Ruling Passion (28 page)

He left the room, shaking his great bull-head.

'What are you grinning at?' said Pascoe to  Ferguson. 'Go and find that newspaper and be  quick about it!'

Sturgeon, having decided to recover, was recovering apace. He was sitting up in bed, surrounded by  flowers and fruit, and there were the beginnings  of a healthy colour in his cheeks. He greeted them  warmly, like old friends.

'Everyone's been very good. To Mavis too. That's  what's best,' he said when they'd settled down,  Dalziel in the bedside armchair and Pascoe on the  edge of the bed.

'We've brought you something too,' said Pascoe.  He began to exhibit the contents of the box.

'Aye, that's mine. That too. And that. Aye, it's  all ours. What about the stamps?'

'I'm sorry,' said Pascoe gently. 'No stamps.'

'No? Well, I reckon they'd get rid of 'em quick  because they were valuable, eh? Not to worry. Does this mean you've got him as done it, then?'

'We think so, Mr Sturgeon. Now I'd like you to  look carefully at this picture.'

Pascoe produced an envelope and from it took  a piece of newspaper which he passed over.

'No,' said Sturgeon. 'Vaguely familiar. You  know. Like I might have passed him in the street  or something.'

'Try this,' said Pascoe. He took out a ball-point  and sketched in the spectacles and shaggy moustache Sturgeon had mentioned in his description  of Archie Selkirk.

Sturgeon looked at it puzzled.

'It's his hobby,' said Dalziel kindly.

'Does that look anything like the man Selkirk? ‘asked Pascoe desperately. Dalziel groaned at the  leading question.

'Aye. A bit,' said Sturgeon cautiously. 'But if you did the same to yourself, lad, you'd look like him too, I reckon!'

In the hospital lift, Dalziel looked at Pascoe  assessively.

'You've been hit on the head twice,' he stated,  referring for the first time to the twin stripes of  plaster adorning Pascoe's head.

He began to tell the superintendent what had  happened, but Dalziel stopped him.

'I rang Mr Backhouse after your interesting  message about Etherege's drinking habits came  through. He seemed disappointed I wasn't in the  Tower of London. But he told me all about your  day.'

Pascoe was touched by the fat man's solicitude  for a moment.

'If I'd been Backhouse, I'd have torn you to  shreds,' he went on. 'You think this chap Pelman's  your man?'

'He could be,' said Pascoe, not wanting to sound  too certain of himself.

'Aye. Backhouse seemed none too happy either,'  said Dalziel to his surprise. 'Anyway, you've had a  hard day. Don't start cutting corners by trying to  force everything to fit your own notions. Forget  Cowley. Have an early night.'

'I think I might do,' agreed Pascoe.

'You do. You need your rest, sergeant. Sorry,
Inspector.
Now you've been promoted I suppose I should call you by your first name. The accolade, eh?'

They had come in their own cars. In the car-park  Dalziel clapped him on the shoulder.

'Get yourself off home now,' he said. 'Straight  to kip. Good night, Paul.'

He strode away powerfully.

'My name's Peter,' called Pascoe after him, but  he didn't think he heard.

His plans for an early night did not last long.  The phone was ringing when he entered his flat.  It was Ellie, who was reacting very differently to  the trying events of the day.

'Peter, if your head feels up to it, I'd like to go  somewhere nice and bright and noisy, and have a  big meal with a bit of music.'

'That sounds like the Dick Turpin,' he said, referring to the biggest and brightest of the night-spots  which had erupted locally in the past five or six  years as sophistication crept north.

'That'll do,' said Ellie. 'I feel like getting a little  bit high.'

The Dick Turpin was booming even this early in  the week and they were lucky to get a table. A  five-piece band beat its own original trail through  the current hit-parade and the small dance-floor  was awash with shuddering flesh.

'Let's dance,' said Ellie as they waited for their  prawn-cocktails to arrive.

'This is a side of your character you've cleverly kept concealed,’ said Pascoe as he followed her  reluctantly to the edge of the arena.

Fortunately after a couple of minutes the musicians either relented or became exhausted and the  tempo decelerated to a dreamily slow shuffle. Ellie  hung close so that Pascoe was almost carrying her  round.

'What happens now, love?' she asked suddenly.

'What do you mean?'

