Ruling Passion (18 page)

'There are worse fates,' said Pascoe.

'What
are
we doing here, Peter?'

'Looking for cats. Or rather
a
cat. I've got the other two locked in the kitchen. Let me explain.'

'I wish you would.'

Pascoe had called to see Mavis Sturgeon in hospital. She was confined to bed, but much more  alert now. Her main concern had naturally been  for her husband, but she seemed ready to accept  assurances that he was all right, but too weak to be visited even had she been fit. Pascoe had  delicately probed to see if there were anything  she could tell him, but the names of Cowley and  Atkinson meant nothing to her. Lewis she had  read about in the paper and she had an idea he  was a member of the Liberal Club which Edgar  had belonged to for more than forty years. She confirmed that her husband had been withdrawn  and irritable for the past week or more, following  a period of unexplained high spirits and excitement.

'I was worried about his retirement at first,' she  said. 'He missed the business a lot. But then he seemed to come round, start taking an interest in  things. I thought that ... I thought . . .'

She blinked back tears. Pascoe intervened swiftly.

'Do you know where he might have been going  today?' he asked.

'No. That's what makes it so odd. He'd no reason at all to be on that road. I've never liked that road, never. Always accidents, always something.'

Pascoe had risen to go, making an automatic  promise to do anything he could to help and  being surprised to find himself instantly put to  the test.

'It's her cats. The neighbours will feed them, she knows, but she'd be happier if they went into their  usual kennels. So I said I'd take them. And as it's  no job for a singlehanded man, I left the message for you.'

'Thanks a lot.'

'Why did you ring me earlier?' asked Pascoe  casually.

'Oh, nothing. I just felt like a chat,' she replied.

'I gather you had one with Dalziel.'

'We talked.'

'What did he say?'

'He advised me of my constitutional rights. And  duties. And suggested strongly that a woman's place
was
around the home. Particularly the bedroom.'

'Did he?'

'Yes.'

'Let's find that cat, shall we?'

Ellie took a china ashtray from the mantelpiece and rattled it energetically against the wall. Ten  seconds later a sleek ginger shape slid casually  from beneath the chair on the arm of which Pascoe  was squatting. The animal purred as Ellie picked  him up.

'Well done, St Francis. What's the secret?'

'Make a sound like a rattling food-dish and these  creatures will come from miles away. Otherwise, if  they don't feel like it, you can coax and threaten  all night without results.'

'They remind me of you.'

'That'll cost you a steak.'

'See what I mean?'

This slightly unreal, consciously superficial relationship was maintained all the way to the kennels which conveniently turned out to be the ones  behind the Jockey at Birkham.

A man was unloading trays of meat and made-up pet food from a blue van as they came out of the office. His van proclaimed that he was Jim Jones,  Purveyor of High Class Pet Food.

'Does it make you hungry?' asked Pascoe.

'No. But I am.'

He glanced at his watch. It was just on six-thirty.

'Not too early? Then let's be first in the Jockey. You don't deliver there as well, do you?' he added  jocularly to the petfood man who had stood aside  to let them past.

He didn't answer, but merely stared unblinkingly at Pascoe and shook his head. Take a joke seriously and you take the wind out of anybody's  sails, thought Pascoe, disconcerted. It was one of  Dalziel's favourite tricks.

They weren't the first in the pub, but were the  first to order their steaks. Ellie drank her lager  thirstily, then sat toying with the pebble pendant  Pascoe had bought her.

'Peter,' she said, 'when I talked to Dalziel he  warned me about putting you on the spot.'

'He did
what?'

'You know. He said that I should be careful about  sharing information with you as a friend that might possibly cause you difficulties as a policeman. If  Colin got in touch with me, for instance, wanting help.'

'Has he?' asked Pascoe flatly, staring into his  glass.

'No, he hasn't. But it made me think, what he  said. I've been worrying at it ever since. He's wrong, you know. I've just decided that. Fat Dalziel  is wrong.'

'Put it in writing,' said Pascoe with a smile.

'Hell, I'm not gone on the complete honesty bit.  Some things are better kept quiet. But not for the  reasons that Dalziel gave. Not so that you can grow  up into a nice fat superintendent like he is.'

'I agree,' said Pascoe. 'That's not at all a good  reason for not telling me something. Though I'll  want to look more closely at these other things  that are better kept quiet.'

