in mind of the two village pubs, in one of which Rose Hopkins had last been seen by anyone alive to tell the tale. Except one person.
‘What’s the difference between the Eagle and Child and the Queen Anne?’ he asked. It sounded like a child’s conundrum, but Crowther didn’t seem puzzled.
‘The Eagle’s a free house. Owned by Major Palfrey. The Anne’s tied to the brewery. Mr and Mrs Dixon just manage it. Not just. They manage it very well, I mean. Nice couple.’
‘Who uses which? Or is it just the nearest that people go to?’
Crowther looked at him closely.
‘Couldn’t say,’ he said. ‘I use the Anne myself.’
‘Just because it’s the nearest?’ insisted Pascoe. ‘I should have thought the local law would have had to preserve a fine show of impartiality towards licensed premises.’
‘I do,’ said Crowther. ‘When I’m on duty. But off, I like to be comfortable where I drink.’
He seemed to make his mind up that Pascoe had a sympathetic ear and leaned over the table confidentially.
‘Difference is, and this is just me, mind you,’ he went on, ‘the Dixons make you feel welcome, the Major always makes me feel he’s doing me a favour by pulling me a pint.’
He nodded emphatically and started rolling an absurdly thin cigarette in an ancient machine. Pascoe laughed knowingly.
‘Major Palfrey thinks he’s the squire rather than the landlord, does he?’
‘That’s the trouble with this place now,’ averred the constable, lighting his cigarette which burnt like a fuse. ‘It’s full of bloody squires. Trouble is, there aren’t enough peasants to go round.’
Constable Crowther, it appeared, invariably took a ten-minute nap after his lunch and could see no reason to interrupt his routine today. Pascoe was sorry about this. The man’s conversation interested him and he was still desperately in need of things to interest him. He decided to take a walk, down to the village perhaps, find out what was going on. As he stood up, he realized he hadn’t mentioned the arrangements that had been made for the evening.
Mrs Crowther came into the kitchen and bustled around her snoozing husband, clearing the table with no effort at noise-evasion.
‘Miss Soper and I are going to spend the night at Mr Culpepper’s house,’ said Pascoe. ‘I’d like to let Miss Soper sleep, though, as long as possible. Is that OK?’
‘We could have kept you here,’ answered the woman. ‘Our lad could have used the camp-bed.’
‘Thank you very much. But I didn’t want to trouble you. And Mr Culpepper was most insistent.’
Crowther opened his eyes and looked straight at Pascoe.
‘Culpepper,’ he said. He made it sound like an accusation. Then he went back to sleep.
In Crowther’s book, Culpepper was probably one of the self-appointed squires, thought Pascoe as he stood outside the station in the bright sunlight and took his bearings. He wasn’t certain if he altogether liked what he saw. Not that it wasn’t pretty. In the rememberable past Thornton Lacey must have been a roadside hamlet of a couple of dozen houses plus a church, a shop and a pub which served the numerous farms in the rich surrounding countryside. But things had changed. Over the hill one day, perhaps only a couple of decades ago, had come the first – the first what? He remembered the phrase in Colin’s letter. Pallid cits. The first pallid cit. Soon there must have been droves of them. And they were still coming. He recalled as he had driven in that morning an arrowed notice on the outskirts of the village had directed their attention to a High Class Development of Executive Residences. It had made them laugh to think of Colin and Rose in such company. Many things had made them laugh on the journey.
With an effort of will he returned his attention to the village. Pallid cits had to be catered for. There was a ladies’ hairdressing salon very tastefully slotted beneath an awryly-timbered top storey. At least two Gothic-scripted antique shops were visible. Passing pallid cits had to be tempted to stop and invest in the past. But not to stop permanently, he suspected. No one defends the countryside and its traditions more fiercely than he who has just got planning permission for his own half-acre. The Village Amenities Committee didn’t sound like a farmworkers’ trade union, somehow.
It’s that bloody woman again, thought Pascoe gloomily. Why have I taken against her so much so rapidly? And I’m spending the night under her roof.
But why the hell should I? I didn’t want to.
That anger which had been bubbling under the surface all morning suddenly broke through again. He had progressed about a quarter of a mile down the long, winding village street and now realized he was opposite the Queen Anne. On an impulse he crossed over and went in.
It wasn’t long till closing time and the bar was empty.
‘Lager, please,’ he said to the attractively solid-fleshed woman who came to take his order.
‘Thirsty weather,’ she said with a smile.
‘Do you put people up?’ he asked, sipping his drink.
‘Sorry. You might try the Eagle and Child. They have a couple of rooms there they sometimes let.’
‘Thanks. Is it Mrs Dixon, by the way?’ Pascoe asked.
‘That’s right,’ the woman answered, looking at him with sudden wariness. ‘Why?’
‘You served Mrs Hopkins, Mrs Rose Hopkins of Brookside Cottage, last night I believe.’
‘Yes. Yes, I did.’ She glanced through into the other bar.
‘Sam. Sam, love. Got a moment?’
A red, jolly-faced man, solid as his wife, stepped through, a smile on his lips. Pascoe could understand how Crowther felt made welcome.
‘Lovely day, sir. Yes, my dear?’
‘This gentleman’s asking about Mrs Hopkins.’
Sam Dixon composed his features to a solemnity they clearly weren’t made for.
‘A dreadful business. Are you from the Press, sir?’
‘No,’ said Pascoe. The man looked nonplussed for a moment.
‘The thing is,’ he said finally, ‘it’s an upsetting business. Molly – my wife – has spoken to the police already. Now, we don’t like talking about our customers at the best of times, but in circumstances like this, especially with friends of the poor woman …’
‘I’m a friend,’ said Pascoe suddenly. He appreciated the man’s diplomacy but he couldn’t keep the abruptness out of his voice. ‘I was a friend. I’m not just after a bit of sensational titillation.’
‘I never suggested you were, sir,’ said Dixon quietly.
‘No. Of course you didn’t. I’m sorry,’ said Pascoe. ‘The thing is, well, I found them, you see.’
