Dalziel 05 A Pinch of Snuff

by Reginald Hill

  Pascoe put the package on top of the typewriter.

  'He didn't forget it?' said the girl. 'I left him a note in the office too!'

  'Must have done, I'm afraid,' said Pascoe, adding casually, 'How long have you been buying things for Sandra Burkill?' Beside him Wield stiffened.

  'Three, four years now.Since I came here. She's done well out of her Uncle Maurice. He thinks a lot of her.'

  Pascoe thought he detected a something in her tone.

  'More than you do, eh?' he coaxed.

  'She's all right. She's reached the sort of surly age. It's just a phase. I remember what I used to be like!'

  'I can't imagine it,' said Pascoe gallantly.

  The inner door opened and Arany emerged. He expressed no surprise when he saw his visitors.

  'Come in,' he said.

  Pascoe followed him into the inner office but Wield lagged behind.

  'Just thought I'd drop in, Mr Arany, to see if by any chance you'd remembered anything else. Also you forgot your parcel. I brought it round with me. Sandra must have been disappointed.'

  He really was a difficult man to get to, thought Pascoe as he regarded the unsurprised and unsurprisable face.

  'I'll give it another time,' said Arany. 'Thank you. And no, I have remembered nothing more. Was there anything else?'

  'Just one more thing,' said Pascoe. 'The damaged film. What became of it?'

  'It was useless,' said Arany. 'I put it in the dustbin.'

  'Ah yes. And the bins are collected in Wilkinson Square on . . . ?'

  'Mondays.'

  'Of course. Well, I suppose if I wanted to take another look at Droit de Seigneur I could get hold of another print from the distributor?'

  Arany shook his head.

  'I was on the phone to them yesterday. Told them what had happened. They weren't pleased. That was their only print of Droit.'

  'Really,' said Pascoe. 'Isn't that unusual?'

  He got the Arany shrug again.

  'Perhaps another distributor?Or the makers. Homeric Films, wasn't it? You don't happen to have their number?'

  'No,' said Arany. 'We don't need to contact film companies direct.'

  'Not even as an agent? Don't ring us and we won’t ring you? Well, thanks a lot, Mr Arany. See you later, perhaps.'

  When he opened the door to the secretary's office, he was met with a great deal of laughter and the remarkable sight of Doreen perched on Sergeant Wield's knee.

  'I told her I used to be a ventriloquist, asked for an audition,' said Wield on the way out.

  'And?'

  'I've no dummy, have I? So she sits on my knee in front of the mirror. I pinch her bum. She yells. My mouth doesn't move.'

  'Jesus wept,' said Pascoe. 'It's nearly lunch-time. You can buy me a pint for that.'

  'What about you, sir?' asked Wield.

  'Well, he didn't sit on my knee, I'll tell you that! He says the film was ruined. It's been chucked away, what remained of it. Also he reckons it was the only print.'

  'Ah,' said Wield. 'Can I get it straight, sir? You've half a mind to think that destroying that film might have had something to do with the Calli break-in. I mean, that was the purpose. Because you'd shown an interest.'

  'Possibly.'

  'A bit drastic though, wasn't it?' said Wield, dubious. 'Why smash the place up like that and start a fire? All they had to do was lose it in the post, or let the projector go wrong and chew it up. And why kill Haggard? Just to make it look for real?'

  'Yes, yes, all right,' said Pascoe testily.

  In the Black Bull, he let Wield go to the bar while he went into the telephone kiosk outside in the passage between the bar and the small dining-room.

  First of all he got Homeric's number from the directory enquiries, but when he rang it there was no reply. After a moment's thought he dialled again and a moment later was speaking to Ray Crabtree.

  'Hello, Peter,' said Crabtree. 'Don't tell me. You want a transfer.'

  'It might come to that. No, it's a favour. I've been trying to ring that film company, Homeric, but no joy.'

  'Probably all out on location.Up on the moors shooting Wuthering Heights in the nuddy. How can I help?'

  'They made a film I'm interested in.Droit de Seigneur.'

  'Yes. I remember.'

  'I'd like to find out how many prints there were, who's got them, and whether they've retained a copy themselves. I'm too busy to make the trip myself and it's probably not all that important anyway. So if you've got a car out their way any time . . .'

