Читать книгу A Pinch of Snuff - Reginald Hill - Страница 8

Sergeant Wield’s ugliness was only skin deep, but that was deep enough. Each individual feature was only slightly battered, or bent, or scarred, and might have made a significant contribution to the appeal of any joli-laid hero from Mr Rochester on, but combined in one face they produced an effect so startling that Pascoe who met him almost daily was still amazed when he entered his room.

‘Thanks for the membership card,’ said Pascoe, tossing it on the desk. ‘Maurice Arany, what do you know about him?’

‘Hungarian,’ said Wield. ‘His parents brought him out with them in ’fifty-six. He was thirteen then. They settled in Leeds and Maurice started work in a garage a couple of years later. He has no formal qualifications but a lot of mechanical skill. He got interested in the clubs and for a while he tried pushing an act around, part time. Bit of singing, juggling, telling jokes. Trouble was he couldn’t sing and his jokes never quite made it. Arany spoke near perfect English, but he couldn’t quite grasp the subtleties of our four-letter words. So he jacked it in and got involved in other ways, lighting and sound to start with, but eventually a bit of dealing, a bit of management.’

‘Who’d he manage?’

‘Exotic dancers mainly. No, it wasn’t like that. Most of these girls have mum to mind them, so there’s no room for a ponce. Arany just smoothed the way, made contacts, arranged bookings. Now he’s got his own agency. Small, just an office and a secretary, but he does a lot of business.’

‘And how’d he get involved with Haggard?’

Wield shrugged.

‘God knows. He just appeared, as far as I can make out. There’s no trace of a previous connection, but then we never had any cause to keep a close watch on either of these two.’

‘Kept his nose clean, has he?’

‘Oh yes. Everyone keeps a bit of an eye on the club circuit, that’s how we know as much as we do about him, but he’s never been on the books.’

‘Clever or clean,’ said Pascoe. ‘How’s it going anyway, Sergeant?’

‘Slowly and nowhere. No one’s breaking the law and there isn’t any public nuisance to speak of. I don’t know why we bother! But Mr Dalziel says to keep at it, so keep at it I will! You didn’t get anything, did you, sir?’

He spoke with a kind of reproachful neutrality. Pascoe had offered only the most perfunctory of explanations for his visit to the Calliope Club. He had passed on Shorter’s comments on Droit de Seigneur, of course, but the sergeant obviously suspected that there was some other motive for his interest. Was there? wondered Pascoe. All he could think of was obstinacy, because everyone else seemed to be so dismissive of the dentist’s claim, but he was not by nature an obstinate man. On the other hand here he was with enough work to keep two MPs, or six shop stewards, or a dozen teachers, or twenty pop-groups, or a hundred members of the Jockey Club, or a thousand princesses, going for a year and he was reaching for the phone and ringing Ace-High Distributors Inc. of Stretford, Manchester.

A girl answered. Quickly assessing that the word ‘police’ was more likely to inhibit than expedite information, he put on his best posh voice, said he was trying to contact dear old Gerry Toms, last heard of directing some masterpiece for Homeric Films, and could she help? She could. He noted the address with surprise, said thank you kindly, and replaced the receiver.

‘Mike Yarwood beware,’ said Dalziel from the doorway. ‘There’s laws against personation, you know that? Sergeant Wield tells me you went to the pictures last night. Asked a few questions I dare say?’

Pascoe nodded, feeling like a small boy caught trespassing.

‘Jesus wept,’ sighed Dalziel. ‘What do I have to say to get through to you, Peter? You must be bloody slack at the moment, that’s all I can say. Well, we’ll soon put that right. My office, five minutes.’

He left and Pascoe resumed his feeling of surprise that such a respectable place as Harrogate should house such a prima facie disreputable company as Homeric Films.

At least it was relatively handy.

He dialled again.

Another girl. This time he put on his official voice and asked to speak to the man in charge.

After a pause, another female voice said, ‘Hello. Can I help?’

‘I asked for the man in charge,’ said Pascoe coolly.

‘Did you indeed?’ said the woman in sympathetic motherly tones. ‘Were you perhaps shell-shocked in the First World War? They let us women out of the kitchen now, you know, and we’ve even got laws to prove it.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Pascoe. ‘You mean you’re in charge?’

‘You’d better believe it. Penelope Latimer. Who’re you?’

‘I’m sorry, Miss Latimer. My name’s Pascoe; I’m a Detective-Inspector with Mid-Yorkshire CID.’

‘Congratulations. Forget my shell-shock crack. You’ve just explained yourself. What can I do for you, Detective-Inspector?’

She sounded amused rather than concerned, thought Pascoe. But then why should she be concerned? Perhaps I just want people to be concerned when I give them a quick flash of my constabulary credentials.

‘Your company produced a film called Droit de Seigneur, I believe.’

‘Yes.’ More cautious now?

‘I’m interested in talking with the director, Mr Toms, and I wondered if you could help?’

