A Pinch of Snuff (29 page)

'That's how it looks to you,' Dalziel said slowly. It was difficult to work out if this were a question or not.

'That's how it looks,' said Pascoe.

'It's your case,' said Dalziel. 'You've got a call out on Arany?'

'Oh yes. And I've been on to Harrogate to get them to check Homeric in case he makes for there.'

'Have you now? Your mate, Crabtree, I suppose.'

'That's right,' said Pascoe.

Dalziel scratched the folds of his chin. It was like the finger of God running along the Grand Canyon.

The pictures were spread out on the desk before them.

'It's certainly our Sandra,' said Dalziel. 'Do the men look familiar?'

Pascoe shook his head without even looking at the photographs.

'Can't see much of their faces anyway,' said Dalziel. 'Film stills, you say? Why not just a sequence of snapshots?'

'Why not?' echoed Pascoe. He felt very tired and despondent. Perhaps even Galahad had on occasion felt like saying
sod the Grail
and going off home for a tatie-pot supper and an early night.

'Well, look at the things, will you?' demanded Dalziel. 'God, if you'd got hold of these when you were fifteen you'd not have let them out of your sight for a fortnight!'

Pascoe looked. Looked away. Looked back.

'What?' said Dalziel.

'That fireplace. Here, you just see a corner of it. But I'm sure . . .'

'What?'

'It's at Hay Hall. That's where Homeric do their filming. I'm sure it's the same one. Damn! That's where they'll all be! Probably no one in the Harrogate office. I'll get on to Crabtree and tell him.'

He reached for the phone.

'No,' said Dalziel. 'I've a sudden fancy to see these people for myself. Do they have a phone out there?'

'I don't think so,' said Pascoe. 'No power supply, certainly.'

'Then if Arany wanted to see Toms, he'd have to go in person? Good. Peter, get Sergeant Wield back from Arany's flat. No one's going to turn up there. Send Inspector Trumper in to see me. I've got a few phone calls to make, so give me five minutes, will you? Then..’

He looked speculatively at Pascoe who felt that the fat man was debating whether to tell him something.

'Then?' he prompted.

'Then,' said Dalziel. 'Then it's heigh-ho! for Hay Hall!'

Chapter 24

As they turned into the green tunnel which was the drive of Hay Hall, Dalziel asked, 'How far's the house?'

'Quarter of a mile. Less,' said Pascoe.

'Good. We'll walk. Do us good. Just stop here.
Here
I said!'

'I was trying to pull off the driveway,' explained Pascoe. 'Otherwise it'll be blocked.'

'Never mind that. Sergeant, you stay with the car. Commune with nature and any other bugger who comes this way. Come on, Peter. You youngsters are all the same. You've forgotten what your feet are for!'

Pascoe looked at the fat behind he was following and remembered wistfully one thing a foot was for.

'What's that noise?' asked Dalziel.

Pascoe listened. It was a throbbing, mechanical sound.

'The generator truck,' he guessed. 'They have to provide their own power source.

‘Doesn’t the noise get on the sound track?' asked Dalziel.

'I suppose they park it at the far side of the house, use directional mikes, that sort of thing.'

'Aye. Any road I suppose it'll be like the music at the Ball of Kirriemuir.'

'What?'

'You couldn't hear it for the swishing of the pricks. Sorry, I keep forgetting you're a soccer man. "Ee-ay-adeeo we're going to win the cup". No fucking art.'

The Hall came into sight. Half a dozen cars ranging from an antique Mini to a shiny Jaguar were parked in front of the main entrance. The generator truck was tucked away round the side as Pascoe had surmised.

'Straight in?' said Pascoe.

Dalziel considered.

'You go straight in,' he said. 'I'll have a stroll around. I'm enjoying the air. They know you, they'll likely make you very welcome.'

'I'm sorry, sir,' said Pascoe. 'I'm not quite clear about our strategy.'

'Strategy? We're thief-takers, not generals, lad. If it moves, arrest it; if it stands still, suspect it. What's your main concern in this business?'

'I suppose,' said Pascoe slowly, 'to protect the girl, make sure it can never happen again.'

'Never? You're a knight in shining armour right enough, Peter. Get yourself in there and clank around a bit. I'll be with you soon.'

The fat man moved into the trees.

