Ruling Passion (7 page)

French, the coroner, was there already, his  golfing gear exchanged for a grey suit. He and  Backhouse exchanged a few words, then very quickly he got the inquest under way.

The superintendent was right about this too. Pascoe was called upon briefly to give evidence of  identification and time of discovery; Dr Hardisty  gave medical evidence of the cause of death, based  partly on his own observation and partly on the  pathologist's preliminary report which had just  arrived. Death resulted in all three cases from  shotgun wounds. The two men had been shot at  close quarters with one cartridge apiece. Timothy  Mansfield had received his shot full in the chest  and had died as a result of the damage inflicted  on his lungs and heart. Charles Rushworth had  been shot in the neck and lower face. His wind-pipe had been severed. Rose Hopkins had been shot from a greater distance than the other two,  but both barrels of the gun had been used on  her. No vital organ had been hit, but her jugular  vein had been severed and she had bled to death  as she lay unconscious from the shock of the  onslaught.

Pascoe put his head in his hands and stared desperately at the floor. The wood was old and  tending to splinter. Dangerous that for children.

Time of death was between eight and eleven pm. The full autopsy results might be more precise, but the coroner would appreciate that with three  bodies to work on, it had not yet been possible to  deal fully with them all.

The coroner appreciated this, spoke briefly of the  horror of the event, wished the police inquiries an  early success, and declared the inquest adjourned.

Pascoe had had enough to do with inquests  to know what this meant. An early arrest was  expected. No attempt would be made to resume  the inquest if this happened and someone was  charged. The coroner would wait until the criminal  court proceedings were over, then make his return  to the registrar of deaths on the basis of that court's  verdict.

And if an early arrest was looked for, there could  only be one person they had in mind.

As he rose to leave, he found himself surrounded  by newspapermen. From being just an anonymous  policeman, he had been pitched into the current  star role. For the discoverer of the deaths to be  a detective himself,
and
an old friend of both the murdered trio and the chief suspect, was a  splendid bit of gilt for this lily of a murder. They were as decent and compassionate as it is possible  to be when a dozen or more people are all trying  to have their questions answered at the same  time. To Pascoe it felt like having his head in a cloud of amplified midges. He tried to answer  their questions for a few minutes, then, trailing  them with him, he pushed his way to the door.

Backhouse's car was parked by the school-gate. Pascoe opened the door and climbed in.

'The super says to take me back to the station,'  he told the driver, who set off without hesitation.

A piece of mind-reading rather than a lie,  thought Pascoe as he settled back in his seat.

As the car passed the little shop on the hill, he  saw the colourful figure of Davenant just coming out. The man gave a cheery wave, apparently little  disturbed at having missed the inquest. Pascoe ignored him. You didn't wave at people from  police cars.

The main street traffic had suddenly become  very heavy and they had to wait a few minutes  at the intersection.

'It's been on the news,' said the driver knowledgeably.

'What?' said Pascoe.

'The murders. That's what this lot are after. It's  better than
Grandstand
on a nice afternoon.'

It was a phenomenon that Pascoe was not  unused to. The
spectator syndrome
he had once  called it to Dalziel, who had shrugged and said  that it was better than watching cock-fighting and  cheaper than watching strippers and what the hell  kind of word was
syndrome
anyway? Before today  it had often fascinated him as a sociologist and  sometimes annoyed him as a policeman. But now it made him sick and angry. It did no good to tell  himself that most of the shirt-sleeved drivers and  their family-packed cars were probably going about their legitimate Saturday afternoon business. The thought that any of them had driven out of their way especially to look at the cottage where last  night three people were shot to death filled him  with an indiscriminate loathing.

At Crowther's house he stepped from the car  with the curtest of nods to the driver and went  quickly inside.

To his surprise Ellie was up and dressed. She  looked pale but alert and warded off his attempt  at a comforting embrace.

'Have they found Colin?' was her first question.

He shook his head.

'What happened at the inquest?'

'It was adjourned.'

'I asked you what happened. They didn't just open the thing and adjourn it, did they?'

'No. They took evidence of identification and  cause of death.'

