Dalziel 03 Ruling Passion

by Reginald Hill

  His mind, not usually given to the wilder flights of imagination, was strangely supine, ready to accept that this journey should somehow go on for ever in a region of non-time. Or that time should have been tricked and that once more they were on the road that Saturday morning twelve days earlier with nothing to fear at the end of their journey.

  'Thornton Lacey,' said Ferguson approvingly. 'You've made good time, Sergeant. Sorry, sir.'

  'Yes,' said Pascoe.

  He drove directly to the police station. Crowther was behind the desk.

  'Morning,' he said.

  'Morning,' said Pascoe. 'I believe you've got someone for us.'

  'Mr Backhouse is having a cup of coffee in the sitting-room sir. Shall I have Mrs Crowther bring one through for you?'

  'That would be kind,' said Pascoe without enthusiasm. He had hoped he might be lucky enough just to pick up Davenant and get away.

  'Hello, Peter. It is Peter, isn't it?' Backhouse rose, smiling, like a gentleman farmer welcoming a luncheon guest.

  Suddenly it's Christian names all round, thought Pascoe. Perhaps the word's out that I'm earmarked for Commissioner.

  'Yes, sir,' he answered. 'This is Detective-Constable Ferguson. Do you have Davenant here for us?'

  'No. No, in fact we don't,' said Backhouse. 'Sit down, will you? Ferguson, perhaps you'd like to see how a small country station like this functions, would you? Constable Crowther would be delighted to show you round, I've no doubt.'

  Ferguson stood uncertainly for a moment. The thing was, when Dalziel gave you a choice, it was a real choice. When he wanted you to go, he just told you to shove-off.

  Pascoe looked significantly at the door and Ferguson left as Mrs Crowther brought the coffee in.

  Alone at last, but with none of the romantic overtones of the phrase, the two men sipped their coffee in silence for a while.

  'Davenant's gone, sir?' prompted Pascoe.

  'No, no. He's still at Culpepper's. I have a man watching, never fear. But there were one or two things I thought it worth discussing with you before picking him up.'

  'In which of my capacities, sir?'

  'I'm sorry?'

  'As a police officer or . . .'

  'I see! Or as a not very co-operative witness, which has been your usual role in Thornton Lacey! I'm not sure. I'm not at all sure!'

  Backhouse settled more comfortably in his chair, placed his coffee cup on the floor, and touched his fingertips together in a parsonical gesture.

  'First,' he said, 'let me tell you about Pelman. Naturally, even when it looked as if Colin Hopkins was very much a front runner, I was having a close look at other possible candidates. Pelman was, at best, only an outsider and I was pretty surprised when I found him pointing a smoking shotgun at you.'

  'More surprised than you were to find Colin's body with a bellyful of shot?' asked Pascoe.

  'Yes,' admitted Backhouse. 'Yes, I think so. That was always on, though I never thought he'd be so close. Anyway, the more I talked to Pelman, the less likely he seemed. I'd almost made up my mind before you left on Tuesday.'

  'I thought there was something else,' said Pascoe.

  'How perceptive. Anyway, when Mrs Culpepper confirmed the time he left the village hall that night, there was no more reason to hold him. He's very contrite about shooting at you. He's sensible enough to know the limits of a landowner's rights. Oh, by the way, one thing I did discover. It was Pelman who cut through the wire round the clay pit.'

  'What?' exclaimed Pascoe.

  'Yes. He's been using the pool as a dumping ground for all the chicken-dirt from his battery. Hence the vile smell. He's very contrite about that too.'

  'I suppose it did strike you,' said Pascoe diffidently, 'that Mrs Culpepper's evidence might not be altogether unbiased here.'

  'I should be very careful about suggesting such a thing,' cautioned Backhouse with a smile. 'Mr Pelman's contrition might not be enough to countenance the smearing of a lady's honour. In any case, you really must permit me to be the best judge of evidence here.'

  'I'm sorry, sir,' said Pascoe.

  'I'm just as ready to concede you the same superiority in respect of what happens in Yorkshire,' said Backhouse. 'Which is why I was intrigued to learn of your interest in Mr Davenant. Mr Dalziel gave me all the details. He's a great admirer of yours, as doubtless you know.'

