'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 fa
rther 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.
A few days in the orchard would be dearly bought at that price.
'Hello, Superintendent!'
It was French, the coroner, sensibly clad in gum-boots which would probably spoil the crease of his well-cut country solicitor's suit.
'Anything yet?'
'No, sir.'
'It's a nasty place, this,' said French. 'I've been in charge of too many inquests connected with this water already.'
'We don't know for certain yet there'll be another.'
'No. Of course not. Still, it looks odds on. The first one was my first inquest ever. Poor Pelman's wife – you must recall it?'
'Only from the papers, sir.'
'And then there was that boy. It was after that they put this wire round the place. Totally inadequate.'
'Especially if someone cuts a hole through it with wirecutters,’ said Backhouse grimly.
'Really? How odd. You need to be a pretty determined sort of suicide to go to those lengths.'
'You would be. But this was done before last weekend. We have an expert witness. Master Eric Bell with whom I made a deal. He told me everything he knew, in return for which I only told his parents what they needed to know.'
French laughed.
'I see. But why should anyone…?'
'I have an idea, sir. We'd better leave it at that for the moment.'
By mutual accord, they turned from the quarry and walked towards the tangle of bushes in which the Mini had been found.
'The ground's very churned up,' observed French.
'Yes,' said Backhouse. 'Was there something special you wanted to discuss with me, Mr French?'
The coroner looked at him assessingly.
'What do you think you're going to find in the pool, Superintendent? Be frank.'
'I can just tell you what the evidence so far suggests. It suggests that we should find the body of Colin Hopkins.'
'Part of this evidence being a note left in the car, I believe?'
'That's right, sir. A note which will, of course, be put into your hands as soon as a body is found and an inquest required.'
'And till then…?'
Till then it's just police evidence. Like anything else we find in the car.'
French sighed deeply.
'From that I take it that I may not see it?'
It is foolish to fall out with your coroner, thought Backhouse. But for some reason he felt like digging his heels in. He had never taken kindly to any feeling of pressure.
'I didn't say that, sir,' he said cautiously. 'The note is at present undergoing examination in our labs. It is, I hasten to add, an extremely incoherent note, not one that I would care to repeat from memory. Of course, we shall also be getting an expert psychiatric assessment of the writer's state of mind.'
French nodded as though satisfied.
'There is, as you must know, a great deal of unease in the village,' he said. 'Everyone is very keen for this unfortunate business to be laid to rest. This unease is likely to continue until there's been an arrest, or something else.'
He made an uncertain gesture back towards the quarry.
'I think, not to put too fine a point on it, that the sooner someone can say officially what everyone seems to be saying privately, the better it will be.'
'It's just my duty to investigate crime, sir, and publish to my superiors the results of my investigations,' said Backhouse coldly.
'I know that, Superintendent. My duty is not dissimiliar. Only my duty is to publish to everybody the results of my investigation. I hope you find what you're looking for here. You may recall it took over three weeks to find the body of Robert Hand. It's a great deal of time.'
'Hand?'
'Mrs Pelman's lover.'
'Yes, I do recall that. As I said, I read the reports. I also recall a police frogman almost lost his life in the search. It's a nasty piece of water this, sir. It's filthy black and there are all kinds of hollows and tunnels into the sides of the pit. I shall do everything I can to ensure a thorough search, but if it takes three weeks, it takes three weeks. It may even take longer. But I will not risk lives. Nor will I anticipate results.'
'Of course not,
Superintendent,' said French, suddenly smiling. 'It would be wrong of you to do that. Good day to you.'
'Good day,' answered Backhouse. He felt unhappy for some reason. The sun-filled orchard suddenly seemed like a completely substanceless dream.
Dalziel had arrived in his office that morning to find a most unwelcome note inviting him to call on Dr Grainger at midday if it were convenient. He called Grainger's surgery straightaway but no further than a sweet-tongued receptionist who seemed to his sensitive ear to become suspiciously sympathetic when she learned his name. But Grainger was very busy, she insisted, and a couple of hours wasn't too long to wait, was it? Again
Dalziel felt he caught a suggestion that he might well be wishing at noon that the waiting had been even longer.
Like Pascoe, he seized upon the anodyne of work and began busily examining the results of various inquiries his minions had undertaken.
The Nordrill Mining Company, he was intrigued to discover, did not employ (and, to the best of their knowledge, never employed) a John Atkinson. He thought about this a while, then reached for his phone and dialled a local number.
'Superintendent Dalziel here,' he said to the girl who answered. 'I'd like a word with Mr Noolan please.'
There was a brief pause.
'Hello Andy,' said a lively Yorkshire voice after a few moments. 'Are we going to be robbed?'
'No. But you might have been. Have you checked your vaults yet?'
'What!' said Noolan in alarm.
'Joke, Willie,' said Dalziel. 'Just checking to see if you're wide awake like a good little bank-manager should be.'
'Some joke! I nearly wet my pants. What is it you want, Andy? I have work to do.'
These two had known each other for a long time and had built up a mutually advantageous system of favour-exchanging over the years. It was based on a form of oblique questioning which allowed both to avoid too much damage to their professional consciences.
'If I was wanting to buy a house, who would you advise to use as an agent?'
'That would depend on what you had in mind.'
'Something pretty high-class, I think. You know me. Nowt squalid. What do you reckon to Lewis and Cowley?'
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