  'Glad to help. If the office is shut up I'm pretty certain where I can find Penny at opening time tonight, if that's not too late.'

  'No, that'll be fine.'

  'Good. Wife all right? Dalziel had his heart attack yet? Well, we've got to take the rough with the smooth. I'll ring you later.'

  Smiling, Pascoe left the kiosk and re-entered the bar. As he did so, someone came up behind him and grasped his arm.

  He turned round and his heart sank.

  It was Emma Shorter.

  'Mr Pascoe, I must talk to you,' she said urgently.

  Her voice still had that right-to-rule note in it, but other things had changed. She was by no means so cool, nor so contained and perfectly ordered as last time they had met. Her hair had some loose strands drifting out from the neck and her make-up was sparse and uneven. She wore no gloves.

  'Hello, Mrs Shorter,' he said. 'Listen, if it's about Jack . . .'

  'Of course it's about Jack,' she snapped. 'I hoped I'd find you here. You're a friend of his, aren't you? Well, tell me what's going on. I've rung and rung the station. I managed to get a few words with that awful fat man who called last night, but he was no help. And when I asked for you, all that I got was you were out. That's no way for a friend to act, Mr Pascoe.'

  'I'd no idea you'd phoned, believe me,' said Pascoe. 'On the other hand, I think it might be a perfectly reasonable way for a friend to act in the circumstances.'

  'What does that mean?'

  'There's nothing I can do, really. And any suggestion that I was trying to do anything could just work against Jack.'

  'Why?' she demanded angrily. 'Can't you just tell this slut's family that she'd better pick on someone of her own kind to slander?'

  'And stop bothering decent folk? I'm sorry, Mrs Shorter. The allegation must be investigated, I'm sure you see that. Then it'll be decided whether there's enough supporting evidence to merit a charge. Really, that's all I can tell you.'

  'Thank you,' she said, nodding vigorously. 'I see how things are.'

  'I didn't mean that,' said Pascoe. 'Only . . .'

  'I must go now. I see your friends are arriving.'

  'How is Jack?' asked Pascoe, but already she was moving off, forcing a passage between his 'friends' who were coming from the bar.

  'Good day, Mrs Shorter,' cried Dalziel genially. 'Hello, Inspector Pascoe, surprise, surprise. The sergeant said you were close behind. Thirsty morning?'

  'You fat bastard,' said Emma Shorter venomously.

  'Cheerio, Mrs Shorter,' said Dalziel, his geniality undiminished. He led the two men to an empty table and sat down. After swallowing a gill of beer and belching contentedly, he sank his teeth into the best half of a pork pie and washed it down with the second gill.

  'What's she want?' he asked through the resultant sludge. 'Offering you her lily-white body to save her husband's reputation? Don't be tempted. Not if she had tits like the Taj Mahal, she couldn't do it. I guessed she'd be after you when she started on me this morning, so I told the switchboard you were permanently out to her.'

  'How kind,' said Pascoe. 'Is there something new?'

  'Nothing dramatic. That nurse's statement, I just had a quick glance. Sounds vague with a faint smell of cover-up. How did she strike you?'

  'A bit like that,' admitted Pascoe. 'But it's just loyalty, I reckon.'

  'Perhaps. You didn't get any hint that she's been having a whirl on Shorter's high-speed drill too, did you?'


  'Christ, what do you think he is? Some kind of satyr?'

  'That's one of them hairy buggers that lurk in bushes, isn't it? Like at the Art School. No, I'm not saying he's indiscriminate, but being married to that cactus must leave a lot of water in his well. Do you think the EEC know about these pies?'

  He was in high spirits, thought Pascoe, which boded ill for Shorter or anyone else whose case he'd been investigating that morning.

  'Even if he has been at Alison, what's it signify?' asked Pascoe.

  'The more some men get, the more they want. It's well known,' said Dalziel. 'The jury would lap it up. Makes the women feel threatened, the men feel proud.'

  'So you think there's definitely a case?'

  'Well, fair do's. I haven't seen Shorter yet. He may come up with some startling new evidence like he was castrated when he got engaged to Emma. I'm going round there this afternoon. Want to come?'

