'A what?'
'He's got diabetes, which might narrow things down a bit. I'm just on my way in to tell the super.
‘Come along. He might kiss you on both cheeks if you're not nippy on your feet.'
Together they went back into Dalziel's room. The fat man had the telephone to his ear. After a moment he put it down and looked glumly at Pascoe.
'You ought to know,' he said. 'I asked them to keep me posted on your spot of trouble. There's a man at Nottingham helping with enquiries. Backhouse has gone off to see him, so he looks good for your mate, Hopkins. I don't know what I'm sorry for, but I'm sorry.'
Chapter 3
'A false alarm,' said Backhouse. 'They had just about established this by the time I arrived. He was a very good prospect – looked just right and wouldn't say a word.'
He laughed shortly.
'Turned out to be a Pole whose English was practically nil and whose previous experience with authority had taught him that silence was golden. I spent the night in Nottingham, saw a nice bit of Pinter at the Playhouse, and being handy, decided to come on here today.'
Here was the small village outside Worksop where Rose Hopkins had been born and where just a few minutes previously she had been lowered into the earth.
Pascoe wondered what Dalziel would make of Pinter.
He had been surprised by the number of people at the funeral, and by one or two unexpected faces in particular. Backhouse's interest must, of course, be mainly professional though he disguised this well. And it was perhaps not too surprising to see Anton Davenant there, whether as friend or journalist he couldn't say. His most unfunereal clothing had won some curious glances and deprecating mutters from the locals.
But the most surprising sight had been of Marianne Culpepper and Angus Pelman among the mourners. Some atavistic puritanism stirred in Pascoe at what appeared so blatant and unseemly an advertisement of their relationship. They were all in the saloon bar of the village pub, having politely turned down an invitation to share the funeral meats offered by Rose's parents. Ellie was sitting with Pelman, Davenant and Marianne, while the two policemen carried on what probably appeared their very conspiratorial conversation at the bar.
The beer, drawn from the wood, was cloudy but they drank it without complaint.
'Are things no further forward, sir?' asked Pascoe cautiously.
'Afraid not,' said Backhouse. 'Since you left, things have been very quiet in Thornton Lacey.'
'I'm sorry if I was a trouble to you.'
'No trouble, Sergeant. No; what troubles me is the place itself. There are things happening there, tensions, probably nothing whatsoever to do with the crime, but they muddy the water. Or perhaps they are something to do with the crime. Let's accept the most obvious solution. Hopkins killed his wife and two friends. No, hang on a minute. It's a hypothesis which forces itself upon us, even upon you, I suspect.
'So. He did it. He is the murderer. But what is it that made such a man do such a thing? It must have been a pressure beyond anything I have ever experienced. Yet I have a feeling that such pressures as these are never so far away in a place like Thornton Lacey unless you keep on the move, on the alert, and never let them build up.'
'But he'd hardly been there any time!' protested Pascoe. 'What the hell could have happened so quickly?'
'He managed to make at least one good enemy that we know of.'
'Palfrey?' said Pascoe.
Backhouse nodded.
'What was in the letter?' Pascoe asked, not really expecting an answer.
Backhouse looked at him assessingly.
'Why not?' he said, almost to himself. 'Palfrey was becoming an annoyance to your friend. He decided to strike back and hit on the ingenious idea of checking the so-called major's military background. To his probable delight he discovered that no such creature as 'Major' Palfrey existed, though his alleged regiment did once have in its number a catering sergeant of that name. Evidently Hopkins called on Palfrey on Friday morning, put this to him and warned him against continuing his alleged slanders.'
'And the letter?'
'The letter merely enlarged upon this, setting down coldly what had obviously been uttered in extremely warm terms earlier the same day. A kind of blackmail note, I suppose.'
'Which is a very old and very popular murder motive,' said Pascoe thoughtfully.
'True,' said Bakehouse. 'Palfrey claims he was serving cloudy pints in his pub all Friday night. Surprisingly difficult to check. I wonder if he's got some connection with this place?'
He examined his beer sadly then pushed it aside and stood up.
'I'm sure I'll see you again, Sergeant. Soon, perhaps. Mr French, the coroner, is uncommonly keen to exercise his few powers in this case.'
He shook his head in disapproval. Pascoe could understand why. A coroner who would not be led by the police could still prove an irritation.
'Goodbye, Mrs Culpepper, Miss Soper.'
With a nod at Pelman and Davenant, Backhouse left and Pascoe joined the others. They stopped talking as he did so.
To make a solid silence, he thought, just add one policeman.
'Another drink anyone?' he asked.
There were no takers.
'How's Mr Culpepper?' he said to Marianne, suddenly feeling a bit aggressive.
'Very well,' she answered in her cool, clear tones. 'He would have come today, but something came up. Business.'
Unlike her type to volunteer an explanation to my type, thought Pascoe. But it could be true.
'Is there some trouble?' he asked. 'I saw in this morning's paper that Nordrill say they are going to abandon their explorations in Scotland.'
Pelman and Marianne exchanged an unreadable glance.
'Bully for the conservationists, say I,’ said Davenant. 'It's been lovely seeing you all once more, despite sad circumstance. Mr Pascoe, would you care to walk me to my car?'
They left and made their way towards the bright red Citroen GS which seemed to mirror Davenant's personality somehow.
'I just wanted to ask if there was anything new. I ask as a friend, not a journalist, you understand.'
'No. Nothing as far as I know.'
'I see. I wondered if dear Mr Backhouse had unearthed anything startling perhaps.'
'He's not showing it to me if he has.'
'Ah well. I hope things do not drag on for ever.' He climbed into his car. 'Nice to have seen you again. And to meet Miss Soper. An intellectual gem in the constabulary crown! Ciao!'
'He seemed to have taken a fancy to you,' said Pascoe on the way home.
'I hope not!' said Ellie. 'He seemed rather patronizingly surprised to discover that I, a lecturer, hob-nobbed with the fuzz. Did Backhouse tell you anything?'
'No,' Pascoe lied. Policemen sometimes had to lie to their woman. It was an occupational hazard.
'And there's no sign of Colin.'
'No. Wherever he is, he's lying very low.'
The skies, unpromising all morning, went frighteningly dark as they turned off the dual carriageways of the Al.
The pathetic fallacy, thought Pascoe. Something dreadful is about to happen. But, please God, not to me. Don't let it happen to me.
