‘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.’
And up you too, thought Pascoe, looking at the receiver. The fat bastard was probably congratulating himself on his subtle psychological therapy.
The phone rang again as Mrs Crowther reached into the oven for his warming plate. This time to his surprise it was Hartley Culpepper.
‘I hoped I’d find you there, Mr Pascoe. Look, it struck me after I left you at the cottage, are you staying in the village tonight?’
‘Well, yes,’ said Pascoe, surprised. ‘Yes, I expect we are.’
‘Have you fixed up anything yet?’
‘No. Not yet. I haven’t really thought,’ answered Pascoe. It was true, he hadn’t given a thought to what they would do that night. The Crowthers, he suspected, would at a pinch keep Ellie, but it would mean a great deal of inconvenience for them.
‘Perhaps one of the pubs,’ he mused aloud.
‘Nonsense,’ said Culpepper firmly. ‘We would be delighted if you would stay with us. I was going to ask you and your friend to come to dinner, anyway. So why not bring your bags with you? This must have been a terrible strain for both of you. It’ll do you good – it will do us all good – to be in friendly company. Please come.’
‘It’s very kind of you,’ said Pascoe doubtfully.
‘Good,’ interrupted Culpepper. ‘We’ll expect you, about tea-time then. The Crowthers will be able to direct you. Goodbye.’
Everyone else is having the last word today, thought Pascoe.
Constable Crowther had arrived home and was taking his place at the other side of the kitchen-table. He nodded an acknowledgement at Pascoe and settled down to eating his meal. Either hunger or some form of diplomacy kept him silent, and Pascoe himself did not speak until he had disposed of his food without further interruption.
‘This will mean a lot of work for you,’ he said finally.
Crowther nodded.
‘A bit. There’s a beer in the cupboard behind you if you fancy it.’
‘Thanks,’ said Pascoe. ‘This’ll be a quiet patch normally?’
‘Quiet enough. Popular for break-ins.’
‘Is that so?’
Crowther nodded and chewed his gammon systematically. About thirty chews to the mouthful, Pascoe thought.
‘It’s mostly business people now, you see,’ resumed Crowther. ‘Working in the town. There’s been a lot of building.’
Another mouthful. Another thirty chews.
‘And renovation.’
‘Like Brookside Cottage?’
‘That’s right,’ said Crowther, nodding vigorously.
‘Was it empty when Mr Pelman decided to sell it?’
‘That’s right.’ Another mouthful. This time Pascoe counted. Twenty-eight, twenty-nine. ‘Mr Pelman didn’t like that. It was a handy way into his woods from the road for anyone wanting to pot a few birds. And the cottages themselves was always getting broken into. Not that there was anything to take, you understand. Practising for bigger stuff, I reckoned. But they did a lot of damage.’
So. Vandals and poachers all swanning round Brookside Cottage. Homicidal? It was surprising how many people were under the right conditions.
Even people you knew quite well.
‘Pelman put it on the market then?’ mused Pascoe. ‘That was quite clever. He’d make a bit of money and have someone there to man his frontier post.’
‘Hardly that,’ objected Crowther. ‘You can get into Pelman’s woods at a dozen places. And there’s not all that much in there anyhow.’
‘No red deer and grizzly bear?’
‘No,’ answered Crowther, adding, as though in reproach of Pascoe’s mild levity, ‘just a lot of coppers at the moment.’
Pascoe sipped his beer. Crowther’s tastes ran to lukewarm brown ale, it appeared. The thought put him in mind of the two village pubs, in one of which Rose Hopkins had last been seen by anyone alive to tell the tale. Except one person.
‘What’s the difference between the Eagle and Child and the Queen Anne?’ he asked. It sounded like a child’s conundrum, but Crowther didn’t seem puzzled.
‘The Eagle’s a free house. Owned by Major Palfrey. The Anne’s tied to the brewery. Mr and Mrs Dixon just manage it. Not just. They manage it very well, I mean. Nice couple.’
‘Who uses which? Or is it just the nearest that people go to?’
Crowther looked at him closely.
‘Couldn’t say,’ he said. ‘I use the Anne myself.’
‘Just because it’s the nearest?’ insisted Pascoe. ‘I should have thought the local law would have had to preserve a fine show of impartiality towards licensed premises.’
‘I do,’ said Crow
ther. ‘When I’m on duty. But off, I like to be comfortable where I drink.’
He seemed to make his mind up that Pascoe had a sympathetic ear and leaned over the table confidentially.
