A Pinch of Snuff
‘Great,’ said Pascoe. He didn’t sit down immediately but strolled around the room, hoping he didn’t look too like a policeman but not caring all that much if he did. Haggard was right. He was very comfortable. Was the room rather too self-consciously a gentleman’s study? The rows of leather-bound volumes, the huge Victorian desk, the miniatures on the wall, the elegant chesterfield, the display cabinet full of snuff-boxes, these things must have impressed socially aspiring parents.
I wonder, mused Pascoe, pausing before the cabinet, how they impress the paying customer now.
‘Are you a collector?’ asked Haggard, handing him a glass.
‘Just an admirer of other people’s collections,’ said Pascoe.
‘An essential part of the cycle,’ said Haggard. ‘This might interest you.’
He reached in and picked up a hexagonal enamelled box with the design of a hanging man on the lid.
‘One of your illustrious predecessors. Jonathan Wild, Thief-taker, himself taken and hanged in 1725. Such commemorative design is quite commonplace on snuffboxes.’
‘Like ashtrays from Blackpool,’ said Pascoe.
‘Droll,’ said Haggard, replacing the box and taking out another, an ornate silver affair heavily embossed with a coat of arms.
‘Mid-European,’ said Haggard. ‘And beautifully airtight. This is the one I actually keep snuff in. Do you take it?’
‘Not if I can help it.’
‘Perhaps you’re wise. In the Middle Ages they thought that sneezing could put your soul within reach of the devil. I should hate you to lose your soul for a pinch of snuff, Inspector.’
‘You seem willing to take the risk.’
‘I take it to clear my head,’ smiled Haggard. ‘Perhaps I should take some now before you start asking your questions. I presume you have some query concerning the Club?’
‘In a way. It’s a bit different from teaching, isn’t it?’ said Pascoe, sitting down.
‘Is it? Oh, I don’t know. It’s all educational, don’t you think?’
‘Not a word some people would find it easy to apply to what goes on here, Dr Haggard,’ said Pascoe.
‘Not a word many people find it easy to apply to much of what goes on in schools today, Inspector.’
‘Still, for all that …’ tempted Pascoe.
Haggard regarded him very magisterially.
‘My dear fellow,’ he said. ‘When we’re much better acquainted, and you have proved to have a more than professionally sympathetic ear, and I have been mellowed by food, wine and a good cigar, then perhaps I may invite you to contemplate the strange flutterings of my psyche from one human vanity to another. Should the time arrive, I shall let you know. Meanwhile, let’s stick with your presence here tonight. Have my neighbours undergone a new bout of hysteria?’
‘Not that I know of,’ said Pascoe. ‘No, it’s about one of your films. One I saw tonight. Droit de Seigneur.’
‘Ah yes. The costume drama.’
‘Costume!’ said Pascoe.
‘Did the nudity bother you?’ said Haggard anxiously.
‘I don’t think so. Anyway it was the assault scene I wanted to talk about, where the girl gets beaten up.’
‘You found it too violent? I’m astounded.’
‘The scene was brought to my attention …’
‘By whom?’ interrupted Haggard. ‘Has he not seen A Clockwork Orange? The Exorcist? Match of the Day?’
‘I would like you to be serious, Dr Haggard,’ said Pascoe reprovingly. ‘What do you know about the making of these films?’
‘In general terms, very little. You probably know more yourself. I’m sure the diligent Sergeant Wield does. I am merely a showman.’
‘Of course. Look, Dr Haggard, I wonder if it would be possible to see part of that film again. It’ll help me explain what I’m doing here.’
Haggard finished his drink, then nodded.
‘Why not? I’m intrigued. You could always gatecrash again, of course, but I suppose that might compromise your reputation. Besides, we only have that film until the weekend, so let’s see what we can do.’
Downstairs again, Haggard left Pascoe in the viewing room and disappeared for a few moments, returning with a small triangular-faced man with large hairy-knuckled hands, one of which was wrapped round a pint tankard.
‘Maurice, this is Inspector Pascoe. Maurice Arany, my partner and also, thank God, my projectionist. I am mechanically illiterate.’
They shook hands. It would have been easy, thought Pascoe, to develop it into a test of strength, but such games were not yet necessary.
As well as he could he described the sequence he wished to see, and Arany went out. Haggard switched off the lights and they sat together in the darkness till the screen lit up. Arany hit the spot with great precision and Pascoe let it run until the entry of the vengeful husband.
‘That’s fine,’ he said and Haggard interposed his arm into the beam of light and the picture flickered and died.
‘Well, Inspector?’ said Haggard after he had switched on the lights.
‘My informant reckons that was for real,’ said Pascoe diffidently.
‘All of it?’ said Haggard.
‘The punch that knocks the girl down.’
‘How extraordinary. Shall we look again? Maurice!’
They sat through the sequence once more.
