Read Online A Pinch of Snuff by Reginald Hill - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Reginald Hill
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reverie about the state of his life when a hand smote, captain-like, upon his shoulder and a voice said, 'That stuff will rot your teeth.'
It was Jack Shorter. With him, though in some indefinable way not quite of him, was a woman whom he introduced as his wife.
Pascoe looked at the spreading pool of beer
Shorter's greeting had caused him to spill, then he stood up awkwardly because Mrs Shorter looked like the kind of woman who would expect it - the upstanding, that is; not the awkwardness. Indeed her face registered 'no reaction' to the beer slopped over the table in a way which Pascoe found more disapproving than a cry of 'clumsy bugger!'
'How do you do, Mr Pascoe?' she said holding out a white-gloved hand. Dalziel would have wiped his own paw ostentatiously on his jacket front before pumping the woman's up and down, the whiles assuring her that he was grand and how was herself? Not for the first time Pascoe admitted the attractions of action over analysis.
'John has told me a great deal about you,' said Mrs Shorter.
'John?'
'Jack. Emma and my mother stick at John,' said Shorter. 'All right if we join you, Peter? I'll top you up. Most of yours seems to be on the table.'
He made off to the bar. Mrs Shorter sat down with studied grace. Above medium height, slim and elegant, she reminded Pascoe of models of the pre-Shrimpton and Twiggy era whose cool gazes from his mother's magazines had provided an early visual aid in his sex education. No longer, he thought sadly. Gone were the days when Woman was good for a flutter, the Royal Geographical Magazine provided rich spoils for the assiduous explorer, and Health and Efficiency was like an explosion in the guts.
But she was good-looking once you got past the perfection of her hair-do and her expensively simple powder-blue suit. She would have graced any Conservative Party platform.
'We're not interfering with your business, I hope,' she said.
'No. Not at all,' said Pascoe, puzzled.
'I thought that detectives visited bars merely in order to observe criminals and meet informants,' she went on.
She was essaying a joke, he realized.
'There are some of my colleagues who waste their time like that,' he said. 'Me, I just drink.'
'You're not talking shop, I hope,' said Shorter as he rejoined them. 'Emm, please. You know what it's like when people come up to me at parties and start flashing their fillings.'
‘There's a difference between teeth and crime,' said his wife.
'Thank you, Wittgenstein,' said Shorter. 'There's also a connection. Talking of which, Peter, any word on what I said to you earlier in the week?'
Peter glanced at Emma Shorter and her husband laughed.
'It's all right. I told Emm. I don't have to get my card marked when I go to see a dirty picture, you know.'
'You could always try staying at home and watching them on television, though,' said the woman.
'I've checked it out,' said Pascoe thinking as he used the phrase that he must have been watching too much television. 'Nothing in it, I'm glad to say. The special effects department must be getting better and better.'
He thought of referring to the previous night's events at the Calli - they would after all be in the evening paper - but decided against the 'from-the-horse's-mouth' intimacy that would imply.
'Oh,' said Shorter. 'I suppose I ought to be relieved, but I feel, well, not disappointed exactly, but a bit stupid, I suppose.'
'You ought to try apologizing,' said Mrs Shorter. 'It's not your time that's been wasted.'
'Oh Lord. Peter, I'm sorry. I hope you didn't spend a lot of time . .’
'Hardly any at all,' interrupted Pascoe. 'It's all right. I'm glad you mentioned it. If people didn't pass their suspicions on to us, we'd get nowhere.'
Again Mrs Shorter's expression did not change but he felt she was raising her eyebrows at his public relation cliche. He felt annoyed. She could please herself what she thought about his manners, but further than that she could get stuffed. Dalziel again.
It was Jack Shorter. With him, though in some indefinable way not quite of him, was a woman whom he introduced as his wife.
Pascoe looked at the spreading pool of beer
Shorter's greeting had caused him to spill, then he stood up awkwardly because Mrs Shorter looked like the kind of woman who would expect it - the upstanding, that is; not the awkwardness. Indeed her face registered 'no reaction' to the beer slopped over the table in a way which Pascoe found more disapproving than a cry of 'clumsy bugger!'
'How do you do, Mr Pascoe?' she said holding out a white-gloved hand. Dalziel would have wiped his own paw ostentatiously on his jacket front before pumping the woman's up and down, the whiles assuring her that he was grand and how was herself? Not for the first time Pascoe admitted the attractions of action over analysis.
'John has told me a great deal about you,' said Mrs Shorter.
'John?'
'Jack. Emma and my mother stick at John,' said Shorter. 'All right if we join you, Peter? I'll top you up. Most of yours seems to be on the table.'
He made off to the bar. Mrs Shorter sat down with studied grace. Above medium height, slim and elegant, she reminded Pascoe of models of the pre-Shrimpton and Twiggy era whose cool gazes from his mother's magazines had provided an early visual aid in his sex education. No longer, he thought sadly. Gone were the days when Woman was good for a flutter, the Royal Geographical Magazine provided rich spoils for the assiduous explorer, and Health and Efficiency was like an explosion in the guts.
But she was good-looking once you got past the perfection of her hair-do and her expensively simple powder-blue suit. She would have graced any Conservative Party platform.
'We're not interfering with your business, I hope,' she said.
'No. Not at all,' said Pascoe, puzzled.
'I thought that detectives visited bars merely in order to observe criminals and meet informants,' she went on.
She was essaying a joke, he realized.
'There are some of my colleagues who waste their time like that,' he said. 'Me, I just drink.'
'You're not talking shop, I hope,' said Shorter as he rejoined them. 'Emm, please. You know what it's like when people come up to me at parties and start flashing their fillings.'
‘There's a difference between teeth and crime,' said his wife.
'Thank you, Wittgenstein,' said Shorter. 'There's also a connection. Talking of which, Peter, any word on what I said to you earlier in the week?'
Peter glanced at Emma Shorter and her husband laughed.
'It's all right. I told Emm. I don't have to get my card marked when I go to see a dirty picture, you know.'
'You could always try staying at home and watching them on television, though,' said the woman.
'I've checked it out,' said Pascoe thinking as he used the phrase that he must have been watching too much television. 'Nothing in it, I'm glad to say. The special effects department must be getting better and better.'
He thought of referring to the previous night's events at the Calli - they would after all be in the evening paper - but decided against the 'from-the-horse's-mouth' intimacy that would imply.
'Oh,' said Shorter. 'I suppose I ought to be relieved, but I feel, well, not disappointed exactly, but a bit stupid, I suppose.'
'You ought to try apologizing,' said Mrs Shorter. 'It's not your time that's been wasted.'
'Oh Lord. Peter, I'm sorry. I hope you didn't spend a lot of time . .’
'Hardly any at all,' interrupted Pascoe. 'It's all right. I'm glad you mentioned it. If people didn't pass their suspicions on to us, we'd get nowhere.'
Again Mrs Shorter's expression did not change but he felt she was raising her eyebrows at his public relation cliche. He felt annoyed. She could please herself what she thought about his manners, but further than that she could get stuffed. Dalziel again.
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