Ruling Passion (14 page)

'He was done to death by a disgruntled client  who helped himself to some bits and pieces to  make it look like a robbery.'

'Fine. Except that no one knew he was going  to be at home that day. He was supposed to be on  holiday. Remember?'

'He did come back for a meeting, sir,' replied  Pascoe. 'Someone must have known.'

Dalziel sighed as if Pascoe had taken all the joy  out of his life.

'All right. Talk to the people at his office if you like. Let's leave no stone unturned. Or uncast, for  that matter. We've got to get at this boy somehow. And if he is our thief, then we've only got two starting points. The break-ins themselves, or  disposal of the loot. Which so far means a few  bloody stamps. Was Etherege any good?'

'No. Oh, he'll know a few ways to make a quick  bob or two, but I can't see anything there for us.  I brought some stamps for Sturgeon to look at.'

'Which leaves your actual crimes,' said Dalziel, setting in train a long spiral scratch which began  at his calf and gave promise of attaining to his  crotch.

Pascoe was silent. Everyone on the case had  worked long and hard in the search for a common denominator which might lead somewhere.  But such a thing was hard to come by. In only  two cases did they even know the day of the  week and the time of day the crime had taken  place. The first, when the old gardener had been  attacked, was a Thursday at seven-thirty pm. The  second, when Lewis was killed, was a Monday at  five-fifteen pm. Early, but that meant nothing.  Given a choice, most thieves preferred daylight for  a housebreaking job. There was no worry about  lights, less risk of being asked to explain your  presence on the streets by a casual policeman.

The only real potentially useful link between the crimes was that the house-owners had all been  on holiday. The thief must have some source of  information.

The trouble was there were any number of ways in which a professional thief could unearth the  fact that a house was empty. Though just how  much of a real professional their man was, Pascoe  wasn't sure. Certainly it was doubtful whether he  was known to the police. Every likely villain in the  area had been descended on with great force and  alacrity in the two cases where the time of the job  was known. The results had been negative.

And the deliberate slaying of Lewis (if it had  been their man in his house) bothered Pascoe  considerably. Your thief had a great instinct for  self-preservation. He might smash what lay in  the way of his escape, but would probably see  no reason to hang around to make a job of it.

'I still don't think he's a nutcase,' he averred  as he left Dalziel groaning his satisfaction as he  reached the vertex of his scratch.

In the corridor he met Detective-Inspector  George Headingley, the man with the strength  of will to resist Dalziel's drinking invitations. He  held a sheet of paper in his hand.

'There's more in piss than meets the eye,' said  the inspector sagely.

'What?'

'It was your idea to send the contents of  Cottingley's kettle to forensic, wasn't it? Take a  house-point. Our lad's a diabetic.'

'A what?'

'He's got diabetes, which might narrow things  down a bit. I'm just on my way in to tell the super.

‘Come along. He might kiss you on both cheeks if  you're not nippy on your feet.'

Together they went back into Dalziel's room.  The fat man had the telephone to his ear. After  a moment he put it down and looked glumly at  Pascoe.

'You ought to know,' he said. 'I asked them to  keep me posted on your spot of trouble. There's  a man at Nottingham helping with enquiries.  Backhouse has gone off to see him, so he looks good for your mate, Hopkins. I don't know what  I'm sorry for, but I'm sorry.'
 

Chapter 3

'A false alarm,' said Backhouse. 'They had just about established this by the time I arrived. He  was a very good prospect - looked just right and  wouldn't say a word.'

He laughed shortly.

'Turned out to be a Pole whose English was  practically nil and whose previous experience with  authority had taught him that silence was golden.  I spent the night in Nottingham, saw a nice bit of  Pinter at the Playhouse, and being handy, decided to come on here today.'

Here
was the small village outside Worksop  where Rose Hopkins had been born and where  just a few minutes previously she had been lowered  into the earth.

Pascoe wondered what Dalziel would make of  Pinter.

He had been surprised by the number of people at the funeral, and by one or two unexpected faces in particular. Backhouse's interest must, of course, be mainly professional though he disguised this  well. And it was perhaps not too surprising to see  Anton Davenant there, whether as friend or journalist he couldn't say. His most unfunereal clothing had won some curious glances and deprecating  mutters from the locals.

