A clubbable woman

Chapter 3.

It was a glorious day. The sun laid a deep shadow obliquely across the polished oak of the coffin as it was lowered into the grave. The sky was cloudless, its blue more thinly painted than the blue of summer but the sun was too bright to stare in the eye. The air was just cold enough to make activity pleasant and the mourners shifted gently, almost imperceptibly, under their coats from time to time.

Only Connon and Jenny stood in absolute stillness.

Dalziel was scratching his left breast, his hand inside his coat moving rhythmically. 'Ironical,' he whispered loudly. 'Suit you, my boy. Subtle.'

'What?' said Pascoe.

This,' he said. 'Nature.'

'Human nature? Or red in tooth and claw?'

'Don't get bloody metaphysical with me. The day, I mean. Fine day for a funeral. Sun. No wind blowing dead leaves or any of that. Fine day for golf.'

'What are you doing here then, sir?'

Dalziel sniffed loudly. A few heads turned and turned away. He obviously wasn't about to break down. 'Me? Friend of the family. Last respects must be paid. Heartfelt sympathy.' He fluttered his hand inside his coat so that the cloth pulsated ludicrously. 'What's more to the point, what are you doing here? I come within smelling distance of having a reason. You're a non-starter. Bloody policeman, that's all. You'll get the force a bad name. Intrusion of grief, it could be grounds for complaint.'

'In his master's steps he trod,' murmured Pascoe softly.

'Which of us does that make the very sod? And what are you looking for, Pascoe? You're not nursing any nice little theories, are you? And not telling me?'

'No,' said Pascoe, 'of course not.'

Not bloody much, thought Dalziel. You keep working at it, lad. Nothing like the competitive spirit for sharpening the wits.

'Not a bad gate,' whispered Arthur Evans to Marcus.

'Arthur!'

Evans looked sideways at his wife. She had put hardly any make-up on in deference to the occasion and wore a plain black coat, loose-fitting. But the bite in the air had brought the red blood to her lips and cheeks and the looseness of the coat just made it more obvious where it did touch. Dressed like that, thought Evans with bitter admiration, she wouldn't stay a widow long. Marcus, on his other side, looked pale beyond the remedy of frost. He swayed slightly.

'You all right, boyo?'

Jesus, on and off the field, I spend half my life nursing them.

'Yes, I'm fine. Just a bit cold. Poor Connie.'

Poor Connie. Poor bastard. Evans remembered the shock last Sunday when they had finally got to the Club, arguments buried for an hour. That detective had been there, he was somewhere around now, bloody ghouls, one of Dalziel's lackeys, there's a right thug for you, like all these Scotsmen, no finesse, first up first down, feet feet feet. Sid had got in first. Snipped his indirect line, gave the news right out, loud and clear. Mary Connon's dead. And all I could do was look at Gwen, watch Gwen, see her age beneath the words, then gradually come back to life with awareness of her own life. Poor Connie. He deserves sympathy. He deserves… perhaps he will get what he deserves. There he stands with that little girl of his. Not so little. She's a pretty little thing.

She's a pretty little thing.

