The piece of paper was crumpled and grubby from much handling and examination. A jagged upper edge showed it had been torn off a larger sheet. But the handwriting was indisputably Colin's as far as Pascoe could assess, and the experts had agreed.
'What did they find?' he asked, just for the sake of speaking rationally through the confusion of thoughts stirred up by what he had read.
'Fingerprints - Hopkin's - they checked them against sets in the cottage known to be his by elimination. Also the young lad's who found the car. No others. Written recently. Ink and paper of a kind discovered in the cottage. What do you make of it?'
'It's confusing sir,' answered Pascoe, returning the plastic encapsulated paper to Backhouse.
'It's certainly that. Our pet psychiatrist took several hours to come to the same conclusion. Or rather that whoever wrote it was in a state of confusion. Which would fit the suspected circumstances. He also talked a lot about quotation. The use of other people's words in a situation where a man's own mind refused to confront directly what had happened.'
'You think he's in the quarry pool then?'
Backhouse looked thoughtful. He also looked very tired and drawn. Pascoe thought of Dalziel. Was this kind of strain the price of promotion?
'It seems possible. We found a shoe.'
'Colin's?' asked Pascoe.
'It's being checked as best we can. But it's not that. If you were going to write a suicide note and not commit suicide, what kind of note would you write?'
Pascoe thought for a moment, then nodded.
'I take your point, sir.'
'That's right. Something traditional, clear, unambiguous. I have done wrong and I cannot go on living. That's what you'd write. Unless you were very clever, of course.'
Pascoe stared out of the window of Constable Crowther's office. The sun was continuing to pour its late blessings on Thornton Lacey's mellow stone.
'Colin was clever,' he said.
'Yes. I gathered so much,' said Backhouse. 'This clever?'
He waved a sheet of paper in the air.
'Not in those circumstances. I can't see it.'
'You know, Sergeant, you're beginning to talk as if you're ready to think Hopkins might after all have done the killings,' said Backhouse with a note of compassion in his voice.
'I suppose I am,' replied Pascoe, making the admission for the first time even to himself. 'That's the trouble with our job, isn't it sir? After a while you begin to believe anybody could do anything.'
'Given the right pressure in the right places,' agreed Backhouse.
'Though if you don't mind me saying so, sir, you seem to have moved a little bit the other way.'
'Away from a firm conviction of Hopkins's guilt, you mean? No. It was a theory. It still is. Information accrues and the theory might have to shift or take a different shape, but it remains. Tell me, Sergeant, given a choice between drowning and blowing your head off with a shotgun, how would you dispatch yourself?'
'I wouldn't fancy either much,' said Pascoe. 'The gun, I suppose, but it's not like using a revolver, is it? I mean, a single bullet's one thing, but a headful of shot . . . !'
'A point,' mused Backhouse. 'Well, I should like to find the gun all the same. Would you jump over a quarry edge with a shotgun in your hands?'
'No. But if I was a local peasant and came across a car with a shotgun lying around on the back seat, I might very well lift it.'
'My men are out talking to all likely candidates,' said Backhouse in a tone of mild reproof. 'Well, I must be off. I shall see you at the inquest tomorrow, Sergeant.'
'Why is the inquest being reopened now?' asked Pascoe.
'It's well within the coroner's powers at present,' said Backhouse. 'Though, as you are clearly aware, it is unusual in a case like this. I am not privy to the working of Mr French's mind, but I surmise that some kind of local pressure is bearing on him. People want to sleep untroubled in their beds. A verdict of murder against Hopkins would do this nicely.'
'But it's almost unheard of nowadays!' protested Pascoe.
'You may hear it tomorrow,' warned Backhouse as he left. 'Behave yourself, Sergeant.'
Whether he meant during the proceedings or during the intervening period, Pascoe didn't know. It was not altogether unflattering, he discovered, to be regarded as potentially dangerous. Like the Western gunman enjoying the noise-hiatus as he entered a bar.
