Ruling Passion

Pascoe restrained himself with difficulty from shaking her till her crooked teeth rattled.

'You weren't at the office on Monday afternoon though?'

'No. But I was in the High Street shopping and I saw Mr Atkinson and Mr James going into the office.'

'Ah.'

There didn't seem much else to say for a moment.

'What time was this?' he managed finally.

'About three. A bit later perhaps.'

'But you didn't see Mr Lewis?'

'No.'

'Sure?'

'Of course I am! I'd have noticed, wouldn't I, especially as he was meant to be in Scotland?'

'I suppose you would. This Mr Atkinson now…'

He paused. Suddenly he recalled where he had seen the name. John Atkinson. Lochart 269. In Sturgeon's telephone book. It was an absurd coincidence.

'What does he look like?'

'Look like. Well; I don't know.'

Tall? Tall as me?'

'Oh no. A bit shorter, I'd say. But broader across the shoulders. And he's older too. He's got grey hair. And a nice smile.'

'Thank you, Miss Collinwood,' said Pascoe. 'You've been very helpful. Just one more thing.'

It was absurd. But he might as well ask.

'Just where in Scotland is Mr Lewis's cottage?'

'Where? It's in a village somewhere. Near a place called Callander.'

'Lochart?'

'That's right. How did you know? It sounded very nice. He once said I could stay there some time. When he and his family weren't there, of course.'

'Of course,' said Pascoe, not even noticing the imminence of tears this time. His mind was too occupied elsewhere.

His indifference seemed to be therapeutic, for suddenly the girl brightened and smiled sweetly at him.

'Are you driving through town? You couldn't give me a lift, could you? I want to make a hair appointment. It's my birthday on Saturday.'

'Certainly,' said Pascoe. When she smiled she looked extremely pretty. She should smile more often. Perhaps everybody should.

But he could not feel that any possible development in this particular case was going to cause much amusement.

Chapter 6

'Don't be daft,' said Dalziel more from habit than conviction. 'What kind of connection could there be?'

'I don't know, sir,' said Pascoe. 'All I know is the connection that already exists.'

'Lewis has a cottage in a village called Lochart where Sturgeon appears to know somebody? It's not much!'

'Where Sturgeon appears not to know somebody. Remember that Harry Lauder, or whatever his name was, denied the existence of an Archie Selkirk.'

Dalziel whistled a few bars of 'Roamin' in the Gloamin', ending with a scornful discord.

'And there was the other man, Atkinson, also with a Lochart number.'

'Oh? Have you tried ringing it?'

'Not yet. I thought I'd check with Lauder first.'

'Go ahead,' commanded Dalziel waving at the phone on his desk.

He's hooked, thought Pascoe. It's a bit early yet for him to admit he likes the taste, but the bait's been swallowed.

'And there's another connection,' said Pascoe as he waited for his call to be put through.

'Yes?' said Dalziel, who had removed his left shoe and was scratching the sole of his foot on the corner of his desk.

'They were both burgled.'

'So they were. But so were a dozen others. You're not seriously suggesting that Lewis wasn't killed by laddo, but by someone else who had it in for him personally?'

'I don't know, sir.'

'You realize there's only one guy to date who might connect the two things. And that's your mate, Sturgeon. What's the theory then? He wants to do for Lewis, so lies in wait for him at his home, beats him to death, then makes it look like a housebreaking along the same lines as happened to him? Did he strike you as being the super-criminal type?'

'On the contrary,' said Pascoe. 'But men do strange things when. .. hello! Sergeant Lauder? Look, it's Sergeant Pascoe again, Mid-York… PASCOE, yes. We spoke earlier. No, it's not about Archie Selkirk again. No. John Atkinson. What's that you say?'

Some impediment on the line suddenly cleared and Lauder's voice came through loud and as clear as his accent would permit.

'No. There's nae such creature, Sergeant Pascoe. What is it that's making ye think all the missing persons in Yorkshire are coming here to Lochart? We're just a wee village, ye ken. Are ye no' mistaking us for Glasgow, mebbe?'

Dalziel took the phone from Pascoe and held it close to his lips.

'This is Detective-Superintendent Dalziel here, Sergeant. Let's not waste public money. Just answer the questions. Right? Lochart 269, whose number's that?'

'Good evening to ye, Superintendent Dalziel. You're no' from these parts, are ye? If it was a Dalziel you were seeking after, I could lay my hands on a dozen. They seem to be very thick about here.'

Too true anywhere, thought Pascoe, keeping a straight face with difficulty.

'Now, 269. Well, that's easy. It's the hotel. The Lochart Hotel. It's very comfortable, I believe.'

'I'm not bloody well going to stay there!' roared Dalziel. 'Listen, I'm interested in a man called Atkinson, John Atkinson, who may have stayed there in the recent past. I don't know how recent. Now if without causing too much disturbance you could find out when he was there, how long, and (if possible) why, I'd be very grateful.'

Description, mouthed Pascoe, trying to make it look somehow accidental.

'Shall I try for a description also?' asked Lauder. 'To make sure it's the right man?'

'Please,' murmured Dalziel with a self-restraint which Pascoe would not have believed he possessed. 'Soon as you can, eh.'

He gave Lauder his telephone number, replaced the receiver, and picked it up again straightaway.

'Get me the infirmary at Doncaster, will you?' he said. 'I want someone who knows something about the condition of Mr Edgar Sturgeon. I don't want some little brown man who doesn't know a thermometer from a banana.'

If they could expel Dalziel from the Commonwealth, thought Pascoe, there might be hope for peace in our time.

'Your girl-friend called, Sergeant,' said Dalziel suddenly.

'What?'

'I spoke to her.'

'What! I mean, what did she want, sir?'

'How should I know? She said bugger all to me.'

A tiny, tinny voice was coming out of the ear-piece with which Dalziel was massaging his bald spot. Finally he became aware of it.

'Hello!' he roared, reducing it to silence. But after introducing himself, he settled down to listen.

'Well, there's no help there,' he said when he had finished. 'It seems to me as if Sturgeon and Lewis are soon going to have something else in common. They're both going to be dead.'

The men searched the ground thoroughly for over an hour. Then they searched it again, this time with a metal detector. Only after this second search and after as comprehensive a photographing of the area as was possible outside Hollywood did Backhouse send the order to tow the blue Mini-Cooper away. There was no question of driving it away. The ignition had been left on, the engine was sodden wet and the wheels had buried themselves deep in a morass caused by the recent rains.

Backhouse walked through the gap in the wire and peered down into the clay-pit.

'I wouldn't go too near the edge, sir,' said Constable Crowther, practising what he preached and standing a good two yards back. Always sensitive to local expertise, Backhouse retreated before asking why.

'If you look over to the other side, sir, you'll see there's quite an overhang. Well, that continues all the way round. They gouged deep into the sides before they decided the place was played out.'

'When was that?'

'Oh, when I was just a lad, sir. I'm from these parts, as you know. There was always trouble with the drainage, I believe. Water coming in, but not finding a way out very easily. Finally they struck an underground stream and that was that. Once they stopped pumping it away, the place just filled up.'