'I want you to arrest this bastard,' he said, pointing down at Shorter who had now slid to the floor.
'What for? Attacking you?' asked Pascoe satirically.
'It's no joke, mister. The bastard's been interfering with my daughter.'
'What?'
Shorter looked up at him, eyes wide in what could have been appeal or fear or almost anything. He tried to speak but only the bubbly air sounds came.
'Men,' said Ms Lacewing in tones of icy contempt. Who specifically it was aimed at, Pascoe didn't know, but he spun round and addressed her angrily.
'You,' he said, pointing to the distressed patient, 'you go and see to that poor devil. And shut up. You' (to Alison, now sobbing instead of screaming) 'shut up and ring for an ambulance and the police. Tell them I'm here. You' (to the faces which had appeared at the office and waiting-room doors) 'sit down and wait till I come and talk to you, and you' (to the three men who had beaten up Shorter) 'don't move a bloody inch, not a bloody inch, or I'll put it down as attacking a police officer.'
'As long as you put me in a cell with him, it'll be worth it,' said the burly man grimly.
But he said no more and when Ms Lacewing, having released the patient from his bonds, came across to administer first aid to Shorter, the three men accompanied Pascoe into the office without demur.
'Right,' he said, helping himself to paper from the desk. 'Let's start by mutual introductions, shall we?'
Chapter 9
Shorter's principal assailant was called Brian Burkill. He was a man of about forty, his face ruddy from the open air and perhaps a bit of high blood pressure besides. His hair was close-cropped and his solid brawny frame just beginning to slide into fat. Pascoe would not have cared to be struck by the large rough fists which rested, still tight-clenched, on the table between them.
Burkill had confirmed his leadership by sitting down. The other two flanked him, one a tall rangy man of nearly fifty, the other a stocky youth aged about twenty, his hair long and lank, his demeanour a mixture of swagger and nervousness.
'These two, send them off,' instructed Burkill. 'They've nowt to do with it. Mates, came to help, that's all. OK?'
'Nay, we'll stick with you, Bri,' said the taller man. 'See fair play.'
'Get off back to the yard, Charlie,' instructed Burkill. 'You too, Clint. Tell 'em I'll be along later.
‘Hold it,' said Pascoe as the two men began to move to the door. 'What do you think this is? A union meeting?'
'You've no reason to keep them,' protested Burkill. 'I've told you, they just came along.'
'And they can just bloody well stay,' retorted Pascoe. 'You - Charlie what?'
'Heppelwhite.'
'And you?'
'Heppelwhite,' said the youth. 'He's my dad.'
'Is your name really Clint?' asked Pascoe.
'Colin. I just get Clint.'
'All right. Now, addresses.'
He made careful notes of the information, partly to establish a strict official relationship in opposition to the free-wheeling encounter of equals Burkill seemed to imagine was taking place and partly to give himself time to consider where to go from here. He had no facts yet, nothing but an assault and an accusation, but his own involvement with Shorter plus his knowledge of the damage that such an accusation could cause, even without evidence, made him more than usually circumspect.
There was a tap on the door and a uniformed constable stuck his head in. Pascoe knew him by sight. His name was Palmer.
'Hello, sir,' he said. 'We got a call.'
'That's right,' said Pascoe. 'Is there an ambulance too?'
'Just arrived, but the injured man says he doesn’t want to go. Says he's OK, just a bit bruised and winded.'
'All right. Tell the ambulance we're sorry, but find out who we've got on call and ask him to get down here quick. I want Mr Shorter looked at.'
'Suppose he doesn't want that either, sir?' said Palmer.
'I'll see he does,' said Pascoe. 'Oh, and take these two somewhere quiet and do an identity check. Nothing more, understand?'
Palmer left with the Heppelwhites.
'All right, Mr Burkill,’ said Pascoe. 'Now, what's all this about?'
'What's your name?' said Burkill.
'Pascoe.Detective-Inspector Pascoe.'
'You a patient here?'
'Yes,' said Pascoe.
'You know Shorter, do you? Like a friend of his?'
'I know Mr Shorter, yes,' said Pascoe.
'I thought so, you being so handy on the spot. Right. I'm not talking to you.'
