Ruling Passion (11 page)

'Specifically, what did he tell you?' inquired  Pascoe.

'Little enough, though I've gleaned a much  more detailed version of the story from other  sources. It seems that he tried the public-school-  and-Sandhurst condescension bit first of all with  the parvenus. When this didn't wash and he saw  that Rose and Colin were accepted by those he,  Palfrey, liked to be accepted by, he tried the all-chums-in-the-jolly-old-mess line. They didn't  take all that kindly to that either, but being nice  they tolerated it until one night he turned out a  couple of rather noisy kids who'd strayed in by  accident. He made the mistake of appealing to  Rose for moral support. She stood up, declared  that she'd always thought the beer was off but  now she knew the full reason why he was called  Jim Piss, and marched out. Palfrey said something  about an ill-bred bitch; Colin - on his way after Rose  - stopped long enough to pour the remnants of his  drink over Palfrey's head. They never came back.  After such a splendid exit, who could?'

'But that wasn't an end to it,' surmised Pascoe.

'By no means. Absence made the heart grow  harder. Palfrey pursued them with calumny and  slander and tried to spread rumours about their immorality, political extremism and, worst of all  to the middle-class ear, economic unsoundness.  Colin and Rose had plenty of friends, but there are  always ears willing to listen in a place like this.'

'And . . . ?' inquired Pascoe after they had  walked another fifty yards in silence.

'And nothing. There's an end. Though I am told  that Colin was seen coming out of the Eagle just  before opening time on Friday morning and that  Palfrey was rather quieter than usual with his  lunch-time regulars.'

And Colin wrote a letter to Palfrey that afternoon. What the hell could have been in it?  Backhouse would know. But would he know  the background? Of course he would! Just as he,  Pascoe, would have done if he'd managed to read  all Crowther's notes!

They reached the village without saying much  more. Outside the Eagle and Child they paused.

'Drink?' said Davenant.

'I don't think so,' said Pascoe. 'Not in there  anyway.'

'No, of course not. Let's try the other place  then.'

They made it just in time for 'last orders'. The  place was crowded and Molly Dixon was under  heavy pressure. Her quality as an inn-keeper was  clearly demonstrated by the way she was coping,  and she acknowledged Pascoe's arrival with a welcoming smile and a quick but genuinely concerned, 'OK?'

'Fine,' he answered.

'Mr Dixon not here?' he asked when she'd  drawn his drinks.

'No,' she replied. 'It's the annual dinner of  his bowls club. A stag do, very conveniently!  Last orders, gentlemen, please! Come along now.  Quickly as you can. Is there anyone without?'

She made it sound as if she were genuinely  distressed at having to stop the flow. An admirable quality, thought Pascoe. Particularly when  managing alone.

Looking round, he became aware that several  eyes were focused in his direction. Reporters rather  than locals, he surmised quickly. They had an  air of alertness at variance with the closing-time  conviviality of the rest.

He sipped his beer pensively and looked at  his companion, wondering whether he'd act as  a buffer against his colleagues. More likely his  company would egg them on for fear they were  missing something.

'How long have you been in journalism?' he  asked.

'Centuries, sweetie,' answered Davenant. 'Don't  let my aristocratic profile deceive you. I come of a  poor when honest family who thrust me out to  earn a living at the earliest opportunity. But tell  me, how does it feel for a policeman suddenly to  have a murder investigation come so close to him?  A bit like Torquemada getting accidentally trapped  in the Iron Maiden, I dare say.'

'You ought to know.'

'Feeling and knowing are not the same.'

Pascoe was saved from further cryptic conversation by the distant clanging of a fire-engine bell.  Conversation died as it rapidly came near, so rapidly that by the time those sufficiently curious had  got to the door, the tintinnabulation had soared to  its climax and the fast-receding tail-lights were all  there was to be seen.

'A sad time for a fire,' said Davenant.

'Sorry?'

'Autumn. Haystacks high and granaries full. I  wonder if the nice lady behind the bar is open to  suggestion. For more drink, I mean.'

'She's called last orders.'

'Which is what I mean to make.'

Davenant emptied his glass and made for the  bar. The moment he moved, a tall, greying man  presented himself before Pascoe.

'Mr Pascoe? I'm from the
Echo.
Could I have a  quick word?'

'No,' said Pascoe.

'Just very quickly. Please.'

Others were drifting in his direction, Pascoe  noted with irritation.

'Shove off,' he said.

