Ruling Passion (21 page)

'Christ. And we laugh at stories of Americans  buying the Eiffel Tower!' Dalziel had commented. 'What about Cowley? Did Sturgeon mention him?'

'No. Knows nothing about him as far as I could  make out.'

'But you saw him with Atkinson? We'd better  have a word. I was going to see him anyway. Let's get him to ourselves. Five-thirty, that's probably  when they close. That give you enough time?  Right. I'll see you there.'

He joined Dalziel in his car by the kerbside just  on five-thirty.

'What if he's not in, sir?' he asked, looking across  the street at Lewis and Cowley's offices.

'He'll be in all right,' said Dalziel cheerily. 'I rang him up and made an appointment.'

'Oh,' said Pascoe. Then, realizing he had let his surprise show, he added, 'I thought you'd be wanting to catch him off guard, that's all.'

'What? Don't be soft, lad. He doesn't know
we're
coming. He's expecting a rich touch in search of a  house! Come on.'

The signal was the appearance at the door of the two secretaries, Marjory Clayton and Jane  Collingwood.

The latter recognized Pascoe as he and Dalziel strode purposefully across the street and he gave her a little wave.

'Mr Cowley!' bellowed Dalziel in the outer office.

The door marked Cowley opened and the man stood there, his customer-reception smile slackening into puzzlement as he caught sight of Pascoe.

'Mr Cowley? I'm Detective-Superintendent Dalziel. We haven't met, though I believe you know my sergeant here. May we have a few moments of  your precious time?'

Dalziel advanced powerfully so that Cowley had to step aside or be crushed. Pascoe meekly followed his leader into the inner office. It was expensively  furnished in a rather unintegrated way. An oval-shaped Indian carpet caught at the feet. On the  leather inlaid desk an onyx cigarette-box stood  open, obviously newly filled. Dalziel picked it up and looked at it admiringly.

'Nice,' he said. 'Is it convenient to talk with you now, sir?'

'I
am
expecting a client,' began Cowley, glancing  at the ormolu clock resting on a shelf above what  looked like the room's original fireplace, carved  out of York stone before it started getting pretty. Something had been worrying Pascoe and now he recalled that on his previous visit just over twenty-four hours earlier, Cowley's room had been the  other one. He had wasted no time. And this room clearly bore the mark of the kind of man Lewis had  been if Dalziel's sources were good. He remembered also the kind of thing stolen from Lewis’s house. It all fitted a picture of a man who enjoyed  the good things of life with a fine indiscrimination.

'Just a couple of minutes, please,' said Dalziel,  adding magnanimously, 'we shall leave, of course,  as soon as your client arrives.'

He put down the cigarette-box and seated himself in the most comfortable-looking chair. Cowley, butler-like, picked up the box and took it to Dalziel.

'Cigarette, Superintendent?'

'Thank you, no. It's a habit I've broken.'

Since
when?
wondered Pascoe. This morning at the earliest! Some people break habits quicker than  others.

'Now, Mr Cowley, the thing is this. We're anxious  to get in touch with an acquaintance of Mr Lewis's,  a Mr John Atkinson. Do you know him by any  chance?'

'Well, yes. I think so. If it's the same one. Hang  on a moment, will you?'

He rose, opened a rather over-ornate walnut  cabinet and took from it a folder.

'Here we are. Atkinson, John. This was one of perhaps half a dozen clients Matt took a very personal interest in. Looking at the file, I remember  why now. He met Mr Atkinson up at Lochart, that's where he had his cottage, you know. That's  one of the addresses we had for him, the Lochart  Hotel.'

'And the other?' asked Dalziel.

'Another hotel. The Shelley in Bayswater. That's  in London.'

'Thank you,' said Dalziel. 'What was Mr Atkinson's interest down here?'

'He was nearing retiring age, I believe. Had  known the area a long time ago and talking with  Matt had revived old memories. So he was looking  round in a rather desultory fashion. You know, popping in occasionally and breaking his journey  between London and Scotland.'

'When did you last see him, sir?' asked Dalziel.

'Only yesterday morning. In fact, I think he was here when your sergeant came. If only you'd  thought to mention him then, Sergeant.'

Dalziel looked reprovingly at Pascoe and shook his head.

'Can't be helped. Why was he here, sir?'

'Why, he'd read about Matt's death, of course,  and come down specially to find out what had  happened. He called on Mrs Lewis, I believe. He was most upset. The odd thing was he'd turned up by the chance on Monday afternoon and seen Matt then when he came back from Scotland.'

