Dalziel 03 Ruling Passion

by Reginald Hill

  Ellie nodded, her eyes on Pascoe.

  'Yes. If I can,' she said quietly.

  'Right. Tell me about Colin Hopkins then.'

  'We were all at university together,' she began. 'Colin, Rose, Timmy, Carlo. And Peter and me. We were pretty close. There were plenty of others, of course, but we were close.'

  'You all went on holiday together,' prompted Backhouse.

  'That's right. So we did. In Eskdale.' She smiled at the memory. 'Life seemed fairly cut and dried then. In the nicest way. Rose and Colin. Peter and me. And . . .'

  'The other two men were homosexual,' said Backhouse neutrally.

  'Yes. That's right,' said Ellie challengingly. Backhouse ignored the challenge.

  Things seem to have worked out as you anticipated,’ he said. 'But you seem uncertain?'

  'I didn't anticipate this,’ she snapped, relenting instantly. 'Sorry. No, after we all finished, it was only Colin and Rose who stuck together. They got married about a year later. I don't think they'd have bothered, but Colin had joined a publishing house and they thought it was worthwhile observing the conventions till he got stinking rich. Timmy was a linguist and got a job in the Common Market HQ in Brussels. Carlo went to work for some firm in Glasgow. I finished my research.'

  'Research?' interrupted Backhouse.

  'That's right. I was a graduate research student. I just condescended to mingle with the children. I'm a couple of years older than the others,' she added defiantly.

  Backhouse studied her slim figure, held the gaze of the grey eyes set in the finely-sculpted head with its close-cut jet black hair.

  'You carry your burden of years very well,' he murmured.

  'Thanks.' She smiled, the first time he had seen her do so. 'I got an assistant lectureship in the Midlands. And Peter, of course, put on the helmet of salvation and became a policeman. I think the only time we all met together again was at Colin and Rose's wedding.'

  'Not Timmy,’ interjected Pascoe. 'He couldn't make it.'

  'That's right. He couldn't. Well, we all kept intermittently in touch and saw something of each other. Except Peter. Within a couple of years or so he'd fallen almost completely from sight.'

  'I was very busy. Besides being poorly paid with very limited vacation periods,' said Pascoe.

  'A policeman's lot,' said Backhouse.

  'Of course, he got a bit of a complex too. Felt that he would be a bit of a nuisance, perhaps even a butt, in the liberal academic and cultural circles his friends inhabited,' said Ellie mockingly. But her tone was light.

  'But you saw the others?'

  'Sometimes. A couple of years ago, Timmy returned from the Continent. I think Carlo had already been working in London for six months or so. They took a flat together. Colin meanwhile had been going from strength to strength and had become the darling of his bosses to such an extent that he got them persuaded a few months ago to give him a year's sabbatical so that he could write his book which would make everybody's fortune. Brookside Cottage was where he decided to settle for the period. And he planned to keep it on as a week-end retreat after his triumphal return to London.'

  'I see,' said Backhouse thoughtfully. 'And did you know all this before you met him in London recently?'

  Ellie shot a quick glance at Pascoe.

  'It was in the letter of invitation which the sergeant showed me,' explained Backhouse.

  'I knew vaguely about it,' said Ellie. 'But it wasn't till I met him that I got all the details.'

  'A chance meeting, Was it?'

  'That's right. Chance. Oh hell, no. Not chance. I've been trying to flog a book of my own, a novel. Without much success. I laid an ambush for Colin. I thought he might be able to help.'

  'You never told me that,' said Pascoe, surprised.

  'No,' said Ellie sheepishly.

  'Peter had told me to get in touch with Colin from the start,' she added to Backhouse. 'But I was too proud. And I don't like putting my friends on the spot. But when things didn't go too well with the book...’

  'You laid an ambush,' said Backhouse. 'Any luck?'

  'I didn't even mention it,' sighed Ellie. 'He'd just got everything organized for his own move and was bubbling over. It didn't seem fair to take advantage. And when I told him that Peter and I had re-established contact, he was genuinely delighted, took his address, said we'd be the first to sample his rural hospitality. Here we are.'

