Ruling Passion

Cowley whistled.

'God knows. That's a while ago, isn't it?'

'I realize that, sir. Do try. A diary, perhaps?' suggested Pascoe.

'I don't keep one. Only my office diary and that doesn't run to week-ends,' said Cowley, flicking through the pages of his leatherbound desk diary. 'Hang on though. You're in luck.'

'Yes?'

'Well, most of that week-end I was here. Working on accounts, checking our mailing list and property details, that kind of thing. It's a half-yearly job. We take turns at it. This was mine. Poor Matthew, I remember, was in Scotland.'

He turned the book round so that they could see the entry.

'So you were alone, Mr Cowley?'

'Yes.'

'You live by yourself as well, don't you?'

'You seem to know a lot about me,' said Cowley aggressively.

'We took closely at everyone connected with a murder victim,' said Dalziel placatingly. 'Sergeant, what's your point? We mustn't keep Mr Cowley from his customer.'

Cheeky sod! thought Pascoe.

'No point really, sir. I was just interested in Mr Cowley's whereabouts that week-end. I'm sure someone saw him

'Saw me? Of course someone saw me!' Cowley looked at Pascoe as if he were some rare and rather unpleasant animal. 'For a start I don't do the job by myself, you know. Miss Clayton and Miss Collingwood were here too doing their bit. Ask 'em! Superintendent, I don't understand your underling. If he'd wanted to know about this week-end or Monday afternoon, that would figure. But all that time ago…!'

'Don't worry, sir. We're checking that too,' said Dalziel, rising. 'No sign of your client yet? Sergeant, have a look.'

Solemnly, Pascoe peered into the outer office.

'No, sir. Empty.'

'Dear me. I hope we haven't chased him away. Well, thank you for your time, Mr Cowley. Sorry to have troubled you. If Mr Atkinson should get in touch again, please let us know. Good evening.'

Outside Dalziel looked assessingly at the sun's declension.

'You can buy me a drink,' he said finally.

'The Black Eagle, sir?'

'No. Somewhere where telephones don't ring. Round the corner here'll do.'

At this time of evening they were the only customers in the ugly little pub Dalziel had discovered. Instead of his usual scotch he ordered a gin and a sugar-free tonic.

Pascoe expressed surprise.

'I'm cutting down,’ said Dalziel, adding two drops of the tonic to his gin and drinking the mixture with a shudder.

'Ah,' said Pascoe.

'Your bright idea that Cowley and Selkirk might be one and the same sank like turtle-shit, didn't it?' said Dalziel gleefully.

'It was a thought,' said Pascoe. 'I'll check with the girls all the same. If it wasn't that, then what part could he have played? I suppose he could be in the clear?'

'Who knows? I doubt it, but I could be biased. He's not a kind of man I care for.'

It was like the Pope admitting some uncertainty about the position of the Mormons.

'What's the next move, sir?'

'We'll try the Shelley, but I doubt if we'll have much luck. Have a word with Mrs Lewis, see what she can tell us about Atkinson. After that, God knows.'

He shrugged fatalistically and finished his drink. He looked tired.

'Is it possible Lewis got taken as well? That he wasn't in the con after all?'

'No. Cowley I'll admit some doubt about. Lewis, no. We'd better get some expert help from the fraud lads on this. That forty thou's got to be somewhere. Do you want another?'

'No, thanks. I talked with Lauder about the Lewises. He reckoned Lewis sometimes took a bit of spare up there.'

'It figures. A man needs his hobbies. Anything else?'

'No. Except he wants to know what to do with the Lewises' dog.'

'Dog?' Dalziel looked interested. 'Dog? That reminds me, I had a notion earlier. But no. It doesn't help much, does it?'

'What doesn't?' asked Pascoe patiently.

'These break-ins. There seem to be a lot of pets around. Sturgeon's cats. Cottingley's dog. You keep on coming back with more hairs on you than a gorilla's arse. If there was a tip-off coming from a kennels, it'd explain how our friend knew whose house is empty when. But if the Lewises' dog went with them, it doesn't work.'

'Unless, as you suggested before, the Lewis job wasn't in the series,' said Pascoe.

'But you don't reckon Sturgeon?'

'No. But that still leaves Atkinson. And perhaps Cowley. And forty thousand pounds.'

'True, Sergeant. Check the other houses that got done for pets, then. See if there is a connection.'

'Now, sir?'

'You said you didn't want another drink, so you can't have anything else to do,'

The old Dalziel logic. Pascoe drank the last of his beer. He must be reaching maturity, he hardly felt even slightly irritated.

'I think I can spare you half an hour of my time, sir,' he said lightly. The reaction surprised him.

'You can spare me as much of your bloody time as I require,' said Dalziel with some force. 'We don't work nine to five and we can't afford private lives. Haven't you learned that much yet?'

'I've learned that if you're one thing all your life you become less than that one thing,' answered Pascoe, feeling his recent sense of mature invulnerability evaporating. 'You can be too dedicated.'

'Can you? What the hell do you know, Sergeant? Do you want to spend your life in the company of people who think of us as "pigs"?'

'You're talking about Ellie Soper?'

'I didn't mention her,' grunted Dalziel.

'Now listen,' said Pascoe with quiet vehemence. 'I've had the gist of what you said to her on the phone the other day. You'd better understand, sir, I make my own decisions. I need no keeper, no protection. You're my superior officer, but what I do with my life's my own business. And who I do it with.'

Dalziel didn't speak but went to the bar and bought another round. Pascoe's was a large scotch, his own another gin and tonic.

'What's this for?' asked Pascoe, looking suspiciously at his glass.

'Drink it down. Your promotion's through. It'll be published next week.'

'What?'

'Yes. Congratulations.'

Pascoe drank, his mind full of fragmented thoughts.

'You'll probably be off somewhere else.'

'Will I?'

'It's usual.'

Pascoe smiled almost apologetically.

'You'll have to find youself another boy,' he said.

'This time I might try for a man,' answered Dalziel.

But there was no force, no passion behind the exchange. Instead it hung on the air like the dully resigned, totally inadequate farewells of friends who part, uncertain whether they will ever meet again.

The next morning Pascoe heard that the Thornton Lacey inquest was to be reopened and would take place on the following Tuesday.

PART THREE Chapter 1

What sudden horrors rise! a naked lover bound and bleeding speed the soft intercourse from still on that breast enamoured let me he best can paint 'em who shall give all thou canst and let me dream the rest her gloomy presence a browner horror all is calm in this eternal sleep here for ever death, only death, can break here, even then, shall my cold dust remain I view my crime but kindle at I come, I come! thither where sinners may have rest I go in sacred vestments mayst thou stand teach me at once and learn of me to die condemned.

The piece of paper was crumpled and grubby from much handling and examination. A jagged upper edge showed it had been torn off a larger sheet. But the handwriting was indisputably Colin's as far as Pascoe could assess, and the experts had agreed.

'What did they find?' he asked, just for the sake of speaking rationally through the confusion of thoughts stirred up by what he had read.

'Fingerprints – Hopkin's – they checked them against sets in the cottage known to be his by elimination. Also the young lad's who found the car. No others. Written recently. Ink and paper of a kind discovered in the cottage. What do you make of it?'