  'I thought you'd warned me off.'

  'Peter, lad, I don't think it matters a toss now. It's my bet it'll go to court. It could be better for him if it did. Burkill might go berserk else.'

  Pascoe shook his head.

  'I'll see him some time then. But by myself. Maybe I'll drop in this evening.'

  'You haven't forgotten we're seeing Johnny Hope, sir?' said Wield.

  'No. But there'd be time.'

  'Hope?' said Dalziel. 'The Club man?'

  'Yes, sir. I thought he might be able to give us something on Haggard and Arany.'

  'Oh, you're still chasing that hare, are you?' said Dalziel. 'Well, you may be right. Interesting fellow, that Arany. Do you reckon he thinks in English or Hungarian? Never mind. Let's have another pint and you can tell me everything you've been up to and why none of it's been any fucking use so far! Barman!'

  Pascoe hated beery lunch-times. He hated the feeling of vague benevolence with which he returned to his office, he hated the visits to the loo, and he hated the mid-afternoon drowsiness with its sour aftermath.

  Above all he hated the thought that he might come to be as unaffected by them as Dalziel, who for the moment seemed to be taking a breather from his diet.

  He excused himself after the third pint and set off at a brisk walk heading away from the station. His intention was to exercise the beer out of his system but he was distressed to find himself beginning to puff slightly after only a couple of minutes. It was time to dig out his old track suit and amuse Ellie by taking some regular exercise. He recalled how a couple of years ago he'd been entertained by Dalziel's commencement of a course of Canadian Air Force exercises. The fat man had given up at the bottom level of the first chart, remarking that if God had wanted Canadians to fly, he'd have fitted rockets to Rose Marie's arse.

  Perhaps he still had the book.

  Suddenly Pascoe saw his future ahead as clearly as the pavement along which he was walking. A steady rise in the police force till he reached his level of incompetence. Investigation after investigation, with more failures than successes unless he managed miraculously to beat the statistics. Streets like these in towns like this. Intermittent worries about his physical condition, but a gradual acceptance of decline. Intermittent worries about his intellectual and spiritual condition . . .

  He almost bumped into someone and they did a little mirror dance in their efforts to pass each other.

  'Sorry,’ said Pascoe.

  She was a girl of twenty, probably heading back to work. She smiled widely at him. She had a round, pretty face.

  A steel-clad fist would drive bone and teeth through the ruin of that soft-fleshed cheek.

  There was an equation here somewhere.

  But three-pint solutions were just the froth on bar-room philosophy. What he needed now was a pee and a coffee and a flash of creative intuition. He had the first two, rang Ellie to announce he would not be home for dinner, and was still awaiting the third when at half past five after an afternoon of solid paper work he closed his eyes for a well-earned forty winks and dreamt most sentimentally of his wedding day.

  Chapter 13

  The bells that awoke him were not the church bells of his dream but the more strident peals of the telephone.

  'Hello, hello,' he croaked, half asleep. It was Ray Crabtree with a background of muzak. 'Peter? You sound half doped! Well, at least you're not one of those cops who head for lounge bars in posh hotels on the stroke of opening time.'

  'There's a lot of them about,' said Pascoe.

  'Indeed. Well, duty's dragged me here, of course. Penny Latimer and some of her mates are here. I had a word. I was right, they've been out on the job - sorry, on location - all day.'

  'You asked about the film?'

  'I did. They looked at each other a bit blankly. No one seemed to know if there was another print of Droit de Seigneur, but Penny says she'll check in the morning.'

  'Who else is with her?'

  'Gerry Toms, for one. He got back at the weekend.'

  Pascoe thought hard. This still felt and smelt like a red herring. He had neither the time nor perhaps the right to go shooting off at a tangent when there was so much else to do. It was arrogant, self-indulgent, all caused by an undigested image irritating the lining of his imagination.

  But perhaps it was its very indigestibility which made it so important. A policeman must treasure and preserve what is most sensitive and vulnerable in him against the day when someone tries to find his price.

  'Ray,' he said. 'I'd like to talk with her again.'

  'Oh. Shall I bring her to the phone?'

