Ruling Passion Read online

‘Have they found Colin?’ was her first question.

  He shook his head.

  ‘What happened at the inquest?’

  ‘It was adjourned.’

  ‘I asked you what happened. They didn’t just open the thing and adjourn it, did they?’

  ‘No. They took evidence of identification and cause of death.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  At first he demurred, but she pressed him hard and his own powers of resistance were so low that in the end it was easier to answer her questions than evade them.

  ‘So it happened between eight and eleven?’

  ‘Yes. They reckon so.’

  ‘And Rose bled to death, lying there unconscious?’

  ‘Yes.’ He spoke very low. He knew what was coming, didn’t want her to say it, but knew no way of preventing it.

  ‘So then. If it hadn’t been for you and your bloody job, we’d have got there last night. We might have got there in time to stop all of this happening. We’d certainly have got there in time to help Rose. Is that right?’

  ‘I suppose so. Yes. I’ve thought of it too.’

  ‘Have you now? I should hope you have. What I wonder, Peter, is how the hell are you ever going to stop thinking about it?’

  She turned from the window at which she had been standing and faced him accusingly.

  ‘Have you thought about that?’

  Chapter 6

  ‘What I should like from you, Miss Soper, if you feel up to it,’ said Backhouse sympathetically, ‘is background information. Anything at all you can tell us about Rose and Colin Hopkins. And the other two as well, of course.’

  He had turned up midway through the bitter quarrel which had followed Ellie’s accusations. The news that Ellie had recovered sufficiently to leave her bed had been given him by Crowther and he had come as quickly as possible. Not that there was any real urgency about interviewing the woman. The trouble was that now the machine had been started and was running smoothly, there was no real urgency about anything. It had been decided to issue photographs of Hopkins to the Press and television services. He was still being described as ‘a man the police wish to interview’. At the same time, the public were being warned that if they saw him or his car, they should make no approach themselves but call the nearest police station.

  So now it was mainly a matter of sitting back and waiting for the reported sightings to start flowing in.

  He looked impassively at the photograph in his hand. It wasn’t bad. The police photographer had had a good selection to choose from. The Hopkinses had been hoarders of snapshots. There had even been a couple with a very youthful but instantly recognizable Peter Pascoe grinning merrily at the camera. But this he held in his hand was the face they were after. An intelligent face. Wide-eyed, a humorous mouth easily pulled into a smile or opened for laughter, yet something restless haunted those features. The picture of his wife gave a much greater impression of calm reliability. Perhaps he needed this in her. Had needed it. Was without it now.

  ‘You’ll have to ask me questions,’ said Ellie. ‘I don’t know where to start.’

  ‘Of course. It’s difficult, I understand. I’ll put the big question first. Have you any idea where Colin Hopkins might be?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. I’m sorry, but …’ she looked from Backhouse to Pascoe who sat, pale and withdrawn, staring through the window. She hasn’t caught on yet, thought Backhouse suddenly. She thinks Hopkins was called away unexpectedly last night, is going to appear full of horrified amazement at what’s happened, will need to be calmed, comforted, consoled. For God’s sake, what the devil has Pascoe been saying to her?

  He remembered the atmosphere when he arrived. Strained, tense, there had been great hostility in the air. Any minute now, some of it was coming his way. He might as well get it over with.

  ‘Miss Soper,’ he said gently, ‘I think you should understand the position. Mr Hopkins was almost certainly with his wife and friends last night. He had had dinner with them. He had been drinking with them after dinner. We know this. There was a half-filled glass with his fingerprints on in the lounge.’

  ‘What are you saying, Superintendent?’ asked Ellie, pushing her hair back from her brow.

  Pascoe interrupted from the window.

  ‘He’s saying that they’re not searching for Colin so they can give him the bad news. They want him as the chief – in fact, the only – suspect,’ he said.

  Ellie froze, her hand still at her brow.

  ‘Of course,’ she said after a while. ‘I’ve been silly. It must be those bloody pills they gave me. That’s what you would think, isn’t it? It’s nonsense, of course, but that’s how your minds would work.’

