A Pinch of Snuff (22 page)

'There's certainly a link,' said Pascoe. 'The phone calls did take place. It's whether it's a significant or coincidental link that needs to be decided.'

Dalziel looked at him in mock surprise at this bold affirmation.

'All right. Let's take it step by step. Toms rings Latimer to explain why he's not back in Yorkshire as promised. You reckon she mentioned your interest in that film, right? He rings off, then gets on to Blengdale. Why?'

'No idea,' said Pascoe, who knew just how far you dared go when presenting hypotheses to Dalziel.

'Then he rings Haggard. Why?'

'To say get rid of the film.'

'But he can't get through because the phone goes dead. So presumably whoever was doing up the house, picked up the receiver and then cut the wire? That what you think?'

'Possibly.'

'OK. So why does Toms ring Arany?'

'To say he can't get hold of Haggard and it's urgent that they get rid of that film.'

'So what would Arany do?'

Pascoe knew exactly where he was being led to. He had explored the winding track too thoroughly already not to know each curve along the way. But he knew also that there are times to resist and times to go quietly.

'He would slip out of his flat, walk the quarter mile to the Calli and let himself in.'

'Then he and Haggard would burn the film and mess the place up to make it look like vandals?'

Pascoe said nothing.

'Then Arany would beat Haggard up to add to the verisimilitude? Jesus, I mean, how far does anyone go in pursuit of realism! And what about whoever it was that cut off the phone? Where were they? What were they doing while all this was going on? Just how many people were wandering around the Calb that night? Perhaps Ms Lacewing and her gang of demonstrators were there too? And the Wilkinson Square Protection Society?'

Against his judgement, Pascoe was stung to speech.

'Look, sir, all I'm doing is trying to fit a theory round the evidence . . .'

'Evidence!' bellowed Dalziel. 'Evidence's what I've given you to show that your mate, Shorter, assaulted one of his patients. Not that you believe it. Oh no,
that
evidence is nowt to you! Then, next breath, you expect me to believe some fairy story which has got less hard evidence than meat in a poorhouse stew. Come on, lad, don't choke on it, spit it out, what do you really think's behind all this? I've been amazed, now astound me.'

'All right,' said Pascoe, roused to defiance which was probably Dalziel's intention anyway. 'This is what I think. I think there's a film, at least one, perhaps more, a snuff-film, a film in which some poor bloody whore who thought she was going to be screwed a couple of times found out too late that the real climax was her being killed. Toms might have made it, or just have got hold of it, I don't know which. Either way, it's not unlike
Droit de Seigneur
in some of its sequences. Perhaps Toms plagiarized. Perhaps he merely had to tone down his own idea for our nice middle-class audiences. So when an important sequence went wrong in the processing, he kept his reputation for speed and economy by merely editing in a print of the same sequence in the snuff-film. It's essential for continuity and thrills, but it's so brief and the girl's face is so badly beaten that it doesn't seem possible anyone'll notice. He reckons without my dentist on the one hand and my wife on the other.'

He paused for breath and also for thought. Now he had spoken, he could see all the huge flaws in his theory and the even huger areas of sheer vagueness. But he was glad he had spoken.

Dalziel had begun a facial scratch as he talked, taking the right-ear-to-Adam's-apple route.

'Evidence?' he said.

'You've heard it all,' said Pascoe defiantly.

'I have? I'll listen more carefully next time. So. Presumably to make it worthwhile risking either making or even possessing such a thing, you'd need an audience that was not only bloody bent but bloody rich?'

Pascoe agreed.

'Any suggestions who'd fit the bill round here?'

Pascoe hesitated.

'I don't know. The only possibility seems to be . . . Godfrey Blengdale.'

'Ah,' said Dalziel. 'I thought you were heading in that direction. Well, he's rich certainly. Not bloody rich, mind you. Not a millionaire, but he's worth a bob or two. But bent? Perverted? Twisted?'

'I don't know,' said Pascoe. 'Who can say?'

'What about his missus? You've met her, have you? Do you reckon she's the type to put up with that kind of thing? I'd say not. Any road, what's your next move?'

