He waved the diet sheet violently in the air.
‘You think so? All right then. I shall deny having said it but, in confidence, the word was that Lewis was a very sharp man on a business deal.’
‘You mean a crook?’
‘I mean he worked on a large profit margin in everything he did.’
‘Oh aye. Suppose I told you he was financially in Queer Street when he died?’
Grainger nodded, unsurprised.
‘Why not? The trouble with being a crook in a place like this is, it gets known. That little firm has always gone in for the “class” stuff – none of your suburban semis. So the people interested in the kind of property market Lewis and Cowley catered for are the same people who’d have heard the rumours. Businessmen, the aristocracy of brass. So a spiral starts. Less business for the firm, and then still less business because everybody knows they’re doing less business! Add to this the rate at which Lewis could spend money.’
‘What on?’
‘Dear me, Andy, what do your underlings do nowadays? He’s a lover of the good life, or was. Wine, women and song. So they tell me, I hasten to add. I have never been involved in any of his excesses.’
‘Don’t sound so regretful,’ said Dalziel, rising and making for the door. ‘And Sturgeon?’
‘Pleasant chap. Self-made man, rose from having nothing to owning a nice little timber business. His wife talked him into selling up and retiring I believe; he didn’t want to sit back and do nothing, you know what these blasted Yorkshiremen are like!’
‘None better. Thanks. I must be off. You’ll send me a bill?’
‘Too bloody true,’ said Grainger, picking up the diet sheet which Dalziel had replaced on the desk. ‘And pay it quick if you’re leaving this behind you. I don’t want all the trouble of making claims against your estate.’
‘Oh, give it here!’ said Dalziel, taking the paper and thrusting it carelessly into his jacket pocket. ‘Don’t do too many illegal operations. Cheers.’
He left noisily. Grainger shook his head, smiling. But there was a shadow of worry in his eyes.
Chapter 8
Pascoe seemed to have spent the entire morning on the telephone, preserving a steady balance between official and unofficial business. First call was to Sergeant Lauder of Lochart who recognized his voice instantly.
‘It’s nice to hear from you again, Sergeant Pascoe,’ he said. ‘The day isna’ complete without it.’
‘Should auld acquaintance and all that,’ said Pascoe. ‘This time it’s a man called Lewis, Matthew Lewis. He had a cottage somewhere near Lochart, I believe. Now why was I just pondering that?’ inquired Pascoe.
‘Because I am by the way of being a distruster of coincidence, Sergeant, and when I have to tell a woman called Mrs Lewis who has a week-end cottage in Lochart that her husband had been murdered, and when my colleagues in Yorkshire start ringing me up twice or thrice a day, why then I suspect a connection.’
‘I hope this means you’ve anticipated my inquiries.’
‘Perhaps so. The man Lewis has been coming here for nearly three years now. Week-ends and longer in the summer. He keeps himself to himself as far as the locals are concerned. He’s usually with his wife and family.’
‘Usually?’ asked Pascoe, alert.
‘Aye. But there have been others. Men and women. Such things are noticed. One other woman in particular.’
Dirty old Lewis, thought Pascoe.
‘Anything else?’
‘Nothing much. Some people in the village are looking after their dog. Mrs Lewis just wanted to get home as quickly as possible that night, you’ll understand. Perhaps you might inquire about returning the beastie.’
‘I will. Many thanks, Sergeant.’
‘Just one more thing. Since you were so interested in this man, Atkinson, who stayed at the hotel, I went back through the hotel register just to see if anything else struck me. I made a note of one or two names, people with addresses from your part of the world who’d stayed there this summer. Would you be interested?’
‘I certainly would.’
The list was not very long. Only one name was notable and Pascoe was less than surprised. Mr and Mrs E. Sturgeon. He checked the dates. They had been there for three nights early in the summer; clearly the holiday during which their house had been burgled.
‘Thanks, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘I’ve no doubt we’ll be in touch again.’
Doncaster Royal Infirmary was next on his list. Sturgeon’s condition was unchanged. It was impossible to say whether or not a visit would be worthwhile. The tone used here was clearly disapproving. But they had never heard Dalziel’s disapproval, thought Pascoe as he replaced the receiver. He would have to go.
Finally he contacted the garage to determine the results of the examination of Sturgeon’s car.
He thought of this some time later as he drove by the scene of the crash. Not that there was anything to see. Sturgeon’s car had, of course, been lifted away, and at Pascoe’s speed, a broken hedge and ploughed-up grass were hard to spot.
