Ruling Passion. Reginald Hill

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СКАЧАТЬ unit, though at a glance Pascoe could tell there was very little happening at this precise moment. There was a slight acceleration of tempo for Backhouse’s benefit as he walked the length of the room, but the atmosphere of the place was one of straightforward, almost drowsy routine. A few dust-filled buttresses of sunlight from the narrow window leaned against the shadowy walls. It might have been a summer’s afternoon in a Victorian bank.

      Backhouse came up, looking at his watch.

      ‘It’s about ten minutes’ walk to the school. We won’t bother with the car, if that’s all right with you.’

      ‘Surely.’

      ‘Good. I like to get what exercise I can. There’s nothing new by the way. I’ve brought the men out of the woods. Waste of time. They’ll be better on house-to-house.’

      Outside they almost ran into the man in the yellow leather jacket. He raised his eyebrows comically as he saw them.

      ‘Hello, darlings,’ he said. ‘I thought you looked a bit peelerish back in the pub.’

      ‘It was kind of you not to comment, sir,’ said Backhouse courteously.

      ‘That’s all right. I’m strictly an observer, aren’t I? You can reward me, though. How do I get to the village school? I thought I might look in on this inquest thing.’

      ‘We’re going there ourselves. Perhaps you’d care to join us?’ said Backhouse, somewhat to Pascoe’s surprise.

      ‘Well, I suppose it’s either that or following you, which might look a trifle odd. This is definitely not a place to look odd in, is it, don’t you think? I imagine they stone you if you look odd.’

      ‘You seemed to get on very well with the landlord back there,’ remarked Backhouse as they set off up the winding sun-mellow street.

      ‘Yes. Well, I’m Press, you see, and these village publicans are always hoping for a little puff in the colour mags, if you see what I mean. I’ve done one or two country-pub gourmet features, you know the kind of thing; horse-brass up your ass, and a beautifully kept pork pie.’

      ‘You must be Anton Davenant,’ said Backhouse.

      ‘That’s right. How clever. Sounds like a dirty French song, doesn’t it? And you …?’

      ‘Backhouse. Detective-Superintendent. And this is Sergeant Pascoe.’

      ‘Oh.’

      Pascoe felt the man’s gaze run swiftly over him as though taking a blueprint and laying it aside for future reference. He recognized the name Davenant faintly. He rarely had time to get as far as the colour supplements on a Sunday, but on some occasion recently he had come across the name.

      ‘How envious all these hard-bitten crime men will be when I turn up in such illustrious company,’ said Davenant.

      ‘As a matter of interest,’ said Backhouse, ‘just what are you doing here among all these hard-bitten crime men?’

      ‘I was fortunate enough to be in the vicinity, that’s all. And my current editor, knowing I was hereabouts, instantly got in touch when this dreadful business was bruited abroad. I think he hopes for something rather quaint from me. A Vintage Murder perhaps. Or First Catch Your Killer. He used words like atmosphere and human interest, and eventually (and here I capitulated), money. But enough of interesting me. What of interesting you? What have your fascinating investigations upturned?’

      ‘Very little so far, Mr Davenant,’ said Backhouse cheerfully, pausing to admire a magnificent dahlia border and being admired in his turn by at least three shadowy figures Pascoe could see behind lace-curtains.

      Curiously enough, Davenant seemed satisfied with this answer.

      ‘That must be the old village school at the top of the hill,’ he said. ‘And over there I spy the old village shop. I must stock up with ciggies. Please don’t wait for me. I may find myself compelled to linger, soaking up atmosphere.’

      ‘Don’t take too long,’ said Backhouse. ‘It’ll all be over very quickly I should think.’

      The journalist disappeared into the tiny shop and the two policemen continued their walk.

      ‘He showed a less than fervent interest in your investigations,’ said Pascoe thoughtfully.

      ‘True. Not at all like the mob I’m sure we will meet up here.’

      Backhouse was right. There was quite a crowd of reporters waiting outside the school. And an equal crowd of local children had gathered to watch the reporters. Backhouse promised them a statement after the inquest, spoke a few sympathetic words to a television film crew who had got lost on their way to Thornton Lacey and were desperately trying to make themselves operative, then he went inside. Pascoe followed close, still anonymous.

      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 windpipe 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, СКАЧАТЬ