Читать книгу A Pinch of Snuff - Reginald Hill - Страница 9

Pascoe had no direct experience of the polygamous East, but he supposed that, with arranged marriages thrown in, it was possible for a man to know a woman only in her wedding dress and total nudity. But would he recognize her if he met her in the street? Pascoe doubted it. He regarded the gaggle of women hanging around outside the school gates and mentally coated each in turn with blood. It didn’t help.

He’d come to see Linda Abbott hoping that the law-breaking forecast by Penny Latimer would not be too blatant. Now he wished that he’d found the woman leaning against a lamp post smoking a reefer and making obscene suggestions to passersby. Instead he’d found himself at the front door of a neat little semi, talking to an angry Mr Abbott who had been roused from the sleep of the just and the night-shift worker by Pascoe’s policeman’s thumb on the bell push.

Having mentally prepared himself to turn a blind eye to Mrs Abbott’s misdemeanours, Pascoe now became the guardian of her reputation and pretended to be in washing-machines. Mrs Abbott, he learned, had a washing-machine, didn’t want another, wasn’t about to get another, and cared perhaps even less than Mr Abbott to deal with poofy commercials at the door. But he also learned that Mrs Abbott had gone down to the school to collect her daughter and, having noticed what he took to be the school two streets away, Pascoe had made his way there to intercept.

He spotted Linda Abbott as the mums began to break off, clutching their spoil. A bold face, heavily made up; a wide loud mouth remonstrating with her small girl for some damage she’d done to her person or clothes. The camera didn’t lie after all.

‘Mrs Abbott?’ said Pascoe. ‘Could I have a word with you?’

‘As many as you like, love,’ said the woman, looking him up and down. ‘Only, my name’s Mackenzie. Yon’s Mrs Abbott, her with the little blonde lass.’

Mrs Abbott was dumpy, untidy and plain. Her daughter on the other hand was a beauty. Another ten years if she maintained her present progress and … I’ll probably be too old to care, thought Pascoe.

‘Mrs Abbott,’ he tried again. ‘Could I have a word?’

‘Yes?’

‘Mam, is this one of them funny buggers?’ asked the angelic six-year-old.

‘Shut up, our Lorraine,’ said Mrs Abbott.

‘Funny …?’ said Pascoe.

‘I tell her not to talk with strangers,’ explained Mrs Abbott.

‘’Cos there’s a lot of funny buggers about,’ completed Lorraine happily.

‘Well, I’m not one of them,’ said Pascoe. ‘I hope.’

He showed his warrant card, taking care to keep it masked from the few remaining mums.

‘You might well hope,’ said Mrs Abbott. ‘What’s up?’

‘May I walk along with you?’ he asked.

‘It’s a free street. Lorraine, don’t you run on the road now!’

‘It’s about a film you made,’ said Pascoe. ‘Droit de Seigneur.’

‘Oh aye. Which was that one?’

‘Can’t you remember?’

‘They don’t often have titles when we’re making them, not real titles, any road.’

Briefly Pascoe outlined the plot.

‘Oh, that one,’ said Mrs Abbott. ‘What’s up?’

‘It’s been suggested,’ said Pascoe, ‘that undue violence may have been used in some scenes.’

‘What?’

‘Especially in the scene where the squire beats you up, just before the US cavalry arrive.’

‘You sure you’re not mixing it up with the Big Big Horn?’ said Mrs Abbott.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Pascoe. ‘I was speaking figuratively. Before your boy-friend rescues you. You remember that sequence? Were you in fact struck?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Mrs Abbott. ‘It’s six months ago, of course. How do you mean, struck?’

‘Hit on the face. So hard that you’d bleed. Lose a few teeth even,’ said Pascoe, feeling as daft as she obviously thought he was.

‘You are one of them funny buggers,’ she said, laughing. ‘Do I look as if I’d let meself get beaten up for a picture? Here, can you see any scars? And take a look at them. Them’s all me own, I’ve taken good care on ’em.’

Pascoe looked at her un-made-up and unblemished face, then examined her teeth which, a couple of fillings apart, were in a very healthy state.

‘Yes, I see,’ he said. ‘Well, I’m sorry to have bothered you, Mrs Abbott. You saw nothing at all during the making of the film that surprised you?’

‘You stop being surprised after a bit,’ she said. ‘But there was nowt unusual, if that’s what you mean. It’s all done with props and paint, love, didn’t you know?’

‘Even the sex?’ answered Pascoe sharply, stung by her irony.

‘Is that what it’s all about then?’ she said. ‘I might have known.’

‘No, really, it isn’t,’ assured Pascoe, adding, in an attempt to re-ingratiate himself, ‘I’ve been at your house by the way. I said I was a washing-machine salesman.’