'Tell me.'

At first he demurred, but she pressed him hard  and his own powers of resistance were so low that  in the end it was easier to answer her questions  than evade them.

'So it happened between eight and eleven?'

'Yes. They reckon so.'

'And Rose bled to death, lying there unconscious?'

'Yes.' He spoke very low. He knew what was  coming, didn't want her to say it, but knew no  way of preventing it.

'So then. If it hadn't been for you and your  bloody job, we'd have got there last night. We might have got there in time to stop all of this  happening. We'd certainly have got there in time to help Rose. Is that right?'

'I suppose so. Yes. I've thought of it too.'

'Have you now? I should hope you have. What  I wonder, Peter, is how the hell are you ever going  to stop thinking about it?'

She turned from the window at which she had  been standing and faced him accusingly.

'Have you thought about
that?' 

Chapter 6

'What I should like from you, Miss Soper, if you  feel up to it,' said Backhouse sympathetically, 'is background information. Anything at all you can  tell us about Rose and Colin Hopkins. And the other two as well, of course.'

He had turned up midway through the bitter quarrel which had followed Ellie's accusations. The  news that Ellie had recovered sufficiently to leave  her bed had been given him by Crowther and he  had come as quickly as possible. Not that there was  any real urgency about interviewing the woman.  The trouble was that now the machine had been started and was running smoothly, there was no real urgency about anything. It had been decided  to issue photographs of Hopkins to the Press and television services. He was still being described as 'a man the police wish to interview'. At the same  time, the public were being warned that if they  saw him or his car, they should make no approach themselves but call the nearest police station.

So now it was mainly a matter of sitting back and waiting for the reported sightings to start  flowing in.

He looked impassively at the photograph in  his hand. It wasn't bad. The police photographer had had a good selection to choose from. The  Hopkinses had been hoarders of snapshots. There  had even been a couple with a very youthful but instantly recognizable Peter Pascoe grinning  merrily at the camera. But this he held in his hand  was the face they were after. An intelligent face. Wide-eyed, a humorous mouth easily pulled into  a smile or opened for laughter, yet something restless haunted those features. The picture of his wife gave a much greater impression of calm reliability.  Perhaps he needed this in her. Had needed it. Was without it now.

'You'll have to ask me questions,' said Ellie. 'I don't know where to start.'

'Of course. It's difficult, I understand. I'll put the big question first. Have you any idea where Colin  Hopkins might be?'

'No, I haven't. I'm sorry, but . . .' she looked  from Backhouse to Pascoe who sat, pale and withdrawn, staring through the window. She hasn't  caught on yet, thought Backhouse suddenly. She thinks Hopkins was called away unexpectedly last night, is going to appear full of horrified amazement at what's happened, will need to be calmed, comforted, consoled. For God's sake, what the  devil has Pascoe been saying to her?

He remembered the atmosphere when he arrived. Strained, tense, there had been great hostility in  the air. Any minute now, some of it was coming  his way. He might as well get it over with.

'Miss Soper,' he said gently, 'I think you should understand the position. Mr Hopkins was almost certainly with his wife and friends last night. He  had had dinner with them. He had been drinking  with them after dinner. We know this. There was  a half-filled glass with his fingerprints on in the  lounge.'

'What are you saying, Superintendent?' asked Ellie, pushing her hair back from her brow.

Pascoe interrupted from the window.

'He's saying that they're not searching for Colin so they can give him the bad news. They want him  as the chief - in fact, the only - suspect,' he said.

Ellie froze, her hand still at her brow.

'Of course,' she said after a while. 'I've been silly. It must be those bloody pills they gave me. That's what you would think, isn't it? It's nonsense, of  course, but that's how your minds would work.'

At least she's taking it quietly, thought Backhouse. Too soon. She turned towards Pascoe.

'So while I've been sleeping, you've been helping them hunt down Colin?' she uttered vituperatively. 'And now they've pumped you dry, they  want to see if I can put them on to any other  scents!'

'For a would-be novelist you do mix your metaphors,' said Pascoe coldly.

