'We're conducting a murder inquiry, sir,' responded Backhouse. 'I'm surprised you haven't heard.'

Yes, that is surprising, thought Pascoe. Over two hours had elapsed since the crime had been reported. He had no doubt that shortly – perhaps already – the TV cameras would be rolling and the press-men patrolling around Brookside Cottage. But Angus Pelman had contrived to remain ignorant till he entered the hall.

He was also contriving to look completely taken aback at the news. When Backhouse filled in a few details, he sat down violently on the nearest chair.

'The Hopkinses at Brookside Cottage?' he repeated incredulously.

'You knew them, sir?' asked Backhouse.

'I should do,' Pelman answered. 'I sold them the damned place.'

A memory started up in Pascoe's mind, beautifully clear. The cottage in Eskdale, six (or was it seven?) years ago. The owner had been a farmer who lived half a mile down the valley. He was a big, randy bastard, full of himself, and he took to dropping in from time to time – exercising his right of inspection, he claimed, though his main objects of inspection were clearly the two girls, particularly Rose. They suspected also that he visited the place while they were out walking on the fells. In the end they did something, some kind of joke… but the memory faded as quickly as it had come. He would have to ask Ellie.

'Shot, you say? Both shot?' said Pelman.

'Not both the Hopkinses, sir. Mrs Hopkins, and their two guests.'

'And Colin Hopkins?'

'We hope to contact him soon, sir.'

'You mean, he doesn't know? But he was around yesterday evening. I saw him in the village.'

Suspicion dawned, followed by outrage.

'You're not suggesting he had something to do with it, are you? Man, you've got to be mad. I haven't known him long, but it's out of the question!'

Suddenly Pascoe liked him a lot better.