Distantly he could hear the fugitive's fast-receding footsteps. Pascoe knew his limitations. The race was to the swift and at the moment that didn't include him.
Briefly he explained what had happened and Shorter went out and collected the cans while Pascoe replaced his shoe laces.
'John! John! What's going on?' called a panicky female voice from the open front door.
'Nothing, dear. It's all right. Better come up to the house,' invited Shorter.
In the light of the hall, the impression of their voices was confirmed, Shorter looking fit and (plasters apart) well, his wife pale and strained.
Pascoe explained again what had taken place and Shorter banged the cans down on the telephone table. One was weed-killer, the other red paint.
'The bastard!' he said.
'I don't think he had time to use the paint, but I'm afraid you might have something nasty written on the lawn in a couple of days,' said Pascoe.
'The lousy bastard. And you've let him get away!'
There's something wrong with this picture, thought Pascoe as he met Shorter's accusing glare.
'Only temporarily,' he said. 'I saw his bike and I reckon I can remember most of the number. We'll have him in half an hour.'
He picked up the phone, but Shorter's hand went over the dial.
'No,' he said.
'What?'
'I'd rather you didn't.'
'Why on earth not?'
'It's obviously linked with this other business,' said Shorter. 'You catch him, he'll be charged and up in front of the magistrate in a couple of days. I don't want that. I'm going to beat this thing, Peter, but it may take a bit longer than that and I don't want some stupid moron shooting his mouth off in court.'
'A minute ago you were cursing me for letting him get away,' observed Pascoe.
'Yes, I was. I'm sorry. It was a stroke of luck, I see now. OK? You'll forget it?'
'No,' said Pascoe. 'I won't forget it. But I'll postpone action for a while.'
'Thanks,' said Shorter. 'Emma, give Peter a drink, will you? I'll just see if I can dilute that bloody stuff with the hose pipe.'
'You'll probably just spread it,' warned Pascoe.
'At least I'll blur the letters a bit,' said Shorter as he went out.
'He seems to be in reasonable spirits now,' said Pascoe, following the woman into the lounge. It was a cold white clinical room that made Shorter's surgery seem the epitome of Edwardian fussiness by contrast. He settled gingerly into an aluminium cage dangling from the ceiling and Emma Shorter poured him a Scotch from a pyramidal decanter into a hexagonal glass.
'He's been better since he talked to his solicitor this morning,' she said, adding as she gave him his drink, 'Inspector - may I call you Peter? - Peter, I'm sorry about the pub at lunch-time. I was overwrought.'
She remained close to him, staring fixedly into his face. She didn't exactly seem underwrought now, he thought. The silence finally became too intense for him.
'Mrs Shorter,' he said.
'Please call me Emma. I don't feel up to formalities at the moment. I'm so grateful to you for coming.'
She gave him a grateful smile and he disliked himself for seeking calculation in it. But there was no denying the reality of the strain she must be under.
'I can only stay a couple of minutes,' said Pascoe. 'I just wanted to say hello. I was a bit worried, you know.'
And not without cause, he thought. Suddenly he saw himself in the witness-box being led on to make broader and broader claims about Shorter's probity and basic decency, while Dalziel glowered at him from behind the prosecutor.
'We have a good life together, you know,' said the woman, turning away abruptly as if he'd somehow disappointed her.
'Yes, yes, I'm sure you do,' agreed Pascoe, looking round the room which, notwithstanding its lack of appeal, had obviously cost a few gold fillings.
'No. I don't just mean money,' she said acidly.
'I mean, every way. Physically we have a good life.'
Pascoe sipped his whisky. He lacked Dalziel's discriminatory nose but it tasted expensive.
'Yes,' he said, seeing that a response was expected and thinking a bare affirmative, ludicrous though it might be, was the least he could offer.
'There would be no need for John to . . . I'd say so in court if I had to.'
She spoke defiantly.
'Good, good,' said Pascoe. 'Let's hope it doesn't come to that.'
He observed Emma over his glass and wondered cynically if their solicitor had planted these seeds. Dalziel had met her last night and his first impression had been like Pascoe's - a cold, self-contained woman. By lunch-time today she had begun to crack, and now here she was in the evening offering to reveal details of her sex life in her husband's defence.
