Ruling Passion (20 page)

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.'

'Listen,' said the doctor, 'I won't arrest any  motorists if you don't make diagnoses. All right? And I'll tell you this. If it wasn't for the fact that  I believe he might well be dead before morning, you wouldn't be going to see him now.'

What there was to see of Sturgeon's face confirmed the doctor's words. It was deadly pale and  pinched-looking, as though the blood had been  squeezed out of it by force. His eyes miraculously had escaped the onslaught of shivered  glass which had gashed his scalp and brow as  he pitched forward into the windscreen. But  the flicker of recognition as they stared up at  Pascoe was a mere movement on the surface of  despair.

It was no time for social exordia.

'Mr Sturgeon, I rang Lochart,' said Pascoe deliberately. 'The constable there says there's no one  called Archie Selkirk in the district.'

There was no response.

'He told me you'd phoned as well. What did you want with this man, Selkirk?'

Sturgeon closed his eyes, but he was still listening.

'What about John Atkinson then?' asked Pascoe. 'What's your connection with him? Do you know James Cowley? Did you know Matthew Lewis?'

The eyelids perceptibly pressed down more tightly on the eyes. This was getting them nowhere. A passing nurse pushed the door open, peered assessingly  at Pascoe, and went on her way.

'Listen, Edgar,' urged Pascoe leaning closer, 'this  is doing you no good. I want to help. You
wanted 
me to help. Just tell me what it's all about and I'll  try to sort things out. Is it something to do with  the robbery? Your stamps?'

Still nothing. It was difficult to know where  to go from here. The man was in no state to withstand the kind of shock being questioned  about a murder could give him. Pascoe could hardly believe that a man like Sturgeon could  have had the will or the strength to kill Lewis, but his innocence would possibly just increase  the shock.

'All right, Edgar. I'm going now,' he said to the  closed eyes. 'I'll come again.'

He rose to leave. The eyes opened.

'Mavis?' whispered Sturgeon.

'Mavis? Yes, I've been to see her.'

'To see?' Sturgeon was puzzled. Of course, he doesn't know she's in hospital as well, thought Pascoe. He's wondering why it's me standing here,  not her.

'I'll tell her,' he said reassuringly, eager to get  out now.

'Let her come. I want to explain.'

The words were almost inaudible. The door opened and the doctor and nurse appeared. Pascoe  ignored them.

'Explain what, Edgar?'

'I can see you've cheered him up,' said the  doctor. 'What's he said?'

'He was asking for his wife.'

'His wife? For God's sake man, you didn't tell  him she was in hospital too, did you?'

'Hospital? Mavis in hospital?'

There was nothing inaudible about Sturgeon now.

'No, but you did,' Pascoe answered the doctor. 'Listen, Edgar, it's all right, she'll be all right. She was just upset when she heard about your  accident, that's all. You get better, she'll get better, it's as simple as that.'

Sturgeon stared up at him, his eyes alive with  feeling now.

'Damn them,' he said. 'Damn them to buggery!  Damn them!'

'Who, Edgar? Who?' said Pascoe, feeling it should be 'whom?' Sturgeon ignored him. He took two or three deep breaths.

'How am I, Doctor?' he asked feebly. 'Will I  mend?'

'Certainly, old man. With care you could be your  old self in a couple of months.' He sounded very convincing.

'Right,’ said Sturgeon. 'I want a word with Sergeant Pascoe now.'

The doctor looked down at him dubiously for a  moment, but whatever he saw in the old man's  face seemed to satisfy him.

'Five minutes,' he said. 'That's all.'

Sturgeon was talking before the doctor and nurse  had left the room. His voice was low and shaky, but he spoke fast, like a man in a great hurry.  Pascoe asked no questions, did not interrupt at all. After ten minutes the nurse returned and angrily chased him.

He met the doctor outside.

'Any use?' the man asked cheerfully.

'I think so. What about him?'

He looked backwards to the now completely still figure in the bed.

'Well, I'd say you've either killed or cured him, wouldn't you? Time will tell. We'll let you know.'

It was with relief that Pascoe had stepped out into the dingy sunshine of a Doncaster day and made his way to a phone box. He could  have begged the use of one in the infirmary,  but it had seemed important to get out into  the open as quickly as possible. Even spacious, modern, well-equipped hospitals could deafen  the mind with imagined screamings of pain and  despair.

