A Pinch of Snuff (14 page)

'Mebbe,' said Dalziel triumphantly. 'But there's not many will say that cycling over cobbles can get you pregnant too!'

He looked at Pascoe challengingly. When there was no reply, he continued.

'Her last period should have started a fortnight on Monday, that is yesterday. She saw Shorter at the beginning of last week, Tuesday morning I think it was, and told him she was late. He told her not to worry, it often happened. She was to come back this week and tell him how things were. But things didn't work out.'

'What happened?'

'Sandra's mum began to get worried. Sandra was an early developer. Her periods have been coming for nearly two years now, regular as clockwork. Mrs Burkill has the usual job of keeping her daughter's room tidy. She noticed that she wasn't using any towels. Said nowt at first - it's pointless worrying the kid if it was just going to come late. But when it got to nearly a fortnight, she had a chat with her. One thing led to another. Finally it all came out. That was Sunday evening. Mrs B. had a sleepless night, I imagine, but decided she had to tell Brian in the morning. But she just told him about Shorter interfering with the girl, didn't mention the possibility of her being pregnant. It's just as well. When he heard last night, he nearly blew a gasket. I think he'd have really put the boot into Shorter if he'd known yesterday!

'Any road, there it is, lad. Starts to amount to something, doesn't it?'

'I suppose so. Thanks for putting me in the picture, anyway,' said Pascoe rising and heading for the door.

'A pleasure,' said Dalziel. 'I know how you'd like to help Shorter. In fact . . .'

'Yes?'

'There is something, if you've a spare half-hour from this Haggard business.'

'Yes?' said Pascoe again, very suspiciously.

'The nurse, Alison. She's not being very co-operative. I think Inspector Trumper was probably the wrong man for the job. He's got a touch like a steam hammer. And as you know her already, and she knows you're by way of being a mate of Shorter's, I wonder whether you could get a statement from her.'

'You mean you want me to use my personal connection to get Alison to incriminate her boss?'

Dalziel produced his wire-rimmed reading glasses, polished them with a huge khaki handkerchief, put them on and started reading.

'It's quite impossible. Mr Shorter couldn't have, not a thing like that, not Mr Shorter. I won't believe it, she's a liar whatever she says and I know that he wouldn 't, not even away from the surgery.'

He removed the glasses and looked up from the file.

That's the gist of what Trumper got out of her. It seems to coincide pretty well with your opinion, Inspector. That's a fair enough starting-point for the accused, isn't it? Interrogator and witness both reckoning he's innocent? Hop to it, lad, and let's not have too many tear stains on the statement. It makes the ink run.'

Working with Dalziel made you expert at accepting the inevitable. Occasionally you could grab something useful as you fell over the edge.

'This film business,' said Pascoe. 'I'd like to check it out again.'

Dalziel looked at him thoughtfully.

'You've a lot on your plate,' he said. 'But if you can square it with your conscience that it's tied in with the Calli affair, well, you know I try never to interfere with the man on the job.'

'And I'm to be Queen of the May, mother,' said Pascoe. But only after he'd left the building and was on his way to the dentist's.

Even detectives are susceptible to familiar blindness, realized Pascoe now that he was taking a close look at Alison Parfitt. Always before she had been a mere white-coated presence, leading him into the surgery, passing Shorter the bricks and mortar of his trade, always comforting and efficient, but as anonymous as a servant in a big house.

Such anonymity implied a relationship he did not like, on either personal or professional grounds, and he wondered how many more people he had it with.

She was twenty-four years old, unmarried, pretty in a fresh-faced milk-maidish kind of way, and had been working for Shorter for over two years.

They were drinking tea in Shorter's office. With the dentist off work, she had plenty of time to spare.

'Look,' said Pascoe. 'Would you mind taking that white coat off? I keep on thinking you're about to ask me to spit my tea out.'

She laughed and wriggled out of the overall. She had a pleasant rounded figure; as a milk-maid she might well have caught the village squire's eye.

'Do you come from these parts?' asked Pascoe.

'Yes. Born and bred. I still live at home with my parents.'

'Never fancy a place of your own?'

'You mean marriage?' she asked.

