Dalziel 05 A Pinch of Snuff

by Reginald Hill

  Finally Pascoe sent both the Heppelwhites off with the warning that they would probably need to be seen again before the day was through and the threat that charges of assault were more than likely. Not that Pascoe believed this last himself. The girl's allegations would have to be closely investigated, but he couldn't see Jack Shorter doing anything which was likely to bring them into the public eye.

  He caught the police surgeon just as he was leaving. Shorter had evidently been happy to be examined and treated and the doctor was able to tell Pascoe that apart from the possibility of a cracked rib, the damage was superficial. He also told him that Dalziel had just joined the dentist. Pascoe felt relieved. It removed from him the temptation to see Shorter which, perversely, Dalziel's interdict had only served to make the stronger by dint of corresponding with Pascoe's own reluctance of which he was ashamed.

  Ms Lacewing appeared in the hallway.

  'I've sorted out Shorter's patients,' she said.

  'I bet they hardly felt a thing,' said Pascoe.

  She suddenly grinned. Her own teeth were small and white and looked very sharp. They changed the whole character of her face, giving it a kind of sly sexuality which was not unexciting.

  'I'm going to have some coffee. Join me,' she said.

  She led him into her surgery where an electric kettle was jetting steam on to a pile of dental records.

  She made their instant coffee swiftly and lay on the patient's couch with Pascoe perched gingerly alongside her on the dentist's stool.

  'Are you related to Ellie Pascoe?' she asked.

  'In a way,' he said. 'She's my wife. Do you know her?'

  'Of her. She sounds interesting. I think we may be friends.'

  It was an alliance Pascoe did not much care for the sound of.

  'Who's been saying nice things about her?' he wondered.

  'My uncle. He says she's an arrogant, loud- mouthed trouble-maker.'

  'What?'

  'Yes. That's what attracted me.'

  'Who is this uncle?' demanded Pascoe hotly.

  'Why? Are you going to do the knight-errant bit and thump him? I doubt it. He's Godfrey Blengdale.'

  'Oh,' said Pascoe.

  'Didn't you know?' she said, smiling up at him sweetly. 'In fact it's Gwen, his wife, that I'm related to. She's my mother's sister. Poor cow. I like her a lot, but she's too stupid to tell Uncle God to go jump. I was there last week when he came home from a meeting that your wife had attended also. That's when he gave her the testimonial. Do you think she'd be interested in WRAG?'

  'I doubt if she needs it,' said Pascoe.

  'I see,' said Ms Lacewing. 'You make up her mind for her, do you?'

  'No,' said Pascoe, suddenly tired of being the second fiddle in someone else's orchestration. 'On the contrary, it's me who lets other people make up my mind. Take this business of Jack Shorter, for instance. You say you're not interested in professional solidarity, so tell me, do you think he did it?'

  'What,' she replied, 'is he alleged to have done? Precisely.'

  Pascoe was obliged to say he didn't know.

  'Then your question's meaningless. ‘Whatever the specifics,' he protested, 'surely the notion of interference is narrow enough in itself to permit an answer.'

  'A typically naive masculine point of view,' she said. 'Was she touched? Was he provoked? That's the extent of your thinking, I bet.'

  'I'd like more notice of that question,' said Pascoe cautiously. 'But yes, they are important questions.'

  'Reverse them. Was he touched? Was she provoked? Have you ever had a case where those questions suggested themselves to you? Suppose a strange woman pinched your bottom in a train, would you feel that a crime had been committed?'

  'No. But then the sexual element's not present.'

  'How do you know?'

  'Well, I don't,' admitted Pascoe. 'But I wouldn't feel sexually assaulted.'

  'Suppose she grabbed your privates?'

  'It would depend whether the motive was to give me pain or herself pleasure.'

  Ms Lacewing laughed.

  'For a policeperson,' she said, 'you are not too idiotic.'

  'We have mental hygienists. But let's get this straight. You seem to be saying that men are hard done to, that what for a man is a crime, for a woman is nothing at all.'

  'Perhaps you are too idiotic,' she said. 'What I'm saying is that whether this poor girl has been interfered with, or imagines she's been interfered with, or wishes she'd been interfered with, or is merely pretending she's been interfered with, a crime's been perpetrated on her mind far graver than any you'll charge Jack Shorter with.'