'By chance you say?' said Dalziel, exchanging  glances with Pascoe.

'Oh yes. He just drifted in. He didn't realize the office is normally closed that afternoon. So  he chatted for a while, saw that we were busy, and went on his way. He was very struck by the  coincidence.'

'Yes, yes, he would be. Yesterday you said he came
down,
didn't you. From Scotland, you mean?'

'I've no idea,' said Cowley. 'Possibly.'

He took a cigarette and lit it from a table lighter which matched the box.

'Which would mean he was on his way
up
from  London on Monday.'

'I suppose so.'

'But he wasn't in Lochart on Monday or Tuesday, Mr Cowley,' said Dalziel mildly. 'We checked.'

'Perhaps it was the other way round.'

'You mean he came
down
from Lochart on Monday? And called in here, knowing his friend Mr  Lewis was still in Scotland?'

'I don't think they lived in each other's pockets, Superintendent.'

'No. Of course not. Where did he stay overnight when he was house-hunting?'

'Really, I've no idea. This was Matt's client, as  I've told you. I only met the man two or three times. And then just for a couple of minutes. Is  that all you wanted to ask me, Superintendent!'

He stood up, looking very irritated, stubbed out his cigarette and glanced at his watch. Dalziel  ignored the hint.

'Have you ever been to Lochart yourself, Mr  Cowley?'

'No. Never.' There might have been a hesitation, thought Pascoe. An idea was forming in  his mind.

'Do you know a Mr Edgar Sturgeon?' he interjected. Dalziel looked sharply at him, then settled  back in his chair as if to enjoy the act.

'No. I don't think so,' said Cowley.

'Stocky. Grey-haired. Mid-sixties. Retired,' rattled off Pascoe.

'Sorry, he doesn't ring a bell.'

It was probably a daft idea, thought Pascoe, but  he might as well try. He took out his notebook.

'I wonder if you can recall where you were on this week-end, sir,' he said. He read out the  date of the meeting between Archie Selkirk and  Sturgeon.

Cowley whistled.

'God knows. That's a while ago, isn't it?'

'I realize that, sir. Do try. A diary, perhaps?'  suggested Pascoe.

'I don't keep one. Only my office diary and that doesn't run to week-ends,' said Cowley, flicking through the pages of his leatherbound desk diary.  'Hang on though. You're in luck.'

'Yes?'

'Well, most of that week-end I was here. Working on accounts, checking our mailing list and property details, that kind of thing. It's a half-yearly job. We take turns at it. This was mine. Poor Matthew, I remember, was in Scotland.'

He turned the book round so that they could see the entry.

'So you were alone, Mr Cowley?'

'Yes.'

'You live by yourself as well, don't you?'

'You seem to know a lot about me,' said Cowley  aggressively.

'We took closely at everyone connected with a murder victim,' said Dalziel placatingly. 'Sergeant, what's your point? We mustn't keep Mr Cowley  from his customer.'

Cheeky sod! thought Pascoe.

'No point really, sir. I was just interested in Mr  Cowley's whereabouts that week-end. I'm sure someone saw him

'Saw me? Of course someone saw me!' Cowley  looked at Pascoe as if he were some rare and  rather unpleasant animal. 'For a start I don't do  the job by myself, you know. Miss Clayton and  Miss Collingwood were here too doing their bit. Ask 'em! Superintendent, I don't understand your  underling. If he'd wanted to know about this week-end or Monday afternoon, that would figure. But all that time ago . . . !'

'Don't worry, sir. We're checking that too,' said  Dalziel, rising. 'No sign of your client yet? Sergeant, have a look.'

Solemnly, Pascoe peered into the outer office.

'No, sir. Empty.'

'Dear me. I hope we haven't chased him away. Well, thank you for your time, Mr Cowley. Sorry  to have troubled you. If Mr Atkinson should get in  touch again, please let us know. Good evening.'

Outside Dalziel looked assessingly at the sun's declension.

'You can buy me a drink,' he said finally.

'The Black Eagle, sir?'

'No. Somewhere where telephones don't ring. Round the corner here'll do.'

At this time of evening they were the only customers in the ugly little pub Dalziel had discovered. Instead of his usual scotch he ordered a gin and a  sugar-free tonic.

Pascoe expressed surprise.

'I'm cutting down,’ said Dalziel, adding two  drops of the tonic to his gin and drinking the  mixture with a shudder.

'Ah,' said Pascoe.

