Ruling Passion (6 page)

'The squirearchy,' supplied Pascoe. 'What happened?'

'There was a bit of trouble. A row or something.'

'With the Major?'

'I'm not sure. They didn't mention it till we'd got  to know them quite well. I mean, they wouldn't  come in here right away and start complaining  about the other pub. They weren't that kind of  people,' protested Molly.

'You're right,' said Pascoe. 'They weren't.'

'They only mentioned it at all as a joke. Saying  how lucky it was they had been driven out of the  Garden of Eden.
Felix culpa,
Colin called it. He loved  to make quotations.'

'Yes, he did,' said Pascoe. 'But whose
culpa,
I  wonder.'

He stood up.

'You've been very kind. Colin and Rose were  always fortunate in their choice of friends.'

It sounded corny. Or at best vain. But he meant  it and the Dixons obviously appreciated it. He left,  promising to call back later.

His talk with the Dixons had cheered him and  he felt in an almost happy mood as he turned into  the Eagle and Child. It was a pleasant room, cool  and well wooded. And almost empty. They didn't  drink very hard round here. Not at lunch-time  anyway. A half-eaten sandwich and half-empty  glass on a corner table hinted at someone in the  gents. But the only visible customers were seated  at the bar. One was a grey-haired, lantern-jawed  man in shirt-sleeves. The other was much more  colourful. Long auburn hair fell luxuriantly on  to shoulders over which was casually draped a  soft-leather jacket in pastel yellow. His intelligent  face was set in an expression of rapt attentiveness  as he listened to the other man.

Pascoe went up to the bar and waited for someone to appear to serve him. He was not impatient.  There was a timeless aura about this old room  which suited his mood very well. It was comforting  somehow to think of Rose and Colin so quickly  making friends in the village. Pascoe was used  to death bringing out the best in people's memories, but there had been a genuine ring about  the Dixon's tributes. And Culpepper's, and even  Pelman's for that matter.

Along the bar the lantern-jawed man's voice rose  in emphasis and became audible. It was impossible  not to hear.

'But if you want the truth about this fella,  Hopkins - and don't quote me on this, mind -  I would say there's no doubt at all the man is  completely unbalanced. Off his chump. I said it  from the start.'

Chapter
5

Pascoe's anger broke at last. The professional part  of his mind told him he was being very silly, but  it didn't slow him down one jot.

He crossed the floor in a couple of strides and  seized the lantern-jawed man by the shoulder,  dragging him round so forcefully that he half  slipped off his stool and only saved himself from  falling by dropping his glass and grabbing at the  bar.

The leather-jacketed drinker leapt clear with  great agility and without spilling a drop of his  drink, then settled down to view the situation  with interest.

'Who the hell are you?' asked Pascoe in a low,  rapid voice. 'Some kind of doctor? A psychiatrist?  A trained social worker, perhaps? Or perhaps just  specially gifted with superb bloody insight?'

He found he was punctuating his phrases with  violent forefinger jabs into the man's midriff. Far  from being distressed by the discovery, he found himself contemplating the greater satisfaction he  might derive from putting all his pugilistic eggs into  one basket and smashing his fist into this fellow's  unpleasant, sneering face.

To give him his due, the man did not look frightened, merely taken aback by the unexpectedness  of the attack.

'What the hell - look here - you bloody madman!' he expostulated.

Pascoe had almost made up his mind. Even the  memory that last time he had thrown a punch in  anger the result had been a mild contusion for the  recipient and a broken forefinger for himself did  not deter him. He clenched his fist.

Pascoe!'

It was the authentic voice of absolute authority.  It might have been Dalziel. He turned. Standing up  out of the shadows of the corner near the gents was  Backhouse.

A violent push in the back sent Pascoe staggering  a few paces forward. His adversary had taken  advantage of the interruption to get both feet  firmly on the floor and counter-attack. Pascoe  looked round at the grey-haired figure crouched  in the standard aggressive posture. He looked as  if he might in fact know how to handle himself.  But this didn't prevent him from seeming faintly  ludicrous, and Pascoe felt his anger ebb away as  he recognized his own absurdity.

'Go to hell,' he said wearily and pulled out a  chair and sat down opposite the superintendent.

