A pinch of snuff, p.14
A Pinch of Snuff, page 14
‘Somebody else might, that’s all I’m saying. A phone call, a letter. It’s best to be prepared.’
‘People are vile!’ exlaimed Emma Shorter.
‘But not all the time, fortunately,’ said Pascoe.
He fell silent now and sipped his drink. He would have liked to be talking to Shorter alone, but was uncertain how to suggest it. Shorter, however, seemed to have reached the same conclusion.
‘Would you make us a pot of coffee, love?’ he suggested. ‘I don’t want this business to drive me too deep into drink.’
She rose and left instantly. Whatever their usual relationship, this explosion in their lives had temporarily at least turned them into a team.
‘Are you going back to work?’ asked Pascoe.
‘Do you think I should?’
‘If you can manage it.’
‘My solicitor said the same,’ said Shorter. ‘I can’t dispute two expert opinions. I thought I’d go in tomorrow.’
He added, with a bitter laugh, ‘I’ll keep Alison chained to my drill.’
‘Do that. I spoke to her this morning.’
‘She told me. On the phone. She rang specially.’
‘She’s a loyal girl,’ said Pascoe.
Shorter who all this time had been standing restlessly by the fireplace now sat down in the seat vacated by his wife and peered closely into Pascoe’s face.
‘It’s a funny side-effect,’ he said, ‘but since this started, I keep reading significance and double meanings into everything anyone says.’
‘That’s called paranoia,’ said Pascoe, ‘and is not recommended. I said Alison was loyal. That’s what I meant. Simple statement.’
‘My country right or wrong, that’s loyal,’ said Shorter, smiling. ‘Are you suggesting Alison’s loyal like that?’
He looked and sounded perfectly relaxed and Pascoe felt an urge to give him a jolt.
‘I certainly think she fancies you,’ he said. ‘Has it gone further than that?’
Shorter ran his fingers through his thick black hair and looked boyishly embarrassed.
‘A bit of tight hugging at Christmas, birthdays and public holidays, but I haven’t been to bed with her, no. I think she’s ripe for it, but I don’t want to complicate my life. Or hers, for that matter.’
‘Big of you,’ said Pascoe. ‘What did you tell Mr Dalziel?’
‘Aren’t copies of statements pinned on the canteen wall?’ asked Shorter. ‘I told him I’d been treating Sandra Burkill for several weeks; to the best of my knowledge I’d never been alone with her for any period longer than two minutes; at no time did I touch her in any way other than that required by the performance of my profession; at no time did she touch any part of me with her hands, nor did I invite her to do so; at no time did I have intercourse with her. That’s about it.’
‘Succinctly put,’ said Pascoe. ‘Can you think of any reason why this girl might want to get at you, Jack?’
‘Dalziel asked me that too. I suggested that he didn’t have to look far to discover that young girls in a professional relationship with older men – pupils and patients in particular – were very prone to sexual fantasizing. Not too infrequently this overflowed into reality in the form of either a declaration or an accusation.’
He sounded as if he were quoting a Reader’s Digest article.
‘The girl is pregnant,’ said Pascoe. ‘Some overflow!’
‘Dalziel made just the same point. It doesn’t negate my point. Someone’s put her up the stick. She points the finger at me. It fits in with her adolescent sex fantasies and it takes some of the pressure off her.’
‘I don’t quite see what you mean,’ said Pascoe.
‘Well, for God’s sake, what’s your traditional working-class moron’s attitude to the news that his daughter’s got one in the oven? He cuffs her round the ear and chucks her out into the street! But not in this case. She gets the whole class thing going for her. Wealthy, educated professional man takes advantage of naïve innocent girl. So in this case, instead of thumping his daughter, Burkill comes round and starts thumping me!’
Emma Shorter came in with a tray. Pascoe stood up.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s very good of you, but I really can’t stay.’
‘Other crimes, Peter?’ said Shorter.
‘That’s it.’
‘Well, thanks for coming. I won’t forget it.’
‘I’ll see Peter out,’ said his wife, putting the tray down on a stainless steel table.
Pascoe left the room thinking that he too was now suffering from a double-entendre neurosis. ‘I won’t forget it.’ What did that mean?
