‘These are nice,’ said Ellie. She was looking at a selection of pendants and brooches made up from small stones, some polished, some not, all described as ‘Real Yorkshire Stones’ as if this gave them special value.
‘You won’t find those in the Jockey,’ said the dealer. ‘But all good local work. Very local. Me, in fact. Keep your local craftsmen happy.’
‘And rich,’ said Pascoe drily, looking at the price tag of the red-flecked green stone pendant Ellie seemed to be taking most interest in.
‘All right,’ said the man. ‘Instant reduction of twenty-five p. just to test the sincerity of your interest.’
Ellie looked at Pascoe, grinning broadly at his predicament. He reached for his wallet and paid up. The grin alone was worth it.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Now I’ve got what I want, I’m going to rush off. I have a class at two-thirty. Ring me about tomorrow, will you?’
‘OK,’ said Pascoe. ‘I’ll just hang on here a bit.’
He watched her go, then turned to the dealer.
‘Mr Burne-Jones?’ he asked.
‘Nearly right. Etherege,’ said the man.
He looked unperturbed when Pascoe introduced himself and blank when he was shown the stamps.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘They’re just bits of paper to me. Never been able to see it, myself. My partner looks after that side of things. There’s nothing in it for us, really, but he’s interested.’
‘That would be Mr Burne-Jones? Could I speak to him?’
‘Not for a few days. He went off to Corsica for his hols this very morning.’
‘Damn,’ said Pascoe. He produced a copy of the complete list of stolen articles.
‘You’ll have seen this?’
‘Yes,’ said Etherege. ‘They keep on coming round, but as you can see, it’s mainly furniture we deal in here. A bit bulky for your cat-burglar and in any case I buy most of it in myself at the sales, so we know where it’s come from.’
‘What about the stamps?’
‘God knows. I sometimes think David, my partner, hangs around school playgrounds and does swops. Look, if you like, why don’t you sort out anything from our stock which matches any of the stamps on your list and take them away for a closer check.’
‘That’s very generous of you,’ said Pascoe who had been about to do just that. But it was nice for a change not to have a fuss.
‘Not really,’ said Etherege. ‘Nothing there’s marked at more than a few quid. No penny blacks, I’m afraid.’
There were one or two items, not of any great value or rarity, which corresponded with entries on Sturgeon’s catalogue. Pascoe gave Etherege a receipt for them.
‘If there’s no identification, you’ll get them back, of course.’
‘And if there is?’
Pascoe shrugged.
‘Never mind. I’ll take it out of David’s profits,’ smiled Etherege. ‘Cheerio, Sergeant. Come again and do some browsing. Bring the young lady. She seems able to get you to spend rather than just confiscate! Is she in the force too, by the way?’
‘No such luck,’ said Pascoe. ‘Goodbye.’
He walked back to the pub car-park. It had not so far been a very productive day. As he approached his car which was parked up against the fence surrounding the kennels, he heard the dogs howl again, forlorn, wanting their owners.
Dalziel’s pain, dissipated or forgotten in the activity of organizing a murder hunt, had returned after lunch. The timing supported his own diagnosis of indigestion, but having worked his way in vain through a variety of pharmaceutical and folk cures, he reluctantly made an appointment to see his doctor. This produced an immediate improvement in his condition and the optimistic reaction was still in evidence as he talked about the Lewis case with Pascoe.
‘We need this one. This boy’s mad.’
‘Sir?’
‘You saw Lewis. There was no need for that. The first blow would have stunned him, the next put him out cold. He must have been flat out on the floor for the next half-dozen, the ones that killed him.’
‘Panic?’ suggested Pascoe.
‘I don’t think so. You run when you panic. Hit anything in the way, perhaps, but mainly just run. There was no sign of this boy running. He beat an orderly retreat, didn’t waste any time, but left in good order. It all points to a nutcase. We’d seen the signs.’
‘Killing a man’s not quite like peeing in a kettle,’ protested Pascoe.
‘I don’t know. You leave him lying there in the middle of the room. Like a heap of garbage. That’s all a dead man is, after all.’