Shorter re-entered.
'I've left the sprinkler on,' he said. 'It might do some good. Let's stiffen that for you, Peter. What's new from the Inquisition?'
'Just a social call, Jack,' said Pascoe evenly.
'Your man, Dalziel, was round again this afternoon,' said Shorter. 'I saw him this time. Not a social call.'
'I didn't know,' bed Pascoe. 'I mean, I knew someone would be round to talk to you, but I didn't know Mr Dalziel had been again.'
'Oh, I thought you might have cooked something up over your lunch-time beer,' said Shorter.
So Emma had told him about her approach earlier that day. Or perhaps it had all been done by collusion. There were situations where it became important to react as normal ordinary people would react - or rather, would expect you to react.
Whatever the truth, it didn't make Shorter any more or less suspect.
'There are other crimes to investigate, Jack,' said Pascoe.
'No doubt. Glad you could drag yourself away.'
'John!' protested his wife. 'We're very grateful to you for coming, Inspector . . . Peter. We need friends at a time like this.'
'Yes,' said Pascoe, using the non-committal affirmative again. 'How've things been today? No other trouble?'
'Other?' said Shorter.
'I'd call that mess on your lawn trouble,' said Pascoe. 'You haven't had any phone calls? Either nasty or the Press?'
'Same thing,' said Shorter.
'Not so,' said Pascoe. 'If Burkill's been on to the papers, they'll just be doing some preliminary sniffing. You can't blame them, but they won't - daren't - print mere speculation. I'd be friendly, but say as little as you can, and tell your solicitor. He'll know how to make sure they keep the top screwed on if it's necessary. As for the other kind of approach, well, you've found out already how this kind of case soon works up a fine head of indignation.'
'Are you trying to frighten us?' said Shorter.
'Somebody else might, that's all I'm saying. A phone call, a letter. It's best to be prepared.'
'People are vile!' exclaimed Emma Shorter.
'But not all the time, fortunately,' said Pascoe.
He fell silent now and sipped his drink. He would have liked to be talking to Shorter alone, but was uncertain how to suggest it. Shorter, however, seemed to have reached the same conclusion.
'Would you make us a pot of coffee, love?' he suggested. 'I don't want this business to drive me too deep into drink.'
She rose and left instantly. Whatever their usual relationship, this explosion in their lives had temporarily at least turned them into a team.
'Are you going back to work?' asked Pascoe.
'Do you think I should?'
'If you can manage it.'
'My solicitor said the same,' said Shorter. 'I can't dispute two expert opinions. I thought I'd go in tomorrow.'
He added, with a bitter laugh, 'I'll keep Alison chained to my drill.'
'Do that. I spoke to her this morning.'
'She told me. On the phone. She rang specially.'
'She's a loyal girl,' said Pascoe.
Shorter who all this time had been standing restlessly by the fireplace now sat down in the seat vacated by
his wife and peered closely into Pascoe's face.
'It's a funny side-effect,' he said, 'but since this started, I keep reading significance and double meanings into everything anyone says.'
'That's called paranoia,' said Pascoe, 'and is not recommended. I said Alison was loyal. That's what I meant. Simple statement.'
'My country right or wrong, that's loyal,' said Shorter, smiling. 'Are you suggesting Alison's loyal like that?'
He looked and sounded perfectly relaxed and Pascoe felt an urge to give him a jolt.
'I certainly think she fancies you,' he said. 'Has it gone further than that?'
Shorter ran his fingers through his thick black hair and looked boyishly embarrassed.
'A bit of tight hugging at Christmas, birthdays and public holidays, but I haven't been to bed with her, no. I think she's ripe for it, but I don't want to complicate my life. Or hers, for that matter.'
'Big of you,' said Pascoe. 'What did you tell Mr Dalziel?'
'Aren't copies of statements pinned on the canteen wall?' asked Shorter. 'I told him I'd been treating Sandra Burkill for several weeks; to the best of my knowledge I'd never been alone with her for any period longer than two minutes; at no time did I touch her in any way other than that required by the performance of my profession; at no time did she touch any part of me with her hands, nor did I invite her to do so; at no time did I have intercourse with her. That's about it.'