  'So he was a man who had everything going for him at the moment?'

  'Everything,' echoed Ellie.

  There was a knock at the door which opened almost simultaneously.

  'Cup of tea,' said Mrs Crowther, coming into the room with a tray and the expression of one with whom superintendents cut very little ice.

  She put the tray down in front of Ellie and took a small bundle of typewritten sheets out of her capacious apron pocket.

  'Here. These are for you,' she said to Backhouse. 'I've been typing them for Crowther. If you take them now, it'll save him a journey later. Not that I'd pay them all that much attention. It's his job to hear things, but they were a nice young couple, the Hopkinses. That's what counts, not a lot of malicious gossip.'

  She left with the shadow of a wink at Ellie.

  'Interesting woman,' commented Backhouse, riffling through the papers. 'We could do with her on the strength.'

  'I think you've got her,' said Pascoe drily.

  Backhouse folded Crowther's report carefully and slipped it into his pocket.

  'To get back to business,' he said. 'Can either of you think of anything at all which might cause stress and strain in the relationships between these four?'

  'Not really,' said Ellie. 'Rose and Colin always talked most affectionately of the other two. And vice-versa as far as I know.'

  She glanced across at Pascoe. Backhouse could not read her expression.

  'You talked to Mrs Hopkins on the phone last night,' he said. 'Did she say anything specific about their plans for the evening?'

  'Well, she may have done. We talked for about ten minutes. But nothing's stuck, nothing specific. I'm sorry.'

  She looked bewildered. Backhouse patted her hand where it rested on the arm of the sofa.

  'Never mind. If anything comes to mind, you can let me know. Anything new from you, Sergeant?'

  Pascoe shook his head.

  'I'd better get back to work then,' said the superintendent, standing up. 'What are your plans for tonight?'

  'We've been asked to stay with the Culpeppers,' said Pascoe, recalling his earlier decision to find somewhere else. It didn't seem worth the bother now. And if the Eagle was the only place in the village which let rooms, his chances of success were slim.

  'Culpeppers? I remember. The committee secretary woman?'

  'And the man who came to the cottage with the coroner. I'm sure they'll be in Crowther's dossiers.'

  'No doubt. I'll know where to find you, then. Thank you, Miss Soper. You've been most helpful. Please believe me when I say you have my deepest sympathy.'

  He did it better than Dalziel. Not that Dalziel wasn't good when he wanted, but good in the style of the old actor-managers. There was always a sense of performance. Backhouse was more natural. There was even a chance that he was sincere.

  'Just one thing more,' he said, pausing at the door. 'What was Mr Hopkins writing his book about?'

  'His book? Poverty! He laughed when he told me. Coming to Thornton Lacey to write a book about poverty in modern Britain was like hunting polar bears in Africa, he said.'

  'It doesn't sound a best-selling subject,' opined Backhouse cautiously.

  'I don't know. Full of case histories, hard-luck stories, people driven to crime, the effect of inadequate diets on sexual performance, that kind of thing. It's the kind of pop sociology that could sell.'

  'You sound disapproving.'

  'Not at all. Envious perhaps. Until this morning.'

  'Yes. Not much cause for envy now. Goodbye.'

  They sat in silence for a while af
ter he had gone. Ellie spoke first.

  'I'm sorry,' she said.

  'What for?'

  'For before, what I said. Grief's a selfish emotion really. I had forgotten they were your friends too.'

  'Yes. And Colin still is.'

  'Do you think he did it, Peter?'

  Pascoe made a hopeless gesture.

  'I don't know. I can't believe it, but I've got to admit the possibility. People kill those they love all the time.'

  'But you were willing to attack some poor bloody stranger because he accepted the possibility? Odd behaviour for a policeman,' she mocked affectionately.

  'I'm an odd policeman,' he said, kissing her gently.

  'Thanks,’ she said. 'Now I'm going to pull myself together and face the world. Whatever the truth, Colin will need friends when they catch up with him.'