‘Why?’

‘I didn’t want to stir anything up,’ he said, feeling noble.

‘For crying out loud!’ said Mrs Abbott. ‘You don’t reckon I could do me job without Bert knowing?’

‘No, I suppose not,’ said Pascoe, discomfited.

‘Bloody right not,’ said Mrs Abbott. ‘And I’ll tell you something else for nothing. It’s a job. I get paid for it. And whatever I do, I do with lights on me, and a camera, and a lot of technicians about who don’t give a bugger, and you can see everything I do up there on the screen. I’m not like half these so-called real actresses who play the Virgin Mary all day, then screw themselves into another big part all night. Lorraine! I told you to keep off of that road!’

‘Well, thank you, Mrs Abbott,’ said Pascoe, glancing at his watch. ‘You’ve been most helpful. I’m sorry to have troubled you.’

‘No trouble, love,’ said Mrs Abbott.

He dug into his pocket and produced a ten-pence piece which he gave to Lorraine ‘for sweeties’. She waited for her mother’s nod before accepting and Pascoe drove off feeling relieved that after all he had not been categorized as a ‘funny bugger’, and feeling also that at the moment Jack Shorter would top his own personal list.

He needn’t have worried about his meeting. It started late because of the non-arrival of one of the senior members and was almost immediately suspended because of the enforced departure of another. Reluctantly Pascoe found a phone and rang Ellie to say that his estimate of a seven o’clock homecoming had been optimistic.

‘Surprise,’ she said. ‘Will you eat there?’

‘I suppose so,’ he said.

‘I was hoping you’d take me out. You get better service with a policeman.’

‘Sorry,’ said Pascoe. ‘Better try an old boy-friend. See you!’

He replaced the receiver and went back to the conference room where Inspector Ray Crabtree of the local force told him they were scheduled to restart at seven.

‘Fancy a jar?’ asked Crabtree. He was a man of forty plus who had gone as far as he was likely to go in the force and had a nice line in comic bitterness which usually entertained Pascoe.

‘And a sandwich,’ said Pascoe.

‘Where do you fancy? Somewhere squalid or somewhere nice?’

‘Is the beer better somewhere squalid?’

‘No.’

‘Or the food cheaper?’

‘Not so’s you’d notice.’

‘Then somewhere nice.’

‘That’s a sharp mind you’ve got there, Pascoe,’ said Crabtree admiringly. ‘You’ll get on.’

‘Somewhere nice’ was the lounge bar of a large, plush and draughty hotel.

Crabtree ordered four halves of bitter.

‘And two rounds of ham, Cyril,’ he added. ‘Tell ’em it’s me and I like it cut with a blunt knife.’

‘They only serve halves in here,’ he said as they sat down. ‘Bloody daft. You’ve got to get them in twos. Wouldn’t do for Sitting Bull.’

‘Who?’

‘Dalziel. Your big chief. You know, I could have had his job.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ said Pascoe.

‘Oh yes. We were up before the same promotion board once. I thought I’d clinched it. They asked, are you as thick as Prince Philip? “Oh yes,” says I. “Twice as thick.”’

‘And what did Dalziel say?’

‘He said, “Who’s she”?’

The sandwiches arrived, filled with thick slices of succulent ham, and Pascoe understood the advantages of a blunt knife.

‘Do you know a company called Homeric Films?’ he asked for the sake of something to say.

Crabtree paused in his chewing.

‘Yes,’ he said after a moment and took another bite.

‘End of conversation, is it?’ said Pascoe.

‘You could ask if I’d seen any good films lately,’ said Crabtree.

‘All right. Have you?’

‘Yes, but none of ’em were made by Homeric. They’re a skin-flick bunch, but if you know enough to ask about them, you probably know as much as me.’

‘Why the pause for thought, then?’

‘I said you’d a sharp mind. Mebbe I was just chewing on a bit of gristle.’

‘It seems to me,’ said Pascoe, ‘that they have more sense here than to serve you gristle.’

‘True. No, truth is you just jumped in front of my train of thought. What’s your interest?’

‘No interest. They just cropped up apropos of something. What was your train of thought?’

Crabtree finished his first half and started on his second.

‘See in the corner to the left of the door?’ he said into his glass.

‘Yes,’ said Pascoe glancing across the room. Three people sat round a table in animated conversation. Two were men. They looked like brothers in their fifties, balding, fleshy. The third was a woman, gross beyond the wildest dreams of gluttony. Surely, thought Pascoe, no deficiency of diet could have produced those avalanches of flesh. She wore a kaftan made from enough shot silk to have pavilioned a whole family of Tartars in splendour, and girded quite a few of them into the bargain. Dalziel would love her. It is not enough (Pascoe paraphrased) to lose weight; a man must also have a friend who is grotesquely fat.