The service was over. Out of the corner of his eyes Pascoe had noticed two men with spades move tentatively forward from the cover of a clump of trees, then retreat. Their movement startled half-a-dozen crows whose caws had been a harsh burden to the words of the prayer-book and they went winging from the tree tops in ragged grace, as the black-coated mourners moved in twos and threes away from the grave-side, silent at first, but speaking more and more freely as the distance grew between themselves and the motionless couple who remained. At the car park they formed little groups before dispersing. Dalziel convened with three or four elder statesmen of the Club, his face and manner serious. He produced a cigarette-case and passed it round. Black Russian perhaps, thought Pascoe. That would amuse Dalziel if I could tell him. Do I want to amuse Dalziel? And if I do, is it to keep him sweet so I can manipulate him, like I pretend? Or is it because he puts the fear of God into me? Just how good is he anyway? Or is he just a ruthless sucker of other men's blood? 'Don't get bloody metaphysical with me!' But said quite nicely really. Like a jocular uncle. Uncle Andrew. You had to laugh. But not here. It's colder now. Christ, I'm holding conversations with myself about the weather, the mental Englishman, that's me. Now there's something to warm us all up, that woman getting into the back seat, back seat's the place for you, dear, are you sitting comfortably, now get them off. Don't be shocked, love, that's what all the detectives are thinking this year, you'll be giving yourself a scratch in a minute Andrew, you randy old devil. Randy Andy. Now if she'd been killed, her, Gwen, wasn't it? Evans, that would have been easy. Jealous husband, spurned lover, or one of those tumescent young men who'd been hanging around her from the moment she set foot in the bar, yes, one of those provoked just that bit too far, just over the edge where playing starts to be for real. But not Mary Connon, not that parcel of middle-aged lumber they'd just stored away. Though why not? She'd been built on the same lines, streamlines, take a hundred lines, so they said. Forty-five. Inches. Years. Was forty-five too old? No kind of age at all these days. And she wasn't looking her best when I saw her, was she? There's something about a hole in the head… So who knows? But I don't quite see the young men… more like one of these old fogies Randy Andy's chatting up, best prop-forward the Old Sodomites ever had, don't you know; or perhaps the best fly-half who never played for England, himself perhaps, selling us all a dummy as he stands there remembering how he smashed her head in so he could look for it inside, for the years lost, the place out in the glow of the crowd at Twickenham, could a man love a game that much? And smashed her with what, for God's sake? Where was it? I'd like a look round that house. Whatever it is could be lying at the bottom of his wardrobe. He'd get used to it after a while, like an egg-stain on a waistcoat, you get used to anything after a while. Lying there for someone to find, a friend, Felstead, Marcus, what's he got to look so sick about? And what'd he be doing in Connon's wardrobe anyway? Homosexual jealousy, that's the answer, I'll try it on Dalziel for a giggle. More likely his daughter, she'll find anything there is. Christ, what a thing to find out about your father, she'd do all right in the back seat too, I wouldn't mind carrying her away at a student riot. Here they come. And there goes fat Marcus, I come to bury Mary not to, he's taken his time about extending heartfelt sympathy though there's always the phone. Still, for a nearest and dearest friend.. .

'Hello, Connie, Jenny.'

'Marcus.'

'Hello, Uncle Marcus.' Marcus had invited her to stop calling him 'Uncle' about three years earlier when she had flourished into young womanhood. 'It makes me feel old and you sound young.' So he had become plain Marcus.

Till now.

I have reverted to my old role, thought Marcus. 'I would have called round,' he said apologetically, addressing himself to Jenny rather than Connon. 'But you know how things… how are you both?' 'Well,' said Connon. He did not look as if he was really listening, but glanced back to the grave.

'What will you do now, Jenny? Is your term over?'

'No, there's another couple of weeks yet, but I've got leave of absence. I needn't go back till after Christmas.'

'How is it? Are you liking the life?'

'It's not bad. A bit crowded. There's more students than space. I can sympathize a bit more with these people who write indignantly to the Express about "smelly students".' Thank God for the resilience of youth, thought Marcus. No damage there, or not that's going to show. But you, Connie, out of the cage at last, you look as if another sniff of free air will shrivel your lungs. No bloody wonder, the shock, the strain of investigation. There's a new life waiting, if only you'll believe that, I must make him believe it before it's too late… Jenny made a move down the path towards the car park. Marcus touched her arm. I'll stay here and chat to your father a bit till the others have thinned out. We'll catch you up. You'd better go and sit in the car out of the cold.' Jenny was surprised to find herself resenting Marcus slightly as she moved away. She was my mother after all, and he's my father. Why should he be treated like the sensitive plant and me chucked down to face this lot? Because you can think like this at a moment like this, she admonished herself humorously and the shadow of a smile must have run over her face for she caught 'Bruiser' Dalziel eyeing her sharply as she stepped on to the car park. Standing a little behind Dalziel she saw a tall young man, elegantly dressed, with a thin intelligent face – the kind of actor-type who played ambitious young Foreign Office men on the telly. She thought momentarily of Tony. He hadn't had time to see him before she left, everything had happened in such a hurry. But no doubt Helen would have passed on the news to him. Perhaps even made a come-back in her original starring role. Definitely her last appearance, thought Jenny, but didn't find it particularly funny. She intended to make straight for the car and shut the door firmly on all condolences, sympathetic noises, keen-edged questionings probing for vicarious pain. But her arm was taken firmly and she was brought to a halt. 'I just wanted to say that I shan miss your mother, Jenny,' said Alice Fernie. The annoyance that had tightened her lips for a moment eased away. She could not remember anyone else saying this. They were all 'dreadfully sorry', it had come as a terrible shock to them, but no one had really suggested that Mary Connon would be missed. 'Yes, I shan too,' she replied, then feeling this was a bit too cold she squeezed the gloved hand which still rested on her arm and went on, 'I know how much she relied on you.' This was nothing more than the simple truth, she realized, as the words came out. Mary Connon had rarely mentioned Alice Fernie to her except in faintly disparaging or patronizing terms. Her lack of taste; the unfairly large wage her husband earned on the factory floor; the excessive subsidization by the ratepayers of council-house rents. She was capable of blaming the Fernies ('and all those like them,' she would say inclusively) for the very existence of the Wood field estate. It had only been a very few years previously that Jenny had realized that the council estate had been there already when her parents bought the house. She had come to accept a picture of rolling countryside being savaged before her mother's eyes as the bulldozers rolled in, prompted by the Fernies and 'all those like them'. But Alice Fernie had been, perhaps by the mere accident of proximity, the nearest thing to a real friend she had. And now Jenny felt real gratitude that this large handsome woman who could only be in her early thirties had thought enough of her mother to accept the condescension of manner and get closer to her.

