A Pinch of Snuff (7 page)

Dalziel rocked with laughter as he spoke while Pascoe looked on with fascinated horror. After a while the fat man became aware his Inspector wasn't laughing.

'What's up with you then?' he said, modulating his long bellowing into intermittent chortles. 'You're looking like you've messed your pants.'

'I didn't think it was very funny, that's all,' said Pascoe.

'Not funny. Boy canes headmaster? It's like man bites dog!'

'Yes. I can see that. Only, the whole situation, well, it's pretty nasty, isn't it?'

'Nasty?' said Dalziel, amazed. 'I thought you were one of these free-wheeling whatever-turns-you-on types? You're noted for soft-pedalling on these squatters and six-in-a-bed communes. What's bothering you here?'

'Well, it's the children. The effect something like that must have on a child . .’

'Come off it!' exclaimed Dalziel, 'Caning teacher? It's every kid's dream. Mind you, I wouldn't like any lad of mine in a school like that. Oh no. And once word got out, the schools folded pretty quickly and Haggard moved on even quicker. But as for harming the boys! - as long as he didn't touch 'em (which he didn't) how could he harm them? That's like saying . . .'

He paused to search out an analogy.

'Like saying, that using a truncheon on policemen could be bad for criminals?' suggested Pascoe.

'Go and get stuffed,' said Dalziel, very much put out at the failure of his humorous anecdote.

'And was there anything like this while Haggard was running his school here?' asked Pascoe.

'On my patch? You've got to be joking!' said Dalziel indignantly. 'He sometimes whacked the poor little sods a bit too hard, but hardly anyone complained.'

'Except, presumably, the poor little sods.'

'It wasn't their money,' said Dalziel. 'Anyway, there's two theories for you.'

'Two?'

'Either Gilbert Haggard had been getting up to his old tricks with some co-operative friend who took things too far. Or some poor little sod came back for a bit of eye-for-an-eye. OK?'

'Thank you very much,' said Pascoe fulsomely.

'Well, we'd better get this show on the road,' said Dalziel. 'A man like that, you'd think he'd have his heart checked regularly, wouldn't you?'

'It can happen to the best of us,' said Pascoe.

'That's all right then. Well, don't hang around here. Go and do something. You'd best find out who was there last night, who left last, that sort of thing.'

Dalziel was never afraid of telling his underlings to do the obvious.

'Arany's coming in to make a statement,' said Pascoe. 'He'll know.'

'Good. I'll get Sergeant Wield to organize a house-to-house round the Square. He knows who's who after listening to all their complaints. And we'd best pick up a few likely tearaways and bounce them off the wall a bit. That's favourite, I think: yobbos looking for mucky pictures and loose change, Haggard disturbs them; bang!'

'Oh dear,' said Pascoe. 'What about those two super theories you gave me?'

'You shove off and get some work done,' said Dalziel grimly.

'I'm going, I'm going.'

'And Peter . . .'

'Yes?' said Pascoe at the door.

'Next time you tell me my stories aren't funny, you call me sir.'

'Yes, sir,' said Pascoe.

Wield had returned to the Square to set his team of detective-constables on their round of house-to-house enquiries. He himself at Pascoe's request came back to the station bringing Arany with him.

The Hungarian seemed indifferent to the news of Haggard's death. Pascoe remarked on this.

'We were business associates, not friends,' said Arany. 'It is a distressing thing, but not a remarkable one. Old men die. Death comes out of a clear sky. I hope you find who did it, though when you do, what will happen to him? A little rest, then freedom again. In this country, there are no punishments.'

'I'm sorry you've found us so deficient,' said Pascoe. 'I won't keep you too long. It's just a question of a statement.'

'I have made my statement.'

'Oh?' Pascoe looked up at Wield who regarded him impassively.

'To the sergeant. I told him what I know, which is nothing; what I saw, which was nothing; what is missing, which so far as I can assess is nothing.'

Arany emphasized his speech by moving his head from side to side like a fox in a cage.

'Well, we'd best get it down on paper. Sergeant.'

'Sir?'

'Why don't you fetch Mr Arany's file.'

'Yes, sir,' said Wield. 'I'll see if the Superintendent's finished with it.'