‘Homeric Films,’ said Crabtree. ‘They put me in mind.’

‘How?’ asked Pascoe but before Crabtree could answer, the huge woman rose and rolled across the room towards them.

‘Raymond, my sweet,’ she said genially. ‘How pleasant and how opportune. I hope I’m not interrupting anything?’

Pascoe stared in amazement. It was not just that on closer view he realized how much he’d underestimated the woman’s proportions. It was the voice. Seductive, amused, hinting at understanding, promising pleasure. He recognized it. He’d heard it on the phone that morning.

‘Inspector Pascoe,’ said Crabtree, rising. ‘I’d like you to meet Miss Latimer. Miss Latimer is managing director of Homeric Films.’

‘Why so formal, Ray? I’m Penelope to all Europe and just plain Penny to my friends. But soft awhile. Pascoe?’

‘We spoke this morning.’

‘So! When a girl says come up and see me, you let no grass grow!’

‘It’s an accident,’ said Pascoe unchivalrously. ‘But I’m glad to meet you.’

‘Join us, Penny?’ said Crabtree.

‘Just for a moment.’

She redistributed herself around a chair and smiled sweetly at Pascoe. She had a very sweet smile. Indeed, trapped in that flesh like a snowdrop in aspic, a small, pretty, girlish face seemed to be staring out.

‘Will you have a jar?’ asked Crabtree.

‘Gin with,’ said the woman.

‘It’s my shout,’ said Pascoe.

‘It’s my patch,’ said Crabtree, rising.

‘How’s the case, Inspector?’ asked Penny Latimer.

‘No case,’ said Pascoe. ‘People tell us things, we’ve got to look into them.’

‘And you’ve looked into Linda Abbott?’

‘Do you know her? Personally, I mean,’ countered Pascoe.

‘Only as an actress. Socially I know nothing, which was why we struck our little bargain, just in case. How were her teeth?’

‘Complete.’

‘Don’t sound so disappointed, dear. What now? Would you still like to see Gerry?’

‘I don’t know. Not unless I really have to. But you never know.’

‘You could spend an interesting day on the set,’ she said. ‘Really. I mean it. Do you good.’

‘How?’

‘For a start, it’d bore you to tears. You might find it distasteful but you wouldn’t find it illegal. And at the end of the day you might even agree that though it’s not your way of earning a living, there’s no reason why it shouldn’t be somebody else’s.’

Pascoe downed his second half in one and said, ‘You’re very defensive.’

‘And I know it. You’re bloody aggressive, and I don’t think you do.’

‘I don’t mean to be,’ said Pascoe.

‘No. It’s your job. Like one of your cars stopping some kid on a flash motor-bike. His licence is in order, but he’s young, and he’s wearing fancy gear, and he doesn’t look humble, so he gets the full treatment. Finally, reluctantly, he gets sent on his way with a warning against breathing, and the Panda-car tracks him for the next ten miles.’

‘I grasp your analogy,’ said Pascoe.

‘Chance’d be a fine thing,’ she answered. Their gazes locked and after a moment they started to laugh.

‘Watch her,’ said Crabtree plonking down a tray with a large gin, with whatever it was with, and another four halves. ‘She’ll have you starring in a remake of the Keystone Cops – naked.’

‘I doubt it,’ said the woman. ‘The Inspector don’t approve of us beautiful people. Not like you, Ray. Ray recognizes that police and film people have a lot in common. They exist because of human nature, not in spite of it. But Ray has slain the beast, ambition, and now takes comfort in the arms of the beauty, philosophy. You should try it, Inspector.’

‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ was the smartest reply Pascoe could manage.

‘You do. And don’t forget my invitation. Homeric’s the company, Penelope’s the name. I’ll be weaving and watching for you, sailor. ’Bye, Ray. Thanks for the drink.’

She rose and returned to her companions.

‘Interesting woman,’ said Crabtree, regarding Pascoe with amusement.

‘Yes. Is she like that through choice or chance?’

‘Glandular, they tell me. Used to be a beauty. Now she has to live off eggs and spinach and no good it does her.’

‘Tough,’ said Pascoe. ‘Tell me, Ray, what’s a joint like Homeric doing in a nice town like this?’

Crabtree shrugged.

‘They have an office. They pay their rates. They give no offence. The only way that most people are going to know what their precise business is would be to see their films, or take part in one of them. Either way, you’re not going to complain. Things have changed since I was a callow constable, but one thing I’ve learned in my low-trajectory meteoric career: if it’s all right with top brass, it’s all right with me.’