Burkill emphasized his decision by folding his arms (with some difficulty; it was like folding two ham shanks) and sticking out his jaw.
'That's not a wise decision, Mr Burkill,’ said Pascoe.
'Wise or not, what I've got to say isn't going to be said to no friend of bloody Shorter. You get someone else.'
The door opened and Ms Lacewing appeared.
Glad of the interruption, Pascoe rose and went to her.
'How's Jack?' he asked in a low voice.
'As well as can be expected.'
'Can you sort out his patients without fuss?' asked Pascoe. 'You realize how important it is to play things cool.'
'Important for Jack Shorter, you mean?' she said.
Pascoe looked at her curiously.
'What's wrong with that?' he said.
'I've no time for professional mystique and solidarity, Mr Pascoe,' she said. 'But I'll see to the patients.'
She left and Pascoe returned to the desk.
'What's that then?' demanded Burkill. 'Stage one of the cover-up?'
'Look, if you're not going to talk to me, do it right, will you?' snapped Pascoe. 'Keep your stupid mouth shut.'
It was sheer irritation, but in the event it turned out to be a subtle psychological ploy.
'You can't talk to me like that!' said Burkill.
'Why not? I'm just talking. I'm not trying to knock your stupid head off.'
'Listen,' said Burkill leaning across the desk and wagging a forefinger at Pascoe who was relieved that at least one fist was now unclenched. 'I'm having my breakfast, right? I'm just finishing when the wife tells me. This bastard's been at our Sandra, she tells me! At breakfast. At bloody breakfast!'
To Pascoe it seemed almost as if the timing of the news had upset Burkill as much as the news itself, but he kept the observation to himself.
T thought there was something up. She'd been very restless that night. Turns out Sandra had come out with it on Sunday night when I was down at the Club.'
'Why didn't she tell you on your return?' enquired Pascoe.
'Said she didn't want to tell me when I'd been drinking. Five or six pints, you call that drinking? I suppose she were right, though. You never know, I might have done summat daft last night.'
'Instead of which . . .' prompted Pascoe.
'I wanted to go right round to his house, there and then, and have it out. But the wife said no. She said I had to think about it, work something out. I were right upset, you can imagine. I went off to work . . .'
'Where's that?'
'Blengdale's,' said Burkill. 'I'm yard foreman there. I couldn't work for thinking about it. I told Charlie Heppelwhite. He lives next door and we drive to work together. I've known Charlie for years. I asked what he thought on it.'
'And he advised you to come round here and assault Mr Shorter.'
Burkill considered.
'No. Charlie said that buggers like that needed doctoring, but it was his boy, Clint, who got really mad. He's been like an elder brother to our Sandra.
He was so angry he was going to set off by himself to see Shorter. Well, we didn't want that. It might have meant trouble. He's a wild un when he's roused, young Clint. So we decided we'd all come round and have it out.'
'Why not go to the police?'
'Look!' said the man. 'It was early days for the police. I wanted to hear what Shorter had to say for himself first.'
'It
's getting clearer,' said Pascoe. 'You came here partly to preserve the peace, and partly to protect Mr Shorter's right to put his side of the matter. Well, in that case, I'm sorry I interrupted you. If I'd known what you were up to, I'd have stood there and watched the three of you kick him about a bit longer.'
'I knew it was no good talking to you,' grunted Burkill. 'What do you want me to do? I go in there and ask him to step outside for a chat. He tells me to bugger off. I don't want to talk in front of other people, but I see it's got to be that way, so I ask him straight out, what's he been doing to our Sandra. He goes bloody berserk, tries to push us out of the room. I don't like being pushed. It turns into a bit of a punch-up. What do you expect? Have you got any kids, mister? What'd you do?'
'Mr Burkill, we'll have to talk with your daughter, you realize that? How old is she?'
'Thirteen. On Saturday she was thirteen. What a bloody birthday present, eh?'
'And what precisely did she tell you had happened here?'
'She told the wife that . . .'
'No,’ interrupted Pascoe. 'What did she tell you? You spoke to your daughter, I presume?'
'Aye. I went up to her room.'
'And what did you say?'