'Not really. I meant a flat. You know, independence, home when you want, do what you want.'

'But I do,' she said. 'I may be conditioned in what I want, but I want it, and generally I do it.'

'You sound as if you've been talking to Ms Lacewing.'

'We have chatted a bit,' she said. 'But I don't need to have all my ideas spoon-fed, Mr Pascoe.'

She spoke firmly rather than acidly, but Pascoe took the hint. She wasn't about to be condescended to. He was glad. He had little stomach for wheedling information out of an emotionally immature girl. The village squire might be in for a surprise.

'I'm sure you don't,’ he said. 'Let's be frank. You made a bit of a fool of yourself when you talked to Inspector Trumper.'

'I know I did. It was silly. But it just happened. Everything he said just made me want to cry.'

'You're all right now?'

'Oh yes. It was just the shock. A night's rest has put me right.'

And you've had a night to think about it, thought Pascoe.

'Let me put things straight to you, Alison,' he said. 'I'm one of Jack Shorter's patients and also I know him a bit socially. I hope there's nothing in these charges, but I've got to keep an open mind. Now, all you did by your performance yesterday was make it look as though there was something you didn't want to tell us. I dare say that wasn't the case, but that's how it came over. I've been asked to talk to you because you know me. They thought a familiar face might be reassuring. I can see now it wasn't necessary, so if you'd rather talk to someone else, say so. And remember, I might know Jack Shorter, but whatever I find out, good or bad for him, it goes back to the officer in charge.'

He looked at her squarely, wishing he could feel as honest as he hoped he looked. Like most so-called free choices, this one contained an offer she could hardly refuse, and he was guiltily conscious that he'd not really risked the horror of explaining to Dalziel that he'd let the girl opt for someone else!

But she was taking a long time to make up her mind.

'All right,' she said in the end. 'I'll stick with you.'

'Good. Now, Alison . . .' He hesitated. 'All right if I call you Alison?'

'You always have done. You mean, does it make me feel inferior? No, I don't think so. Would it bother you if I called you Peter?'

Pascoe grinned uncomfortably.

'It might do,' he said. 'I think perhaps . . .'

'You call me what you like,' she said. 'And I'll try not to call you anything.'

'Fine. To start with, can I just verify when this girl Sandra Burkill had appointments with Mr Shorter?'

She produced the appointments book and Pascoe made a note of the dates and times.

'Now I see that the first two appointments were on Wednesday afternoon. That's your normal children's afternoon, isn't it? Crazy afternoon.'

'Yes,' said Alison.

'But after that, she started coming in the morning, a variety of mornings. Why was that?'

'Oh, it's not unusual,' said Alison. 'The children's afternoon is usually concerned with diagnosis and small jobs. And it's always full of hysterics and delays! You never know what's going to happen and in the end the appointment system usually falls to bits. It just becomes a queue. It really
is
crazy! So when Mr Shorter worked out a long course of treatment for any particular child, he often transferred it out of that afternoon to some other time. Look, there are one or two others I can show you.'

She proceeded to indicate three other cases where a child shifted from Wednesday afternoon to some other time in the week.

Pascoe made careful notes, thinking as he did so that Trumper's questions may have caused hysterics but they hadn't caused amnesia. The girl had done her homework.

'Another thing I notice is that the girl's appointments are invariably the last of the morning. Twelve-fifteen.'

'The girl's school is only five minutes away,' answered Alison promptly. 'That meant she would only miss a few minutes' schooling at the end of the morning.'

'Very considerate,' observed Pascoe, turning the pages of the appointments book. 'He doesn't seem to have been quite so considerate with regard to the others.'

'Oh no. You've got it wrong,' insisted Alison. 'It's not Mr Shorter's idea. I make the appointments.

I've done the same with you. You know, gone to the desk and had a look at the book.'

'So it was your idea to have her come at the end of the morning?'

'That's right.'

Pascoe made a careful note.

'But it was Mr Shorter's idea to transfer her appointments from Wednesday afternoon?'

'Yes.'

'Fine. Now, I've never seen Sandra Burkill. What kind of girl is she? Can you remember much about her?'