  At least she’s taking it quietly, thought Backhouse. Too soon. She turned towards Pascoe.

  ‘So while I’ve been sleeping, you’ve been helping them hunt down Colin?’ she uttered vituperatively. ‘And now they’ve pumped you dry, they want to see if I can put them on to any other scents!’

  ‘For a would-be novelist you do mix your metaphors,’ said Pascoe coldly.

  ‘Please, please,’ said Backhouse soothingly. ‘Let’s keep things calm. Miss Soper, if it’s any consolation to you – though, as an intelligent and no doubt public-spirited woman, I don’t see why it should be – Sergeant Pascoe has been most unco-operative, even antagonistic, with regard to our search for Mr Hopkins. In fact, I had to intervene to prevent him from physically assaulting one man who talked critically of your friend. Such loyalty, I hasten to add, I do not find touching but foolish. The circumstantial evidence against your friend is strong. But now if it turns out to be misleading, he’s got to be found. Now, will you help?’

  Ellie nodded, her eyes on Pascoe.

  ‘Yes. If I can,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Right. Tell me about Colin Hopkins then.’

  ‘We were all at university together,’ she began. ‘Colin, Rose, Timmy, Carlo. And Peter and me. We were pretty close. There were plenty of others, of course, but we were close.’

  ‘You all went on holiday together,’ prompted Backhouse.

  ‘That’s right. So we did. In Eskdale.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘Life seemed fairly cut and dried then. In the nicest way. Rose and Colin. Peter and me. And …’

  ‘The other two men were homosexual,’ said Backhouse neutrally.

  ‘Yes. That’s right,’ said Ellie challengingly. Backhouse ignored the challenge.

  ‘Things seem to have worked out as you anticipated,’ he said. ‘But you seem uncertain?’

  ‘I didn’t anticipate this,’ she snapped, relenting instantly. ‘Sorry. No, after we all finished, it was only Colin and Rose who stuck together. They got married about a year later. I don’t think they’d have bothered, but Colin had joined a publishing house and they thought it was worthwhile observing the conventions till he got stinking rich. Timmy was a linguist and got a job in the Common Market HQ in Brussels. Carlo went to work for some firm in Glasgow. I finished my research.’

  ‘Research?’ interrupted Backhouse.

  ‘That’s right. I was a graduate research student. I just condescended to mingle with the children. I’m a couple of years older than the others,’ she added defiantly.

  Backhouse studied her slim figure, held the gaze of the grey eyes set in the finely-sculpted head with its close-cut jet black hair.

  ‘You carry your burden of years very well,’ he murmured.

  ‘Thanks.’ She smiled, the first time he had seen her do so. ‘I got an assistant lectureship in the Midlands. And Peter, of course, put on the helmet of salvation and became a policeman. I think the only time we all met together again was at Colin and Rose’s wedding.’

  ‘Not Timmy,’ interjected Pascoe. ‘He couldn’t make it.’

  ‘That’s right. He couldn’t. Well, we all kept intermittently in touch and saw something of each other. Except Peter. Within a couple of years or so he’d fallen almost completely from sight.’

  ‘I was very busy. Be
sides being poorly paid with very limited vacation periods,’ said Pascoe.

  ‘A policeman’s lot,’ said Backhouse.

  ‘Of course, he got a bit of a complex too. Felt that he would be a bit of a nuisance, perhaps even a butt, in the liberal academic and cultural circles his friends inhabited,’ said Ellie mockingly. But her tone was light.

  ‘But you saw the others?’

  ‘Sometimes. A couple of years ago, Timmy returned from the Continent. I think Carlo had already been working in London for six months or so. They took a flat together. Colin meanwhile had been going from strength to strength and had become the darling of his bosses to such an extent that he got them persuaded a few months ago to give him a year’s sabbatical so that he could write his book which would make everybody’s fortune. Brookside Cottage was where he decided to settle for the period. And he planned to keep it on as a week-end retreat after his triumphal return to London.’

  ‘I see,’ said Backhouse thoughtfully. ‘And did you know all this before you met him in London recently?’

  Ellie shot a quick glance at Pascoe.