Dalziel listened with interest to what he told him. He sounded unsurprised.

‘I thought it must be something like that,' he said. 'Silly bugger. You wonder how they make a living, don't you?'

'He'll be lucky if he makes much more of one,'  said Pascoe.

'What? Oh aye. Do you think he killed Lewis?'

'No.'

'You're very certain. You can't expect a deathbed  confession if the sod's decided not to die after all.  Here. Have you thought on? That break-in. No,  not at Lewis's, at Sturgeon's own place. Could he have done it himself to get the insurance money,  tide him over a bit?'

'Hardly, sir,' said Pascoe. 'He was in Lochart  that week, remember? He hadn't signed up yet, and even when he did, it took a long time for  disenchantment to set in.'

Sturgeon's story had been so incredible it had to be true. Bored with inactivity after a few months'  retirement, he had been rash enough to reveal his malaise in the company of Matthew Lewis. Lewis (as Pascoe reconstructed) had taken care to bump  into Sturgeon fairly frequently at the Liberal Club  in the following weeks and had steered conversation round to his own adventures on the stock  market, expressing a special interest in Nordrill  Mining (whose shares, Pascoe later ascertained, were moving steadily upwards at this time). Sturgeon had been fairly interested by this, but he  became really interested when Lewis started dropping hints that he was going to cash in on Nordrill in more ways than one. He probably pretended to drink too much one night and revealed that he had inside information of a potentially rich mineral  strike at Nordrill's test bore not far from his holiday cottage at Lochart. After that things had moved with tragic inevitability, with Sturgeon, like the  hard-headed, clear-sighted Yorkshire businessman  he imagined he was, measuring every step he took  with the utmost care and Lewis with even greater care making sure that there was always a small  piece of firm ground under Sturgeon's foot.

First Atkinson was introduced as Nordrill's site engineer. He had even taken them round the drilling site one Sunday afternoon, the watchman  doubtless having been persuaded to stick in his  hut with a couple of fivers for company. Naturally Atkinson confirmed the strike.

Next Archie Selkirk of Strath Farm had appeared on the scene, the alleged owner of a large tract of what was euphemistically called hill-farming  land under which most of the mineral ore would  probably lie. He was willing to let others take the  risk of negotiating with Nordrill, if it ever came to  that, and was selling the land at a mere half of  its potential price. Lewis bought as much as he could afford. Sturgeon acted as a witness of the  deal. By now he was firmly hooked. An agreement was drawn up for another parcel of land. Atkinson suddenly let slip that the news was going  to break in the national Press the following week and Nordrill's own land-agents would be getting to work the very next day. Sturgeon went the wholehog, cashed in on all his resources including using his house as security for a loan, and bought every acre Selkirk had to offer. It cost him over forty  thousand pounds.

'He hasn't a penny left in the world,' Pascoe had concluded. 'It took a long time for him to get  suspicious but when he read in Monday's paper  that questions were being asked about Nordrill's  intentions in Scotland, he got worried. He tried  to contact Lewis at his office, but he wasn't there  of course on Monday morning. Then when I got  in touch with him about the stamps, he took the  opportunity to ask me to check on Archie Selkirk. I  was too busy to do anything. Perhaps if I'd pressed  him more..’

'Stop being a bloody martyr and get on with it,'  interjected Dalziel.

'So he rang Lochart police-station for himself on Tuesday. Lauder told him emphatically no such  person existed. Next thing, he looks in the paper  and sees Lewis is dead. And on Wednesday morning, Nordrill announce they're stopping work in  Scotland. He tried to ring me, God knows why. I  wish that . . . anyway, by Wednesday lunch-time he'd got it into his head that the important thing  was to see his wife well cared for financially. With  Lewis dead, he could see little hope of regaining his money. But he was well insured, so off he set down  the Al, bent on killing himself and making it look accidental. Fortunately he was determined no one else would be affected, so instead of making sure of it going across the central reservation and getting a seventy plus seventy crash, he went over the edge. When he realized the news of his accident had put Mavis in hospital, he saw what a bloody fool he'd  been. And he talked.'