Closer than me perhaps, she thought.

'How did you get here, Mrs Fernie?' she asked. 'Can we give you a lift back?' There were no funeral cars other than the hearse. 'I will judge what is fitting,' she had heard her father say to the oblique remonstrances of the man from the undertakers. 'No, thank you, dear. You'll want to be with your dad. And I'm not going straight back anyway. 'Bye now.' 'Goodbye. Please call round, won't you? I shan't be going back to college till next month.' I'll have to watch myself there, she thought as she watched Alice move away with long confident strides, I could become as patronizing as Mum. As she got into the car, she glanced back and caught the eye of the young man who could have been from the Foreign Office. He took a step forward. She thought he was going to come across and talk to her. But a rumbling, phlegmy cough from Fat Dalziel caught both their attentions and the young man turned away. Policemen, she thought, angry at her disappointment, and slammed the car door. Connon watched Marcus walk away from him down the path through the rank and file of headstones. The car park was nearly empty now. The Evanses' car was just pulling away. He looked after it thoughtfully. Gwendoline. He formed the syllables deliberately in his mind and smiled. All those youngsters competing to provoke the loudest laugh, craning forward to get the deepest view of bosom, pressing close to feel the warmth of calf or thigh, and imagining a returned pressure. Tales to be blown up into triumphs over a couple of pints. But the real triumphs were never boasted of, but remembered in secret; first with reminiscent delight, but soon with fear and cold panic. Dalziel was gone, he observed, and his puppy-dog, Pascoe. Mentally he corrected himself. He had no reason for thinking Pascoe was merely that, though he was sure Dalziel would make him that if he got the chance. And me, what would he make of me if he got the chance? he thought. A parcel for the lawyers. Strongly wrapped, neatly labelled. Samuel Connon. Wife-killer. There must be some long Latin word for a man who killed his wife. Dalziel might know it, though he probably wouldn't admit to it if he did. Pascoe would know. He seemed a highly educated kind of cop. The new image. Get your degree, join the force, the Yard's the limit. Or… leave school at sixteen, start as office boy. You can be assistant personnel manager by the time you're forty. If you're lucky. And if the general manager is a big rugby fan. I'd better be getting down to Jenny. Poor Jenny. I wish I knew how hard this has hit her. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps we should get away for a bit. Where? What on? There's not all that much spare in the account. All this costs a bit. Even if you haggled over headstones. Now if I'd gone first, Mary'd have been sitting pretty. But what kind of man insures against his wife's death? At least they can't say I killed her for profit. But it'd be nice to get away. Soon. When things had quietened down. It'd be nice to get far, far away. To somewhere as unlike this as possible.

Back to the desert.

Over twenty years earlier, Connon had been sent to join his unit in Egypt at the start of his National Service. He had only been out there a couple of months when the regiment returned home, and at the time the few weeks he spent there seemed to consist of nothing but endless liquid motions of the bowels. He had been as delighted as the rest to return to England and it was this period that saw the blossoming of his rugby career. He had played only a couple of times since leaving school but now he became quickly aware of the advantages traditionally enjoyed by the athlete in His Majesty's forces. His natural talent exploded into consummate artistry in these conditions and only the simultaneous service, as officer, of the current Welsh stand-off kept him out of the Army XV. But something of his brief acquaintance with the desert did not easily die. It remained with him as dreams of luxury hotels in the remote Bermudas haunt some men. He read anything he could get hold of on the desert. Any desert. He collected colour brochures and handouts from the travel agents. Fifteen days in Morocco. Three weeks in Tunisia. Amazing value. But always too much for him. In any case the desert Connon really wanted to visit was not in any of the brochures, not even the most expensive. He recognized it by its absence, that is, he knew what he wanted was something out of the reach of a camera; something untranslatable into colour photography and glossy paper. He wanted rock that had absorbed terrible, endless heat for a million years, that had writhed in infinitely slow violence till its raw bowels lay on the surface, yet without a single movement noticed by man. He wanted sand which rose and fell like the sea, but so slowly that it was only when it drowned his own civilization that a man recognized its tides. It was a vision he confided to no one. Least of all Mary, who had found his collection of travel brochures nuisance enough.