Absurdly he found himself unable to go on. One part of him was detached, viewing the phenomenon with a sort of professional interest. He had seen this kind of thing a hundred times in his job, had come to watch for it, the moment when a witness to a crime or an accident suddenly feels what he has seen. It was a completely unforecastable syndrome. Sometimes it was accompanied by complete collapse. Or mild amnesia. Blind panic. Or, as now, temporary paralysis of the speech organs.
A large brandy appeared under his nose from nowhere. If you had to act like this, his detached portion thought, here was clearly the place to do it.
‘Sit down, sir. Drink this up. Nothing like it for clearing the head.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Pascoe, suddenly regaining control of his tongue. ‘It’s ridiculous.’
‘Nonsense. Go on, knock that brandy back.’
He did so and felt much better.
‘You’re very kind,’ he said, trying to regain control of the situation. ‘I’m sorry. I should have said who I was before I started asking questions.’
‘Not at all.’ Dixon eyed him with the calculating scrutiny of one long expert at diagnosing the condition of his customers. Pascoe evidently passed muster.
‘What did you want to know?’
‘Just what happened when Mrs Hopkins came in. What she said. That kind of thing.’
This was silly. It would all be on record. Backhouse might let him see it. Certainly he could arrange unofficially to have a look. What did he expect to do, anyway? Spot some incredibly subtly concealed clue which would reveal precisely what happened last night and prove Colin … innocent? He must be innocent! Then where the hell was he?
‘There was nothing special about last night,’ Molly Dixon was saying. ‘We were very busy. You’d expect that at that time on a Friday night, but it was worse than usual as I was on my own with just our barmaid, and she’s a bit slow. Sam was at the Amenities Committee Meeting. Rose came to the off-licence counter there.’
She pointed at a small hatch which was visible through a door in the wall joining the two bars.
‘There’s a bell in there. She rang it. I went through as soon as I could. “A bottle of scotch,” she said. “First that comes to hand will do. I can see you’re busy.” I gave her a bottle. “Will this do?” I asked. “Anything,” she said. “They’ve had so much I could give them cold tea.” “I’d try hot coffee if they’re that bad,” I said. She paid me, took the bottle and went. There should have been a penny change. I shouted, but she didn’t hear, and next thing I heard a car starting, so I went back to the fray.’
‘The Mini-Cooper? You heard the Mini?’ asked Pascoe.
‘I’m not that expert! It sounded a bit sporty, that’s all.’
‘And she said nothing else?’
‘Not that I can remember. It was a very busy night.’
‘Of course. I’m very grateful to you,’ said Pascoe. ‘Just one thing. You called Mrs Hopkins “Rose”.’
‘That’s her name, isn’t … wasn’t it?’ said Molly, puzzled.
‘Yes, of course. What I meant was, you knew her quite well?’
‘Oh yes! We got on very well right from the start. I’d only known her and Colin a couple of months, but we soon got on friendly terms. That’s why it came as such a shock … I still can’t believe it.’
‘They didn’t use the other pub, then? The Eagle and Child.’
He intercepted a quick glance between the man and his wife. Intercepted and, he thought, interpreted.
‘They may have done on occasions,’ said Dixon in a neutral tone.
‘Come on!’ said Pascoe. ‘Rose is dead and God knows what’s happened to Colin. So you can forget professional etiquette for once, can’t you?’
Another glance. This time the woman spoke.
‘They went there to start with, I think. It was a bit nearer to the cottage. And it’s popular with …’
She hesitated.
‘The squirearchy,’ supplied Pascoe. ‘What happened?’
‘There was a bit of trouble. A row or something.’
‘With the Major?’
‘I’m not sure. They didn’t mention it till we’d got to know them quite well. I mean, they wouldn’t come in here right away and start complaining about the other pub. They weren’t that kind of people,’ protested Molly.
‘You’re right,’ said Pascoe. ‘They weren’t.’
‘They only mentioned it at all as a joke. Saying how lucky it was they had been driven out of the Garden of Eden. Felix culpa, Colin called it. He loved to make quotations.’
‘Yes, he did,’ said Pascoe. ‘But whose culpa,I wonder.’
He stood up.
‘You’ve been very kind. Colin and Rose were always fortunate in their choice of friends.’
It sounded corny. Or at best vain. But he meant it and the Dixons obviously appreciated it. He left, promising to call back later.
His talk with the Dixons had cheered him and he felt in an almost happy mood as he turned into the Eagle and Child. It was a pleasant room, cool and well wooded. And almost empty. They didn’t drink very hard round here. Not at lunch-time anyway. A half-eaten sandwich and half-empty glass on a corner table hinted at someone in the gents. But the only visible customers were seated at the bar. One was a grey-haired, lantern-jawed man in shirt-sleeves. The other was much more colourful. Long auburn hair fell luxuriantly on to shoulders over which was casually draped a soft-leather jacket in pastel yellow. His intelligent face was set in an expression of rapt attentiveness as he listened to the other man.
Pascoe went up to the bar and waited for someone to appear to serve him. He was not impatient. There was a timeless aura about this old room which suited his mood very well. It was comforting somehow to think of Rose and Colin so quickly making friends in the village. Pascoe was used to death bringing out the best in people’s memories, but there had been a genuine ring about the Dixon’s tributes. And Culpepper’s, and even Pelman’s for that matter.
Along the bar the lantern-jawed man’s voice rose in emphasis and became audible. It was impossible not to hear.
‘But if you want the truth about this fella, Hopkins – and don’t quote me on this, mind – I would say there’s no doubt at all the man is completely unbalanced. Off his chump. I said it from the start.’
Chapter 5 (#u73653413-60cb-5a2a-98c9-c96f5697afb8)
Pascoe’s anger broke at last. The professional part of his mind told him he was being very silly, but it didn’t slow him down one jot.
He crossed the floor in a couple of strides and seized the lantern-jawed man by the shoulder, dragging him round so forcefully that he half slipped off his stool and only saved himself from falling by dropping his glass and grabbing at the bar.
