Reginald Hill - Ruling Passion

Against Davenant.

Against Davenant who had turned up at Brookside Cottage on that fatal Friday night. Against Davenant who had sat and talked and drunk with Rose and Colin and Timmy and Carlo. Against Davenant who for reasons still not clear had taken up a shotgun and blasted Timmy and Carlo out of this world. Who had met Rose in the garden and left her lying by the sundial, bleeding to death. Who had pursued and murdered Colin and stuffed his body into a dark oozy culvert for the flies to discover.

Think logically, he commanded himself. Think! All right. Davenant knew Culpepper lived locally, had visited him before on his 'fencing' trips. Perhaps he did go to see him that night. Perhaps it was just a useful invention to have in the background in case it was ever needed. And it had been needed. Pressure was on him from all sides. From Yorkshire where Etherege's little empire was crumbling. And down here where his car had been spotted in the area that Friday night.

So back he comes to Culpepper. He needs two things. An alibi and money. By threatening to reveal their business relationship – fence and receiver – he aims at getting both out of Culpepper. But Culpepper has no money. Borrow it, suggests Davenant. Who from? Why not try Pelman? says Davenant with a significant glance at Marianne. Yes, he would have dug up that bit of information pretty easily. And Pelman's willing to play ball. Conscience? Fear of scandal? To protect Marianne? Who knows? A detail to be filled in later.

But Davenant's plan was in jeopardy. The public revelation of Culpepper's unemployment had thrown the man off balance. Perhaps that had been an element in the blackmail threat also? Certainly it had seemed to matter a great deal to Culpepper, relegating to second place his concern for the immediate future. Now was clearly the time to be talking to him while he was still off balance and before he recovered sufficiently to support Davenant's story.

But Backhouse did not seem ready to make a move in that direction. He was talking to Pelman, Palfrey and Dixon, none of whom now seemed disposed to leave despite the casual reasons for their presence. The door opened and Marianne Culpepper came in. She looked worried.

'He's resting with his porcelain,' she said to the unspoken question which met her. 'He was a bit upset. He's been trying desperately hard for months now to find a new post, but only jobs in selling, or factory accounts offices, that level of thing, were ever available.'

'You could have helped, got a job yourself,' said Pascoe sharply, stung by the tone of that level of thing.

Marianne looked at him wearily, dismissively.

'Mr Pascoe,' she said, 'why don't you piss off?'

The expression uttered in those smooth-vowelled tones, was surprising, almost shocking. And worse, Pascoe felt himself somehow justly reproved.

'Perhaps you'd take Mr Davenant back into the study and see if you can get an ordered account of his movements from him,' said Backhouse.

At last he's woken to the danger, thought Pascoe. And off I'm sent to do the dirty work again.

'Yes, sir,' he said.

In the hall by the front door stood Ferguson, drinking a cup of coffee.

'The old lady made it for me,' he said defensively.

'You bring out the mother in us all,' said Pascoe. 'Is he still in there?'

He jerked his head at the porcelain room. Ferguson nodded.

'Good. In here please, Mr Davenant.'

'Do you ever get a feeling of deja vu?' asked Davenant as he entered the study once more. 'As the bishop said in the strip-club.'

'Let's cut the comics,' said Pascoe, closing the door. 'And you can drop the queer act too.'

'Don't you love me any more?' asked Davenant advancing coyly, hips wiggling, arms stretched out appealingly.

Pascoe poked him in the stomach, not hard, but hard enough to double him up and send him crashing into a chair.

'Jesus Christ!' gasped Davenant, holding his arms across his waist. 'So it really happens! The rubber truncheon bit. I never believed it.'

'I'm glad we had you fooled. Are you sitting comfortably? Then let's begin.'

'What the hell do you want?' asked Davenant, eyeing the door speculatively. Pascoe was interested to note that his accent and style of speech had changed completely. The long drawn vowels and rising rhythms were gone. What remained was flat, almost monotonous, with a touch of the north in it.

'How long have you been a fence?' asked Pascoe, ready for denial and wondering what he would do when it came.

'About ten years. Six on a regular basis. I started shortly after I accepted my first bribe for mentioning someone's stinking restaurant in a piece I was doing. You must have noticed how one thing leads to another crime.'

'You're being very frank,' said Pascoe, slightly taken aback.

'Look, sonny, you're a frightening man. I reckon you've flipped just a bit because of this business. But not so much that you'd beat me up in front of witnesses. I don't like being beaten up anywhere, so I'll talk to you. But like your beatings, not in front of witnesses.'

'How old are you?' asked Pascoe.

'Forty-three.'

'You look younger.'

'Thank you kindly,' said Davenant, relapsing momentarily into his old manner. 'It's marvellous what fiction and false hair will do for you. Truth is dead.'

But now as Pascoe looked at him he no longer saw the fashionable ageless swinger, cynical and sophisticated, but a middle-aged man dressed up for a costume-party he no longer wants to attend, with lines of worry running from the eyes and the mouth to complement the deeper furrows of age on the brow.

A frightened man. Pascoe knew from observation how easy it was for a frightened man to kill. Just as he knew from experience how easy it was for an angry policeman to strike. He clenched his fists in his jacket pockets and tried to keep his voice calm as he asked, 'Why did you kill them?'

'For God's sake!' said Davenant. 'What a stupid question!'

'You mean the answer's obvious!'

'No! Yes. Yes, it's obvious. I didn't. I've told you the truth. I was there. I went on business; you don't like that, do you? I left at seven. I went to Culpepper's. When I left there I went straight back to Oxford.'

'You're a liar,' said Pascoe, taking a step forward.

Davenant leapt up in fear, his chair shot backwards and overturned. The door opened and Ferguson's head appeared.

'You all right, sir?'

'Yes. Listen, Davenant, you think you've got an alibi, don't you? Well, we'll see about that. Nobody's said a thing yet that supports your story. I don't think they are going to. Ferguson, stay here and watch him. Don't be taken in by the whipped poodle expression. The beast is dangerous.'

He turned and left the study, the fury in him burning high now. Culpepper was the key. Without his supporting story, Davenant was done. The group in the lounge seemed to be still in session, which was good. He was better with Backhouse out of the way.

In the porcelain room Culpepper stood between the two huge pseudo-Chinese vases with his back to the door. Lights were on in all the display niches and the pieces of his collection tranquilly radiated their cold beauty.

'Why not sell them?' asked Pascoe. 'That would tide you over for a bit.'

'What? Oh, Mr Pascoe. Yes, I suppose it would, I suppose it would.'

The words expressed agreement but the tone was the kind used when agreeing with an importunate child.

'What were you going to do with the money Pelman brought?'

'That? But you know that already. It was for Davenant.'

This was better than he could have hoped for. He thought of stepping out and fetching Backhouse, but was afraid of breaking the atmosphere.

'He was blackmailing you.'

'In a way.'

'Because some of your collection had come through him?'