'Succinctly put,' said Pascoe. 'Can you think of any reason why this girl might want to get at you, Jack?'
'Dalziel asked me that too. I suggested that he didn't have to look far to discover that young girls in a professional relationship with older men - pupils and patients in particular - were very prone to sexual fantasizing. Not too infrequently this overflowed into reality in the form of either a declaration or an accusation.'
He sounded as if he were quoting a Reader's Digest article.
'The girl is pregnant,' said Pascoe. 'Some overflow!'
'Dalziel made just the same point. It doesn't negate my point. Someone's put her up the stick. She points the finger at me. It fits in with her adolescent sex fantasies and it takes some of the pressure off her.'
'I don't quite see what you mean,' said Pascoe.
'Well, for God's sake, what's your traditional working-class moron's attitude to the news that his daughter's got one in the oven? He cuffs her round the ear and chucks her out into the street! But not in this case. She gets the whole class thing going for her. Wealthy, educated professional man takes advantage of naive innocent girl. So in this case, instead of thumping his daughter, Burkill comes round and starts thumping me!'
Emma Shorter came in with a tray. Pascoe stood up.
'I'm sorry,’ he said. 'It's very good of you, but I really can't stay.'
'Other crimes, Peter?' said Shorter.
'That's it.'
'Well, thanks for coming. I won't forget it.'
'I'll see Peter out,' said his wife, putting the tray down on a stainless steel table.
Pascoe left the room thinking that he too was now suffering from a double-entendre neurosis. 'I won't forget it.' What did that mean?
Emma put her hand on his arm at the front door.
'We really are grateful,' she said.
'That's all right,' said Pascoe, disengaging himself from her grip.
'What do you think now? After talking to John, I mean.'
She looked at him appealingly, lips apart, small even teeth glistening damply, as white and as perfect as a dentist's wife's teeth ought to be.
Was there an invitation there? wondered Pascoe. Or had he just been watching too many toothpaste ads?
'Don't worry too much,' he said. 'Things will take their course. I'm sure it'll be OK.'
He walked swiftly down the tarmacked drive, the words he had wanted to say so loud in his mind that he wasn't absolutely sure that he hadn't in fact said them.
'After talking to him, I think he's probably innocent,' he had wanted to say. 'But, after talking to him, I like him a bloody sight less than I thought I did.'
On the other hand, he found he liked Emma Shorter a little more. Loyalty is the better part of love. He wondered if her loyalty was the 'my country right or wrong' type.
Chapter 14
They caught up with Johnny Hope at the Branderdyke Variety and Social Club. This was a bit larger than most of the local clubs and somewhat different in character. It had a real stage with a proscenium arch and though in origin it was, like the rest, a meeting and drinking place for locals, it had taken a larger step than most towards the status and dimensions of Wakefield or Batley.
Top of the bill that night was a singer who was either on his way up to, or down from, the Top Thirty. But it was in the communal changing room shared by the lesser artistes that they found Johnny Hope.
He was talking to a young sullen-faced girl, so slim and slight that it was difficult to gauge her age. She wasn't answering, however. Every time Hope asked a question, a suspicious-eyed matron with a mouth like a sabre-cut replied, draping one arm protectively over the girl who was wearing a cream and lavender Bo-Peep costume.
'How old are you, Estelle?' Hope asked as if sensing Pascoe's problem.
'Seventeen,' said the matron.
'When did you first get interested in the trampoline, Estelle?' asked Hope.
'She saw Olga Korbut on the telly at the Olympics in 1972 and she thought she'd like to start doing the gymnastics,' said the matron. 'One thing led to another.'
'One more thing,' said Hope, but he was interrupted by the entry of an elderly man eating a frankfurter with onions.
'Your girl's got two minutes, missus,' he said splodgily.
'Come on, luv,' said the matron.
She led her daughter out, glaring ferociously at Pascoe as if he had an indecent thought written in a balloon above his head.
