Dalziel 05 A Pinch of Snuff

by Reginald Hill

  Miss Alice offered her hand. He took it and pressed it with both his own. Ms Lacewing smiled insolently at him, tongue moistening her wicked little teeth.

  Pascoe grinned amiably back at her. If Alice's estimate was right, Ms Lacewing knew nothing of the waters she was fishing in. She would have to make a better cast than that to get another rise out of him.

  Chapter 20

  Pascoe arrived back at the station to find that Dalziel had just gone out but Wield had come in. Quickly he filled the sergeant in. 'Things are beginning to fall into place,' he said. 'We're beginning to get some idea of where everyone was and what they were doing.'

  'You reckon Arany for it now, do you?' asked Wield.

  'You sound unhappy about it,' said Pascoe.

  'Well, I can't see any motive, sir. I was happier at the thought of Blengdale caning him, then going over the top for some reason.'

  'That's out anyway.' Pascoe glanced sharply at Wield. 'You're not thinking Miss Annabelle might have . . .'

  Wield shrugged.

  'Nothing's impossible. Not after what I've just heard anyway.'

  'Whatever happened, we need to talk to Arany. No more pussyfooting either. I want him here and I want him cautioned. You see to that, will you, Sergeant? Toms will have to wait. I'm going after Mr Dalziel to put him in the picture. Besides, I quite fancy seeing him operate on Blengdale!'

  Blengdale's yard was fairly central, situated on the west bank of the old canal which ran its deep straight line alongside the shallow curving river. In the flooding which followed the great thaw of 1963 the two waterways had joined up, but the banks of both had been strengthened since then and a new line of trees planted on the isthmus between so that a nature-lover strolling through the park on the east bank of the river was hardly aware of the monuments to industry only a couple of hundred yards away.

  Not that they too lacked their lovers. Beauty was in the gut of the beholder, thought Pascoe, and though the old wharves, warehouses and barges couldn't give him the kick that he derived from a single stunted tree on a naked fellside, yet there was something in these relics of industrial capitalism which caught at the heart. Perhaps it was pride in the illimitable energies of mankind, and despair at their direction.

  Blengdale's yard had originally been nothing more than that - an open space between a mill and a warehouse with its own canal frontage and a kind of Dutch barn to protect the stored timber from the worst of the weather. Economy and antiquity had brought about the closure of the mill in the early sixties and it had lain derelict till Godfrey Blengdale had breathed new life into the family timber business and diversified into ready-to-assemble whitewood furniture. He had bought the mill for a song (so they said) and (so they said again) sold what remained of the old-fashioned looms and other machinery to a variety of industrial museums for rather more than he had paid for the building. Now, where generations of women had laboured for very little in an atmosphere full of fluff and fibre, men moved at half the pace for half the time at fifty times the wage, and the air was full of wood-dust and complaints.

  The nearest Pascoe had been to the yard before was some years earlier when Blengdale had celebrated something (his first ulcer, perhaps) by holding a party there. The bar had been on a barge strung from bow to stern with Chinese lanterns, and a dance band had played among the stacks of timber while the guests gyrated on the wharf. Pascoe had travelled slowly by in a police boat and felt the disdainful superiority of the guardian to the guarded.

  This time he approached by road and the first thing he noticed was Dalziel's car parked outside on a double yellow line. Pascoe squeezed in behind him and entered the building, stepping into an atmosphere heavy with noise and sawdust. He presumed there was order here but his first impression was of utter chaos. He approached a man who seemed to be in some perturbation of spirit about the relative lengths of two pieces of wood he was carrying.

  'Mr Blengdale? Right over there. Up the stairs. Them's his offices.'

  'Them' were a line of windows at first-floor level in the high-ceilinged building. There were figures within, but he couldn't identify anyone at this distance. As he moved away he heard the man with the planks mutter, 'Centi-fucking-metres! I told him, centi-fucking-metres!'

  He was almost at the foot of the stairs which ran up the wall to the first-floor level when he spotted Charlie Heppelwhite. He was running lengths of wood over a circular saw with a speed and precision which obviously derived from long practice. To Pascoe's untutored eye it seemed that the proximity of spinning blades and soft flesh should demand rather more than one hundred per cent concentration, but in Charlie's case automatic expertise was obviously enough, for the man's mind was so far from his surroundings that Pascoe had to shout his name twice before he became aware of his presence.

