A Pinch of Snuff (24 page)

'Has what?' she said.

'How long's he been playing about with you?' demanded Mrs Burkill.

'He hasn't!' denied Sandra.

'What the hell was he doing tonight then? Giving you driving lessons?'

'Please, Mrs Burkill,' said Pascoe.

'Please, nothing. You want her to answer questions, don't you? There's only one way with this one. I should know. Come on, girl, or you'll get the back of my hand!'

Pascoe sat back in resignation. What am I doing here? he wondered. Looking for truth? Truth like the light from those sodding stars. By the time it reached you, it had taken so long that it lit up nothing and its source was probably an empty lifeless shell.

'Me and Clint never did anything before,' the girl was saying. 'It was just tonight, that's all. We were just mucking about.'

'Mucking about? Haven't you had enough mucking about to last you? Listen, how far's it gone with him? Has be been all the way with you, Sandra?'

'Don't be daft! I'm telling you .. .'

'I think it's a pack of lies you're telling me!' shouted Deirdre Burkill. 'Do you know that dentist’s wife’s killed herself? Do you know that? So I'm asking you. Was it Clint put you in the club? Was it?
Was it?’

'No no no no no!' screamed the girl. 'It wasn't, it wasn't. And don't ask me any more bloody questions!'

She jumped up and rammed the television plug back in.

'You wait till your father gets home,' threatened her mother.

'Yeah,' said Sandra. 'I'll wait.'

And she made that sound like a threat too.

There was nothing more in this for him, realized Pascoe. Mrs Burkill's approach might have been outside the range of the police training manuals, but she'd put the questions he wanted putting.

He stood up.

'I'll say good night then, Sandra.'

"Night,' she said.

Deirdre Burkill went with him to the door.

'Thanks for your help,' he said, only half ironically.

'I'll get it out of her,' she said. 'If there's owt to get out.'

'Don't press her too much,' answered Pascoe. 'She must be pretty mixed up inside.'

'She'll be mixed up outside if I haven't had some sense from her by Brian gets home,' she said grimly.

The ultimate deterrent, that was our Bri, thought

Pascoe as he stood alone between the two houses and wished he was safe in his bed with a day at the office, or the shop, or the factory, or the classroom, to look forward to tomorrow, anything to justify the pain of waking up.

With a sigh, he re-entered the Heppelwhites'.

Chapter 19

Next morning was lightly covered with a perfect spring sky, pale blue but vibrant with sunlight and sparsely flecked with puff-ball clouds. It was a sky to make even a Yorkshireman less grimly affirmative than usual that it'd rain before tea-time.

Pascoe rang the Infirmary as soon as he got up. The news that Emma Shorter was off the critical list confirmed his high spirits and he essayed a few bars of 'It was a lover and his lass' in the car on the way to work.

'Morning, sir. Lovely morning,' he said to Dalziel, who looked as if he'd been kept waiting three hours.

'It'll pee down before noon,' said Dalziel. 'You'll see.'

'Hey ding a ding a ding,' said Pascoe.

'What? You're not going screwy on me, are you, lad? I began to wonder when I heard you'd brought young Clint Heppelwhite in last night. What's it all about?'

Pascoe told him and waited for comment.

'Think it'll get your mate, Shorter, off the hook, do you?' enquired Dalziel finally.

'I thought it opened up a new possibility,' said Pascoe.

'Don't you think it was one of the first things Inspector Trumper checked out? Boy-friends; who might have been having a nibble? Nothing to show.'

'Well, there's something to show now,' said Pascoe. 'I saw it.'

'So Clint's the daddy. When he finds out, what's he do?'

'He doesn't want Brian Burkill to know for a start,' said Pascoe.

'So what's he
do?'

'He looks around for someone else to blame.'

'And he picks on Shorter? Why?'

'He's read his Sunday papers. He knows that doctors and dentists are easy meat for that kind of accusation.'

'And Sandra goes along with this. Why?'

'To protect him,' said Pascoe. 'And to protect herself. It makes her more the injured innocent than being screwed in the garden shed while your mam's watching telly twenty yards away.'

'It's not a bad little plot,' said Dalziel. 'Clever in a way. You've seen more of this lad than I have. Be honest. Do you think he could think up something like this?'

'It's not
that
complicated,' said Pascoe defiantly.

