Reginald Hill: A pinch of snuff

'Oh,' he said.

They were half-plate photographs of a naked girl and two naked men. They formed a sequence. The girl was Sandra Burkill.

'Film stills, I shouldn't wonder,' said Wield.

'Let's go look for Uncle Maurice,' said Pascoe.

'We'd best take a stretcher,' said Wield. 'In case Bri Burkill's found him first.'

Pascoe left Wield in the flat till he could send someone else to keep an eye on it in case either Arany or Sandra returned.

As he returned to the station, he worked out a scenario in his mind.

Sandra changing from a gawky nine-year-old to a fleshy fully developed woman in the space of three years; Uncle Maurice watching, waiting – no! that implied an element of premeditation too monstrous to be considered even in this melange of monstrosities. But a moment had arrived when something happened; a first step. Arany would have taken it, though perhaps even the girl… adolescent pash; surprise, then delight, at the power of her newly formed body; Arany full of guilt (why is it, wondered Pascoe, that despite what I see in my job, I cannot imagine a world in which a man wouldn't feel guilty at seducing a child?); but guilt that was just the initiate fear. Behind the lecher stood the pornographer. There was a market for schoolgirl films. As for Sandra, did she need to be coaxed? tricked? bribed?

I don't know, thought Pascoe, adding aloud as he entered his office, 'And I don't want to know.'

He'd checked Dalziel's office. The fat man hadn't returned. He sat down wearily.

Dalziel had been right, thought Pascoe. Burkill had indeed discovered something that had taken his mind temporarily off his wife's infidelity. Perhaps he'd beaten Sandra too. Perhaps, tired of all this hysterical indignation from adults whose example and actions had helped her to where she was, Sandra had blurted out the whole business just to shut him up.

Then what? Sandra grabbing a coat to pull on over her nightie dashes off into the night. Where does she go? Where else but to Arany?

And Burkill's destination is equally obvious. He makes for the one place he is sure of himself, the place where he is king. The Westgate Social Club.

There he thinks and drinks. Drinks till he stops thinking. Sleeps. Wakes. Goes in search of Arany who has by now got clothes for Sandra and taken off.

So, his prime target having evaded him, he now makes for his secondary – poor old Charlie Heppelwhite.

And having settled him, where now?

Arany again, thought Pascoe. It wouldn't be a bad idea to let Burkill catch up with him either. In fact, unless he came up with some clever notion of Arany's possible movement, it could well be that Burkill got there first.

'Fool!' said Pascoe, reaching for his telephone. There was an obvious place for Arany to make for. He wasn't in this alone and self-interest would suggest warning his confederates. It was probably too late already, but no harm in checking.

'Detective-Inspector Crabtree,' he said. 'Ray? Hello, Peter Pascoe again. Look, there've been developments.'

Briefly he sketched out what had happened.

'Now there's a possibility that Arany will turn up at Homeric. Eventually, if I'm right and they did film the girl, we're going to really turn them upside down and shake them till their change jingles, but meanwhile can you do a check, see if there's any sign of him about the place? Be discreet, but if he's got there before you, or if there's any sign of people packing up, take a grip and let no one move till we rustle up a warrant.'

'Got you,' said Crabtree. 'I'll get right on it.'

'Hold on,' said Pascoe. 'You'll need Arany's description. And you'd better have Burkill's too in case he's somehow got himself over there.'

Quickly he described the two men.

'Fine,' said Crabtree. 'Hey, is the Thin Man in on this?'

'Who?'

'Grosseteste. The talking balloon. Dalziel.'

'He will be when he gets in. Don't worry, young fellow. Daddy won't be angry with you.'

'Ha ha,' said Crabtree. 'I'll get back to you. 'Bye.'

It was only five minutes till Dalziel appeared. Pascoe told him about the discoveries in Arany's flat and laid out his scenario for inspection, humbly acknowledging his superior's acumen in guessing that Burkill must have had a very strong reason for not dealing with Heppelwhite immediately. To his surprise, this humility did not produce the anticipated revolting smugness.

'That's how it looks to you,' Dalziel said slowly. It was difficult to work out if this were a question or not.

'That's how it looks,' said Pascoe.

'It's your case,' said Dalziel. 'You've got a call out on Arany?'

'Oh yes. And I've been on to Harrogate to get them to check Homeric in case he makes for there.'

'Have you now? Your mate, Crabtree, I suppose.'

'That's right,' said Pascoe.

Dalziel scratched the folds of his chin. It was like the finger of God running along the Grand Canyon.

The pictures were spread out on the desk before them.

'It's certainly our Sandra,' said Dalziel. 'Do the men look familiar?'

Pascoe shook his head without even looking at the photographs.

'Can't see much of their faces anyway,' said Dalziel. 'Film stills, you say? Why not just a sequence of snapshots?'

'Why not?' echoed Pascoe. He felt very tired and despondent. Perhaps even Galahad had on occasion felt like saying sod the Grail and going off home for a tatie-pot supper and an early night.

'Well, look at the things, will you?' demanded Dalziel. 'God, if you'd got hold of these when you were fifteen you'd not have let them out of your sight for a fortnight!'

Pascoe looked. Looked away. Looked back.

'What?' said Dalziel.

'That fireplace. Here, you just see a corner of it. But I'm sure. ..'

'What?'

'It's at Hay Hall. That's where Homeric do their filming. I'm sure it's the same one. Damn! That's where they'll all be! Probably no one in the Harrogate office. I'll get on to Crabtree and tell him.'

He reached for the phone.

'No,' said Dalziel. 'I've a sudden fancy to see these people for myself. Do they have a phone out there?'

'I don't think so,' said Pascoe. 'No power supply, certainly.'

'Then if Arany wanted to see Toms, he'd have to go in person? Good. Peter, get Sergeant Wield back from Arany's flat. No one's going to turn up there. Send Inspector Trumper in to see me. I've got a few phone calls to make, so give me five minutes, will you? Then..’

He looked speculatively at Pascoe who felt that the fat man was debating whether to tell him something.

'Then?' he prompted.

'Then,' said Dalziel. 'Then it's heigh-ho! for Hay Hall!'

As they turned into the green tunnel which was the drive of Hay Hall, Dalziel asked, 'How far's the house?'

'Quarter of a mile. Less,' said Pascoe.

'Good. We'll walk. Do us good. Just stop here. Here I said!'

'I was trying to pull off the driveway,' explained Pascoe. 'Otherwise it'll be blocked.'

'Never mind that. Sergeant, you stay with the car. Commune with nature and any other bugger who comes this way. Come on, Peter. You youngsters are all the same. You've forgotten what your feet are for!'

Pascoe looked at the fat behind he was following and remembered wistfully one thing a foot was for.

'What's that noise?' asked Dalziel.

Pascoe listened. It was a throbbing, mechanical sound.

'The generator truck,' he guessed. 'They have to provide their own power source.

‘Doesn’t the noise get on the sound track?' asked Dalziel.

'I suppose they park it at the far side of the house, use directional mikes, that sort of thing.'

'Aye. Any road I suppose it'll be like the music at the Ball of Kirriemuir.'

'What?'

'You couldn't hear it for the swishing of the pricks. Sorry, I keep forgetting you're a soccer man. "Ee-ay-adeeo we're going to win the cup". No fucking art.'