Ruling Passion. Reginald HillЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Chapter 4

      He had been expecting the question and had felt reserves of angry indignation building up inside him, ready to explode when it was asked. But for some reason the spark did not catch.

      ‘We don’t know he did,’ he protested weakly.

      ‘You’re a policeman,’ answered Backhouse. ‘Suppose this were your case. What assumption would you be working on?’

      ‘It’s all circumstantial. If you knew Colin, you’d know that it’s just impossible.’

      ‘I’ve encountered quite a few murderers,’ said Backhouse patiently. ‘I dare say you’ve met one or two yourself. One thing they nearly all had in common was a handful of close friends willing to attest with the most vehement sincerity that the accused was quite incapable of such a crime. Am I right?’

      ‘I suppose so.’

      ‘Good. In any case, as you told me before, a few years can change things. Situations certainly. People as well, though to a lesser extent. So tell me what you know, what you remember. Is he a quick-tempered man?’

      ‘What the hell does it matter?’ said Pascoe. If he was going to be questioned as an ordinary witness, he would assume some of the privileges of an ordinary witness. Such as the unnecessity of politeness towards questioning policemen.

      ‘You’re going after him anyway. You’ll track him down, question him. If there’s enough evidence, you’ll put him in court. So why waste time talking to me?’

      ‘You know why, Sergeant,’ said Backhouse coldly. ‘Of course we’re going after him. And of course my men – your colleagues – will assume it’s very likely he has committed a triple murder. They’ll also assume he has a double-barrelled shotgun which he is willing to use. I want information, all the information I can get. I want to know the best way of dealing with him, which way he’s likely to jump. I thought I was lucky when I learnt you were in the force. A professional first on the scene. It was your bad luck. I thought it was my good luck.’

      ‘Every point taken,’ said Pascoe with tight-lipped emphasis. ‘Only, I cannot believe that he did it.’

      ‘Fair enough. Then why so antagonistic? Tell me things to prove his innocence. Was he a jealous man, do you think? Would his wife give him cause?’

      ‘Unlikely,’ said Pascoe with a frown. ‘At least they seemed set up for life. Ask Ellie, Miss Soper. She’s seen them much more recently. But we’ve talked a lot about them and she would certainly have mentioned any signs of a rift.’

      ‘There were two single men in the house last night,’ said Backhouse casually. ‘Old friends. Going back to before she married.’

      Pascoe laughed now.

      ‘I see it! The triangle. Or even the quadrilateral. It’s a non-starter, Superintendent. Timmy and Carlo were, if anything, even more devoted than Rose and Colin.’

      ‘I see,’ said Backhouse softly. ‘I see. But things do change, as you say. Even … tastes. What kind of thing was it that would put Mr Hopkins into one of his terrible wraths?’

      ‘I’m sorry?’

      ‘In the letter you showed me,’ said Backhouse, ‘he says something about his wrath being terrible if you don’t turn up, and adds that you know just how terrible his wrath can be. A figure of speech merely?’

      Pascoe walked slowly forward and came to a halt on the edge of the bank which sloped steeply down to the brook. All the police activity was in the woods on the other side now. A slow, methodical and, as yet, completely unproductive search. Despite the warmth of the sun, many of the policemen were wearing waterproof overtrousers as the undergrowth was still soaked from the previous night’s torrential rain. It would have obliterated any sign of human passage, but it couldn’t wash away a shotgun.

      ‘No, not a figure of speech,’ said Pascoe. ‘He had a quick temper. Not a violent temper though, it never led him into violence against people. Certainly he never got anywhere near the kind of fury which could make a man pick up a shotgun, kill two of his friends, reload, and shoot his wife. What about the gun, by the way?’

      ‘A 410, we know that from the cartridge cases. But that’s it. There’s no sign of a licence anywhere in the cottage. Was Hopkins the kind of man to want to do some shooting? Game, I mean.’

      ‘Never knew him express an interest. Though he wasn’t an anti, like Carlo and Timmy.’

      ‘And his wife? Was she anti also?’

      ‘Rose? Hell, no. Rose grew up in the country, was used to the idea of birds tumbling from the tree-top straight into the pie-dish.’

      ‘So the presence of this’ – Backhouse waved at the woods – ‘in his back garden may have been a temptation?’

      ‘Why not ask Pelman? He’d be sure to know who was shooting on his land.’

      Backhouse grinned.

      ‘Oh, he’s being asked, never fear. And we’re checking on all shotgun licences issued locally in the past three months. Mr Dalziel would be proud of us. So you reckon there was no chance of his doing it in a blind rage?’

      Pascoe was beginning to adapt to the man’s questioning technique. He answered without pause.

      ‘No chance of his doing it. Period.’

      ‘In a blind rage. So, how about doing it in cold blood? What kind of thing might make your high-tempered extrovert friend consider shooting someone dead in cold blood?’

      ‘That’s even less likely than the other!’

      ‘So it’s more likely he did it in a blind rage?’

      ‘I didn’t say that,’ protested Pascoe.

      ‘I’m sorry. I thought you said it was less likely that he would do it in cold blood?’

      ‘For God’s sake! We’re not in court!’ snapped Pascoe, tiring of this word play.

      ‘It’s as well for your friend we are not,’ said Backhouse, turning and beginning to walk back to the cottage. Pascoe followed glumly and caught up with the superintendent in the dining-room. Together they stood and looked down at the chalked outlines on the floor.

      ‘These were your friends too,’ said Backhouse. ‘Innocent, guilty, have you any idea where a man like Colin Hopkins would head for after something like this?’

      ‘The nearest police station,’ said Pascoe.

      Backhouse shrugged in resignation.

      ‘That’s where I’ll drop you, Sergeant. Thanks for your help.’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ said Pascoe. ‘There doesn’t seem to be anything I can say. I’m sorry.’

      ‘No matter. Get back to Miss Soper. I’ll have another talk with her when she feels up to it. If she’s seen your friends more recently, it might help.’

      ‘Yes,’ said Pascoe, leading the way to the car. He stepped out of the cottage with a great sense of relief.

      ‘The inquest will be opened