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 Citroën 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 had 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.
‘On the wagon, Mr Dalziel?’
‘I’m being dragged behind, Sam.’
‘Well, don’t forget, there’s a big one in the bottle for you.’
Dalziel waited till he had left their table.
‘There was a note, you know. It’ll be read. Conclusions drawn. Hopkins named. Everyone sleeps happy in their neighbour’s bed.’
‘But what if Colin’s still alive?’ protested Ellie.
‘What’s the odds? A fake suicide note’s as good an admission as a real one.’
‘I see,’ said Ellie hopelessly. ‘Peter thought much the same.’
‘He would,’ said Dalziel approvingly. ‘You know his promotion’s through? It’ll be official tomorrow.’
‘I heard. You’re not building up to another warning, are you?’
Dalziel laughed.
‘Not really. No. We had a few words about that. I must be getting soft. I can take anything from these lads now. Anything.’
‘So I’ve heard,’ said Ellie drily.
‘But it made me think. I shouldn’t have talked to you on the phone the way I did.’
‘No. You bloody well shouldn’t.’
‘No,’ agreed Dalziel.
‘So you’re sorry?’
‘No point in being sorry. It’s past now.’
‘Jesus! So?’
‘So what?’
‘So what are we doing here?’
Abstractedly, Dalziel downed his drink in one swallow then stared at the glass defiantly.
‘Listen, I’m good. Of my kind of policeman, I’m probably one of the best Pascoe will ever know. Mind you, I’ve peed behind too many doors to get much farther. Pascoe, I reckon, of his kind, which looks like being the new kind, can potentially be very good too. Excellent. If I live that long and he keeps going, I could be sirring him before we’re finished. So my interest in him is self-interest in a way.’
‘You couldn’t perhaps like him just a bit as well?’ inquired Ellie. She had softened a little but was still very suspicious of this fat bastard.
‘He amuses me sometimes,’ said Dalziel. ‘There’s not many as do that.’
‘I think I may marry him,’ said Ellie thoughtfully.
‘Good,’ said Dalziel. ‘Good. That would be best. I’m glad to hear you say that. Good.’
‘Good?’ repeated Ellie. ‘Why, you fat bastard, that’s what you want, isn’t it? If you can’t get us apart, you might as well get us respectable!’
‘I told you I belonged to the old school. There’s nowt wrong with a woman that can’t be cured by colour telly, wall-to-wall carpeting and a couple of rounds up the spout,’ he said with exaggerated coarseness.
Ellie thought of kicking him in the crotch. Then she started laughing. She laughed so much that people turned and stared and the dogs in the nearby kennels started barking wildly as though in reply.
‘Let’s have another drink,’ Dalziel said when she had recovered.
‘All right. Just one. Peter’s going to phone me at eight. We can breathe heavily down the phone before we’re married, can’t we?’
She started laughing again. This time Dalziel laughed too.
Pascoe slept for an hour and woke up feeling rotten. He got out of bed to take another pill, felt slightly better and decided to ring Ellie. The phone rang a dozen times. No one answered. He glanced at his watch. Seven o’clock. She’d be having dinner. He went back to bed.
Ellie was enjoying herself. Her previous encounters with Dalziel had always been in polarizing situations. This evening they were keeping steadily on neutral ground and she was finding it a pleasant experience. Like football in no-man’s-land during a Great War Christmas.
He was talking about Sturgeon.
‘There’s only one crime and that’s being poor,’ he asserted.
‘Shaw,’ said Ellie, through her fourth large gin. Dalziel took it as an expression of drunken agreement.
‘You can grade men according to the way they react to being without money,’ he continued.
‘You’re not going to tell me that the more you’ve had, the worse it is?’ asked Ellie suspiciously. ‘More sympathy for the rich, that kind of bullshit?’
‘Not at all. Some people can take it. Some are so fond of luxury and position they’ll do anything to conceal it. Others have been there before and are absolutely resolved they’ll never be there again.’
‘Scarlett,’ said Ellie. Even making allowances for gin, the chatter of people and the howling of dogs, Dalziel couldn’t make sense of this.
‘O’Hara,’ said Ellie. ‘End of Gone With The Wind part one before the intermission.’
‘Yes,’ said Dalziel. ‘Great movie. Sturgeon was like this. Not for himself, mind you. For his wife. He decided she would be better off with the insurance money. She didn’t think so.’
‘Get his money back.’
‘What?’
She leaned towards him, exquisite in the darkling air.
‘Get his bloody money back. That’s what you’re paid for, isn’t it?’
‘I wish it was as easy as that.’
The Fraud Squad’s preliminary report had arrived that afternoon. Quite simply, they could find no case to answer, and as Dalziel could find no one to answer this non-existent case, things were at a stand-still.
It appeared that land had been bought, legitimately bought, from the fringes of the Earl of Callander’s huge estate near Lochart. It was land fit for little except grazing sheep and by the terms of the sale not usable for anything else either. A fair price had been given. The land agent who negotiated the sale was acting for a Mr Archibald Selkirk about whom he knew nothing except that he had placed at his disposal an amount of money sufficient to cover the land price and expenses.
On the land was a small dilapidated croft. In the record of the sale Archibald Selkirk had inserted after the single mention of the croft the words hereinafter known as Strath Farm.
So the land Edgar Sturgeon had purchased for something like thirty times its original value had legally been the property of Archie Selkirk of Strath Farm.
Ruling Passion Page 18