Perhaps Jenny…

Hs saw that she had got out of the car again and was standing against the bonnet looking up towards him. Otherwise the car park was now completely empty. He began to walk towards her. 'I wasn't going to ask her anything,' repeated Pascoe. 'Not then. Not there. I felt sorry for her. Just standing there. She looked, I don't know, helpless somehow.' This, he thought, is a turn up for the book. Bruiser Dalziel lecturing me on tact and diplomacy. It was like Henry the Eighth preaching about marital constancy. 'Well, watch it. We don't harry people at funerals. At least not unless we think they did it. And we don't think young Jenny Connon did it, do we?'

'No, sir.'

'You checked, of course?' 'Of course. She was nearly a hundred miles away. We know that.' 'It's about all we bloody well do know. The only thing we make any progress with is the list of things we don't know. Item: who had a strong motive to kill her? No one we know, not even the great Connie as far as we know.'

'Strength of motive is in the mind of the murderer, sir.'

'Confucius, he bloody well say. To continue. Item: what did he kill her with? A metal object or at least an object with a metal end, cylindrical in shape, long enough to be grasped probably with both hands and smashed right between the eyes of a victim who sits there smiling and doesn't even try to duck.' 'The pathologist's report did say that Mrs Connon had unusually fragile bones, sir. Perhaps we're overestimating the strength needed.' 'So what? Thanks for nothing. And Mary Connon fragile? I don't believe it. It couldn't be true. With tits like those she'd have broken her collar-bone every time she stood up. To continue again. Item: who saw anything suspicious or even anyone anywhere near the house that night? Not a soul. Not even the eyes and ears of the Wood field Estate, your friend Fernie. All he can swear is that Connon was rolling drunk. Which Connon can disprove with con-bloody-siderable ease.' 'It does fit with Connon's account, though. About his giddiness, I mean. Makes his story that bit stronger, don't you think? And our doctor did find signs of a slight concussion. He's still seeing his own man, too. I checked.' Dalziel slammed his fist so hard on the desk that Pascoe broke his rule of stony non-reaction to his superior and started in his chair. 'I'm not interested in the bloody man's health. If he's innocent, he can drop dead tomorrow for all I care.' 'A sentiment that does you credit, sir. But there is one thing about this injury to Connon that's a little bit odd.' 'What's that, and why isn't it in your report?' asked Dalziel suspiciously.

'Apparently irrelevant. But I felt you might like it, sir.'

Dalziel licked his lips and looked as if the task of strangling Pascoe personally and instantly might not be unattractive. 'It's just that when I was down at the Club, I talked among others to a chap called Slater.'

'Fat Fred. I know him.'

'Slater remembered Connon being laid out. But, he added casually and as far as I could see without malice, that he reckoned the boot that did the damage belonged to Evans, his own captain. He seemed to think it was just a case of mistaken identity.' 'Fred would. He's thick as pigshit, that one. But Arthur Evans isn't made that way. He plays hard, but he'd never put the boot in.'

'So?'

'So Fred Slater should start wearing his glasses on the field. Or better still, give up. It's indecent a man that size exposing himself in public. I don't know how his wife manages him.' He chuckled to himself at the thought and murmured, 'Levers, I should think.'

'Pardon?'

'Sergeant,' he said quietly, 'is there anything we've left undone which we ought to have done?'

'I don't think so, sir.'

'Right. Then somewhere, in some area we are covering, or have covered, lies the clue.'

'The clue?'

'There's always a clue, boy. Don't you read the Sunday papers? All this started somewhere and it wasn't Boundary Drive. Or if it was, we're not going to get much help there. Now where's our best bet?' Pascoe spoke like a bored actor who was thinking of things other than his lines.

'At the Club.'

That's right. I think I'll just drop in there tonight. No, tomorrow. That's a training night. They'll all be there. Socially, I mean, for a pot of ale. If there's anything known, they'll tell me by chucking-out time. They'll tell me.' He spoke with some satisfaction. Like a… but the phone interrupted Pascoe's search for the right simile.

Dalziel nodded at it.