'Appearance, you mean? Well, she's got long brown hair, hangs all over the place, you know how they wear it these days. Quite tall, a bit podgy, puppy fat, I think. That's about all, really. Curiously, though, I remember her friend much better even though she only came with her two or three times.'

'Oh yes?'

'She was a much more striking girl. She had bright red hair like a freak-out wig, and one of those sharp little faces. A bit common but full of life. She never stopped talking. And her clothes, all the latest gear. Cheap stuff, most of it, but she knew how to wear it. She could have been nineteen rather than thirteen. I reckon
she
knew what it was all about. Now if it had been her . . .'

'If it had been her accusing Mr Shorter, you'd have thought there might be something in it?' said Pascoe gently.

Alison put her hand to her mouth in the classic repertory theatre gesture of one who has said too much.

'No. I didn't mean that! All I meant was I could see her as the type that might make such accusations. Though it does make you wonder . . .'

'Yes?'

'Well, couldn't it be that the other girl, Sandra, is just trying to impress her friend? Girls are like that. And once you start boasting, you can get carried away. I can remember!'

Not only her homework, but she's worked out theories too, thought Pascoe. She's not quite clever or experienced enough to let us think we've dug them up for ourselves, but that apart, she's really doing very well. Now, why? I wonder. Loyalty?

'How did Sandra dress? Very with it, like her friend?'

'Oh no.Much sloppier. T-shirt, jeans, sometimes. Big flares and platform soles, but she didn't have the style.'

'So she didn't look the type to turn anybody on.'

'No. Honestly, I just couldn't see it. I'm sure it's all just in her mind, put there by her mate.'

'Not quite,' said Pascoe. 'She must have turned somebody on. She's pregnant.'

Now Alison's hand flew to her mouth again, but this time the gesture was completely involuntary.

'Oh! And she says . . .'

'She says it's Mr Shorter's.'

The girl reached blindly for her handbag, took out a handkerchief and pressed it to her filling eyes. The door opened and Ms Lacewing entered.

'What's going on?' she demanded as she took in the scene. 'What are you doing to this child?'

Before Pascoe could answer, Alison looked up and shouted angrily, 'Oh, go to hell!'

Amazed, Ms Lacewing looked from the girl to Pascoe who gave her his best imitation of an Arany shrug. She responded by turning and leaving.

'Child!' said Alison after blowing her nose. 'You'd think she was my grandmother!'

'Don't worry,' said Pascoe. 'Another couple of years, unless she avoids all feminine patterns, she'll be claiming to be your sister. You OK now?'

'Yes. I'm sorry. It was a shock. Tell me, when's Mr Shorter supposed to have . . . done this?'

'In the surgery, during an appointment.'

Alison laughed with relief.

'Well, that proves it! Good lord, it would be impossible! I must have noticed something!'

'You were in the surgery all the time?'

'Of course not. But I'm in and out pretty regularly. Honestly, there wouldn't be time.'

'Mr Shorter never got you out of the way?'

'What do you mean?'

'Sent you off on errands, little tasks which would keep you out of the surgery for some time?'

'Never,' she affirmed.

'The lunch-hour was coming up,' Pascoe reminded her. 'He never sent you away early?'

'Not that I recall.'

'You mean you've always been here till twelve-thirty. You never left for lunch while a patient was still in the surgery? Any patient.'

She looked speculatively at him.

'Is this a trap, Mr Pascoe?' she asked. 'Last time Mr Shorter saw you, last Wednesday, wasn't it? he told me to go and get my lunch while you were still here.'

'No trap,' said Pascoe. 'An
aide-memoire,
that's all. The girl says that on the occasion of the intercourse Mr Shorter had sent you away very early, asking you to collect some X-ray photographs which he needed. Do you recollect that?'

'I have collected X-rays, yes. But I can't remember every occasion.'

'Presumably you have to sign for them?'

She nodded.

'Then it will be easy to check,' he said.

'You don't sign against a time, just a date,' she protested.

'Even so. Is there anything else you'd like to tell me, Alison?'

'I don't think so.'

'Good. Well, I've noted down the main points of what you say in so far as they're relevant to the case. Would you mind if we put them together in the form of a statement?'