But the most surprising sight had been of  Marianne Culpepper and Angus Pelman among  the mourners. Some atavistic puritanism stirred in  Pascoe at what appeared so blatant and unseemly  an advertisement of their relationship. They were all in the saloon bar of the village pub, having politely turned down an invitation to share the funeral  meats offered by Rose's parents. Ellie was sitting with Pelman, Davenant and Marianne, while the  two policemen carried on what probably appeared  their very conspiratorial conversation at the bar.

The beer, drawn from the wood, was cloudy but  they drank it without complaint.

'Are things no further forward, sir?' asked Pascoe  cautiously.

'Afraid not,' said Backhouse. 'Since
you
left,  things have been very quiet in Thornton Lacey.'

'I'm sorry if I was a trouble to you.'

'No trouble, Sergeant. No; what troubles me is  the place itself. There are things happening there,  tensions, probably nothing whatsoever to do with  the crime, but they muddy the water. Or perhaps  they are something to do with the crime. Let's  accept the most obvious solution. Hopkins killed  his wife and two friends. No, hang on a minute. It's a hypothesis which forces itself upon us, even  upon you, I suspect.

'So. He did it. He is the murderer. But what  is it that made such a man do such a thing? It  must have been a pressure beyond anything I  have ever experienced. Yet I have a feeling that  such pressures as these are never so far away in a  place like Thornton Lacey unless you keep on the  move, on the alert, and never let them build up.'

'But he'd hardly been there any time!' protested  Pascoe. 'What the hell could have happened so  quickly?'

'He managed to make at least one good enemy  that we know of.'

'Palfrey?' said Pascoe.

Backhouse nodded.

'What was in the letter?' Pascoe asked, not really  expecting an answer.

Backhouse looked at him assessingly.

'Why not?' he said, almost to himself. 'Palfrey  was becoming an annoyance to your friend. He decided to strike back and hit on the ingenious idea  of checking the so-called major's military background. To his probable delight he discovered that  no such creature as "Major" Palfrey existed, though  his alleged regiment did once have in its number a  catering sergeant of that name. Evidently Hopkins called on Palfrey on Friday morning, put this to  him and warned him against continuing his alleged  slanders.'

'And the letter?'

'The letter merely enlarged upon this, setting  down coldly what had obviously been uttered in  extremely warm terms earlier the same day. A kind  of blackmail note, I suppose.'

'Which is a very old and very popular murder motive,' said Pascoe thoughtfully.

'True,' said Bakehouse. 'Palfrey claims he was  serving cloudy pints in his pub all Friday night.  Surprisingly difficult to check. I wonder if he's got  some connection with this place?'

He examined his beer sadly then pushed it aside  and stood up.

'I'm sure I'll see you again, Sergeant. Soon,  perhaps. Mr French, the coroner, is uncommonly  keen to exercise his few powers in this case.'

He shook his head in disapproval. Pascoe could  understand why. A coroner who would not be led  by the police could still prove an irritation.

'Goodbye, Mrs Culpepper, Miss Soper.'

With a nod at Pelman and Davenant, Backhouse  left and Pascoe joined the others. They stopped  talking as he did so.

To make a solid silence, he thought, just add one  policeman.

'Another drink anyone?' he asked.

There were no takers.

'How's Mr Culpepper?' he said to Marianne,  suddenly feeling a bit aggressive.

'Very well,' she answered in her cool, clear  tones. 'He would have come today, but something  came up. Business.'

Unlike her type to volunteer an explanation to my type, thought Pascoe. But it could be true.

'Is there some trouble?' he asked. 'I saw in this  morning's paper that Nordrill say they are going  to abandon their explorations in Scotland.'

Pelman and Marianne exchanged an unreadable  glance.

'Bully for the conservationists, say I,’ said  Davenant. 'It's been lovely seeing you all once  more, despite sad circumstance. Mr Pascoe, would  you care to walk me to my car?'

They left and made their way towards the bright  red Citroen GS which seemed to mirror Davenant's  personality somehow.

'I just wanted to ask if there was anything new. I  ask as a friend, not a journalist, you understand.'

'No. Nothing as far as I know.'

'I see. I wondered if dear Mr Backhouse had  unearthed anything startling perhaps.'

'He's not showing it to me if he has.'