  ‘It was in the letter of invitation which the sergeant showed me,’ explained Backhouse.

  ‘I knew vaguely about it,’ said Ellie. ‘But it wasn’t till I met him that I got all the details.’

  ‘A chance meeting, was it?’

  ‘That’s right. Chance. Oh hell, no. Not chance. I’ve been trying to flog a book of my own, a novel. Without much success. I laid an ambush for Colin. I thought he might be able to help.’

  ‘You never told me that,’ said Pascoe, surprised.

  ‘No,’ said Ellie sheepishly.

  ‘Peter had told me to get in touch with Colin from the start,’ she added to Backhouse. ‘But I was too proud. And I don’t like putting my friends on the spot. But when things didn’t go too well with the book …’

  ‘You laid an ambush,’ said Backhouse. ‘Any luck?’

  ‘I didn’t even mention it,’ sighed Ellie. ‘He’d just got everything organized for his own move and was bubbling over. It didn’t seem fair to take advantage. And when I told him that Peter and I had re-established contact, he was genuinely delighted, took his address, said we’d be the first to sample his rural hospitality. Here we are.’

  ‘So he was a man who had everything going for him at the moment?’

  ‘Everything,’ echoed Ellie.

  There was a knock at the door which opened almost simultaneously.

  ‘Cup of tea,’ said Mrs Crowther, coming into the room with a tray and the expression of one with whom superintendents cut very little ice.

  She put the tray down in front of Ellie and took a small bundle of typewritten sheets out of her capacious apron pocket.

  ‘Here. These are for you,’ she said to Backhouse. ‘I’ve been typing them for Crowther. If you take them now, it’ll save him a journey later. Not that I’d pay them all that much attention. It’s his job to hear things, but they were a nice young couple, the Hopkinses. That’s what counts, not a lot of malicious gossip.’

  She left with the shadow of a wink at Ellie.

  ‘Interesting woman,’ commented Backhouse, riffling through the papers. ‘We could do with her on the strength.’

  ‘I think you’ve got her,’ said Pascoe drily.

  Backhouse folded Crowther’s report carefully and slipped it into his pocket.

  ‘To get back to business,’ he said. ‘Can either of you think of anything at all which might cause stress and strain in the relationships between these four?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Ellie. ‘Rose and Colin always talked most affectionately of the other two. And vice-versa as far as I know.’

  She glanced across at Pascoe. Backhouse could not read her expression.

  ‘You talked to Mrs Hopkins on the phone last night,’ he said. ‘Did she say anything specific about their plans for the evening?’

  ‘Well, she may have done. We talked for about ten minutes. But nothing’s stuck, nothing specific. I’m sorry.’

  She looked bewildered. Backhouse patted her hand where it rested on the arm of the sofa.

  ‘Never mind. If anything comes to mind, you can let me know. Anything new from you, Sergeant?’

  Pascoe shook his head.

  ‘I’d better get back to work then,’ said the superintendent, standing up. ‘What are your plans for tonight?’

  ‘We’ve been asked to stay with the Culpeppers,’ said Pascoe, recalling his earlier decision to find somewhere else. It didn’t seem worth the bother now. And if the Eagle was the only place in the village which let rooms, his chances of success were slim.

  ‘Culpeppers? I remember. The committee secretary woman?’

  ‘And the man who came to the cottage with the coroner. I’m sure they’ll be in Crowther’s dossiers.’

  ‘No doubt. I’ll know where to find you, then. Thank you, Miss Soper. You’ve been most helpful. Please believe me when I say you have my deepest sympathy.’

  He did it better than Dalziel. Not that Dalziel wasn’t good when he wanted, but good in the style of the old actor-managers. There was always a sense of performance. Backhouse was more natural. There was even a chance that he was sincere.

  ‘Just one thing more,’ he said, pausing at the door. ‘What was Mr Hopkins writing his book about?’

  ‘His book? Poverty! He laughed when he told me. Coming to Thornton Lacey to write a book about poverty in modern Britain was like hunting polar bears in Africa, he said.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound a best-selling subject,’ opined Backhouse cautiously.