  She stood up and stretched her arms as though newly roused from sleep.

  'Do I gather you've got us invited somewhere for the night?'

  Pascoe explained briefly about the Culpeppers, concealing his own irrational dislike of Marianne.

  'I see,' said Ellie. 'Sounds all sweet sherry and sympathy. I'll go and freshen up, then I wouldn't mind sampling the country air for half an hour or so before we present ourselves to our hosts.'

  'A good idea. There's plenty of time,' said Pascoe.

  The door opened and Mrs Crowther reappeared.

  'He's gone then,' she grunted. Her gaze fell on the tea-tray.

  'And no one wants my tea?'

  'Oh, I'm sorry,' exclaimed Ellie. 'It's my fault. I just forgot.'

  'Look,' said Pascoe. 'Why don't you two sit down and have a cup? It should still be hot. I just want to pop out and check the car. It seems to be eating oil lately.'

  Ellie shot him a curious look, but he left quickly before she could say anything. As he had expected, the office section of the house was empty. Crowther would be very busy about the village this afternoon. He made straight for the table which carried the solid old Imperial typewriter, and saw what he was looking for straightaway. In the wooden tray by the machine were Crowther's notes on local colour plus the carbon of the typewritten version given to Backhouse. He ignored the original in the constable's crabbed hand and picked up the copy.

  He had just started on the first of the five quarto sheets when a voice spoke behind him.

  'Excuse me.'

  Pascoe started so violently that his leg twitched and cracked painfully against the rim of the desk. Christ! he thought, your nerve ends really have been exposed today, my boy.

  Instinctively he let the sheets of paper slide out of his hands into the tray before he turned.

  Standing behind the small counter across which the public could seek audience with their local guardian of the law was a rather frail old lady who seemed to be wearing a military uniform of sorts. WVS? wondered Pascoe.

  'Yes?' he said.

  'I was hoping to find Mr Crowther.' She had a slow, gentle voice. Definitely good works, he decided. Moral samplers and nourishing broth round the farmworkers' hovels.

  'I'm afraid he's not here at the moment. I don't know when he'll be back. Is it urgent?'

  'I'm not sure.'

  She stared hard at him and asked dubiously, 'Are you a policeman?'

  'Well, yes. Yes, I am,' said Pascoe. 'Sergeant Pascoe.'

  'Sergeant? That ought to be all right then. I am Alicia Langdale.' She paused. For effect? thought Pascoe. Is she the lady of the manor? Should I be impressed?

  'Yes?' he prompted.

  'And it's connected with my job, you see. That's what makes it so delicate.'

  'What is your job, Mrs Langdale?'

  'Miss. Can't you see? I'm a postman.'

  Oh my God! thought Pascoe. That's what the gear is! He could see he had lost what little ground the revelation of his rank had gained him.

  'Of course,' he said with a smile.

  'My sister, Anthea, and I keep the post office. She takes care of the internal business and I look after deliveries. Normally what happens, of course, is that people post their letters, they are collected in a van and taken to the main post office in town where they are sorted.'

  'I see,' said Pascoe.

  'But sometimes, if it's a matter of local mail - things that I'm going to have to deliver anyway, you understand - some people just leave them on the counter or push them through our letter-box.'

  She raised her chin and looked defiantly at Pascoe, who suddenly knew what this was all about. He took the letter Miss Langdale produced from her large pocket and stared down at Colin's distinctive handwriting. J. K. Palfrey, Esq., The Eagle and Child, Thornton Lacey.

  A flock of thoughts rose and fluttered around Pascoe's mind. The proper course of action was clear. Take the letter to Backhouse who would then take it to Palfrey and require it to be opened in his presence. If it was not relevant to the inquiry that would be an end to it. But if it was . . . ! Pascoe did not feel somehow that Backhouse would be keen to let him read it.

  He realized with a start that Miss Langdale was still speaking.