'Oh, come on, Sergeant!'

His rank was used like a threat. Pascoe quietly  put down his glass on a nearby table. He felt in  perfect control but did not discount the possibility  of pushing in this man's leering, insinuating face.

But he didn't want to be holding a fistful of glass  when he did it. Not that he was going to do it. Of  course not.

'This must have been a terrible shock to you,  Sergeant,' said the reporter.

Pascoe changed his mind, made a fist, changed  his mind again and thrust it deep into his pocket.

'Go away,' he said.

The door of the bar was pushed open. An  excited-looking rustic entered and spoke to some  near acquaintance. Other people looked up, listened. The words danced through the assembled  drinkers like dryads in a moonlit forest. Tantalizing.  Hard to grasp.

'Brookside . . . Fire . . . Cottage . . . Fire . . .  Brookside Cottage is on fire!'

The reporter went away.

By the time Pascoe reached Brookside, the fire  was out. There seemed to have been some kind  of explosion in the kitchen and the blast, though  causing a great deal of damage, had probably almost extinguished the flame that caused it.

A uniformed constable, left on duty to watch  the property overnight, had decided it was foolish  to patrol outside all the time and had entered the  living-room just as the explosion occurred. He was badly cut about the face, but had managed  to phone for assistance.

Backhouse was on the scene but seemed disinclined to allow Pascoe any special privileges. Pascoe felt he could not really blame him, and hung  around the fringe of the little knot of newspaper-men whom Backhouse addressed in a friendly,  conciliatory manner. Certainly he was a different  breed from Dalziel!

'It seems there was an escape of gas in the  kitchen probably ignited by a pilot-light in the cooker. The kitchen itself has been extensively  damaged, but only superficial damage has been  done to the other rooms.'

'An accident you would say, Superintendent?'

'What else?' asked Backhouse blandly.

What indeed? wondered Pascoe. He did not trust  coincidences.

The firemen began to pack up their gear. A Gas  Board van arrived and a couple of men went into  the cottage to deal with the fractured pipes.

The group of onlookers broke up and began to  drift away. Pascoe watched them go. When most of  them had got into their cars, he noticed a vaguely  familiar figure step out of the shadows on the other  side of the road and make his way briskly along the road away from the village. Pascoe had to puzzle at  his memory to work out who it was.

Sam Dixon, he realized suddenly. He must be  on his way back from the bowls club dinner.

It wasn't till he was making his way up the lane  towards Culpepper's house that another thought  struck him. Dixon had been out of the pub the  previous night too.

But it did not seem a very important thought, not as important at this moment as his concern  about who was following him through the trees  which stretched out on either side of the lane.

'Nerves,’ suggested Ellie. 'Or that thing that  Davenant claimed to have seen,
Anus mirabilis.'

'Asio otus.
No, this was no owl. More like a  Hammer Films sound effect. Cracking twigs and  rustling undergrowth. I was glad to get back.'

The party had broken up when he returned.  Culpepper let him in, explained that the guests  had gone and offered him a nightcap.

'Marianne has gone to bed,' he added. 'I hope  you will forgive her, but we had no idea how  long you would be in returning and she's had a  tiring day.'

'I hope I haven't kept you up,' apologized Pascoe.

'Not at all. I need very little sleep. It will be  three or four hours before I go up. Sometimes  I don't bother at all, just take a cat-nap in my  chair.'

He did not press when Pascoe turned down a second drink, and they said good night. Pascoe heard  the grille-door of the porcelain room opening as he  went up the stairs.

He thought of looking into Ellie's room, decided  not to risk disturbing her, and found her sitting by  the window in his own room when he put the  light on.

'Christ,' he said. 'This is doing my nerves no  good.'

'What's new?' she said.

Briefly he filled her in on events since he had  left the house.

'I heard the fire-engine,’ said Ellie. 'I wondered  what was going on.'

'Of course you would hear it up here,’ said  Pascoe. 'Curious. Culpepper never mentioned it.'

'He's probably got other things to worry about. Maid Marianne, for instance.'

'Meaning?'

Ellie pointed at the window.

'I haven't been sitting here like stout Cortez  for nothing. If he thinks Marianne's in bed, he's  sadly mistaken. Fifteen minutes after the last guest  went, she tripped smartly across the drive and  disappeared into the trees.'

Pascoe whistled.

'Risky.'

'Not as much as you'd think. They don't share  a bedroom.'