'You might be shocked!' she said lightly. 'The real reason I rang you this afternoon was something rather odd. After you dropped me in town I  didn't make straight back to college. I had nothing  on there and anyway I felt like being among a lot of  people after this morning. So I shopped for a couple  of hours. Then, about four it must have been, I set  off back. I came through Birkham, of course, and  stopped to have another wander round the antique  shop. But it was shut.'

'Not a very keen trader, our Mr Etherege,' commented Pascoe. 'Who, by the way, has just come  into the bar.'

Etherege seemed to be well known and entered  immediately into a cheerful exchange of greetings  with the landlord and other drinkers.

'Anyway,' said Ellie, 'I was just getting back into  the car, when another car pulled up behind me. I thought I recognized it, bright red Citroen. Out  jumps Anton Davenant, greets me warmly and  says he is just on his way to see me at college.'

'Interesting,' said Pascoe. 'What the hell did he want that he couldn't have got when we met him this morning?'

'I wondered that too. The only thing I could  think of was your absence!'

'Flattering. OK. What did he say?'

'I'm not really sure. He seemed to be feeling his  way, if you know what I mean. He talked about Colin and the others, particularly Timmy. Evidently he met him when Timmy was working at  the Common Market HQ in Brussels and Davenant was doing some kind of gastronomic architectural  Grand Tour.'

'Then Timmy comes back and takes up with  Carlo again. Interesting.'

'I thought so too. I began to wonder whether he  was in fact in the district completely by accident.'

'That,’ said Pascoe, 'is the kind of nasty thought only policemen are supposed to have.'

'Dalziel would be pleased. But I did begin to wonder after a while if Colin might have been  in touch with him and he was sounding me out  to see whether a policeman's paramour was to be  trusted.'

'And was she?'

'Evidently not. He said nothing anyway. He  did seem very interested in the book Colin was  working on, but I couldn't tell him a thing about  that. Perhaps Colin's worried about his manuscript  and notes?'

'Wherever Colin is,' said Pascoe unemotionally,  'he'll have a lot more to worry him than the health  of his manuscript. So you rang me to chat?'

'That's right. Davenant was still with me, he'd  just popped into the loo. I thought you'd like to  know.'

Their steaks arrived and with them Etherege. He didn't sit down but stood looking down at them,  a gin in one hand and a small bottle of tonic in  the other.

'Hello again,' he said with a smile. 'Sorry to interrupt, but I just wondered about those stamps.'

'We haven't been able to have them examined yet, I'm afraid,’ said Pascoe, thinking of poor old  Sturgeon, critically ill, perhaps by now even dead.

'Not to worry. No hurry. Pop in and buy the lady  another present some time! Cheers.'

He turned and left them.

'Not a bad idea,' said Ellie.

'At his prices?' Pascoe sampled his steak and  nodded appreciatively.

'Careful,' warned Ellie. 'Jones the Cat Meats has  just come in.'

He glanced at the bar. She was right. The po-faced man had just entered.

Pascoe grinned.

'Well, if they use him here,' he said, 'all I can  say is how nice to be one of Mrs Sturgeon's cats!'

Dalziel meanwhile was still in his room, sipping a  cup of tea with only half his usual quantity of sugar and unenthusiastically contemplating an evening  without potatoes.

The phone rang.

'I'm sorry to have been so long, Superintendent,  but there was some urgent business came up.'

'Trouble in the glen?' said Dalziel sourly.

'Aye. Something of that. Now, the man Atkinson  at the hotel, he's your man surely, fits the description to a "t".'

'Good. Anything else?'

'Well, no address, I regret to say. They let him  put just "London" in the registration book, I’m afraid. I've had a wee word with the manager, and things will be stricter now, I promise you.'

'That makes me very happy.'

'Guid. Guid. Now, Superintendent, he's been  there a few times. I have a note of the dates; only for a few days at a time, and not on holiday, it seems. At least he didna act like a man on  holiday.'

'How
did
he act?'

'Like a businessman, they say. And from something the reception lassie heard him say one day, it seems he might be connected with the Nordrill  Mining Company.'

'Who the hell are they?'

'Well, if you lived up here, you wouldna need  to ask.'

'Sergeant, if you lived down here, you'd bloody well feel the need to answer! Get a move on.'