  'Bloody hell,' said Pascoe. 'You know, for a while there I thought we were speaking the same language!'

  Before she could answer, Pascoe heard his name bellowed outside.

  'It'll have to wait till my next appointment,' he said.

  Dalziel was standing by the office door looking as if he'd been waiting for hours. Behind him Pascoe could see Shorter, who looked rather pale and had a couple of pieces of plaster on his forehead.

  'There you are,' said Dalziel. 'I'm done here. The doctor's advised Mr Shorter to take things easy for the rest of the day, and I've said the same. I've also advised him in his own interest not to discuss this business with anyone.'

  'Except a solicitor,' said Pascoe clearly.

  'That's up to him. I don't think Burkill will go running to the Press just yet, but there'll be talk at Blengdale's and it can easily get about. We'll want to see you again, Mr Shorter, after the girl's made a statement. If you are not going to be at home, make sure we know where to find you. Are you fit, Inspector? Let's get a move on then. There's work to be done.'

  He set off purposefully towards the exit. Pascoe hesitated, looking into the room at Shorter who met his gaze with a kind of frustrated resentment.

  'Take it easy, Jack,' urged Pascoe. 'It'll be OK.'

  'Inspector!'

  With a final helpless shrug, Pascoe turned and went after Dalziel.

  Behind him Shorter stood up and kicked the door shut with a resounding crash.

  'If I were you,' said Dalziel, 'I shouldn't let him at my fillings for a couple of weeks.'

  Chapter 10

  'Sure you won't have one?' asked Dalziel.

  Pascoe shook his head and the fat man replaced the bottle of Glen Grant in his filing cabinet.

  'It's medicinal,' he said, lifting his tumbler in salutation to God knew what God and taking a substantial draught. 'Wash the taste of that place out of my mouth.'

  'You've made your mind up then? You haven't even heard the girl!'

  'There's a WPC there now taking a statement. I'll have a go when I've seen it. But I'd be surprised if it didn't stand up.'

  'Why, for God's sake?'

  'One - Brian Burkill's not daft. He wouldn't do what he didn't see cause to. Two - this dentist of yours started putting himself in your way last week, coming the old pals act. Right?'

  'Hang on!' protested Pascoe. 'He drew my attention to a possible breach of the law, that's all.'

  'He told you some cock-and-bull story about a girl being beaten up, that's what. It was a cock-and-bull story, wasn't it?'

  'Yes,' admitted Pascoe. 'He was mistaken. But he could have found an easier way of putting himself in my way, as you put it. Why link himself with the Calli at all?'

  'Suppose he knows the girl's going to talk? They all do eventually. We investigate him, find out his favourite hobby's watching skin-flicks. It doesn't look good, does it? So he clears the decks. It's in the open. I bet his wife knows all about it.'

  'Yes, she does,' said Pascoe. 'I met her.'

  'Did you? I wonder how long she's known. Did she look the type who'd like a bit of way-out thrill?'

  'Not really. But you never can tell.'

  'I'll be able to tell by the time I'm done,' said Dalziel grimly.

  'I'm sorry,' said Pascoe. 'Frankly, I think this is all half-baked. It's too tortuous by half.'

  'T
o you, aye. It's not your problem. But think on, when you're in dead lumber and things start looking black, any idea that seem to offer a chance of getting out comes on you like a flash of light. It doesn't matter how daft it is. How many poor sods have we put away who hit on the brilliant notion of solving their money troubles by borrowing a few hundred from the till, putting it on a horse and then replacing the borrowed money from their winnings? Now, that's daft, but it still gets done.

  ‘I’m not convinced,’ said Pascoe. 'Anyway, that was two. Is there a three?'

  'Oh aye.Three. When I talked to him just now, I got a feeling he'd been up to something.'

  'A feeling!' mocked Pascoe.

  'That's it,' said Dalziel. 'A feeling. There's something there. Last time I had this feeling . . .'

  'Yes?' prompted Pascoe as Dalziel finished his Scotch.

  'I lost fifteen quid on the Leger. But there's more important things than dirty dentists. There's this Haggard business. What are you on today?'

  'I'm seeing Blengdale this afternoon. Three o'clock.'

  'And what are you hoping from that?'

  'Well, he's possibly the last person to see Haggard before the attack . . .'