'Nosey old you! Who was the last guest?'

'You've guessed.'

'Pelman. That figures.'

'If you put out the light, we could watch for her  coming back.'

Pascoe switched off and joined Ellie at the window.

'Perhaps it was Marianne I heard as I came up  the drive,' he mused.

Ellie leaned back against him, soft and warm in  her nightdress.

'Not the last of the Zombies?' she said sleepily.  'A pity.'

They watched in silence for a few moments.

'I've had it,' said Ellie. I'm off; to bed. All this  watching.'

She turned away from him and climbed into  bed.

'Hey,' he said. 'That's my bed.'

'You don't think I'm going back to mine with  things rustling through the undergrowth, do you?'

She spoke lightly, but Pascoe knew better than  to take her lightly. The day's events were waiting patiently for darkness and loneliness to let  them take shape and substance in their minds. He realized that to be alone tonight would have  been unbearable.

Quickly he undressed and joined Ellie in the  narrow bed.

'Peter,' she said.

'Yes.'                                   

'Let's go home in the morning. Straightaway. As  early as we can.'

'Yes,' he answered. 'Sleep now. We'll go home  in the morning.'  

PART TWO

Chapter 1

'You look as if you've been shagging a sheep,' said  Dalziel with distaste.

Thus spoke the last of the dandies, thought Pascoe, glancing at his superior's shapeless trousers and the military-issue braces, strained dangerously taut over a parabolic waist. But he had  to admit that he had brought back with him a lot  of white hairs.

'Funny how some dogs lose them but never go  bald,' he said brushing ineffectually at his trouser legs.

Dalziel grinned humourlessly and scratched one  of the shining deltas on his grey, stubbly pate.

'Not much of a guard-dog,' he said.

'It's a pom,' Pascoe said patiently. 'And they  don't leave it in the house when they're on holiday. Not for a fortnight. The RSPCA object.'

'Silly twats,' said Dalziel. 'He'd be two thousand  quid better off if there'd been a hungry dog in the  house.'The insurance will pay,' said Pascoe indifferently.

'You're not suggesting anything?'

'What? No. Christ, why would he want to try a  fiddle like this? Twenty thousand, yes. But this is  pin money. You've seen the house?'

'No. But you can't always tell. Still, you're right.  It's almost certainly our lad,
your
lad. I can't see Mr  Stan Cottingley piddling in his own kettle.'

The thought amused him and he laughed himself into a fit of coughing into his outsize khaki  handkerchief.

He's not well, thought Pascoe suddenly.

I'm not well, thought Dalziel for the tenth time  that morning. There was a pain across his chest.  It was a broad chest, so it was a broad pain.  If there had been anyone to mop his fevered  brow and ladle out the nourishing broth, he might  have stayed in bed that Monday morning. More  probably he would have dismissed such solicitude  with his customary brusqueness and come in to  work anyway.

He looked at Pascoe gloomily and wondered if  he should tell him that his promotion was as good  as confirmed. Once again he decided against it.  Promotion should mean something, be marked by  a drink and a bit of jollity. In present circumstances  he doubted if Pascoe would react at all. It would  be a pity to waste what was a minor triumph.  Pascoe could have achieved inspector status at least  twelve months earlier if he had stayed in, or been  willing to return to, uniformed duties. But the lad had been adamant. The career of administrator and ideas-man his background seemed to equip  him for had not appealed. He wanted to be a  detective.

And he wasn't making a bad job of it, thought  Dalziel with a creator's pride, as he examined  again the meticulously prepared file on the string  of burglaries which was the sergeant's main case  at present. His own interest was twofold. A single break-in at a private house was rarely enough to  involve the majesty of a detective-superintendent.  But a long sequence - eleven now, almost certainly all by the same man - began to achieve  the status of a major crime. Especially when there  was reason to believe the perpetrator would resort  to extreme violence if interrupted. At the fifth  house a pensioner who did odd-jobs in the neighbourhood had been contracted by the owner to  keep an eye on the garden while the family were  away. Conscientiously, the old man had turned up late one summer evening to water the borders  out of the heat of the sun. A man had emerged  from the kitchen door as he passed, almost bumping into him. Without hesitation, the intruder  had launched into a violent attack. Only the fact  that the old man rode a moped and had not yet  removed the crash-helmet he always wore saved  him from serious damage. But the force of the  blow from what was probably a crowbar left deep  indentations in the helmet and was sufficient to  stun the wearer.