Emma put her hand on his arm at the front door.
‘We really are grateful,’ she said.
‘That’s all right,’ said Pascoe, disengaging himself from her grip.
‘What do you think now? After talking to John, I mean.’
She looked at him appealingly, lips apart, small even teeth glistening damply, as white and as perfect as a dentist’s wife’s teeth ought to be.
Was there an invitation there? wondered Pascoe. Or had he just been watching too many toothpaste ads?
‘Don’t worry too much,’ he said. ‘Things will take their course. I’m sure it’ll be OK.’
He walked swiftly down the tarmacked drive, the words he had wanted to say so loud in his mind that he wasn’t absolutely sure that he hadn’t in fact said them.
‘After talking to him, I think he’s probably innocent,’ he had wanted to say. ‘But, after talking to him, I like him a bloody sight less than I thought I did.’
On the other hand, he found he liked Emma Shorter a little more. Loyalty is the better part of love. He wondered if her loyalty was the ‘my country right or wrong’ type.
Chapter 14
They caught up with Johnny Hope at the Branderdyke Variety and Social Club. This was a bit larger than most of the local clubs and somewhat different in character. It had a real stage with a proscenium arch and though in origin it was, like the rest, a meeting and drinking place for locals, it had taken a larger step than most towards the status and dimensions of Wakefield or Batley.
Top of the bill that night was a singer who was either on his way up to, or down from, the Top Thirty. But it was in the communal changing room shared by the lesser artistes that they found Johnny Hope.
He was talking to a young sullen-faced girl, so slim and slight that it was difficult to gauge her age. She wasn’t answering, however. Every time Hope asked a question, a suspicious-eyed matron with a mouth like a sabre-cut replied, draping one arm protectively over the girl who was wearing a cream and lavender Bo-Peep costume.
‘How old are you, Estelle?’ Hope asked as if sensing Pascoe’s problem.
‘Seventeen,’ said the matron.
‘When did you first get interested in the trampoline, Estelle?’ asked Hope.
‘She saw Olga Korbut on the telly at the Olympics in 1972 and she thought she’d like to start doing the gymnastics,’ said the matron. ‘One thing led to another.’
‘One more thing,’ said Hope, but he was interrupted by the entry of an elderly man eating a frankfurter with onions.
‘Your girl’s got two minutes, missus,’ he said splodgily.
‘Come on, luv,’ said the matron.
She led her daughter out, glaring ferociously at Pascoe as if he had an indecent thought written in a balloon above his head.
‘Isn’t she,’ enquired Pascoe, ‘a trifle overdressed for trampolining?’
‘Johnny,’ said Wield.
‘Hello, Edgar!’ said Hope.
Edgar, thought Pascoe.
‘This is my Inspector, Peter Pascoe.’
‘Glad to meet you, Peter,’ said Hope, shaking his hand vigorously. ‘Any mate of Edgar’s a mate of mine.’
Now the women had disappeared, Pascoe took a closer look at the man. He was small, ruddy-faced, his bright blue eyes ringed with crows-feet from (perhaps) too much time in too many dimly lit rooms, his cheeks crazed with broken blood vessels from the same cause. He was about fifty, wore a bright green and yellow checked jacket, and gave off what seemed a totally spontaneous affability.
‘We wanted to chat about Maurice Arany,’ said Wield.
‘Maurice, eh? Well, not now, not now. I missed Estelle last night, got mixed up in a barney at the Turtle. Can’t afford that again. Come on, we’ll just get a pint afore she starts.’
They did but only because Hope’s waved hand won them instant attention at the crowded bar at the back of the hall.
On stage was a trampoline. Music started, loud enough and poured from amplifiers enough to drown the chatter and clinking and other noises attendant on the drinking of pints and devouring of scampi and chips.
It was a nice, bouncy tune and when Estelle strolled on and clambered on to the trampoline, Pascoe settled back for a pleasant athletic balletic routine, thinking how easily pleased these Yorkshiremen were. The girl looked quite good, though her full skirt and frilly blouse obviously hampered her.
‘I wonder,’ said Pascoe, then said no more.
The girl was taking them off.
