Ruling Passion (4 page)

'Sorry to take so long. You must have thought  I'd be first on the spot, living on the doorstep  so to speak. But I was half-way round the golf-course with Culpepper here. Dreadful business,  this. Dreadful. You'd better tell me what I need  to know.'

Culpepper, thought Pascoe, as Backhouse and  the coroner moved back into the cottage together.  The committee secretary - Marianne Culpepper.  Her husband?

The man spoke to him and his words seemed to  confirm this. His eyes were taking everything in.  Despite his air of quiet authority, he felt a need to  explain himself.

'Excuse me, could you . . . You are with the  police, I'm right?'

'Pascoe, sir. Sergeant Pascoe,’

'It's not just morbid curiosity that brings me  here, Sergeant. I live close by. I knew these people,  the Hopkinses, I mean. When Mr French told  me why he had to come back, I couldn't believe  it.'

He fell silent.

'How close do you live, sir?' asked Pascoe. It was  easier to fall into the policeman role than explain  his true position.

'About half a mile. Round the side of the hill.' He  gestured vaguely towards the rising ground which  lay to the south of the village.

'What happened here, Sergeant? Is it true they  are all dead?'

'Mrs Hopkins is dead, sir,' said Pascoe evenly.  'And Mr Mansfield and Mr Rushworth, two guests  who were spending the night with them.'

'Oh, my God. What about Colin, Mr Hopkins?  And the other guests?'

'Other guests?' said Pascoe sharply.

'Yes. I ran into Mrs Hopkins in the village yesterday evening when I got back from the office.  About five o'clock. It seems impossible . . . anyway,  I asked them round for a drink tonight, but she  explained they would have a houseful of guests.  Four, she said. At least.'

It had been five-thirty when Pascoe had rung  to say he and Ellie couldn't make it that evening.  If only that case hadn't come up ... or Dalziel  hadn't insisted . . . another two made the odds  very strong against anyone trying anything with  a double-barrelled shotgun. What an adaptable  thing blame was; so easy to shift or attract.

'Had you known Mr and Mrs Hopkins long,  sir?' asked Pascoe, evading the question about the  guests.

'Not long. Two or three months only, since they  bought Brookside, in fact. They have worked so  hard on it. The place was not in a good state of  repair when they acquired it, you know. And they  did wonders, wonders.'

He tailed off into silence.

'Mr Pelman sold them the cottage, I believe,' said  Pascoe.

'That's right.'

Something in his tone made Pascoe pursue this  line.

'Did he live here himself before he sold the  place?'

Culpepper smiled without much humour.

'No. The cottage stands at the boundary of the  land he bought when he came here five years ago.  His house is the other side of the woods,
his
woods.  That's what he really wanted, of course. A place  where he could pit his wits against the intelligence  of various small beasts and birds. A most uneven  contest, I fear.'

Am I supposed to be too thick to get the double  irony? wondered Pascoe.

'It's strange, isn't it, that the chairman of the  Village Amenities Committee should let such a  property fall into disrepair?' murmured Pascoe.

Culpepper raised his eyebrows at him.

'You glean your information fast, Sergeant.'

'We spend our working life amidst the alien  corn, sir.'

Culpepper suddenly nodded twice, as though  something had been confirmed.

'You're the Hopkinses' policeman friend, aren't  you? One of their week-end guests.'

Clever Mr Culpepper.

'Yes. I am. How did you know?'

'Mrs Hopkins, Rose, said something about you,  when we talked yesterday.'

So I was an object of interest, worth a special  mention. Like a literary lion. Or a two-headed man. What now, Mr Culpepper? wondered Pascoe.  Indignation at my mild deceit?

'I'm sorry. I didn't realize. This must be an  unbearable situation for you,' said Culpepper with  apparently unforced sympathy. 'Were you here  when it happened?'

'No,' said Pascoe shortly. 'I found them this  morning when we arrived.'

'How terrible. You say
we?'

'A friend. She's resting now. It was a shock.'

'Terrible. Terrible. Such things are a puzzle and  a torment to the mind.'

Backhouse and French appeared.

'Are you ready, Hartley?' called the coroner.  'Two-thirty this afternoon then, Superintendent.  I hope you find your man quickly.'

He looked sideways at Pascoe and shook his  head slightly, but didn't speak. Culpepper held  out his hand.