  'He does occasionally let me go home before midnight,' said Pascoe modestly.

  'So it seems that Davenant has managed to appear on the fringes of two murder cases. A striking coincidence, don't you think?'

  'Why?' asked Pascoe. 'It happened to me. And to Miss Soper.'

  Backhouse raised his eyebrows and smiled.

  'You want to act the devil's advocate? All right. In your case, it's not so unlikely. Your profession puts you in constant proximity with crime. When you found yourself involved at a personal level, it was not strange that elsewhere you were engaged in a professional investigation. Indeed, it would have been strange had you not been. But Davenant . . .'

  'Davenant too had a professional connection, sir. It seems likely he's a criminal. So the same applies.'

  'Reasonable. There's still the coincidence that it should be the same crimes as you he's involved with. And, like you, professionally in Yorkshire, and here in Thornton Lacey - personally, emotionally, would you say?'

  'Certainly. He was deeply involved with Timmy, it seems.'

  'And the source of your information?'

  Pascoe was puzzled.

  'Well, I think . . . Davenant himself, of course, and Ellie, Miss Soper. He told her a great deal. . .'

  He tailed away. Backhouse said aloud what he was leaving unspoken.

  'On an occasion when he required a reason for being in your area, I believe. What did Miss Soper gather was the purpose of his visit?'

  'It was all very vague,' said Pascoe. 'But why should he ... he seemed genuinely concerned!'

  'Perhaps so. I've been looking very closely at Mr Davenant. I took note of him when he first appeared, of course. And since the events of Tuesday I've been having a closer look at everybody. One or two interesting things emerge. Mr Davenant is, you would say, a homosexual?'

  'Why, yes,' answered Pascoe.

  'It sticks out a mile, you feel? Perhaps too far. Discreet inquiries made by some of my London colleagues seem to indicate that in fact his sexual interests are enthusiastically hetero. This might of course just mean that he is - what is the word? - not ambidextrous, you know what I mean. Certainly informed opinion seems to be that a grand passion for either of your friends was unlikely.'

  Pascoe's mind was racing, but he felt that Backhouse still had some cards left unplayed, so he held his peace though the superintendent's quizzical gaze invited him to speak.

  'Very well,' said Backhouse finally. 'So it wasn't love that brought him rushing to Thornton Lacey from Oxford. He was in Oxford, I checked that, of course. And he booked out of his hotel on the Saturday morning. What is more interesting, however, is that no one recollects seeing him on the Friday night. The hotel garage attendant is fairly sure that Davenant's car, a Citroen GS, still rather a distinctive car in this insular realm, was not in its place at eleven p.m. when he went off duty. Early enough, you say? I agree. However, in our efforts to check sightings of the Mini-Cooper around the village on Friday night, we asked a lot of questions about cars. A couple of people mentioned a strange Citroen. One of my brighter constables made a note. And I read every report anybody makes.'

  Pascoe stood up and made for the door.

  'Whither away?' asked Backhouse.

  'I came to collect Davenant, sir. I think it's time I did just that,' said Pascoe. 'He's got questions to answer.'

  'What is there about this place with turns you into such a sudden man?' demanded Backhouse helplessly. 'All these qualities Mr Dalziel finds in you, why do you leave them behind in the north?'

  'I'm sorry, sir. What you've said seems to me to urge immediate interrogation of Davenan
t.'

  'Sit down and listen!’ bellowed Backhouse.

  Stony-faced, Pascoe obeyed.

  'That's what's missing, is it? Andy Dalziel's fog-horn voice! I'll remember. Look, I haven't brought you all this way just to let you try to shake something or other out of Davenant. There are problems here, and many possible solutions. You're peculiarly well-equipped to help. Look at the facts. Davenant's in the area at the time of the murder. Davenant's alleged sexual connection with your friends seems likely to be a lie. Davenant is suspected of being a kind of travelling fence, a middleman between the thief and the purchaser of stolen objets d'art. As a policeman, what's your hypothesis?'

  Now at last Pascoe saw it. He had been uncharacteristically obtuse. He remembered saying with pity of Mrs Lewis that death brought some strange surprises and here was Backhouse starting a few in his face.

  'You think that Colin and Rose might have been involved in the Etherege-Davenant racket?' he said steadily.

