Ruling Passion

'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.'

'You may be right, Andy. Perhaps his assets are looked after somewhere else.'

'I see. Well, perhaps I'll stick in my own place for a bit. Cheers, Willie. See you at the club some night.'

So. As far as Willie Noolan knew (and on matters financial there was little that happened locally without Willie getting a sniff of it) Lewis and Cowley were in a bad way, a business crisis which overspilled into Lewis's private life. It would be easy to check Noolan's hints, but hardly necessary, he felt. The house must be heavily mortgaged, the cottage too, and from the sound of it, there might not be a lot of insurance cover there.

All in all, one ought to feel very sorry about Matthew Lewis. But there was something in all this which bothered him. Perhaps it was time James Cowley was confronted with the full majesty of a detective-superintendent instead of the lightweight threat of a sergeant.

Which reminded him of Pascoe whom he had not yet seen. He felt slightly guilty. The lad would probably have read about it in the newspapers now. Still, that was what life was all about. You opened a paper and read that someone you knew had died. Or was dying. Or was going to be killed.

And one day the name you read was your own.

There was a knock at the door and it was no surprise when Pascoe walked in.

'You've seen the papers, Sergeant?'

'Sir.'

'I'm sorry. If I'd known where you were last night, I'd have told you. But there's still no body been found.'

'No, sir.'

'Tell me, Sergeant, this friend of yours, would he write a suicide note in poetry?'

'What?'

'Poetry.'

'The note was in poetry?' Pascoe thought hard. 'I doubt it… well, no one would… but he might quote somebody else's. He was – is – a great lover of the apt quotation. You don't happen to know what the note said?'

'No, lad. Such things are not revealed lightly, even among policemen. Anyway, put it out of your mind. There's other work to be done. This Lewis business.'

Quickly he filled Pascoe in on the new information they had.

'Nothing gels,' he said in conclusion. 'It's all scrappy. I think you'll have to go and talk with Sturgeon if you can.'

'To Doncaster?'

'If it's inconvenient,' said Dalziel wearily, 'we could ask him to meet you half-way. He is after all merely a sixty-eight-year-old man, half dead after a car crash. He is also the only person who can confirm or deny what seems to be a nutty idea on the face of it – i.e. that he killed Lewis. If he did, I'd like his word on it before he snuffs it. So hurry.'

'Yes, sir,' said Pascoe without enthusiasm.

'How's his wife?' asked Dalziel.

'Still in hospital, but getting better. She was worried about the cats.'

'Hospitals,' said Dalziel gloomily. 'It's been a good week for the doctors. Off you go then, Sergeant. We might as well keep up the illusion of motion, though it's all running on the bloody spot. By the way, while you're at it, find out anything you can on the circumstances of Sturgeon's crash, will you? I'm beginning to have a feeling about this.'

'Me too, sir. But I'm not sure what.'

'Suicide after murder. It's not uncommon.'

'No, it's not,' said Pascoe flatly

'Oh, shit!' said Dalziel. 'I'm sorry. I keep forgetting… look, just how concerned are you about this other business, Sergeant? How delicately do you want people to tread?'

'It bothers me,' admitted Pascoe. 'It's getting better but it's always there. And sometimes I feel this anger stirring inside. Such an anger that I could..’

He found he had clenched his fists and forced himself to relax. Why am I telling Dalziel this? he wondered. A fat old copper who thinks tears in a man are proofs incontrovertible of homosexual tendencies.

'Hold it in, lad,' advised Dalziel. 'One of these days it'll mebbe come in handy. By the way, I forgot. We never asked Lauder if he knew anything about Lewis. Give him a ring before you set off for sunny Doncaster.'

He said I forgot, noted Pascoe. Coming from Dalziel this was a kind of sympathy.

'You've been worried, have you, Andy?' asked Dr Grainger. 'That's good. I hoped you might be.'

'Hoped?'

'That's it. I bet your fertile imagination's run through every disease known to man and invented a few more besides. Well, you'll be pleased to know you've got none of them.'

'None? You mean there's nothing wrong with me?' growled Dalziel, beginning to bristle with anger.

'Don't sound so disappointed. Anyway, you're far from perfect, I assure you. That's why a bit of good honest fear might be a help. Let me list your faults. You smoke too much, you drink too much and you eat too much. In addition you try to interrupt your doctor. You wanted bad news. I'll give it to you. You follow my advice or within a twelvemonth, two years at the most, I reckon you'll be laid low, perhaps permanently, by one or more of half a dozen complaints.'