Backhouse still looked angry but didn't say anything. Instead he picked up his not quite empty  glass and went towards the bar.

'A light ale this time, please, and a scotch.'

'For him? He gets no service here. In fact if he's  not out in thirty seconds, I'll get the police to throw  him out.'

Pascoe turned, surprised. His late adversary was  confronting Backhouse with undiminished aggression. This must be Palfrey, the pub-owning major.

Pascoe groaned inwardly. Even the toughest toughs worked to the principle that if you had  to fight in pubs, you never picked on the landlord.  Backhouse, he realized, was now in an awkward position. The leather-coated fellow might well be  a reporter. Almost certainly was from the tone of  Palfrey's remarks to him. He couldn't know yet who the participants in this little drama were, but  he would soon find out.

Pascoe rose and made for the door.

'It's all right,' he said to Backhouse as he passed.  ‘I prefer pubs where the barman sticks to his own  side of the counter.'

Thirty yards along the street he paused and  waited for Backhouse to overtake him.

'Mr Dalziel never mentioned you were such  a violent man,' said the superintendent conversationally.

'He wouldn't,' said Pascoe. 'I wear a heavy disguise whenever I attack him. Will
he
do anything?'

He gestured back towards the pub.

'I don't think so,' said Backhouse. 'For once  the publican's well-known reluctance to call in  the police could work on our side.'

'He didn't know who you were?' asked Pascoe  unnecessarily.

'No. I was just having a quiet sandwich and  listening with great interest to the major's reminiscences of your friends to the Press when you  so rudely interrupted him.'

'So that thing in the kinky gear
was
a reporter?'  asked Pascoe.

'Yes. Not, so far as I could gather, a regular  crime man. Some kind of feature writer who happened to be on the spot and is looking for an  interesting angle. That's why he's in the Eagle  chatting to the major instead of herding with the  others at the village school, waiting for the inquest  to begin.'

'Already?' Pascoe was surprised. He glanced at  his watch. It was just on two.

'Somehow they got the notion it was starting at  one-thirty instead of two-thirty. Hence I was able  to grab a bite of lunch in peace.'

Backhouse's voice held no irony in either sentence. Superintendents don't need to be ironic,  thought Pascoe bitterly.

'What was Palfrey saying about Rose and Colin?'  he asked abruptly. 'They had a row, you know.  That's why they used the Queen Anne.'

Backhouse sighed deeply.

'You know, Sergeant,' he said, 'you really must  try to break the habit of a lifetime, or however  long you've been in the force, and
not
investigate  this sorry business. Trust your colleagues. If you  don't, it can only lead to grief. You might even  end up, heaven forbid, obstructing the police in  the execution of their duty.'

'Yes,' said Pascoe, not bothering much to infuse  repentant sincerity into his voice. 'Now what was  Palfrey saying? Sir.'

'Little enough. I think your friends were a little - what would be the in-character word? -
Bohemian 
for his taste. According to his version of the quarrel, he barred his doors to them because their  language and behaviour gave offence to many  of his old and valued customers. There are, and  I quote him now, some words which even in  this day and age he would not wish a woman  to hear nor expect a lady to use. I think I've  got that fine antithesis right. Did Mrs Hopkins  swear a lot?'

'When the occasion arose.'

'But not enough to give rise to the occasion?'

'Not when I knew her,' answered Pascoe.

'But that, as you frequently remind me, was  some years ago. To continue. Palfrey under the  influence of a couple of gins became confidential,  said he was not altogether startled that such a  household could come to such an end, and had just  launched into his attack on your friend's balance of  mind when you interrupted him.'

'I should have broken his bloody neck,’ said  Pascoe dispassionately.

Backhouse sighed once more.

'I suggested to your boss I might like to keep  you by me for a while. I was wrong. The sooner  you head back to Yorkshire, the better. And don't  go near the Eagle and Child again before you go. That's an official warning. Understand?'

'Sir,' said Pascoe. 'What about you?'

'Oh, never fear. I'll see him again and ask him a  few questions. It was hardly an opportune moment  just now, was it?'

He laughed and burped slightly.

'I won't touch his draught again, though. His  pipes must badly need decoking.'

Their conversation had brought them to the  village hall. A uniformed constable now stood  on duty at the door. He stiffened to attention as  the superintendent passed. Pascoe hesitated on the  threshold.