  'No. I mean, personally. Her and Toms. Could you ask if they'll be available first thing in the morning.'

  'OK,' said Crabtree. The muzak came through louder as he left the phone dangling, then faded again when he returned.

  'She says she'd love to see you any time. Only thing is, they'll be filming again tomorrow - and they start bright and early. She says to remind you she invited you to spend a working day with them, something about it doing you good.'

  'I remember,' said Pascoe. 'Where will they be?'

  'You're in luck there. It's not Wuthering Heights they're doing after all, so you won't have to go to Haworth. No, they're using an old mansion the other side of Wetherby. So that'll cut a few miles off your driving. Here's the address. Hay Hall, near Scrope village. Got it? Right. Enjoy yourself, Peter. And keep off that Producer's couch!'

  'You too,' said Pascoe. 'You too.'

  After egg and chips in the canteen, he set out for the Shorter household. He felt more uncertain now than he had previously, recognizing that his visit was more of an act of defiance than an act of friendship. But there was the element of loyalty in it, he reassured himself. And also he felt genuinely uneasy about the way Dalziel seemed to have made up his mind about the case.

  The Shorters lived on Acornboar Mount. The houses there were big enough and desirable enough to have earned the area the envious sobriquet of 'Debtors' Retreat', and an extra element of 'poshness' was inherent in the 'Private Road' sign which marked the beginning of the Mount.

  Pascoe parked his car by it and proceeded on foot, not out of any sense of what was socially fitting but because he knew that like most private roads, Acornboar Mount had more craters in it than the far side of the moon. Someone else seemed to have had the same idea for there was a large motor-bike parked in the lee of the thick blackthorn hedge which shut out the proles from the lush greensward of number one.

  Shorter lived at twenty-seven. Pascoe enjoyed the short walk in the growing dusk with the smells of spring staining the air.

  If I'd been a dentist, I could have lived up here too, he thought. Days spent peering into other people's mouths. How vile a thing was human interdependence! No way for a constabulary sociologist to be thinking. No, he should be contemplating the degree of conscious elitism inherent in building houses like these on a hill like this; or wondering what that shiny fellow there was up to.

  The shiny fellow in question he had glimpsed momentarily through a gap in a beec
h hedge moving with furtive speed from a holly bush to a magnolia tree. The gap may have been caused by the recent passage of a body. The shininess was certainly caused by the last glimmers of daylight sliding off the man's polished black tunic.

  Pascoe remembered the motor-cycle.

  He also saw as he reached the gate of the house that his fit of abstraction had brought him unawares to number twenty-seven.

  The shiny man was on the move again and now Pascoe realized that his erratic motions had a purpose other than merely making the best use of cover.

  He was carrying two small cylinders, aerosol cans of some kind Pascoe guessed, for from the one in his left hand he was directing a fine spray on to the lawn.

  Whatever it was Pascoe did not care to risk getting a faceful of it. Carefully he slipped off his shoes, removed the laces and tied them together. Next he returned along the pavement to the gap in the hedge and fastened the length of lace from one side to the other at just below knee height.

  Finally he returned to the gate, stole through it bent double, tiptoed up the drive till he was behind a hydrangea bush directly opposite the intruder, and suddenly leapt three feet into the air, flinging his arms wide and screaming, 'You're under arrest!'

  It was nice to have got it out of his system. The man in the leather jerkin was impressed too.

  With a startled yelp he turned and fled. Pascoe followed at his leisure till the man hit the gap in the hedge at speed. Then as his quarry went sprawling forward and the aerosol cans bounced clangingly on the pavement, Pascoe accelerated into the kill. But his ingenuity proved his downfall and the laces which had brought the pursued to earth, now by their absence upended the pursuer. One of his shoes slipped flaccidly from his foot and his first stride on to the herbaceous border drove what felt like a six-inch nail through his nylon sock.

  'What the hell's going on?' demanded Shorter, not sounding much like a man recently prostrated by physical assault and nervous shock.

  With a groan Pascoe pushed himself upright. He had discovered that the six-inch nail was in fact a very small thorn from a recently pruned rose-bush so instead of proudly displaying the wound, he hastily pulled on his shoe to cover it.