The thought made him glance at his watch. Far too early for a drink, alas. He stared glumly out of the window once more. He could not imagine what had prompted him to sacrifice a precious rest day in travelling down here. The adjourned inquest was not due to restart until ten o'clock the following morning. Ellie had absolutely refused to come near the place till then. She was probably wise. One thing he wanted to do was take another look at the cottage. Backhouse had not raised any objection and no one else was likely to. Crowther was looking after the key in case anyone with a legitimate claim to it turned up. It now rested in Pascoe's pocket but he felt reluctant to set off to use it.
Mrs Crowther poked her head through the door.
'Cup of tea, Sergeant?' she asked. 'And a piece of my shortcake?'
It was a tempting offer but, like a bare bosom shaken alluringly at a devout puritan, its effect was opposite to that intended.
'No, thanks,' said Pascoe. 'I must be off.'
'Please yourself,' grunted Mrs Crowther. 'We'll see you for supper?'
'Yes, please.'
Pascoe was staying with the Crowthers. The only alternative had been to thrust himself upon the Culpeppers once more, and his memory of his last stay there did not encourage this. Of course, he could have stopped at a hotel, but this would have meant being some distance from the village and this did not suit his albeit unformulated purpose in coming down that day.
He left his car by the kerb and set off on foot, enjoying the late afternoon sunshine. Soon he reached the edge of the village and the houses began to thin out. A small scattering of 'executive residences' had erupted on the right of the road. He thought he saw Sandra Bell by the garage of one of them but she made no sign of recognition. Then came a small block of old cottages, untouched though probably not undesired by the renovators. Culpepper's modern stately home lay somewhere along the ridge to the left. It would probably be visible from the road when autumn finally got among the trees and started shaking the branches bare, but the foliage still had all the fullness of summer, edged now with gold but not yet weighed down by it. On the right now he passed the narrow ill-kept track which must lead up to Pelman's house; Pelman's woods looked denser, more sombre, perhaps because the sun was throwing the shadows of these trees across his path as he walked.
Pelman. There was an interesting figure. He would not have thought him a man to take lightly his wife's affairs with a farmhand. Tenant farmer, he mentally corrected himself, recalling what he had learned from Crowther. It would not do to over-Lady-Chatterley-ize the situation. Yet they had both ended up in the quarry pool, which out-Lawrenced Lawrence.
A Land-Rover approached him, slowed down and pulled into the side.
'Pascoe, isn't it?' said the driver, leaning out and peering into the side.
It was Pelman. Pascoe felt as though he had conjured him up.
'Hello,' he said.
'Down for the inquest? I don't understand the workings of the Law, though I suppose it makes sense to you.'
Pelman was in his shirt-sleeves. He looked as if he'd done a hard day's work.
'Can I give you a lift anywhere or are you just taking the air?' he went on.
'I'm on my way to Brookside,' answered Pascoe. 'Thanks for the offer, but it's only round the bend.'
A Citroen GS sped by them towards the village. It slowed momentarily as if the driver thought of stopping, then picked up speed again. Davenant, thought Pascoe. He had told Backhouse his thoughts about the man, but received nothing in exchange. Except courteous thanks.
'What are you doing tonight?' asked Pelman. 'Come round
for a drink if you can. There'll be one or two others there, most of 'em you've met. We're having an Amenities Committee meeting - can't use the village hall, of course. But we should be done by eight-thirty.'
'Thanks,' said Pascoe. 'I'll try to make it.'
A very interesting man, thought Pascoe as he watched the Land-Rover disappear. He couldn't really see him as a good committee man. He was an individualist, not to be ignored. Pascoe hadn't made up his mind about him yet, but the man's instinctive defence of Colin still shone out like a golden deed in the angel's book.
A few minutes later without seeing another soul he reached Brookside.