He turned on his heel in a very military fashion and left. Pascoe observed Arany carefully to see his reaction to all this gobbledegook. It seemed to him that for a moment the man looked uneasy, then his features resumed their watchful blankness. There was something rather un-English about it, thought Pascoe. Even the native criminal classes were not so frightened of anything that they needed to hide behind neutrality. It was a comfortable chauvinist thought.

'You're a naturalized citizen, I believe,' said Pascoe conversationally.

'Yes.'

'Ever go back to Hungary? I mean, would it be possible now that things have had twenty years to quieten down?'

'I would not care to try, Inspector.'

'You still have relations there?'

'Everybody has relations,' said Arany.

'But no one you keep in touch with?'

'No one.'

'How long have you known Mr Haggard?' said Pascoe, switching direction.

'Four years. Five. Does it matter?'

'I'm just interested in your business relationship, Mr Arany.'

'Does it matter?' repeated Arany. 'Is it relevant?'

'It depends on why he was attacked,' said Pascoe.

'Why? Vandals, surely. Teenagers, breaking in for a lark. Mr Haggard would fight with them.'

'He was that kind of person?'

'Oh yes. Fearless. Of the old school,' said Arany.

Was there a note of irony in his voice? wondered Pascoe.

'Perhaps you're right,’ he said. 'Still, we must take a look at your members, I'm afraid.'

'I have a list. It is up to date,' said Arany. He produced a brown envelope from his inside pocket and handed it over.

'Most efficient,' said Pascoe. 'Now I wonder if you could also draw up a list of those present at the performance last night, so far as you can recall.'

He pushed a sheet of paper and a Biro across the table to Arany.

The Hungarian thought a moment, then started writing.

Pascoe meanwhile started looking through the membership list.

He recognized many of the names, just as he had recognized faces on his visit two nights earlier. Ellie's escort, Arthur Halfdane, was there. Trendy radicals could afford to belong to such clubs, but local politicians obviously had to be a bit more careful. Godfrey Blengdale might have enjoyed the show but his name wasn't on the list. Pascoe wasn't surprised. He knew the man mainly through the papers and the less than Leica impartiality of Ellie's appraisal. When the family timber yard had fallen into Blengdale's care at the age of twenty-six, it had been (like many old-established businesses run on outmoded principles such as value for money and honest dealing) on the verge of bankruptcy. Blengdale had wheeled and dealed and diversified into producing ready-to-assemble whitewood furniture which compensated for its difficulty of assembly by its ease of collapse. But his prices were competitive, his delivery dates held to, and his standards of manufacture (after a minor lawsuit or two) as reasonable as anyone else's in the field. Blengdale's had prospered and Godfrey Blengdale had become a figure of some importance, entertaining lavishly at his converted farmhouse a couple of miles from Holm Coultram College, supporting good works generously and finally offering himself to the electrorate with the kind of aplomb and
savoir-faire
beloved by working-class Tories the world over.

He thinks that God is short for Godfrey, proclaimed Ellie, which, if not original, was certainly apt.

And God might view the cavortings of post-lapsarian Adam and Eve with some amusement, but he wouldn't let his name be carved on a tablet of members of a celestial Ultra-Paradise Club.

Further down the list he came across Jack Shorter's name. So Shorter's 'friend' had been mythic. A pointless bending of the truth, but understandable.

At least,
he
could understand it. Dalziel would probably seize upon it as evidence of his worst suspicions.

As Arany finished writing, Wield returned. He handed a bulky cardboard wallet to Pascoe, saying, 'Sorry to be so long, sir. I had to go to Central Records.'

'Thank you, Sergeant.'

Pascoe opened the wallet and peered in. It was full of old newspapers. There was a single typewritten sheet accompanying them. This he withdrew. It contained details of Arany's background, and home and business addresses. Pascoe studied it thoughtfully.

Wield meanwhile had been looking at the sheet Arany had been writing on and Pascoe was surprised to see a strange expression attempting to come to grips with his face, a kind of deferential embarrassment. Like a werewolf turning into Jeeves.

He saw the reason when he himself looked at the list.

Heading the names was Mrs P. Pascoe. Second was Arthur Halfdane. There were about thirty other names. And last of all was Godfrey Blengdale.