Pascoe looked doubtful. He was used to playing Dalziel’s straight man. It was an exercise which often produced results.
‘We’re not even absolutely certain it’s the same fellow,’ he said.
Dalziel snorted with magnificent scorn.
‘We’ve got a villain who does medium large detached houses while the owners are away on holiday. He has shown himself ready to use violence. The owner of a medium large detached house …’
‘Bungalow.’
‘… who should have been on holiday gets beaten to death by someone he catches in the act. Therefore …’
‘He was done to death by a disgruntled client who helped himself to some bits and pieces to make it look like a robbery.’
‘Fine. Except that no one knew he was going to be at home that day. He was supposed to be on holiday. Remember?’
‘He did come back for a meeting, sir,’ replied Pascoe. ‘Someone must have known.’
Dalziel sighed as if Pascoe had taken all the joy out of his life.
‘All right. Talk to the people at his office if you like. Let’s leave no stone unturned. Or uncast, for that matter. We’ve got to get at this boy somehow. And if he is our thief, then we’ve only got two starting points. The break-ins themselves, or disposal of the loot. Which so far means a few bloody stamps. Was Etherege any good?’
‘No. Oh, he’ll know a few ways to make a quick bob or two, but I can’t see anything there for us. I brought some stamps for Sturgeon to look at.’
‘Which leaves your actual crimes,’ said Dalziel, setting in train a long spiral scratch which began at his calf and gave promise of attaining to his crotch.
Pascoe was silent. Everyone on the case had worked long and hard in the search for a common denominator which might lead somewhere. But such a thing was hard to come by. In only two cases did they even know the day of the week and the time of day the crime had taken place. The first, when the old gardener had been attacked, was a Thursday at seven-thirty pm. The second, when Lewis was killed, was a Monday at five-fifteen pm. Early, but that meant nothing. Given a choice, most thieves preferred daylight for a housebreaking job. There was no worry about lights, less risk of being asked to explain your presence on the streets by a casual policeman.
The only real potentially useful link between the crimes was that the house-owners had all been on holiday. The thief must have some source of information.
The trouble was there were any number of ways in which a professional thief could unearth the fact that a house was empty. Though just how much of a real professional their man was, Pascoe wasn’t sure. Certainly it was doubtful whether he was known to the police. Every likely villain in the area had been descended on with great force and alacrity in the two cases where the time of the job was known. The results had been negative.
And the deliberate slaying of Lewis (if it had been their man in his house) bothered Pascoe considerably. Your thief had a great instinct for self-preservation. He might smash what lay in the way of his escape, but would probably see no reason to hang around to make a job of it.
‘I still don’t think he’s a nutcase,’ he averred as he left Dalziel groaning his satisfaction as he reached the vertex of his scratch.
In the corridor he met Detective-Inspector George Headingley, the man with the strength of will to resist Dalziel’s drinking invitations. He held a sheet of paper in his hand.
‘There�
�s more in piss than meets the eye,’ said the inspector sagely.
‘What?’
‘It was your idea to send the contents of Cottingley’s kettle to forensic, wasn’t it? Take a house-point. Our lad’s a diabetic.’
‘A what?’
‘He’s got diabetes, which might narrow things down a bit. I’m just on my way in to tell the super. Come along. He might kiss you on both cheeks if you’re not nippy on your feet.’
Together they went back into Dalziel’s room. The fat man had the telephone to his ear. After a moment he put it down and looked glumly at Pascoe.
‘You ought to know,’ he said. ‘I asked them to keep me posted on your spot of trouble. There’s a man at Nottingham helping with enquiries. Backhouse has gone off to see him, so he looks good for your mate, Hopkins. I don’t know what I’m sorry for, but I’m sorry.’
Chapter 3
‘A false alarm,’ said Backhouse. ‘They had just about established this by the time I arrived. He was a very good prospect – looked just right and wouldn’t say a word.’
He laughed shortly.
‘Turned out to be a Pole whose English was practically nil and whose previous experience with authority had taught him that silence was golden. I spent the night in Nottingham, saw a nice bit of Pinter at the Playhouse, and being handy, decided to come on here today.’
