Ruling Passion (3 page)

'What the hell's going on here?'

The interrupter was a big man, barrel-chested  and strong-jawed. He was wearing a polo-necked  sweater and jodhpurs. Pascoe felt sorry for the horse that would have to carry that bulk which  he estimated at fifteen stone. It was all pretty solid  stuff. The man was in his forties but still a long way  from turning to flab.

'Well? Come on, man. Who's in charge?'

Backhouse's attention had been caught and he  came across to meet the man.

'Good morning, sir,' he said. 'I'm Detective-Superintendent Backhouse. And you . . . ?'

'Angus Pelman. What the hell are you up to?'  asked the man in a rather more moderate tone.

'We're conducting a murder inquiry, sir,' responded Backhouse. 'I'm surprised you haven't heard.'

Yes, that
is
surprising, thought Pascoe. Over  two hours had elapsed since the crime had been  reported. He had no doubt that shortly - perhaps  already - the TV cameras would be rolling and  the press-men patrolling around Brookside Cottage. But Angus Pelman had contrived to remain  ignorant till he entered the hall.

He was also contriving to look completely taken  aback at the news. When Backhouse filled in a  few details, he sat down violently on the nearest chair.

'The Hopkinses at Brookside Cottage?' he repeated  incredulously.

'You knew them, sir?' asked Backhouse.

'I should do,' Pelman answered. 'I sold them the  damned place.'

A memory started up in Pascoe's mind, beautifully clear. The cottage in Eskdale, six (or was it seven?) years ago. The owner had been a farmer  who lived half a mile down the valley. He was  a big, randy bastard, full of himself, and he took  to dropping in from time to time - exercising  his right of inspection, he claimed, though his  main objects of inspection were clearly the two  girls, particularly Rose. They suspected also that  he visited the place while they were out walking  on the fells. In the end they did something, some  kind of joke . . . but the memory faded as quickly  as it had come. He would have to ask Ellie.

'Shot, you say? Both shot?' said Pelman.

'Not both the Hopkinses, sir. Mrs Hopkins, and  their two guests.'

'And Colin Hopkins?'

'We hope to contact him soon, sir.'

'You mean, he doesn't know? But he was around  yesterday evening. I saw him in the village.'

Suspicion dawned, followed by outrage.

'You're not suggesting he had something to do  with it, are you? Man, you've got to be mad.  I haven't known him long, but it's out of the  question!'

Suddenly Pascoe liked him a lot better.

'We've reached no conclusions yet, sir,' answered  Backhouse reasonably. 'By the way, if you weren't  expecting to find us here, why did you come in?'

Pelman looked puzzled.

'Why did I. . . ? Oh,
here
you mean. Simple. I'm  the chairman of the Amenities Committee; we had  a meeting last night and on the morning after these meetings, the secretary brings the minutes along  here. She's got them typed out by then. We check  through them together, then pin them up on the  notice board so that everybody can see what's been  going on.'

'Nice,' said Backhouse approvingly. 'Nice.'

He was looking towards the door as he spoke,  and Pascoe, following his gaze, was uncertain  whether he was commenting on the democratic  process or the woman who stood there.

She
was
nice, if you liked that kind of thing. Early  thirties, well groomed brown hair, expensively  but quietly dressed, good figure; Pascoe had no  objection to any of these. But he felt himself  antagonized by her look of amused self-possession  as she surveyed the scene.

Upper-middle class, certain of her place in the  scheme of things, full of common sense and good  works, committee woman, is or will be a magistrate, cardboard cut-out of the good Tory MP's  wife, or even the good Tory MP. Complacent bitch.

Pascoe was surprised at the violence of his  thoughts. And at the ridiculous speed of his entirely  intuitive analysis. There was a spring of rage in him  which would have to be tapped with the greatest  care. He tried to wipe the slate clean and start  again with this woman, but she seemed bent on  confirming his conclusions.

'Hello, Angus,' she said in a clear, high-pitched,  well-educated voice. 'You're well protected. The  minutes aren't
that
explosive, I hope.'

She came forward holding a leather folder in her  hand. So this was the secretary of the Amenities  Committee. That figured.

'Hello, Marianne. Haven't you heard?'

Pelman briefly told her what had happened. As  he spoke, Pascoe observed the woman keenly. Two  important members of the village community and  neither had heard the news. He would have to  revise his ideas about the tribal nature of the  English village.