'Well, get it, then.'

Pascoe lifted up the receiver.

'Sergeant Pascoe here. Yes?' He listened for a few moments then replaced the receiver and stood silent. 'Not a private call, I hope, Sergeant,' said Dalziel. 'Or are you just playing hard to get.' 'I'm sorry, sir,' said Pascoe. 'No. It's the Connons. They got home and there was a letter. For the girl, it seems. Something unpleasant. Connon wants us to go out there straight away.' Alice Fernie had gone straight home from the funeral, not doing some shopping first as she had told Jenny. She possessed a great deal of natural tact as well as independence of spirit, a quality which had made possible her friendship with Mary Connon. But the journey had involved two buses and a great deal of waiting. So she had plenty of time to think. Buses and trains both set you thinking, she thought. But not in the same way. Trains gave you a rhythm, sent you into dreams, cut you off from reality. Buses were always stopping and starting; traffic, road-junctions, lights; and of course, bus-stops. The world you passed through was observable. And real.

So was the world inside your head.

Buses were good places to worry on. Alice Fernie was worried. She was wondering what the law might do to her husband if it caught up with him.

'Hello there, Alice. What a grand drying day it is, eh?'

Maisie Curtis from next door had got on the bus and was easing herself into the seat beside her. They were both broad-hipped women and the woeful inadequacy of the Corporation's transport service was very apparent. Alice didn't mind. The Corporation didn't provide much heating either and the warmth generated by the collision of two such large areas was very welcome.

'Hello, Maisie.'

'You're looking smart. You've been to her funeral, then?'

That's right.'

There was a short pause while Maisie paid her fare.

'Many there?'

'A few.'

'Oh.'

She'll want names, thought Alice resignedly. She'll want a guest-list. And she'll get it.

There's no funeral meats, then?'

'No. Everyone's just going home. Quietly. Like me.'

'Was there anyone from the police there?'

Alice sighed. 'As a guest, I mean, a mourner. They wouldn't be there official, would they? Not unless…'

'What?'

'Unless they wanted to watch him, keep an eye on him.' 'Who?'

'Mr Connon, of course.'

Alice shifted herself in the seat so that Maisie had to give a couple of inches. The conductor looked in awe at the overhang.

'Why should they want to watch him?'

'I don't know. In case he decided to skip, that's why. Well, he might, mightn't he? If he felt like it.'

'Like what?'

'Like getting away.'

'In his shoes, who wouldn't feel like getting away?'

Maisie was used to deliberate obtuseness on the part of her neighbour and was neither distracted nor offended by it.

'I mean escaping. If he did it.'

'If he did it? What makes you say that? You should watch what you say, Maisie. That kind of talk could get you into trouble.' Alice found herself speaking with greater vehemence than she'd intended, but once more Maisie greeted the affront with a smile. 'Well, if I'm in trouble, I won't be the only one. There'll be lots of company,' she said smugly.

Alice's heart sank.

'Who do you mean?'

'Why, your Dave for one.'

Oh God, she thought. Was he still at it? In spite of the row last night? He'd say it to someone who mattered sooner or later. And then, then the law would have its course with David Fernie. Alice knew nothing of the law of slander. But she knew how much compensation she herself would demand for being falsely accused of murder.

She tried to speak casually.

'Dave? What's he been saying to you?' To you. Maisie Curtis. Queen gossip of the Wood field Estate. Which meant of the town. To me? Nothing. Your Dave doesn't pass the time of day with me. No, it was our Stanley he was talking to.'

This was worse. Maisie Curtis's Stanley was a direct channel to the Rugby Club. The only one Dave had, probably. And, equally probably, he'd know it. There'd be gossip enough at the Club. Bound to be. Suppose Stanley, young, bumptious, keen to impress… lived nearly opposite the murder-house… next to a key witness.

Witness! To what?

Like that time in Bolton. That was a few years ago, but her memory was longer than her husband's. The law had been brought in then, but only to ask why anyone should have wanted to break Fernie's jaw and kick three of his ribs in. But Mr Connon was a different kettle of fish. It wouldn't be the law of the jungle this time. Gossip was one thing. Innuendo, knowing winks, impudent questionings. But someone saying he knew was quite different; someone saying he was certain. Dave Fernie, big Dave Fernie. He knew. He always bloody well knew. Not even God Almighty was as certain about things as Dave Fernie. 'What's Dave been saying, then?' she asked as calmly as she could, shredding her ticket with meticulous care. 'Well, according to my Stanley, your Dave says he knows how he, Mr Connon that is, killed his wife. And he knows why.' Maisie nodded as affirmatively at this point as if she had been Fernie himself. Soul-mates, thought Alice. They're soul-mates. Born under the same star.