  ‘I don’t know. Full of case histories, hard-luck stories, people driven to crime, the effect of inadequate diets on sexual performance, that kind of thing. It’s the kind of pop sociology that could sell.’

  ‘You sound disapproving.’

  ‘Not at all. Envious perhaps. Until this morning.’

  ‘Yes. Not much cause for envy now. Goodbye.’

  They sat in silence for a while after he had gone. Ellie spoke first.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For before, what I said. Grief’s a selfish emotion really. I had forgotten they were your friends too.’

  ‘Yes. And Colin still is.’

  ‘Do you think he did it, Peter?’

  Pascoe made a hopeless gesture.

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t believe it, but I’ve got to admit the possibility. People kill those they love all the time.’

  ‘But you were willing to attack some poor bloody stranger because he accepted the possibility? Odd behaviour for a policeman,’ she mocked affectionately.

  ‘I’m an odd policeman,’ he said, kissing her gently.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Now I’m going to pull myself together and face the world. Whatever the truth, Colin will need friends when they catch up with him.’

  She stood up and stretched her arms as though newly roused from sleep.

  ‘Do I gather you’ve got us invited somewhere for the night?’

  Pascoe explained briefly about the Culpeppers, concealing his own irrational dislike of Marianne.

  ‘I see,’ said Ellie. ‘Sounds all sweet sherry and sympathy. I’ll go and freshen up, then I wouldn’t mind sampling the country air for half an hour or so before we present ourselves to our hosts.’

  ‘A good idea. There’s plenty of time,’ said Pascoe.

  The door opened and Mrs Crowther reappeared.

  ‘He’s gone then,’ she grunted. Her gaze fell on the tea-tray.

  ‘And no one wants my tea?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ exclaimed Ellie. ‘It’s my fault. I just forgot.’

  ‘Look,’ said Pascoe. ‘Why don’t you two sit down and have a cup? It should still be hot. I just want to pop out and check the car. It seems to be eating oil lately.’

  Ellie shot him a curious look, but he left quickly before she could say anything. As he had expected, the office section of the house was emp
ty. Crowther would be very busy about the village this afternoon. He made straight for the table which carried the solid old Imperial typewriter, and saw what he was looking for straightaway. In the wooden tray by the machine were Crowther’s notes on local colour plus the carbon of the typewritten version given to Backhouse. He ignored the original in the constable’s crabbed hand and picked up the copy.

  He had just started on the first of the five quarto sheets when a voice spoke behind him.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  Pascoe started so violently that his leg twitched and cracked painfully against the rim of the desk. Christ! he thought, your nerve ends really have been exposed today, my boy.

  Instinctively he let the sheets of paper slide out of his hands into the tray before he turned.

  Standing behind the small counter across which the public could seek audience with their local guardian of the law was a rather frail old lady who seemed to be wearing a military uniform of sorts. WVS? wondered Pascoe.

  ‘Yes?’ he said.

  ‘I was hoping to find Mr Crowther.’ She had a slow, gentle voice. Definitely good works, he decided. Moral samplers and nourishing broth round the farmworkers’ hovels.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment. I don’t know when he’ll be back. Is it urgent?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  She stared hard at him and asked dubiously, ‘Are you a policeman?’

  ‘Well, yes. Yes, I am,’ said Pascoe. ‘Sergeant Pascoe.’

  ‘Sergeant? That ought to be all right then. I am Alicia Langdale.’ She paused. For effect? thought Pascoe. Is she the lady of the manor? Should I be impressed?

  ‘Yes?’ he prompted.

  ‘And it’s connected with my job, you see. That’s what makes it so delicate.’

  ‘What is your job, Mrs Langdale?’

  ‘Miss. Can’t you see? I’m a postman.’

  Oh my God! thought Pascoe. That’s what the gear is! He could see he had lost what little ground the revelation of his rank had gained him.

  ‘Of course,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘My sister, Anthea, and I keep the post office. She takes care of the internal business and I look after deliveries. Normally what happens, of course, is that people post their letters, they are collected in a van and taken to the main post office in town where they are sorted.’