Reginald Hill - A pinch of snuff

Quickly Pascoe gave an outline of his own investigations.

'If I take you right, lad, you're now thinking there's a link between Homeric and this affair at the Calli?'

'There's certainly a link,' said Pascoe. 'The phone calls did take place. It's whether it's a significant or coincidental link that needs to be decided.'

Dalziel looked at him in mock surprise at this bold affirmation.

'All right. Let's take it step by step. Toms rings Latimer to explain why he's not back in Yorkshire as promised. You reckon she mentioned your interest in that film, right? He rings off, then gets on to Blengdale. Why?'

'No idea,' said Pascoe, who knew just how far you dared go when presenting hypotheses to Dalziel.

'Then he rings Haggard. Why?'

'To say get rid of the film.'

'But he can't get through because the phone goes dead. So presumably whoever was doing up the house, picked up the receiver and then cut the wire? That what you think?'

'Possibly.'

'OK. So why does Toms ring Arany?'

'To say he can't get hold of Haggard and it's urgent that they get rid of that film.'

'So what would Arany do?'

Pascoe knew exactly where he was being led to. He had explored the winding track too thoroughly already not to know each curve along the way. But he knew also that there are times to resist and times to go quietly.

'He would slip out of his flat, walk the quarter mile to the Calli and let himself in.'

'Then he and Haggard would burn the film and mess the place up to make it look like vandals?'

Pascoe said nothing.

'Then Arany would beat Haggard up to add to the verisimilitude? Jesus, I mean, how far does anyone go in pursuit of realism! And what about whoever it was that cut off the phone? Where were they? What were they doing while all this was going on? Just how many people were wandering around the Calb that night? Perhaps Ms Lacewing and her gang of demonstrators were there too? And the Wilkinson Square Protection Society?'

Against his judgement, Pascoe was stung to speech.

'Look, sir, all I'm doing is trying to fit a theory round the evidence…'

'Evidence!' bellowed Dalziel. 'Evidence's what I've given you to show that your mate, Shorter, assaulted one of his patients. Not that you believe it. Oh no, that evidence is nowt to you! Then, next breath, you expect me to believe some fairy story which has got less hard evidence than meat in a poorhouse stew. Come on, lad, don't choke on it, spit it out, what do you really think's behind all this? I've been amazed, now astound me.'

'All right,' said Pascoe, roused to defiance which was probably Dalziel's intention anyway. 'This is what I think. I think there's a film, at least one, perhaps more, a snuff-film, a film in which some poor bloody whore who thought she was going to be screwed a couple of times found out too late that the real climax was her being killed. Toms might have made it, or just have got hold of it, I don't know which. Either way, it's not unlike Droit de Seigneur in some of its sequences. Perhaps Toms plagiarized. Perhaps he merely had to tone down his own idea for our nice middle-class audiences. So when an important sequence went wrong in the processing, he kept his reputation for speed and economy by merely editing in a print of the same sequence in the snuff-film. It's essential for continuity and thrills, but it's so brief and the girl's face is so badly beaten that it doesn't seem possible anyone'll notice. He reckons without my dentist on the one hand and my wife on the other.'

He paused for breath and also for thought. Now he had spoken, he could see all the huge flaws in his theory and the even huger areas of sheer vagueness. But he was glad he had spoken.

Dalziel had begun a facial scratch as he talked, taking the right-ear-to-Adam's-apple route.

'Evidence?' he said.

'You've heard it all,' said Pascoe defiantly.

'I have? I'll listen more carefully next time. So. Presumably to make it worthwhile risking either making or even possessing such a thing, you'd need an audience that was not only bloody bent but bloody rich?'

Pascoe agreed.

'Any suggestions who'd fit the bill round here?'

Pascoe hesitated.

'I don't know. The only possibility seems to be… Godfrey Blengdale.'

'Ah,' said Dalziel. 'I thought you were heading in that direction. Well, he's rich certainly. Not bloody rich, mind you. Not a millionaire, but he's worth a bob or two. But bent? Perverted? Twisted?'

'I don't know,' said Pascoe. 'Who can say?'

'What about his missus? You've met her, have you? Do you reckon she's the type to put up with that kind of thing? I'd say not. Any road, what's your next move?'

Pascoe was amazed by the gentleness of the response so far. And emboldened by it. Dalziel he knew would never be kind out of mere sentiment. Something had rung a bell with him, distantly perhaps but clear enough to make him hesitate the blasting, blaspheming, coruscating scorn that was his favourite response to the vague and the absurd.

'I'm not sure. See Toms again. Ask him about the phone calls. Get to Arany and Blengdale at the same time.'

Dalziel considered, then nodded.

'That makes sense if anything in all this lemon curd makes sense. But leave it till tomorrow, eh? No one's going anywhere.'

Pascoe was surprised. Dalziel was not a man to waste a moment, particularly of his underling's time.

His surprise must have shown for Dalziel added, almost apologetically, 'I'm tied up myself today and I'd like to have a go at God Blengdale myself, if you don't mind.'

If I don't mind! thought Pascoe, convinced now there were things going on he knew nothing about. Well, Dalziel was entitled to his secrets, but he'd be stupid not to take advantage of this rare conciliatory mood.

'Of course, sir,' he said. 'There was something I'd like to do this afternoon though, if you wouldn't mind. I'd like permission to have a go at this girl, Sandra Burkill, before you charge Shorter. I've never seen her. I'd like to get a personal impression.'

'Likely that's what Shorter said,' grunted Dalziel. 'All right. If you can get past her dad, that is. Be it on your own head.'

Pascoe glanced at his watch. She'd be home from school shortly and Burkill would be still at work.

'I'll go round now,' he said.

'Aye. Get a move on. I want this bugger charged before I go off for my tea,' said Dalziel. 'I'll give you to five.'

It was hardly a vote of confidence, thought Pascoe. It looked as if nothing on earth was going to stop Dalziel going ahead.

But even Dalziel was not completely master of the universe.

On impulse Pascoe did not drive straight to the Westgate Estate but diverted to the lusher pastures of Acornboar Mount. It was a humanitarian move, he told himself. Emma Shorter might need someone to give her a bit of reassurance, tell her her husband was still only being questioned, not charged. That was what he told himself, but he knew that in fact he was just attempting to assuage his guilt feelings at ducking out of the Black Bull when the woman had appeared there at lunch-time.

This time he did not leave the car at the foot of the road, but sent it bumping up over the pot-holes and cracks. To live up here you really did need to be able to afford something with super-efficient suspension. A Range Rover, perhaps.

Or an ambulance.

There was one up ahead of him. He knew as soon as he saw it which house it was parked outside.

He arrived just as the stretcher men appeared and for the second time that day he saw Emma Shorter's pale, pale face.

'An overdose,’ he told Dalziel on the phone.

'Oh aye. Usual thing, was it? Half a dozen tablets and ring a neighbour?'

'A bit more serious than that, sir,' said Pascoe evenly. 'She's very ill indeed. And it was just chance she was spotted. The window-cleaner.'