A Pinch of Snuff (15 page)

'I'd have to sign it?'

'Yes.'

She shook her head.

'No, I don't mind.'

'OK. Would you do it now while it's all fresh in your mind? And let me see it before you sign it, please. Just a matter of procedure.'

'Of course.'

'Right,' said Pascoe, standing up with the appointments book in his hand. 'I'll leave you to it for a few minutes. Just two last things, though. You mentioned traps before. Don't set yourself any. Everything gets checked. Second, it's a statement, not a character testimonial. Emotional declarations of absolute truth can be easily misconstrued. Give me a shout if you want me.'

He left and went to the reception counter to talk to the blonde receptionist whose wide blue eyes pleaded with him to gossip. He resisted, just as a few minutes later he resisted the invitation in Ms Lacewing's expression to consider himself a worm.

'I read in the paper about Dr Haggard's death,' she said abruptly. 'Tell me, does that mean
that
place will close down?'

'I've no idea,' said Pascoe in surprise. 'Possibly.'

'Well, there could be some good of it,' she said. 'Strange what it takes to end what any true civilization would consider an affront to its dignity.'

She went back to her surgery and Pascoe returned to the office, his head full of speculations.

'Finished?' he said to Alison.

'Just.'

He read what the girl had written. Her handwriting was bold and well formed, only a few words to the line so that, though short, the statement occupied a side and a half of foolscap.

'I see you repeat that you booked the girl's morning appointments.'

'Yes.'

'Are you sure of that, Alison?'

'Certain.'

'I've been talking to the receptionist, Miss White. Normally she'd make the entries in the book, wouldn't she?'

'Not if she was busy, answering the phone or something.'

'No. True. I showed her the book. She identified her own hand twice. She says the rest of the entries relating to Sandra Burkill's appointments are in Mr Shorter's writing.'

She flushed bright red.

'You said you didn't set traps!' she said accusingly.

'I warned
you
not to,' said Pascoe gently. 'The trap would be really set if I let you sign that and try to support it in court. Let's start again, shall we?'

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.