  'Oh, it's you,' he said stupidly like a man waking from a bad dream to a worse reality.

  'Everything all right?' said Pascoe.

  'Why shouldn't it be?' asked Charlie, beginning to recover his poise a little. 'What do you want now, Mr Pascoe?'

  'Nothing.Nothing. Just passing through,' said

  Pascoe, realizing how unconvincing it must sound.'Clint here? I don't see him.'

  'He's out in the yard. Do you want to talk to him again?' asked Heppelwhite.

  'No. Not just now. It's your boss I'm after. See you later,' said Pascoe.

  As he climbed the steep and worn stairs to the office, he thought with regret how impossible it was not to sound threatening when you talked to people who were involved, no matter how innocently, with police business. The staircase was enclosed by a single handrail. At the top he glanced down. Charlie Heppelwhite was looking up at him but when their gazes met, he quickly turned away and resumed his work.

  These offices had been built in the good old-fashioned tradition by the overseer who quite literally oversaw the work. From here you got a task-master's-eye view of what was going on. In the first office he came to, a dark-eyed typist, who looked about ten years younger than the machine she was beating, regarded him with little interest.

  'I've come to see Mr Blengdale,' said Pascoe.

  'He's in there,' said the weary child.

  'He's not engaged, I hope,' said Pascoe.

  'Through there,' said the girl as if to an idiot.

  'I mean, is there anyone with him?' persisted Pascoe.

  'Yeah,' said the girl. And returned to her work.

  Pascoe smiled to himself. It made a change to meet a secretary who didn't read the kind of women’s magazine which preached that the only acceptable alternative to mothering your family was mothering your boss.

  He opened the door.

  'Oh God!' said Blengdale. 'Here's another of 'em!'

  He was sitting at a desk piled so high with paper that Pascoe felt a pang of sympathy for a fellow sufferer.

  Standing in front of him as though being interviewed by a headmaster was his wife. She wore a light blue suit with a skirt long enough to be fashionable but not long enough to be trendy. A small square of blue silk sat elegantly on her sculpted locks (like a gay judge passing the death sentence, thought Pascoe gruesomely) and she wore a pair of chamois leather gloves, also in blue, which needed no label to declare they were made (probably) in Italy and had cost (certainly) fifty pounds.

  Behind her in a suit so shiny that his nails scarred the glaze as they scratched his left buttock was Dalziel.

  'Good. You've got here, Inspector,' he said as if Pascoe were the first person in the world he expected to see.

  He advanced on Pascoe and forced him into a corner.

  'I'm getting nowhere with this bugger,' he muttered. 'Say something about Haggard.'

  'What?' whispered Pascoe.

  'Anything. Come on, lad!'

  'Alice Andover caught her sister beating Haggard,' he murmured.

  'Louder, for Christ's sake!' said Dalziel. 'His name, louder.'

  'Haggard,' said Pascoe. 'She saw Haggard being whipped.'

  Dalziel nodded vigor
ously, turned his head and shot a baleful glance at Blengdale who was observing them angrily.

  'I mayn't be able to trip the bugger, but by God! I'll scare him,' muttered Dalziel.

  'Superintendent!' said Blengdale. 'I'm a busy man. I'm always a busy man. This morning I'm so busy, I don't think I'll catch up with myself for a month!'

  'Business troubles?' said Dalziel with that spurious sympathy which Pascoe so admired. 'Cash flow problems? Hard times, hard times.'

  'No. For Christ's sake, don't go saying things like that. That's how rumours start,' said Blengdale in alarm. 'Truth is, business is too good. It's meeting the demand that's my problem. I'm up to my eyes, and what happens? You turn up, Gwen turns up, your sidekick turns up. The only one who doesn't turn up's my bloody foreman and he's the only one who can be any good to me!'

  'Brian Burkill, you mean?' said Dalziel.

  'Aye. Of course, you'll know him. No word. Just doesn't appear. Trouble at home, that'll be his excuse. Show me someone who doesn't have trouble at home! I've got trouble at home, but I've got to come in!'

  'Not to worry,' said Dalziel, looking out of the big window down into the work floor. 'One of your worries is over. There's Burkill now.'