'Goodbye, Mr Pascoe. I'm sorry we had to meet  in such circumstances. Your friends were delightful  people to have in the village. We counted ourselves  lucky that they came here.'

Pascoe shook his hand. There was nothing to say  in reply except perhaps that Rose would scarcely  have counted herself lucky in coming here; nor  Colin, wherever he was.

That was the only thing really worth talking  about. Where Colin was. And why. Backhouse  must be ready to get round to it now.

He was. French and Culpepper had scarcely disappeared from the garden before Backhouse  asked the big question.

'You've had time for reflection now, Sergeant.  So tell me. Why should a man like Colin Hopkins  take a shotgun" and kill his wife and two close  friends?'

Chapter 4

He had been expecting the question and had felt  reserves of angry indignation building up inside  him, ready to explode when it was asked. But for  some reason the spark did not catch.

'We don't know he did,' he protested weakly.

'You're a policeman,' answered Backhouse.  'Suppose this were your case. What assumption  would you be working on?'

'It's all circumstantial. If you knew Colin, you'd  know that it's just impossible.'

'I've encountered quite a few murderers,' said  Backhouse patiently. 'I dare say you've met one  or two yourself. One thing they nearly all had in  common was a handful of close friends willing to  attest with the most vehement sincerity that the  accused was quite incapable of such a crime. Am  I right?'

'I suppose so.'

'Good. In any case, as you told me before, a few years can change things. Situations certainly.  People as well, though to a lesser extent. So tell  me what you know, what you remember. Is he a  quick-tempered man?'

'What the hell does it matter?' said Pascoe. If  he was going to be questioned as an ordinary  witness, he would assume some of the privileges  of an ordinary witness. Such as the unnecessity of  politeness towards questioning policemen.

'You're going after him anyway. You'll track him  down, question him. If there's enough evidence,  you'll put him in court. So why waste time talking  to me?'

'You know why, Sergeant,' said Backhouse  coldly. 'Of course we're going after him. And of  course my men -
your
colleagues - will assume  it's very likely he has committed a triple murder.  They'll also assume he has a double-barrelled shotgun which he is willing to use. I want information,  all the information I can get. I want to know the  best way of dealing with him, which way he's  likely to jump. I thought I was lucky when I learnt  you were in the force. A professional first on the  scene. It was your bad luck. I thought it was my  good luck.'

'Every point taken,' said Pascoe with tight-lipped  emphasis. 'Only, I cannot believe that he did it.'

'Fair enough. Then why so antagonistic? Tell me  things to prove his innocence. Was he a jealous  man, do you think? Would his wife give him  cause?'

'Unlikely,' said Pascoe with a frown. 'At least  they seemed set up for life. Ask Ellie, Miss Soper.  She's seen them much more recently. But we've  talked a lot about them and she would certainly  have mentioned any signs of a rift.'

'There were two single men in the house last  night,' said Backhouse casually. 'Old friends. Going  back to before she married.'

Pascoe laughed now.

'I see it! The triangle. Or even the quadrilateral. It's a non-starter, Superintendent. Timmy  and Carlo were, if anything, even more devoted  than Rose and Colin.'

'I see,' said Backhouse softly. 'I see. But things  do change, as you say. Even . . . tastes. What kind  of thing was it that would put Mr Hopkins into one  of his terrible wraths?'

'I'm sorry?'

'In the letter you showed me,' said Backhouse,  'he says something about his wrath being terrible  if you don't turn up, and adds that you know just  how terrible his wrath can be. A figure of speech  merely?'

Pascoe walked slowly forward and came to a  halt on the edge of the bank which sloped steeply  down to the brook. All the police activity was in  the woods on the other side now. A slow, methodical and, as yet, completely unproductive search.  Despite the warmth of the sun, many of the policemen were wearing waterproof overtrousers as the  undergrowth was still soaked from the previous night’s torrential rain. It would have obliterated  any sign of human passage, but it couldn't wash  away a shotgun.

'No, not a figure of speech,' said Pascoe. 'He had  a quick temper. Not a violent temper though, it  never led him into violence against people. Certainly he never got anywhere near the kind of  fury which could make a man pick up a shotgun,  kill two of his friends, reload, and shoot his wife.  What about the gun, by the way?'