Pascoe was amazed by the gentleness of the response so far. And emboldened by it. Dalziel he knew would never be kind out of mere sentiment. Something had rung a bell with him, distantly perhaps but clear enough to make him hesitate the blasting, blaspheming, coruscating scorn that was his favourite response to the vague and the absurd.

'I'm not sure. See Toms again. Ask him about the phone calls. Get to Arany and Blengdale at the same time.'

Dalziel considered, then nodded.

'That makes sense if anything in all this lemon curd makes sense. But leave it till tomorrow, eh? No one's going anywhere.'

Pascoe was surprised. Dalziel was not a man to waste a moment, particularly of his underling's time.

His surprise must have shown for Dalziel added, almost apologetically, 'I'm tied up myself today and I'd like to have a go at God Blengdale myself, if you don't mind.'

If I don't mind!
thought Pascoe, convinced now there were things going on he knew nothing about. Well, Dalziel was entitled to his secrets, but he'd be stupid not to take advantage of this rare conciliatory mood.

'Of course, sir,' he said. 'There was something I'd like to do this afternoon though, if you wouldn't mind. I'd like permission to have a go at this girl, Sandra Burkill, before you charge Shorter. I've never seen her. I'd like to get a personal impression.'

'Likely that's what Shorter said,' grunted Dalziel. 'All right. If you can get past her dad, that is. Be it on your own head.'

Pascoe glanced at his watch. She'd be home from school shortly and Burkill would be still at work.

'I'll go round now,' he said.

'Aye. Get a move on. I want this bugger charged before I go off for my tea,' said Dalziel. 'I'll give you to five.'

It was hardly a vote of confidence, thought Pascoe. It looked as if nothing on earth was going to stop Dalziel going ahead.

But even Dalziel was not completely master of the universe.

On impulse Pascoe did not drive straight to the Westgate Estate but diverted to the lusher pastures of Acornboar Mount. It was a humanitarian move, he told himself. Emma Shorter might need someone to give her a bit of reassurance, tell her her husband was still only being questioned, not charged. That was what he told himself, but he knew that in fact he was just attempting to assuage his guilt feelings at ducking out of the Black Bull when the woman had appeared there at lunch-time.

This time he did not leave the car at the foot of the road, but sent it bumping up over the pot-holes and cracks. To live up here you really did need to be able to afford something with super-efficient suspension. A Range Rover, perhaps.

Or an ambulance.

There was one up ahead of him. He knew as soon as he saw it which house it was parked outside.

He arrived just as the stretcher men appeared and for the second time that day he saw Emma Shorter's pale, pale face.

Chapter 18

'An overdose,’ he told Dalziel on the phone.

'Oh aye. Usual thing, was it? Half a dozen tablets and ring a neighbour?'

'A bit more serious than that, sir,' said Pascoe evenly. 'She's very ill indeed. And it was just chance she was spotted. The window-cleaner.'

'I dare say she knows when her window-cleaner's due,' said Dalziel cynically. 'Well, I suppose I'd better send Shorter round there, hadn't I? Stroke of luck for him.'

'Luck?'

'Aye. Can't you just see him standing up in court with a black armband and bags beneath his eyes? They'll be mopping out the jury box.'

Pascoe took a deep breath.

'You haven't charged him then?'

'No. I'll leave it now till we see which way his missus decides to fall. Any road, I said I'd let you see Sandra first. Which reminds me, Acornboar Mount's a funny road to the Westgate Estate.'

'I'll go there tonight instead,’ parried Pascoe.

'Good. But tread careful, Peter. Remember, they're nice people too. You're apt to be a bit heavy-handed on occasion. Hello! You still there?'

'Yes,' said Pascoe.

'You should breathe a bit louder. Take care now. Cheerio!'

The Westgate Estate was a living history of local authority domestic architecture of the twentieth century.

The first group of houses belonged to the twenties. The windows were small, but the brick was good and had weathered well, and they all had quite substantial gardens separated by privet hedges of considerable maturity. Built in blocks of three and four, they had a closer relationship with the agricultural cottage than the urban back-to-back.

Next came the thirties and now the suburban villa was the model. The roofing had changed from black slate to red tiles, the upper storeys were pebble-dashed and there had been some attempt at stylistic variation. This part of the estate had won a prize at the time, Pascoe recalled reading, and when you compared it with the immediately post-war development, you could see why; lines of barrack-like houses faced with the kind of roughcast on which new paint only looked new for a couple of months till the rain beneath the narrow eaves stained and darkened it once more.