The leather-jacketed drinker leapt clear with great agility and without spilling a drop of his drink, then settled down to view the situation with interest.
‘Who the hell are you?’ asked Pascoe in a low, rapid voice. ‘Some kind of doctor? A psychiatrist? A trained social worker, perhaps? Or perhaps just specially gifted with superb bloody insight?’
He found he was punctuating his phrases with violent forefinger jabs into the man’s midriff. Far from being distressed by the discovery, he found himself contemplating the greater satisfaction he might derive from putting all his pugilistic eggs into one basket and smashing his fist into this fellow’s unpleasant, sneering face.
To give him his due, the man did not look frightened, merely taken aback by the unexpectedness of the attack.
‘What the hell – look here – you bloody madman!’ he expostulated.
Pascoe had almost made up his mind. Even the memory that last time he had thrown a punch in anger the result had been a mild contusion for the recipient and a broken forefinger for himself did not deter him. He clenched his fist.
‘Pascoe!’
It was the authentic voice of absolute authority. It might have been Dalziel. He turned. Standing up out of the shadows of the corner near the gents was Backhouse.
A violent push in the back sent Pascoe staggering a few paces forward. His adversary had taken advantage of the interruption to get both feet firmly on the floor and counter-attack. Pascoe looked round at the grey-haired figure crouched in the standard aggressive posture. He looked as if he might in fact know how to handle himself. But this didn’t prevent him from seeming faintly ludicrous, and Pascoe felt his anger ebb away as he recognized his own absurdity.
‘Go to hell,’ he said wearily and pulled out a chair and sat down opposite the superintendent.
Backhouse still looked angry but didn’t say anything. Instead he picked up his not quite empty glass and went towards the bar.
‘A light ale this time, please, and a scotch.’
‘For him? He gets no service here. In fact if he’s not out in thirty seconds, I’ll get the police to throw him out.’
Pascoe turned, surprised. His late adversary was confronting Backhouse with undiminished aggression. This must be Palfrey, the pub-owning major.
Pascoe groaned inwardly. Even the toughest toughs worked to the principle that if you had to fight in pubs, you never picked on the landlord. Backhouse, he realized, was now in an awkward position. The leather-coated fellow might well be a reporter. Almost certainly was from the tone of Palfrey’s remarks to him. He couldn’t know yet who the participants in this little drama were, but he would soon find out.
Pascoe rose and made for the door.
‘It’s all right,’ he said to Backhouse as he passed. ‘I prefer pubs where the barman sticks to his own side of the counter.’
Thirty yards along the street he paused and waited for Backhouse to overtake him.
‘Mr Dalziel never mentioned you were such a violent man,’ said the superintendent conversationally.
‘He wouldn’t,’ said Pascoe. ‘I wear a heavy disguise whenever I attack him. Will he do anything?’
He gestured back towards the pub.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Backhouse. ‘For once the publican’s well-known reluctance to call in the police could work on our side.’
‘He didn’t know who you were?’ asked Pascoe unnecessarily.
‘No. I was just having a quiet sandwich and listening with great interest to the major’s reminiscences of your friends to the Press when you so rudely interrupted him.’
‘So that thing in the kinky gear was a reporter?’ asked Pascoe.
‘Yes. Not, so far as I could gather, a regular crime man. Some kind of feature writer who happened to be on the spot and is looking for an interesting angle. That’s why he’s in the Eagle chatting to the major instead of herding with the others at the village school, waiting for the inquest to begin.’
‘Already?’ Pascoe was surprised. He glanced at his watch. It was just on two.
‘Somehow they got the notion it was starting at one-thirty instead of two-thirty. Hence I was able to grab a bite of lunch in peace.’
Backhouse’s voice held no irony in either sentence. Superintendents don’t need to be ironic, thought Pascoe bitterly.
‘What was Palfrey saying about Rose and Colin?’ he asked abruptly. ‘They had a row, you know. That’s why they used the Queen Anne.’
Backhouse sighed deeply.
‘You know, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘you really must try to break the habit of a lifetime, or however long you’ve been in the force, and not investigate this sorry business. Trust your colleagues. If you don’t, it can only lead to grief. You might even end up, heaven forbid, obstructing the police in the execution of their duty.’
‘Yes,’ said Pascoe, not bothering much to infuse repentant sincerity into his voice. ‘Now what was Palfrey saying? Sir.’
‘Little enough. I think your friends were a little – what would be the in-character word? – Bohemian for his taste. According to his version of the quarrel, he barred his doors to them because their language and behaviour gave offence to many of his old and valued customers. There are, and I quote him now, some words which even in this day and age he would not wish a woman to hear nor expect a lady to use. I think I’ve got that fine antithesis right. Did Mrs Hopkins swear a lot?’
‘When the occasion arose.’
‘But not enough to give rise to the occasion?’
‘Not when I knew her,’ answered Pascoe.
‘But that, as you frequently remind me, was some years ago. To continue. Palfrey under the influence of a couple of gins became confidential, said he was not altogether startled that such a household could come to such an end, and had just launched into his attack on your friend’s balance of mind when you interrupted him.’
‘I should have broken his bloody neck,’ said Pascoe dispassionately.
Backhouse sighed once more.
‘I suggested to your boss I might like to keep you by me for a while. I was wrong. The sooner you head back to Yorkshire, the better. And don’t go near the Eagle and Child again before you go. That’s an official warning. Understand?’
‘Sir,’ said Pascoe. ‘What about you?’
‘Oh, never fear. I’ll see him again and ask him a few questions. It was hardly an opportune moment just now, was it?’
He laughed and burped slightly.
‘I won’t touch his draught again, though. His pipes must badly need decoking.’
Their conversation had brought them to the village hall. A uniformed constable now stood on duty at the door. He stiffened to attention as the superintendent passed. Pascoe hesitated on the threshold.
‘You’d better come in,’ said Backhouse. ‘Then I can keep an eye on you. We’ll go up to the inquest together.’
