A Pinch of Snuff (20 page)

'Oh God,' said Pascoe.

'Oh Montreal,' said Toms. 'Is that all, Inspector?'

'Just a couple of other points. What time did you get back on Friday?'

'Oh, I don't know. Ten, eleven
p.m
.'

Pascoe did a couple of quick calculations.

'Did anyone see you when you arrived, sir?'

'What? Of course they did. I'm not invisible, you know. Customs men, taxi-driver, hotel receptionist. Am I establishing some kind of alibi?'

'I meant, did anyone see you when you got back to Harrogate?'

Toms began to smile.

'I'm with you, I think. You've misunderstood me, Inspector. It's true I should have been back in Harrogate early Friday evening. But we got held up. Barcelona was absolutely fog-bound. It was
London
I reached on Friday night. I didn't get back to Harrogate till Saturday lunchtime.'

The door opened and Penelope Latimer came in.

'Generator's arrived, darling.'

'Great,' said Toms. 'Any way I can help, Inspector, you've just got to ask. Will you excuse me?'

He left. Pascoe smiled to the woman and said casually, 'Mr Toms was telling me he got held up in Spain.'

'Yes. Bloody nuisance. We lost a day. Should have started this lot on Saturday, you know.'

'Where is it he stays in London? I meant to ask.'

'The Candida,' she said. 'I think he'd be there. Yes, he definitely was. Their switchboard girl put him through to me when he rang.'

'He rang? Why?'

'To say he was delayed, of course. What's all this about, Peter?'

'Nothing. Nothing,' said Pascoe. 'Interesting ideas your partner has, though.'

'You think so? He sees himself as the poor man's Warhol. Or do I mean the rich man's Warhol? But he's certainly got what it takes for this business.'

'Talent, you mean?' said Pascoe.

Penelope laughed her joyous laugh.

'Talent! Gerry could stick his talent between the cheeks of his tight little arse and it would fall out when he stood up. No. He knows which way to point a camera, and up from down, but his real asset is face. Sheer bloody effrontery. He got this place for us from old Lady Campsall. There was a bit of bother when her agent latched on to what kind of outfit we were, so Gerry went along and saw her. "Ma'am," he said. "What we are making are vulgar films for vulgar people. It's a new form of peasant taxation, and as such, you owe it your keenest support." She bought it. That's Gerry's real talent. Not film-making, but getting out of jams when they occur, which in this business is every two minutes. I know a dozen guys could make a better film than Gerry with one eye closed, but they couldn't get it put together within a time limit if the leading actor had a hernia, the banks foreclosed and a drunken lab-assistant peed in the hypo tank. Gerry could, would, and has done.'

'I begin to see his value,' said Pascoe. 'You said he owned a third of the company.'

'Did I?'

'On the phone. You own another third, I presume. Who's the other lucky shareholder?'

'No one really,' said the woman. 'It was just a manner of speaking. Gerry and me do the work. We have to twist a few arms to finance any new project, that's all I meant.'

The room suddenly began to fill up with bodies and a tangle of cables.

'Time to work,' said Penelope. 'Stay and enjoy the view.'

'Some other time,' said Pascoe despondently. 'I've other bodies to see.'

Penelope regarded him curiously.

'Look,' she said. 'I'm not sure I know what this is all about, but don't let it get to you, darling. It's a crummy planet. Crummy things happen. We can all suffer without looking it up in the Yellow Pages. So be happy and come up and see me again some time - without those official eyes. 'Bye now.'

As he sent the Riley down the dark tunnel of conifers and yew, Pascoe was not certain whether he had been comforted or warned. Either way it didn't matter. Or, to be less precise, they were equally irrelevant. To take warning, to take comfort: these were the prerogatives of the people. It was the duty of the priest class to give them, not to take them, especially not from fat women in the pornographic film business.

Still, he thought, it was a terrible thing this pure abluting. Duty meant sacrifice. It might have been quite interesting to see what the Scarlet Pimp did with that tiger rug.

On the other hand, though she did not yet know it, he had a date with a movie star.

Chapter 16

'One thing I'll give you lot,’ said Linda Abbott. 'You start early.'

'But they let us finish late,' said Pascoe, glancing at his watch. It was only nine o'clock in the morning and already he'd contrived to do - he totted it up. Very little.

