Reginald Hill: A pinch of snuff

'So I just ignore Shorter's information?' he said.

'What information? He thinks some French bird got her teeth bust in a picture? I'll ring the Surete if you like. No, the only thing interests me about Mr Shorter is he likes dirty films.'

'Oh come on!' said Pascoe. 'He went along with a friend. Where's the harm? As long as it doesn't break the law, what's wrong with a bit of titillation?'

'Titillation,' repeated Dalziel, enjoying the word. 'There's some jobs shouldn't need it. Doctors, dentists, scout-masters, vicars – when any of that lot start needing titillation, watch out for trouble.'

'And policemen?'

Dalziel bellowed a laugh.

'That's all right. Didn't you know we'd been made immune by Act of Parliament? They've got a council, these dentists? No doubt they'll sort him out if he starts bothering his patients. I'd keep off the gas if I were you.'

'He's a married man,' protested Pascoe, though he knew silence was a marginally better policy.

'So are wife-beaters,' said Dalziel. 'Talking of which, how's yours?'

'Fine, fine,' said Pascoe.

'Good. Still trying to talk you out of the force?'

'Still trying to keep me sane within it,' said Pascoe.

'It's too bloody late for most of us,' said Dalziel. 'I get down on my knees most nights and say, "Thank you, Lord, for another terrible day, and stuff Sir Robert.'"

'Mark?' said Pascoe, puzzled.

'Peel,' said Dalziel.

Pascoe was surprised at the range of feelings his visit to the Calliope Kinema Club put him through.

He felt furtive, angry, embarrassed, outraged, and, he had to confess, titillated. He was so immersed in self-analysis that he almost missed the teeth scene. It was the full frontal of a pot-bellied man wearing only a helmet and gauntlets that triggered his attention. There was a lot of screaming and scrabbling, all rather jolly in a ghastly kind of way, then suddenly there it was; the mailed fist slamming into the screaming mouth, the girl's face momentarily folding like an empty paper bag, then her naked body falling away from the camera with the slackness of a heavyweight who has run into one punch too many. Cut to the villain, towering in every sense, with sword raised for the coup de grace, then the door bursts open and enter the hero, by some strange quirk also naked and clearly a match for tin-head. The girl, very bloody but no longer bowed, rises to greet him, and the rest is retribution.

When the lights were switched on Pascoe, who had arrived in the dark, looked around and was relieved to see not a single large hat. The audience numbered about fifty, almost filling the room, and were of all ages and both sexes, though men predominated. He recognized several faces and was in turn recognized. There would be some speculation whether his visit was official or personal, he guessed, and he did not follow the others out of the viewing room but sat and waited till word should reach Dr Haggard.

It didn't take long.

'Inspector Pascoe! I didn't realize you were a member.'

He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a powerful head. His hair was touched with grey, his eyes deep set in a noble forehead, his rather overfull lips arranged in an ironic smile. Only a pugilist twist of the nose broke the fine Roman symmetry of that face. In short, it seemed to Pascoe to display those qualities of authoritarian, intellectual, sensuous brutality which were once universally acknowledged as the cardinal humours of a good headmaster.

'Dr Haggard? I didn't realize we were acquainted.'

'Nor I. Did you enjoy the show?'

'In parts.'

'Parts are what it's all about,' murmured Haggard.

'Tell me, are you here in any kind of official capacity?'

'Why do you ask?' said Pascoe.

'Simply to help me decide where to offer you a drink. Our members usually foregather in what used to be the staff room to discuss the evening's entertainment.'

'I think I'd rather talk in private,' said Pascoe.

'So it is official.'

'In part,' said Pascoe, conscious that this was indeed only a very small part of the truth. Shorter's story had interested him, Dalziel's lack of interest the previous day had piqued him, Ellie was representing her union at a meeting that night, television was lousy on Thursdays, and Sergeant Wield had been very happy to supply him with a membership card.

'Then let us drink in my quarters.'

They went out of the viewing room, which Pascoe guessed had once been two rooms joined together to make a small school assembly hall, and climbed the stairs. Sounds of conversation and glasses as from a saloon bar followed them upstairs from one of the ground-floor rooms. The Wilkinson Square vigilantes had made great play of drunkards falling noisily out of the Club late at night and then falling noisily into their cars, which were parked in a most inconsiderate manner all round the Square. Wield had found no evidence to support these assertions.

Haggard did not pause on the first-floor landing but proceeded up the now somewhat narrower staircase. Observing Pascoe hesitate, he explained, 'Mainly classrooms here. Used for storage now. I suppose I could domesticate them again but I've got so comfortably settled aloft that it doesn't seem worth it. Do come in. Have a seat while I pour you something. Scotch all right?'

'Great,' said Pascoe. He didn't sit down immediately but strolled around the room, hoping he didn't look too like a policeman but not caring all that much if he did. Haggard was right. He was very comfortable. Was the room rather too self-consciously a gentleman's study? The rows of leather-bound volumes, the huge Victorian desk, the miniatures on the wall, the elegant chesterfield, the display cabinet full of snuff-boxes, these things must have impressed socially aspiring parents.

I wonder, mused Pascoe, pausing before the cabinet, how they impress the paying customer now.

'Are you a collector?' asked Haggard, handing him a glass.

'Just an admirer of other people's collections,' said Pascoe.

'An essential part of the cycle,' said Haggard. 'This might interest you.'

He reached in and picked up a hexagonal enamelled box with the design of a hanging man on the lid.

'One of your illustrious predecessors. Jonathan Wild, Thief-taker, himself taken and hanged in1725. Such commemorative design is quite common-place on snuffboxes.'

'Like ashtrays from Blackpool,’ said Pascoe.

'Droll,' said Haggard, replacing the box and taking out another, an ornate silver affair heavily embossed with a coat of arms.

'Mid-European,' said Haggard. 'And beautifully airtight. This is the one I actually keep snuff in. Do you take it?'

'Not if I can help it.'

'Perhaps you're wise. In the Middle Ages they thought that sneezing could put your soul within reach of the devil. I should hate you to lose your soul for a pinch of snuff, Inspector.'

'You seem willing to take the risk.'

'I take it to clear my head,' smiled Haggard. 'Perhaps I should take some now before you start asking your questions. I presume you have some query concerning the Club?'

'In a way. It's a bit different from teaching, isn't it?' said Pascoe, sitting down.

'Is it? Oh, I don't know. It's all educational, don't you think?'

'Not a word some people would find it easy to apply to what goes on here, Dr Haggard,' said Pascoe.

'Not a word many people find it easy to apply to much of what goes on in schools today, Inspector.'

'Still, for all that…' tempted Pascoe.

Haggard regarded him very magisterially.

'My dear fellow,' he said. 'When we're much better acquainted, and you have proved to have a more than professionally sympathetic ear, and I have been mellowed by food, wine and a good cigar, then perhaps I may invite you to contemplate the strange flutterings of my psyche from one human vanity to another. Should the time arrive, I shall let you know. Meanwhile, let's stick with your presence here tonight. Have my neighbours undergone a new bout of hysteria?'