‘Gerry? How urgent do you want him?’

‘It’s not desperate,’ said Pascoe. ‘Why?’

‘He’s in Spain just now, that’s why. If you want him urgent, I can give you his hotel. We’re expecting him back on Friday, though.’

‘Oh, that’ll do,’ said Pascoe. ‘You say you’re expecting him back. That means he’s still working for Homeric?’

‘He better had be,’ said Penelope Latimer. ‘He owns a third of the company.’

‘Really? And he wrote and directed the film?’

‘You’ve seen it? Yes, he wrote it, not very taxing on the intellect though, you agree? What’s with this film anyway? Some local lilywhite giving trouble?’

Pascoe hesitated only a moment. She sounded cooperative and bright. At the worst he might pick something up from her reaction.

He told her Shorter’s theory.

Her reaction was an outpouring of pleasantly gurgly laughter.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t catch that.’

‘Funny,’ she said. ‘You think we pay actresses to get beaten up? Who can afford that kind of money?’

‘If you beat them up enough, I suppose they come cheap,’ said Pascoe with great acidity, tired of being made to feel foolish.

‘Oh-ho! Snuff-films we’re making now? When can we expect you and the dogs?’

‘I’m not with you,’ said Pascoe. ‘What was that you said! Snuff-films?’

‘I thought the police knew everything. It’s when someone really does get killed in front of the camera. They snuff it – get it?’

‘And these exist?’

‘So they say. I mean, who wants to find out? Look, you’re worried about the leading lady being duffed up, right? So if you could have a little chat with her, you’d be happy? All right. I’ll dig out her address on one condition. You see her, ask about the film, nothing more. No follow up just to make your bother worthwhile.’

‘You’ve lost me again,’ said Pascoe.

‘Do I have to spell it out? This is lower division stuff. I mean it won’t be Julie Andrews you’re going to talk to. This girl might – I don’t say she is, but she might be on the game. Or she might have a bit of weed about the place. Or anything. Now I don’t want to sick the police on her. So I want your word. No harassment.’

‘How do you know you can trust me?’ asked Pascoe.

‘For a start you wouldn’t be pussyfooting around about promising if it didn’t mean anything,’ she answered.

‘A psychologist already,’ mocked Pascoe. ‘All right. I promise. But all bets off if she’s just stuck a knife into her boy-friend or robbed a bank. OK?’

‘Now we’re talking about crimes,’ said Penelope Latimer. ‘Hold on.’

While he waited Pascoe picked up his internal phone and got through to Wield.

‘You ever heard of something called a snuff-film?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Wield.

‘Don’t keep it to yourself, Sergeant,’ said Pascoe in his best Dalziel manner.

‘In the States mainly,’ said Wield. ‘Though there are rumours on the Continent. No one’s ever picked one up as far as I know, so obviously there’s no prosecution recorded yet.’

‘Yes, but what are they?’

‘What they’re said to be is films made of someone dying. Usually some tart from, say, one of the big South American sea ports who no one’s going to miss in a hurry. She thinks it’s a straightforward skin-flick. By the time she finds out wrong, it’s too late. The scareder she gets, the more she tries to run, the better the picture.’

‘Better! Who for?’

‘For the bent bastards who want to see ’em. And for the guys who make the charge.’

‘Jesus!’

‘Hello? You there?’ said the woman’s voice from the other phone.

‘Thanks, Sergeant,’ said Pascoe. ‘Yes, Miss Latimer?’

‘It’s Linda Abbott. Address is 25 Hampole Lane, Borage Hill. That’s a big new estate about twelve miles south of here, just north of Leeds.’

‘Local, eh?’

‘What do you think, we fetch them from Hollywood?’

‘No, but I reckoned you might cast your net as far as South Shields, say, or Scunthorpe.’

Penelope Latimer chuckled.

‘Come up and see us some time, Inspector,’ she said throatily. ‘’Bye.’

‘I might, I might,’ said Pascoe to the dead phone. But he doubted if he would. Harrogate, Leeds, they were off his patch and Dalziel didn’t sound as if he was about to let him go drifting west on a wild goose chase. No, he’d have to get someone local to check that this woman, Linda Abbott, had all her teeth. On the other hand, he’d promised Penelope Latimer that he’d handle it with tact. What he needed was an excuse to find himself in the area.

The phone rang.

‘Have you got paralysis?’ bellowed Dalziel.

Thirty seconds later he was in the fat man’s office.

‘There’s a meeting this afternoon. Inter-divisional liaison. Waste of fucking time so I’ve told ’em I can’t go, but I’ll send a boy to observe.’

‘And you want me to suggest a boy?’ said Pascoe brightly.

‘Funny. It’s four-thirty. Watch the bastards. Some of them are right sneaky.’

‘One thing,’ said Pascoe. ‘Where is it?’

‘Do I have to tell you everything?’ groaned Dalziel. ‘Harrogate.’