'And good night, Chingachgook,' murmured Pascoe as he resumed his approach to the house.

The front door was slightly ajar. Cautiously he pushed it. Suddenly the slow movement accelerated as the door was pulled open from within and Pascoe was dragged forward off balance. He had time to think 'second time today!' as a pair of strong hands gripped his lapels and a knee came up between his legs. Instinctively he twisted sideways to avoid the blow but he was too unready. His testicles would have been badly crushed if the knee hadn't decelerated as though the assailant had had second thoughts. Even so, contact was still made and Pascoe cried out in pain as his attacker released his jacket and stepped back.

'Peter!' he said. 'For God's sake. I didn't realize . . . are you all right?'

It was Ray Crabtree.

'Great, great,' gasped Pascoe. 'I think there's one of them not quite flat and we can always adopt.'

'Come and sit down,' said Crabtree, full of concern. 'There must be something to drink in this place. Penny, where do you keep the booze?'

Penelope Latimer had appeared in the hallway. She was wearing a tight-fitting silver lame trouser suit. Nothing could hope to reduce her bulk, but this gear accentuated it to a point where, strangely, it almost disappeared. The material shot out wires of light like the sky at night, and like the sky at night it made the gazer aware of his own insignificance rather than the vastness of what he regarded.

'What's happened?' she asked.

'A bit of an accident,’ said Crabtree.

'I'm OK, really,' said Pascoe manfully, not caring to nurse his crutch in front of a woman. 'It just came as a surprise. Ray, what the hell are you doing here?'

Crabtree's eyes flickered warningly towards Penny.

'Is
there any chance of a drink, love?' he asked. 'Or a cup of strong sweet tea?'

'Sure,' said the woman. 'I'll go fix it.'

She left them, hesitating in the doorway and glancing back before she finally disappeared.

'Can't be too careful,' said Crabtree, 'though I dare say they've guessed something's up now you've arrived. What happened was, after you rang I remembered that all the Homeric lot would be out here, not in town. So out I came. I played it low-key at the Calli and asked if they'd seen Arany.'

'They admitted to knowing who you were talking about?' interrupted Pascoe.

Crabtree laughed.

'I didn't give them a chance to deny it. Anyway, no one's laid eyes on him, they claim. So I had a stroll around inside just to check, then I thought I'd glance over the grounds just in case that lad - whatsisname? - Burkill, should be lurking, though it didn't seem likely. I was crossing the hall when I saw the door begin to open, all slow and furtive, and I thought to myself, Ray lad, you're wrong. Here comes Burkill, looking for Arany or anyone else he can get his hands on. And so . . .'

'So you decided to damage him for life,' said Pascoe.

'No! But you did say he was a tough customer, Peter, and likely to be a bit demented. I just didn't want to take any chances. I've said I'm sorry. You needn't think I'm going to kiss it better!'

'You've been here too long,' said Pascoe. 'Where's that drink?'

Crabtree led him across the hall into the room in which he had first met Toms on his last visit here. The room was empty now, though the atmosphere was heavy with cigarette smoke and the smell of human beings.

'Penny'll be along shortly, I should think,' said Crabtree. 'She's a good provider, that one. Look, Peter, you weren't very clear on the phone. Do you reckon that Homeric have really been up to something nasty? And I mean, nowadays nasty has really got to be nasty, right? I mean, we all like it! It's just a matter of degree.'

'I've told you everything I know,' said Pascoe.

'Which brings it down to the girl. Couldn't this fellow Arany just have some private thing going? Dirty photos to sell round the clubs. I mean, you don't know for sure there was a film, and even if there is, you don't know that Homeric have got anything to do with it.'

'You seem pretty reluctant to tie in Homeric,' said Pascoe. 'For God's sake, pornography's their business!'

'Even the law recognizes degrees, Peter,' said Crabtree seriously. 'Toms I don't know well enough to judge, but I can't see Penny Latimer being mixed up with anything really harmful.'

'What's this? What's this? Unsolicited testimonials?' said the woman coming through the door carrying a tray with some paper cups, a Thermos flask and a half of Scotch on it.

The men didn't answer, so she put the tray down and poured tea from the flask into the paper cups.

'Milk or Scotch?' she said to Pascoe. 'Oh, and we've got no milk.'