'It's not really over yet, is it? You know, driving  home from Thornton Lacey, I half imagined it was. But now I see it's nowhere near. I mean, there's  everything still; investigation, trial, appeal; it just  goes on. It's only in stories that everything stops  when you get your murderer.'

And it's only in stories you can be certain you've got him, thought Pascoe. But he didn't speak.

'I'll never get them out of my mind,' Ellie went  on. 'At one moment on that Friday night they were there, all four of them. Happy, a bit tight,  certain they had each other. Then bang! it was  all gone.'

'Shall we sit down, love?' asked Pascoe.

'No. I like this. I'm OK, I promise. Peter,' she  said drawing back a little from him, 'it's made me realize how much I need the illusion of permanence. Let's get married. Or shack up together. I  don't mind which, only I suppose being married wins more friends and influences more people in  your business. What do you say?'

The band had a quick recovery rate. Without warning they burst into a new chaos of sound  and Pascoe would have found it difficult to make  an audible reply. But in fact he made no effort  to do so.

His attention was fully concentrated on the far corner of the dance-floor. There, his face flushed  with effort, eyes gleaming, mouth set in a twisted  smile, body snapping back and forth like a rutting  ape, was James Cowley.

But it was his partner who really caught the eye,  with her long red hair, large sensual mouth and  deep-cut dress which concealed hardly a square  inch of her breasts as they shook mightily in the  exertions of the dance.

Pascoe's first thought was that she fitted perfectly the albeit sketchy description of the woman  who sometimes accompanied Lewis to Lochart.

His second thought was that this was not the only reason for her familiarity.

And his third thought which set the jackpot  showering into his amazed mind was that beneath  the fiery hair, the bright make-up and the clinging dress was the dowdy, retiring personage of  the firm's senior secretary, and the better half of  Cowley's Scottish alibi, Marjory Clayton.

Pascoe played it very cunning, much to Dalziel's later approval and Ellie's present distress. He  escorted her quickly back to their table, picked  up their bits and pieces and dragged her away, not without protest, from their approaching prawns.

'There's someone I don't want to meet,' he  explained.

'Why? Who? I thought criminals were supposed to hide from the law, not the other way. And what about my dinner?'

'We'll go somewhere else. And the answer's
yes.'

'I don't want to go anywhere else. What  answer?'

'To your question. Now where shall we go?'

'Oh. In that case, I'm not hungry.'

They had fish and chips in the car a couple of  hours later.

Marjory Clayton, back to her Ugly Duckling  plumage, was picked up the following morning  as she left for work. She was more than happy to  go down to the station to help with their inquiries into poor Mr Lewis's death, but shouldn't she let Mr Cowley know she was going to be late? Some  of the warmth left her smile when she was assured  Mr Cowley was going to be too busy to notice her  absence.

And the smile itself disappeared when Dalziel, wearing his most unsmiling expression, greeted  her by slamming down a notepad on the table  before her and bellowing, 'Right! Quick as you  like! I want details of the account where you've got Sturgeon's forty thousand. Every second  you waste now could mean a month on your  sentence.'

It took two attempts for her to write it legibly.

Pascoe had a tougher job with Cowley who refused to be prised way from his office and very  rapidly became very irate. Finally he picked up his  telephone and started dialling. Solicitor? wondered  Pascoe. But he was wrong.

'I have had more than enough of this badgering  and I intend to have a word with your superior,’  snapped Cowley.

'Dalziel,’ said Pascoe.

'What?'

'Mr Dalziel,’ he repeated, and sat poker-faced as Cowley got through with remarkable speed and launched into a not very elegant series of  complaints. Finally he finished and with an air  of triumph passed the phone over to Pascoe.

'He wants a word with you.'

'Pascoe? Listen, the girl's talking so fast, it's taxing Ferguson's shorthand. The gist is she was in love with Lewis, didn't know he was doing  anything dishonest ha! ha!, was happy to do him a  favour by banking the money in a little account she had opened in Leeds. She denies any knowledge  of Cowley's Selkirk act, but she's lying. She does agree that it might have been a week earlier that they did the accounts last May. Says she could have got mixed up with the Spring Bank holiday and  Whit! We've chatted to the Collinwood girl who  agrees. She's so thick she'll agree with anything!  Bring Cowley in, will you? Give him a fright if you  like. Then shut him up till I get back.'