Linda Abbott did not seem likely to change things. No, there definitely hadn't been another girl on the set. What would have been the point? The shooting had taken about a week, four or five days, that was. This was a lot longer than the back-street boys, three hours of an afternoon would do them, but the thing about Mr Toms was that he made
real
films. Some of them even had certificates and made it to Screen Three at the local Gaumont. She'd appeared in one of these, a small part. But hadn't she had to join Equity?

Pascoe sat in the bright neat kitchen and talked softly over a mug of coffee for fear of disturbing the sleeping Bert.

'How'd you get into this film business?' he asked.

'It wasn't that hard,' she said. 'None of your struggling to stardom stuff. I used to be an exotic dancer. I still am when the kitty's low. I was asked if I'd like to make a bob or two doing a film. I was a bit dubious at first.'

'Why?'

'I knew right off what kind of film he meant. . .'

'He?'

'Chap who managed us. I was a Lulu then, part of a team, the Three Lulus. Maurice, that was the chap who ran the agency, said he could get us into films. Like I said, we knew what he meant, or thought we did. Getting humped on some flea-ridden bed for home-movies. We told him to take a jump, but he ran us out to meet Mr Toms, showed us a film he'd made. Well, it wasn't
Gone With the Wind
but it was a cut or two above the do-it-yourself kind. Most of the sex, he said, was put on. Them as felt like going the whole hog for a few quid more were very welcome, but there was plenty of work for well-built girls who just wanted to go through the motions. I talked it over with Bert and said all right.'

'This Maurice,' said Pascoe casually, 'does he still manage you?'

'Not really
manage.
When we were the Three Lulus, he was more our manager then. But you don't have proper managers in this game. If he knows of anything that might suit me, he gets in touch. If I'm a bit short, I might ring his agency just to see what's going.'

'Arany, that's a funny name,' mused Pascoe. 'Doesn't sound English. Just a business name, perhaps.'

She put her cup on the table and stared at him with blank unblinking eyes.

'What's the game, love?' she asked.

'Eh?'

'I never said Maurice's second name was Arany.'

'Didn't you? Surely you did!' said Pascoe brightly. 'Otherwise how would I know . . . ?'

'That's the question, right enough. So what's the game?'

Pascoe was acutely embarrassed. It had been a stupid slip. Dalziel would probably not have made it - he rarely underestimated people. But if he had, he wouldn't have been in the least embarrassed.

'Association of ideas,' he said. 'Maurice Arany's name came up when I was talking with Penny Latimer of Homeric. I just put two and two together when you mentioned a Maurice.'

She laughed disbebevingly.

'Look,' she said. 'I had Lorraine the year after that first film job. Times were hard. Bert and me had a lot of financial commitments. Well, Maurice subbed me while I couldn't work. He got it all back, mind you. I didn't want charity. But there's not many as would have bothered in our game. Afterwards he helped me get back in as quickly as possible. I used to take Lorraine with me in her carrycot. I felt right daft at first, but Maurice said it'd be all right. Everyone'd love the kid. Having a baby around made them feel sort of respectable. He was right. Any road, what I'm saying is, I'm not about to say owt that could harm Maurice Arany. So you can bugger off somewhere else with your sneaky questions!'

She had raised her voice and before Pascoe could reply, there was a series of bangs on the floor above.

'Now you've woken Bert up!' said Linda Abbott.

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry,' said Pascoe. 'You've got it all wrong..’

'Just shove off,' said the woman wearily. 'No wonder they call you pigs! You revel in muck.'

Pascoe rose. At the door he said in a quiet, reasonable voice, 'Lady, you get annoyed because people think that running around without your clothes on makes you a dirty, immoral woman. Well, policemen get annoyed too when people assume that running around trying to solve or prevent crimes makes them some kind of nasty animal. The only difference is, you can tell me to bugger off and all I can say in reply is thank you very much and good morning.'

It was feeble and plaintive, thought Pascoe. And also only partly true. Under Dalziel's patient tuition, he'd learnt when to tell people to bugger off and when to keep his mouth shut. Now he felt almost as guilty as before when Linda Abbott caught up with him in the hall and said, 'I'm sorry I said that. It's your job. I shouldn't blame a man for his job. Women especially shouldn't.'