'Would you like a seat, Mrs . . . er . . . ?' asked  Backhouse politely as Pelman finished.

'Culpepper,' supplied Pelman.

'Thank you,' said the woman. She did not look  too overcome to Pascoe's jaundiced eye, but then  her upbringing probably laid great stress on the  stiffness of upper lips. It worked both ways. She  placed the leather folder on a nearby table, but it  slipped and fell open to the floor. Pascoe picked it  up and stood with it in his hands, glancing down at  the neatly typewritten sheets. He took in the topmost of them with the casual ease of a thousand-words-a-minute man. It seemed to have been a  lively meeting, mainly centred on the alleged pollution of the stream which ran through the village.  Downstreamers suspected upstreamers of having  inefficient or even extra cesspools. Upstreamers  vehemently denied this. The water in question was  presumably the brook which ran behind Brookside  Cottage. The sundial in the garden rose vividly in  his mind. Only the sunny hours . . .

'I'll take that,’ said Pelman, seizing the folder  from Pascoe's unresisting hand. 'We won't hold  you up any more, Superintendent. Come on,  Marianne. Let's get you a stiff brandy in the  Bird.'

Exit John Wayne with the lady, thought Pascoe  as the jodhpured man steered Marianne Culpepper  doorwards by the elbow. She gently disengaged  herself before passing out into the street.

'Put someone on that door,' said Backhouse  mildly, 'before they establish a right of way. I'll  be at the cottage.'

He motioned Pascoe to move out before him,  and let him wait by the car while he exchanged  a few more words with the inspector. The street  was surprisingly empty. The sun had grown warm  as the morning progressed, but Pascoe shivered  from time to time as he waited for Backhouse to  come and start the short journey back to Brookside  Cottage.

Chapter 3

Their driver parked the car on the grass verge  about forty yards from the cottage. The assortment  of vehicles scattered in the immediate vicinity  prevented a closer approach.

Three or four newspapermen intercepted the  superintendent as he walked along the road. Locals  mainly, Pascoe assessed. It was still too soon for  anyone to have emerged from the chaos of Saturday morning London. But they would do.
Three  dead from shotgun wounds
was too big to leave in  the hands of a local runner.

Backhouse dealt with them kindly but firmly.  No, there were no developments yet. They were  looking for a man who might be able to help them  with their inquiries. Mr Colin Hopkins, yes, that  was him. A photograph and description might be  issued if it was felt to be necessary.

Pascoe had dropped behind as the questioning  proceeded. When Backhouse and his interrogators  stopped in front of the cottage, he found himself, deliberately blank-minded, looking up the side of  the building between the garage and the wall.  There was activity in the back garden and beyond.  They would be looking for the weapon. Everything they found would be carefully scrutinized,  of course, but it was the weapon they were hoping  for. It made a difference if you knew the man you  were searching after
didn 't
have a shotgun in his  possession.

He doubted if they'd find it so near. Hurled in  panic into the woods over the stream, it would  have been found by now. Whereas if the killer were  cool enough to make a more deliberate attempt to  hide it, he would surely wait until his car had taken  him a safe distance from the village.

The killer.
He tested himself gently from the  vantage point of disembodied objectivity he had  scrambled on to in the last two hours. Was he ready  yet to consider whether Colin . . . why Colin . . .

No. He wasn't quite ready. He walked up to  the garage and peered in. What he saw surprised  him.

'Sergeant!' Backhouse called authoritatively.  Pascoe instinctively obeyed the summons and had  joined the superintendent at the threshold before  he started wondering about the tone of command.  A new step in the psychology of their relationship  perhaps. A reminder of his official subordination.

Or perhaps his service with Dalziel had made him  too suspicious of all detective-superintendents'  motives. Perhaps all Backhouse was doing was using his police rank as a red herring to divert the  interest of the newspapermen from him. Clearly, as  they moved off in a friendly, almost light-hearted,  little group, they had no suspicion that the discoverer of the crime was so close.

In the cottage, much had changed. No effort had  been made to tidy up after the rigorous search and  fingerprinting examination which had taken place.  Why bother when there was no chance of an irate  householder turning up to complain?

Backhouse thought differently.

'For God's sake, Hamblyn,' he said to the ginger-moustached detective who came to greet him, 'get  this place tidied up. And those cars outside. If I  want a road-block here, I'll ask for it.'

