A Pinch of Snuff (28 page)

'So what exactly happened after Sandra had blown the whistle?' asked Dalziel.

'Deirdre heard it all from the bottom of the stairs. She should have got out if she'd got any sense, but she didn't. She's a brave woman in a funny kind of way. Burkill came downstairs and she backed off into the living-room. He was right on the edge, but oddly enough I think what got to her in the end was that he didn't
want
to believe it, not because of her, but because of Charlie. So it ended up with her almost having to persuade him that she'd been unfaithful. Well, she succeeded. He went berserk, you saw the room. She made it upstairs to the bedroom, Sandra was screaming and shouting, she remembers, then Burkill really laid one on her and knocked her out. When she woke up the house was empty. She crawled downstairs and poured some vodka into her. Then she staggered back upstairs and drank some more to wash down some tranquillizers to deaden the pain.'

'Had Sandra gone with her dad?' asked Dalziel.

'She doesn't know. After what happened, she didn't much care. The pills and the booze combined soon put her to sleep. ‘Till the brave prince came and woke her with a caution,’ said Dalziel.

'That's it,’ said Pascoe. 'There was something else, though. I got a pretty full version of the speech she made to Bri before the thumping got properly under way.'

'And?'

'Among other things he'd been screaming at her that she was no fit mother for Sandra and that it was no wonder the girl had got into trouble. So she retaliated by telling him about the lass and Clint in the garden shed.'

'That was natural,' observed Dalziel.

'Yes, but she went on to suggest that as Charlie had been coming round to bang her regularly, what was to stop him having a go at Sandra too?'

'She said that?' asked Dalziel. 'My God!'

'Yes. She was sorry she'd said it, mind you. Partly because she thought after it wasn't fair to Charlie, but mainly because that's what really started the thumping, but I've been thinking ever since she talked to me and . . .'

'Go on,' prompted Dalziel.

'Well, suppose it was true.'

'Well, well, well,' said Dalziel. 'I'm with you. So now it's not Clint who's framed your mate, Shorter. It's his dad!'

'Yes. Look, it makes a lot more sense,' urged Pascoe. 'All right, I admit Clint might not have the gumption to try to pass the buck like that, but Charlie Heppelwhite's a different kettle of fish.

He'd know that anything was better than getting Bri Burkill on his track.'

'Hang on a minute,’ said Dalziel ponderously. 'Let's just make sure we know exactly where we are. Burkill beats up Deirdre because she admits his best friend's been screwing her. He then starts believing the same friend may have been having a go at his daughter. So what now? If I read you right, you reckon Burkill goes down to the Club, lets himself in, sits brooding and boozing till morning, finds he's left his lights on and his battery's flat, so off he walks to Blengdale's to chat to Charlie?'

'Right,' said Pascoe.

'Except,' said Dalziel. And paused.

There was something splendidly Ciceronian about Dalziel's 'except'. A single word left hanging, ungrammatically, in the air. And amidst the serried ranks of senators a small sough of intaken breath, then utter silence as they concentrated all their attention on the next eloquent weighty sentence to emerge from that eloquent weighty figure, statuesque at the centre of the tessellated floor.

'Except it's all balls,’ said Dalziel.

Riot in the forum! Secretaries scribbling like mad on their tablets so that generations of unborn schoolboys may experience the profit and delight of translating this wisdom, one stumbling word after another.

Pascoe's face showed nothing of his fantasy.

'In which particular respect?' he enquired courteously.

'In every fucking respect,' replied Dalziel cheerfully. 'Because it's daft in the first respect. I know our Bri. The natural thing for him to do when he heard what he heard was to go right round next door and stamp on Charlie a bit. I'd have done the same myself. Anyone who's not a sodding civilized intellectual would. Kick the door till someone comes or it falls in. Then, whumph!'

Dalziel nodded in agreement with himself, an expression of savage righteousness on his face. It was many years since his wife had left him and he had once confided to Pascoe in his cups that she had broken the news by telegram. A woman blessed with wisdom, thought Pascoe.

'He sorted Heppelwhite out later,' said Pascoe. 'Perhaps he just wanted to plan out his course of action.'

'For Christ's sake, he's not the Count of Monte bloody Cristo!' said Dalziel scornfully. 'No, if Bri didn't go right round next door to remould Charlie's face, there was a reason. We'd best find Sandra. Happen she can help.'