'Ah well. I hope things do not drag on for ever.'  He climbed into his car. 'Nice to have seen you  again. And to meet Miss Soper. An intellectual  gem in the constabulary crown! Ciao!'

'He seemed to have taken a fancy to you,' said  Pascoe on the way home.

'I hope not!' said Ellie. 'He seemed rather patronizingly surprised to discover that I, a lecturer,  hob-nobbed with the fuzz.
Did
Backhouse tell you  anything?'

'No,' Pascoe lied. Policemen sometimes had to lie to their woman. It was an occupational hazard.

'And there's no sign of Colin.'

'No. Wherever he is, he's lying very low.'

The skies, unpromising all morning, went frighteningly dark as they turned off the dual carriageways of the Al.

The pathetic fallacy, thought Pascoe. Something  dreadful is about to happen. But, please God, not  to me. Don't let it happen to me.

A white Rover passed them in the opposite  direction and turned south on the Al. Pascoe did  not even notice it pass.
 

Chapter 4

Back at the office Pascoe found a message on his  desk. Sturgeon had rung several times that morning. 'Sounded urgent,' said the note cryptically,  'but wouldn't say what.'

Silly old sod! thought Pascoe. Does he think  I've nothing better to do than make stupid bloody  telephone calls to Scotland?

But he reached for the phone, at the same time  digging into his breast pocket for Sturgeon's scrap  of paper. He sorted it out with some difficulty from the large collection of frayed and folded stationery the pocket contained. It was a kind of portable  (and permanent) filing cabinet. A sergeant's pay  did not encourage the wearing of any great variety of clothes.

The phone rang for more than a minute before  it was answered.

'Can you no' wait?' demanded a Scots voice,  the owner of which then apparently dropped the  receiver to the floor and went back to whatever business had been interrupted. It seemed to involve  drawing a metal edge down a sheet of glass.

Eventually he returned and after some coaxing revealed himself as Sergeant Lauder. He was even  more reluctant to accept that Pascoe was, in fact,  Pascoe; and only an exasperated invitation to him  to replace the receiver and make further investigations at Mid-Yorkshire HQ persuaded him to  concede the point. As soon as Pascoe mentioned  Archie Selkirk of Strath Farm, Lauder's doubts  seemed to reassert themselves.

'Is that you?' he demanded. 'Is it you again,  man?'

'It's me. Sergeant Pascoe. For God's sake! Can't  you understand?'

'No need to blaspheme, whomever you are.  Then you're no' the one who phoned yesterday?'

'No, I'm not. If I'd phoned yesterday, I wouldn't  be . . . oh, forget it! What about Archie Selkirk?'

'Ay, well, Archie Selkirk, is it? That's what the one yesterday was asking about too.'

'What?' Pascoe was suddenly interested. 'Didn't  he give a name?'

'No. No name.'

'Yorkshire accent?'

'Perhaps. Perhaps. But you all sound much the  same to me.'

'Well, what did you tell him?' demanded Pascoe.

'Just the same as I'm going to tell you, Sergeant  Pascoe,' answered Lauder, still by his intonation managing to infuse a great deal of incredulity into  the last two words.

'And what's that.'

'Simply, there's no such man. Not farming round  here, that is.'

'You're sure?'

Lauder indicated by his heavily scornful silence  that he was sure.

'And Strath Farm?'

'No.'

'No such farm.'

'Aye.'

'And you told this to the man yesterday.'

'Aye.'

The pips went.

'This must be costing the ratepayers a mint of  money,' said Lauder, stung out of monosyllables.

'Aye,' said Pascoe. 'Thanks.'

He pressed the rest, got the dialling tone, and dialled Sturgeon's number.

The old sod must have got impatient and decided to do it himself, thought Pascoe. Why he couldn't  do it in the first place, God knows. And why had  he rung so urgently that morning?

The phone was still ringing. He glanced at his  watch and groaned. Time was marching by and  there was work to be done. Sturgeon would have  to wait. In any case, he almost certainly knew what  Pascoe had to tell him. Though what it could mean  teased the mind. But there was a murder waiting  to be solved.

He replaced the receiver and set off for the late  Matthew Lewis's office.

Dalziel came from behind the screen with all  the demureness and probably the total volume  of Gilbert's three little maids from school. He  pulled himself together as he caught the glint  of amusement in the eyes of the solitary witness  and removed his instinctively modest hand from  his crotch.