'Aye. They're one of these companies that are going around everywhere these days, it seems,  sinking test shafts to see what's worth ploughing  up the earth for. You may have read about them  in Wales and the Peak District in England? Well,  we have the same trouble.'

'And Atkinson's probably working for them?'

'So it seems.'

'Well done, Lauder,' said Dalziel. 'Just give me  those dates and you can get back to the peat fire.'

The phone rang once more before Dalziel could  leave. He listened for a long while without offering to interrupt.

'Right,’ he said finally. 'Yes, I'll tell him. Good  night.'

But not tonight, he thought, glancing at his  watch. He'll be out with that girl. Let them enjoy  themselves tonight if they could.

Besides, he had no idea where they were.
 

Chapter 7

Pascoe was breakfasting on the run when the  morning paper arrived. Ellie who had farther to  go but was a much later starter wandered in from  the kitchen from time to time, placing cups of  coffee and slices of toast at strategic points along  his route.

'Why don't you set your alarm earlier?' she  asked.

'When I'm sleeping by myself, it's early enough.'

'It's my fault, is it?'

He didn't answer, but went out into the small,  dark hallway of his flat and picked up his mail and  the newspaper.

'Catch,' he said, throwing it at Ellie who settled  down on the rug in front of the gas-fire to drink  her own coffee and read the headlines.

He was in the bathroom when she called his  name. He came instantly, recognizing a note in  her voice which told him something serious had  happened.

They've found him,' she said.

'What? Let me see.'

He took the paper and read the report. It told  of the discovery of the car, mentioned that a note  had been found in it, and gave the gist of an obviously non-committal interview with Backhouse. He refused to comment on the suggestion that  his murder investigation was now completed, and  when asked about the clay-pit merely said that  a thorough search would take place. The report  ended with a reference to the other lives lost in  the pool.

'You said they'd found him,' said Pascoe accusingly.

'It's as good as,' said Ellie, white-faced.

'No such thing. Can you see Colin killing himself?'

'It would depend on what he had done.'

Pascoe held his hand to his forehead and closed  his eyes tightly. Night. Wind in the trees. Moonlight through the driven clouds touching the ruffled water far below. A step forward. It was all too  Gothic.

And then, not to struggle! Colin had been a fine  swimmer. It could
not
be true!

But the rest was true. He had seen that himself;  Carlo and Tim lying dead, and above all, Rose  bleeding her life away at the foot of the sundial.  If that was true, then anything could be.

'Come on,' he said suddenly. 'Let's move. I'll  find out what's really going on from Dalziel.'

'I don't know if I can,' said Ellie dully. 'I'll stay  here, Peter. You go.'

'No,' he said. 'You're not coming with me, love.  You're going into college like a good little lecturer.  That's what you're overpaid for. So let's get a move  on, shall we?'

It was important to be busy. Action impeded  reflection. Action would keep them for a while  at least from visualizing the policeman, awkward  in his stiff blue raincoat, probing the pool depths with a boat-hook as the leaky, creaking cockleshell wove a careful searcher's pattern across the dark  water. Back and forth, back and forth, till the  hook snagged . . . thank God there was lots of  work to do.

It was not quite as Pascoe visualized it. The boat 
was
there, picking up the search where darkness had halted it the previous evening. But the warm  weather of the previous weekend had returned and the quarry pool reflected blue sky and morning  sunlight. It would have been idyllic, had it not been  for the evil smell stirred up by the probings below.  Still, it would be shirt-sleeve order before the day  was out, thought Backhouse. Of all the seasons of  the year, he loved an Indian summer best. It was  a comforting allegory of middle age; a golden time of warmth and maturity, with just enough of the  elegiacs to be piquant without being depressing.

It would be pleasant to slip away for a few days  and enjoy the company of Proust in the small walled Dorsetshire orchard which lay behind his  brother's farm like an earnest of Eden. It would  be very pleasant. The price was simple. A water-puffed, rotting corpse, dragged reluctantly to the  sun-polished surface of the waters he looked down  on. He had seen it before. No other form of death  seemed to write such despair on a man's face. It  was a matter of time, he supposed. Other deaths  had to be satisfied with what they could set in a man's features in the actual moment of dying.  Only water kept on working, smoothing, shaping,  after life had fled.