  'Where?' demanded Blengdale as if he didn't trust Dalziel. He came out from behind his desk and they all stood in line and stared through the window.

  It was indeed Burkill, threading his way across the floor towards the office stairs. But there was something not quite right about him, thought Pascoe. Of course - it was his clothes. Everyone else wore overalls of some description, but Burkill was dressed in the brown checked suit he'd been wearing at the Westgate Club the night before last. He was walking slowly as if uncertain where he was. Finally he reached the bench at which Charlie Heppelwhite was working and here he stopped; Heppelwhite turned round leaving a length of wood to be chewed at will by the spinning blade; the two men talked; Burkill emphasized what he was saying with hammer-like taps of his forefinger into the other man's chest; Heppelwhite seemed to be expostulating with him; he made nervous waving movements with his hands; Burkill's face was thrust only a few inches from the other man's; workers at neighbouring benches looked round at them curiously.

  Then Blengdale opened the window, leaned out and shouted, 'Burkill! Get yourself up here this bloody instant!'

  Brian Burkill looked up. He hadn't shaved that morning. Whether he saw them all or only Blengdale it was hard to say. In fact, thought Pascoe, so stretched and tight was his face with some emotion, it was difficult to tell if he even saw his employer. A fork-lift truck with a load of doors came rolling down the aisle between the machines and benches. There was plenty of clearance, but to those above it seemed as if Burkill jerked away from its approach, instinctively stepping backwards and turning as he did so. Or perhaps he wasn't seeing the truck either.

  His shoulder caught Charlie Heppelwhite full in the chest, knocking him backwards. He put out his right hand to steady himself. It rested on the piece of wood he had left in the saw. The pressure of his hand was enough to drive it through the spinning blade like a piece of cheese being split by a wire.

  And his hand offered even less resistance than the wood.

  For a second there was no noise, or at least no noise other than the whining of machines, the general clatter of work. Something lay on the surface of the bench and a jet of blood pumped from the end of Heppelwhite's arm, striking the whirling saw and fountaining off in all directions. Heppelwhite raised his other hand to his face as though to ward off the spray.

  Then someone screamed.

  It was Gwen Blengdale, standing next to Pascoe. One gloved hand was in her mouth, her eyes were wide and unblinking as she stared at the scene below.

  And now everybody was moving and shouting.

  Blengdale went pounding out of the office. Dalziel grabbed the telephone, dialled 999 and tersely gave instructions for an ambulance. Pascoe couldn't move. Gwen Blengdale was leaning against him, her body shaking, her eyes riveted to the scene below. She had chewed the stitching loose from the glove at her mouth.

  Heppelwhite had slumped to the ground now, his back against the bench. Blengdale knelt beside him. Workmates hovered around with the helplessness of the unprepared, Burkill had half turned and looked as if he would have moved away from the spot if the press of people had not prevented him. But no press was tight enough to prevent Dalziel from getting through. His tie was off and in his hand. Pushing Blengdale aside he knelt and with swift efficiency applied a tourniquet.

  Satisfied with his handiwork, he stood up and looked around.

  'Belt up!' he yelled. 'Bloody well belt up!'

  The hubbub of talk faded away.

  'Switch off them machines!' he commanded next. 'And when you've done that, I want everyone out of the yard. Go on! You're just in the bloody way!'

  What a gift for man-management he had! thought Pascoe, his arms round the still throbbing woman.

  The workers slowly moved away stunned by the accident and the way Dalziel had spoken to them. Dalziel turned to Blengdale.

  'You've got a stretcher? Right, fetch it!'

  Blengdale looked for a second as if he was going to give an argument, then set off at the trot. Dalziel looked up at the window and made an imperious gesture of summons. Pascoe tried to ease Gwen Blengdale to a seat, but finding that her unchewed hand was gripping the sill so firmly that he could not prise it loose, he left her to the mercies of the tired typist.

  Chivalry was not dead but it went into hiding whenever Dalziel put in a challenge.

  Pascoe arrived by the injured man at the same time as Blengdale. The little round man was carrying an old canvas stretcher, a first-aid box and a blanket. He was puffing hard.

  As they eased Heppelwhite on to the stretcher, someone cried, 'Dad!' and Pascoe looked up to see Clint Heppelwhite forcing his way against the flow of men going into the yard.

