Ruling Passion

‘I see it! The triangle. Or even the quadrilateral. It’s a non-starter, Superintendent. Timmy and Carlo were, if anything, even more devoted than Rose and Colin.’

‘I see,’ said Backhouse softly. ‘I see. But things do change, as you say. Even … tastes. What kind of thing was it that would put Mr Hopkins into one of his terrible wraths?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘In the letter you showed me,’ said Backhouse, ‘he says something about his wrath being terrible if you don’t turn up, and adds that you know just how terrible his wrath can be. A figure of speech merely?’

Pascoe walked slowly forward and came to a halt on the edge of the bank which sloped steeply down to the brook. All the police activity was in the woods on the other side now. A slow, methodical and, as yet, completely unproductive search. Despite the warmth of the sun, many of the policemen were wearing waterproof overtrousers as the undergrowth was still soaked from the previous night’s torrential rain. It would have obliterated any sign of human passage, but it couldn’t wash away a shotgun.

‘No, not a figure of speech,’ said Pascoe. ‘He had a quick temper. Not a violent temper though, it never led him into violence against people. Certainly he never got anywhere near the kind of fury which could make a man pick up a shotgun, kill two of his friends, reload, and shoot his wife. What about the gun, by the way?’

‘A 410, we know that from the cartridge cases. But that’s it. There’s no sign of a licence anywhere in the cottage. Was Hopkins the kind of man to want to do some shooting? Game, I mean.’

‘Never knew him express an interest. Though he wasn’t an anti, like Carlo and Timmy.’

‘And his wife? Was she anti also?’

‘Rose? Hell, no. Rose grew up in the country, was used to the idea of birds tumbling from the tree-top straight into the pie-dish.’

‘So the presence of this’ – Backhouse waved at the woods – ‘in his back garden may have been a temptation?’

‘Why not ask Pelman? He’d be sure to know who was shooting on his land.’

Backhouse grinned.

‘Oh, he’s being asked, never fear. And we’re checking on all shotgun licences issued locally in the past three months. Mr Dalziel would be proud of us. So you reckon there was no chance of his doing it in a blind rage?’

Pascoe was beginning to adapt to the man’s questioning technique. He answered without pause.

‘No chance of his doing it. Period.’

‘In a blind rage. So, how about doing it in cold blood? What kind of thing might make your high-tempered extrovert friend consider shooting someone dead in cold blood?’

‘That’s even less likely than the other!’

‘So it’s more likely he did it in a blind rage?’

‘I didn’t say that,’ protested Pascoe.

‘I’m sorry. I thought you said it was less likely that he would do it in cold blood?’

‘For God’s sake! We’re not in court!’ snapped Pascoe, tiring of this word play.

‘It’s as well for your friend we are not,’ said Backhouse, turning and beginning to walk back to the cottage. Pascoe followed glumly and caught up with the superintendent in the dining-room. Together they stood and looked down at the chalked outlines on the floor.

‘These were your friends too,’ said Backhouse. ‘Innocent, guilty, have you any idea where a man like Colin Hopkins would head for after something like this?’

‘The nearest police station,’ said Pascoe.

Backhouse shrugged in resignation.

‘That’s where I’ll drop you, Sergeant. Thanks for your help.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Pascoe. ‘There doesn’t seem to be anything I can say. I’m sorry.’

‘No matter. Get back to Miss Soper. I’ll have another talk with her when she feels up to it. If she’s seen your friends more recently, it might help.’

‘Yes,’ said Pascoe, leading the way to the car. He stepped out of the cottage with a great sense of relief.

‘The inquest will be opened in the village school this afternoon,’ said Backhouse. ‘Just identification and causes of death, I should think. The usual procedure. Two-thirty. We won’t need Miss Soper at this stage. I’ll send a car for you.’

‘Yes.’

The rest of the short journey passed in silence. I’m a serious disappointment to him, thought Pascoe. All that kindness wasted.

Ellie was still asleep, so Pascoe went downstairs once more. Mrs Crowther put her head out of the kitchen door and asked how the lady was.

‘Sleeping,’ said Pascoe. ‘But she’s got her colour back.’

‘Good. It’ll do her good. You’ll be hungry, I don’t doubt. What about a gammon rasher and egg?’

‘No, I couldn’t put you out,’ protested Pascoe, realizing, slightly to his surprise, how hungry he was.

‘Not a bit. Crowther’ll be in any minute for his, so it’s no bother at all.’

It was a well cooked meal, interrupted twice by the telephone.

The first time it was Dalziel.

‘You all right?’ he asked.

‘Fine,’ said Pascoe.

‘I’ve got your report on the Cottingley break-in here. You write like a bloody woman’s magazine advertiser. When you mean he pissed in the kettle, why the hell don’t you write he pissed in the kettle?’

‘Sorry.’

‘He’s a dirty bastard this one. But clever with it. If we don’t get him soon, he’ll be retiring. How’s your girl?’

‘Resting. She’ll be OK.’

‘Good. They’re going after your mate, I hear.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Aye. We’ve had the look-out notice up here. What do you think? Did he do it?’

‘It looks bad.’