'Was that all?'

'All? Wasn't it enough? It quite upset our Stanley, it did. That's how I got to hear of it. I could see something was bothering him. And he's not been in the best of health lately, had a few days off work with one of his tummy upsets. So I asked him and he told. He's always looked up to Mr Connon, you see. Well, I mean, they all do, down at that Club. He's on the selection committee as well, you see.' Alice didn't see, because she'd stopped listening. To think they said that it was women who had the vicious tongues. There'd been one or two near things since Bolton. One or two unpleasant moments. One or two lost friends.

But this could mean the law.

'Alice! Are you not getting off, then?' The pressure had gone from her flank. Maisie was standing in the aisle, looking down at her.

'Yes, of course.'

They set off down the main road together, Maisie chattering away about other matters now. She was unoffendable herself and never considered for one moment that anyone could be hurt or angered by anything she might say.

After fifty yards they turned left into Boundary Drive.

It was quieter here, away from the main course of traffic. The private side of the road was lined with trees which, even though stripped for winter, added something to the peacefulness of the scene. The trees which should have been on the other side of the road had been swept away at one fell swoop, without warning, when the Corporation bulldozers had moved in at the end of the war. An act of civic vandalism, the residents had called it, complaining even more when they realized they would have to pay road charges now the council was making up the road-surface. But the trees had gone beyond recall, and their absence accentuated as much as the architecture the differences between the old and the new. Still, the trees and the pleasant outlook over to the more solid and architecturally varied private houses had made Alice glad that they had been offered a house here rather than in the middle of the estate.

Up till now.

Maisie's voice suddenly rose so sharply that it penetrated the confused web of her own thoughts. That's them, isn't it, Alice? In that car. I thought I recognized them.' Her eyes focused ahead. A black saloon had just driven by them. She remembered seeing it in the cemetery car park. She watched with trepidation as it slowed down further along the street. For a moment of heart-sinking shock, she thought it had pulled over to stop in front of her own house. But the driver was merely giving himself enough room to swing round to the left, over the pavement and into the Connons' drive. 'I wonder what they're after?' asked Maisie, increasing her pace. Alice didn't wonder. She didn't care. As long as they weren't after Dave. She'd have to talk to him again. She'd have to make it quite clear that he was worrying her silly with his slanderous gossip. She'd have to get him to realize that he could get himself into very serious trouble with these terrible accusations against Mr Connon. Very serious trouble.

Unless…

It was curious that the thought had never entered her mind before.

Unless they were true.

She began to lengthen her stride to keep up with Maisie Curtis.

'"Dear Miss Connon,

'It must be terrible for you to find that your mother is dead and to realize your father is a murderer. Nothing can bring your mother back. But it may be some comfort to you to know that the man you think is your father is not. Your mother married him only so that her baby (you) would have a name. What a name! It is a murderer's name. Think yourself lucky he is nothing to do with you."'

'No signature.'

'Let me see,' said Dalziel. Pascoe handed over the letter. The superintendent took it carefully by the same corner that Pascoe had used and glanced down at the writing.

'At least it's clean,' he said.

'That's little consolation,' said Connon, who was standing with his arm protectively over Jenny's shoulders. To Pascoe the girl did not look particularly in need of protection. In fact she had the same rather dangerously angry look he'd seen wrinkle her brow after the funeral.

'Let's get this clear…' Dalziel began.

Connon interrupted him.

T presume that means you want me to repeat myself.'

Clever sod, thought Dalziel. Clever-clever. I'm beginning to hope you did it, clever Connie. 'No, I'll repeat you,' he said. 'You just confirm. It's a question of making sure we're talking the same language. Now, you came straight back after the funeral arriving… when?'

Connon looked at his daughter.

'Quarter to twelve,' she said. 'I put the radio on. There was a time-check.' Then she added, almost apologetically, 'I wanted a noise in the house. Something lively.' Pascoe looked at her sympathetically. She didn't avoid his gaze but stared back till he looked away. 'You picked up the letter as you came in, but didn't open it immediately?' 'No,' said Jenny. T thought it'd be just another condolence note or card.' 'Anyway, you made a pot of tea, brought it through to your father who was sitting in here, then you opened your letter?'

'That's right.'

'And?'

'And what? I showed it to Daddy.'

'And I,' cut in Connon, 'decided we ought to get in touch with you instantly.'

