Reginald Hill - Ruling Passion

He jabbed his forefinger at the page for February 8th. All that was written there was a time. 11 a.m. He flicked over the pages. March 1st 6 p.m. March 23rd 1 p.m. April 20th 9.30 a.m.

'And so it goes on,' he said.

'So?' asked Pascoe.

'So all these dates fall around the periods during which we know the break-ins happened. On the couple of the occasions when we know the exact date, these dates in the diary come three days later. Now I reckon these are appointments with his distributor, someone who would take the more valuable and identifiable stuff away. It's clever, really. You see, generally the stuff would be moved before the house-owners came back from holiday and even discovered they'd been robbed. No risk!'

'I see,' said Pascoe thoughtfully. 'Now Lewis's house was done last Monday, which would mean there should have been a meeting last Wednesday or Thursday.'

'Well done!' said Dalziel condescendingly. 'One was made for Wednesday, it's been crossed out. See. Now it seems it was remade for this morning, but see, it's been crossed out again.'

'They were having difficulties. Perhaps it was just as well, sir. Even with insulin, you might have found it hard to take on three of them.'

'Very funny,' said Dalziel. 'Tomorrow morning I'm going to be alone though. And there'll only be one.'

'Sorry?' said Pascoe. Then it dawned on him. 'You mean that… ?'

'That's right, Inspector. 10 a.m. Tomorrow. Care to come along?'

'Excuse me, sir,' said one of the detective-constables.

'Yes, Ferguson?'

The youngster pointed at by far the largest group of articles.

'This lot seems to have come from the Lewis house, sir. It's almost all there. They can't have had time to dispose of it.'

Dalziel gave Pascoe his mock awe-stricken look.

'The future's safe, Inspector!' he said.

The young man was unperturbed. He picked up an ornately inlaid cedarwood box of Oriental origin.

'There's some papers in here, sir. They look interesting.'

They were. Matthew Lewis had felt the need to keep a detailed financial record of his Scottish transactions. It was all here. The amount paid for the Callander land by the mysterious Archie Selkirk, the sum (more than twenty times larger) paid by Sturgeon for the same land, details of solicitor's fees, hotel and other expenses for 'A' ('Atkinson,' said Dalziel) and, most interestingly of all, expenses to be set against gross profit by 'C'.

'Well now. This could be useful to the fraud boys,' said Dalziel, rubbing his hands. 'Certainly it should stand up nicely in court.'

'Court?' said Pascoe, puzzled.

'Yes. When Sturgeon sues Lewis's estate, as I presume he's going to. There wasn't much before, you know.'

'It might establish something else as well,' said Pascoe, pointing at the 'C'.

Dalziel shrugged.

'I doubt it. There's precious little in a name, and there's bugger all in an initial. No. If Cowley was in on this deal, it's going to take more than this to trip him up. There's been a lot of quiet checking going on and there's nowhere obvious that he's got forty thousand stacked away. Anyway, what the hell would his job have been? I can't imagine Lewis cutting him in for love.'

Pascoe was reluctant to give up. He studied the papers again.

'There's something else here,' he said. 'Or something not here. Look, sir. At "C"'s expenses. Right? Now what's missing?'

'Selkirk's expenses,' interrupted Ferguson brightly. 'Which could mean "C" and Selkirk are the same person.'

'And I used to think you were bright, young and horrid,' said Dalziel to Pascoe. 'All right. But you realize this cuts out Cowley altogether?'

'Why, sir?' asked Ferguson. Pascoe did not need to ask. In fact he answered.

'Because not only does Cowley deny he's ever been anywhere near Lochart, on the week-end Sturgeon actually met Selkirk he's got a nice alibi.'

'Nor does he fit Sturgeon's description,' said Dalziel.

'Still, we never showed him a picture of Cowley, did we? Wasn't there once in the Evening News bit on Lewis's murder? Ferguson, cut along and see if you can dig a copy up. Has Sturgeon been moved up from Doncaster yet?'

'Yes, they reckoned he was up to being transferred to the General today,' said Dalziel.

'Good. Then we'll go and see him.'

'Will we?' asked Dalziel. 'I suppose we will. Do you know, I think that injection of insulin did me good. I used to have these delusions that I was a detective-superintendent in authority over all kinds of people. Strange, wasn't it?'

He left the room, shaking his great bull-head.

'What are you grinning at?' said Pascoe to Ferguson. 'Go and find that newspaper and be quick about it!'

Sturgeon, having decided to recover, was recovering apace. He was sitting up in bed, surrounded by flowers and fruit, and there were the beginnings of a healthy colour in his cheeks. He greeted them warmly, like old friends.

'Everyone's been very good. To Mavis too. That's what's best,' he said when they'd settled down, Dalziel in the bedside armchair and Pascoe on the edge of the bed.

'We've brought you something too,' said Pascoe. He began to exhibit the contents of the box.

'Aye, that's mine. That too. And that. Aye, it's all ours. What about the stamps?'

'I'm sorry,' said Pascoe gently. 'No stamps.'

'No? Well, I reckon they'd get rid of 'em quick because they were valuable, eh? Not to worry. Does this mean you've got him as done it, then?'

'We think so, Mr Sturgeon. Now I'd like you to look carefully at this picture.'

Pascoe produced an envelope and from it took a piece of newspaper which he passed over.

'No,' said Sturgeon. 'Vaguely familiar. You know. Like I might have passed him in the street or something.'

'Try this,' said Pascoe. He took out a ball-point and sketched in the spectacles and shaggy moustache Sturgeon had mentioned in his description of Archie Selkirk.

Sturgeon looked at it puzzled.

'It's his hobby,' said Dalziel kindly.

'Does that look anything like the man Selkirk? ‘asked Pascoe desperately. Dalziel groaned at the leading question.

'Aye. A bit,' said Sturgeon cautiously. 'But if you did the same to yourself, lad, you'd look like him too, I reckon!'

In the hospital lift, Dalziel looked at Pascoe assessively.

'You've been hit on the head twice,' he stated, referring for the first time to the twin stripes of plaster adorning Pascoe's head.

He began to tell the superintendent what had happened, but Dalziel stopped him.

'I rang Mr Backhouse after your interesting message about Etherege's drinking habits came through. He seemed disappointed I wasn't in the Tower of London. But he told me all about your day.'

Pascoe was touched by the fat man's solicitude for a moment.

'If I'd been Backhouse, I'd have torn you to shreds,' he went on. 'You think this chap Pelman's your man?'

'He could be,' said Pascoe, not wanting to sound too certain of himself.

'Aye. Backhouse seemed none too happy either,' said Dalziel to his surprise. 'Anyway, you've had a hard day. Don't start cutting corners by trying to force everything to fit your own notions. Forget Cowley. Have an early night.'

'I think I might do,' agreed Pascoe.

'You do. You need your rest, sergeant. Sorry, Inspector. Now you've been promoted I suppose I should call you by your first name. The accolade, eh?'

They had come in their own cars. In the car-park Dalziel clapped him on the shoulder.

'Get yourself off home now,' he said. 'Straight to kip. Good night, Paul.'

He strode away powerfully.

'My name's Peter,' called Pascoe after him, but he didn't think he heard.

His plans for an early night did not last long. The phone was ringing when he entered his flat. It was Ellie, who was reacting very differently to the trying events of the day.