Ruling Passion

Chapter 5

Pascoe’s anger broke at last. The professional part of his mind told him he was being very silly, but it didn’t slow him down one jot.

He crossed the floor in a couple of strides and seized the lantern-jawed man by the shoulder, dragging him round so forcefully that he half slipped off his stool and only saved himself from falling by dropping his glass and grabbing at the bar.

The leather-jacketed drinker leapt clear with great agility and without spilling a drop of his drink, then settled down to view the situation with interest.

‘Who the hell are you?’ asked Pascoe in a low, rapid voice. ‘Some kind of doctor? A psychiatrist? A trained social worker, perhaps? Or perhaps just specially gifted with superb bloody insight?’

He found he was punctuating his phrases with violent forefinger jabs into the man’s midriff. Far from being distressed by the discovery, he found himself contemplating the greater satisfaction he might derive from putting all his pugilistic eggs into one basket and smashing his fist into this fellow’s unpleasant, sneering face.

To give him his due, the man did not look frightened, merely taken aback by the unexpectedness of the attack.

‘What the hell – look here – you bloody madman!’ he expostulated.

Pascoe had almost made up his mind. Even the memory that last time he had thrown a punch in anger the result had been a mild contusion for the recipient and a broken forefinger for himself did not deter him. He clenched his fist.

‘Pascoe!’

It was the authentic voice of absolute authority. It might have been Dalziel. He turned. Standing up out of the shadows of the corner near the gents was Backhouse.

A violent push in the back sent Pascoe staggering a few paces forward. His adversary had taken advantage of the interruption to get both feet firmly on the floor and counter-attack. Pascoe looked round at the grey-haired figure crouched in the standard aggressive posture. He looked as if he might in fact know how to handle himself. But this didn’t prevent him from seeming faintly ludicrous, and Pascoe felt his anger ebb away as he recognized his own absurdity.

‘Go to hell,’ he said wearily and pulled out a chair and sat down opposite the superintendent.

Backhouse still looked angry but didn’t say anything. Instead he picked up his not quite empty glass and went towards the bar.

‘A light ale this time, please, and a scotch.’

‘For him? He gets no service here. In fact if he’s not out in thirty seconds, I’ll get the police to throw him out.’

Pascoe turned, surprised. His late adversary was confronting Backhouse with undiminished aggression. This must be Palfrey, the pub-owning major.

Pascoe groaned inwardly. Even the toughest toughs worked to the principle that if you had to fight in pubs, you never picked on the landlord. Backhouse, he realized, was now in an awkward position. The leather-coated fellow might well be a reporter. Almost certainly was from the tone of Palfrey’s remarks to him. He couldn’t know yet who the participants in this little drama were, but he would soon find out.

Pascoe rose and made for the door.

‘It’s all right,’ he said to Backhouse as he passed. ‘I prefer pubs where the barman sticks to his own side of the counter.’

Thirty yards along the street he paused and waited for Backhouse to overtake him.

‘Mr Dalziel never mentioned you were such a violent man,’ said the superintendent conversationally.

‘He wouldn’t,’ said Pascoe. ‘I wear a heavy disguise whenever I attack him. Will he do anything?’

He gestured back towards the pub.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Backhouse. ‘For once the publican’s well-known reluctance to call in the police could work on our side.’

‘He didn’t know who you were?’ asked Pascoe unnecessarily.

‘No. I was just having a quiet sandwich and listening with great interest to the major’s reminiscences of your friends to the Press when you so rudely interrupted him.’

‘So that thing in the kinky gear was a reporter?’ asked Pascoe.

‘Yes. Not, so far as I could gather, a regular crime man. Some kind of feature writer who happened to be on the spot and is looking for an interesting angle. That’s why he’s in the Eagle chatting to the major instead of herding with the others at the village school, waiting for the inquest to begin.’

‘Already?’ Pascoe was surprised. He glanced at his watch. It was just on two.

‘Somehow they got the notion it was starting at one-thirty instead of two-thirty. Hence I was able to grab a bite of lunch in peace.’

Backhouse’s voice held no irony in either sentence. Superintendents don’t need to be ironic, thought Pascoe bitterly.

‘What was Palfrey saying about Rose and Colin?’ he asked abruptly. ‘They had a row, you know. That’s why they used the Queen Anne.’

Backhouse sighed deeply.

‘You know, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘you really must try to break the habit of a lifetime, or however long you’ve been in the force, and not investigate this sorry business. Trust your colleagues. If you don’t, it can only lead to grief. You might even end up, heaven forbid, obstructing the police in the execution of their duty.’

‘Yes,’ said Pascoe, not bothering much to infuse repentant sincerity into his voice. ‘Now what was Palfrey saying? Sir.’