'Quite right too, sir.'

'Well, Superintendent, what next?' Dalziel looked around with the kind of heavily underlined hesitance that could be clearly marked in the back row of the gods. Pascoe watched in awe. He invites them to join in his games, he thought. That's the secret of his success. He reduces it all to the level of a pantomime. 'I wonder,' said Dalziel, 'I wonder if I could perhaps have a word with you alone, sir?

Connon looked doubtful.

If he's not careful, he'll be playing. If he's not playing already. 'My sergeant can be taking a statement from Miss Connon while we're talking,' added Dalziel. That'll be nice, thought Pascoe, trying to keep any trace of the thought off his face. Jenny Connon did not seem to think it would be particularly nice at all and made little effort to keep her thoughts off her face. But she turned readily enough and went to the door. 'We'll go into the lounge, then,' she said. Connon nodded. Dalziel wondered if he detected a hint of relief. The chair had been moved, Pascoe noticed. He didn't suppose anyone else had sat in it since Mary Connon had relaxed to watch television on Saturday night. Then he laughed inwardly and changed his mind. The chair probably hadn't come back from County Forensic where Dalziel, despite the scorn he poured on Science and all its works, had sent it. The boys down there, their work once finished, would have no compunction at all about sitting in it. 'Well,' said Jenny, 'are you just going to stand there, all hawk-eyed, or are we going to get on with this statement? What would you like me to state?' 'Yes, the statement.' Pascoe fumbled in his pocket for his notebook. 'Won't you sit down?' 'In my own home, I prefer to issue the invitations. Please sit down, Sergeant.' Only the remembrance that her mother had died in this room not a week earlier stopped Pascoe from grinning.

He sat down.

'The words in that letter were printed, of course, but even printing is sometimes recognizable. Did the writing remind you of anyone's you had seen before?'

Jenny shook her head.

'No.'

'Sure?'

'Yes, I'm sure.' 'Can you think of anyone who would send such a letter to you?'

'Yes.'

Startled, he ceased his pretence of making notes.

'Who?'

'The man who killed my mother.'

He shook his head slowly.

'Now why should he do that?'

'To divert suspicion from himself.'

'How can he hope to do that when we don't know who wrote the letter?'

'But you do know who you're suspicious of.'

Of whom you are suspicious, Antony might have said. But it sounded a little clumsy for Antony. He never let his passion for correctness trap him into clumsiness. In any field.

She noticed that this time Pascoe had let his grin show through. She felt like grinning back, whether at Pascoe or at the thought of Antony she wasn't sure. But she didn't, for at the same time she felt guilty, as she did whenever she found herself acting normally, as if her mother hadn't been done to death, here, in this very room, last week, on an ordinary Saturday evening with the television set babbling uncaringly on in the background. The thought had stopped the grin even if her willpower had failed. But even now she recognized how diluted the emotional shock of remembering had already become. I could go out tonight, she thought. Have a drink and a laugh, no bother. I know I could. I feel I shouldn't be able to, but I could. They've got to catch him soon, they've got to, I'll make sure they do, he deserves it, he must be caught. Must. That'll be an end of it then, some more distant part of her mind whispered. Dear God! the most conscious level replied, aghast. Is that it, then? Is that what the pursuit of vengeance is not the instinctive reaction of deep and lasting grief, but an attempt to compensate for shallowly felt grief, to give it body, to make testimony to it? Confused, she became angry. Angry at herself for thinking like this. Angry at the police for making no progress. Angry at Pascoe for talking to her here while the real interview was taking place in the next room.

'Let's stop this farce, shan we?' she said.

'Farce?' 'Yes. You don't want a statement from me. What the hell can I state that's any help or even needs recording? All you want is me here so that disgusting Dalziel can chat Daddy up by himself.' Pascoe's face relaxed again at her choice of adjective and this time an answering smile almost broke through.

'Now why should we want that?' he asked politely.

She turned away from him.

'So that he can ask Daddy if what the letter says is true, I suppose. About me not being his child, I mean.' Pascoe seemed to be trapped like a disembodied spirit somewhere in the room where he could see and hear an unemotional policeman, disguised as himself, ask in an absolutely even voice,

'And is it?'

'The question's purely biological, I presume, Superintendent?'

'Pardon?'

'You're interested in the narrow question of whether I am physically the girl's father, rather than in my attitudes towards her?' Christ! another talking like a Sunday Supplement article. Pascoe's bad enough and at least the bugger's on my side. But this.. . cold fish, Connon. He'd work out which side your balls were hanging before he made his sidestep. 'That's right, Mr Connon. I think. I mean, was young Jenny born as a result of you having intercourse with your wife?'