  'Or the other two. Or any one of the four. Or all of them. What do you think?'

  'Was anything found?'

  'No. But you wouldn't expect it to be, would you? Not if Davenant had anything to do with the killings.'

  'Is there any piece of hard evidence I don't know about?'

  'No,' said Backhouse, after thinking judiciously for a moment. 'No. But the Continent is the most obvious market for the more easily identifiable stuff. And Timothy Mansfield worked in Brussels for some time, travelling frequently from Britain to Belgium, as well as touring extensively in Europe. Davenant did meet him there, as he told Miss Soper. But it wasn't their first meeting.'

  'You can't have unearthed all this since you spoke to Dalziel,' said Pascoe accusingly.

  'No,' said Backhouse. 'I try to keep many steps ahead of blind chance. But sometimes it comes along and bumps you in the back, as when out of the blue, you tied Davenant in with your investigation. Till then it had been just so much background information. Your friend, Mansfield, had to resign his job in Brussels, did you know that? There was some currency fiddle being worked. He kept out of serious trouble, but only just.'

  'Knowing Timmy, it would be in a good cause,' protested Pascoe weakly.

  'What the hell have you or I got to do with causes!' exploded Backhouse. 'For a policeman, understanding motives is just a means to an end. That end's catching crooks. I dare say whoever it was that shot your friends will come up with a good motive. It might even impress a judge, or a jury, or a psychiatrist, or just his grey-haired old mother who knows he's basically a good lad. Now, you want Davenant. I might want him too. I had a little plan, but I'm not sure how far I can rely on you. I was going to suggest that you go up to the Culpeppers' and get him, giving the impression that police interest in him is restricted entirely to his connection with your antique-dealer, Etherege. Be a bit diffident, uncertain, if you like, as though you've got less on him than you have.'

  'Which is only Etherege's word,' said Pascoe.

  'Is it? I'm sure Mr Dalziel won't be standing still. Anyway, come the old-pals act, take a trip down memory lane with him, reminisce a bit about your late mutual friends. In other words, see if you can catch him napping in Thornton Lacey while he's too busy keeping fully alert in Yorkshire. That's what I was going to suggest. Can I trust you, Inspector? That's what I've got to know.'

  'I think so, sir,' said Pascoe. Appearances deceived. Compared with this man, Dalziel was Mother Hubbard.

  'Then I would suggest you go and bring him in. Give the impression you're just dropping back here to sign a form or something before taking him north. It might work.'

  Pascoe rose and made for the door.

  'Just one thing, sir,' he said. 'The Culpeppers. Why is Davenant there? What's the connection?'

  Backhouse groaned loudly.

  'Stay in Yorkshire, my boy,' he advised gently. 'You'll never make the grade down here. It's obvious, surely? Aesthetic Mr Culpepper, your connoisseur of fine porcelain, is probably one of friend Davenant's regular customers!'

  Chapter 9

  'Stop here,’ said Pascoe. Ferguson obeyed him as literally as possible and despite their low speed managed to skid noisily on the gravel drive.

  I was right to drive all the way down, thought Pascoe with a shudder as he climbed out.

  'I don't anticipate any trouble,' he said through the open door. 'But keep your eyes skinned. Poke around the garage and see if you can spot the Citroen.'

  He slammed the door and a hand gripped his shoulder. Dalziel's philosophy included the dictum if anyone grabs you from behind, don't think, give 'em the heel and the elbow.

  Pascoe turned slowly and smiled at Culpepper's mother. He was glad he had ignored Dalziel's advice, not just out of chivalry but also because he doubted whether his judo could cope with the vicious-looking secateurs she carried.

  'That could ruin a machine!' snapped the old woman, pointing at the scattering of gravel the car-wheels had sprayed on to the lawn. 'Have you no consideration?'

  'Sorry,’ said Pascoe. 'Ferguson, see that all these bits of stone are returned to the drive, will you?'

  'What are you after anyway? You're that policeman, aren't you?'

  'Yes. I'm that policeman. I'd just like a word with your son,' said Pascoe, walking across the lawn towards the front door. The old woman accompanied him, matching him stride for stride.

  'I knew there'd be trouble,' she said suddenly.

  'Sorry?'

