repeated Ellie.
‘Hurry,’ said Pascoe urgently.
He heard the Riley start as he placed his foot carefully on the first stair. It creaked, the second even more so, and, abandoning stealth, he took the rest at a run, narrowly missing cracking his head against the ceiling cross-beam halfway up.
He went through the nearest door low and fast. A bedroom. Empty. Bed unslept in.
The next the same. Then a bathroom. A tiny junk-room. One more to go. Certain now the first floor was uninhabited, he still took no chances and entered as violently as before.
Looking down at the bed, his heart stood still. A pair of children’s handcuffs lay across the two pillows. In one bracelet was a red rose. In the other a young nettle. On the bedhead above was pinned a paper banner.
It read Eloisa and Abelard, Welcome Home.
Pascoe felt the carapace of professionality he had withdrawn behind crack across. The room overlooked the rear of the house. He did not look out of the window but descended rapidly. With a great effort of will, he forced himself to confirm by touch what his eyes had told him, that the two men were dead.
Timmy used to play the guitar and when in funds gave presents of charming eccentricity to those he loved. Carlo (it was Carlo, the one eye which remained unscathed told him that) had a fiery temper, adored Westerns, demonstrated for civil rights, hated priests.
These were memories he didn’t want. Even less did he want to kneel beside this woman, turn her gently over, see the ruin of soft flesh the shotgun blast had made in Rose Hopkins.
She was wearing a long silk evening gown. Even the rain and the dew had not dulled its iridescent sheen of purple and green like a pheasant’s plumage. But her eyes were dull.
The sundial against which she lay had an inscription on its pedestal. He read it, desperately trying to rebuild his carapace.
Horas non numero nisi serenas.
I number only the sunny hours.
He was still cradling the dead woman in his arms when Ellie returned, closely followed by the first police car.
‘Dalziel here.’
‘Hello, Andy. Derek Backhouse here.’
‘So they said.’ Dalziel’s voice fell a long way short of enthusiasm. ‘It’s been a long time. And you must be after a bloody big favour, to be ringing on a Saturday morning.’
‘No favour,’ said Backhouse. ‘I’m ringing from the station at Thornton Lacey. I’ve got one of your men here. A Sergeant Pascoe.’
‘Pascoe!’ said Dalziel, livelier now. ‘He’s not been crapping in the street again, has he?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Joke,’ sighed Dalziel. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Nothing really. He’s down here visiting some old friends.’
‘So?’
‘So when he arrived this morning, three of the old friends were dead. Shotgun at close range.’
Now there was a long silence.
‘Christ,’ said Dalziel finally. Another silence.
‘That’s rough,’ said Dalziel. ‘I don’t think he’s got enough old friends left to spare three.’
Backhouse made a moue of distaste at the callousness of the comment, though he thought he detected a hint of real concern in the intonation. But he might have been mistaken.
‘Anyway,’ said Backhouse, ‘I’m just interested in confirming that he and Miss Soper didn’t arrive till this morning.’
‘She’s with him, is she?’ grunted Dalziel.
‘You know her?’
‘Vaguely. Hey listen, my lad, you’re not thinking Pascoe had anything to do with this, are you?’
‘Just checking, Andy. He says he got held up on a case last night.’
‘Too true, he did. He wasn’t best pleased, but he’s a dutiful lad. He was here till about nine-thirty. Then we had a drink till closing. That suit you?’
‘I think so. We haven’t had the PM yet, but the doctor was very certain it happened last evening. I wasn’t really concerned about the sergeant, but I wanted to be sure. He may be a great help to us.’
‘Now watch it!’ said Dalziel threateningly. ‘We’ve got work to do here too, you know. Nothing glamorous like a multi-murder, but someone’s got to catch thieves. And I need Pascoe. He’s due back Monday. I’ll expect him Monday.’
‘We do have experienced detectives of our own,’ said Backhouse drily. ‘No, the way he can help is with his knowledge of the missing man.’
‘Missing man?’
‘Didn’t I say? We’re one light. The host, the man whose cottage it is, Colin Hopkins. Your sergeant’s special mate.’
‘I see,’ said Dalziel. ‘You reckon him for it, then?’
‘I’d like to talk with him,’ said Backhouse cautiously.
‘I bet!! Anyway, what you’re saying is you want Pascoe to help pin this on his mate? You’re asking a bit much, aren’t you?’
‘It was his friends who died,’ said Backhouse quietly.
‘Well, he’s a good lad. Is he there? I’d better have a word.’
What kind of grudging condolence did he propose? wondered Backhouse.
‘He’s with Miss Soper at the moment. She is badly shocked.’
‘Later then. But I want him Monday. Right? I’ll look for you on the telly!’
Bloody old woman, thought Dalziel as he replaced the receiver. He scratched the back of his left calf methodically from top to bottom, but derived no relief. The itches you scratch are internal, someone senior enough to dare had once told him. He looked with distaste at the mound of files on his desk. Suddenly they seemed trivial. Stupid twats who spent good money on pretty ornaments, then didn’t take the trouble to look after them properly. Somewhere in that lot there was a pattern, a flawed system. There was always a flaw. A man lay at the bottom of that pile and they’d find him in the end. But today, this moment, it seemed trivial.
It was a rare feeling for him. He wasn’t a man who took his work lightly. But now he stood up and went in search of someone to drink a cup of tea with and talk about football or politics.
The