Here was the small village outside Worksop where Rose Hopkins had been born and where just a few minutes previously she had been lowered into the earth.
Pascoe wondered what Dalziel would make of Pinter.
He had been surprised by the number of people at the funeral, and by one or two unexpected faces in particular. Backhouse’s interest must, of course, be mainly professional though he disguised this well. And it was perhaps not too surprising to see Anton Davenant there, whether as friend or journalist he couldn’t say. His most unfunereal clothing had won some curious glances and deprecating mutters from the locals.
But the most surprising sight had been of Marianne Culpepper and Angus Pelman among the mourners. Some atavistic puritanism stirred in Pascoe at what appeared so blatant and unseemly an advertisement of their relationship. They were all in the saloon bar of the village pub, having politely turned down an invitation to share the funeral meats offered by Rose’s parents. Ellie was sitting with Pelman, Davenant and Marianne, while the two policemen carried on what probably appeared their very conspiratorial conversation at the bar.
The beer, drawn from the wood, was cloudy but they drank it without complaint.
‘Are things no further forward, sir?’ asked Pascoe cautiously.
‘Afraid not,’ said Backhouse. ‘Since you left, things have been very quiet in Thornton Lacey.’
‘I’m sorry if I was a trouble to you.’
‘No trouble, Sergeant. No; what troubles me is the place itself. There are things happening there, tensions, probably nothing whatsoever to do with the crime, but they muddy the water. Or perhaps they are something to do with the crime. Let’s accept the most obvious solution. Hopkins killed his wife and two friends. No, hang on a minute. It’s a hypothesis which forces itself upon us, even upon you, I suspect.
‘So. He did it. He is the murderer. But what is it that made such a man do such a thing? It must have been a pressure beyond anything I have ever experienced. Yet I have a feeling that such pressures as these are never so far away in a place like Thornton Lacey unless you keep on the move, on the alert, and never let them build up.’
‘But he’d hardly been there any time!’ protested Pascoe. ‘What the hell could have happened so quickly?’
‘He managed to make at least one good enemy that we know of.’
‘Palfrey?’ said Pascoe.
Backhouse nodded.
‘What was in the letter?’ Pascoe asked, not really expecting an answer.
Backhouse looked at him assessingly.
‘Why not?’ he said, almost to himself. ‘Palfrey was becoming an annoyance to your friend. He decided to strike back and hit on the ingenious idea of checking the so-called major’s military background. To his probable delight he discovered that no such creature as “Major” Palfrey existed, though his alleged regiment did once have in its number a catering sergeant of that name. Evidently Hopkins called on Palfrey on Friday morning, put this to him and warned him against continuing his alleged slanders.’
‘And the letter?’
‘The letter merely enlarged upon this, setting down coldly what had obviously been uttered in extremely warm terms earlier the same day. A kind of blackmail note, I suppose.’
‘Which is a very old and very popular murder motive,’ said Pascoe thoughtfully.
‘True,’ said Bakchouse. ‘Palfrey claims he was serving cloudy pints in his pub all Friday night. Surprisingly difficult to check. I wonder if he’s got some connection with this place?’
He examined his beer sadly then pushed it aside and stood up.
‘I’m sure I’ll see you again, Sergeant. Soon, perhaps. Mr French, the coroner, is uncommonly keen to exercise his few powers in this case.’
He shook his head in disapproval. Pascoe could understand why. A coroner who would not be led by the police could still prove an irritation.
‘Goodbye, Mrs Culpepper, Miss Soper.’
With a nod at Pelman and Davenant, Backhouse left and Pascoe joined the others. They stopped talking as he did so.
To make a solid silence, he thought, just add one policeman.
‘Another drink anyone?’ he asked.
There were no takers.
‘How’s Mr Culpepper?’ he said to Marianne, suddenly feeling a bit aggressive.
‘Very well,’ she answered in her cool, clear tones. ‘He would have come today, but something came up. Business.’
Unlike her type to volunteer an explanation to my type, thought Pascoe. But it could be true.
