Ruling Passion

'Such as?' said Dalziel almost humbly.

'You name it. High blood pressure, bronchitis, cirrhosis, thrombosis.'

'God Almighty!' said Dalziel disbelievingly. 'I can't have them all!'

'Believe me,' said Grainger, 'we all have them all. Only some people have them more than others. I've made out a diet sheet for you. You'll need to drop at least a stone, to start with. It'll be difficult for you, especially without the comfort of tobacco and alcohol, so I'm giving you a prescription for a mild tranquillizer, just so you don't become too unbearable to yourself and others. OK?'

'OK,' said Dalziel helplessly. 'You're a bloody sadist though.'

'Do as I say and you may yet live to dance lightly on my grave.'

'One thing before I go,' said Dalziel, looking with distaste and disbelief at the diet sheet he held. 'You're on the committee at the Liberal Club aren't you?'

'That's right. You're not going to join after all this time?'

'I'm not that sick,' grunted Dalziel scornfully. 'No, it's just that a couple of your members have come my way lately.'

'Matt Lewis and Edgar Sturgeon, you mean? Tragic, tragic. Everyone at the club's desolated.'

'Were they very friendly? With each other, I mean.'

'Not particularly. Though I've seen them together once or twice since Edgar retired.'

'I see. Any word on either of them round the snooker table?'

'Pardon?'

'Come on!' said Dalziel. 'I know clubs. Any little titbits of gossip, scandal, you know?'

'I'm your doctor, Andy, not one of your snouts!' said Grainger indignantly.

'All right. No harm in asking, I've got some right surely after this!'

He waved the diet sheet violently in the air.

'You think so? All right then. I shall deny having said it but, in confidence, the word was that Lewis was a very sharp man on a business deal.'

'You mean a crook?'

'I mean he worked on a large profit margin in everything he did.'

'Oh aye. Suppose I told you he was financially in Queer Street when he died?'

Grainger nodded, unsurprised.

'Why not? The trouble with being a crook in a place like this is, it gets known. That little firm has always gone in for the "class" stuff – none of your suburban semis. So the people interested in the kind of property market Lewis and Cowley catered for are the same people who'd have heard the rumours. Businessmen, the aristocracy of brass. So a spiral starts. Less business for the firm, and then still less business because everybody knows they're doing less business! Add to this the rate at which Lewis could spend money.'

'What on?'

'Dear me, Andy, what do your underlings do nowadays? He's a lover of the good life, or was. Wine, women and song. So they tell me, I hasten to add. I have never been involved in any of his excesses.'

'Don't sound so regretful,' said Dalziel, rising and making for the door. 'And Sturgeon?'

'Pleasant chap. Self-made man, rose from having nothing to owning a nice little timber business. His wife talked him into selling up and retiring I believe; he didn't want to sit back and do nothing, you know what these blasted Yorkshiremen are like!'

'None better. Thanks. I must be off. You'll send me a bill?'

'Too bloody true,' said Grainger, picking up the diet sheet which Dalziel had replaced on the desk. 'And pay it quick if you're leaving this behind you. I don't want all the trouble of making claims against your estate.'

'Oh, give it here!' said Dalziel, taking the paper and thrusting it carelessly into his jacket pocket. 'Don't do too many illegal operations. Cheers.'

He left noisily. Grainger shook his head, smiling. But there was a shadow of worry in his eyes.

Chapter 8

Pascoe seemed to have spent the entire morning on the telephone, preserving a steady balance between official and unofficial business. First call was to Sergeant Lauder of Lochart who recognized his voice instantly.

'It's nice to hear from you again, Sergeant Pascoe,' he said. 'The day isna' complete without it.'

'Should auld acquaintance and all that,' said Pascoe. 'This time it's a man called Lewis, Matthew Lewis. He had a cottage somewhere near Lochart, I believe. Now why was I just pondering that?' inquired Pascoe.

'Because I am by the way of being a distruster of coincidence, Sergeant, and when I have to tell a woman called Mrs Lewis who has a week-end cottage in Lochart that her husband had been murdered, and when my colleagues in Yorkshire start ringing me up twice or thrice a day, why then I suspect a connection.'

'I hope this means you've anticipated my inquiries.'

'Perhaps so. The man Lewis has been coming here for nearly three years now. Week-ends and longer in the summer. He keeps himself to himself as far as the locals are concerned. He's usually with his wife and family.'

'Usually?' asked Pascoe, alert.

'Aye. But there have been others. Men and women. Such things are noticed. One other woman in particular.'

Dirty old Lewis, thought Pascoe.

'Anything else?'

'Nothing much. Some people in the village are looking after their dog. Mrs Lewis just wanted to get home as quickly as possible that night, you'll understand. Perhaps you might inquire about returning the beastie.'

'I will. Many thanks, Sergeant.'

'Just one more thing. Since you were so interested in this man, Atkinson, who stayed at the hotel, I went back through the hotel register just to see if anything else struck me. I made a note of one or two names, people with addresses from your part of the world who'd stayed there this summer. Would you be interested?'

'I certainly would.'

The list was not very long. Only one name was notable and Pascoe was less than surprised. Mr and Mrs E. Sturgeon. He checked the dates. They had been there for three nights early in the summer; clearly the holiday during which their house had been burgled.

'Thanks, Sergeant,' he said. 'I've no doubt we'll be in touch again.'

Doncaster Royal Infirmary was next on his list. Sturgeon's condition was unchanged. It was impossible to say whether or not a visit would be worthwhile – The tone used here was clearly disapproving. But they had never heard Dalziel's disapproval, thought Pascoe as he replaced the receiver. He would have to go.

Finally he contacted the garage to determine the results of the examination of Sturgeon's car.

He thought of this some time later as he drove by the scene of the crash. Not that there was anything to see. Sturgeon's car had, of course, been lifted away, and at Pascoe's speed, a broken hedge and ploughed-up grass were hard to spot.

The car was being closely examined, and according to the reports which he had got via the telephone, there seemed to be little reason for the crash. Tyres were all OK and the steering was absolutely sound. No evidence had yet been discovered of mechanical failure. The full report might show otherwise, but Pascoe's uneasy feeling was getting worse.

The doctor he spoke to confirmed it. So far as they could tell there had been no physical explanation of the crash in Sturgeon himself. All damage had clearly stemmed from the accident, not contributed to it.

'What are his chances?' asked Pascoe.

'Pretty slim, I'd say,' answered the doctor. 'He was badly knocked about, lost a lot of blood. But it's not just that. He doesn't seem to have the least interest in staying alive.'

'How can you say that?' protested Pascoe. 'He's only been here twenty-four hours. You can't expect much joy and laughter after what he's been through.'