And he wasn't making a bad job of it, thought Dalziel with a creator's pride, as he examined again the meticulously prepared file on the string of burglaries which was the sergeant's main case at present. His own interest was twofold. A single break-in at a private house was rarely enough to involve the majesty of a detective-superintendent. But a long sequence – eleven now, almost certainly all by the same man – began to achieve the status of a major crime. Especially when there was reason to believe the perpetrator would resort to extreme violence if interrupted. At the fifth house a pensioner who did odd-jobs in the neighbourhood had been contracted by the owner to keep an eye on the garden while the family were away. Conscientiously, the old man had turned up late one summer evening to water the borders out of the heat of the sun. A man had emerged from the kitchen door as he passed, almost bumping into him. Without hesitation, the intruder had launched into a violent attack. Only the fact that the old man rode a moped and had not yet removed the crash-helmet he always wore saved him from serious damage. But the force of the blow from what was probably a crowbar left deep indentations in the helmet and was sufficient to stun the wearer.
This was the only sighting of the man there had been and the description was almost useless. But the incident was deeply worrying. All the break-ins had taken place when the houses were empty, usually when the owners were on holiday. If this pattern continued, interruption was unlikely. But if it did happen again, there might be no protective headgear next time.
He tossed aside the file with another string of coughs. Meticulousness was not enough. There was nothing there which turned him in any particular direction. Perhaps Pascoe's mind would be programmed by it to some effect. Himself, he needed something more animal; a scent. He sniffed in unconscious acknowledgement of the thought.
Pascoe, he decided, needed chivvying. It would take his mind off things.
'It's more than twelve thousand now with Cottingley's bits and pieces.'
'Thirteen thousand one hundred and thirty-five,' said Pascoe. 'According to the insurance count, that is.'
He glanced at his watch. He had promised to phone Ellie at lunch-time. It was a necessary contact. It might not prove possible to meet at night. Too often in the past he had had to cancel engagements at the last moment. Last Friday, for instance.
'He must be getting rid of the stuff somewhere.'
'The thought had crossed my mind,' sneered Pascoe.
Dalziel rose and stared down at him, removing the thick-rimmed spectacles he wore for reading. It was a menacing gesture.
‘That's far enough, Sergeant,' he said. 'It's been a bad week-end for you. But there hasn't been a civil word from you since you came in this morning. I hope to God you spoke to Cottingley a bit fairer.'
By Dalziel's standards, it was a mildly expressed rebuke, but Pascoe felt a touch of shame.
'I'm sorry,' he said. 'Sir. I have this feeling of – well – frustration… as if…'
But Dalziel had no desire for a heart-to-heart talk. His pain was worse. Indigestion, he decided with desperate optimism. Too much stodge, not enough exercise. A brisk walk to the chemist's would do him good.
'Get your finger out, Sergeant,' he said wearily. ‘There's some good descriptions there. He can't just be filling his bottom drawer with what he takes. It must turn up somewhere.'
He left. Pascoe should have felt indignant, hurt even. But oddly enough he felt almost affectionate as the sound of coughing receded down the corridor.
'Hello, love. You all right?'
'Fine. Lots of sympathy concealing academic ghoulishness. No reaction from my students, though. They don't believe we have lives separate from them. How was the Fat Man?'
'A bit under the weather, I think. But pretty considerate for him. We're very busy.'
‘That's good. At the moment anyway. But is it late-busy?'
'I don't know. I'll ring when I do.'
'Please. Peter, I dreamt about them last night.'
'Oh, love.'
'We were back in Eskdale. Remember? Only it was Brookside Cottage, not that old grey farmhouse. A thought struck me. Colin might have gone back there.'
'Why?'
'I don't know. Just a thought. It was where my mind took me to get away from them being dead. Understand?'
'I think so.' He was silent for a moment. 'Look, I've got to go now. Sooner I get started, more chance of seeing you tonight.'
'Right. I'll hear from you later. 'Bye.'
"Bye.'
The trouble with most of the stuff Pascoe's burglar got hold of was that it was valuable without being unique. The kind of houses he chose had enough good china, brass, bronze, silver and, occasionally, gold, lying around in one form or another to make his visit worthwhile. Bits of jewellery, cash even, generally quite inadequately locked away, were a frequent perk.
His technique as reconstructed by Pascoe was simple. He chose houses with gardens large enough to provide some kind of seclusion; drove up in his car (they had some completely unhelpful tyre marks); parked out of sight of the road, in the garage sometimes; smashed a window to get in (noise was no object where there was seclusion; on one occasion he had simply chopped down a kitchen door); examined the interior at leisure; filled a suitcase or two with whatever he evaluated highest; and left.
At first the break-ins had been straightforward. The first couple of houses looked as if they hadn't been touched. But an element of despoilation had crept in. Walls were defaced, carpets stained, furniture scarred. At Cottingley's house, the latest in the series, perhaps in acknowledgement of the value of his haul, he had merely left a kettle full of urine. Or perhaps, thought Pascoe, this marked a new direction. Defacation, masturbation even, during thefts of this kind were not uncommon elements in a certain criminal syndrome, frequently associated with great mental and emotional instability. He recalled uneasily the attack on the old man.
None of the stuff had turned up, not locally anyway, so there must be an efficient distribution system. Not that a great deal of it would be clearly identifiable in any case. The latest haul had been typical. A small amount of silver, as valuable melted down as in its present form. Some valuable but not unique glass. Ornaments. Some jewellery. An old clock. And Mrs Cottingley's collection of stones and pebbles, picked up all over the world, as she accompanied her husband on his frequent business trips. Only the clock offered them any real chance.
What he needed was a lead. At the moment there was not a useful thought in his head.
'Stuff it,' he said, and picked up his morning newspaper which he had not yet had time to open.
Colin peered out at him from near the bottom of the front page. For a moment he thought it meant they had found him, but it was only an appeal for public help. The short piece on the killings contained nothing new. There were a couple of meaningless quotations from Backhouse and, more surprisingly, a little harangue about the public weal from French, the coroner. Clearly he was a man who liked to be noticed.
He turned the pages to escape the photograph. Other people's troubles seemed to start from every column. Explosions, revolution, unemployment, a couple of strikes; a trade union leader in Bradford was accused of corruption; an international footballer had been suspended; a mineral mining company was accused of despoiling bonny Scotland. He looked at the last item more closely. The company was Nordrill; Culpepper's firm he recalled. Suddenly he was back in Thornton Lacey.
He crumpled the newspaper in his hands and dropped it into the waste bin. There was a knock at the door and a young head peered cheerfully round.