'Please, please,' said Backhouse soothingly. 'Let's keep things calm. Miss Soper, if it's any  consolation to you - though, as an intelligent  and no doubt public-spirited woman, I don't see why it should be - Sergeant Pascoe has been most  uncooperative, even antagonistic, with regard  to our search for Mr Hopkins. In fact, I had  to intervene to prevent him from physically  assaulting one man who talked critically of your friend. Such loyalty, I hasten to add, I do not find touching but foolish. The circumstantial evidence  against your friend is strong. But now if it turns out to be misleading, he's got to be found. Now,  will you help?'

Ellie nodded, her eyes on Pascoe.

'Yes. If I can,' she said quietly.

'Right. Tell me about Colin Hopkins then.'

'We were all at university together,' she began.  'Colin, Rose, Timmy, Carlo. And Peter and me. We were pretty close. There were plenty of others, of  course, but we were close.'

'You all went on holiday together,' prompted  Backhouse.

'That's right. So we did. In Eskdale.' She smiled  at the memory. 'Life seemed fairly cut and dried  then. In the nicest way. Rose and Colin. Peter and  me. And . . .'

'The other two men were homosexual,' said  Backhouse neutrally.

'Yes. That's right,' said Ellie challengingly. Backhouse ignored the challenge.

Things seem to have worked out as you anticipated,’ he said. 'But you seem uncertain?'

'I didn't anticipate this,’ she snapped, relenting instantly. 'Sorry. No, after we all finished, it was  only Colin and Rose who stuck together. They got  married about a year later. I don't think they'd  have bothered, but Colin had joined a publishing house and they thought it was worthwhile  observing the conventions till he got stinking rich. Timmy was a linguist and got a job in the Common  Market HQ in Brussels. Carlo went to work for  some firm in Glasgow. I finished my research.'

'Research?' interrupted Backhouse.

'That's right. I was a graduate research student.  I just condescended to mingle with the children. I'm a couple of years older than the others,' she  added defiantly.

Backhouse studied her slim figure, held the gaze  of the grey eyes set in the finely-sculpted head with  its close-cut jet black hair.

'You carry your burden of years very well,' he  murmured.

'Thanks.' She smiled, the first time he had seen her do so. 'I got an assistant lectureship in the Midlands. And Peter, of course, put on the helmet  of salvation and became a policeman. I think the only time we all met together again was at Colin and Rose's wedding.'

'Not Timmy,’ interjected Pascoe. 'He couldn't  make it.'

'That's right. He couldn't. Well, we all kept intermittently in touch and saw something of each  other. Except Peter. Within a couple of years or so  he'd fallen almost completely from sight.'

'I was very busy. Besides being poorly paid with  very limited vacation periods,' said Pascoe.

'A policeman's lot,' said Backhouse.

'Of course, he got a bit of a complex too. Felt  that he would be a bit of a nuisance, perhaps even a butt, in the liberal academic and cultural circles  his friends inhabited,' said Ellie mockingly. But her  tone was light.

'But you saw the others?'

'Sometimes. A couple of years ago, Timmy returned from the Continent. I think Carlo had  already been working in London for six months  or so. They took a flat together. Colin meanwhile  had been going from strength to strength and had  become the darling of his bosses to such an extent  that he got them persuaded a few months ago to  give him a year's sabbatical so that he could write 
his
book which would make everybody's fortune.  Brookside Cottage was where he decided to settle  for the period. And he planned to keep it on as a week-end retreat after his triumphal return to  London.'

'I see,' said Backhouse thoughtfully. 'And did you know all this before you met him in London  recently?'

Ellie shot a quick glance at Pascoe.

'It was in the letter of invitation which the sergeant showed me,' explained Backhouse.

'I knew vaguely about it,' said Ellie. 'But it wasn't till I met him that I got all the details.'

'A chance meeting, Was it?'

'That's right. Chance. Oh hell, no. Not chance.  I've been trying to flog a book of my own, a novel.  Without much success. I laid an ambush for Colin.  I thought he might be able to help.'

'You never told me that,' said Pascoe, surprised.