Reginald Hill - A pinch of snuff

'Thanks a lot, Ray.'

'Anything else?'

'I don't think so.'

'Just one thing from this end, Peter,' said Crabtree apologetically. 'You will keep us posted about what you're up to? I mean, in case of any overlap.'

It was a reproof and a justified one, Pascoe had to admit.

'Of course. And I'm sorry, Ray. You know how it is. Any trespass on other people's land will be signalled in advance. OK?'

'Great. Watch how you go. My love to the Great Buggernaut. Cheers!'

Before leaving the box, Pascoe dialled Linda Abbott's number again. It was still engaged.

The road was full of long slow lorries and it was mid-morning before he got back to the station. He was guiltily aware that he was still a long way from being able to justify the time he had spent on the Droit de Seigneur business and it was with a sigh of relief that he gained his office without bumping into Dalziel.

Now he turned his thoughts to Haggard and what had emerged the previous night. Haggard and Arany. Haggard and Blengdale. Why should Haggard go into partnership with the Hungarian?

Why should the rotund councillor want to set Haggard up as the manager of the proposed Holm Coultram Country Club?

It would be interesting to know the story behind Haggard's resignation from the Diplomatic Service, but he guessed that official channels would be locked by all manner of protocol, closing of ranks, pleas of confidentiality, etc.

On the other hand, there was almost certainly someone in the Met who would know someone in Whitehall who could look in a filing cabinet during his lunch-hour…

He picked up the phone and a few moments later was speaking to Detective Chief Inspector Colbridge whom the previous summer at a police college course he had saved from being caught drunk and half naked in the ornamental fish pond of a local lady magistrate.

'Willie,' he said. 'Peter Pascoe. How are you?'

'Relieved,' said the voice on the other end. 'I've been waiting for this call for nine months. What do you want, you blackmailing sod?'

Pascoe told him. Colbridge said airily that he saw no difficulty there, leave it with him, always ready to help the provinces.

'If it's so damned easy,' said Pascoe, 'there's something else.'

'Oh God! Why don't I keep my big mouth shut? Go on.'

'A man called Toms – would you believe Gerry Toms? – claims he was staying at the Candida Hotel last Friday night. Could you check for me without treading on anyone's toes? Great. Fine. I'll buy you a pint of real beer next time you're up this way. Oh, and listen, while you're at it, if there was any way of getting a look at his bill… it's a phone call I'd be interested in. To Harrogate. Could you? Many thanks.'

As he himself had said earlier that day, it was always worth checking the obvious.

It was after one when he made his way to the Black Bull and he expected to find either Dalziel or Wield there already, probably both. But there was no sign of either. On the off-chance they might have opted for something a cut or two above their usual pie and peas, he glanced into the little dining-room where business executives could sit at tables with nearly white cloths and eat their pie, peas, and chips like real gentlefolk.

The first people he saw were Ellie and Ms Lacewing, drinking coffee and brandy.

'Hello!' he said. 'I didn't think they served unescorted ladies in here.'

Ellie rolled her eyes and groaned.

'I'm beginning to believe what Thelma tells me.'

'And what does Thelma tell you?' asked Pascoe, regarding the beautiful dentist distrustfully.

'That peaceful compromise isn't possible. Nothing but all-out revolution will do.'

'And the Black Bull dining-room was the nearest thing to a bastion of male chauvinism you could find!' mocked Pascoe.

'The nearest thing that sells the nearest thing to food,' corrected Ms Lacewing.

'Are you eating in here, Peter?' asked Ellie.

'No. Just looking for Andy Dalziel. I'll sit in the bar as usual and pick at a bag of crisps,' he said plaintively.

'I shouldn't wait too long for your colleague,' said Ms Lacewing. 'Not if he's that gross man with fleas.'

'That sounds like him,' said Pascoe. 'Why?'

'He turned up at the surgery just as I was leaving and arrested Jack Shorter.'

Pascoe sat by himself and ate some salted peanuts. Ms Lacewing's news had taken him aback. She had been unable to give him any details beyond the bare facts that Shorter, having turned up in mid-morning and occupied himself with paper work (his appointments having been cancelled), had been on the point of going out to lunch when Dalziel arrived and took him away. Emma Shorter had appeared soon after, evidently expecting to eat with her husband.

'I was on my way out to meet Ellie then, so I left her in the hands of Alison. They have a lot in common, those two. Well, something.'

'What's that?'

'Usability,' said Ms Lacewing. Upon which Pascoe had left.

He no longer felt hungry. The peanuts were merely something to ease the burning the beer caused in his guts. Perhaps he had joined the club and was getting his first ulcer. He thought of Burkill and Shorter, Arany and Haggard, Toms and Penny Latimer. Everything had the smell of disaster.

‘For a man who's avoided both Dalziel and this place's food, you look strangely down in the mouth.'

Ellie sat beside him. She had brought her brandy glass with her, newly replenished, and her eyes sparkled with the after-fire of a boozy lunch.

'You'll fall asleep during your lectures,' said Pascoe.

'If you can't beat 'em,' said Ellie.

'Where's Mary Wollstonecraft?' asked Pascoe.

'Gone to scour a few more mouths. I told her to let the bastards rot, but she's very conscientious. And pretty, don't you think?'

'Yeah. She'll fill a nice cavity in some lucky man's life,' said Pascoe cynically, adding thoughtfully, 'Or woman's. She's not a high-flier, is she?'

Ellie looked blank.

'I mean, what do you think she was after? Your sharp mind or your shapely body – or just your fat purse?'

'My energies, I think. She wants me to join, well, not join because she doesn't believe in the concept of joining. She wants me to discover that I'm one of her lot, these Women's Rights Action Group people.'

'WRAG,' said Pascoe. 'And are you?'

'I think I may be,' said Ellie solemnly.

'Yes? You try Lysistrating around me, I'll fetch you one round the ear,' said Pascoe in a heavy Yorkshire accent.

'You've been watching those films again. How was your morning, by the way?'

But Pascoe wasn't listening. Over Ellie's shoulder among the ruddy puffy cheeks of the double-gin-and-tonic boys he had spotted a pale set face with dark and desperately questing eyes.

It was Emma Shorter and he had no doubt who she was questing after. Last night he had seen the strain in that face, but there had been action to take, motions to go through. Jack was up and about and full of aggression. But now Dalziel had laid hands on him, taken him in for all the world to see. Now the strain was all on her.

'Oh shit,' he muttered to himself. He felt desperately sorry for the woman, but there was nothing he could do, nothing he could tell her. He just didn't feel equipped at this moment to take any more pressure himself.

'Look, love,' he said. 'Someone I don't want to see. Must dash anyway. See you later.'

He got up and went out via the dining-room, keeping his head bowed low and resisting the temptation to glance back. Outside in the car-park he took a deep breath and for a moment felt the exhilaration of escape. He set off towards his car, then stopped so suddenly that a man behind him cannoned into his back.

What the hell am I doing! wondered Pascoe.

In his mind he saw again the woman's face. She was seeing her life collapse and desperately looking for whatever slender comforts anyone could offer. A face falling apart on celluloid had haunted his thoughts for days now and sent him back and forward across the county looking for something to scour away the image. But a real face, a life falling apart before his eyes, a few feet away, a few seconds away, had put him to flight.