‘Little enough. I think your friends were a little – what would be the in-character word? – Bohemian for his taste. According to his version of the quarrel, he barred his doors to them because their language and behaviour gave offence to many of his old and valued customers. There are, and I quote him now, some words which even in this day and age he would not wish a woman to hear nor expect a lady to use. I think I’ve got that fine antithesis right. Did Mrs Hopkins swear a lot?’

‘When the occasion arose.’

‘But not enough to give rise to the occasion?’

‘Not when I knew her,’ answered Pascoe.

‘But that, as you frequently remind me, was some years ago. To continue. Palfrey under the influence of a couple of gins became confidential, said he was not altogether startled that such a household could come to such an end, and had just launched into his attack on your friend’s balance of mind when you interrupted him.’

‘I should have broken his bloody neck,’ said Pascoe dispassionately.

Backhouse sighed once more.

‘I suggested to your boss I might like to keep you by me for a while. I was wrong. The sooner you head back to Yorkshire, the better. And don’t go near the Eagle and Child again before you go. That’s an official warning. Understand?’

‘Sir,’ said Pascoe. ‘What about you?’

‘Oh, never fear. I’ll see him again and ask him a few questions. It was hardly an opportune moment just now, was it?’

He laughed and burped slightly.

‘I won’t touch his draught again, though. His pipes must badly need decoking.’

Their conversation had brought them to the village hall. A uniformed constable now stood on duty at the door. He stiffened to attention as the superintendent passed. Pascoe hesitated on the threshold.

‘You’d better come in,’ said Backhouse. ‘Then I can keep an eye on you. We’ll go up to the inquest together.’

The hall now contained a neatly deployed and efficient-looking unit, though at a glance Pascoe could tell there was very little happening at this precise moment. There was a slight acceleration of tempo for Backhouse’s benefit as he walked the length of the room, but the atmosphere of the place was one of straightforward, almost drowsy routine. A few dust-filled buttresses of sunlight from the narrow window leaned against the shadowy walls. It might have been a summer’s afternoon in a Victorian bank.

Backhouse came up, looking at his watch.

‘It’s about ten minutes’ walk to the school. We won’t bother with the car, if that’s all right with you.’

‘Surely.’

‘Good. I like to get what exercise I can. There’s nothing new by the way. I’ve brought the men out of the woods. Waste of time. They’ll be better on house-to-house.’

Outside they almost ran into the man in the yellow leather jacket. He raised his eyebrows comically as he saw them.

‘Hello, darlings,’ he said. ‘I thought you looked a bit peelerish back in the pub.’

‘It was kind of you not to comment, sir,’ said Backhouse courteously.

‘That’s all right. I’m strictly an observer, aren’t I? You can reward me, though. How do I get to the village school? I thought I might look in on this inquest thing.’

‘We’re going there ourselves. Perhaps you’d care to join us?’ said Backhouse, somewhat to Pascoe’s surprise.

‘Well, I suppose it’s either that or following you, which might look a trifle odd. This is definitely not a place to look odd in, is it, don’t you think? I imagine they stone you if you look odd.’

‘You seemed to get on very well with the landlord back there,’ remarked Backhouse as they set off up the winding sun-mellow street.

‘Yes. Well, I’m Press, you see, and these village publicans are always hoping for a little puff in the colour mags, if you see what I mean. I’ve done one or two country-pub gourmet features, you know the kind of thing; horse-brass up your ass, and a beautifully kept pork pie.’

‘You must be Anton Davenant,’ said Backhouse.

‘That’s right. How clever. Sounds like a dirty French song, doesn’t it? And you …?’

‘Backhouse. Detective-Superintendent. And this is Sergeant Pascoe.’

‘Oh.’

Pascoe felt the man’s gaze run swiftly over him as though taking a blueprint and laying it aside for future reference. He recognized the name Davenant faintly. He rarely had time to get as far as the colour supplements on a Sunday, but on some occasion recently he had come across the name.

‘How envious all these hard-bitten crime men will be when I turn up in such illustrious company,’ said Davenant.

‘As a matter of interest,’ said Backhouse, ‘just what are you doing here among all these hard-bitten crime men?’

‘I was fortunate enough to be in the vicinity, that’s all. And my current editor, knowing I was hereabouts, instantly got in touch when this dreadful business was bruited abroad. I think he hopes for something rather quaint from me. A Vintage Murder perhaps. Or First Catch Your Killer. He used words like atmosphere and human interest, and eventually (and here I capitulated), money. But enough of interesting me. What of interesting you? What have your fascinating investigations upturned?’

‘Very little so far, Mr Davenant,’ said Backhouse cheerfully, pausing to admire a magnificent dahlia border and being admired in his turn by at least three shadowy figures Pascoe could see behind lace-curtains.

