Reginald Hill: A pinch of snuff

Suddenly Pascoe comprehended.

'Ah!' he said. 'Miss Alice said, "Some of the things I found there. Such filth!" I thought it was just an old woman's generalization!'

'She doesn't sound like the type to generalize,' said Dalziel. 'No, there were pictures. Blengdale had been looking at them that night. Pictures of Sandra. A kind of trailer. Or perhaps when we get close to it, we might even find that Blengdale himself was joining in the fun. Anyway Arany goes upstairs, finds the wrecked study, wonders what the hell's going on. Then he spots the photos. Sandra's like a daughter to him. He thinks of her as a child…'

'Which she is,' said Pascoe.

'Yeah,' said Dalziel. 'Arany goes a bit crazy, looks for Haggard, can't find him but guesses where he is. We can be pretty sure he knew all Haggard's little quirks. So he does a bit of wrecking off his own bat just to make it look good.'

'But he doesn't touch the kitchen because he doesn't want Haggard to get scared before he's right in the flat,' said Pascoe.

'I bet you're great at Friday's crossword puzzles on Saturday,' said Dalziel. 'Haggard comes in, all fresh and glowing, at least his bum is. And bang! the ceiling falls in on him. Arany doesn't mean to kill him – he'd have finished him there and then if he had – but I don't expect he's much bothered when the old pervert dies. But of course he doesn't know just who or what's involved, though he's got a pretty good idea. So he keeps a low profile, tells Toms some story about finding the Calli wrecked and Haggard dying when he got there, blames a gang of tearaways or something. Toms is worried, but ready to believe. After all, the only other people interested in Haggard and the Calli are the police and we're not likely to behave like that. Are we?'

'Not so near Easter,' said Pascoe.

'Right. He doesn't care to see Sandra, can't even bring himself to deliver her birthday present. Then she turns up, all hysterical in the early hours of this morning. It all comes out, about her being pregnant and everything. He dosed her with some pills and went out in search of Burkill, guessing he'd find him at the Club. They swopped information. This morning after his secretary had brought her some clothes, Arany took Sandra off to that woman, Abbott, in Leeds. The one you went to see. Very conventional in some ways, these pornographers. A child needs a woman's care.'

'She was a good choice,' said Pascoe.

'Mebbe. I reckon the idea was also to clear the decks for a bit of the old wild justice. But Burkill who was probably sleeping it off didn't want to wait when he woke up. He set out for a chat with Blengdale.'

'Yes, I'd worked that out,' said Pascoe. 'You reckon Heppelwhite was an accident then?'

'Oh yes,' said Dalziel. 'I mean, when Bri Burkill finally got round to Charlie, he wouldn't have stopped at a couple of fingers, he'd have pulled the whole arm off and hit him with the soggy end.

'Well, Arany finds Bri's jumped the gun, guesses he'll have headed for Hay Hall (God knows how he got out there!) and goes in pursuit. I think we saw most of the rest. Not a bad day's work, if they can lay hands on that Hungarian sod. He'll sing like a drunken Irishman, I reckon. Still with a bit of luck we've got enough in the boot to sort them all out. By God, it should be a good evening's entertainment going through this lot!'

It had seemed a not unamusing irony that Dalziel had picked on the Calli as the place for viewing their booty from Hay Hall. The officers gathered there had been in high spirits as news of the successful completion of other stages in this multi-force operation came through and there had also been something of anticipated pleasure in the air which only Dalziel had the honesty or the insensitivity to express openly.

But when the first film they showed proved to be the original from which the snippet in Droit de Seigneur had been taken, the atmosphere had quickly changed. Pascoe had tried to think of other, pleasant things, of Ellie waiting for him at home, of the bank of spring flowers he passed on his way to work every morning, of his holiday plans for the summer; but the best he could manage was Haggard bleeding to death internally, Emma Shorter swallowing pill after pill, Gwen Blengdale biting the stitching from her gloves as she peered through the breath-hazed window. And even with his eyes firmly closed, the images from the screen had still come through.

But now he was out of it. For someone else it might be a case. Track down the maker, the actors, the distributor. Perhaps Toms was at the centre of things, perhaps he was just peripheral. But for Pascoe it was over. A few loose ends, and then all over.

He checked the time. Still early enough to start some tying-up. Let Dalziel and the brass think what they might. He had no stomach for any more of this evening's entertainment.

Outside in the Square he paused and glanced up at the Andover sisters' house. He thought he glimpsed a pale movement behind an upstairs pane. It might have been a face. Perhaps just a cat. He waved just in case and went on.

First he went to the Infirmary.

Charlie Heppelwhite they told him was doing well. He had lost two fingers but the third had been stitched back on, so Dalziel's quick thinking had not been in vain. A nurse showed him to the ward. She was young and Irish, with a bright little face and a melodic line of chatter like a song-thrush in a hedgerow. Pascoe liked listening to her though he took in hardly a word of what she said.

It was visiting time and the ward was full of fruit and Lucozade and bright repetitive conversation punctuated by smiling desperate silences.

Charlie Heppelwhite had three visitors; Clint, Betsy, and Deirdre Burkill.

The last was patched and plastered and looked rather worse than when Pascoe had last seen her.

'Hello,' said Pascoe generally. 'I was up here so I thought I'd look in.'

'Nice of you,' said Charlie. On the whole he looked the healthiest of the bunch. Clint had a sullen, closed, pale look and Betsy's face had an unnatural feverish flush.

Does she know? wondered Pascoe, looking from Heppelwhite to Deirdre Burkill.

'You OK?' he said inanely.

Heppelwhite held up his bandaged hand.

'I won't be much use at the washing-up for a while,' he said.

'You never were,' said Betsy without force.

'I'm going to do Blengdale for every penny I can get,' continued Charlie. 'Never took notice when we complained about lack of safety precautions. The sod hasn't been anywhere near me since it happened, do you know that? Well, when he does, he'll find out he's got real troubles.'

'He might have called round,' agreed his wife.

Oh, he was busy elsewhere, thought Pascoe. As soon as he realized what Burkill's late arrival at the yard meant, he must have tried to get hold of Toms. Then when he couldn't, he'd made the mistake of going out to Hay Hall himself.

It suddenly struck Pascoe that his approach up the drive must have been spotted from the house, precipitating Blengdale's flight.

And Crabtree's delaying tactics. His crutch ached at the memory. The sod had known bloody well who it was on the other side of the door!

'Mrs Burkill,' he said. 'Sandra's all right. I thought you might like to know.'

'Thanks,' she said indifferently.

'And Brian too.'

This time she didn't thank him.

At the reception desk he made enquiries about Emma Shorter and discovered that she had discharged herself that afternoon.

'It was against doctor's orders,' said the receptionist. 'But we can't keep them in if they don't want to stay.'

She sounded disapproving as though, had she the running of the place, there'd be a stop to this softness.

Pascoe begged the use of a phone and dialled Shorter's number. He deserved to know that the case against him was almost certain to be dropped.