The hall now contained a neatly deployed and efficient-looking unit, though at a glance Pascoe could tell there was very little happening at this precise moment. There was a slight acceleration of tempo for Backhouse’s benefit as he walked the length of the room, but the atmosphere of the place was one of straightforward, almost drowsy routine. A few dust-filled buttresses of sunlight from the narrow window leaned against the shadowy walls. It might have been a summer’s afternoon in a Victorian bank.
Backhouse came up, looking at his watch.
‘It’s about ten minutes’ walk to the school. We won’t bother with the car, if that’s all right with you.’
‘Surely.’
‘Good. I like to get what exercise I can. There’s nothing new by the way. I’ve brought the men out of the woods. Waste of time. They’ll be better on house-to-house.’
Outside they almost ran into the man in the yellow leather jacket. He raised his eyebrows comically as he saw them.
‘Hello, darlings,’ he said. ‘I thought you looked a bit peelerish back in the pub.’
‘It was kind of you not to comment, sir,’ said Backhouse courteously.
‘That’s all right. I’m strictly an observer, aren’t I? You can reward me, though. How do I get to the village school? I thought I might look in on this inquest thing.’
‘We’re going there ourselves. Perhaps you’d care to join us?’ said Backhouse, somewhat to Pascoe’s surprise.
‘Well, I suppose it’s either that or following you, which might look a trifle odd. This is definitely not a place to look odd in, is it, don’t you think? I imagine they stone you if you look odd.’
‘You seemed to get on very well with the landlord back there,’ remarked Backhouse as they set off up the winding sun-mellow street.
‘Yes. Well, I’m Press, you see, and these village publicans are always hoping for a little puff in the colour mags, if you see what I mean. I’ve done one or two country-pub gourmet features, you know the kind of thing; horse-brass up your ass, and a beautifully kept pork pie.’
‘You must be Anton Davenant,’ said Backhouse.
‘That’s right. How clever. Sounds like a dirty French song, doesn’t it? And you …?’
‘Backhouse. Detective-Superintendent. And this is Sergeant Pascoe.’
‘Oh.’
Pascoe felt the man’s gaze run swiftly over him as though taking a blueprint and laying it aside for future reference. He recognized the name Davenant faintly. He rarely had time to get as far as the colour supplements on a Sunday, but on some occasion recently he had come across the name.
‘How envious all these hard-bitten crime men will be when I turn up in such illustrious company,’ said Davenant.
‘As a matter of interest,’ said Backhouse, ‘just what are you doing here among all these hard-bitten crime men?’
‘I was fortunate enough to be in the vicinity, that’s all. And my current editor, knowing I was hereabouts, instantly got in touch when this dreadful business was bruited abroad. I think he hopes for something rather quaint from me. A Vintage Murder perhaps. Or First Catch Your Killer. He used words like atmosphere and human interest, and eventually (and here I capitulated), money. But enough of interesting me. What of interesting you? What have your fascinating investigations upturned?’
‘Very little so far, Mr Davenant,’ said Backhouse cheerfully, pausing to admire a magnificent dahlia border and being admired in his turn by at least three shadowy figures Pascoe could see behind lace-curtains.
Curiously enough, Davenant seemed satisfied with this answer.
‘That must be the old village school at the top of the hill,’ he said. ‘And over there I spy the old village shop. I must stock up with ciggies. Please don’t wait for me. I may find myself compelled to linger, soaking up atmosphere.’
‘Don’t take too long,’ said Backhouse. ‘It’ll all be over very quickly I should think.’
The journalist disappeared into the tiny shop and the two policemen continued their walk.
‘He showed a less than fervent interest in your investigations,’ said Pascoe thoughtfully.
‘True. Not at all like the mob I’m sure we will meet up here.’
Backhouse was right. There was quite a crowd of reporters waiting outside the school. And an equal crowd of local children had gathered to watch the reporters. Backhouse promised them a statement after the inquest, spoke a few sympathetic words to a television film crew who had got lost on their way to Thornton Lacey and were desperately trying to make themselves operative, then he went inside. Pascoe followed close, still anonymous.
French, the coroner, was there already, his golfing gear exchanged for a grey suit. He and Backhouse exchanged a few words, then very quickly he got the inquest under way.
The superintendent was right about this too. Pascoe was called upon briefly to give evidence of identification and time of discovery; Dr Hardisty gave medical evidence of the cause of death, based partly on his own observation and partly on the pathologist’s preliminary report which had just arrived. Death resulted in all three cases from shotgun wounds. The two men had been shot at close quarters with one cartridge apiece. Timothy Mansfield had received his shot full in the chest and had died as a result of the damage inflicted on his lungs and heart. Charles Rushworth had been shot in the neck and lower face. His windpipe had been severed. Rose Hopkins had been shot from a greater distance than the other two, but both barrels of the gun had been used on her. No vital organ had been hit, but her jugular vein had been severed and she had bled to death as she lay unconscious from the shock of the onslaught.
Pascoe put his head in his hands and stared desperately at the floor. The wood was old and tending to splinter. Dangerous that for children.
Time of death was between eight and eleven pm. The full autopsy results might be more precise, but the coroner would appreciate that with three bodies to work on, it had not yet been possible to deal fully with them all.
The coroner appreciated this, spoke briefly of the horror of the event, wished the police inquiries an early success, and declared the inquest adjourned.
Pascoe had had enough to do with inquests to know what this meant. An early arrest was expected. No attempt would be made to resume the inquest if this happened and someone was charged. The coroner would wait until the criminal court proceedings were over, then make his return to the registrar of deaths on the basis of that court’s verdict.
And if an early arrest was looked for, there could only be one person they had in mind.
As he rose to leave, he found himself surrounded by newspapermen. From being just an anonymous policeman, he had been pitched into the current star role. For the discoverer of the deaths to be a detective himself, and an old friend of both the murdered trio and the chief suspect, was a splendid bit of gilt for this lily of a murder. They were as decent and compassionate as it is possible to be when a dozen or more people are all trying to have their questions answered at the same time. To Pascoe it felt like having his head in a cloud of amplified midges. He tried to answer their questions for a few minutes, then, trailing them with him, he pushed his way to the door.
