'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 passers-by. 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?'
&
nbsp; '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 oppor
tune. 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.'
Dalziel 05 A Pinch of Snuff Page 3