Ruling Passion. Reginald Hill

a car starting, so I went back to the fray.’

      ‘The Mini-Cooper? You heard the Mini?’ asked Pascoe.

      ‘I’m not that expert! It sounded a bit sporty, that’s all.’

      ‘And she said nothing else?’

      ‘Not that I can remember. It was a very busy night.’

      ‘Of course. I’m very grateful to you,’ said Pascoe. ‘Just one thing. You called Mrs Hopkins “Rose”.’

      ‘That’s her name, isn’t … wasn’t it?’ said Molly, puzzled.

      ‘Yes, of course. What I meant was, you knew her quite well?’

      ‘Oh yes! We got on very well right from the start. I’d only known her and Colin a couple of months, but we soon got on friendly terms. That’s why it came as such a shock … I still can’t believe it.’

      ‘They didn’t use the other pub, then? The Eagle and Child.’

      He intercepted a quick glance between the man and his wife. Intercepted and, he thought, interpreted.

      ‘They may have done on occasions,’ said Dixon in a neutral tone.

      ‘Come on!’ said Pascoe. ‘Rose is dead and God knows what’s happened to Colin. So you can forget professional etiquette for once, can’t you?’

      Another glance. This time the woman spoke.

      ‘They went there to start with, I think. It was a bit nearer to the cottage. And it’s popular with …’

      She hesitated.

      ‘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,’