‘Is there some trouble?’ he asked. ‘I saw in this morning’s paper that Nordrill say they are going to abandon their explorations in Scotland.’
Pelman and Marianne exchanged an unreadable glance.
‘Bully for the conservationists, say I,’ said Davenant. ‘It’s been lovely seeing you all once more, despite sad circumstance. Mr Pascoe, would you care to walk me to my car?’
They left and made their way towards the bright red Citroën GS which seemed to mirror Davenant’s personality somehow.
‘I just wanted to ask if there was anything new. I ask as a friend, not a journalist, you understand.’
‘No. Nothing as far as I know.’
‘I see. I wondered if dear Mr Backhouse had unearthed anything startling perhaps.’
‘He’s not showing it to me if he has.’
‘Ah well. I hope things do not drag on for ever.’ He climbed into his car. ‘Nice to have seen you again. And to meet Miss Soper. An intellectual gem in the constabulary crown! Ciao!’
‘He seemed to have taken a fancy to you,’ said Pascoe on the way home.
‘I hope not!’ said Ellie. ‘He seemed rather patronizingly surprised to discover that I, a lecturer, hob-nobbed with the fuzz. Did Backhouse tell you anything?’
‘No,’ Pascoe lied. Policemen sometimes had to lie to their woman. It was an occupational hazard.
‘And there’s no sign of Colin.’
‘No. Wherever he is, he’s lying very low.’
The skies, unpromising all morning, went frighteningly dark as they turned off the dual carriage-ways of the A1.
The pathetic fallacy, thought Pascoe. Something dreadful is about to happen. But, please God, not to me. Don’t let it happen to me.
A white Rover passed them in the opposite direction and turned south on the A1. Pascoe did not even notice it pass.
Chapter 4
Back at the office Pascoe found a message on his desk. Sturgeon had rung several times that morning. ‘Sounded urgent,’ said the note cryptically, ‘but wouldn’t say what.’
Silly old sod! thought Pascoe. Does he think
I’ve nothing better to do than make stupid bloody telephone calls to Scotland?
But he reached for the phone, at the same time digging into his breast pocket for Sturgeon’s scrap of paper. He sorted it out with some difficulty from the large collection of frayed and folded stationery the pocket contained. It was a kind of portable (and permanent) filing cabinet. A sergeant’s pay did not encourage the wearing of any great variety of clothes.
The phone rang for more than a minute before it was answered.
‘Can you no’ wait?’ demanded a Scots voice, the owner of which then apparently dropped the receiver to the floor and went back to whatever business had been interrupted. It seemed to involve drawing a metal edge down a sheet of glass.
Eventually he returned and after some coaxing revealed himself as Sergeant Lauder. He was even more reluctant to accept that Pascoe was, in fact, Pascoe; and only an exasperated invitation to him to replace the receiver and make further investigations at Mid-Yorkshire HQ persuaded him to concede the point. As soon as Pascoe mentioned Archie Selkirk of Strath Farm, Lauder’s doubts seemed to reassert themselves.
‘Is that you?’ he demanded. ‘Is it you again, man?’
‘It’s me. Sergeant Pascoe. For God’s sake! Can’t you understand?’
‘No need to blaspheme, whomever you are. Then you’re no’ the one who phoned yesterday?’
‘No, I’m not. If I’d phoned yesterday, I wouldn’t be … oh, forget it! What about Archie Selkirk?’
‘Ay, well, Archie Selkirk, is it? That’s what the one yesterday was asking about too.’
‘What?’ Pascoe was suddenly interested. ‘Didn’t he give a name?’
‘No. No name.’
‘Yorkshire accent?’
‘Perhaps. Perhaps. But you all sound much the same to me.’
‘Well, what did you tell him?’ demanded Pascoe.
‘Just the same as I’m going to tell you, Sergeant Pascoe,’ answered Lauder, still by his intonation managing to infuse a great deal of incredulity into the last two words.
‘And what’s that.’
‘Simply, there’s no such man. Not farming round here, that is.’
Ruling Passion Page 11