Curiously enough, Davenant seemed satisfied with this answer.

‘That must be the old village school at the top of the hill,’ he said. ‘And over there I spy the old village shop. I must stock up with ciggies. Please don’t wait for me. I may find myself compelled to linger, soaking up atmosphere.’

‘Don’t take too long,’ said Backhouse. ‘It’ll all be over very quickly I should think.’

The journalist disappeared into the tiny shop and the two policemen continued their walk.

‘He showed a less than fervent interest in your investigations,’ said Pascoe thoughtfully.

‘True. Not at all like the mob I’m sure we will meet up here.’

Backhouse was right. There was quite a crowd of reporters waiting outside the school. And an equal crowd of local children had gathered to watch the reporters. Backhouse promised them a statement after the inquest, spoke a few sympathetic words to a television film crew who had got lost on their way to Thornton Lacey and were desperately trying to make themselves operative, then he went inside. Pascoe followed close, still anonymous.

French, the coroner, was there already, his golfing gear exchanged for a grey suit. He and Backhouse exchanged a few words, then very quickly he got the inquest under way.

The superintendent was right about this too. Pascoe was called upon briefly to give evidence of identification and time of discovery; Dr Hardisty gave medical evidence of the cause of death, based partly on his own observation and partly on the pathologist’s preliminary report which had just arrived. Death resulted in all three cases from shotgun wounds. The two men had been shot at close quarters with one cartridge apiece. Timothy Mansfield had received his shot full in the chest and had died as a result of the damage inflicted on his lungs and heart. Charles Rushworth had been shot in the neck and lower face. His windpipe had been severed. Rose Hopkins had been shot from a greater distance than the other two, but both barrels of the gun had been used on her. No vital organ had been hit, but her jugular vein had been severed and she had bled to death as she lay unconscious from the shock of the onslaught.

Pascoe put his head in his hands and stared desperately at the floor. The wood was old and tending to splinter. Dangerous that for children.

Time of death was between eight and eleven pm. The full autopsy results might be more precise, but the coroner would appreciate that with three bodies to work on, it had not yet been possible to deal fully with them all.

The coroner appreciated this, spoke briefly of the horror of the event, wished the police inquiries an early success, and declared the inquest adjourned.

Pascoe had had enough to do with inquests to know what this meant. An early arrest was expected. No attempt would be made to resume the inquest if this happened and someone was charged. The coroner would wait until the criminal court proceedings were over, then make his return to the registrar of deaths on the basis of that court’s verdict.

And if an early arrest was looked for, there could only be one person they had in mind.

As he rose to leave, he found himself surrounded by newspapermen. From being just an anonymous policeman, he had been pitched into the current star role. For the discoverer of the deaths to be a detective himself, and an old friend of both the murdered trio and the chief suspect, was a splendid bit of gilt for this lily of a murder. They were as decent and compassionate as it is possible to be when a dozen or more people are all trying to have their questions answered at the same time. To Pascoe it felt like having his head in a cloud of amplified midges. He tried to answer their questions for a few minutes, then, trailing them with him, he pushed his way to the door.

Backhouse’s car was parked by the school-gate. Pascoe opened the door and climbed in.

‘The super says to take me back to the station,’ he told the driver, who set off without hesitation.

A piece of mind-reading rather than a lie, thought Pascoe as he settled back in his seat.

As the car passed the little shop on the hill, he saw the colourful figure of Davenant just coming out. The man gave a cheery wave, apparently little disturbed at having missed the inquest. Pascoe ignored him. You didn’t wave at people from police cars.

The main street traffic had suddenly become very heavy and they had to wait a few minutes at the intersection.

‘It’s been on the news,’ said the driver knowledgeably.

‘What?’ said Pascoe.

‘The murders. That’s what this lot are after. It’s better than Grandstand on a nice afternoon.’

It was a phenomenon that Pascoe was not unused to. The spectator syndrome he had once called it to Dalziel, who had shrugged and said that it was better than watching cock-fighting and cheaper than watching strippers and what the hell kind of word was syndrome anyway? Before today it had often fascinated him as a sociologist and sometimes annoyed him as a policeman. But now it made him sick and angry. It did no good to tell himself that most of the shirt-sleeved drivers and their family-packed cars were probably going about their legitimate Saturday afternoon business. The thought that any of them had driven out of their way especially to look at the cottage where last night three people were shot to death filled him with an indiscriminate loathing.

At Crowther’s house he stepped from the car with the curtest of nods to the driver and went quickly inside.

To his surprise Ellie was up and dressed. She looked pale but alert and warded off his attempt at a comforting embrace.

‘Have they found Colin?’ was her first question.

He shook his head.

‘What happened at the inquest?’

‘It was adjourned.’