The doctor appeared in the doorway.

'Nasty,' he said laconically. 'She's really been thumped. Husband caught her on the job, did he? I've got the name of her GP so I'll make sure he knows what's happened. What brings you two out here, anyway? A bit high-powered for wife-beating, aren't you?'

'Same as you, doc,' said Dalziel. 'Makes a change from brain surgery, doesn't it? Thanks a lot. We'll have a drink some time.'

Pascoe looked at his watch as the doctor left.

'Dinner-time,' he said. 'You know, sir, the doctor's right in a way. Basically this
is
just a domestic job.'

Dalziel shook his head.

'Not till choirs of angels tell me Shorter's in the clear, it's not. There's a girl missing too. We'd best find her. And don't forget that Charlie Heppelwhite's lying in hospital. And where's Burkill? No, there's a bit of mileage in this yet.'

'I'm sure, sir. But I've got to go and talk to friend Toms this afternoon. And I'm still keen to have a long chat with Mr Maurice Arany. You have any joy with Blengdale before we were interrupted, sir?'

'I hadn't really got going,' said Dalziel. 'I think he was more worried than he cared to let on, but his missus turned up at the same time as me, so I couldn't really turn the screw.'

'Which reminds me,' said Pascoe slowly. 'Mrs Blengdale . . .'

'Not a bad-looking woman,' said Dalziel. 'Mind you, it'd be a bit like screwing a statue of the Queen.'

'Perhaps not,' said Pascoe. 'I was beside her when we saw Heppelwhite fall on to that saw.'

'Aye, I noticed you doing a bit of nifty supportive work,' said Dalziel lasciviously.

'Yes,' said Pascoe. 'But it didn't feel like supporting a sensitive lady knocked over by shock. No, if anything, I'd say the sight of Charlie Heppelwhite's fingers on the bench turned Mrs Blengdale on rather than switched her off.'

Dalziel rolled his eyes heavenwards in what was doubtless intended as an expression of bewildered piety but came out more like a lecherous peek up God's skirts. Before he could speak, a constable came in.

'Excuse me, sir,' he said. 'Message for Mr Pascoe from Sergeant Wield. Would you meet him at Maurice Arany's flat as soon as possible, please.'

Pascoe looked at Dalziel who nodded.

'Off you go,' he said. 'Yon ugly bugger doesn't send out summonses without cause. He's just the partner for you.'

'You mean because of my beauty,' simpered Pascoe.

'I mean because
he
believes in facts,' said Dalziel. 'Now bugger off. But keep me informed!'

Chapter 23

There were no sounds of life in Arany's flat and as Pascoe pressed the bell button, he wondered if Wield had moved on. He turned the door handle on the off-chance that it was unlocked, and was dragged into the room as the door was flung open with great force.

'Oh,' said Wield, his face close to Pascoe's. 'It's you, sir.'

'What were you about to do if it wasn't?' wondered Pascoe.

'Depends,' said Wield grimly.

'You'd better tell me about your morning, Sergeant,' said Pascoe.

'I went to Arany's agency,' said Wield. 'Told the girl I was really a female impersonator just pretending to be a policeman. Won her confidence. She said Arany hadn't been in the office that morning. But he'd telephoned her shortly after she'd got in and asked her to make a purchase and deliver it to his flat.'

Now came the narrative pause, inviting the question.

'Get on with it,' said Pascoe.

'Girl's clothes.Sweater, jeans, sandals.'

'So,' said Pascoe. 'What then?'

'I came round here. There was no reply. So I went back to the station to report in. You weren't back, of course. Gradually news began to get back about what happened at Blengdale's. Soon as I heard Burkill's name, I began to wonder. Then I heard from Control what was going on at Burkill's house and I got round here fast.'

'Finding the door open, of course,' said Pascoe ironically.

'No,' said Wield evenly. 'I broke in. No one's going to complain. The place was empty, but I found this.'

He led Pascoe out of the living-room into a bedroom. On top of the ruffled counterpane was a blue nylon nightie, decorated with pink panthers.

'It's Sandra's. Got a name-tab in it. For school trips and things, I suppose. Her mother must be a careful woman.'

'Not careful enough,' said Pascoe.

'That's not all, sir,' said Wield. 'I had a poke around. Through here.'