'Yes, sir,' said Hamblyn unemotionally.

'Anything new?'

'Nothing useful, sir. Not as far as I can see.  Anything on the car yet, sir?'

'I'm afraid not.'

Pascoe spoke lowly, diffidently.

'There's a car in the garage,' he said. It sounded  daft as he said it but, hell, he had to say it. Not that  it was possible they wouldn't have looked. Was it?

'Yes, yes; I believe there is,' said Backhouse.  Then he laughed.

'Oh, I see your dilemma. Yes it's true the  Hopkinses' car is in the garage. But it's the other  one we're interested in. Royal blue Mini-Cooper  according to best report. The one Mr Rushworth  and Mr Mansfield arrived in.'

Pascoe was abashed. Hamblyn was looking at  him with faint distaste.

'Let's step into the garden,’ said Backhouse,  like a kindly host desirous of stirring his guest's  digestive juices before lunch.

They went through the dining-room, passing the  chalked body-outlines and ringed bloodstains, and  out of the french window into the garden, halting  near the sundial.

I'm really getting the treatment, thought Pascoe.  What does he expect from me? Colin's present  address?

'The Hopkinses' car was
in
the garage, the visitors' car on the driveway,' said Backhouse. 'This  is the arrangement you'd expect and this is what  the few people we've found who passed early last  evening saw.'

'They couldn't see into the garage,' objected  Pascoe.

'True,' said Backhouse. 'Now, here's what happened, or what
possibly
happened supported by a  strong scaffolding of what
did
happen. There was  a lot of broken glass scattered around here. Did  you notice? From a whisky bottle, that was easy  enough to establish. Were they hard drinkers, your  friends?'

'Only on occasions,' answered Pascoe, recognizing the start of interrogation. 'And the occasion  rarely merited the expense of scotch. But that was  years ago. Things change.'

'Yes. Of course. Well, we've got a thorough house-to-house on now, but the first place my  men called was the Eagle and Child, the second the Queen Anne. That's where she bought  it.'

'The whisky?'

'That's right,' said Backhouse pensively. 'At  about quarter to nine last night. Curious that. The  Eagle and Child's nearer. No matter. The landlord's  wife, who sold it to her at the off-licence counter,  didn't see the car, but heard it drive away. She  reckons it sounded more like the Mini-Cooper  than the Hopkinses' Cortina.'

'A good ear,' commented Pascoe, watching a pair  of thrushes which had decided the policemen were  harmless, and were drilling for worms.

'No doubt we'll find someone to corroborate it,'  said Backhouse. 'As things stand, it seems likely  that they started drinking after dinner. When the  scotch began to get low, Mrs Hopkins volunteered  to fetch more; she used her visitors' car as it would  have to be moved anyway to get her own out.  On her return she either walked straight into  the garden or went through the front door into  the lounge, then the dining-room and out of the  french windows.'

'And then she was shot,' said Pascoe.

'It seems likely. Very soon after she came back.  She was still holding the full bottle, you see. We  found the cap with the seal complete. She must  have held the bottle in front of her, either to ward  off the shot or to use as a weapon. The blast from the shotgun went right through it. There were  splinters of glass embedded deep in the wound.  Would any of your friends own a shotgun, do you  think?'

'I don't know. I just don't know,' said Pascoe  irritably. 'I've told you, Superintendent, this was  a kind of reunion. I hadn't seen these people for  years. How should I know what they were likely  to do now?'

'Do people change that much?'

'They change all right. When someone's put a  couple of ounces of lead pellets into your face, you  change!'

Pascoe realized he was nearly shouting. Jesus, he  thought, I should be back there too, lying on one  of Constable Crowther's comfortable beds with  some of Doctor Hardisty's comfortable pills inside  me.

'Sir!' It was Hamblyn from the french window.  Behind him stood two men.

'It's Mr French, the coroner, sir.'

'Hello, Superintendent,' said the taller of the two  men who now stepped into the garden. He was  over six feet, rather gaunt of feature, well tanned,  his nose showing the pale indentations left by a  frequent wearing of spectacles. His companion was  a good nine inches shorter, less dramatic in every  way, but his pale oval face was intelligent and  far from weak. Both men wore casual, sporting  clothes, French going in for bright colours, his  companion much more subdued.