‘I asked you what happened. They didn’t just open the thing and adjourn it, did they?’

‘No. They took evidence of identification and cause of death.’

‘Tell me.’

At first he demurred, but she pressed him hard and his own powers of resistance were so low that in the end it was easier to answer her questions than evade them.

‘So it happened between eight and eleven?’

‘Yes. They reckon so.’

‘And Rose bled to death, lying there unconscious?’

‘Yes.’ He spoke very low. He knew what was coming, didn’t want her to say it, but knew no way of preventing it.

‘So then. If it hadn’t been for you and your bloody job, we’d have got there last night. We might have got there in time to stop all of this happening. We’d certainly have got there in time to help Rose. Is that right?’

‘I suppose so. Yes. I’ve thought of it too.’

‘Have you now? I should hope you have. What I wonder, Peter, is how the hell are you ever going to stop thinking about it?’

She turned from the window at which she had been standing and faced him accusingly.

‘Have you thought about that?’

Chapter 6

‘What I should like from you, Miss Soper, if you feel up to it,’ said Backhouse sympathetically, ‘is background information. Anything at all you can tell us about Rose and Colin Hopkins. And the other two as well, of course.’

He had turned up midway through the bitter quarrel which had followed Ellie’s accusations. The news that Ellie had recovered sufficiently to leave her bed had been given him by Crowther and he had come as quickly as possible. Not that there was any real urgency about interviewing the woman. The trouble was that now the machine had been started and was running smoothly, there was no real urgency about anything. It had been decided to issue photographs of Hopkins to the Press and television services. He was still being described as ‘a man the police wish to interview’. At the same time, the public were being warned that if they saw him or his car, they should make no approach themselves but call the nearest police station.

So now it was mainly a matter of sitting back and waiting for the reported sightings to start flowing in.

He looked impassively at the photograph in his hand. It wasn’t bad. The police photographer had had a good selection to choose from. The Hopkinses had been hoarders of snapshots. There had even been a couple with a very youthful but instantly recognizable Peter Pascoe grinning merrily at the camera. But this he held in his hand was the face they were after. An intelligent face. Wide-eyed, a humorous mouth easily pulled into a smile or opened for laughter, yet something restless haunted those features. The picture of his wife gave a much greater impression of calm reliability. Perhaps he needed this in her. Had needed it. Was without it now.

‘You’ll have to ask me questions,’ said Ellie. ‘I don’t know where to start.’

‘Of course. It’s difficult, I understand. I’ll put the big question first. Have you any idea where Colin Hopkins might be?’

‘No, I haven’t. I’m sorry, but …’ she looked from Backhouse to Pascoe who sat, pale and withdrawn, staring through the window. She hasn’t caught on yet, thought Backhouse suddenly. She thinks Hopkins was called away unexpectedly last night, is going to appear full of horrified amazement at what’s happened, will need to be calmed, comforted, consoled. For God’s sake, what the devil has Pascoe been saying to her?

He remembered the atmosphere when he arrived. Strained, tense, there had been great hostility in the air. Any minute now, some of it was coming his way. He might as well get it over with.

‘Miss Soper,’ he said gently, ‘I think you should understand the position. Mr Hopkins was almost certainly with his wife and friends last night. He had had dinner with them. He had been drinking with them after dinner. We know this. There was a half-filled glass with his fingerprints on in the lounge.’

‘What are you saying, Superintendent?’ asked Ellie, pushing her hair back from her brow.

Pascoe interrupted from the window.

‘He’s saying that they’re not searching for Colin so they can give him the bad news. They want him as the chief – in fact, the only – suspect,’ he said.

Ellie froze, her hand still at her brow.

‘Of course,’ she said after a while. ‘I’ve been silly. It must be those bloody pills they gave me. That’s what you would think, isn’t it? It’s nonsense, of course, but that’s how your minds would work.’

At least she’s taking it quietly, thought Backhouse. Too soon. She turned towards Pascoe.

‘So while I’ve been sleeping, you’ve been helping them hunt down Colin?’ she uttered vituperatively. ‘And now they’ve pumped you dry, they want to see if I can put them on to any other scents!’

‘For a would-be novelist you do mix your metaphors,’ said Pascoe coldly.

‘Please, please,’ said Backhouse soothingly. ‘Let’s keep things calm. Miss Soper, if it’s any consolation to you – though, as an intelligent and no doubt public-spirited woman, I don’t see why it should be – Sergeant Pascoe has been most unco-operative, even antagonistic, with regard to our search for Mr Hopkins. In fact, I had to intervene to prevent him from physically assaulting one man who talked critically of your friend. Such loyalty, I hasten to add, I do not find touching but foolish. The circumstantial evidence against your friend is strong. But now if it turns out to be misleading, he’s got to be found. Now, will you help?’