Backhouse’s car was parked by the school-gate. Pascoe opened the door and climbed in.
‘The super says to take me back to the station,’ he told the driver, who set off without hesitation.
A piece of mind-reading rather than a lie, thought Pascoe as he settled back in his seat.
As the car passed the little shop on the hill, he saw the colourful figure of Davenant just coming out. The man gave a cheery wave, apparently little disturbed at having missed the inquest. Pascoe ignored him. You didn’t wave at people from police cars.
The main street traffic had suddenly become very heavy and they had to wait a few minutes at the intersection.
‘It’s been on the news,’ said the driver knowledgeably.
‘What?’ said Pascoe.
‘The murders. That’s what this lot are after. It’s better than Grandstand on a nice afternoon.’
It was a phenomenon that Pascoe was not unused to. The spectator syndrome he had once called it to Dalziel, who had shrugged and said that it was better than watching cock-fighting and cheaper than watching strippers and what the hell kind of word was syndrome anyway? Before today it had often fascinated him as a sociologist and sometimes annoyed him as a policeman. But now it made him sick and angry. It did no good to tell himself that most of the shirt-sleeved drivers and their family-packed cars were probably going about their legitimate Saturday afternoon business. The thought that any of them had driven out of their way especially to look at the cottage where last night three people were shot to death filled him with an indiscriminate loathing.
At Crowther’s house he stepped from the car with the curtest of nods to the driver and went quickly inside.
To his surprise Ellie was up and dressed. She looked pale but alert and warded off his attempt at a comforting embrace.
‘Have they found Colin?’ was her first question.
He shook his head.
‘What happened at the inquest?’
‘It was adjourned.’
‘I asked you what happened. They didn’t just open the thing and adjourn it, did they?’
‘No. They took evidence of identification and cause of death.’
‘Tell me.’
At first he demurred, but she pressed him hard and his own powers of resistance were so low that in the end it was easier to answer her questions than evade them.
‘So it happened between eight and eleven?’
‘Yes. They reckon so.’
‘And Rose bled to death, lying there unconscious?’
‘Yes.’ He spoke very low. He knew what was coming, didn’t want her to say it, but knew no way of preventing it.
‘So then. If it hadn’t been for you and your bloody job, we’d have got there last night. We might have got there in time to stop all of this happening. We’d certainly have got there in time to help Rose. Is that right?’
‘I suppose so. Yes. I’ve thought of it too.’
‘Have you now? I should hope you have. What I wonder, Peter, is how the hell are you ever going to stop thinking about it?’
She turned from the window at which she had been standing and faced him accusingly.
‘Have you thought about that?’
Chapter 6 (#ulink_528dd1fb-9132-5530-977d-1995821ba112)
‘What I should like from you, Miss Soper, if you feel up to it,’ said Backhouse sympathetically, ‘is background information. Anything at all you can tell us about Rose and Colin Hopkins. And the other two as well, of course.’
He had turned up midway through the bitter quarrel which had followed Ellie’s accusations. The news that Ellie had recovered sufficiently to leave her bed had been given him by Crowther and he had come as quickly as possible. Not that there was any real urgency about interviewing the woman. The trouble was that now the machine had been started and was running smoothly, there was no real urgency about anything. It had been decided to issue photographs of Hopkins to the Press and television services. He was still being described as ‘a man the police wish to interview’. At the same time, the public were being warned that if they saw him or his car, they should make no approach themselves but call the nearest police station.
So now it was mainly a matter of sitting back and waiting for the reported sightings to start flowing in.
He looked impassively at the photograph in his hand. It wasn’t bad. The police photographer had had a good selection to choose from. The Hopkinses had been hoarders of snapshots. There had even been a couple with a very youthful but instantly recognizable Peter Pascoe grinning merrily at the camera. But this he held in his hand was the face they were after. An intelligent face. Wide-eyed, a humorous mouth easily pulled into a smile or opened for laughter, yet something restless haunted those features. The picture of his wife gave a much greater impression of calm reliability. Perhaps he needed this in her. Had needed it. Was without it now.
‘You’ll have to ask me questions,’ said Ellie. ‘I don’t know where to start.’
‘Of course. It’s difficult, I understand. I’ll put the big question first. Have you any idea where Colin Hopkins might be?’
‘No, I haven’t. I’m sorry, but …’ she looked from Backhouse to Pascoe who sat, pale and withdrawn, staring through the window. She hasn’t caught on yet, thought Backhouse suddenly. She thinks Hopkins was called away unexpectedly last night, is going to appear full of horrified amazement at what’s happened, will need to be calmed, comforted, consoled. For God’s sake, what the devil has Pascoe been saying to her?
He remembered the atmosphere when he arrived. Strained, tense, there had been great hostility in the air. Any minute now, some of it was coming his way. He might as well get it over with.
‘Miss Soper,’ he said gently, ‘I think you should understand the position. Mr Hopkins was almost certainly with his wife and friends last night. He had had dinner with them. He had been drinking with them after dinner. We know this. There was a half-filled glass with his fingerprints on in the lounge.’
‘What are you saying, Superintendent?’ asked Ellie, pushing her hair back from her brow.
Pascoe interrupted from the window.
‘He’s saying that they’re not searching for Colin so they can give him the bad news. They want him as the chief – in fact, the only – suspect,’ he said.
Ellie froze, her hand still at her brow.
‘Of course,’ she said after a while. ‘I’ve been silly. It must be those bloody pills they gave me. That’s what you would think, isn’t it? It’s nonsense, of course, but that’s how your minds would work.’
At least she’s taking it quietly, thought Backhouse. Too soon. She turned towards Pascoe.
‘So while I’ve been sleeping, you’ve been helping them hunt down Colin?’ she uttered vituperatively. ‘And now they’ve pumped you dry, they want to see if I can put them on to any other scents!’