'I said something like, Sandra, is it right what your mam tell me?'
'And she answered?'
'She said, yes dad.'
'And you said?'
'I said nowt. That were enough for me,' said Burkill.
Pascoe covered his face with his hands.
'Oh God,' he said. 'And on that evidence you come round here and start knocking hell out of a stranger?'
Burkill stood up and both fists were balled again.
'You've decided, haven't you? You've bloody decided. I knew you were one of his mates. So I'm wrong, I'm in trouble, and he's going to get off with it? Let me tell you, mister, it doesn't work like that any more, there'll be no cover-ups here, no, not if you were ten times the man I think you are!'
The door burst open as though hit by a sledge-hammer.
'There's a lot of noise in here,' said Dalziel, entering the room. 'Just calm it down a bit, Brian. They don't want to hear you in Newcastle.'
'Oh hello, Mr Dalziel,' said Burkill. 'Thank Christ you’re here. This sod's trying to cover up for his mate and . . .'
'Brian,' said Dalziel mildly, 'you refer like that just one more time to Inspector Pascoe or any of my officers and there won't be enough left of you to cover up. Now sit down and shut up. Inspector.'
He jerked his head at Pascoe who followed him out of the door.
'You're having a busy morning,' said Dalziel. 'This isn't one for you, you know that?'
'I was here,' protested Pascoe.
'That's the trouble. As soon as I heard the name Shorter, I knew I'd best get down here myself. What's happened?'
Quickly Pascoe filled him in.
'And you've been doing what? Interrogating Burkill?'
'Just general stuff till someone turned up,' said Pascoe.
'Oh aye.So general that he's crying police cover-up already!'
Pascoe didn't answer. He was all too aware of the messy inadequacies of his questioning of Burkill.
'You know Burkill, sir?' he asked.
'From way back.'
'Officially?' said Pascoe, suddenly alert.
'You mean, has he been in trouble? No, there's no way out for your mate there. Burkill's not a good man to antagonize, but he's honest, industrious and well thought of. He runs the shop floor at Blengdale's like a Panzer division. No half-baked union disputes there about who turns what screw. No, you do what Burkill says or you sling your hook.'
'Is that where you know him from?' asked Pascoe.
'Not me,' said Dalziel. 'I've nowt to do with Blengdale's. No, Bri's other great interest is Westgate Social Club. He's lived on the estate for years, helped build the Club up from scratch and he's been concert secretary there as long as I can remember. I've done a bit of drinking there in my time, that's how I know him. No West End finesse, but by God, the buggers who perform there know they'd best put on a good turn, else they won't get paid! I'll have a word with him now. I speak the same language.'
'I'll get out of your way then,' said Pascoe rather sulkily.
'What the hell for?'
'Well, you said you didn't want me involved on the case.'
'I don't want you talking to Burkill or Shorter, get that clear. But there's no reason why you should be sitting on your arse in the office while I'm stuck down here. No, you go and sort out that Heppelwhite pair, get their version of things.'
'Burkill won't like me interrogating his mates.'
Dalziel's face was as heavy and ugly as a slag heap.
'No one tells me who I can or can't use on a case, Inspector. No bloody one. Now jump to it and we'll see if we can't get round one over before closing time!'
Constable Palmer was in such earnest conversation with the Heppelwhites that he didn't hear Pascoe open the door.
'There was a case up in Middlesbrough last month,' he was saying. 'Same thing. Only he were a teacher. Suspended sentence. No wonder someone thumps them!'
'You reckon we'll be OK then?' said Charlie Heppelwhite.
'Bound to be. He'll not want the publicity. Anyway, go for a jury if it comes to a case. You're entitled, and there's not a family man in this town but'd applaud you.'
'Palmer!' said Pascoe.
'Sir.'
'Step outside for a moment.'
Pascoe heard himself reprimanding the constable with an ironic awareness of the parallels between this scene and his own recent interview with Dalziel.
Palmer was obviously unrepentant.
'Sorry, sir,' he said, 'but I've got two little girls of my own.'
'Proud of their dad?'
'I hope so, sir.'
'Then you'd better learn to follow instructions, else they'll be wondering why daddy's spending so much time at home.'
