Ruling Passion. Reginald Hill

feat of subtle persuasion, and closed her eyes. But as he opened the door to leave, she spoke again.

      ‘Peter,’ she said. ‘Where’s Colin? He’s got to be told.’

      ‘It’s all in hand,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Sleep now.’

      On the stairs he felt dizzy and had to pause, leaning heavily on the banister. It was certainly in hand, the business of finding Colin. But the searchers’ motives were far from humane.

      ‘You OK, Sergeant?’ said Backhouse from the foot of the stairs. He sounded more concerned than the doctor had done.

      ‘Yes sir,’ said Pascoe, descending.

      ‘Miss Soper asleep?’

      ‘I think so.’

      Backhouse looked closely at him, his thin scholarly face solicitous, assessing.

      ‘I’m going back to the cottage. The lab boys should be finished now. I wondered if you felt up to coming with me. I’d appreciate your assistance.’

      The ghost of a grin flitted involuntarily over Pascoe’s lips at this semi-formal courtesy. Fat Dalziel, his own superintendent, must have missed out on this part of the senior officers’ training course.

      ‘Certainly, sir,’ he said.

      Some minor telepathy must have operated. As they climbed into the waiting car, Backhouse said, ‘I’ve been talking to Mr Dalziel on the phone.’

      ‘Oh.’

      ‘He was naturally sorry to hear what had happened.’

      Naturally. But I bet the sod didn’t make the normal polite distressed noises. Backhouse was doing a translation job.

      ‘He says you’re too important to be spared past the week-end, but I would appreciate what help you can give me in that time.’

      Appreciate again. He was being given kid-glove treatment. You didn’t have to be a detective to work out why. But let them say it. He was damned if he was going to broach the matter.

      Them. With surprise Pascoe realized that he was thinking of the police as them.

      ‘Stop here,’ said Backhouse to his driver. The car pulled up outside a high-roofed, pebble-dashed building with narrow, church-like windows. A well-kept notice advertised that this was Thornton Lacey Village Hall. Beneath the gold and black lettering a typewritten sheet supplied the menu of activities that could be sampled in the hall during the current week. Last night, for instance, the Village Amenities Committee had met. And tonight the Old Time Dancing Group was scheduled to waltz, fox-trot, two-step, and polka its way down Memory Lane. But the light fantastic would have to be tripped somewhere else, thought Pascoe as he followed Backhouse into the building.

      The large musty-smelling room was full of activity. Shirt-sleeved policemen were arranging tables and two Post Office men were fixing up telephones. All the lights were on to supplement the meagre ration of sunlight the windows let in.

      ‘The station’s too small,’ said Backhouse. ‘Especially if this turns into a large scale operation. Which I hope it won’t.’

      He glanced sideways at Pascoe, then looked quickly away. A uniformed inspector came to meet them.

      ‘Anything new?’ Backhouse greeted him.

      ‘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.