‘For a would-be novelist you do mix your metaphors,’ said Pascoe coldly.
‘Please, please,’ said Backhouse soothingly. ‘Let’s keep things calm. Miss Soper, if it’s any consolation to you – though, as an intelligent and no doubt public-spirited woman, I don’t see why it should be – Sergeant Pascoe has been most unco-operative, even antagonistic, with regard to our search for Mr Hopkins. In fact, I had to intervene to prevent him from physically assaulting one man who talked critically of your friend. Such loyalty, I hasten to add, I do not find touching but foolish. The circumstantial evidence against your friend is strong. But now if it turns out to be misleading, he’s got to be found. Now, will you help?’
Ellie nodded, her eyes on Pascoe.
‘Yes. If I can,’ she said quietly.
‘Right. Tell me about Colin Hopkins then.’
‘We were all at university together,’ she began. ‘Colin, Rose, Timmy, Carlo. And Peter and me. We were pretty close. There were plenty of others, of course, but we were close.’
‘You all went on holiday together,’ prompted Backhouse.
‘That’s right. So we did. In Eskdale.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘Life seemed fairly cut and dried then. In the nicest way. Rose and Colin. Peter and me. And …’
‘The other two men were homosexual,’ said Backhouse neutrally.
‘Yes. That’s right,’ said Ellie challengingly. Backhouse ignored the challenge.
‘Things seem to have worked out as you anticipated,’ he said. ‘But you seem uncertain?’
‘I didn’t anticipate this,’ she snapped, relenting instantly. ‘Sorry. No, after we all finished, it was only Colin and Rose who stuck together. They got married about a year later. I don’t think they’d have bothered, but Colin had joined a publishing house and they thought it was worthwhile observing the conventions till he got stinking rich. Timmy was a linguist and got a job in the Common Market HQ in Brussels. Carlo went to work for some firm in Glasgow. I finished my research.’
‘Research?’ interrupted Backhouse.
‘That’s right. I was a graduate research student. I just condescended to mingle with the children. I’m a couple of years older than the others,’ she added defiantly.
Backhouse studied her slim figure, held the gaze of the grey eyes set in the finely-sculpted head with its close-cut jet black hair.
‘You carry your burden of years very well,’ he murmured.
‘Thanks.’ She smiled, the first time he had seen her do so. ‘I got an assistant lectureship in the Midlands. And Peter, of course, put on the helmet of salvation and became a policeman. I think the only time we all met together again was at Colin and Rose’s wedding.’
‘Not Timmy,’ interjected Pascoe. ‘He couldn’t make it.’
‘That’s right. He couldn’t. Well, we all kept intermittently in touch and saw something of each other. Except Peter. Within a couple of years or so he’d fallen almost completely from sight.’
‘I was very busy. Besides being poorly paid with very limited vacation periods,’ said Pascoe.
‘A policeman’s lot,’ said Backhouse.
‘Of course, he got a bit of a complex too. Felt that he would be a bit of a nuisance, perhaps even a butt, in the liberal academic and cultural circles his friends inhabited,’ said Ellie mockingly. But her tone was light.
‘But you saw the others?’
‘Sometimes. A couple of years ago, Timmy returned from the Continent. I think Carlo had already been working in London for six months or so. They took a flat together. Colin meanwhile had been going from strength to strength and had become the darling of his bosses to such an extent that he got them persuaded a few months ago to give him a year’s sabbatical so that he could write his book which would make everybody’s fortune. Brookside Cottage was where he decided to settle for the period. And he planned to keep it on as a week-end retreat after his triumphal return to London.’
‘I see,’ said Backhouse thoughtfully. ‘And did you know all this before you met him in London recently?’
Ellie shot a quick glance at Pascoe.
‘It was in the letter of invitation which the sergeant showed me,’ explained Backhouse.
‘I knew vaguely about it,’ said Ellie. ‘But it wasn’t till I met him that I got all the details.’
‘A chance meeting, was it?’
‘That’s right. Chance. Oh hell, no. Not chance. I’ve been trying to flog a book of my own, a novel. Without much success. I laid an ambush for Colin. I thought he might be able to help.’
‘You never told me that,’ said Pascoe, surprised.
‘No,’ said Ellie sheepishly.
‘Peter had told me to get in touch with Colin from the start,’ she added to Backhouse. ‘But I was too proud. And I don’t like putting my friends on the spot. But when things didn’t go too well with the book …’
‘You laid an ambush,’ said Backhouse. ‘Any luck?’
‘I didn’t even mention it,’ sighed Ellie. ‘He’d just got everything organized for his own move and was bubbling over. It didn’t seem fair to take advantage. And when I told him that Peter and I had re-established contact, he was genuinely delighted, took his address, said we’d be the first to sample his rural hospitality. Here we are.’
‘So he was a man who had everything going for him at the moment?’
‘Everything,’ echoed Ellie.
There was a knock at the door which opened almost simultaneously.
‘Cup of tea,’ said Mrs Crowther, coming into the room with a tray and the expression of one with whom superintendents cut very little ice.
She put the tray down in front of Ellie and took a small bundle of typewritten sheets out of her capacious apron pocket.
‘Here. These are for you,’ she said to Backhouse. ‘I’ve been typing them for Crowther. If you take them now, it’ll save him a journey later. Not that I’d pay them all that much attention. It’s his job to hear things, but they were a nice young couple, the Hopkinses. That’s what counts, not a lot of malicious gossip.’
She left with the shadow of a wink at Ellie.
‘Interesting woman,’ commented Backhouse, riffling through the papers. ‘We could do with her on the strength.’
‘I think you’ve got her,’ said Pascoe drily.
Backhouse folded Crowther’s report carefully and slipped it into his pocket.
‘To get back to business,’ he said. ‘Can either of you think of anything at all which might cause stress and strain in the relationships between these four?’
‘Not really,’ said Ellie. ‘Rose and Colin always talked most affectionately of the other two. And vice-versa as far as I know.’
She glanced across at Pascoe. Backhouse could not read her expression.