‘It’s quite effective, though I’ve seen better,’ said Haggard. ‘But on what grounds would you claim it was real, if by real you mean that some unfortunate girl really did get punched?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Pascoe. ‘It has a quality … I’ve seen a few fights, and that kind of …’
He tailed off, uncertain if he was speaking from even the narrowest basis of conviction. If he had seen the film without Shorter’s comments in his mind, would he have paid any special attention to the sequence? Presumably hundreds of people (thousands?) had sat through it without unsuspending their disbelief.
‘I’ve seen people burnt alive, decapitated, disembowelled and operated on for appendicitis, all I hasten to add in the commercial cinema,’ said Haggard. ‘So far as my own limited experience of such matters permitted me to judge, I was completely convinced of the verisimilitude of these scenes. I shouldn’t have thought dislodging a few teeth was going to present the modern director with many problems.’
‘No,’ said Pascoe. He was beginning to feel a little foolish, but under Dalziel’s tutelage he had come to ignore such social warning cones.
‘Can I see the titles, please?’ asked Pascoe.
Haggard addressed Maurice Arany again and as the titles rolled, Pascoe made notes. There wasn’t a great deal of information. It was produced by a company called Homeric Films and written and directed by one Gerry Toms.
‘A name to conjure with,’ said Pascoe.
‘It must be his own,’ agreed Haggard.
‘You don’t know where this company is located, do you?’
‘It’s a mushroom industry,’ said Haggard. ‘It probably no longer exists.’
‘But there have been other films from the same people?’
Haggard admitted there had.
‘Perhaps your distributor could help.’
‘I wouldn’t bank on it, but you’re welcome to the address.’
Upon this co-operative note, they parted. Pascoe sat in his car in the Square for some time until other members of the audience began to leave. There were no overt signs of drunkenness, no undue noise in the way they entered and started their cars, and certainly no suggestion that anyone was about to roam around the Square all night in search of some luckless resident to assault and ravish.
When he got home, Ellie was sitting in front of the television eating a dripping sandwich.
‘Good meeting?’ he asked.
‘Useless,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you declare a police state and shoot the bastards? You know what they said? Higher education might be a luxury this authority could no longer afford!’
‘Quite right,’ he said, regarding her affectionately. She was worth his regard. Friends at university, they had met again during an investigation at Holm Coultram College where Ellie was a lecturer. After some preliminary skirmishing they had become lovers and then, the previous year, got married. It was not an easy marriage, but nothing worthwhile ever was, thought Pascoe with a swift descent into Reader’s Digest philosophy.
‘You know who they’ve brought in to chair our liaison committee? Godfrey bloody Blengdale, that’s who.’
‘Is that bad?’ asked Pascoe, yawning. He sat down on the sofa next to Ellie, took a bite of her sandwich and focused on the television screen.
‘It’s sinister,’ said Ellie, frowning. ‘He’s the right-wing hatchet man on that council. I’ve never really believed there was a chance they could seriously consider closing the college down, but now … shall I switch this off?’
‘No,’ said Pascoe, watching with interest as James Cagney prepared to sort out a guy twice his size. ‘I may learn something.’
‘About dealing with suspects?’
‘About dealing with women. Is this the one where he pushes the grapefruit in whatsername’s face?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t really been watching. It’s just been something to take my mind off those pompous bastards. Where’ve you been anyway? Boozing with Yorkshire’s Maigret?’
‘No. I’ve been to the pictures which is what makes this so nice.’
Briefly he explained. Ellie listened intently. He didn’t often discuss the detail of his work with her but this wasn’t a case, just a speculation, and Pascoe who would have welcomed her clarity of thought on many occasions was glad to invite it now.
To his surprise like Dalziel she dismissed as irrelevant the question of the broken teeth.
‘It’s not very likely, is it?’ she said. ‘It’s this chap Haggard you want to be interested in. I’ve heard of him. Before his school folded, he was a thorn in everyone’s side. No official standing, of course, and he had ideas that made the Black Papers shine at night. But he knew how to get to people, push them around.’
‘He obviously hasn’t lost his charming ways,’ said Pascoe. ‘The neighbours are almost solidly against him, but it’s getting them nowhere.’
‘So you have a complaint to investigate? Great! Can’t you fit him up? Slip a brick in his pocket or something?’
Pascoe sighed. Ellie made police jokes like some people make Irish jokes, and at times they began to wear a bit thin.
‘It’s nothing to do with me. Sergeant Wield’s looking after things there. I’m only here for the teeth.’
‘So you say. Sounds odd to me. And this dentist of yours, he sounds a bit odd too.’
‘Christ,’ said Pascoe. ‘You sound more like Dalziel every day.’
He bit into Ellie’s dripping sandwich again and watched James Cagney bust someone right on the jaw. The recipient of the blow staggered back, shook his head admiringly, then launched a counter-attack.
This, thought Pascoe, is what fighting ought to look like. When the Gerry Toms of this world could produce stuff like this, then they might climb out of the skin-flick morass. This appealed to man’s artistic sense, not his basic lusts.
Guns had appeared now. Cagney dived for cover and came up with a huge automatic in his hand.
‘Great,’ said Pascoe, his artistic sense thoroughly appealed to. ‘Now kill the bastard!’
Chapter 3
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.’
Chapter 4
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.