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‘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.’
‘But you don’t think so? Well, listen. A word of advice. Don’t get mixed up more than you have to. Say your piece, sign your statement and get on home. Leave it to Backhouse. He’s a bit of an old woman, but he’s not a bad jack. And don’t be taken in by his good manners. He’ll drop you in the cart if he thinks it’ll help.’
‘Yes, sir. We’ll probably get back tomorrow.’
‘I should bloody well hope so. You’re due in here at eight-thirty on Monday morning. Don’t be late. Cheeroh.’
And up you too, thought Pascoe, looking at the receiver. The fat bastard was probably congratulating himself on his subtle psychological therapy.
The phone rang again as Mrs Crowther reached into the oven for his warming plate. This time to his surprise it was Hartley Culpepper.
‘I hoped I’d find you there, Mr Pascoe. Look, it struck me after I left you at the cottage, are you staying in the village tonight?’
‘Well, yes,’ said Pascoe, surprised. ‘Yes, I expect we are.’
‘Have you fixed up anything yet?’
‘No. Not yet. I haven’t really thought,’ answered Pascoe. It was true, he hadn’t given a thought to what they would do that night. The Crowthers, he suspected, would at a pinch keep Ellie, but it would mean a great deal of inconvenience for them.
‘Perhaps one of the pubs,’ he mused aloud.
‘Nonsense,’ said Culpepper firmly. ‘We would be delighted if you would stay with us. I was going to ask you and your friend to come to dinner, anyway. So why not bring your bags with you? This must have been a terrible strain for both of you. It’ll do you good – it will do us all good – to be in friendly company. Please come.’
‘It’s very kind of you,’ said Pascoe doubtfully.
‘Good,’ interrupted Culpepper. ‘We’ll expect you, about tea-time then. The Crowthers will be able to direct you. Goodbye.’
Everyone else is having the last word today, thought Pascoe.
Constable Crowther had arrived home and was taking his place at the other side of the kitchen-table. He nodded an acknowledgement at Pascoe and settled down to eating his meal. Either hunger or some form of diplomacy kept him silent, and Pascoe himself did not speak until he had disposed of his food without further interruption.
‘This will mean a lot of work for you,’ he said finally.
Crowther nodded.
‘A bit. There’s a beer in the cupboard behind you if you fancy it.’
‘Thanks,’ said Pascoe. ‘This’ll be a quiet patch normally?’
‘Quiet enough. Popular for break-ins.’
‘Is that so?’
Crowther nodded and chewed his gammon systematically. About thirty chews to the mouthful, Pascoe thought.
‘It’s mostly business people now, you see,’ resumed Crowther. ‘Working in the town. There’s been a lot of building.’
Another mouthful. Another thirty chews.
‘And renovation.’
‘Like Brookside Cottage?’
‘That’s right,’ said Crowther, nodding vigorously.
‘Was it empty when Mr Pelman decided to sell it?’
‘That’s right.’ Another mouthful. This time Pascoe counted. Twenty-eight, twenty-nine. ‘Mr Pelman didn’t like that. It was a handy way into his woods from the road for anyone wanting to pot a few birds. And the cottages themselves was always getting broken into. Not that there was anything to take, you understand. Practising for bigger stuff, I reckoned. But they did a lot of damage.’
So. Vandals and poachers all swanning round Brookside Cottage. Homicidal? It was surprising how many people were under the right conditions.
Even people you knew quite well.
‘Pelman put it on the market then?’ mused Pascoe. ‘That was quite clever. He’d make a bit of money and have someone there to man his frontier post.’
‘Hardly that,’ objected Crowther. ‘You can get into Pelman’s woods at a dozen places. And there’s not all that much in there anyhow.’
‘No red deer and grizzly bear?’
‘No,’ answered Crowther, adding, as though in reproach of Pascoe’s mild levity, ‘just a lot of coppers at the moment.’
Pascoe sipped his beer. Crowther’s tastes ran to lukewarm brown ale, it appeared. The thought put him in mind of the two village pubs, in one of which Rose Hopkins had last been seen by anyone alive to tell the tale. Except one person.
‘What’s the difference between the Eagle and Child and the Queen Anne?’ he asked. It sounded like a child’s conundrum, but Crowther didn’t seem puzzled.
‘The Eagle’s a free house. Owned by Major Palfrey. The Anne’s tied to the brewery. Mr and Mrs Dixon just manage it. Not just. They manage it very well, I mean. Nice couple.’
‘Who uses which? Or is it just the nearest that people go to?’
Crowther looked at him closely.
‘Couldn’t say,’ he said. ‘I use the Anne myself.’
‘Just because it’s the nearest?’ insisted Pascoe. ‘I should have thought the local law would have had to preserve a fine show of impartiality towards licensed premises.’
‘I do,’ said Crowther. ‘When I’m on duty. But off, I like to be comfortable where I drink.’
He seemed to make his mind up that Pascoe had a sympathetic ear and leaned over the table confidentially.
‘Difference is, and this is just me, mind you,’ he went on, ‘the Dixons make you feel welcome, the Major always makes me feel he’s doing me a favour by pulling me a pint.’
He nodded emphatically and started rolling an absurdly thin cigarette in an ancient machine. Pascoe laughed knowingly.
‘Major Palfrey thinks he’s the squire rather than the landlord, does he?’
‘That’s the trouble with this place now,’ averred the constable, lighting his cigarette which burnt like a fuse. ‘It’s full of bloody squires. Trouble is, there aren’t enough peasants to go round.’
Constable Crowther, it appeared, invariably took a ten-minute nap after his lunch and could see no reason to interrupt his routine today. Pascoe was sorry about this. The man’s conversation interested him and he was still desperately in need of things to interest him. He decided to take a walk, down to the village perhaps, find out what was going on. As he stood up, he realized he hadn’t mentioned the arrangements that had been made for the evening.
Mrs Crowther came into the kitchen and bustled around her snoozing husband, clearing the table with no effort at noise-evasion.