'Your bright idea that Cowley and Selkirk might be one and the same sank like turtle-shit, didn't  it?' said Dalziel gleefully.

'It was a thought,' said Pascoe. 'I'll check with  the girls all the same. If it wasn't that, then what  part could he have played? I suppose he could be  in the clear?'

'Who knows? I doubt it, but I could be biased. He's not a kind of man I care for.'

It was like the Pope admitting some uncertainty about the position of the Mormons.

'What's the next move, sir?'

'We'll try the Shelley, but I doubt if we'll have  much luck. Have a word with Mrs Lewis, see what  she can tell us about Atkinson. After that, God  knows.'

He shrugged fatalistically and finished his drink. He looked tired.

'Is it possible Lewis got taken as well? That he wasn't in the con after all?'

'No. Cowley I'll admit some doubt about. Lewis, no. We'd better get some expert help from the fraud lads on this. That forty thou's got to be  somewhere. Do you want another?'

'No, thanks. I talked with Lauder about the Lewises. He reckoned Lewis sometimes took a bit  of spare up there.'

'It figures. A man needs his hobbies. Anything else?'

'No. Except he wants to know what to do with  the Lewises' dog.'

'Dog?' Dalziel looked interested. 'Dog? That  reminds me, I had a notion earlier. But no. It  doesn't help much, does it?'

'What doesn't?' asked Pascoe patiently.

'These break-ins. There seem to be a lot of  pets around. Sturgeon's cats. Cottingley's dog. You keep on coming back with more hairs on you than  a gorilla's arse. If there was a tip-off coming from a  kennels, it'd explain how our friend knew whose house is empty when. But if the Lewises' dog went  with them, it doesn't work.'

'Unless, as you suggested before, the Lewis job wasn't in the series,' said Pascoe.

'But you don't reckon Sturgeon?'

'No. But that still leaves Atkinson. And perhaps Cowley. And forty thousand pounds.'

'True, Sergeant. Check the other houses that got done for pets, then. See if there is a connection.'

'Now, sir?'

'You said you didn't want another drink, so you  can't have anything else to do,'

The old Dalziel logic. Pascoe drank the last of his beer. He must be reaching maturity, he hardly felt even slightly irritated.

'I think I can spare you half an hour of my time,  sir,' he said lightly. The reaction surprised him.

'You can spare me as much of your bloody time as I require,' said Dalziel with some force. 'We don't work nine to five and we can't afford private  lives. Haven't you learned that much yet?'

'I've learned that if you're one thing all your life you become less than that one thing,' answered Pascoe, feeling his recent sense of mature invulnerability evaporating. 'You can be too dedicated.'

'Can you? What the hell do you know, Sergeant? Do you want to spend your life in the  company of people who think of us as "pigs"?'

'You're talking about Ellie Soper?'

'I didn't mention her,' grunted Dalziel.

'Now listen,' said Pascoe with quiet vehemence. 'I've had the gist of what you said to her on the  phone the other day. You'd better understand, sir,  I make my own decisions. I need no keeper, no protection. You're my superior officer, but what I  do with my life's my own business. And who I do  it with.'

Dalziel didn't speak but went to the bar and bought another round. Pascoe's was a large scotch, his own another gin and tonic.

'What's this for?' asked Pascoe, looking suspiciously at his glass.

'Drink it down. Your promotion's through. It'll  be published next week.'

'What?'

'Yes. Congratulations.'

Pascoe drank, his mind full of fragmented  thoughts.

'You'll probably be off somewhere else.'

'Will I?'

'It's usual.'

Pascoe smiled almost apologetically.

'You'll have to find youself another boy,' he  said.

'This time I might try for a man,' answered  Dalziel.

But there was no force, no passion behind the  exchange. Instead it hung on the air like the dully resigned, totally inadequate farewells of friends  who part, uncertain whether they will ever meet again.

The next morning Pascoe heard that the Thornton  Lacey inquest was to be reopened and would take  place on the following Tuesday
. 

PART THREE

Chapter 1

What sudden horrors rise! a naked lover bound and bleeding speed the soft intercourse from still on that breast enamoured let me he best can paint 'em who shall give all thou canst and let me dream the rest her gloomy  presence a browner horror all is calm in this eternal sleep here for ever death, only death, can break here, even then, shall my cold dust  remain I view my crime but kindle at I come,  I come! thither where sinners may have rest  I go in sacred vestments mayst thou stand  teach me at once and learn of me to die  condemned.