Precisely why he wanted to look at the cottage, he found it hard to explain. It was not with any serious hope of finding clues that Backhouse had missed that he had come, but certainly part of his motive was a desire to try and view the place with a policeman's eye, impossible on his last visit there. In addition there was a feeling of responsibility. Someone ought to take a look through Rose and Colin's things, not officially but with a view to disposing of them. Doubtless someone would be appointed to do this eventually, but up till now nothing had happened. Nothing could happen, of course, in law. Rose was dead. All that was hers became Colin's. Colin was still alive legally. Therefore no one could act.
Except perhaps a friend who happened to be a policeman who happened to be admitting openly to himself now his firm conviction that Colin was dead.
An attempt had been made to tidy up after the explosion and, kitchen apart, the place looked almost normal. Someone had closed the curtains, whether as an act of decency or of defence it was impossible to say. He fumbled around till he found the light switch. The electricity was off. Naturally. Gas and water, too, after the bang. It was like the work of a careful family going on holiday. He turned to the rear window and began to open the curtains, pausing as the sundial came into view. Horas non numero nisi serenas. A nice thought, if you were a sundial.
Behind him a telephone rang.
He span round. It was on the floor. He recalled that it had been there when he and Ellie arrived nine days earlier. It only let out a single ring, then became silent again. After a moment, standing looking down at it, Pascoe began to wonder if he had perhaps imagined the noise.
He squatted over it, hand on the receiver willing it to ring once more. It suddenly seemed very important. He began to count seconds. One thousand, two thousand, three thousand ... He had reached ten when it rang again.
At the same time something descended heavily on the back of his head; the bell sound entered his mind and turned it into a belfry which sent wild peals buffeting about the inside of his skull seeking a way out. Finally they found it and fled, leaving only darkness.
When he opened his eyes it was like waking into a drunkard's paradise. He was surrounded by publicans.
Sam Dixon was bathing his head while Major/Sergeant Palfrey hovered uselessly around.
'Brandy,' said Pascoe in happy anticipation.
'Hush,' said Dixon. 'There is none.'
'Two publicans and not a brandy between you? You ought to lose your licences.'
'I'm pleased to hear you so chipper, Mr Pascoe,' said Dixon with a relieved smile. Even Palfrey looked happy to see him sitting up.
He glanced at his watch. Ten past five. He must have been out for nearly ten minutes.
'What happened?' asked Palfrey in his over-clipped military accent.
'God knows. I had just come into the cottage when the phone rang. I bent to pick it up and crash! everything fell on me.'
'You've been coshed,' said Dixon, with the expertise of one who had managed a pub at the rough end of Liverpool. 'We probably disturbed whoever did it or he might have given you a couple more for luck.'
'Thanks,' said Pascoe, wincing as Dixon continued his mopping-up operation. 'How did you get here?'
'I was driving by,' said Palfrey. 'Saw the cottage door was open as I passed. It seemed odd in view of. . . well, you know. So I stopped and then came in to investigate.'
'And I did the same a couple of minutes later when I saw the major's car,' said Dixon. 'Now we'd better let Dr Hardisty have a look at you. The skin's broken but I can't say what else might be wrong.'
'No, I'm fine,' said Pascoe, standing up and staggering against Palfrey. The man might not have had any brandy about his person, but from his breath he certainly had a great deal within.
'Come on,' said Palfrey with something approaching kindness. 'Best get you patched up.'
'OK,' Pascoe answered, admitting the sense of it. 'But we'd better let Crowther know.'
'I'll give him a ring while you're getting in the car,' said Dixon.
Helped by the major, Pascoe walked with increasing steadiness to the car. It was pleasant to be out in the fresh air again after the warm, unaired atmosphere of the sealed cottage.
He suffered a bit of a relapse in the car, perhaps because of the movement. His mind wouldn't fix on what had just taken place, but wandered back over the whole of the past week. Sturgeon appeared before him. He had seen him again at the week-end, this time taking with him Mavis Sturgeon, now recovered sufficiently to travel. He had hated to impose his presence on their reunion, but the doctor had only permitted a limited time for the visit in view of Sturgeon's still critical condition. And they needed anything Sturgeon could tell them. Atkinson had proved untraceable,as had the man known as Archie Selkirk. There was no tie-up with Cowley and no sign of forty thousand pounds.