‘You talked to Mrs Hopkins on the phone last night,’ he said. ‘Did she say anything specific about their plans for the evening?’
‘Well, she may have done. We talked for about ten minutes. But nothing’s stuck, nothing specific. I’m sorry.’
She looked bewildered. Backhouse patted her hand where it rested on the arm of the sofa.
‘Never mind. If anything comes to mind, you can let me know. Anything new from you, Sergeant?’
Pascoe shook his head.
‘I’d better get back to work then,’ said the superintendent, standing up. ‘What are your plans for tonight?’
‘We’ve been asked to stay with the Culpeppers,’ said Pascoe, recalling his earlier decision to find somewhere else. It didn’t seem worth the bother now. And if the Eagle was the only place in the village which let rooms, his chances of success were slim.
‘Culpeppers? I remember. The committee secretary woman?’
‘And the man who came to the cottage with the coroner. I’m sure they’ll be in Crowther’s dossiers.’
‘No doubt. I’ll know where to find you, then. Thank you, Miss Soper. You’ve been most helpful. Please believe me when I say you have my deepest sympathy.’
He did it better than Dalziel. Not that Dalziel wasn’t good when he wanted, but good in the style of the old actor-managers. There was always a sense of performance. Backhouse was more natural. There was even a chance that he was sincere.
‘Just one thing more,’ he said, pausing at the door. ‘What was Mr Hopkins writing his book about?’
‘His book? Poverty! He laughed when he told me. Coming to Thornton Lacey to write a book about poverty in modern Britain was like hunting polar bears in Africa, he said.’
‘It doesn’t sound a best-selling subject,’ opined Backhouse cautiously.
‘I don’t know. Full of case histories, hard-luck stories, people driven to crime, the effect of inadequate diets on sexual performance, that kind of thing. It’s the kind of pop sociology that could sell.’
‘You sound disapproving.’
‘Not at all. Envious perhaps. Until this morning.’
‘Yes. Not much cause for envy now. Goodbye.’
They sat in silence for a while after he had gone. Ellie spoke first.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘What for?’
‘For before, what I said. Grief’s a selfish emotion really. I had forgotten they were your friends too.’
‘Yes. And Colin still is.’
‘Do you think he did it, Peter?’
Pascoe made a hopeless gesture.
‘I don’t know. I can’t believe it, but I’ve got to admit the possibility. People kill those they love all the time.’
‘But you were willing to attack some poor bloody stranger because he accepted the possibility? Odd behaviour for a policeman,’ she mocked affectionately.
‘I’m an odd policeman,’ he said, kissing her gently.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Now I’m going to pull myself together and face the world. Whatever the truth, Colin will need friends when they catch up with him.’
She stood up and stretched her arms as though newly roused from sleep.
‘Do I gather you’ve got us invited somewhere for the night?’
Pascoe explained briefly about the Culpeppers, concealing his own irrational dislike of Marianne.
‘I see,’ said Ellie. ‘Sounds all sweet sherry and sympathy. I’ll go and freshen up, then I wouldn’t mind sampling the country air for half an hour or so before we present ourselves to our hosts.’
‘A good idea. There’s plenty of time,’ said Pascoe.
The door opened and Mrs Crowther reappeared.
‘He’s gone then,’ she grunted. Her gaze fell on the tea-tray.
‘And no one wants my tea?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ exclaimed Ellie. ‘It’s my fault. I just forgot.’
‘Look,’ said Pascoe. ‘Why don’t you two sit down and have a cup? It should still be hot. I just want to pop out and check the car. It seems to be eating oil lately.’
Ellie shot him a curious look, but he left quickly before she could say anything. As he had expected, the office section of the house was empty. Crowther would be very busy about the village this afternoon. He made straight for the table which carried the solid old Imperial typewriter, and saw what he was looking for straightaway. In the wooden tray by the machine were Crowther’s notes on local colour plus the carbon of the typewritten version given to Backhouse. He ignored the original in the constable’s crabbed hand and picked up the copy.
He had just started on the first of the five quarto sheets when a voice spoke behind him.
‘Excuse me.’
Pascoe started so violently that his leg twitched and cracked painfully against the rim of the desk. Christ! he thought, your nerve ends really have been exposed today, my boy.
Instinctively he let the sheets of paper slide out of his hands into the tray before he turned.
Standing behind the small counter across which the public could seek audience with their local guardian of the law was a rather frail old lady who seemed to be wearing a military uniform of sorts. WVS? wondered Pascoe.
‘Yes?’ he said.
‘I was hoping to find Mr Crowther.’ She had a slow, gentle voice. Definitely good works, he decided. Moral samplers and nourishing broth round the farmworkers’ hovels.
‘I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment. I don’t know when he’ll be back. Is it urgent?’
‘I’m not sure.’
She stared hard at him and asked dubiously, ‘Are you a policeman?’
‘Well, yes. Yes, I am,’ said Pascoe. ‘Sergeant Pascoe.’
‘Sergeant? That ought to be all right then. I am Alicia Langdale.’ She paused. For effect? thought Pascoe. Is she the lady of the manor? Should I be impressed?
‘Yes?’ he prompted.
‘And it’s connected with my job, you see. That’s what makes it so delicate.’
‘What is your job, Mrs Langdale?’
‘Miss. Can’t you see? I’m a postman.’
Oh my God! thought Pascoe. That’s what the gear is! He could see he had lost what little ground the revelation of his rank had gained him.
‘Of course,’ he said with a smile.
‘My sister, Anthea, and I keep the post office. She takes care of the internal business and I look after deliveries. Normally what happens, of course, is that people post their letters, they are collected in a van and taken to the main post office in town where they are sorted.’
‘I see,’ said Pascoe.
‘But sometimes, if it’s a matter of local mail – things that I’m going to have to deliver anyway, you understand – some people just leave them on the counter or push them through our letter-box.’
She raised her chin and looked defiantly at Pascoe, who suddenly knew what this was all about. He took the letter Miss Langdale produced from her large pocket and stared down at Colin’s distinctive handwriting. J. K. Palfrey, Esq., The Eagle and Child, Thornton Lacey.
