Reginald Hill - Asking For The Moon

He had picked Stella Rawlinson first on Kingsley's advice. Evidently when the last of the drinks-only guests had gone, Swithenbank had told the others precisely why it was that

Pascoe was here. Pascoe would have liked to have done this himself to observe reactions, but he made no complaint and accepted Kingsley's diagnosis that the only likely non-co-operator was Mrs Rawlinson and it might be well to get her in before her indignation had time to come to a head.

'Can we start by going right back to this time last year?' he said. 'Most people would have a hard time remembering anything after twelve months, but in your case it shouldn't be difficult.'

'What do you mean?' she demanded as if he had accused her of immorality.

'Just that it was the time of your husband's unfortunate accident arid I know how an unpleasant experience like that sticks in the mind,' said Pascoe soothingly. 'It must have been a terrible shock to you.'

'I thought you wanted to talk about Kate Swithenbank,' she said.

'You knew her well?' said Pascoe, abandoning charm.

'We grew up together.'

'Close friends?'

'I suppose so.'

'What was she like?'

She looked genuinely puzzled.

'I don't know what you mean.'

'What words describe her?' said Pascoe. 'Plain, simple, open. Devious, reserved. Emotional, hysterical, erratic. Logical, rational, cool. Et cetera.'

'She kept herself to herself. I don't mean she wouldn't go out or was shy, anything like that. But she didn't give much away.'

The woman spoke slowly, feeling for the words. She was either very concerned to be fair or very fearful of being honest.

'I believe she was sexually very attractive as a young girl,' he probed.

'Who said that?' she asked. 'John, was it?'

'You sound as if that would surprise you.'

'No. Why should it? It would be natural, wouldn't it? He married her.'

'In fact it was his mother,' said Pascoe. 'It's interesting when a woman says it. That's why I wondered what your opinion was.'

'Yes,' she said, not bothering to conceal her reluctance. 'She was very attractive. In that way. When she wanted to be. And sometimes when she didn't want to be.'

Pascoe scratched his head in a parody of puzzlement.

'Now you're bewildering me,' he said.

'A bitch on heat's got no control over who comes sniffing around,' she said viciously, then relenting (or at least regretting) almost immediately, she added, 'I'm sorry, I don't mean to be unkind. She was a nice quiet ordinary girl in many ways. We were truly friends. I should be very distressed to think anything had happened to her.'

'Of course. How terrible it must be for all her friends,' said Pascoe fulsomely. 'But if what you say is true, there might be no cause for worry.'

'If what I say…?'

'About her sexuality. Another man, perhaps; a passionate affair. She takes off with him on a sudden impulse. It's possible. If what you say…'

'Oh, it's true all right,' she said. 'Right from the start. Ten or eleven. I've seen her. In this room.'

She tailed off. Funny, thought Pascoe. Everybody wants to talk, but they all want to feel it's my subtle interrogative techniques that made them talk!

'This room?' He glanced at the Prospect of Wear End. 'You used to play in here as children?'

'Oh no. When we visited Boris, this was one room we were never allowed in,' she answered. 'But I was looking for Kate. We'd lost her. I just opened the door and peered in. She was…'

'Yes?'

'She was sitting on his knee. Her pants were round her knees.'

Pascoe gave his man-of-the-world chuckle.

'So? Childhood inquisitiveness. A little game of doctors with Boris. It's not unusual.'

'It wasn't Boris. It was his father.'

Pascoe tried to look unimpressed.

'Who is dead, I believe?' he said. 'Just as well. It's a serious offence you're alleging, Mrs Rawlinson. Very serious.'

'I felt sorry for him,' she said vehemently.

'For him?'

'And for Kate, too.' It was relenting time again. 'She couldn't help what she was. Her parents died while she was young. Her brother brought her up. That can't have helped. He's an animal. Worse!'

Dear God! thought Pascoe. Incest is it now?

'I've met Mr Lightfoot. He seems an interesting sort of man. He's very sure his sister's dead.'

She shrugged uninterestedly.

'He says he's seen her ghost continued Pascoe.

'He's a stupid ignorant animal,' she said indifferently.

'Perhaps so. But he may be right about his sister. She could very well be dead.'

She laughed scornfully.

'Because some yokel sees ghosts? You must be hard up for clues these days!'

'No,' he said seriously. 'Because what you've been insinuating about the missing woman's morals makes it seem very probable she could provide her husband with a good motive for killing her.'

Her mouth twisted in dismay and for a moment this break in the symmetry of that too well balanced face gave it real beauty.

'No! I've said nothing! I never meant… that's quite outrageous!'

She stood up, flushed with what appeared to be genuine anger.

'But what did you imagine we were talking about?' asked Pascoe.

'You're trying to find out who's been suggesting these dreadful things about John.'

'Oh no,' said Pascoe, shaking his head. 'That would be useful, of course. But what we're really trying to discover is whether or not these dreadful things are true!'

Rawlinson looked angry when he came into the room and Pascoe prepared to deal with a bout of uxorious chivalry.

'What have you been saying to Peter?' demanded the limping man. 'He's in a hell of a state.'

'Nothing,' said Pascoe, taken by surprise. 'Why should anything I say disturb him?'

The question seemed to give the man more cause for rumination than seemed proportionate as he subsided into an armchair and Pascoe moved swiftly to the attack.

'Tell me about falling off the church tower,' he invited.

Rawlinson gripped his right knee with both hands as though the words had triggered off more than the memory of pain.

'Have you ever fallen off anything, Inspector?' he asked in reply.

'Yes, I suppose so. But not so dramatically. A kitchen chair, I recall, when replacing a light bulb.'

'Chair or church, it's all the same,' said Rawlinson. 'One second you're on it, the next you're off. I must have overreached.'

'What precisely were you doing?' asked Pascoe.

'Watching a pair of owls,' said Rawlinson. 'I'm a draughtsman by training, a bird illustrator by inclination. I watch, note, photograph sometimes, and then do a picture. It had never struck me as a dangerous hobby.'

'It's enthusiasm that makes things dangerous,' observed Pascoe sententiously. 'The Reverend Davenport found you, I believe.'

Rawlinson frowned at the name.

'Yes. It was a good job he came when he did. There was a sharp frost and if I'd lain there till morning, I'd probably have died of exposure.'

'And immediately before falling, you remember nothing?'

'I remember arriving at the church, unlocking the door to the tower. Nothing more.'

'How did you get to the church that night?'

'I walked along the old drive, I suppose. I usually did. My bungalow's right alongside.'

'Mr Kingsley didn't mind?'

'Boris?' said Rawlinson in surprise. 'Why should he? I don't think I ever asked him.'

'Technically a trespass then,' smiled Pascoe. 'Do you recall seeing or hearing anything unusual along the drive or in the churchyard that night?'

'Well now,' said Rawlinson slowly. 'I'm not quite certain it was the same night – it's a long time ago – but once I rather thought I heard a crossbill in one of the cypress trees over the lych-gate. Probably I was mistaken.'

He spoke perfectly seriously, but Pascoe did not doubt he was being mocked.