  'So what? I mean, that's usually a lot of bloody use, isn't it?'

  'I won't know till I see the man!' snapped Pascoe in exasperation.

  'No. Of course you won't,' said Dalziel pacifyingly. 'But you watch him, Peter. He's a hard bugger and if he thinks his public image is being tarnished . . . any road, you'll see for yourself.'

  'Yes,' said Pascoe, rising. 'About Shorter . . .'

  'I'll keep you posted,' said Dalziel. 'Don't worry. It'll be done proper. Like I said, I'll see the girl myself. If it looks straightforward, I'll pass it on to some nice safe Puritan like Inspector Trumper. You keep clear unless I say otherwise. It wouldn’t surprise me if Shorter didn't try to get to you somehow, so be ready. Choke him off.'

  'Policemen mustn't have friends,' said Pascoe bitterly.

  'Oh no, lad. Nowt to do with that,' said Dalziel. 'Be as friendly as you like. It's just that I want to save you up till he's sweated a bit and might be ready to cough. That's when a friendly shoulder comes in really useful!'

  The business at the dentist's had taken a large slice out of the morning and it was one o'clock before Pascoe knew it. He didn't feel particularly hungry but he had learned early that in detective work only a fool voluntarily passed up a meal break.

  At least he wouldn't be seeing Shorter today, he thought as he entered the Black Bull.

  Sergeant Wield was there, sitting alone, and Pascoe joined him. They sat in silence for a while. Wield didn't seem disposed to talk, so Pascoe didn't bother him. He did not know the man very well and to tell the truth, he found him rather intimidating.

  'Well, I'll finally see Blengdale this afternoon,' he said to break the ice.

  'Want me along, sir?' said Wield.

  'Not this time. Informality's the thing. Merge with the background till I see what's going on. If anything.'

  'Oh aye. I doubt if Priory Farm's a background I'd merge easily with,' said Wield. 'Not inside anyway.'

  He looked hard at Pascoe.

  Oh Christ, he thought. Is it a joke or a social comment?

  He took the plunge and grinned broadly. To his relief Wield's craggy face landslipped into a wide smile.

  'Any ideas yet what's behind all this?' asked Wield. 'If it's not just tearaways, I mean.'

  'Not a clue. I don't really understand Haggard, that's the thing. Diplomat, schoolteacher; old ladies love him. Runs a dirty film club and gets his kicks from having his bum beaten. How's that for complex? And how did he and Arany come into partnership? It's a curious relationship.'

  'I've known curiouser,' said Wield. 'Tell you who might know something. Johnny Hope.'

  'Who?'

  'Pub and Club man for the Courier. What he doesn't know about the club people we're not going to be able to find out.'

  'Fine,' said Pascoe. 'I'd like to meet him. Straight after lunch we'll call round.'

  'Oh no,’ said Wield, 'He'll be in bed. You'll make an enemy for life of Johnny Hope if you disturb his sleep. Best thing is to meet up with him on his rounds. How're you fixed tonight, sir?'

  Pascoe began to nod, then recalled Ellie and her promise of duck and more besides.

  'Make it tomorrow night,' he said. 'Here. Something else since we're on about the clubs. Do you know a man called Burkill? Concert Secretary at the Westgate Social.'

  'Bri? Works at Blengdale's? Aye, I know him.'

  'What sort of fellow is he?'

  'Hard but honest. He really puts himself heart and soul into that club. You don't get bad turns there, not more than once.'

  'Yes. The super said that,' he said, adding as a memory popped up toast-like into his mind, 'Would he know Arany?'

  'Oh aye. He'll book acts through him. Not only that, though,' said Wield, chuckling like a subterranean stream. 'The one time Arany appeared at the Westgate when he was still trying to peddle his act, Burkill switched off the mike after five minutes and pulled him off. Literally.'

  'Ah,' said Pascoe. 'So there'd be no love lost?'

  'Well,' said Wield. 'Burkill's a fair man. If he thinks someone's not trying, he'd refuse to pay and like as not thump 'em. But if he reckons someone's just got no talent, he'd slip 'em a quid and advise them to get out of the business. That's just as bad for some fellows, I know, but Arany's sharp. He'd begun to get the message anyway. That's more or less when he turned to agenting. And he's been pretty pally with Burkill since.'