'You'd better come in,' said Backhouse. 'Then I  can keep an eye on you. We'll go up to the inquest  together.'

The hall now contained a neatly deployed and  efficient-looking unit, though at a glance Pascoe  could tell there was very little happening at this  precise moment. There was a slight acceleration of  tempo for Backhouse's benefit as he walked the  length of the room, but the atmosphere of the place  was one of straightforward, almost drowsy routine.  A few dust-filled buttresses of sunlight from the narrow window leaned against the shadowy walls.  It might have been a summer's afternoon in a  Victorian bank.

Backhouse came up, looking at his watch.

'It's about ten minutes' walk to the school. We  won't bother with the car, if that's all right with  you.'

'Surely.'

'Good. I like to get what exercise I can. There's nothing new by the way. I've brought the men out  of the woods. Waste of time. They'll be better on  house-to-house.'

Outside they almost ran into the man in the yellow leather jacket. He raised his eyebrows comically as he saw them.

'Hello, darlings,' he said. 'I thought you looked a bit peelerish back in the pub.'

'It was kind of you not to comment, sir,' said  Backhouse courteously.

'That's all right. I'm strictly an observer, aren't I? You can reward me, though. How do I get to the village school? I thought I might look in on  this inquest thing.'

'We're going there ourselves. Perhaps you'd care to join us?' said Backhouse, somewhat to Pascoe's  surprise.

'Well, I suppose it's either that or following you, which might look a trifle odd. This is definitely not a place to look odd in, is it, don't  you think? I imagine they stone you if you look odd.'

'You seemed to get on very well with the landlord back there,’ remarked Backhouse as they set  off up the winding sun-mellow street.

'Yes. Well, I'm Press, you see, and these village  publicans are always hoping for a little puff in the  colour mags, if you see what I mean. I've done one or two country-pub gourmet features, you know  the kind of thing; horse-brass up your ass, and a  beautifully kept pork pie.'

'You must be Anton Davenant,' said Backhouse.

'That's right. How clever. Sounds like a dirty  French song, doesn't it? And you . . . ?'

'Backhouse. Detective-Superintendent. And this  is Sergeant Pascoe.'

'Oh.'

Pascoe felt the man's gaze run swiftly over him as though taking a blueprint and laying it aside  for future reference. He recognized the name  Davenant faintly. He rarely had time to get as  far as the colour supplements on a Sunday, but  on some occasion recently he had come across  the name.

'How envious all these hard-bitten crime men  will be when I turn up in such illustrious company,' said Davenant.

'As a matter of interest,' said Backhouse, 'just  what are you doing here among all these hard-bitten crime men?'

'I was fortunate enough to be in the vicinity, that's all. And my current editor, knowing I  was hereabouts, instantly got in touch when this dreadful business was bruited abroad. I think he  hopes for something rather quaint from me.
A  Vintage Murder
perhaps. Or
First Catch Your Killer. 
He used words like
atmosphere
and
human interest, 
and eventually (and here I capitulated),
money.
But enough of interesting me. What of interesting  you? What have your fascinating investigations  upturned?'

'Very little so far, Mr Davenant,' said Backhouse  cheerfully, pausing to admire a magnificent dahlia border and being admired in his turn by at least  three shadowy figures Pascoe could see behind  lace-curtains.

Curiously enough, Davenant seemed satisfied  with this answer.

'That must be the old village school at the top  of the hill,' he said. 'And over there I spy the old  village shop. I must stock up with ciggies. Please  don't wait for me. I may find myself compelled to linger, soaking up atmosphere.'

'Don't take too long,' said Backhouse. 'It'll all  be over very quickly I should think.'

The journalist disappeared into the tiny shop and  the two policemen continued their walk.

'He showed a less than fervent interest in your  investigations,' said Pascoe thoughtfully.

'True. Not at all like the mob I'm sure we will  meet up here.'

Backhouse was right. There was quite a crowd of  reporters waiting outside the school. And an equal  crowd of local children had gathered to watch the reporters. Backhouse promised them a statement after the inquest, spoke a few sympathetic words to  a television film crew who had got lost on their way to Thornton Lacey and were desperately trying to  make themselves operative, then he went inside. Pascoe followed close, still anonymous.