'Evidently not. He said nothing anyway. He did seem very interested in the book Colin was working on, but I couldn't tell him a thing about that. Perhaps Colin's worried about his manuscript and notes?'
'Wherever Colin is,' said Pascoe unemotionally, 'he'll have a lot more to worry him than the health of his manuscript. So you rang me to chat?'
'That's right. Davenant was still with me, he'd just popped into the loo. I thought you'd like to know.'
Their steaks arrived and with them Etherege. He didn't sit down but stood looking down at them, a gin in one hand and a small bottle of tonic in the other.
'Hello again,' he said with a smile. 'Sorry to interrupt, but I just wondered about those stamps.'
'We haven't been able to have them examined yet, I'm afraid,’ said Pascoe, thinking of poor old Sturgeon, critically ill, perhaps by now even dead.
'Not to worry. No hurry. Pop in and buy the lady another present some time! Cheers.'
He turned and left them.
'Not a bad idea,' said Ellie.
'At his prices?' Pascoe sampled his steak and nodded appreciatively.
'Careful,' warned Ellie. 'Jones the Cat Meats has just come in.'
He glanced at the bar. She was right. The po-faced man had just entered.
Pascoe grinned.
'Well, if they use him here,' he said, 'all I can say is how nice to be one of Mrs Sturgeon's cats!'
Dalziel meanwhile was still in his room, sipping a cup of tea with only half his usual quantity of sugar and unenthusiastically contemplating an evening without potatoes.
The phone rang.
'I'm sorry to have been so long, Superintendent, but there was some urgent business came up.'
'Trouble in the glen?' said Dalziel sourly.
'Aye. Something of that. Now, the man Atkinson at the hotel, he's your man surely, fits the description to a 't'.'
'Good. Anything else?'
'Well, no address, I regret to say. They let him put just 'London' in the registration book, I’m afraid. I've had a wee word with the manager, and things will be stricter now, I promise you.'
'That makes me very happy.'
'Guid. Guid. Now, Superintendent, he's been there a few times. I have a note of the dates; only for a few days at a time, and not on holiday, it seems. At least he didna act like a man on holiday.'
'How did he act?'
'Like a businessman, they say. And from something the reception lassie heard him say one day, it seems he might be connected with the Nordrill Mining Company.'
'Who the hell are they?'
'Well, if you lived up here, you wouldna need to ask.'
'Sergeant, if you lived down here, you'd bloody well feel the need to answer! Get a move on.'
'Aye. They're one of these companies that are going around everywhere these days, it seems, sinking test shafts to see what's worth ploughing up the earth for. You may have read about them in Wales and the Peak District in England? Well, we have the same trouble.'
'And Atkinson's probably working for them?'
'So it seems.'
'Well done, Lauder,' said Dalziel. 'Just give me those dates and you can get back to the peat fire.'
The phone rang once more before Dalziel could leave. He listened for a long while without offering to interrupt.
'Right,’ he said finally. 'Yes, I'll tell him. Good night.'
But not tonight, he thought, glancing at his watch. He'll be out with that girl. Let them enjoy themselves tonight if they could.
Besides, he had no idea where they were.
Chapter 7
Pascoe was breakfasting on the run when the morning paper arrived. Ellie who had farther to go but was a much later starter wandered in from the kitchen from time to time, placing cups of coffee and slices of toast at strategic points along his route.
'Why don't you set your alarm earlier?' she asked.
'When I'm sleeping by myself, it's early enough.'
'It's my fault, is it?'
He didn't answer, but went out into the small, dark hallway of his flat and picked up his mail and the newspaper.
'Catch,' he said, throwing it at Ellie who settled down on the rug in front of the gas-fire to drink her own coffee and read the headlines.
He was in the bathroom when she called his name. He came instantly, recognizing a note in her voice which told him something serious had happened.
They've found him,' she said.
'What? Let me see.'
He took the paper and read the report. It told of the discovery of the car, mentioned that a note had been found in it, and gave the gist of an obviously non-committal interview with Backhouse. He refused to comment on the suggestion that his murder investigation was now completed, and when asked about the clay-pit merely said that a thorough search would take place. The report ended with a reference to the other lives lost in the pool.
'You said they'd found him,' said Pascoe accusingly.
'It's as good as,' said Ellie, white-faced.
'No such thing. Can you see Colin killing himself?'
'It would depend on what he had done.'
Pascoe held his hand to his forehead and closed his eyes tightly. Night. Wind in the trees. Moonlight through the driven clouds touching the ruffled water far below. A step forward. It was all too Gothic.
And then, not to struggle! Colin had been a fine swimmer. It could not be true!
But the rest was true. He had seen that himself; Carlo and Tim lying dead, and above all, Rose bleeding her life away at the foot of the sundial. If that was true, then anything could be.
'Come on,' he said suddenly. 'Let's move. I'll find out what's really going on from Dalziel.'
'I don't know if I can,' said Ellie dully. 'I'll stay here, Peter. You go.'
'No,' he said. 'You're not coming with me, love. You're going into college like a good little lecturer. That's what you're overpaid for. So let's get a move on, shall we?'
It was important to be busy. Action impeded reflection. Action would keep them for a while at least from visualizing the policeman, awkward in his stiff blue raincoat, probing the pool depths with a boat-hook as the leaky, creaking cockleshell wove a careful searcher's pattern across the dark water. Back and forth, back and forth, till the hook snagged… thank God there was lots of work to do.
It was not quite as Pascoe visualized it. The boat was there, picking up the search where darkness had halted it the previous evening. But the warm weather of the previous weekend had returned and the quarry pool reflected blue sky and morning sunlight. It would have been idyllic, had it not been for the evil smell stirred up by the probings below. Still, it would be shirt-sleeve order before the day was out, thought Backhouse. Of all the seasons of the year, he loved an Indian summer best. It was a comforting allegory of middle age; a golden time of warmth and maturity, with just enough of the elegiacs to be piquant without being depressing.
It would be pleasant to slip away for a few days and enjoy the company of Proust in the small walled Dorsetshire orchard which lay behind his brother's farm like an earnest of Eden. It would be very pleasant. The price was simple. A water-puffed, rotting corpse, dragged reluctantly to the sun-polished surface of the waters he looked down on. He had seen it before. No other form of death seemed to write such despair on a man's face. It