'Sir?''I've got an appointment with Etherege's leg-man, remember? Sorry you won't be able to make  it. I'll be back by eleven. Cheers.'

Pascoe put the phone down quietly.

'Right,' said Cowley. 'I'm sorry to have had to  do that, but you really must learn

Pascoe ignored him and stood up.

'James Cowley, you are not obliged to say  anything at this time, but I must warn you  that anything you do say will be taken down and  may be used in evidence. I would be grateful if you would accompany me to the station, now, where I  believe you may be able to help in our inquiries.'

'This is outrageous,' said Cowley. But he didn't  sound as if he believed it.

Dalziel did not get back until eleven-thirty, not in  the best of moods.

'No luck?' asked Pascoe.

'No. Not a bloody soul went near the shop all  morning. They must have heard.'

'Unless it wasn't the shop, sir. We just have a note of a time, not a place.'

'Aye. I thought of that too. But the best I could do was keep Jones-the-cat-meat's store-house watched as well. Nothing. And I had a  couple of lads get details of everyone who stopped  in Birkham between ten and eleven. All three of  them, all looking for a cup of coffee. One of them  was a Methodist Minister!'

He held out a sheet of paper as if determined to prove the existence of such an extraordinary  creature.

Pascoe glanced casually at it, then with more  interest.

'What's up?' asked Dalziel.

'Who spoke to these people?'

'Ferguson or Dove. Why?'

'They'll be in the canteen now, I suppose. Excuse me, sir.'

'Yes,' said Ferguson. 'Or rather, he spoke to me.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, I was keeping an eye open for anyone  showing an interest in the shop when this car  pulled up. Chap wound down the window and  looked out. I went across to him and he asked me if there was anywhere nearby where he could get  a cup of coffee.'

'And?'

'I told him I was a police-officer and pretended to be interested in his car. He knew the registration  number, his licence and insurance were OK. I  apologized and sent him on his way.'

'How far was he from the shop when he  stopped?'

'Oh, about thirty, forty yards. On the other side  of the road.'

He went back to Dalziel's room which was now empty, and picked up the phone. It took a little  time to get connected.

'Ellie?' he said.

'Peter. You've dragged me from a lecture. What's  up?'

'They won't miss you. Listen, love, has Anton  Davenant been in touch with you today?'

'No. Why should he?'

'No reason. Just check, will you? See if he left a  note or a message or anything.'

'Hang on.'

Dalziel came back, rubbing his hands gleefully. 'I've just had a look in at Cowley. Just an accusing  glare. He's a bag of nerves. We'll crack him like a  nut.'

'Yes, sir,' said Pascoe. 'Hello, love.'

'Hello,' said Ellie. 'No, nothing. What's this all  about?'

'I'll tell you later.'

'You won't have time later. You'll be too busy  buying me a big, vulgar ring.'

'Goodbye.'

'Did she say something about a ring?' asked  Dalziel as Pascoe replaced the receiver.

Pascoe didn't answer, but stared thoughtfully at the telephone as though memorizing the number.

'Jesus Christ!' said Dalziel. 'Have I been sent to  Coventry?'

'I'm sorry, sir. It's just that one of these men who were spotted in Birkham was Anton Davenant who's distantly connected with the Thornton  Lacey business.'

Quickly he explained who Davenant was.

'So?' said Dalziel.

'Well, last Wednesday when the first post-Lewis appointment was noted by Etherege, Davenant was up in this part of the country. Ellie ran into  him and he said it was her he was on his way to  see. But it was all a bit vague.'

'Interesting,' said Dalziel. 'Now, there was a  cancelled appointment for yesterday as well.'

'And yesterday,' said Pascoe, 'Davenant attended the inquest at Thornton Lacey.'

'Nice,' said Dalziel approvingly. 'Just one more coincidence, and I'll buy the whole thing. He gets  around a lot, this guy?'

'Yes. It's part of his business. Hang on,' said  Pascoe. 'I might just be able to give you that last  coincidence.'

He picked up the telephone again and after  a moment's thought dialled the local reference library.

'Clever boy,' said Dalziel when he had finished.  'Now I'll buy.'

Now I'll sell, thought Pascoe. The librarian did  not have space enough to keep all the Sunday colour supplements, but because of its peculiar  local interest, yes, he had kept that one.