A pinch of snuff

Chapter 12

Dalziel was out when Pascoe returned to the office, so he left the nurse's revised statement on the fat man's otherwise perfectly clear desk and went to Sergeant Wield's more modest and more cluttered cubby-hole.

'I'm off down to the Calli. Fancy a walk?'

'Why not?' said Wield. 'I've only got five or six years' paper work here.'

Because he was beginning to value the man's judgement and also because he wanted someone to talk at, Pascoe gave him a full account of the latest developments in both cases.

'You'll want another look at that film,' said Wield. 'If it exists.'

The young constable had been removed from duty at the Calli and the door was locked. Sergeant Wield produced a bunch of keys and opened it at the third attempt.

'Anyone here?' called Pascoe.

There was no answer, but Wield went wandering away just to make sure that the place was empty while Pascoe went up to the store room where the fire had been.

The walls were still smoke-blackened but the debris had been cleared away. There was no sign of any film, damaged or not.

Wield came into the room.

'No Arany,' he confirmed. 'Only this.'

He was holding the gift-wrapped package that Arany's secretary had left on Saturday afternoon. At least it looked like the same package, but now there was no greetings card with it.

'There wasn't a bag of groceries as well? Or some spilt gherkins?' asked Pascoe. Wield didn't bother to answer but just somehow managed to make a minute but significant change in the atmosphere.

'Sorry,' said Pascoe. 'Let's go and see Arany.'

The Agency was at the top of a three-storey Edwardian building, apparently untouched by human hand since its erection. On their way up the progressively narrower stairs they passed an italic Insurance Broker, two peeling gilt solicitors, a copperplate-on-card ship's chandler and a very fine Gothic Correspondence College. The Arany Agency was a bold Roman face on a pane of clear glass, through which he could see Arany's secretary typing. Her technique was Liszt-like. It must cost them a fortune in typewriters, thought Pascoe as he pushed open the door.

She looked up, then smiled as she recognized him. Usually it was the other way round, he thought.

'Hello, Doreen,' he said. 'Mr Arany in?'

'He's on the phone at the moment,' she said, glancing towards a door behind her which presumably led into an inner office. 'He shouldn't be long.'

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.