'No, come on, Peter. Do you think he could get much further than putting her in a hot bath with a bottle of gin? Or just jumping on his bike and taking off?'

'I'm not a mind-reader!' protested Pascoe.

'Aren't you? I thought that's what they paid us for,' said Dalziel. 'Any road, we've wasted enough time on this. The Haggard business is more important. You're going to talk to Arany today, are you?'

'I thought I'd put Sergeant Wield on to him while I had another chat with Toms,' said Pascoe.

'Right. I'll drop in on God Blengdale then, see what he does with someone his own size. Hop to it, lad! There's work to be done!'

Back in his own room, Pascoe buzzed Sergeant Wield but he wasn't in which was annoying as he needed to coordinate the approaches to Blengdale, Arany and Toms. Which reminded him, he'd better check where the film director was likely to be that morning.

The phone rang before he could pick it up.

He answered it abruptly.

'Hello!'

'How busy, how important you sound,' said a woman's voice. 'If only
we
could learn the secret of sounding so important and busy.'

'Good morning, Ms Lacewing,' said Pascoe. 'What can I do for you?'

'I should like to see you . . .
Peter,'
she answered. She made his name sound like a verb, he thought.

'You would?'

'Yes please.'

Was it imagination or were there erotic vibrations in that
please?

'Could you tell me what this is about, Ms Lacewing?' he asked.

'Honestly, it would be better if we could meet.'

'All right. Why don't you come round here at . . .'

'Oh no. Not
there.
Can't you come to me? Really, it would be so much more . . . convenient.'

It was unmistakable now, the sensuous undertone. And interestingly, despite his certainty that she was merely mocking him, Pascoe began to feel himself aroused.

'I could call round at the surgery, I suppose. Let me have a look at my diary.'

'Now,'
she said. 'It has to be now. You understand; straight away. Please. You won't regret it.'

Pascoe sat and listened to the burr of the dialling tone for a long moment. Even that sounded sexy. He replaced the receiver, rose and went to the gents. As he washed his hands he looked at himself in the mirror. A strong face without being particularly memorable. Nose long, but not excessively; eyes blue, nicely spaced; a high forehead, well-sculpted brows, good teeth in a good mouth which took on a rather Puritanical set in repose; chin perhaps a little off centre? Well, who's perfect?
L 'homme moyen sensuel,
that's what he saw. A good face for a policeman.

Not the face that would inspire Ms Lacewing to offer her all at eleven o'clock in the morning.

No, she was taking the piss, but that meant she really had something to tell him, so he had better go.

Carefully he combed his almost black hair and adjusted the knot in his tie.

Then, realizing what he was doing, he pressed his face close to the mirror and said, 'Who's a cheeky boy, then?' to the surprise of the uniformed inspector who had just come through the door.

'Good of you to come,' said Ms Lacewing, very businesslike. She must have been on the watch for him for she had appeared in the entrance hall as soon as he arrived.

'I hope it's worth my while,' said Pascoe.

She grinned at him sardonically. Her hands were thrust deep into the pockets of her white coat. It was unfair, thought Pascoe. Uniform made men look all the same, but women, certain women anyway, made uniform variform.

'I'm sorry about the Mae West bit,' she said. 'It was rather childish. Will you come this way?'

She led him into her surgery.

'Next door in the office I've got Alice Andover.'

'Good God,' said Pascoe. 'Is she a patient?'

'One of MacCrystal's, but that's not why she's here. No, Alice is a sort of member of WRAG.'

Pascoe looked at her in disbelief.

'But she's seventy! And more than a bit cracked!'

'Conditions which have failed to disqualify many men from leading their countries,' said Ms Lacewing acidly. 'We picketed the Calliope Kinema Club one night. Alice watched us through her window. She was in here visiting MacCrystal the following day and she spotted me. Well, we talked. She was like a child who's been shut in a city house all her life and suddenly discovers the countryside. So I invited her to a meeting. She was a knock-out! She tended to ramble a bit, all about the old days, but at least she was now starting to see them for what they were!'

'So, you destroyed an old woman's happy memories,' said Pascoe. 'Congratulations. Where do I come in?'

'We gave her a new future,' retorted Ms Lacewing. 'To continue. Alice was adamant that she didn't want her sister to know what she was doing. Nor would she become involved with any protest aimed at that man Haggard. He was her neighbour and a friend of the family, she said. That was fine, I said. But she made me promise to let her in on any other protest I was organizing.'