He went back into the living-room and stopped in front of the dark oak bureau which with a bit of restoration work wouldn't have been out of place amidst the expensive antiques of Priory Farm.

'There was one drawer locked. I had to fiddle a bit,' said Wield. He pulled the drawer open.

'Take a look,' he said.

Pascoe removed the plain buff envelope which was all the drawer contained and took a look.

'Oh,' he said.

They were half-plate photographs of a naked girl and two naked men. They formed a sequence. The girl was Sandra Burkill.

'Film stills, I shouldn't wonder,' said Wield.

'Let's go look for Uncle Maurice,' said Pascoe.

'We'd best take a stretcher,' said Wield. 'In case Bri Burkill's found him first.'

Pascoe left Wield in the flat till he could send someone else to keep an eye on it in case either Arany or Sandra returned.

As he returned to the station, he worked out a scenario in his mind.

Sandra changing from a gawky nine-year-old to a fleshy fully developed woman in the space of three years; Uncle Maurice watching, waiting - no! that implied an element of premeditation too monstrous to be considered even in this melange of monstrosities. But a moment had arrived when something happened; a first step. Arany would have taken it, though perhaps even the girl. . . adolescent pash; surprise, then delight, at the power of her newly formed body; Arany full of guilt (why is it, wondered Pascoe, that despite what I see in my job, I cannot imagine a world in which a man wouldn't feel guilty at seducing a child?); but guilt that was just the initiate fear. Behind the lecher stood the pornographer. There was a market for schoolgirl films. As for Sandra, did she need to be coaxed? tricked? bribed?

I don't know, thought Pascoe, adding aloud as he entered his office, 'And I don't want to know.'

He'd checked Dalziel's office. The fat man hadn't returned. He sat down wearily.

Dalziel had been right, thought Pascoe. Burkill had indeed discovered something that had taken his mind temporarily off his wife's infidelity. Perhaps he'd beaten Sandra too. Perhaps, tired of all this hysterical indignation from adults whose example and actions had helped her to where she was, Sandra had blurted out the whole business just to shut him up.

Then what? Sandra grabbing a coat to pull on over her nightie dashes off into the night. Where does she go? Where else but to Arany?

And Burkill's destination is equally obvious. He makes for the one place he is sure of himself, the place where he is king. The Westgate Social Club.

There he thinks and drinks. Drinks till he stops thinking. Sleeps. Wakes. Goes in search of Arany who has by now got clothes for Sandra and taken off.

So, his prime target having evaded him, he now makes for his secondary - poor old Charlie Heppelwhite.

And having settled him, where now?

Arany again, thought Pascoe. It wouldn't be a bad idea to let Burkill catch up with him either. In fact, unless he came up with some clever notion of Arany's possible movement, it could well be that Burkill got there first.

'Fool!' said Pascoe, reaching for his telephone. There was an obvious place for Arany to make for. He wasn't in this alone and self-interest would suggest warning his confederates. It was probably too late already, but no harm in checking.

'Detective-Inspector Crabtree,' he said. 'Ray? Hello, Peter Pascoe again. Look, there've been developments.'

Briefly he sketched out what had happened.

'Now there's a possibility that Arany will turn up at Homeric. Eventually, if I'm right and they did film the girl, we're going to really turn them upside down and shake them till their change jingles, but meanwhile can you do a check, see if there's any sign of him about the place? Be discreet, but if he's got there before you, or if there's any sign of people packing up, take a grip and let no one move till we rustle up a warrant.'

'Got you,' said Crabtree. 'I'll get right on it.'

'Hold on,' said Pascoe. 'You'll need Arany's description. And you'd better have Burkill's too in case he's somehow got himself over there.'

Quickly he described the two men.

'Fine,' said Crabtree. 'Hey, is the Thin Man in on this?'

'Who?'

'Grosseteste.The talking balloon. Dalziel.'

'He will be when he gets in. Don't worry, young fellow. Daddy won't be angry with you.'

'Ha ha,' said Crabtree. 'I'll get back to you. 'Bye.'

It was only five minutes till Dalziel appeared. Pascoe told him about the discoveries in Arany's flat and laid out his scenario for inspection, humbly acknowledging his superior's acumen in guessing that Burkill must have had a very strong reason for not dealing with Heppelwhite immediately. To his surprise, this humility did not produce the anticipated revolting smugness.