  'When I was young, police coming to the house always meant trouble.'

  'We only trouble those who trouble us,' said Pascoe with a smile.

  They had come to a halt outside the front door. He had not spotted any movement through the windows.

  'I liked your friends,' she said as she pushed open the door. 'Some things beat explanation. Step inside.'

  'Thank you,' said Pascoe. He glanced back down the garden. Ferguson was on his knees in search of gravel, a light breeze spilling his longer-than- regulation hair over his face.

  'You can say goodbye to the good weather,' said the old woman ominously, and as though in confirmation a rout of beech leaves came scuttering round the side of the house and preceded them into the hallway.

  The Culpeppers were seated in the lounge and Hartley rose and held out his hand in greeting when he saw his visitor. He looked perfectly at ease, not without cause Pascoe was sure. If there had been anything of doubtful provenance in Culpepper's collection, it was probably long gone now.

  'You're fully recovered, I hope, Pascoe? I was talking to Pelman last night. He was in a terrible state, terrible. Poor fellow, to come so close to injuring you was bad enough, but then to realize he was under suspicion for the murders!'

  'Yes, I'm recovered, thank you.'

  No one seemed very keen to ask what he wanted, Pascoe noted. He hoped Davenant wasn't slipping quietly out of the kitchen door. Or if he was, that Ferguson had abandoned his gravel hunt and was fully alert.

  'It's difficult to know what to say,' Culpepper went on. 'No one who knew him ever really believed it was possible that Colin did the killings, but we didn't want him proved innocent in this way.'

  'Some believed it,' objected Pascoe. 'The coroner's jury and the coroner for a start. But it's none of my business, officially anyway. Mr Culpepper, I believe Anton Davenant is staying with you at the moment.'

  The doorbell rang. Only old Mrs Culpepper showed no desire to answer it. Her son and daughter-in-law both seemed keen to get out of the room, but Marianne won by a short head.

  'So it's Davenant you're after? Well, well. Would you care for a drink or is it too early?'

  As though in answer to his query, the door opened and Major Palfrey came in clutching two brown-paper-wrapped bottles.

  'Morning, Hartley, morning, Mrs Culpepper.' He noticed Pascoe and gave him a neutral nod.

  'Sorry to butt in, but as I was just saying to Marianne, you've caught us on the hop, old boy. Pity I hadn't been around when you rang. That potman of mine's a bit dim! The thi
ng is, we're very low on spirits at the moment. Can manage a couple of bottles, but boxes are out of the question. Sorry.'

  It was a more than usually gruesomely hearty performance, Pascoe felt. But why? Because I'm here? Do I always bring out the worst in people?

  'Don't fret about it, JP,' said Culpepper equably. 'Sam Dixon will probably be able to cope. Give him a ring, will you, Marianne? They do quite a large off-licence trade at the Anne, I believe.'

  'I suppose they do,' said Palfrey as if he suspected a slur. 'You must give us warning if you're going to start spreading business locally. So you're with us once more, Sergeant Pascoe? What brings you back?'

  'I really wanted a word with Mr Davenant. Is he here, Mr Culpepper?'

  Culpepper exchanged glances with his wife, but before either could speak, his mother burst out. 'Well, if he is, they've kept very quiet about him. I've not seen hide nor hair of him.'

  'Thank you, Mrs Culpepper. Well, sir. Is he here?'

  'Of course he is, darlings. Though he almost wasn't.'

  Standing at the door, one hand on his hip, the other behind his head, was Anton Davenant. Behind him in the hall, Pascoe caught a glimpse of Ferguson.

  'I had no idea you were here, my dear fellow. And I was just setting off for a little circumambulation in search of Nature, red in tooth and claw, when I ran into your boy.'

  Boy came out beautifully round and succulent. Pascoe held back a smile. It must have been a good test for Ferguson's temper under stress.

  'I'd like a word with you if I may, Mr Davenant,' said Pascoe.

  'By all means. Here?'

  'Would you care to use my study?' intervened Culpepper before Pascoe could suggest retiring to the station. It seemed a good idea to start here at least. Things were on the boil, though he was far from sure what the dish was going to be.

  'Thanks,' he said. 'That's kind.'

  Culpepper led the way across the hall to a room next to his porcelain room.