'Don't tell me,' said Pascoe. 'She's put itching powder in all the jock-straps at the Rugby Club.'

Ms Lacewing looked at him curiously.

'It's interesting how many men fall back on coarseness as a defence weapon,' she mused. 'It's an attempt to reaffirm the old outmoded sexist relationship, of course.'

'Great,' said Pascoe. 'Now I know what I am, can we get back to Miss Andover.'

'Miss Alice Andover,' said Ms Lacewing. 'She's the younger sister, remember. She came in here this morning to talk to me. She was a little agitated but in control. I listened, then I advised her to go to the police. She became very agitated then. Such is the confidence you inspire!'

'While people rush joyfully to their dentists. Go on.'

'I then offered to get the police here. She named you. For some reason, she seems to suspect you may be human.'

'Well, she
is
seventy,' said Pascoe. 'And what is it that she wants to say to me?'

'It's a confession,' said the woman seriously. 'Be kind to her. Through here, please.'

She led him into the office next door. Alice Andover, wearing an ankle-length black coat and a little lace-trimmed black hat, was sitting by the desk, drinking a cup of tea. As soon as she saw him she began to talk as if fearful that delay might induce some permanent dumbness.

'Inspector,' she said. 'It's so kind of you, I am so sorry, I hope that it has not put you to too much . . .'

'Alice!' said Ms Lacewing in a commanding voice.

'I'm sorry, my dear. Be forthright, you said. Of course, you're right, I shall be.'

She took a deep breath, leaned forward, fixed her faded blue eyes unblinkingly on Pascoe's nose and said, 'Inspector, I want to confess. Mr Haggard's apartment. I did it. No, that's not really forthright, is it? Let me be plain. It was I, Alice Andover, who last Friday night wrecked Gilbert Haggard's apartment. And I should like to make a statement.'

'I've never really cared for Mr Haggard,' said Alice.

It was the kind of voice and the kind of sentence with which radio plays used to begin - and perhaps still did for all Pascoe knew. He and the old lady were sitting alone. Thelma Lacewing had gone to make another pot of tea at Alice's insistence and to Pascoe's relief. One liberated woman at a time was quite enough.

'I know he was very kind to us,' continued Alice. 'How kind I cannot tell. Annabelle has always taken care of our finances, but from what she has let fall, I gather we were greatly in Mr Haggard's debt. Nevertheless as far as personal relationships go, she had always been much closer to Mr Haggard than I. Just how close I did not realize till recently.'

She pursed her lips disapprovingly and sipped cold tea.

'You know, of course, that Annabelle used to act as a kind of matron when the school was running. I helped also from time to time. There is a door . . . of course, you have seen it. Mr Haggard put it in. It led directly into his apartment so that children from the school would be less likely to stray into our house. At least that was the reason he gave. But how long this has been going on, I cannot bring myself to think.'

'What?' asked Pascoe.

She ignored him.

'It's an old house, ours. Full of noises. And memories. I'm sorry. When you have as many cats as we have, of course, you get used to noise at night. In any case, since the film shows started, I have tended to turn off my deaf aid at night. But last Friday night, early Saturday morning, I woke up feeling thirsty and when I automatically turned my aid on, I heard footsteps overhead.'

She paused (quite unconsciously, Pascoe guessed) for dramatic effect.

'When I went to my sister's room to tell her there was an intruder in the house, I found her bed empty. It must have been her I'd heard, I decided. Perhaps one of the cats had been shut in upstairs. It sometimes happens. Then they howl and howl till someone lets them out.

'On the other hand, I thought, perhaps there
was
an intruder and Annabelle too had been disturbed by his footsteps. She's so arrogant in many ways. She would never dream of waking me for help. I don't know if you have an elder sister, Mr Pascoe?'

'No, I haven't,' said Pascoe.

'If you had, I'm sure you'd know what I mean. Well, I returned to my room, took my big pinking scissors from my sewing box just in case it
was
a burglar, and went up to see. Isn't it odd how strange your own house can become? That staircase. How many times must I have climbed it. But now it seemed so steep, so twisting . . . And at the top, on the landing, I could see a light. Not an electric light, but flickering. I realized it was coming from the nursery door which was ajar. I tiptoed over the landing, though I needn't have worried for I doubt if I would have been heard.