'Yes,' said Pascoe. 'A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.'

'That film,' she said. 'Really, there wasn't another girl. Just me. And it was put on.'

'I believe you,' he said. But he didn't move; he sensed there was the possibility of something else.

'Mr Toms was very economical,' she said finally. 'He'd always want to get it right first time.'

'Just the one take, you mean,' said Pascoe.

'That's right. I think he was quite proud that all he had to do was more or less stick his shots together to make the film.'

'No editing?'

'Oh aye. I suppose he had to do a bit, but what I'm getting at is, if owt went wrong, he didn't have a lot of other takes to fall back on. I don't know much about it, mind. Just what I heard some of the others say when we were chatting during dinner break or whatever. One of the girls reckoned she'd gone to see one of the films she was in and there was a bit from another film in it, if you follow me. She wondered if she could get an extra payment.'

'And did she?'

Linda Abbott laughed.

'Some bloody hope!' she said. 'They're as careful with cash as with film. Oh God, there's Bert banging again. I'd best take him a pot of tea, see if that'll quieten him.'

'Goodbye then, Mrs Abbott,' said Pascoe. 'And good luck.'

She wished him goodbye in return but nothing was said about luck.

About two hundred yards from the house there was a telephone-box. He stopped the car, entered the box and dialled Linda Abbott's number which he had noted as they stood talking in the hallway. He got the engaged signal. Replacing the receiver he next dialled the number of Maurice Arany's agency. That was engaged too.

Finally he dialled Ray Crabtree.

'All those naked bodies too much for you?' asked Crabtree cheerfully.

'I didn't stay long enough to see. Ray, just a couple of points you might be able to help with. You don't happen to know how Homeric get their films processed, do you?'

'Not off hand,' said Crabtree. 'Is it important?'

'I don't know. I just wondered if there was a gap in a film, you know, something went wrong in the processing, could you slot in a bit from another film fairly easily?'

'Hang on,' said Crabtree. 'There's a lad in our lab who's pretty hot on camera stuff, I'll give him a buzz.'

There was a lengthy pause during which Pascoe had to feed another couple of ten-p pieces into the slot.

'Hello? Still there? Good. Yes, dead easy. And also he reckons Toms does most of his own stuff.

He's evidently pretty hot on the technical side. I suppose he doesn't care to let the stuff he's working on get far out of his sight.'

'Thanks a lot, Ray.'

'Anything else?'

'I don't think so.'

'Just one thing from this end, Peter,' said Crabtree apologetically. 'You will keep us posted about what you're up to? I mean, in case of any overlap.'

It was a reproof and a justified one, Pascoe had to admit.

'Of course. And I'm sorry, Ray. You know how it is. Any trespass on other people's land will be signalled in advance. OK?'

'Great. Watch how you go. My love to the Great Buggernaut. Cheers!'

Before leaving the box, Pascoe dialled Linda Abbott's number again. It was still engaged.

The road was full of long slow lorries and it was mid-morning before he got back to the station. He was guiltily aware that he was still a long way from being able to justify the time he had spent on the
Droit de Seigneur
business and it was with a sigh of relief that he gained his office without bumping into Dalziel.

Now he turned his thoughts to Haggard and what had emerged the previous night. Haggard and Arany. Haggard and Blengdale. Why should Haggard go into partnership with the Hungarian?

Why should the rotund councillor want to set Haggard up as the manager of the proposed Holm Coultram Country Club?

It would be interesting to know the story behind Haggard's resignation from the Diplomatic Service, but he guessed that official channels would be locked by all manner of protocol, closing of ranks, pleas of confidentiality, etc.

On the other hand, there was almost certainly someone in the Met who would know someone in Whitehall who could look in a filing cabinet during his lunch-hour . . .

He picked up the phone and a few moments later was speaking to Detective Chief Inspector Colbridge whom the previous summer at a police college course he had saved from being caught drunk and half naked in the ornamental fish pond of a local lady magistrate.

'Willie,' he said. 'Peter Pascoe. How are you?'

'Relieved,' said the voice on the other end. 'I've been waiting for this call for nine months. What do you want, you blackmailing sod?'