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?’
‘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.
