A pinch of snuff

'Hold it!' cried Pascoe in his most authoritative tones.

They ignored him. It flashed through his mind that his best bet was to set Ms Lacewing on them, but he also remembered the Home Office injunction against the use of excessive violence in effecting an arrest.

'Police!' he yelled seizing the nearest of Shorter's assailants and pushing him against the other two.

One of them, a burly, stubble-haired man with a dark, round face contorted now with a tremendous rage, swung a punch in Pascoe's direction.

'POLICE!' bellowed Pascoe again, determined that they wouldn't be able to deny knowing who they'd attacked.

The burly man's second punch was withheld.

'Police?' he said.

'That's right,' said Pascoe, flashing his warrant card to reinforce his claim.

'Just the man I want to see,' said the burly man. It seemed an unlikely claim to Pascoe but he nodded encouragingly.

'I want you to arrest this bastard,' he said, pointing down at Shorter who had now slid to the floor.

'What for? Attacking you?' asked Pascoe satirically.

'It's no joke, mister. The bastard's been interfering with my daughter.'

'What?'

Shorter looked up at him, eyes wide in what could have been appeal or fear or almost anything. He tried to speak but only the bubbly air sounds came.

'Men,' said Ms Lacewing in tones of icy contempt. Who specifically it was aimed at, Pascoe didn't know, but he spun round and addressed her angrily.

'You,' he said, pointing to the distressed patient, 'you go and see to that poor devil. And shut up. You' (to Alison, now sobbing instead of screaming) 'shut up and ring for an ambulance and the police. Tell them I'm here. You' (to the faces which had appeared at the office and waiting-room doors) 'sit down and wait till I come and talk to you, and you' (to the three men who had beaten up Shorter) 'don't move a bloody inch, not a bloody inch, or I'll put it down as attacking a police officer.'

'As long as you put me in a cell with him, it'll be worth it,' said the burly man grimly.

But he said no more and when Ms Lacewing, having released the patient from his bonds, came across to administer first aid to Shorter, the three men accompanied Pascoe into the office without demur.

'Right,' he said, helping himself to paper from the desk. 'Let's start by mutual introductions, shall we?'

Chapter 9

Shorter's principal assailant was called Brian Burkill. He was a man of about forty, his face ruddy from the open air and perhaps a bit of high blood pressure besides. His hair was close-cropped and his solid brawny frame just beginning to slide into fat. Pascoe would not have cared to be struck by the large rough fists which rested, still tight-clenched, on the table between them.

Burkill had confirmed his leadership by sitting down. The other two flanked him, one a tall rangy man of nearly fifty, the other a stocky youth aged about twenty, his hair long and lank, his demeanour a mixture of swagger and nervousness.

'These two, send them off,' instructed Burkill. 'They've nowt to do with it. Mates, came to help, that's all. OK?'

'Nay, we'll stick with you, Bri,' said the taller man. 'See fair play.'

'Get off back to the yard, Charlie,' instructed Burkill. 'You too, Clint. Tell 'em I'll be along later.

‘Hold it,' said Pascoe as the two men began to move to the door. 'What do you think this is? A union meeting?'

'You've no reason to keep them,' protested Burkill. 'I've told you, they just came along.'

'And they can just bloody well stay,' retorted Pascoe. 'You – Charlie what?'

'Heppelwhite.'

'And you?'

'Heppelwhite,' said the youth. 'He's my dad.'

'Is your name really Clint?' asked Pascoe.

'Colin. I just get Clint.'

'All right. Now, addresses.'

He made careful notes of the information, partly to establish a strict official relationship in opposition to the free-wheeling encounter of equals Burkill seemed to imagine was taking place and partly to give himself time to consider where to go from here. He had no facts yet, nothing but an assault and an accusation, but his own involvement with Shorter plus his knowledge of the damage that such an accusation could cause, even without evidence, made him more than usually circumspect.

There was a tap on the door and a uniformed constable stuck his head in. Pascoe knew him by sight. His name was Palmer.

'Hello, sir,' he said. 'We got a call.'

'That's right,' said Pascoe. 'Is there an ambulance too?'

'Just arrived, but the injured man says he doesn’t want to go. Says he's OK, just a bit bruised and winded.'

'All right. Tell the ambulance we're sorry, but find out who we've got on call and ask him to get down here quick. I want Mr Shorter looked at.'

'Suppose he doesn't want that either, sir?' said Palmer.

'I'll see he does,' said Pascoe. 'Oh, and take these two somewhere quiet and do an identity check. Nothing more, understand?'

Palmer left with the Heppelwhites.

'All right, Mr Burkill,’ said Pascoe. 'Now, what's all this about?'

'What's your name?' said Burkill.

'Pascoe. Detective-Inspector Pascoe.'

'You a patient here?'

'Yes,' said Pascoe.

'You know Shorter, do you? Like a friend of his?'

'I know Mr Shorter, yes,' said Pascoe.

'I thought so, you being so handy on the spot. Right. I'm not talking to you.'

Burkill emphasized his decision by folding his arms (with some difficulty; it was like folding two ham shanks) and sticking out his jaw.

'That's not a wise decision, Mr Burkill,’ said Pascoe.

'Wise or not, what I've got to say isn't going to be said to no friend of bloody Shorter. You get someone else.'

The door opened and Ms Lacewing appeared.

Glad of the interruption, Pascoe rose and went to her.

'How's Jack?' he asked in a low voice.

'As well as can be expected.'

'Can you sort out his patients without fuss?' asked Pascoe. 'You realize how important it is to play things cool.'

'Important for Jack Shorter, you mean?' she said.

Pascoe looked at her curiously.

'What's wrong with that?' he said.

'I've no time for professional mystique and solidarity, Mr Pascoe,' she said. 'But I'll see to the patients.'

She left and Pascoe returned to the desk.

'What's that then?' demanded Burkill. 'Stage one of the cover-up?'

'Look, if you're not going to talk to me, do it right, will you?' snapped Pascoe. 'Keep your stupid mouth shut.'

It was sheer irritation, but in the event it turned out to be a subtle psychological ploy.

'You can't talk to me like that!' said Burkill.

'Why not? I'm just talking. I'm not trying to knock your stupid head off.'

'Listen,' said Burkill leaning across the desk and wagging a forefinger at Pascoe who was relieved that at least one fist was now unclenched. 'I'm having my breakfast, right? I'm just finishing when the wife tells me. This bastard's been at our Sandra, she tells me! At breakfast. At bloody breakfast!'

To Pascoe it seemed almost as if the timing of the news had upset Burkill as much as the news itself, but he kept the observation to himself.

T thought there was something up. She'd been very restless that night. Turns out Sandra had come out with it on Sunday night when I was down at the Club.'

'Why didn't she tell you on your return?' enquired Pascoe.

'Said she didn't want to tell me when I'd been drinking. Five or six pints, you call that drinking? I suppose she were right, though. You never know, I might have done summat daft last night.'

'Instead of which…' prompted Pascoe.

'I wanted to go right round to his house, there and then, and have it out. But the wife said no. She said I had to think about it, work something out. I were right upset, you can imagine. I went off to work