'I couldn't see you poor, love,' explained Sturgeon. 'Do you remember those first days? Making a meal off a couple of stale crusts and a potato? Them were hard times. I couldn't see you face them again.'
'Things've changed,' protested his wife. 'It wouldn't happen now. Besides we managed. As long as I've got you, Edgar, I could manage.'
'Aye, aye. But it seemed best. I've been a fool, Mavis. All that money, all we had, gone. And the bungalow. It seemed best . . .'
His voice tailed away and he and his wife had wept comfort to each other.
The picture broke up was replaced by thoughts of Ellie. She was somewhere being threatened, but he didn't know who by. Unless it was Anton Davenant, but why should he . . .
Again the picture collapsed and when it reformed it was in the likeness of Dr Hardisty with Backhouse standing in the background.
'You'll do,' pronounced the doctor. 'There may be some mild concussion, but you're not cracked open. These fellows should stop the headache from taking you apart.'
He handed over a bottle of tablets. From his demeanour Pascoe gathered that he must have been giving an appearance of rationality while he was being examined. It was not a comforting thing to be aware of the body's capacity to carry on in a straight line while the mind was circling quite other spheres of time and space.
'Thornton Lacey has not been a happy place for you, Sergeant,' said Backhouse.
'No, sir.'
'We'll get you back to Crowther's now. You need some rest.'
'What about the man who attacked me, sir?'
'The police are being as efficient as you could wish, Sergeant,' said Backhouse smiling. 'It was probably just some local tearaway who knew the place was empty.'
'Probably,' agreed Pascoe. But a telephone bell kept ringing in his mind as he went out to the waiting car.
Chapter 2
Dalziel didn't know whether to be happy or ashamed at the growing frequency of his bouts of lust. In his league of gross appetites, sex had always come a very poor third to whisky and food. Perhaps it was his recently initiated diet which had unbalanced things, but lust had suddenly rocketed to the top, taking him quite by surprise. Also surprising was the cause of it, Ellie Soper in a simple cotton dress which let the sunlight filter through.
He stood up as she approached his table. It was pleasant out here in the little garden of the Jockey with this extra bonus of summer making the Martini sunshades rather less ludicrous than usual.
'Like what you see?' she asked as she sat down. He realized he h
ad been staring.
'It'll be cold in an hour,' he said.
'What will be?'
‘It didn't do to start lusting after subordinates' womenfolk, he thought. Especially when they were sharp-tongued and ill-disposed.
'What'll you drink?' he asked, sitting down abruptly. 'Sam!'
'Yes, Mr Dalziel?' said the barman, appearing with great smartness.
'Gin and tonic,' said Ellie. 'It must be nice to be known.'
'Not always. It's nice here though.' He nodded approvingly at the village of Birkham.
'It's convenient,' said Ellie. 'It's half-way. I like to meet people half-way.'
What am I doing here? wondered Dalziel.
'Now, what are we doing here?' asked Ellie.
'Christ knows,' grunted Dalziel. 'I'm giving an explanation. You might like to think it's an apology.'
'As long as it's just that. I get suspicious when middle-aged men start ringing me up as soon as my boy-friend's gone away for the night.'
'Don't flatter yourself,' said Dalziel. He scratched his armpit. If they thought he was bloody repulsive, he might as well look bloody repulsive.
'It's the inquest tomorrow then.'
'Yes.'
'You know why they've reopened it? Normally nothing'd happen. The police would get a man, he'd be tried, found guilty. The registrar of deaths would put it in his book. Murder, manslaughter, whatever. This lot's different. They'll bring in a verdict of murder and name Colin Hopkins.'
'But why?'
'No one down there thinks the body's ever going to come up. At least it might not. It's hard to do things in law without a body. But they've got three others for the coroner to work on.'
Ellie's drink arrived. The barman looked in mock amazement at Dalziel's still untouched glass.
Dalziel 03 Ruling Passion Page 17
