'What were you about to do if it wasn't?' wondered Pascoe.
'Depends,' said Wield grimly.
'You'd better tell me about your morning, Sergeant,' said Pascoe.
'I went to Arany's agency,' said Wield. 'Told the girl I was really a female impersonator just pretending to be a policeman. Won her confidence. She said Arany hadn't been in the office that morning. But he'd telephoned her shortly after she'd got in and asked her to make a purchase and deliver it to his flat.'
Now came the narrative pause, inviting the question.
'Get on with it,' said Pascoe.
'Girl's clothes. Sweater, jeans, sandals.'
'So,' said Pascoe. 'What then?'
'I came round here. There was no reply. So I went back to the station to report in. You weren't back, of course. Gradually news began to get back about what happened at Blengdale's. Soon as I heard Burkill's name, I began to wonder. Then I heard from Control what was going on at Burkill's house and I got round here fast.'
'Finding the door open, of course,' said Pascoe ironically.
'No,' said Wield evenly. 'I broke in. No one's going to complain. The place was empty, but I found this.'
He led Pascoe out of the living-room into a bedroom. On top of the ruffled counterpane was a blue nylon nightie, decorated with pink panthers.
'It's Sandra's. Got a name-tab in it. For school trips and things, I suppose. Her mother must be a careful woman.'
'Not careful enough,' said Pascoe.
'That's not all, sir,' said Wield. 'I had a poke around. Through here.'
He went back into the living-room and stopped in front of the dark oak bureau which with a bit of restoration work wouldn't have been out of place amidst the expensive antiques of Priory Farm.
'There was one drawer locked. I had to fiddle a bit,' said Wield. He pulled the drawer open.
'Take a look,' he said.
Pascoe removed the plain buff envelope which was all the drawer contained and took a look.
'Oh,' he said.
They were half-plate photographs of a naked girl and two naked men. They formed a sequence. The girl was Sandra Burkill.
'Film stills, I shouldn't wonder,' said Wield.
'Let's go look for Uncle Maurice,' said Pascoe.
'We'd best take a stretcher,' said Wield. 'In case Bri Burkill's found him first.'
Pascoe left Wield in the flat till he could send someone else to keep an eye on it in case either Arany or Sandra returned.
As he returned to the station, he worked out a scenario in his mind.
Sandra changing from a gawky nine-year-old to a fleshy fully developed woman in the space of three years; Uncle Maurice watching, waiting – no! that implied an element of premeditation too monstrous to be considered even in this melange of monstrosities. But a moment had arrived when something happened; a first step. Arany would have taken it, though perhaps even the girl… adolescent pash; surprise, then delight, at the power of her newly formed body; Arany full of guilt (why is it, wondered Pascoe, that despite what I see in my job, I cannot imagine a world in which a man wouldn't feel guilty at seducing a child?); but guilt that was just the initiate fear. Behind the lecher stood the pornographer. There was a market for schoolgirl films. As for Sandra, did she need to be coaxed? tricked? bribed?
I don't know, thought Pascoe, adding aloud as he entered his office, 'And I don't want to know.'
He'd checked Dalziel's office. The fat man hadn't returned. He sat down wearily.
Dalziel had been right, thought Pascoe. Burkill had indeed discovered something that had taken his mind temporarily off his wife's infidelity. Perhaps he'd beaten Sandra too. Perhaps, tired of all this hysterical indignation from adults whose example and actions had helped her to where she was, Sandra had blurted out the whole business just to shut him up.
Then what? Sandra grabbing a coat to pull on over her nightie dashes off into the night. Where does she go? Where else but to Arany?
And Burkill's destination is equally obvious. He makes for the one place he is sure of himself, the place where he is king. The Westgate Social Club.
There he thinks and drinks. Drinks till he stops thinking. Sleeps. Wakes. Goes in search of Arany who has by now got clothes for Sandra and taken off.
So, his prime target having evaded him, he now makes for his secondary – poor old Charlie Heppelwhite.
And having settled him, where now?
Arany again, thought Pascoe. It wouldn't be a bad idea to let Burkill catch up with him either. In fact, unless he came up with some clever notion of Arany's possible movement, it could well be that Burkill got there first.
'Fool!' said Pascoe, reaching for his telephone. There was an obvious place for Arany to make for. He wasn't in this alone and self-interest would suggest warning his confederates. It was probably too late already, but no harm in checking.
'Detective-Inspector Crabtree,' he said. 'Ray? Hello, Peter Pascoe again. Look, there've been developments.'
Briefly he sketched out what had happened.
'Now there's a possibility that Arany will turn up at Homeric. Eventually, if I'm right and they did film the girl, we're going to really turn them upside down and shake them till their change jingles, but meanwhile can you do a check, see if there's any sign of him about the place? Be discreet, but if he's got there before you, or if there's any sign of people packing up, take a grip and let no one move till we rustle up a warrant.'
'Got you,' said Crabtree. 'I'll get right on it.'
'Hold on,' said Pascoe. 'You'll need Arany's description. And you'd better have Burkill's too in case he's somehow got himself over there.'
Quickly he described the two men.
'Fine,' said Crabtree. 'Hey, is the Thin Man in on this?'
'Who?'
'Grosseteste. The talking balloon. Dalziel.'
'He will be when he gets in. Don't worry, young fellow. Daddy won't be angry with you.'
'Ha ha,' said Crabtree. 'I'll get back to you. 'Bye.'
It was only five minutes till Dalziel appeared. Pascoe told him about the discoveries in Arany's flat and laid out his scenario for inspection, humbly acknowledging his superior's acumen in guessing that Burkill must have had a very strong reason for not dealing with Heppelwhite immediately. To his surprise, this humility did not produce the anticipated revolting smugness.
'That's how it looks to you,' Dalziel said slowly. It was difficult to work out if this were a question or not.
'That's how it looks,' said Pascoe.
'It's your case,' said Dalziel. 'You've got a call out on Arany?'
'Oh yes. And I've been on to Harrogate to get them to check Homeric in case he makes for there.'
'Have you now? Your mate, Crabtree, I suppose.'
'That's right,' said Pascoe.
Dalziel scratched the folds of his chin. It was like the finger of God running along the Grand Canyon.
The pictures were spread out on the desk before them.
'It's certainly our Sandra,' said Dalziel. 'Do the men look familiar?'
Pascoe shook his head without even looking at the photographs.
'Can't see much of their faces anyway,' said Dalziel. 'Film stills, you say? Why not just a sequence of snapshots?'
'Why not?' echoed Pascoe. He felt very tired and despondent. Perhaps even Galahad had on occasion felt like saying sod the Grail and going off home for a tatie-pot supper and an early night.
'Well, look at the things, will you?' demanded Dalziel. 'God, if you'd got hold of these when you were fifteen you'd not have let them out of your sight for a fortnight!'
