Ruling Passion dap-3

by Reginald Hill

  ‘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 Bakehouse. '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 Citroen 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 carriageways of the Al.

  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 Al. 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 appa
rently 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.'

  'You're sure?'

  Lauder indicated by his heavily scornful silence that he was sure.

  'And Strath Farm?'

  'No.'

  'No such farm.'

  'Aye.'

  'And you told this to the man yesterday.'

  'Aye.'

  The pips went.

  'This must be costing the ratepayers a mint of money,' said Lauder, stung out of monosyllables.

  'Aye,' said Pascoe. 'Thanks.'

  He pressed the rest, got the dialling tone, and dialled Sturgeon's number.

  The old sod must have got impatient and decided to do it himself, thought Pascoe. Why he couldn't do it in the first place, God knows. And why had he rung so urgently that morning?

  The phone was still ringing. He glanced at his watch and groaned. Time was marching by and there was work to be done. Sturgeon would have to wait. In any case, he almost certainly knew what Pascoe had to tell him. Though what it could mean teased the mind. But there was a murder waiting to be solved.

  He replaced the receiver and set off for the late Matthew Lewis's office.

  Dalziel came from behind the screen with all the demureness and probably the total volume of Gilbert's three little maids from school. He pulled himself together as he caught the glint of amusement in the eyes of the solitary witness and removed his instinctively modest hand from his crotch.

  'You'd think someone as rich as you could keep this bloody place warm!' he snapped, blowing into his hands. 'Let's get it over with before I freeze to death.'

  'Now you know how it feels to be one of those poor bastards you torture in your cells,' grunted Grainger, the doctor.

  He and Dalziel were old acquaintances. Each affected to believe the other embodied all the public misconceptions and suspicions of his profession. Secretly they were not altogether convinced this was not in fact true.

  Grainger began his examination. It had seemed an excellent opportunity to give Dalziel a thorough overhaul when the other man had made this, his first appointment in half a dozen years. Now, ignoring Dalziel's impatient protests, he took his time as he moved from one part of the test-sequence to the next.

  'Do they pay you by the hour?' grumbled the superintendent. 'Look, while I'm here, you might as well make yourself useful. What can you tell me about diabetes? Or didn't they discover it till after you graduated from the barber's shop?'

  'You don't think you've got diabetes, do you?' asked Grainger. 'You haven't. God knows what else is wrong with you, but you're not diabetic.'

  'Thanks. No. There's someone we're anxious to see and he's got diabetes.'

  'How do you know?' asked Grainger. 'Turn over, will you, if you can manage without a lever.'

  'He left a kettleful of piss behind him.'

  'Jesus!' said Grainger, pausing with his stethoscope poised. 'I thought my job brought me life in the raw.'

  'You don't know you're living. Come on then. Diabetes. What can you tell me about our man?'

  'It's not as simple as that,' answered Grainger, 'as I'm sure your police-surgeon would be only too pleased to tell you. There are three types of diabetes for a start, Type A, Type B…'

  'And Type C. Christ, is that what you spend five years learning? The bloody alphabet?'

  '… and Type AB,' continued Grainger, unperturbed. 'Type A's the most popularly known form, though by no means the commonest. If you've got Type A it means you're dependent on insulin injections for the rest of your life. It usually manifests itself in young people. Classified symptoms are excessive hunger and thirst and frequent urination.'

  'In a kettle,' said Dalziel, interested.

  'That might be a symptom of something to a psychologist, not to me,' said the doctor. 'Sit up. My God, what a gut you've got, Andy. If you were going to get diabetes, it'd be Type B. It usually doesn't strike till middle-age and the victims are nearly always overweight. It's the most common form of the disease and is usually treated orally rather than through insulin injections.'

  'You mean they drink the stuff?'

  'No! Insulin's got to be injected. They take something else, a hypoglycaemic agent – that means something which lowers the amount of sugar in the blood.'

  'And Type AB?'

