Ruling Passion

‘Just a couple of things, sir.’

The inspector glanced assessingly at Pascoe, then led Backhouse away to the far end of the hall. Pascoe thought of following. He was desperately keen to discover what was going on but also very conscious of his ambiguous position. He was merely a witness, he had no official standing here.

‘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 (#u73653413-60cb-5a2a-98c9-c96f5697afb8)

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.