'Oh.'
Pascoe felt the man's gaze run swiftly over him as though taking a blueprint and laying it aside for future reference. He recognized the name Davenant faintly. He rarely had time to get as far as the colour supplements on a Sunday, but on some occasion recently he had come across the name.
'How envious all these hard-bitten crime men will be when I turn up in such illustrious company,' said Davenant.
'As a matter of interest,' said Backhouse, 'just what are you doing here among all these hard-bitten crime men?'
'I was fortunate enough to be in the vicinity, that's all. And my current editor, knowing I was hereabouts, instantly got in touch when this dreadful business was bruited abroad. I think he hopes for something rather quaint from me. A Vintage Murder perhaps. Or First Catch Your Killer. He used words like atmosphere and human interest, and eventually (and here I capitulated), money. But enough of interesting me. What of interesting you? What have your fascinating investigations upturned?'
'Very little so far, Mr Davenant,' said Backhouse cheerfully, pausing to admire a magnificent dahlia border and being admired in his turn by at least three shadowy figures Pascoe could see behind lace-curtains.
Curiously enough, Davenant seemed satisfied with this answer.
'That must be the old village school at the top of the hill,' he said. 'And over there I spy the old village shop. I must stock up with ciggies. Please don't wait for me. I may find myself compelled to linger, soaking up atmosphere.'
'Don't take too long,' said Backhouse. 'It'll all be over very quickly I should think.'
The journalist disappeared into the tiny shop and the two policemen continued their walk.
'He showed a less than fervent interest in your investigations,' said Pascoe thoughtfully.
'True. Not at all like the mob I'm sure we will meet up here.'
Backhouse was right. There was quite a crowd of reporters waiting outside the school. And an equal crowd of local children had gathered to watch the reporters. Backhouse promised them a statement after the inquest, spoke a few sympathetic words to a television film crew who had got lost on their way to Thornton Lacey and were desperately trying to make themselves operative, then he went inside. Pascoe followed close, still anonymous.
French, the coroner, was there already, his golfing gear exchanged for a grey suit. He and Backhouse exchanged a few words, then very quickly he got the inquest under way.
The superintendent was right about this too. Pascoe was called upon briefly to give evidence of identification and time of discovery; Dr Hardisty gave medical evidence of the cause of death, based partly on his own observation and partly on the pathologist's preliminary report which had just arrived. Death resulted in all three cases from shotgun wounds. The two men had been shot at close quarters with one cartridge apiece. Timothy Mansfield had received his shot full in the chest and had died as a result of the damage inflicted on his lungs and heart. Charles Rushworth had been shot in the neck and lower face. His wind-pipe had been severed. Rose Hopkins had been shot from a greater distance than the other two, but both barrels of the gun had been used on her. No vital organ had been hit, but her jugular vein had been severed and she had bled to death as she lay unconscious from the shock of the onslaught.
Pascoe put his head in his hands and stared desperately at the floor. The wood was old and tending to splinter. Dangerous that for children.
Time of death was between eight and eleven pm. The full autopsy results might be more precise, but the coroner would appreciate that with three bodies to work on, it had not yet been possible to deal fully with them all.
The coroner appreciated this, spoke briefly of the horror of the event, wished the police inquiries an early success, and declared the inquest adjourned.
Pascoe had had enough to do with inquests to know what this meant. An early arrest was expected. No attempt would be made to resume the inquest if this happened and someone was charged. The coroner would wait until the criminal court proceedings were over, then make his return to the registrar of deaths on the basis of that court's verdict.
And if an early arrest was looked for, there could only be one person they had in mind.
As he rose to leave, he found himself surrounded by newspapermen. From being just an anonymous policeman, he had been pitched into the current star role. For the discoverer of the deaths to be a detective himself, and an old friend of both the murdered trio and the chief suspect, was a splendid bit of gilt for this lily of a murder. They were as decent and compassionate as it is possible to be when a dozen or more people are all trying to have their questions answered at the same time. To Pascoe it felt like having his head in a cloud of amplified midges. He tried to answer their questions for a few minutes, then, trailing them with him, he pushed his way to the door.
Backhouse's car was parked by the school-gate. Pascoe opened the door and climbed in.
'The super says to take me back to the station,' he told the driver, who set off without hesitation.
A piece of mind-reading rather than a lie, thought Pascoe as he settled back in his seat.
As the car passed the little shop on the hill, he saw the colourful figure of Davenant just coming out. The man gave a cheery wave, apparently little disturbed at having missed the inquest. Pascoe ignored him. You didn't wave at people from police cars.
The main street traffic had suddenly become very heavy and they had to wait a few minutes at the intersection.
'It's been on the news,' said the driver knowledgeably.
'What?' said Pascoe.
'The murders. That's what this lot are after. It's better than Grandstand on a nice afternoon.'
It was a phenomenon that Pascoe was not unused to. The spectator syndrome he had once called it to Dalziel, who had shrugged and said that it was better than watching cock-fighting and cheaper than watching strippers and what the hell kind of word was syndrome anyway? Before today it had often fascinated him as a sociologist and sometimes annoyed him as a policeman. But now it made him sick and angry. It did no good to tell himself that most of the shirt-sleeved drivers and their family-packed cars were probably going about their legitimate Saturday afternoon business. The thought that any of them had driven out of their way especially to look at the cottage where last night three people were shot to death filled him with an indiscriminate loathing.
At Crowther's house he stepped from the car with the curtest of nods to the driver and went quickly inside.
To his surprise Ellie was up and dressed. She looked pale but alert and warded off his attempt at a comforting embrace.
'Have they found Colin?' was her first question.
He shook his head.
'What happened at the inquest?'
'It was adjourned.'
'I asked you what happened. They didn't just open the thing and adjourn it, did they?'
'No. They took evidence of identification and cause of death.'
'Tell me.'
At first he demurred, but she pressed him hard and his own powers of resistance were so low that in the end it was easier to answer her questions than evade them.
'So it happened between eight and eleven?'
'Yes. They reckon so.'
'And Rose bled to death, lying there unconscious?'
'Yes.' He spoke very low. He knew what was coming, didn't want her to say it, but knew no way of preventing it.
'So then. If it hadn't been for you and your bloody job, we'd have got there last night. We might have got there in time to stop all of this happening. We'd certainly have got there in time to help Rose. Is that right?'
'I suppose so. Yes. I've thought of it too.'
'Have you now? I should hope you have. What I wonder, Peter, is how the hell are you ever going to stop thinking about it?'