‘Difference is, and this is just me, mind you,’ he went on, ‘the Dixons make you feel welcome, the Major always makes me feel he’s doing me a favour by pulling me a pint.’
He nodded emphatically and started rolling an absurdly thin cigarette in an ancient machine. Pascoe laughed knowingly.
‘Major Palfrey thinks he’s the squire rather than the landlord, does he?’
‘That’s the trouble with this place now,’ averred the constable, lighting his cigarette which burnt like a fuse. ‘It’s full of bloody squires. Trouble is, there aren’t enough peasants to go round.’
Constable Crowther, it appeared, invariably took a ten-minute nap after his lunch and could see no reason to interrupt his routine today. Pascoe was sorry about this. The man’s conversation interested him and he was still desperately in need of things to interest him. He decided to take a walk, down to the village perhaps, find out what was going on. As he stood up, he realized he hadn’t mentioned the arrangements that had been made for the evening.
Mrs Crowther came into the kitchen and bustled around her snoozing husband, clearing the table with no effort at noise-evasion.
‘Miss Soper and I are going to spend the night at Mr Culpepper’s house,’ said Pascoe. ‘I’d like to let Miss Soper sleep, though, as long as possible. Is that OK?’
‘We could have kept you here,’ answered the woman. ‘Our lad could have used the camp-bed.’
‘Thank you very much. But I didn’t want to trouble you. And Mr Culpepper was most insistent.’
Crowther opened his eyes and looked straight at Pascoe.
‘Culpepper,’ he said. He made it sound like an accusation. Then he went back to sleep.
In Crowther’s book, Culpepper was probably one of the self-appointed squires, thought Pascoe as he stood outside the station in the bright sunlight and took his bearings. He wasn’t certain if he altogether liked what he saw. Not that it wasn’t pretty. In the rememberable past Thornton Lacey must have been a roadside hamlet of a couple of dozen houses plus a church, a shop and a pub which served the numerous farms in the rich surrounding countryside. But things had changed. Over the hill one day, perhaps only a couple of decades ago, had come the first – the first what? He remembered the phrase in Colin’s letter. Pallid cits. The first pallid cit. Soon there must have been droves of them. And they were still coming. He recalled as he had driven in that morning an arrowed notice on the outskirts of the village had directed their attention to a High Class Development of Executive Residences. It had made them laugh to think of Colin and Rose in such company. Many things had made them laugh on the journey.
With an effort of will he returned his attention to the village. Pallid cits had to be catered for. There was a ladies’ hairdressing salon very tastefully slotted beneath an awryly-timbered top storey. At least two Gothic-scripted antique shops were visible. Passing pallid cits had to be tempted to stop and invest in the past. But not to stop permanently, he suspected. No one defends the countryside and its traditions more fiercely than he who has just got planning permission for his own half-acre. The Village Amenities Committee didn’t sound like a farmworkers’ trade union, somehow.
It’s that bloody woman again, thought Pascoe gloomily. Why have I taken against her so much so rapidly? And I’m spending the night under her roof.
But why the hell should I? I didn’t want to.
That anger which had been bubbling under the surface all morning suddenly broke through again. He had progressed about a quarter of a mile down the long, winding village street and now realized he was opposite the Queen Anne. On an impulse he crossed over and went in.
It wasn’t long till closing time and the bar was empty.
‘Lager, please,’ he said to the attractively solid-fleshed woman who came to take his order.
‘Thirsty weather,’ she said with a smile.
‘Do you put people up?’ he asked, sipping his drink.
‘Sorry. You might try the Eagle and Child. They have a couple of rooms there they sometimes let.’
‘Thanks. Is it Mrs Dixon, by the way?’ Pascoe asked.
‘That’s right,’ the woman answered, looking at him with sudden wariness. ‘Why?’
‘You served Mrs Hopkins, Mrs Rose Hopkins of Brookside Cottage, last night I believe.’
‘Yes. Yes, I did.’ She glanced through into the other bar.
‘Sam. Sam, love. Got a moment?’
A red, jolly-faced man, solid as his wife, stepped through, a smile on his lips. Pascoe could understand how Crowther felt made welcome.
‘Lovely day, sir. Yes, my dear?’
‘This gentleman’s asking about Mrs Hopkins.’
Sam Dixon composed his features to a solemnity they clearly weren’t made for.
‘A dreadful business. Are you from the Press, sir?’
‘No,’ said Pascoe. The man looked nonplussed for a moment.