'I'd better stick to Scotch then,' said Pascoe. 'Thank you. Cheers.'

'Cheers,' said Penny. 'And now, my boys, why don't you come clean and tell old Penny the truth, or the time, or whatever policemen are best at telling?'

Pascoe considered the question carefully while he enjoyed the double warmth of the tea.

'All right,' he said.

'Oh good,' said the woman. 'Telling the truth. Take one. Action.'

'Not the truth,' corrected Pascoe. 'Just the time. You did give me the alternative. And I'll gladly tell you what time it is. It's time you and Mr Toms and all your associates packed up your bags and crawled out of this county, and out of this country, until you got back under whatever stone you crawled out from in the first place.'

He spoke far more emphatically than he had intended. Interestingly, Crabtree reacted more strongly than the woman.

'Hang about, Peter,' he said. 'You can't talk . . .'

'Hold it, Ray,' said Penny Latimer quietly. 'I'm not a bad judge of character and Peter here doesn't strike me as being one of the Mrs Grundy brigade. In fact, if he can be as rude as that while he's drinking my whisky, he must reckon he's got something to be rude about. You're not still on this snuff-film tack, are you?'

'I haven't put it out of my mind,' said Pascoe. He might as well have said he couldn't, and never would. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the envelope which contained the photos of Sandra Burkill.

Selecting one, he passed it over to the woman.

She glanced at it without curiosity or revulsion.

'It's further than we go,' she said. 'But it's up to the lawyers to draw lines.'

'The girl is twelve years old,' said Pascoe.

Now she made a moue of distaste.

Pascoe continued, 'And that's a line the lawyers
have
drawn even if your spastic conscience can't quite manage it.'

'What the hell do you mean,
my
conscience?' demanded the woman.

'Oh, have a look at the picture, dearie,' said Pascoe. 'I've got a good memory for details. I reckon it'll be easy to prove that that was taken in your shooting room in Hay Hall.'

She looked again and her face blanked over.

'I know nothing about this,' she said.

'Really? Don't tell me; it's the corrupt fuzz fitting you up, right? That's one of our policewomen and the fellow on the left's the Chief Constable.'

'Don't get too indignant, sweetie,' she replied. 'It'll give you crows-feet round the eyes.'

She was right, thought Pascoe. This indignation might be ageing; it was certainly addictive. And it would get him nowhere.

'Let's go see Mr Toms,' he said.

Retrieving the picture from Penny, he strode out of the room and across the vestibule, following the power cables which snaked from the generator truck via some side window across the scarred oak floor.

The cameras were rolling, as were the actors. Toms stood looking down on the tangle of limbs with the worried frown of a Senior English Master considering whether he ought not to expunge the word 'bastard' from the school production of
King Lear.

'Cut,' said Pascoe.

Toms turned round.

'What the hell do you think you're doing?' he demanded.

Pascoe approached and spoke softly in his ear.

'I've come for an audition,' he said. 'I'm going to screw you up.'

The actors had disentangled themselves and were rising to their feet. There was not, Pascoe observed, an erection in sight.

'You can bugger off out of here,' instructed Toms. 'I've got work to do. You've ruined this shot already. That costs money.'

'Gerry, I think you should listen to the Inspector,' said Penelope Latimer.

'You do? Oh all right. We might as well take a break. Five minutes, boys and girls. And try to come back looking a bit less like evacuees from the geriatric ward!'

The cast left, pulling on an assortment of dressing-gowns and bath-robes.

'Now, Inspector, perhaps you'll start explaining.'

'Perhaps you will,' said Pascoe. 'The girl in this picture. When did you last see her?'

Toms glanced at the photo.

'That's easy. I've never seen her in my life,' he said confidently.

'Never? How odd. It looks to me as if this very room is the setting for this picture. Wouldn't you agree?'

Toms examined the photograph once more, pursing his lips as he ostentatiously switched his gaze from the picture to the fireplace.

'It's certainly a
similar
fireplace,' he said. 'But the design is not uncommon and I dare say you can buy something very like that in marbled plastic at any DIY shop. But tell me, Inspector: what does the girl say?'

Pascoe's first reaction was that Toms was mocking him, safe in the knowledge that the girl had been spirited away, God knows where, by Arany. But there was something in the man's intonation, a sense of effort to remain casual, that made him decide to treat the question as genuine.