Palmer's face set with resentment but he said nothing in reply and Pascoe dismissed him, feeling full of guilt at uttering such a Dalzielesque authoritarian threat.
He spoke to the Heppelwhites separately. The father, though he expressed the feeling that scourging was too good for a man like Shorter, obviously had considerable reservations about the whole business.
'I didn't want to come here,' he said. 'But he were set on it, so I thought it best to come with him. Bri's a hard man when he wants. And our Clint's got a temper.'
Pascoe regarded his thin earnest face and groaned inwardly. Here was someone else whose route to the punch-up was paved with good intentions.
'Who threw the first punch?' he asked.
Heppelwhite thought carefully.
'I don't rightly know,' he said in the end. 'The dentist waved his arms about, you know, going shoo! shoo! like we were a lot of sheep. Clint grabbed one of his arms, just to restrain him a bit, and the fellow called Clint a smelly yobbo, some such thing. Then Clint pushed him in the chest.'
'Punched or pushed?'
Heppelwhite hesitated.
'A bit of both,' he admitted. 'He swung at Clint and next thing Bri was banging away at him.'
'And you?'
'I don't know. I just found myself going through the motions. Down our way, you don't hang around when your mate's in a fight.'
'You could have tried to stop it.'
'Last fellow I saw try to stop Bri in a fight got a busted nose,' said Heppelwhite.
'Oh. Is Mr Burkill a regular fighter then?'
'I never said that. It happens he's on the Club committee and if there's ever any trouble down there, it's Bri they send for. It's usually visitors start it.'
'Of course,' agreed Pascoe. 'Foreigners from Doncaster or Sheffield. I gather you've known Mr Burkill a long time.'
'Aye.Twenty years or more. I'm a couple of years older than him, but his missus and mine's of an age and they were best friends ever since school.'
'Nice family?'
'Very nice.'
&n
bsp; 'Close?'
'What?'
'I mean, they get on well together.'
'Oh yes. Deirdre, that's Mrs Burkill, she's always been dead proud of Bri and the way he's got on.'
'And Sandra?'
'Lovely lass. I'm her godfather, like Brian's my Clint's.'
'And she likes her father?'
'What a daft question!' said Heppelwhite. 'Of course she likes her father. He's, well, he's her father!'
'Were you surprised when you heard what she said about Shorter?'
Heppelwhite hesitated before saying, 'Of course I was surprised.'
'You don't seem sure.'
'Don't try to put words in my mouth, lad!'
'Nice-looking girl, is she? For her age, I mean.'
'Aye.Very bonnie. For her age.'
'They grow quick these days, don't they? Suppose I suggested to you, Mr Heppelwhite, that if Sandra had been caught up to some hanky-panky with a young lad, you'd not have been in the least surprised. Would that be nearer the mark? It was Mr Shorter's alleged interference which surprised and shocked you.'
'Perhaps,' said Heppelwhite cautiously. 'There's mebbe summat of that in it.'
He was clearly unwilling to go further and without having seen the girl himself, Pascoe didn't feel able to pursue the line.
Clint began defiantly, asserting a Wild West notion of chivalry and vengeance.
'She's only a kid, isn't she? She needs protected.'
'All girls need protected, do they?'
'Decent girls do,' said Clint boldly.
'How old are you, Clint?'
'Nineteen.'
'Been around a bit?'
'What?'
'You know. Had your share? Know what I mean?'
'I do all right,’ said Clint.
'Do you really? That's interesting. Mostly slag, though?'
'What?'
'You know. Scrubbers. Old bits that you pay.'
'Not bloody likely,' said Clint hotly.
'No? Well, stuff that's there for everyone, then. There's always one or two like that around. You know, snap your fingers and it's yours.'
'Get stuffed!' exploded Clint.
'You mean, it's not just the easy stuff? You don't mean to tell me you've been making it with . . . decent girls?'
It was a petty triumph and Pascoe felt disgusted with himself for seeking it. Besides it was bad technique. Burkill might be provoked into talking by such an attack but all it served to do with this youngster was drive him into a surly silence.
Dalziel 05 A Pinch of Snuff Page 8
