Ruling Passion (19 page)

A few days in the orchard would be dearly  bought at that price.

'Hello, Superintendent!'

It was French, the coroner, sensibly clad in  gum-boots which would probably spoil the crease of his well-cut country solicitor's suit.

'Anything yet?'

'No, sir.'

'It's a nasty place, this,' said French. 'I've been  in charge of too many inquests connected with this  water already.'

'We don't know for certain yet there'll be another.'

'No. Of course not. Still, it looks odds on. The  first one was my first inquest ever. Poor Pelman's  wife - you must recall it?'

'Only from the papers, sir.'

'And then there was that boy. It was after that  they put this wire round the place. Totally inadequate.'

'Especially if someone cuts a hole through it with  wirecutters,’ said Backhouse grimly.

'Really? How odd. You need to be a pretty  determined sort of suicide to go to those lengths.'

'You would be. But this was done before last  weekend. We have an expert witness. Master Eric Bell with whom I made a deal. He told me everything he knew, in return for which I only told his  parents what they needed to know.'

French laughed.

'I see. But why should anyone . . . ?'

'I have an idea, sir. We'd better leave it at that  for the moment.'

By mutual accord, they turned from the quarry  and walked towards the tangle of bushes in which  the Mini had been found.

'The ground's very churned up,' observed French.

'Yes,' said Backhouse. 'Was there something  special you wanted to discuss with me, Mr French?'

The coroner looked at him assessingly.

'What do you think you're going to find in the  pool, Superintendent? Be frank.'

'I can just tell you what the evidence so far  suggests. It suggests that we should find the body of Colin Hopkins.'

'Part of this evidence being a note left in the car,  I believe?'

'That's right, sir. A note which will, of course,  be put into your hands as soon as a body is found  and an inquest required.'

'And till then . . . ?'

Till then it's just police evidence. Like anything  else we find in the car.'

French sighed deeply.

'From that I take it that I may not see it?'

It is foolish to fall out with your coroner, thought  Backhouse. But for some reason he felt like digging  his heels in. He had never taken kindly to any  feeling of pressure.

'I didn't say that, sir,' he said cautiously. 'The  note is at present undergoing examination in our  labs. It is, I hasten to add, an extremely incoherent  note, not one that I would care to repeat from  memory. Of course, we shall also be getting an  expert psychiatric assessment of the writer's state  of mind.'

French nodded as though satisfied.

'There is, as you must know, a great deal of  unease in the village,' he said. 'Everyone is very  keen for this unfortunate business to be laid to  rest. This unease is likely to continue until there's  been an arrest, or something else.'

He made an uncertain gesture back towards the  quarry.

'I think, not to put too fine a point on it, that the  sooner someone can say officially what everyone  seems to be saying privately, the better it will be.'

'It's just my duty to investigate crime, sir, and  publish to my superiors the results of my investigations,' said Backhouse coldly.

'I know that, Superintendent. My duty is not  dissimiliar. Only my duty is to publish to
everybody
the results of my investigation. I hope you find  what you're looking for here. You may recall it  took over three weeks to find the body of Robert  Hand. It's a great deal of time.'

'Hand?'

'Mrs Pelman's lover.'

'Yes, I do recall that. As I said, I read the reports.  I also recall a police frogman almost lost his life in the search. It's a nasty piece of water this, sir.  It's filthy black and there are all kinds of hollows  and tunnels into the sides of the pit. I shall do  everything I can to ensure a thorough search, but  if it takes three weeks, it takes three weeks. It may  even take longer. But I will not risk lives. Nor will  I anticipate results.'

'Of course not, Superintendent,' said French,  suddenly smiling. 'It would be wrong of you to  do that. Good day to you.'

'Good day,' answered Backhouse. He felt unhappy  for some reason. The sun-filled orchard suddenly seemed like a completely substanceless dream.

Dalziel had arrived in his office that morning to  find a most unwelcome note inviting him to call  on Dr Grainger at midday if it were convenient.  He called Grainger's surgery straightaway but no further than a sweet-tongued receptionist who seemed to his sensitive ear to become suspiciously  sympathetic when she learned his name. But  Grainger was very busy, she insisted, and a couple of hours wasn't
too
long to wait, was it? Again

Dalziel felt he caught a suggestion that he might well be wishing at noon that the waiting had been  even longer.

