A pinch of snuff

The Hungarian seemed indifferent to the news of Haggard's death. Pascoe remarked on this.

'We were business associates, not friends,' said Arany. 'It is a distressing thing, but not a remarkable one. Old men die. Death comes out of a clear sky. I hope you find who did it, though when you do, what will happen to him? A little rest, then freedom again. In this country, there are no punishments.'

'I'm sorry you've found us so deficient,' said Pascoe. 'I won't keep you too long. It's just a question of a statement.'

'I have made my statement.'

'Oh?' Pascoe looked up at Wield who regarded him impassively.

'To the sergeant. I told him what I know, which is nothing; what I saw, which was nothing; what is missing, which so far as I can assess is nothing.'

Arany emphasized his speech by moving his head from side to side like a fox in a cage.

'Well, we'd best get it down on paper. Sergeant.'

'Sir?'

'Why don't you fetch Mr Arany's file.'

'Yes, sir,' said Wield. 'I'll see if the Superintendent's finished with it.'

He turned on his heel in a very military fashion and left. Pascoe observed Arany carefully to see his reaction to all this gobbledegook. It seemed to him that for a moment the man looked uneasy, then his features resumed their watchful blankness. There was something rather un-English about it, thought Pascoe. Even the native criminal classes were not so frightened of anything that they needed to hide behind neutrality. It was a comfortable chauvinist thought.

'You're a naturalized citizen, I believe,' said Pascoe conversationally.

'Yes.'

'Ever go back to Hungary? I mean, would it be possible now that things have had twenty years to quieten down?'

'I would not care to try, Inspector.'

'You still have relations there?'

'Everybody has relations,' said Arany.

'But no one you keep in touch with?'

'No one.'

'How long have you known Mr Haggard?' said Pascoe, switching direction.

'Four years. Five. Does it matter?'

'I'm just interested in your business relationship, Mr Arany.'

'Does it matter?' repeated Arany. 'Is it relevant?'

'It depends on why he was attacked,' said Pascoe.

'Why? Vandals, surely. Teenagers, breaking in for a lark. Mr Haggard would fight with them.'

'He was that kind of person?'

'Oh yes. Fearless. Of the old school,' said Arany.

Was there a note of irony in his voice? wondered Pascoe.

'Perhaps you're right,’ he said. 'Still, we must take a look at your members, I'm afraid.'

'I have a list. It is up to date,' said Arany. He produced a brown envelope from his inside pocket and handed it over.

'Most efficient,' said Pascoe. 'Now I wonder if you could also draw up a list of those present at the performance last night, so far as you can recall.'

He pushed a sheet of paper and a Biro across the table to Arany.

The Hungarian thought a moment, then started writing.

Pascoe meanwhile started looking through the membership list.

He recognized many of the names, just as he had recognized faces on his visit two nights earlier. Ellie's escort, Arthur Halfdane, was there. Trendy radicals could afford to belong to such clubs, but local politicians obviously had to be a bit more careful. Godfrey Blengdale might have enjoyed the show but his name wasn't on the list. Pascoe wasn't surprised. He knew the man mainly through the papers and the less than Leica impartiality of Ellie's appraisal. When the family timber yard had fallen into Blengdale's care at the age of twenty-six, it had been (like many old-established businesses run on outmoded principles such as value for money and honest dealing) on the verge of bankruptcy. Blengdale had wheeled and dealed and diversified into producing ready-to-assemble whitewood furniture which compensated for its difficulty of assembly by its ease of collapse. But his prices were competitive, his delivery dates held to, and his standards of manufacture (after a minor lawsuit or two) as reasonable as anyone else's in the field. Blengdale's had prospered and Godfrey Blengdale had become a figure of some importance, entertaining lavishly at his converted farmhouse a couple of miles from Holm Coultram College, supporting good works generously and finally offering himself to the electrorate with the kind of aplomb and savoir-faire beloved by working-class Tories the world over.

He thinks that God is short for Godfrey, proclaimed Ellie, which, if not original, was certainly apt.

And God might view the cavortings of post-lapsarian Adam and Eve with some amusement, but he wouldn't let his name be carved on a tablet of members of a celestial Ultra-Paradise Club.

Further down the list he came across Jack Shorter's name. So Shorter's 'friend' had been mythic. A pointless bending of the truth, but understandable.

At least, he could understand it. Dalziel would probably seize upon it as evidence of his worst suspicions.

As Arany finished writing, Wield returned. He handed a bulky cardboard wallet to Pascoe, saying, 'Sorry to be so long, sir. I had to go to Central Records.'

'Thank you, Sergeant.'

Pascoe opened the wallet and peered in. It was full of old newspapers. There was a single typewritten sheet accompanying them. This he withdrew. It contained details of Arany's background, and home and business addresses. Pascoe studied it thoughtfully.

Wield meanwhile had been looking at the sheet Arany had been writing on and Pascoe was surprised to see a strange expression attempting to come to grips with his face, a kind of deferential embarrassment. Like a werewolf turning into Jeeves.

He saw the reason when he himself looked at the list.

Heading the names was Mrs P. Pascoe. Second was Arthur Halfdane. There were about thirty other names. And last of all was Godfrey Blengdale.

I wonder, thought Pascoe. Would that name appear at all if Ellie hadn't been there? Probably, for there would be others who would remember his presence. But its position on the list seemed to hint at a reluctance to put it there.

'Thank you, Mr Arany. Now, perhaps you can help us further. What time was it when you left the Club?'

'Eleven. Eleven-fifteen.'

'Now, were you the last to leave, or was there anyone else on the premises, apart from Mr Haggard, that is?'

Arany looked at him, his face so blank that Pascoe wondered if he'd understood the question. But he did not repeat it.

'I saw no one. The club room was empty,' said Arany finally.

'Where was Mr Haggard?' asked Pascoe.

'He had gone to his quarters.'

'At what time?'

'Ten-thirty. The show finished at ten. He had a drink downstairs, then left.'

'Alone?' asked Pascoe.

Again the silence. Suddenly Wield moved forward, just half a pace. Pascoe regarded his face, which was set like a traitor's head, and thought what a boost it would have been to the Inquisition, worth two or three confessions without touching the rack.

'I think Mr Blengdale went with him.'

'I see,' said Pascoe. 'And you think Mr Blengdale may still have been there when you left.'

'It is possible. I cannot say definitely.'

'Well, thank you, Mr Arany. That will do for now,' said Pascoe. 'The sergeant here will help you prepare your statement and have it typed up for you to sign. It shouldn't take a minute.'

Arany banged both hands on the table.

'Inspector, I am not a bloody stupid foreigner. I can speak and write English probably much better than half of your policemen. I shall write my own statement without Mr Wield having to translate.'

'As you please,’ said Pascoe. 'We'll be next door if you need any help.'

Outside the door he hefted the cardboard wallet and grinned at Wield.

'You overdid this a bit, didn't you?' he said. 'He'll be complaining to Amnesty!'

'It isn't all padding,' protested Wield.