The car was being closely examined, and according to the reports which he had got via the telephone, there seemed to be little reason for the crash. Tyres were all OK and the steering was absolutely sound. No evidence had yet been discovered of mechanical failure. The full report might show otherwise, but Pascoe’s uneasy feeling was getting worse.
The doctor he spoke to confirmed it. So far as they could tell there had been no physical explanation of the crash in Sturgeon himself. All damage had clearly stemmed from the accident, not contributed to it.
‘What are his chances?’ asked Pascoe.
‘Pretty slim, I’d say,’ answered the doctor. ‘He was badly knocked about, lost a lot of blood. But it’s not just that. He doesn’t seem to have the least interest in staying alive.’
‘How can you say that?’ protested Pascoe. ‘He’s only been here twenty-four hours. You can’t expect much joy and laughter after what he’s been through.’
‘Listen,’ said the doctor, ‘I won’t arrest any motorists if you don’t make diagnoses. All right? And I’ll tell you this. If it wasn’t for the fact that I believe he might well be dead before morning, you wouldn’t be going to see him now.’
What there was to see of Sturgeon’s face confirmed the doctor’s words. It was deadly pale and pinched-looking, as though the blood had been squeezed out of it by force. His eyes miraculously had escaped the onslaught of shivered glass which had gashed his scalp and brow as he pitched forward into the windscreen. But the flicker of recognition as they stared up at Pascoe was a mere movement on the surface of despair.
It was no time for social exordia.
‘Mr Sturgeon, I rang Lochart,’ said Pascoe deliberately. ‘The constable there says there’s no one called Archie Selkirk in the district.’
There was no response.
‘He told me you’d phoned as well. What did you want with this man, Selkirk?’
Sturgeon closed his eyes, but he was still listening.
‘What about John Atkinson then?’ asked Pascoe. ‘What’s your connection with him? Do you know James Cowley? Did you know Matthew Lewis?’
The eyelids perceptibly pressed down more tightly on the eyes. This was getting them nowhere. A passing nurse pushed the door open, peered assessingly at Pascoe, and went on her way.
‘Listen, Edgar,’ urged Pascoe leaning closer, ‘this is doing you no good. I want to help. You wanted me to help. Just tell me what it’s all about and I’ll try to sort things out. Is it something to do with the robbery? Your stamps?’
Still nothing. It was difficult to know where to go from here. The man was in no state to withstand the kind of shock being questioned about a murder could give him. Pascoe could hardly believe that a man like Sturgeon could have had the will or the strength to kill Lewis, but his innocence would possibly just increase the shock.
‘All right, Edgar. I’m going now,’ he said to the closed eyes. ‘I’ll com
e again.’
He rose to leave. The eyes opened.
‘Mavis?’ whispered Sturgeon.
‘Mavis? Yes, I’ve been to see her.’
‘To see?’ Sturgeon was puzzled. Of course, he doesn’t know she’s in hospital as well, thought Pascoe. He’s wondering why it’s me standing here, not her.
‘I’ll tell her,’ he said reassuringly, eager to get out now.
‘Let her come. I want to explain.’
The words were almost inaudible. The door opened and the doctor and nurse appeared. Pascoe ignored them.
‘Explain what, Edgar?’
‘I can see you’ve cheered him up,’ said the doctor. ‘What’s he said?’
‘He was asking for his wife.’
‘His wife? For God’s sake man, you didn’t tell him she was in hospital too, did you?’
‘Hospital? Mavis in hospital?’
There was nothing inaudible about Sturgeon now.
‘No, but you did,’ Pascoe answered the doctor. ‘Listen, Edgar, it’s all right, she’ll be all right. She was just upset when she heard about your accident, that’s all. You get better, she’ll get better, it’s as simple as that.’
Sturgeon stared up at him, his eyes alive with feeling now.
‘Damn them,’ he said. ‘Damn them to buggery! Damn them!’
‘Who, Edgar? Who?’ said Pascoe, feeling it should be ‘whom?’ Sturgeon ignored him. He took two or three deep breaths.
‘How am I, Doctor?’ he asked feebly. ‘Will I mend?’
‘Certainly, old man. With care you could be your old self in a couple of months.’ He sounded very convincing.
‘Right,’ said Sturgeon. ‘I want a word with Sergeant Pascoe now.’
The doctor looked down at him dubiously for a moment, but whatever he saw in the old man’s face seemed to satisfy him.
‘Five minutes,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’
Sturgeon was talking before the doctor and nurse had left the room. His voice was low and shaky, but he spoke fast, like a man in a great hurry. Pascoe asked no questions, did not interrupt at all. After ten minutes the nurse returned and angrily chased him.
He met the doctor outside.
‘Any use?’ the man asked cheerfully.