More recent development, still continuing, was trying hard to balance speed and economy with environmental concern. It wasn't Acornboar Mount but it was good housing.

Burkill lived in the oldest part of the estate. The house was in darkness and after banging at the door for a couple of minutes, Pascoe decided he was out of luck. The Burkills were probably down at the Club and Sandra had gone out with friends.

He recollected that the Heppelwhites lived next door and recollected also that some of the pressure under which Emma Shorter had so horrifyingly cracked had come from Clint. At least he had assumed it was Clint last night, though at Shorter's insistence he had let the matter slide. Now suddenly he wanted to be certain. He wanted to be able to tell this pair, father and son, to their faces that their vicarious rage and retributive action had probably killed a woman.

No, that was too strong, far too strong. Women like Emma didn't crack overnight or even in a couple of days. There must have been longer, steadier pressures. Such as? God! he laughed grimly. You didn't have to look far. Not if Shorter
was
screwing his nurse and Emma knew about it. Knew the marriage was on the rocks. Money too, perhaps. OK, he lived on Acornboar Mount and everyone knows that all dentists have Swiss accounts packed with gold fillings. But Pascoe had learned by hard experience that there's no art to read a man's bank balance in his public face.

So, dilute the anger a bit. But they'd helped to put Emma Shorter in hospital or worse, no doubt about it. And with Dalziel poised to charge the man, the publicity threat no longer applied.

He went up the path.

Burkill's front garden had been neat enough, a square of rough lawn with narrow, empty borders. It was the garden of a man who had little time to care about gardens, but sufficient community pride to reject a wilderness. Heppelwhite's small rectangle was a different matter altogether. The few square yards of lawn were as lushly green and as precisely swathed as Shorter's half-acre or Blengdale's half-dozen and the scalloped borders were full of the flowers of spring, crocuses and daffodils, narcissi and tulips, in regimented profusion.

Burkill's front door had retained the original cast-iron knocker, but here there was a bell-push which filled the air with a melodious three-tone chime. A pause, then the door opened.

'Good evening, Mr Heppelwhite,' said Pascoe.

Charlie Heppelwhite didn't look as if he agreed. He also gave no sign that he was contemplating letting Pascoe into his house.

'Who's there, Charlie?' demanded his wife from an inner room, her voice easily drowning the manic chatter of some television compere.

Heppelwhite called back, 'It's all right, Mother, ‘and now motioned Pascoe to enter, having decided that this was the lesser of two evils. He didn't quite put his finger to his lips and make shushing noises, but Pascoe found himself almost tiptoeing as he followed the long gangling figure into the cold front room. Here again was all the evidence needed to indicate a proud do-it-yourselfer. The paint and paper looked as though they had been put on yesterday and the light which revealed all this splendour came from a pseudo-crystal chandelier suspended on a gleaming brass chain. Pascoe knew the crystals were pseudo because they did not tinkle when he walked into them.

'Sorry,' said Heppelwhite. 'The ceiling's not high enough.'

'That's one way of looking at it,' agreed Pascoe. 'I wonder if your son's in, Mr Heppelwhite.'

'Oh, Clint. You want to see
him?'
Heppelwhite sounded amazed.

'If he's at home,' answered Pascoe.

'Yes, sure. Well, he's down the garden,' amended Heppelwhite. 'He's doing something with his bike. He keeps it in the shed down the garden. Shall I give him a call?'

'No, that's all right,' said Pascoe, thinking it would be useful both to see the bike close up and also to interview the youth away from his parents. 'I'll just chat to him in the shed.'

'Right,' said Heppelwhite. 'I'll show you.'

He led the way out and as they passed the open door of the rear living-room, he stuck his head in and said, 'Betsy, it's Mr Pascoe come to see our Clint.'

Pascoe tried to keep going. He suspected that Heppelwhite's apparent indifference to his reason for wanting to interview the boy would be more than compensated for by his wife. Ahead was a door which opened to reveal a kitchen and, beyond, the back door of the house. But he was not to escape.