Ruling Passion by Reginald Hill Page B

said.
    'Oh, come on, Sergeant!'
    His rank was used like a threat. Pascoe quietly  put down his glass on a nearby table. He felt in  perfect control but did not discount the possibility  of pushing in this man's leering, insinuating face.
    But he didn't want to be holding a fistful of glass  when he did it. Not that he was going to do it. Of  course not.
    'This must have been a terrible shock to you,  Sergeant,' said the reporter.
    Pascoe changed his mind, made a fist, changed  his mind again and thrust it deep into his pocket.
    'Go away,' he said.
    The door of the bar was pushed open. An  excited-looking rustic entered and spoke to some  near acquaintance. Other people looked up, listened. The words danced through the assembled  drinkers like dryads in a moonlit forest. Tantalizing.  Hard to grasp.
    'Brookside . . . Fire . . . Cottage . . . Fire . . .  Brookside Cottage is on fire!'
    The reporter went away.
     
    By the time Pascoe reached Brookside, the fire  was out. There seemed to have been some kind  of explosion in the kitchen and the blast, though  causing a great deal of damage, had probably almost extinguished the flame that caused it.
    A uniformed constable, left on duty to watch  the property overnight, had decided it was foolish  to patrol outside all the time and had entered the  living-room just as the explosion occurred. He was badly cut about the face, but had managed  to phone for assistance.
    Backhouse was on the scene but seemed disinclined to allow Pascoe any special privileges. Pascoe felt he could not really blame him, and hung  around the fringe of the little knot of newspaper-men whom Backhouse addressed in a friendly,  conciliatory manner. Certainly he was a different  breed from Dalziel!
    'It seems there was an escape of gas in the  kitchen probably ignited by a pilot-light in the cooker. The kitchen itself has been extensively  damaged, but only superficial damage has been  done to the other rooms.'
    'An accident you would say, Superintendent?'
    'What else?' asked Backhouse blandly.
    What indeed? wondered Pascoe. He did not trust  coincidences.
    The firemen began to pack up their gear. A Gas  Board van arrived and a couple of men went into  the cottage to deal with the fractured pipes.
    The group of onlookers broke up and began to  drift away. Pascoe watched them go. When most of  them had got into their cars, he noticed a vaguely  familiar figure step out of the shadows on the other  side of the road and make his way briskly along the road away from the village. Pascoe had to puzzle at  his memory to work out who it was.
    Sam Dixon, he realized suddenly. He must be  on his way back from the bowls club dinner.
    It wasn't till he was making his way up the lane  towards Culpepper's house that another thought  struck him. Dixon had been out of the pub the  previous night too.
    But it did not seem a very important thought, not as important at this moment as his concern  about who was following him through the trees  which stretched out on either side of the lane.
     
    'Nerves,’ suggested Ellie. 'Or that thing that  Davenant claimed to have seen, Anus mirabilis.'
    'Asio otus. No, this was no owl. More like a  Hammer Films sound effect. Cracking twigs and  rustling undergrowth. I was glad to get back.'
    The party had broken up when he returned.  Culpepper let him in, explained that the guests  had gone and offered him a nightcap.
    'Marianne has gone to bed,' he added. 'I hope  you will forgive her, but we had no idea how  long you would be in returning and she's had a  tiring day.'
    'I hope I haven't kept you up,' apologized Pascoe.
    'Not at all. I need very little sleep. It will be  three or four hours before I go up. Sometimes  I don't bother at all, just take a cat-nap in my  chair.'
    He did not press when Pascoe turned down a second drink, and they said good night. Pascoe heard  the grille-door of the porcelain room opening as he  went up the