A pinch of snuff

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 beech 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.

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.