  'I was almost at the Eagle and Child this morning when I met Mrs Anderson who told me the news. She picks up everything very quickly, I'm afraid. Normally I pay no heed, but this was different. This was dreadful, dreadful. So I finished my round but kept this letter. Anthea and I have been discussing all day what we ought to do. It's our duty to deliver the Queen's mail, you see. But if, as seemed possible in the circumstances, it might cause distress . . . and in a sense, it had not in fact been posted, had it? So here I am. Will you give me a receipt, please?'

  Her voice was suddenly brisk, businesslike. Pascoe looked round for a piece of paper and a pen. He had made up his mind to open the letter and damn the consequences. Every instinct in his body warned him against it, but told him at the same time how important the letter was. He had to see. This might be his only chance.

  'Receipt book's in the top drawer, Sergeant.'

  It was Crowther, standing quietly in the doorway. His chance had gone.

  'Interesting, this,' said the constable, holding the letter before him after he had efficiently disposed of Miss Langdale. 'I'd better let the super have it right away. Thanks for taking care of things.'

  He put the letter in his tunic pocket, tidied up the papers on his desk, stared a long moment at the disturbed carbon copy of his notes but did not remove them, and left.

  'Damn! damn! damn!' said Pascoe. But he shuddered to think of the dangerous course he had been about to steer on. The sooner he got back to Dalziel and other people's losses, the better.

  He went back into the living-room to collect Ellie and take her to the Culpeppers'.

  Chapter 7

  The Culpeppers' house was an impressive structure. Built in traditional Cotswold stone, its lines and proportions were unequivocally though unobtrusively modern.

  The gardens consisted principally of herbaceous borders and lawns running down to an encirclement of trees. Whether the Culpepper estate extended into the woods was not clear. The lawns themselves were beautifully kept. Only one of them, hooped for croquet, showed any signs of wear. Coming up the drive, Pascoe had glimpsed a bent figure in a bright orange coat slowly brushing away the leaves which the autumn wind had laid on one of the side lawns. A fluorescent gardener, he thought, and prepared himself for anything from a parlourmaid to a full-dress butler when he rang the bell. But it had been Culpepper himself, features etched with well-bred solicitude, who opened the door.

  Pascoe could see that Ellie disliked him at once.

  He recalled his own reaction to Marianne Culpepper and groaned inwardly at the thought of the evening ahead. Not that much social intercourse would be expected of them, surely. Or sexual either, he added to himself as they were shown into separate bedrooms. The bed at Brookside Cottage with its ornamental pillow came into his mind. Half the local police-force would have seen it. It was a good job he hadn't been having a bit on the side with the chief constable's wife.

>   The frivolity of the thought touched him with guilt. This was the way grief worked. It could only achieve complete victory for a comparatively short time. But it filled the mind with snares of guilt and self-disgust to catch at all thoughts and emotions fighting against it.

  Ellie felt the same. She had raised her eyebrows humorously at his as Culpepper opened her bedroom door. But it was a brief flicker of light in dark sky.

  The evening's prospects did not improve when Marianne Culpepper returned. Pascoe heard a car arrive as he was unpacking his over-night case and when he left his room a minute later to collect Ellie, he found her standing at the head of the stairs, unashamedly eavesdropping on a conversation below.

  Culpepper's neutral tones were audible only as an indecipherable murmur, but his wife's elegantly vowelled voice carried perfectly. Pascoe was reminded of teenage visits to the local repertory theatre (now declined to bingo) where hopeful young actresses projected their lines to the most distant 'gods'.

  Even half a conversation was enough to reveal that Marianne Culpepper had no knowledge whatsoever of her husband's invitation to Pascoe and Ellie. They exchanged rueful glances on the landing. Pascoe moved to the nearest door, opened it and slammed it shut. It might have been more politic to retreat for a while, but Pascoe found himself looking forward to putting all that good breeding below to the test.

  'Let's go down, shall we?' he said in an exaggeratedly loud voice.

  The Culpeppers presented a fairly united front as introductions took place.

  'Didn't I see you in the village hall this morning?' asked Marianne of Pascoe. 'I didn't realize then. I thought you were just one of the policemen.'