Like Pascoe, he seized upon the anodyne of work and began busily examining the results of various  inquiries his minions had undertaken.

The Nordrill Mining Company, he was intrigued to discover, did not employ (and, to the best of their knowledge, never employed) a John Atkinson. He  thought about this a while, then reached for his  phone and dialled a local number.

'Superintendent Dalziel here,' he said to the girl  who answered. 'I'd like a word with Mr Noolan  please.'

There was a brief pause.

'Hello Andy,' said a lively Yorkshire voice after a few moments. 'Are we going to be robbed?'

'No. But you might have been. Have you checked your vaults yet?'

'What!' said Noolan in alarm.

'Joke, Willie,' said Dalziel. 'Just checking to see if you're wide awake like a good little bank-manager  should be.'

'Some joke! I nearly wet my pants. What is it  you want, Andy? I have work to do.'

These two had known each other for a long time and had built up a mutually advantageous system of favour-exchanging over the years. It  was based on a form of oblique questioning which  allowed both to avoid too much damage to their  professional consciences.

'If I was wanting to buy a house, who would  you advise to use as an agent?'

'That would depend on what you had in mind.'

'Something pretty high-class, I think. You know me. Nowt squalid. What do you reckon to Lewis  and Cowley?'

There was a long pause.

'I was sorry to hear what happened to Lewis,'  said Noolan finally.

'Were you?'

'Yes. Nice family. They'll be hard pressed now.'

'There must be a good lot coming to them, surely,' said Dalziel, infusing surprise into his voice.

'They could be in trouble if they're relying on  money from the firm,' said Noolan.

'Really? But there must be other things. That's  a nice house. And there's their cottage in Scotland. Oh, she'll be all right, never fear, Willie. A  businessman like Lewis looks after his dependants.'

'You may be right, Andy. Perhaps his assets are looked after somewhere else.'

'I see. Well, perhaps I'll stick in my own place  for a bit. Cheers, Willie. See you at the club some  night.'

So. As far as Willie Noolan knew (and on matters  financial there was little that happened locally  without Willie getting a sniff of it) Lewis and  Cowley were in a bad way, a business crisis which  overspilled into Lewis's private life. It would be  easy to check Noolan's hints, but hardly necessary, he felt. The house must be heavily mortgaged, the  cottage too, and from the sound of it, there might not be a lot of insurance cover there.

All in all, one ought to feel very sorry about  Matthew Lewis. But there was something in all  this which bothered him. Perhaps it was time  James Cowley was confronted with the full majesty of a detective-superintendent instead of the  lightweight threat of a sergeant.

Which reminded him of Pascoe whom he had not yet seen. He felt slightly guilty. The lad would probably have read about it in the newspapers  now. Still, that was what life was all about. You opened a paper and read that someone you knew had died. Or was dying. Or was going to be killed.

And one day the name you read was your own.

There was a knock at the door and it was no  surprise when Pascoe walked in.

'You've seen the papers, Sergeant?'

'Sir.'

'I'm sorry. If I'd known where you were last night, I'd have told you. But there's still no body  been found.'

'No, sir.'

'Tell me, Sergeant, this friend of yours, would  he write a suicide note in poetry?'

'What?'

'Poetry.'

'The note was in poetry?' Pascoe thought hard.  'I doubt it. . . well, no one would . . . but he might 
quote
somebody else's. He was - is - a great lover of the apt quotation. You don't happen to know  what the note said?'

'No, lad. Such things are not revealed lightly, even among policemen. Anyway, put it out of your mind. There's other work to be done. This  Lewis business.'

Quickly he filled Pascoe in on the new information they had.

'Nothing gels,' he said in conclusion. 'It's all  scrappy. I think you'll have to go and talk with  Sturgeon if you can.'

'To Doncaster?'

'If it's inconvenient,' said Dalziel wearily, 'we  could ask him to meet you half-way. He is after all  merely a sixty-eight-year-old man, half dead after  a car crash. He is also the only person who can  confirm or deny what seems to be a nutty idea on  the face of it - i.e. that he killed Lewis. If he
did,
I'd  like his word on it before he snuffs it. So hurry.'