'A 410, we know that from the cartridge cases.  But that's it. There's no sign of a licence anywhere  in the cottage. Was Hopkins the kind of man to  want to do some shooting? Game, I mean.'

'Never knew him express an interest. Though he  wasn't an anti, like Carlo and Timmy.'

'And his wife? Was she anti also?'

'Rose? Hell, no. Rose grew up in the country,  was used to the idea of birds tumbling from the  tree-top straight into the pie-dish.'

'So the presence of this' - Backhouse waved at  the woods - 'in his back garden may have been a  temptation?'

'Why not ask Pelman? He'd be sure to know  who was shooting on his land.'

Backhouse grinned.

'Oh, he's being asked, never fear. And we're  checking on all shotgun licences issued locally in  the past three months. Mr Dalziel would be proud  of us. So you reckon there was no chance of his  doing it in a blind rage?'

Pascoe was beginning to adapt to the man's questioning technique. He answered without pause.

'No chance of his doing it. Period.'

'In a blind rage. So, how about doing it in  cold blood? What kind of thing might make your  high-tempered extrovert friend consider shooting  someone dead in cold blood?'

'That's even less likely than the other!'

'So it's more likely he did it in a blind rage?'

'I didn't say that,' protested Pascoe.

'I'm sorry. I thought you said it was
less
likely  that he would do it in cold blood?'

'For God's sake! We're not in court!' snapped  Pascoe, tiring of this word play.

'It's as well for your friend we are not,' said  Backhouse, turning and beginning to walk back  to the cottage. Pascoe followed glumly and caught  up with the superintendent in the dining-room.  Together they stood and looked down at the  chalked outlines on the floor.

'These were your friends too,' said Backhouse.  'Innocent, guilty, have you any idea where a man  like Colin Hopkins would head for after something  like this?'

'The nearest police station,' said Pascoe.

Backhouse shrugged in resignation.

'That's where I'll drop you, Sergeant. Thanks for  your help.'

'I'm sorry,' said Pascoe. 'There doesn't seem to  be anything I can say. I'm sorry.'

'No matter. Get back to Miss Soper. I'll have another talk with her when she feels up to it. If  she's seen your friends more recently, it might  help.'

'Yes,' said Pascoe, leading the way to the car.  He stepped out of the cottage with a great sense  of relief.

'The inquest will be opened in the village school  this afternoon,' said Backhouse. 'Just identification  and causes of death, I should think. The usual  procedure. Two-thirty. We won't need Miss Soper  at this stage. I'll send a car for you.'

'Yes.'

The rest of the short journey passed in silence.  I'm a serious disappointment to him, thought  Pascoe. All that kindness wasted.

Ellie was still asleep, so Pascoe went downstairs  once more. Mrs Crowther put her head out of the  kitchen door and asked how the lady was.

'Sleeping,' said Pascoe. 'But she's got her colour  back.'

'Good. It'll do her good. You'll be hungry, I don't  doubt. What about a gammon rasher and egg?'

'No, I couldn't put you out,' protested Pascoe,  realizing, slightly to his surprise, how hungry he  was.

'Not a bit. Crowther'll be in any minute for his,  so it's no bother at all.'

It was a well cooked meal, interrupted twice by  the telephone.

The first time it was Dalziel.

'You all right?' he asked.

'Fine,' said Pascoe.

I've got your report on the Cottingley break-in  here. You write like a bloody woman's magazine  advertiser. When you mean he pissed in the kettle,  why the hell don't you write he pissed in the  kettle?'

'Sorry.'

'He's a dirty bastard this one. But clever with it.  If we don't get him soon, he'll be retiring. How's  your girl?'

'Resting. She'll be OK.'

'Good. They're going after your mate, I hear.'

'That's right.'

'Aye. We've had the look-out notice up here.  What do you think? Did he do it?'

'It looks bad.'

'But you don't think so? Well, listen. A word of  advice. Don't get mixed up more than you have  to. Say your piece, sign your statement and get  on home. Leave it to Backhouse. He's a bit of an  old woman, but he's not a bad jack. And don't be  taken in by his good manners. He'll drop you in  the cart if he thinks it'll help.'

'Yes, sir. We'll probably get back tomorrow.'

'I should bloody well hope so. You're due in here  at eight-thirty on Monday morning. Don't be late.  Cheeroh.'