‘I think so. What about him?’
He looked backwards to the now completely still figure in the bed.
‘Well, I’d say you’ve either killed or cured him, wouldn’t you? Time will tell. We’ll let you know.’
It was with relief that Pascoe had stepped out into the dingy sunshine of a Doncaster day and made his way to a phone box. He could have begged the use of one in the infirmary, but it had seemed important to get out into the open as quickly as possible. Even spacious, modern, well-equipped hospitals could deafen the mind with imagined screamings of pain and despair.
Dalziel listened with interest to what he told him. He sounded unsurprised.
‘I thought it must be something like that,’ he said. ‘Silly bugger. You wonder how they make a living, don’t you?’
‘He’ll be lucky if he makes much more of one,’ said Pascoe.
‘What? Oh aye. Do you think he killed Lewis?’
‘No.’
‘You’re very certain. You can’t expect a deathbed confession if the sod’s decided not to die after all. Here. Have you thought on? That break-in. No, not at Lewis’s, at Sturgeon’s own place. Could he have done it himself to get the insurance money, tide him over a bit?’
‘Hardly, sir,’ said Pascoe. ‘He was in Lochart that week, remember? He hadn’t signed up yet, and even when he did, it took a long time for disenchantment to set in.’
Sturgeon’s story had been so incredible it had to be true. Bored with inactivity after a few months’ retirement, he had been rash enough to reveal his malaise in the company of Matthew Lewis. Lewis (as Pascoe reconstructed) had taken care to bump into Sturgeon fairly frequently at the Liberal Club in the following weeks and had steered conversation round to his own adventures on the stock market, expressing a special interest in Nordrill Mining (whose shares, Pascoe later ascertained, were moving steadily upwards at this time). Sturgeon had been fairly interested by this, but he became really interested when Lewis started dropping hints that he was going to cash in on Nordrill in more ways than one. He probably pretended to drink too much one night and revealed that he had inside information of a potentially rich mineral strike at Nordrill’s test bore not far from his holiday cottage at Lochart. After that things had moved with tragic inevitability, with Sturgeon, like the hard-headed, clear-sighted Yorkshire businessman he imagined he was, measuring every step he took with the utmost care and Lewis with even greater care making sure that there was always a small piece of firm ground under Sturgeon’s foot.
First Atkinson was introduced as Nordrill’s site engineer. He had even taken them round the drilling site one Sunday afternoon, the watchman doubtless having been persuaded to stick in his hut with a couple of fivers for company. Naturally Atkinson confirmed the strike.
Next Archie Selkirk of Strath Farm had appeared on the scene, the alleged owner of a large tract of what was euphemistically called hill-farming land under which most of the mineral ore would probably lie. He was willing to let others take the risk of negotiating with Nordrill, if it ever came to that, and was selling the land at a mere half of its potential price. Lewis bought as much as he could afford. Sturgeon acted as a witness of the deal. By now he was firmly hooked. An agreement was drawn up for another parcel of land. Atkinson suddenly let slip that the news was going to break in the national Press the following week and Nordrill’s own land-agents would be getting to work the very next day. Sturgeon went the whole hog, cashed in on all his resources including using his house as security for a loan, and bought every acre Selkirk had to offer. It cost him over forty thousand pounds.
‘He hasn’t a penny left in the world,’ Pascoe had concluded. ‘It took a long time for him to get suspicious but when he read in Monday’s paper that questions were being asked about Nordrill’s intentions in Scotland, he got worried. He tried to contact Lewis at his office, but he wasn’t there of course on Monday morning. Then when I got in touch with him about the stamps, he took the opportunity to ask me to check on Archie Selkirk. I was too busy to do anything. Perhaps if I’d pressed him more …’
‘Stop being a bloody martyr and get on with it,’ interjected Dalziel.
‘So he rang Lochart police-station for himself on Tuesday. Lauder told him emphatically no such person existed. Next thing, he looks in the paper and sees Lewis is dead. And on Wednesday morning, Nordrill announce they’re stopping work in Scotland. He tried to ring me, God knows why. I wish that … anyway, by Wednesday lunch-time he’d got it into his head that the important thing was to see his wife well cared for financially. With Lewis dead, he could see little hope of regaining his money. But he was well insured, so off he set down the A1, bent on killing himself and making it look accidental. Fortunately he was determined no one else would be affected, so instead of making sure of it going across the central reservation and getting a seventy plus seventy crash, he went over the edge. When he realized the news of his accident had put Mavis in hospital, he saw what a bloody fool he’d been. And he talked.’
‘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.
Ruling Passion Page 16