  The boy was paler than his father, who looked up at him and essayed a smile.

  'All right, lad,' he said. 'All right. Tell your mam . . . not to worry.'

  'Dad, what happened? Oh fucking hell!' gasped the youth as he saw the bloodstains spreading through the rough bandage that Dalziel was winding loosely round the injured hand.

  'He'll be fine, lad, fine,' assured the fat man. 'Listen. There's the ambulance. Get him to the door. The quicker he gets to the Infirmary, the better.'

  The ill-omened clang of the ambulance bell was coming near. Blengdale picked up one end of the stretcher and Pascoe would have picked up the other if Dalziel hadn't stopped him.

  'Clint, you take it, lad,' he commanded. 'You'll want to go to the Infirmary with your dad.'

  Uncertainly, the boy took the strain, staggered weakly for a couple of steps, then stiffened his legs and the stretcher moved swiftly away.

  'Is that wise?' asked Pascoe. 'He could drop it.'

  'Better he has something to do. Listen, someone's got to tell his wife. You know her, don't you? Right, you get round there and get her to the Infirmary.'

  'Right,' said Pascoe, moved by his boss's humanity.

  'And while you're there, keep your eyes skinned for Burkill.'

  'Burkill? But he's here . . .' said Pascoe, looking around. There was no sign of the man.

  'He's long gone. Wouldn't you be? Mebbe he'll head for home. Mebbe not. Depends what's bugging him.'

  'Jesus Christ,' said Pascoe. 'You're not saying this wasn't an accident?'

  ‘I'm saying nowt and you're saying a bloody sight too much. You may have stirred up more shit than you thought last night, so get round there and have a look-see while Mrs Heppelwhite's taking her pinny off. Oh Jesus wept!'

  Dalziel was glowering at the bench top.

  'They've forgot the bloody fingers!' he said. 'They can fix 'em back on sometimes.'

  He unfolded a huge khaki handkerchief, carefully scooped up the red stained flesh and handed the bundle to Pascoe.

  'Give it to the ambulance driver on your way out,' said Dal
ziel. 'Go on. Move!'

  Pascoe looked down at the grisly package, looked up to the office window where he could see quite clearly the staring eyes and set face of Gwen Blengdale and the fatigued indifference of the young typist, turned away and set off at the trot after the stretcher.

  Chapter 21

  There was a Panda-car parked outside Heppelwhite's house. On the doorstep stood Betsy Heppelwhite confronting a uniformed constable. Pascoe's first thought was that his mission was being performed for him and he felt the usual human mingling of relief and disappointment at not being the first with bad news.

  Then he realized that it would have been almost impossible for the constable to have got there before him; and in addition they formed a tableau which didn't fit the thesis. The constable was doing the listening, nodding his head sagaciously from time to time, while the woman spoke volubly, square jaw falling and rising like a steam hammer. Her arms were folded firmly as a shelf for her heavy bosom which at regular intervals she heaved gently upwards in time with little jerks of her head towards the house next door.

  They both recognized him at the same time and when he asked, 'What's up?' they both started answering, but the constable quickly abandoned the uneven struggle.

  'It's her next door,' said Betsy. 'Deirdre. I went down to the shops about half ten and I gave her a knock to see if there was owt I could fetch her. There was no answer and milk was still on the step. So I went off. When I came back I tried again. The same. So I got to worrying. I don't like to stick my nose in where it's not wanted, but you've got a responsibility.'

  'So you called the police?' said Pascoe.

  'Don't be bloody daft!' she said. 'I'm not that worried. Yet.'

  'I just came along to check on Mr Burkill, sir,' said the uniformed man. 'I was patrolling along Arnhem Road when the caretaker at the Westgate Social gave me a wave. When he'd turned up this morning to open the Club for the cleaners, he'd found the side door unlocked. Nothing had been taken or damaged, so he just put it down to forgetfulness. Then a bit later in the morning, someone told him Mr Burkill's car was round the back. It looked as if it had just been left there with its lights on and engine running and naturally it was out of petrol and the battery was flat. The caretaker thought it was odd, but not odd enough to do anything about till he saw me. I called round to check and like Mrs Heppelwhite here couldn't get any answer.'