'Isn't she,' enquired Pascoe, 'a trifle overdressed for trampolining?'
'Johnny,' said Wield.
'Hello, Edgar!' said Hope.
Edgar, thought Pascoe.
'This is my Inspector, Peter Pascoe.'
'Glad to meet you, Peter,' said Hope, shaking his hand vigorously. 'Any mate of Edgar's a mate of mine.'
Now the women had disappeared, Pascoe took a closer look at the man. He was small, ruddy-faced, his bright blue eyes ringed with crows-feet from (perhaps) too much time in too many dimly lit
rooms, his cheeks crazed with broken blood vessels from the same cause. He was about fifty, wore a bright green and yellow checked jacket, and gave off what seemed a totally spontaneous affability.
'We wanted to chat about Maurice Arany,' said Wield.
'Maurice, eh? Well, not now, not now. I missed Estelle last night, got mixed up in a barney at the Turtle. Can't afford that again. Come on, we'll just get a pint afore she starts.'
They did but only because Hope's waved hand won them instant attention at the crowded bar at the back of the hall.
On stage was a trampoline. Music started, loud enough and poured from amplifiers enough to drown the chatter and clinking and other noises attendant on the drinking of pints and devouring of scampi and chips.
It was a nice, bouncy tune and when Estelle strolled on and clambered on to the trampoline, Pascoe settled back for a pleasant athletic balletic routine, thinking how easily pleased these Yorkshiremen were. The girl looked quite good, though her full skirt and frilly blouse obviously hampered her.
'I wonder,' said Pascoe, then said no more.
The girl was taking them off.
To cries of encouragement which penetrated even the ten-decibel music, she jumped right out of her skirt, shed her blouse sleeves like duck-down, took four somersaults to get out of her lacy stockings, and with a mid-air spin twisted out of what was left of her blouse. Now in pants and bra she did a series of manoeuvres which to Pascoe's untutored eye looked first class. Higher and higher she leapt and it was hard to spot the moment when she took off her bra.
She
was so slender that as a conventional stripper she would probably have been mocked off the stage, but her grace and strength of movement filled the act with erotic promise.
'You don't get this in the Olympics,' bellowed Hope in his ear.
'No,' agreed Pascoe. One thing had certainly led to another.
But how was she going to get off? he wondered. Movement was of the essence. Once let her stand still and she would be but a seventeen-year-old looking like twelve.
The answer was simple. The highest bounce yet; she reached up her arms, caught at a bar or rope behind the drop curtain and swung her legs up out of sight. A moment later a pair of pants fluttered gently down to land on the trampoline.
When she appeared to take her bow she wore an old woollen dressing-gown and it was a measure of her act's success that even the loudest of club wits were applauding too hard to invite her to take it off.
Pascoe felt ashamed when he realized he'd clapped till his hands were sore. Ms Lacewing would elevate him several places on her death list if she could see him now, which, thank God, was not likely.
'Good evening, Inspector,' said Ms Lacewing.
It was her. She looked ravishing in a long white gown. Her appearance had been changed by the wearing of a Grecian-style hair piece pulled round over her bare left shoulder, but he would have recognized those sharp little teeth anywhere.
'Don't look so amazed,' she said. 'I'm on a recce tonight. You've got to spy out the land before you attack, haven't you? Policemen know that, surely?'
Pascoe realized she was rather tipsy. 'Drunk' seemed too coarse a word.
'Are you by yourself?' he asked.
'What do you think I am?' she asked in mock indignation. 'Uncle Godfrey! Come here!'
Pascoe turned. Sure enough it was Blengdale who approached, leaving behind a bunch of smiling cronies.
'He doesn't like me calling him uncle,' said Ms Lacewing. 'But Gwen is Mummy's sister, so you really are my uncle, aren't you, Uncle? Though,’ she added, stretching up to whisper none too quietly in Pascoe's ear, 'it doesn't stop him wanting to screw me.'
'Ha ha,' said Pascoe. 'Nice to see you again, Mr Blengdale.'
'You here on business or pleasure, Pascoe?' said Blengdale.
Dalziel 05 A Pinch of Snuff Page 13
