He read what the girl had written. Her handwriting was bold and well formed, only a few words to the line so that, though short, the statement occupied a side and a half of foolscap.
'I see you repeat that you booked the girl's morning appointments.'
'Yes.'
'Are you sure of that, Alison?'
'Certain.'
'I've been talking to the receptionist, Miss White. Normally she'd make the entries in the book, wouldn't she?'
'Not if she was busy, answering the phone or something.'
'No. True. I showed her the book. She identified her own hand twice. She says the rest of the entries relating to Sandra Burkill's appointments are in Mr Shorter's writing.'
She flushed bright red.
'You said you didn't set traps!' she said accusingly.
'I warned you not to,' said Pascoe gently. 'The trap would be really set if I let you sign that and try to support it in court. Let's start again, shall we?'
Chapter 12
Dalziel was out when Pascoe returned to the office, so he left the nurse's revised statement on the fat man's otherwise perfectly clear desk and went to Sergeant Wield's more modest and more cluttered cubby-hole.
'I'm off down to the Calli. Fancy a walk?'
'Why not?' said Wield. 'I've only got five or six years' paper work here.'
Because he was beginning to value the man's judgement and also because he wanted someone to talk at, Pascoe gave him a full account of the latest developments in both cases.
'You'll want another look at that film,' said Wield. 'If it exists.'
The young constable had been removed from duty at the Calli and the door was locked. Sergeant Wield produced a bunch of keys and opened it at the third attempt.
'Anyone here?' called Pascoe.
There was no answer, but Wield went wandering away just to make sure that the place was empty while Pascoe went up to the store room where the fire had been.
The walls were still smoke-blackened but the debris had been cleared away. There was no sign of any film, damaged or not.
Wield came into the room.
'No Arany,' he confirmed. 'Only this.'
He was holding the gift-wrapped package that Arany's secretary had left on Saturday afternoon. At least it looked like the same package, but now there was no greetings card with it.
'There wasn't a bag of groceries as well? Or some spilt gherkins?' asked Pascoe. Wield didn't bother to answer but just somehow managed to make a minute but significant change in the atmosphere.
'Sorry,' said Pascoe. 'Let's go and see Arany.'
The Agency was at the top of a three-storey Edwardian building, apparently untouched by human hand since its erection. On their way up the progressively narrower stairs they passed an italic Insurance Broker, two peeling gilt solicitors, a copperplate-on-card ship's chandler and a very fine Gothic Correspondence College. The Arany Agency was a bold Roman face on a pane of clear glass, through which he could see Arany's secretary typing. Her technique was Liszt-like. It must cost them a fortune in typewriters, thought Pascoe as he pushed open the door.
She looked up, then smiled as she recognized him. Usually it was the other way round, he thought.
'Hello, Doreen,' he said. 'Mr Arany in?'
'He's on the phone at the moment,' she said, glancing towards a door behind her which presumably led into an inner office. 'He shouldn't be long.'
Pascoe put the package on top of the typewriter.
'He didn't forget it?' said the girl. 'I left him a note in the office too!'
'Must have done, I'm afraid,' said Pascoe, adding casually, 'How long have you been buying things for Sandra Burkill?' Beside him Wield stiffened.
'Three, four years now. Since I came here. She's done well out of her Uncle Maurice. He thinks a lot of her.'
Pascoe thought he detected a something in her tone.
'More than you do, eh?' he coaxed.
'She's all right. She's reached the sort of surly age. It's just a phase. I remember what I used to be like!'
'I can't imagine it,' said Pascoe gallantly.
The inner door opened and Arany emerged. He expressed no surprise when he saw his visitors.
'Come in,' he said.
Pascoe followed him into the inner office but Wield lagged behind.
'Just thought I'd drop in, Mr Arany, to see if by any chance you'd remembered anything else. Also you forgot your parcel. I brought it round with me. Sandra must have been disappointed.'
He really was a difficult man to get to, thought Pascoe as he regarded the unsurprised and unsurprisable face.
'I'll give it another time,' said Arany. 'Thank you. And no, I have remembered nothing more. Was there anything else?'
'Just one more thing,' said Pascoe. 'The damaged film. What became of it?'
'It was useless,' said Arany. 'I put it in the dustbin.'
'Ah yes. And the bins are collected in Wilkinson Square on… ?'
'Mondays.'
'Of course. Well, I suppose if I wanted to take another look at Droit de Seigneur I could get hold of another print from the distributor?'
Arany shook his head.
'I was on the phone to them yesterday. Told them what had happened. They weren't pleased. That was their only print of Droit.'
'Really,' said Pascoe. 'Isn't that unusual?'
He got the Arany shrug again.
'Perhaps another distributor? Or the makers. Homeric Films, wasn't it? You don't happen to have their number?'
'No,' said Arany. 'We don't need to contact film companies direct.'
'Not even as an agent? Don't ring us and we won’t ring you? Well, thanks a lot, Mr Arany. See you later, perhaps.'
When he opened the door to the secretary's office, he was met with a great deal of laughter and the remarkable sight of Doreen perched on Sergeant Wield's knee.
'I told her I used to be a ventriloquist, asked for an audition,' said Wield on the way out.
'And?'
'I've no dummy, have I? So she sits on my knee in front of the mirror. I pinch her bum. She yells. My mouth doesn't move.'
'Jesus wept,' said Pascoe. 'It's nearly lunch-time. You can buy me a pint for that.'
'What about you, sir?' asked Wield.
'Well, he didn't sit on my knee, I'll tell you that! He says the film was ruined. It's been chucked away, what remained of it. Also he reckons it was the only print.'
'Ah,' said Wield. 'Can I get it straight, sir? You've half a mind to think that destroying that film might have had something to do with the Calli break-in. I mean, that was the purpose. Because you'd shown an interest.'
'Possibly.'