A flock of thoughts rose and fluttered around Pascoe’s mind. The proper course of action was clear. Take the letter to Backhouse who would then take it to Palfrey and require it to be opened in his presence. If it was not relevant to the inquiry that would be an end to it. But if it was … ! Pascoe did not feel somehow that Backhouse would be keen to let him read it.
He realized with a start that Miss Langdale was still speaking.
‘I was almost at the Eagle and Child this morning when I met Mrs Anderson who told me the news. She picks up everything very quickly, I’m afraid. Normally I pay no heed, but this was different. This was dreadful, dreadful. So I finished my round but kept this letter. Anthea and I have been discussing all day what we ought to do. It’s our duty to deliver the Queen’s mail, you see. But if, as seemed possible in the circumstances, it might cause distress … and in a sense, it had not in fact been posted, had it? So here I am. Will you give me a receipt, please?’
Her voice was suddenly brisk, businesslike. Pascoe looked round for a piece of paper and a pen. He had made up his mind to open the letter and damn the consequences. Every instinct in his body warned him against it, but told him at the same time how important the letter was. He had to see. This might be his only chance.
‘Receipt book’s in the top drawer, Sergeant.’
It was Crowther, standing quietly in the doorway. His chance had gone.
‘Interesting, this,’ said the constable, holding the letter before him after he had efficiently disposed of Miss Langdale. ‘I’d better let the super have it right away. Thanks for taking care of things.’
He put the letter in his tunic pocket, tidied up the papers on his desk, stared a long moment at the disturbed carbon copy of his notes but did not remove them, and left.
‘Damn! damn! damn!’ said Pascoe. But he shuddered to think of the dangerous course he had been about to steer on. The sooner he got back to Dalziel and other people’s losses, the better.
He went back into the living-room to collect Ellie and take her to the Culpeppers’.
Chapter 7 (#ulink_528dd1fb-9132-5530-977d-1995821ba112)
The Culpeppers’ house was an impressive structure. Built in traditional Cotswold stone, its lines and proportions were unequivocally though unobtrusively modern.
The gardens consisted principally of herbaceous borders and lawns running down to an encirclement of trees. Whether the Culpepper estate extended into the woods was not clear. The lawns themselves were beautifully kept. Only one of them, hooped for croquet, showed any signs of wear. Coming up the drive, Pascoe had glimpsed a bent figure in a bright orange coat slowly brushing away the leaves which the autumn wind had laid on one of the side lawns. A fluorescent gardener, he thought, and prepared himself for anything from a parlourmaid to a full-dress butler when he rang the bell. But it had been Culpepper himself, features etched with well-bred solicitude, who opened the door.
Pascoe could see that Ellie disliked him at once. He recalled his own reaction to Marianne Culpepper and groaned inwardly at the thought of the evening ahead. Not that much social intercourse would be expected of them, surely. Or sexual either, he added to himself as they were shown into separate bedrooms. The bed at Brookside Cottage with its ornamental pillow came into his mind. Half the local police-force would have seen it. It was a good job he hadn’t been having a bit on the side with the chief constable’s wife.
The frivolity of the thought touched him with guilt. This was the way grief worked. It could only achieve complete victory for a comparatively short time. But it filled the mind with snares of guilt and self-disgust to catch at all thoughts and emotions fighting against it.
Ellie felt the same. She had raised her eyebrows humorously at his as Culpepper opened her bedroom door. But it was a brief flicker of light in dark sky.
The evening’s prospects did not improve when Marianne Culpepper returned. Pascoe heard a car arrive as he was unpacking his over-night case and when he left his room a minute later to collect Ellie, he found her standing at the head of the stairs, unashamedly eavesdropping on a conversation below.
Culpepper’s neutral tones were audible only as an indecipherable murmur, but his wife’s elegantly vowelled voice carried perfectly. Pascoe was reminded of teenage visits to the local repertory theatre (now declined to bingo) where hopeful young actresses projected their lines to the most distant ‘gods’.
Even half a conversation was enough to reveal that Marianne Culpepper had no knowledge whatsoever of her husband’s invitation to Pascoe and Ellie. They exchanged rueful glances on the landing. Pascoe moved to the nearest door, opened it and slammed it shut. It might have been more politic to retreat for a while, but Pascoe found himself looking forward to putting all that good breeding below to the test.
‘Let’s go down, shall we?’ he said in an exaggeratedly loud voice.
The Culpeppers presented a fairly united front as introductions took place.
‘Didn’t I see you in the village hall this morning?’ asked Marianne of Pascoe. ‘I didn’t realize then. I thought you were just one of the policemen.’
Oh, I am, I am, thought Pascoe.
‘Look,’ the woman went on, ‘I’m terrible sorry about your friends. I hardly knew them, the Hopkinses I mean, but they seemed very nice people.’
Everyone speaks as if we’ve lost them both, thought Pascoe. Perhaps we have.
‘You’ll be tired of expressions of sympathy I know. They become very wearing.’ She paused as though communicating with herself only, then continued. ‘Which brings me to this evening. You are very welcome indeed to our house, but Hartley and I have got our lines crossed somewhere. I’ve asked a couple of friends along to dinner and a few more people may drop in for drinks later. Please, it’s up to you. If you’d rather duck out, have your meal early, and generally avoid the madding crowd, just say so. Don’t be silly about it.’
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/reginald-hill/ruling-passion-42409678/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
Reginald Hill
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
Отзывы: Пока нет Добавить отзыв
О книге: ‘One of the modern masters of the police procedural’ Sunday TelegraphPeter Pascoe is in shock. A weekend in the country with old friends turns into a nightmare when he finds three of them dead and the missing fourth a prime suspect in the eyes of the local police.They want his cooperation, but Superintendent Dalziel needs him back in Yorkshire where a string of unsolved burglaries looks like turning nasty.As events unfold, though, the two cases seem to be getting entwined…