‘The thing is,’ he said finally, ‘it’s an upsetting business. Molly – my wife – has spoken to the police already. Now, we don’t like talking about our customers at the best of times, but in circumstances like this, especially with friends of the poor woman …’
‘I’m a friend,’ said Pascoe suddenly. He appreciated the man’s diplomacy but he couldn’t keep the abruptness out of his voice. ‘I was a friend. I’m not just after a bit of sensational titillation.’
‘I never suggested you were, sir,’ said Dixon quietly.
‘No. Of course you didn’t. I’m sorry,’ said Pascoe. ‘The thing is, well, I found them, you see.’
Absurdly he found himself unable to go on. One part of him was detached, viewing the phenomenon with a sort of professional interest. He had seen this kind of thing a hundred times in his job, had come to watch for it, the moment when a witness to a crime or an accident suddenly feels what he has seen. It was a completely unforecastable syndrome. Sometimes it was accompanied by complete collapse. Or mild amnesia. Blind panic. Or, as now, temporary paralysis of the speech organs.
A large brandy appeared under his nose from nowhere. If you had to act like this, his detached portion thought, here was clearly the place to do it.
‘Sit down, sir. Drink this up. Nothing like it for clearing the head.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Pascoe, suddenly regaining control of his tongue. ‘It’s ridiculous.’
‘Nonsense. Go on, knock that brandy back.’
He did so and felt much better.
‘You’re very kind,’ he said, trying to regain control of the situation. ‘I’m sorry. I should have said who I was before I started asking questions.’
‘Not at all.’ Dixon eyed him with the calculating scrutiny of one long expert at diagnosing the condition of his customers. Pascoe evidently passed muster.
‘What did you want to know?’
‘Just what happened when Mrs Hopkins came in. What she said. That kind of thing.’
This was silly. It would all be on record. Backhouse might let him see it. Certainly he could arrange unofficially to have a look. What did he expect to do, anyway? Spot some incredibly subtly concealed clue which would reveal precisely what happened last night and prove Colin … innocent? He must be innocent! Then where the hell was he?
‘There was nothing special about last night,’ Molly Dixon was saying. ‘We were very busy. You’d expect that at that time on a Friday night, but it was worse than usual as I was on my own with just our barmaid, and she’s a bit slow. Sam was at the Amenities Committee Meeting. Rose came to the off-licence counter there.’
She pointed at a small hatch which was visible through a door in the wall joining the two bars.
‘There’s a bell in there. She rang it. I went through as soon as I could. “A bottle of scotch,” she said. “First that comes to hand will do. I can see you’re busy.�
�� I gave her a bottle. “Will this do?” I asked. “Anything,” she said. “They’ve had so much I could give them cold tea.” “I’d try hot coffee if they’re that bad,” I said. She paid me, took the bottle and went. There should have been a penny change. I shouted, but she didn’t hear, and next thing I heard a car starting, so I went back to the fray.’
‘The Mini-Cooper? You heard the Mini?’ asked Pascoe.
‘I’m not that expert! It sounded a bit sporty, that’s all.’
‘And she said nothing else?’
‘Not that I can remember. It was a very busy night.’
‘Of course. I’m very grateful to you,’ said Pascoe. ‘Just one thing. You called Mrs Hopkins “Rose”.’
‘That’s her name, isn’t … wasn’t it?’ said Molly, puzzled.
‘Yes, of course. What I meant was, you knew her quite well?’
‘Oh yes! We got on very well right from the start. I’d only known her and Colin a couple of months, but we soon got on friendly terms. That’s why it came as such a shock … I still can’t believe it.’
‘They didn’t use the other pub, then? The Eagle and Child.’
He intercepted a quick glance between the man and his wife. Intercepted and, he thought, interpreted.
‘They may have done on occasions,’ said Dixon in a neutral tone.
‘Come on!’ said Pascoe. ‘Rose is dead and God knows what’s happened to Colin. So you can forget professional etiquette for once, can’t you?’
Another glance. This time the woman spoke.
‘They went there to start with, I think. It was a bit nearer to the cottage. And it’s popular with …’
She hesitated.
‘The squirearchy,’ supplied Pascoe. ‘What happened?’
‘There was a bit of trouble. A row or something.’
‘With the Major?’
‘I’m not sure. They didn’t mention it till we’d got to know them quite well. I mean, they wouldn’t come in here right away and start complaining about the other pub. They weren’t that kind of people,’ protested Molly.
‘You’re right,’ said Pascoe. ‘They weren’t.’
‘They only mentioned it at all as a joke. Saying how lucky it was they had been driven out of the Garden of Eden. Felix culpa, Colin called it. He loved to make quotations.’
Ruling Passion Page 4