  'Stress diabetes. This is a form bought on by an undue emotional or physical stress. People in their thirties or forties get it. Symptoms in its mild form are much for Type B, only the victim's not overweight. On the contrary, he's often underweight. But violent stress can bring on a violent reaction and make the patient insulin-dependent, for a while at least. Stand up now.'

  Dalziel obeyed, groaning.

  'Well, you've been a great help. We're looking for a thin man of thirty or forty, or a fat man of forty or fifty, or a thin or fat man of almost any age at all.'

  'It could be a woman,' suggested the doctor.

  'Get stuffed. Look, for God's sake, how long are you going to be? I've got work to do.'

  'Another twenty minutes. Here, that is,' answered Grainger. 'Then I've fixed up for you to be X-rayed at the hospital. You'll be done by tea-time.'

  'What the hell do you think I've got?' demanded Dalziel with an aggression meant to be comic.

  But he heard in his voice the frightened plea of the suspect demanding to be told the nature of the charge.

  Lewis and Cowley Estates was the kind of firm which did not put the prices of its property in the window. Rare for Yorkshire, thought Pascoe. They generally liked a price-tag on everything. Brass was a matter of general public concern.

  The 'closed' sign was up in the velvet-curtained window, but he could see movement inside. He rapped sharply on the door. And again after a few seconds.

  A thin-faced man appeared, stared assessingly at Pascoe for a moment, decided rightly that as a potential customer he did not promise much, and gesticulated at the 'closed' sign.

  For answer Pascoe produced his warrant-card, pressed it to the glass and imitated the man's gesture.

  The man stepped back, turned and seemed to be saying something to whoever was in the office with him. Then he opened the door.

  'Mr Cowley?' asked Pascoe.

  'Yes?'

  'Detective-Sergeant Pascoe, sir. May I come in?'

  Cowley was in his early thirties. He was excessively lean and hungry-looking and he carried his head thrust forward aggressively, putting Pascoe in mind of a beefeater's pike.

  'Is it about Matthew? I talked to some of your people yesterday, you know. At length.'

  Pas
coe stepped by him into the front-office. No vulgar counter here, but a scattering of comfortable chairs and low tables on which gleamed copies of Country Life and Vogue. Three doors opened off this area, one marked Mr Lewis, another Mr Cowley, while the third, the central one, was unmarked and presumably led to their secretary's office.

  'I won't take long,' said Pascoe. 'Shall we sit down?'

  Cowley glanced towards the door of his room which was slightly ajar. Pascoe courteously suspended his buttocks six inches above the nearest chair and looked up expectantly. Like a dog waiting for a biscuit.

  'Oh, all right,' said Cowley.

  With an audible sigh of relief, Pascoe sank into the soft leather.

  'But make it quick, will you? I do have a client with me at the moment.'

  Pascoe felt slightly disappointed the man had admitted someone else was here. Part of the joy of being a detective was having something to detect.

  'Business goes on?' he murmured sadly. 'Of course; it must. I'll try not to keep you, sir. Now, as I understand it, Mr Lewis drove down from Scotland on Monday to attend a business conference?'

  'That's right.'

  'I see. Now, at the conference there were yourself, and Mr Lewis and…?'

  'And no one. That was it.'

  'Really?' said Pascoe, infusing just a touch of polite surprise into his voice. 'Your secretary, perhaps?'

  'No.'

  'No. I see. But she would be here… somewhere?'

  He waved his hand vaguely towards the central office. He always enjoyed this vague-young-man-from-the-Foreign-Office role.

  'No. Monday's our staff half-day. We don't fit in with the shops. That way our girls can go shopping.'

  'And shopkeepers can go house-hunting? Convenient. So there were the two of you only?'

  'I've told you,' said Cowley, exasperated. 'What's the difficulty?'

  'No difficulty. I merely wondered, if just the two of you were involved, why not conduct your conference on the phone? Why break into Mr Lewis's holiday like this? I know how much I value my two weeks' peace and quiet, ho ho.'

  'Do you? Well, Matt liked to work. In any case, he was up and down to Scotland half a dozen times a year. He owns – owned – a cottage there, so it was no skin off his nose coming back.'