'I never suggested you were, sir,' said Dixon quietly.
'No. Of course you didn't. I'm sorry,' said Pascoe. 'The thing is, well, I found them, you see.'
Absurdly he found himself unable to go on. One part of him was detached, viewing the phenomenon with a sort of professional interest. He had seen this kind of thing a hundred times in his job, had come to watch for it, the moment when a witness to a crime or an accident suddenly feels what he has seen. It was a completely unforecastable syndrome. Sometimes it was accompanied by complete collapse. Or mild amnesia. Blind panic. Or, as now, temporary paralysis of the speech organs.
A large brandy appeared under his nose from nowhere. If you had to act like this, his detached portion thought, here was clearly the place to do it.
'Sit down, sir. Drink this up. Nothing like it for clearing the head.'
'I'm sorry,' said Pascoe, suddenly regaining control of his tongue. 'It's ridiculous.'
'Nonsense. Go on, knock that brandy back.'
He did so and felt much better.
'You're very kind,' he said, trying to regain control of the situation. 'I'm sorry. I should have said who I was before I started asking questions.'
'Not at all.' Dixon eyed him with the calculating scrutiny of one long expert at diagnosing the condition of his customers. Pascoe evidently passed muster.
'What did you want to know?'
'Just what happened when Mrs Hopkins came in. What she said. That kind of thing.'
This was silly. It would all be on record. Backhouse might let him see it. Certainly he could arrange unofficially to have a look. What did he expect to do, anyway? Spot some incredibly subtly concealed clue which would reveal precisely what happened last night and prove Colin… innocent? He must be innocent! Then where the hell was he?
'There was nothing special about last night,' Molly Dixon was saying. 'We were very busy. You'd expect that at that time on a Friday night, but it was worse than usual as I was on my own with just our barmaid, and she's a bit slow. Sam was at the Amenities Committee Meeting. Rose came to the off-licence counter there.'
She pointed at a small hatch which was visible through a door in the wall joining the two bars.
There's a bell in there. She rang it. I went through as soon as I could.
"A bottle of scotch," she said. "First that comes to hand will do. I can see you're busy."
I gave her a bottle. "Will this do?" I asked.
"Anything," she said. "They've had so much I could give them cold tea."
"I'd try hot coffee if they're that bad," I said. She paid me, took the bottle and went. There should have been a penny change. I shouted, but she didn't hear, and next thing I heard a car starting, so I went back to the fray.'
The Mini-Cooper? You heard the Mini?' asked Pascoe.
'I'm not that expert! It sounded a bit sporty, that's all.'
'And she said nothing else?'
'Not that I can remember. It was a very busy night.'
'Of course. I'm very grateful to you,' said Pascoe. 'Just one thing. You called Mrs Hopkins "Rose".'
'That's her name, isn't… wasn't it?' said Molly, puzzled.
'Yes, of course. What I meant was, you knew her quite well?'
'Oh yes! We got on very well right from the start. I'd only known her and Colin a couple of months, but we soon got on friendly terms. That's why it came as such a shock… I still can't believe it.'
They didn't use the other pub, then? The Eagle and Child.'
He intercepted a quick glance between the man and his wife. Intercepted and, he thought, interpreted.
'They may have done on occasions,' said Dixon in a neutral tone.
'Come on!' said Pascoe. 'Rose is dead and God knows what's happened to Colin. So you can forget professional etiquette for once, can't you?'
Another glance. This time the woman spoke.
'They went there to start with, I think. It was a bit nearer to the cottage. And it's popular with…'
She hesitated.
'The squirearchy,' supplied Pascoe. 'What happened?'
'There was a bit of trouble. A row or something.'
'With the Major?'
'I'm not sure. They didn't mention it till we'd got to know them quite well. I mean, they wouldn't come in here right away and start complaining about the other pub. They weren't that kind of people,' protested Molly.
'You're right,' said Pascoe. 'They weren't.'
'They only mentioned it at all as a joke. Saying how lucky it was they had been driven out of the Garden of Eden. Felix culpa, Colin called it. He loved to make quotations.'
'Yes, he did,' said Pascoe. 'But whose culpa, I wonder.'
He stood up.
'You've been very kind. Colin and Rose were always fortunate in their choice of friends.'
It sounded corny. Or at best vain. But he meant it and the Dixons obviously appreciated it. He left, promising to call back later.
His talk with the Dixons had cheered him and he felt in an almost happy mood as he turned into the Eagle and Child. It was a pleasant room, cool and well wooded. And almost empty. They didn't drink very hard round here. Not at lunch-time anyway. A half-eaten sandwich and half-empty glass on a corner table hinted at someone in the gents. But the only visible customers were seated at the bar. One was a grey-haired, lantern-jawed man in shirt-sleeves. The other was much more colourful. Long auburn hair fell luxuriantly on to shoulders over which was casually draped a soft-leather jacket in pastel yellow. His intelligent face was set in an expression of rapt attentiveness as he listened to the other man.
Pascoe went up to the bar and waited for someone to appear to serve him. He was not impatient. There was a timeless aura about this old room which suited his mood very well. It was comforting somehow to think of Rose and Colin so quickly making friends in the village. Pascoe was used to death bringing out the best in people's memories, but there had been a genuine ring about the Dixon's tributes. And Culpepper's, and even Pelman's for that matter.
Along the bar the lantern-jawed man's voice rose in emphasis and became audible. It was impossible not to hear.
'But if you want the truth about this fella, Hopkins – and don't quote me on this, mind – I would say there's no doubt at all the man is completely unbalanced. Off his chump. I said it from the start.'
Chapter 5
Pascoe's anger broke at last. The professional part of his mind told him he was being very silly, but it didn't slow him down one jot.
He crossed the floor in a couple of strides and seized the lantern-jawed man by the shoulder, dragging him round so forcefully that he half slipped off his stool and only saved himself from falling by dropping his glass and grabbing at the bar.
The leather-jacketed drinker leapt clear with great agility and without spilling a drop of his drink, then settled down to view the situation with interest.
'Who the hell are you?' asked Pascoe in a low, rapid voice. 'Some kind of doctor? A psychiatrist? A trained social worker, perhaps? Or perhaps just specially gifted with superb bloody insight?'
He found he was punctuating his phrases with violent forefinger jabs into the man's midriff. Far from being distressed by the discovery, he found himself contemplating the greater satisfaction he might derive from putting all his pugilistic eggs into one basket and smashing his fist into this fellow's unpleasant, sneering face.
To give him his due, the man did not look frightened, merely taken aback by the unexpectedness of the attack.
'What the hell – look here – you bloody madman!' he expostulated.
Pascoe had almost made up his mind. Even the memory that last time he had thrown a punch in anger the result had been a mild contusion for the recipient and a broken forefinger for himself did not deter him. He clenched his fist.