Reginald Hill - A pinch of snuff

'Anyone here?' called Pascoe.

There was no answer, but Wield went wandering away just to make sure that the place was empty while Pascoe went up to the store room where the fire had been.

The walls were still smoke-blackened but the debris had been cleared away. There was no sign of any film, damaged or not.

Wield came into the room.

'No Arany,' he confirmed. 'Only this.'

He was holding the gift-wrapped package that Arany's secretary had left on Saturday afternoon. At least it looked like the same package, but now there was no greetings card with it.

'There wasn't a bag of groceries as well? Or some spilt gherkins?' asked Pascoe. Wield didn't bother to answer but just somehow managed to make a minute but significant change in the atmosphere.

'Sorry,' said Pascoe. 'Let's go and see Arany.'

The Agency was at the top of a three-storey Edwardian building, apparently untouched by human hand since its erection. On their way up the progressively narrower stairs they passed an italic Insurance Broker, two peeling gilt solicitors, a copperplate-on-card ship's chandler and a very fine Gothic Correspondence College. The Arany Agency was a bold Roman face on a pane of clear glass, through which he could see Arany's secretary typing. Her technique was Liszt-like. It must cost them a fortune in typewriters, thought Pascoe as he pushed open the door.

She looked up, then smiled as she recognized him. Usually it was the other way round, he thought.

'Hello, Doreen,' he said. 'Mr Arany in?'

'He's on the phone at the moment,' she said, glancing towards a door behind her which presumably led into an inner office. 'He shouldn't be long.'

Pascoe put the package on top of the typewriter.

'He didn't forget it?' said the girl. 'I left him a note in the office too!'

'Must have done, I'm afraid,' said Pascoe, adding casually, 'How long have you been buying things for Sandra Burkill?' Beside him Wield stiffened.

'Three, four years now. Since I came here. She's done well out of her Uncle Maurice. He thinks a lot of her.'

Pascoe thought he detected a something in her tone.

'More than you do, eh?' he coaxed.

'She's all right. She's reached the sort of surly age. It's just a phase. I remember what I used to be like!'

'I can't imagine it,' said Pascoe gallantly.

The inner door opened and Arany emerged. He expressed no surprise when he saw his visitors.

'Come in,' he said.

Pascoe followed him into the inner office but Wield lagged behind.

'Just thought I'd drop in, Mr Arany, to see if by any chance you'd remembered anything else. Also you forgot your parcel. I brought it round with me. Sandra must have been disappointed.'

He really was a difficult man to get to, thought Pascoe as he regarded the unsurprised and unsurprisable face.

'I'll give it another time,' said Arany. 'Thank you. And no, I have remembered nothing more. Was there anything else?'

'Just one more thing,' said Pascoe. 'The damaged film. What became of it?'

'It was useless,' said Arany. 'I put it in the dustbin.'

'Ah yes. And the bins are collected in Wilkinson Square on… ?'

'Mondays.'

'Of course. Well, I suppose if I wanted to take another look at Droit de Seigneur I could get hold of another print from the distributor?'

Arany shook his head.

'I was on the phone to them yesterday. Told them what had happened. They weren't pleased. That was their only print of Droit.'

'Really,' said Pascoe. 'Isn't that unusual?'

He got the Arany shrug again.

'Perhaps another distributor? Or the makers. Homeric Films, wasn't it? You don't happen to have their number?'

'No,' said Arany. 'We don't need to contact film companies direct.'

'Not even as an agent? Don't ring us and we won’t ring you? Well, thanks a lot, Mr Arany. See you later, perhaps.'

When he opened the door to the secretary's office, he was met with a great deal of laughter and the remarkable sight of Doreen perched on Sergeant Wield's knee.

'I told her I used to be a ventriloquist, asked for an audition,' said Wield on the way out.

'And?'

'I've no dummy, have I? So she sits on my knee in front of the mirror. I pinch her bum. She yells. My mouth doesn't move.'

'Jesus wept,' said Pascoe. 'It's nearly lunch-time. You can buy me a pint for that.'

'What about you, sir?' asked Wield.

'Well, he didn't sit on my knee, I'll tell you that! He says the film was ruined. It's been chucked away, what remained of it. Also he reckons it was the only print.'

'Ah,' said Wield. 'Can I get it straight, sir? You've half a mind to think that destroying that film might have had something to do with the Calli break-in. I mean, that was the purpose. Because you'd shown an interest.'

'Possibly.'

'A bit drastic though, wasn't it?' said Wield, dubious. 'Why smash the place up like that and start a fire? All they had to do was lose it in the post, or let the projector go wrong and chew it up. And why kill Haggard? Just to make it look for real?'

'Yes, yes, all right,' said Pascoe testily.

In the Black Bull, he let Wield go to the bar while he went into the telephone kiosk outside in the passage between the bar and the small dining-room.

First of all he got Homeric's number from the directory enquiries, but when he rang it there was no reply. After a moment's thought he dialled again and a moment later was speaking to Ray Crabtree.

'Hello, Peter,' said Crabtree. 'Don't tell me. You want a transfer.'

'It might come to that. No, it's a favour. I've been trying to ring that film company, Homeric, but no joy.'

'Probably all out on location. Up on the moors shooting Wuthering Heights in the nuddy. How can I help?'

'They made a film I'm interested in. Droit de Seigneur.'

'Yes. I remember.'

'I'd like to find out how many prints there were, who's got them, and whether they've retained a copy themselves. I'm too busy to make the trip myself and it's probably not all that important anyway. So if you've got a car out their way any time…'

'Glad to help. If the office is shut up I'm pretty certain where I can find Penny at opening time tonight, if that's not too late.'

'No, that'll be fine.'

'Good. Wife all right? Dalziel had his heart attack yet? Well, we've got to take the rough with the smooth. I'll ring you later.'

Smiling, Pascoe left the kiosk and re-entered the bar. As he did so, someone came up behind him and grasped his arm.

He turned round and his heart sank.

It was Emma Shorter.

'Mr Pascoe, I must talk to you,' she said urgently.

Her voice still had that right-to-rule note in it, but other things had changed. She was by no means so cool, nor so contained and perfectly ordered as last time they had met. Her hair had some loose strands drifting out from the neck and her make-up was sparse and uneven. She wore no gloves.

'Hello, Mrs Shorter,' he said. 'Listen, if it's about Jack…'

'Of course it's about Jack,' she snapped. 'I hoped I'd find you here. You're a friend of his, aren't you? Well, tell me what's going on. I've rung and rung the station. I managed to get a few words with that awful fat man who called last night, but he was no help. And when I asked for you, all that I got was you were out. That's no way for a friend to act, Mr Pascoe.'

'I'd no idea you'd phoned, believe me,' said Pascoe. 'On the other hand, I think it might be a perfectly reasonable way for a friend to act in the circumstances.'

'What does that mean?'

'There's nothing I can do, really. And any suggestion that I was trying to do anything could just work against Jack.'

'Why?' she demanded angrily. 'Can't you just tell this slut's family that she'd better pick on someone of her own kind to slander?'

'And stop bothering decent folk? I'm sorry, Mrs Shorter. The allegation must be investigated, I'm sure you see that. Then it'll be decided whether there's enough supporting evidence to merit a charge. Really, that's all I can tell you.'