To cries of encouragement which penetrated even the ten-decibel music, she jumped right out of her skirt, shed her blouse sleeves like duck-down, took four somersaults to get out of her lacy stockings, and with a mid-air spin twisted out of what was left of her blouse. Now in pants and bra she did a series of manoeuvres which to Pascoe’s untutored eye looked first class. Higher and higher she leapt and it was hard to spot the moment when she took off her bra.
She was so slender that as a conventional stripper she would probably have been mocked off the stage, but her grace and strength of movement filled the act with erotic promise.
‘You don’t get this in the Olympics,’ bellowed Hope in his ear.
‘No,’ agreed Pascoe. One thing had certainly led to another.
But how was she going to get off? he wondered. Movement was of the essence. Once let her stand still and she would be but a seventeen-year-old looking like twelve.
The answer was simple. The highest bounce yet; she reached up her arms, caught at a bar or rope behind the drop curtain and swung her legs up out of sight. A moment later a pair of pants fluttered gently down to land on the trampoline.
When she appeared to take her bow she wore an old woollen dressing-gown and it was a measure of her act’s success that even the loudest of club wits were applauding too hard to invite her to take it off.
Pascoe felt ashamed when he realized he’d clapped till his hands were sore. Ms Lacewing would elevate him several places on her death list if she could see him now, which, thank God, was not likely.
‘Good evening, Inspector,’ said Ms Lacewing.
It was her. She looked ravishing in a long white gown. Her appearance had been changed by the wearing of a Grecian-style hair piece pulled round over her bare left shoulder, but he would have recognized those sharp little teeth anywhere.
‘Don’t look so amazed,’ she said. ‘I’m on a recce tonight. You’ve got to spy out the land before you attack, haven’t you? Policemen know that, surely?’
Pascoe realized she was rather tipsy. ‘Drunk’ seemed too coarse a word.
‘Are you by yourself?’ he asked.
‘What do you think I am?’ she asked in mock indignation. ‘Uncle Godfrey! Come here!’
Pascoe turned. Sure enough it was Blengdale who approached, leaving behind a bunch of smiling cronies.
‘He doesn’t like me calling him uncle,’ said Ms Lacewing. ‘But Gwen is Mummy’s sister, so you really are my uncle, aren’t you, Uncle? Though,’ she added, stretching up to whisper none too quietly in Pascoe’s ear, ‘it doesn’t stop him wanting to screw me.’
‘Ha ha,’ said Pascoe. ‘Nice to see you again, Mr Blengdale.’
‘You here on business or pleasure, Pascoe?’ said Blengdale.
‘Bit of both,’ said Pascoe vaguely.
Blengdale nodded as though he knew what that meant.
‘Uncle Godfrey, I think our steaks have arrived,’ said Ms Lacewing. ‘Shall I help you back to the table, Uncle?’
For a moment Pascoe felt sympathy for Blengdale. Then the girl turned to him and he decided to reserve all his sympathy for his own defence.
‘You look as if you might be quite a ram, Inspector,’ she said. ‘I must ask your wife when I meet her. She sounds as if she might be sympathetic to my plans.’
‘What are your plans?’ he asked.
‘See you in court,’ she giggled. ‘Perhaps they’ll put me up on the same day as Jack Shorter.’
Pascoe turned away to meet another pint being thrust his way by Wield.
‘Drink up,’ said the sergeant. ‘Then we’re off to the Westgate Social. There’s a singer there that Johnny wants to catch. I said we’d go in his car and make our own way back here later.’
The night was slipping out of his control, thought Pascoe a couple of minutes later as he and Wield clung together in the back of an old Morris Minor which smelt as if it had lately been used for transporting sheep. The passenger seat had been removed entirely and replaced by a crate of brown ale, and Hope’s hand, through instinct or inaccuracy, frequently rattled among the bottles as he groped for the gear lever.
‘Now, about Maurice Arany,’ yelled Wield.
‘Well, I don’t know,’ replied Hope dubiously.
‘It’ll be all right, Johnny,’ said Wield.
Pascoe had a sense of a bargain being struck, or a promise made.
‘What do you want to know?’ asked Hope.
‘Nothing much,’ said Wield. ‘Just anything you wouldn’t expect us to find out any other way.’