  'Has he now? And his family?' said Pascoe, remembering the gift-wrapped packet he'd seen at the Calli. 'Friendly enough to buy the girl a birthday present?'

  'Wouldn't surprise me,' said Wield.

  'You know the family?'

  'I've seen Mrs Burkill at the Social Club. And I saw the girl once in the Club office waiting for her dad. Come to think of it, Arany was there too.'

  'What's she like, this girl?'

  'Just a girl.Can't tell the difference between 'em nowadays. Her mam's a fine-looking woman though. Are we interested?'

  He sounded reproving. Oh God, thought Pascoe. I'm doing it again, keeping the poor sod in the dark. Quickly he explained about Shorter and Sandra Burkill's allegations; also about Dalziel's theory that Shorter had somehow been paving the way for this revelation by inventing the Droit de Seigneur story.

  'Bit far-fetched that,' said Wield, to Pascoe's delight. 'Mind you, Shorter, the Calli, Arany, Burkill, Shorter. It's a bit of a coincidence, don't you think, sir?'

  'You're not suggesting some kind of frame, are you?' said Pascoe incredulously. 'You're worse than Mr Dalziel!'

  'When it comes to catching villains, most of us are, sir,' said Sergeant Wield.

  Priory Farm was a long, low, whitewashed building, tastefully extended and beautifully maintained and it gave Pascoe great pain. He was not an overly envious man, but this house felt so right for him that it was as if Blengdale had tricked him out of it.

  Blengdale was not there and his wife invited Pascoe to wait in a room furnished with quiet (and expensive) good taste.

  None of this stuff had been knocked together from Blengdale's do-it-yourself furniture kits, thought Pascoe.

  Blengdale's wife, who seemed somehow familiar though he had not met her before, also had much of the same patina of value and breeding. Pascoe knew nothing of her provenance but he would have classified her as genuine English county, probably with a good seat but not erring on the side of tweediness, equally able to be unobtrusively elegant (as now) in simple twinset and sensible shoes, or discreetly radiant at a Hunt Ball. If she was a trifle more faded than high - or indeed low - society expects its womenfolk to be in their late thirties, then this merely confirmed that she was 'right'. The English Rose fades early, but she fades exceeding slow.

  'I'm sorry my husband's not here, Inspector,' said Gwen Blengdale. 'He had a meeting at one-thirty and did not anticipate it would go on v
ery long.'

  'That's all right,' said Pascoe peering enviously out of the window. 'What a lovely setting this is. We're looking towards the golf course, aren't we?'

  'That's right. And to the right we abut on the grounds of the college. Your wife works there, I believe.'

  'Yes. Have you met her?'

  'We spoke on the phone once. Some committee of Godfrey's..’

  She was interrupted by the violent passage before the window of a little fat man on a big black horse. Pascoe wondered how far he was ahead of the posse.

  'Excuse me,' said Mrs Blengdale.

  She left the room. Pascoe heard voices distantly, or rather one voice which came rapidly closer till the door burst open and the speaker appeared.

  He was an ugly little man, round and red, with a foxy stubble of hair broadening out below the jug-handle ears into luxuriant sideboards. He wore a hacking jacket and jodhpurs, clearly specially tailored to accommodate such shortness of leg with such breadth of buttock. It was also clear that his naturally rubicund complexion was enhanced by deep emotion.

  'What a fucking day!' he said. 'What a fucking day. You wouldn't believe it. My time's not my own. You're Pascoe, are you? Well you ought to try keeping your sodding wife in order, that's all I can say.'

  He sat heavily on a chair which, being a non-Blengdale product, merely groaned slightly.

  'Mr Blengdale, I presume,' said Pascoe.

  'Presume, is it? I've had enough presumption from Pascoes for one day. Is she like that at home? You deserve police protection. Is that why you joined?'

  Pascoe felt a protest was called for, though, knowing his Yorkshiremen, he suspected it would be useless.

  'Mr Blengdale, what my wife does in her own professional capacity is her business. But I don't feel you're entitled to be abusive . . .'

  'Me abusive? A fascist pig she called me! Feathering my own sty! That's abusive, that's what I call abusive!'

  'It's certainly an abuse of the language,' said Pascoe. 'But I dare say Mrs Pascoe was carried away in the heat of argument and in truth meant to offend you as little as you mean to offend me.'