'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 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.'