was a matter of time, he supposed. Other deaths had to be satisfied with what they could set in a man's features in the actual moment of dying. Only water kept on working, smoothing, shaping, after life had fled.
A few days in the orchard would be dearly bought at that price.
'Hello, Superintendent!'
It was French, the coroner, sensibly clad in gum-boots which would probably spoil the crease of his well-cut country solicitor's suit.
'Anything yet?'
'No, sir.'
'It's a nasty place, this,' said French. 'I've been in charge of too many inquests connected with this water already.'
'We don't know for certain yet there'll be another.'
'No. Of course not. Still, it looks odds on. The first one was my first inquest ever. Poor Pelman's wife – you must recall it?'
'Only from the papers, sir.'
'And then there was that boy. It was after that they put this wire round the place. Totally inadequate.'
'Especially if someone cuts a hole through it with wirecutters,’ said Backhouse grimly.
'Really? How odd. You need to be a pretty determined sort of suicide to go to those lengths.'
'You would be. But this was done before last weekend. We have an expert witness. Master Eric Bell with whom I made a deal. He told me everything he knew, in return for which I only told his parents what they needed to know.'
French laughed.
'I see. But why should anyone…?'
'I have an idea, sir. We'd better leave it at that for the moment.'
By mutual accord, they turned from the quarry and walked towards the tangle of bushes in which the Mini had been found.
'The ground's very churned up,' observed French.
'Yes,' said Backhouse. 'Was there something special you wanted to discuss with me, Mr French?'
The coroner looked at him assessingly.
'What do you think you're going to find in the pool, Superintendent? Be frank.'
'I can just tell you what the evidence so far suggests. It suggests that we should find the body of Colin Hopkins.'
'Part of this evidence being a note left in the car, I believe?'
'That's right, sir. A note which will, of course, be put into your hands as soon as a body is found and an inquest required.'
'And till then…?'
Till then it's just police evidence. Like anything else we find in the car.'
French sighed deeply.
'From that I take it that I may not see it?'
It is foolish to fall out with your coroner, thought Backhouse. But for some reason he felt like digging his heels in. He had never taken kindly to any feeling of pressure.
'I didn't say that, sir,' he said cautiously. 'The note is at present undergoing examination in our labs. It is, I hasten to add, an extremely incoherent note, not one that I would care to repeat from memory. Of course, we shall also be getting an expert psychiatric assessment of the writer's state of mind.'
French nodded as though satisfied.
'There is, as you must know, a great deal of unease in the village,' he said. 'Everyone is very keen for this unfortunate business to be laid to rest. This unease is likely to continue until there's been an arrest, or something else.'
He made an uncertain gesture back towards the quarry.
'I think, not to put too fine a point on it, that the sooner someone can say officially what everyone seems to be saying privately, the better it will be.'
'It's just my duty to investigate crime, sir, and publish to my superiors the results of my investigations,' said Backhouse coldly.
'I know that, Superintendent. My duty is not dissimiliar. Only my duty is to publish to everybody the results of my investigation. I hope you find what you're looking for here. You may recall it took over three weeks to find the body of Robert Hand. It's a great deal of time.'
'Hand?'
'Mrs Pelman's lover.'
'Yes, I do recall that. As I said, I read the reports. I also recall a police frogman almost lost his life in the search. It's a nasty piece of water this, sir. It's filthy black and there are all kinds of hollows and tunnels into the sides of the pit. I shall do everything I can to ensure a thorough search, but if it takes three weeks, it takes three weeks. It may even take longer. But I will not risk lives. Nor will I anticipate results.'
'Of course not, Superintendent,' said French, suddenly smiling. 'It would be wrong of you to do that. Good day to you.'
'Good day,' answered Backhouse. He felt unhappy for some reason. The sun-filled orchard suddenly seemed like a completely substanceless dream.
Dalziel had arrived in his office that morning to find a most unwelcome note inviting him to call on Dr Grainger at midday if it were convenient. He called Grainger's surgery straightaway but no further than a sweet- tongued receptionist who seemed to his sensitive ear to become suspiciously sympathetic when she learned his name. But Grainger was very busy, she insisted, and a couple of hours wasn't too long to wait, was it? Again
Dalziel felt he caught a suggestion that he might well be wishing at noon that the waiting had been even longer.
Like Pascoe, he seized upon the anodyne of work and began busily examining the results of various inquiries his minions had undertaken.
The Nordrill Mining Company, he was intrigued to discover, did not employ (and, to the best of their knowledge, never employed) a John Atkinson. He thought about this a while, then reached for his phone and dialled a local number.
'Superintendent Dalziel here,' he said to the girl who answered. 'I'd like a word with Mr Noolan please.'
There was a brief pause.
'Hello Andy,' said a lively Yorkshire voice after a few moments. 'Are we going to be robbed?'
'No. But you might have been. Have you checked your vaults yet?'
'What!' said Noolan in alarm.
'Joke, Willie,' said Dalziel. 'Just checking to see if you're wide awake like a good little bank-manager should be.'
'Some joke! I nearly wet my pants. What is it you want, Andy? I have work to do.'
These two had known each other for a long time and had built up a mutually advantageous system of favour-exchanging over the years. It was based on a form of oblique questioning which allowed both to avoid too much damage to their professional consciences.
'If I was wanting to buy a house, who would you advise to use as an agent?'
'That would depend on what you had in mind.'
'Something pretty high-class, I think. You know me. Nowt squalid. What do you reckon to Lewis and Cowley?'
There was a long pause.
'I was sorry to hear what happened to Lewis,' said Noolan finally.
'Were you?'
'Yes. Nice family. They'll be hard pressed now.'
'There must be a good lot coming to them, surely,' said Dalziel, infusing surprise into his voice.
'They could be in trouble if they're relying on money from the firm,' said Noolan.
'Really? But there must be other things. That's a nice house. And there's their cottage in Scotland. Oh, she'll be all right, never fear, Willie. A businessman like Lewis looks after his dependants.'