'Yes, sir,' said Pascoe without enthusiasm.

'How's his wife?' asked Dalziel.

'Still in hospital, but getting better. She was  worried about the cats.'

'Hospitals,' said Dalziel gloomily. 'It's been a good week for the doctors. Off you go then, Sergeant. We might as well keep up the illusion of  motion, though it's all running on the bloody  spot. By the way, while you're at it, find out  anything you can on the circumstances of Sturgeon's crash, will you? I'm beginning to have a  feeling about this.'

'Me too, sir. But I'm not sure what.'

'Suicide after murder. It's not uncommon.'

'No, it's not,' said Pascoe flatly

'Oh, shit!' said Dalziel. 'I'm sorry. I keep forgetting ... look, just how concerned are you about  this other business, Sergeant? How delicately do  you want people to tread?'

'It bothers me,' admitted Pascoe. 'It's getting  better but it's always there. And sometimes I feel  this anger stirring inside. Such an anger that I  could..’

He found he had clenched his fists and forced  himself to relax. Why am I telling Dalziel this? he  wondered. A fat old copper who thinks tears in  a man are proofs incontrovertible of homosexual  tendencies.

'Hold it in, lad,' advised Dalziel. 'One of these  days it'll mebbe come in handy. By the way, I  forgot. We never asked Lauder if he knew anything  about Lewis. Give him a ring before you set off for  sunny Doncaster.'

He said I
forgot
, noted Pascoe. Coming from  Dalziel this was a kind of sympathy.

'You've been worried, have you, Andy?' asked Dr Grainger. 'That's good. I hoped you might be.'

'Hoped?'

'That's it. I bet your fertile imagination's run through every disease known to man and invented  a few more besides. Well, you'll be pleased to know  you've got none of them.'

'None? You mean there's nothing wrong with me?' growled Dalziel, beginning to bristle with  anger.

'Don't sound so disappointed. Anyway, you're  far from perfect, I assure you. That's why a bit of good honest fear might be a help. Let me list  your faults. You smoke too much, you drink too  much and you eat too much. In addition you try  to interrupt your doctor. You wanted bad news.  I'll give it to you. You follow my advice or within a twelvemonth, two years at the most, I reckon  you'll be laid low, perhaps permanently, by one  or more of half a dozen complaints.'

'Such as?' said Dalziel almost humbly.

'You name it. High blood pressure, bronchitis,  cirrhosis, thrombosis.'

'God Almighty!' said Dalziel disbelievingly. 'I can't have them all!'

'Believe me,' said Grainger, 'we all have them  all. Only some people have them more than others.  I've made out a diet sheet for you. You'll need  to drop at least a stone, to start with. It'll be  difficult for you, especially without the comfort of tobacco and alcohol, so I'm giving you a prescription for a mild tranquillizer, just so you don't  become too unbearable to yourself and others.  OK?'

'OK,' said Dalziel helplessly. 'You're a bloody sadist though.'

'Do as I say and you may yet live to dance lightly  on my grave.'

'One thing before I go,' said Dalziel, looking  with distaste and disbelief at the diet sheet he  held. 'You're on the committee at the Liberal Club  aren't you?'

'That's right. You're not going to join after all  this time?'

'I'm not that sick,' grunted Dalziel scornfully.  'No, it's just that a couple of your members have  come my way lately.'

'Matt Lewis and Edgar Sturgeon, you mean?  Tragic, tragic. Everyone at the club's desolated.'

'Were they very friendly? With each other, I  mean.'

'Not particularly. Though I've seen them together  once or twice since Edgar retired.'

'I see. Any word on either of them round the  snooker table?'

'Pardon?'

'Come on!' said Dalziel. 'I know clubs. Any little titbits of gossip, scandal, you know?'

'I'm your doctor, Andy, not one of your snouts!' said Grainger indignantly.

'All right. No harm in asking, I've got some right surely after
this!'

He waved the diet sheet violently in the air.

'You think so? All right then. I shall deny having said it but, in confidence, the word was that Lewis was a very sharp man on a business deal.'

'You mean a crook?'

'I mean he worked on a large profit margin in everything he did.'

'Oh aye. Suppose I told you he was financially  in Queer Street when he died?'