This seemed a pretty broad demand, thought Pascoe modestly, and when Hope replied ‘He’s a Hungarian’ he thought at first he was taking the piss. Wield seemed prepared to accept this as a serious contribution, however.
‘Yes?’ he urged.
‘And there was some bother there in 1956,’ Hope went on slowly as though divulging state secrets.
‘So there was,’ said Pascoe.
Hope heaved a sigh which might have been relief at this acceptance of his assertion, or exasperation that he had to say any more.
‘This fellow Haggard, now, that got killed, he was something or other in the British Embassy in Vienna. That’s in Austria.’
Suddenly Pascoe was no longer amused by this parade of the obvious.
‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘You’re not saying that …’
‘I’m saying nothing,’ said Hope heavily. ‘I’m just saying what I’ve heard others say. Arany either knew, or knew of Haggard before he came here.’
‘But he’d just be a boy in 1956,’ said Wield.
‘Quite fond of boys, so they say,’ said Hope. ‘Me, I hate owt like that. Anything a bit perverted, I won’t touch. You’ll never see me mention a drag act in my column, Pete. Edgar’ll back me up there.’
Pascoe was now so interested that he was able to forget the erratic progress of the Morris, exacerbated by Hope’s habit of turning round to face his auditors every time he spoke.
‘So the theory is that Arany had got something on Haggard?’ he said.
‘It’s a strange mix else,’ said Hope. ‘I mean, it stands out a mile if you look at the facts. You don’t have to be a detective!’
‘You do if you want to be sure,’ said Pascoe reprovingly.
What after all did they have? Arany’s family come out of Hungary in 1956 and are transported, very probably via Vienna, to England. Haggard is in Vienna as a British Embassy official in 1956. The following year he leaves the service, possibly under a cloud, and comes home with a bit of money to invest. The inference in the rugby club think-tank was that the cloud was sexual, but rugby club philosophers see everything in physical terms. Suppose there’d been a bit of graft, queue-jumping, buy yourself a trip to sunny Britain? Arany, or his family, is involved. In 1962, Haggard’s northward progress brings him to Yorkshire and their paths cross again. But when?
‘When did they start to associate, Johnny?’ he asked.
‘Six, seven years ago, I don’t know. One or two reckon Haggard was a sleeping partner in Maurice’s agency. You know, put the money up. It’d take a bit of financing and one thing’s for sure, he didn’t make it doing his turn round the clubs.’
Johnny Hope laughed so violently at the thought that the car came near to making a dramatic entry through the side wall of the Westgate Social Club. When it finally came to rest mostly inside the car-park and with hardly more than two wheels over-spilling on to the pavement, a fast-approaching constable sheered off in some confusion as Wield and Pascoe staggered gratefully into the cold night air.
They were inside and drinking another pint before Pascoe had time to think better of it. An acned youth was just finishing a spirited version of ‘Young at Heart’ which a benevolently drunk Sinatra might have accepted as a tribute. Johnny Hope applauded with more enthusiasm than the rest of the fairly sparse audience put together.
‘He’s the wife’s cousin’s lad,’ he explained.
‘Does your wife ever come with you?’ asked Pascoe.
‘No. She can’t stand the clubs. Doesn’t drink either. She’s not religious, mind, just prefers the telly and a cup of tea. But she likes the family to stick together. Hello, Bri! Not a bad turn, young Sammy, is he?’
‘He’ll get paid,’ said Brian Burkill ungraciously. ‘Friends of yours, Johnny?’
He looked without much favour on Pascoe and Wield.
‘Evening, Bri,’ said the sergeant. ‘Don’t crack your face, will you? You know Mr Pascoe.’
‘I know him.’
‘Evening, Mr Burkill,’ said Pascoe. ‘You haven’t got a motor-bike by any chance?’
‘No. Why?’
‘No reason. What time does your show start?’
‘Eight o’clock, after the bingo.’
‘Who runs that?’
‘Whoever’s handy.’
‘And tonight?’
‘I did the calling tonight. What’s up, Inspector? Someone robbed a train?’
‘I’m just interested in how these places run, that’s all.’
‘Ah. Slumming, is it?’ said Burkill.