I wonder, thought Pascoe. Would that name appear at all if Ellie hadn't been there? Probably, for there would be others who would remember his presence. But its position on the list seemed to hint at a reluctance to put it there.

'Thank you, Mr Arany. Now, perhaps you can help us further. What time was it when you left the Club?'

'Eleven. Eleven-fifteen.'

'Now, were you the last to leave, or was there anyone else on the premises, apart from Mr Haggard, that is?'

Arany looked at him, his face so blank that Pascoe wondered if he'd understood the question. But he did not repeat it.

'I saw no one. The club room was empty,' said Arany finally.

'Where was Mr Haggard?' asked Pascoe.

'He had gone to his quarters.'

'At what time?'

'Ten-thirty. The show finished at ten. He had a drink downstairs, then left.'

'Alone?' asked Pascoe.

Again the silence. Suddenly Wield moved forward, just half a pace. Pascoe regarded his face, which was set like a traitor's head, and thought what a boost it would have been to the Inquisition, worth two or three confessions without touching the rack.

'I think Mr Blengdale went with him.'

'I see,' said Pascoe. 'And you think Mr Blengdale may still have been there when you left.'

'It is possible. I cannot say definitely.'

'Well, thank you, Mr Arany. That will do for now,' said Pascoe. 'The sergeant here will help you prepare your statement and have it typed up for you to sign. It shouldn't take a minute.'

Arany banged both hands on the table.

'Inspector, I am not a bloody stupid foreigner. I can speak and write English probably much better than half of your policemen. I shall write my own statement without Mr Wield having to translate.'

'As you please,’ said Pascoe. 'We'll be next door if you need any help.'

Outside the door he hefted the cardboard wallet and grinned at Wield.

'You overdid this a bit, didn't you?' he said. 'He'll be complaining to Amnesty!'

'It isn't all padding,' protested Wield.

'No? You mean he's made the papers?'

'In a way.The clubland columns in the local rag. You know the thing,
Club and Pub
with Johnny Hope.'

'Oh yes. Incisive criticism.
Old Wrinkle and the Retainers were at the Green Swan last night and kept the customers happy.
Did Arany?'

'Not according to Johnny Hope,' said Wield. 'He records his move to management with great enthusiasm.'

'You're a very thorough man, Sergeant,' said Pascoe appreciatively. 'Well, back to the grind. See that Arany's OK, will you? He's more frightened of you than me.'

He glanced at his watch. It was eleven-thirty.

'I suppose I'd better try to have a chat with Godfrey Blengdale. He's not going to like being mixed up in this.'

'I don't suppose he is,' said Wield.

Something in his tone caught Pascoe's attention.

'Do you know him?'

'I make it my business to know anyone who's a big man in this town, sir,' said Wield. 'You never know when you may find yourself dealing with them.'

'Oh dear,' said Pascoe, thinking he recognized another crusader. He only hoped they were heading for the same holy war.

Chapter 7

Back in his office Pascoe looked up Blengdale's home number and dialled. There was no reply, so he tried the business number. A voice so tired that it could have been used on a medium's tape told him that Mr Blengdale had left the country. Further questioning produced the information that this meant he had flown to Northern Ireland on business but should be returning on Sunday.

Disgruntled, Pascoe replaced the receiver, then on impulse picked it up again and rang Ellie's parents' number in Lincolnshire.

'Just thought I'd check you'd arrived safely,' he said.

'Kind of you.' She still sounded cool.

'Mum and Dad well?'

'Yes. Well, not really. Dad's a bit under the weather. Nothing specific, just old age, I guess. But I thought I might stop overnight. Would you mind?'

'Love, with the kind of contact we've been having lately, what difference will it make?'

He tried to say it lightly, but it didn't work.

'It takes two to make contact,' she answered sharply.

'Yes. Yes. I'm sorry. What time will you be back tomorrow?'

'I'm not sure. Take me when I come, will you. We've got an important liaison committee on Monday morning and there's a bit of a council of war at college on Sunday night. I thought I'd better drop in on my way home.'

'Out of your way home, you mean. Yes, I'm sure they couldn't do anything without you. Well, enjoy yourself.'

He banged the phone down, feeling angry and hurt; and also foolish because he knew he had no mature adult reason for feeling angry and hurt.