‘But why come here at all? What’s wrong with the Big Smoke?’

‘Dear, dear,’ said Crabtree. ‘I bet you still think Soho’s full of opium dens and sinister Orientals. Up here it’s cheaper, healthier and the beer’s better. Do you never read the ads?’

‘Everyone’s talking smart today and putting me down,’ said Pascoe. ‘Time for another?’

‘Hang on,’ said Crabtree. ‘I’ll phone in.’

He returned with another four halves.

‘Plenty of time,’ he said. ‘It’s been put back again.’

‘When to?’

‘Next week.’

‘Oh shit,’ said Pascoe.

He regarded the half-pints dubiously, then went and rang Ellie again. There was no reply. Perhaps after all she had rung an old boy-friend.

‘Left you, has she?’ said Crabtree. ‘Wise girl. Now, what do you fancy – drown your sorrows or a bit of spare?’

He arrived home at midnight to find a strange car in his drive and a strange man drinking his whisky. Closer examination revealed it was not a strange man but one of Ellie’s colleagues, Arthur Halfdane, a historian and once a sort of rival for Ellie’s favours.

‘I didn’t recognize you,’ said Pascoe. ‘You look younger.’

‘Well thanks,’ said Halfdane in a mid-Atlantic drawl.

‘On second thoughts,’ said Pascoe belligerently, ‘you don’t look younger. It’s your clothes that look younger.’

Halfdane glanced down at his denim suit, looked ironically at Pascoe’s crumpled worsted, and smiled at Ellie.

‘Time to go, I think,’ he said, rising.

Perhaps I should punch him on the nose, thought Pascoe. Man alone with my wife at midnight … I’m entitled.

When Ellie returned from the front door Pascoe essayed a smile.

‘You’re drunk,’ she said.

‘I’ve had a couple.’

‘I thought you were at a meeting.’

‘It was cancelled,’ he said. ‘I rang you. You were out. So I made a night of it.’

‘Me too,’ she said.

‘Difference was, my companion was a man,’ said Pascoe heavily.

‘No difference,’ said Ellie. ‘So was mine.’

‘Oh,’ said Pascoe, a little nonplussed. ‘Have a good evening, did you?’

‘Yes. Very sexy.’

‘What?’

‘Sexy. We went to see your dirty film. Our interest was socio-historical, of course.’

‘He took you to the Calli?’ said Pascoe indignantly. ‘Well, bugger me!’

‘It was all right,’ said Ellie sweetly. ‘Full of respectable people. You know who I saw there? Mr Godfrey Blengdale, no less. So it must be all right.’

‘He shouldn’t have taken you,’ said Pascoe, feeling absurd and incoherent and nevertheless right.

‘Get it straight, Peter,’ said Ellie coldly. ‘Dalziel may have got you trained like a retriever, but I still make my own decisions.’

‘Oh yes,’ sneered Pascoe. ‘It’s working in that elephants’ graveyard that does it. All that rational discourse where the failed intellectuals go to die. The sooner they close that stately pleasure-dome down and dump you back in reality, the better!’

‘You’ve got the infection,’ she said sadly. ‘Work in a leper colony and in the end you start falling to bits.’

‘Schweitzer worked with lepers,’ countered Pascoe.

‘Yes. And he was a fascist too.’

He looked at her hopelessly. There were other planets somewhere with life-forms he had more chance of understanding and making understand.

‘It’s your failures I put in gaol,’ he said.

‘So, blame education, is that it? All right, but how can it work with kids when intelligent adults can still be so thick!’ she demanded.

‘I didn’t mean that,’ he said. He suddenly saw in his mind’s eye the girl in the film. The face fell apart under the massive blow. It might all be special effects but the reality beneath the image was valid none the less. If only it could be explained …

‘There is still, well, evil,’ he essayed.

‘Oh God. Religion, is it, now? The last refuge of egocentricity. I’m off to bed. I’m driving down to Lincolnshire tomorrow, so I should prefer to pass the night undisturbed.’

She stalked from the room.

‘So should I,’ shouted Pascoe after her.

Their wishes went unanswered.

At five o’clock in the morning he was roused from the unmade-up spare bed by Ellie pulling his hair and demanding that he answer the bloody telephone.

It was the station.

There had been a break-in at Wilkinson House, premises of the Calliope Kinema Club. The proprietor had been attacked and injured. Mr Dalziel wondered if Mr Pascoe, in view of his special interest in the place, would care to watch over the investigation.

‘Tell him,’ said Pascoe. ‘Tell him to …’

‘Yes?’ prompted the voice.

‘Tell him I’m on my way.’