Connon shrugged. He looked very tired.

'I think so.'

Think!?'

Dalziel took a rapid command of himself so that though the word began as a roar it ended as an almost gentle interrogative. 'I have never had any positive evidence to the contrary. At the same time, I can't point to any proof positive on the other side. There have seemed to me and others to be physical resemblances, but parents and relations in general are notoriously blind in these matters.' 'So you admit that it's possible the terms of the letter could be accurate?'

'Not all of them, Superintendent.'

Hair-splitting now. Don't answer. Let the sod go on in his own sweet time. 'It's a question of faith, I suppose. I suppose it always is.'

'And you didn't have that faith?'

'Once. But it went. Too late to matter as far as Jenny was concerned, I'm glad to say.' 'Why did it go? Was there anything in particular, talk, anything like that? Gossip?' 'No. Probably. I never heard, but then I wouldn't. More in your line.' The truth of this simple statement half surprised Dalziel. He ran his mind back over the narrow little track signposted 'Mary Connon', but came across no landmarks of interest.

'Well, then…' he said.

'She told me.'

'She what?'

'Told me. Several times. She wanted me to give up playing almost from the start. Said it was too much to expect her to cope all week with a baby and then to be left to herself on Saturdays as well. I daresay there was something in it.'

'But you didn't.'

'You know I didn't. I went on. Every Saturday from September to April. It was important.' To you?' said Dalziel very softly. He didn't want to disturb his man. He thought he recognized the beginnings of that half-dreamy inward-looking state in which a thought-monologue could easily lead to a confession. But his soft interjection seemed to blast into Connon's mind like a hand-grenade. 'To me?' he said, laughing. 'Of course. But that sounds selfish, doesn't it? The outskirts of a motive. No, important to us all, the three of us, my wife and child, as well as me.'

'But you said she told you. What?'

'She told me that I might as well keep on going to the Club. At least that way I might run into Jenny's father.'

'She said that!'

I'd have broken her neck, thought Dalziel. Motive? What better? I'd have broken her bloody neck! But the thought went on against his will: perhaps that's why she told you by telegram, perhaps that's why you ended up standing stupefied in the lobby of your little semi-detached, reading and re-reading the jumble of words on the buff form. He'd often thought since of his wife in some post office writing those words down, then passing the form to some clerk to count them up. Had he said anything? Had there been an expression on his face as he counted? Was there a query perhaps?

It must have cost her a packet.

But, he thought now, with a self-irony which had only developed of later years, but, he thought as he looked down at his tightly clenched fist, it had been money wisely spent.

'When was this?'

Too long ago for a motive. Fourteen, fifteen years.'

'What did you do?'

'I forget.'

Dalziel let this pass for the moment.

'Did she ever say more?' 'She repeated the claim, twice I think, both times at moments of great anger.'

'Did you believe her?'

Connon shrugged. 'I've told you, it's a matter of faith. I knew she'd been with other men before we married. But I believed she loved me. So I had faith.'

'And?'

Connon looked at Dalziel with the self-possession the detective found so irritating. 'No "and", Superintendent. I think I've said as much as I want to say.' Dalziel infused a threatening rasp into his voice, more from habit than expectation of producing any result. 'You've either said too much or too little, Mr Connon. I need to know more.'

'Or less.'

'I can't unknow what you've told me.' 'No. But you can reduce it to its proper proportions surely. Many years ago my wife implied to me that I was not the father of her daughter. She later withdrew the implication. It's doubtless the kind of nasty thing husbands and wives shout at each other fairly frequently when they're rowing. It didn't worry me, at least not too much. And less as time went on. I never thought of it. Jenny was mine, my daughter, my responsibility, even if you could have proved Genghis Khan was her father. So why should I be bothered? Now my wife's dead and my daughter's had a vicious letter. Now I'm bothered. I'm telling you all this in the hope it might be some help to you to catch the writer of that letter.'

'And your wife's murderer?'

Connon nodded wearily. 'If you like. Though I don't see how. And his bit of harm's done, isn't it? This boy's got his still to finish.' Dalziel rose ponderously and belched without effort at concealment. Connon remained seated, looking up at him. 'Good day to you, Mr Connon. Please contact us instantly should any further attempt be made to contact your daughter, by letter or any other means.'

'Other?'

'This kind of thing can become a habit. I should try to get to the telephone first in future, for instance.'

As if at command, the phone rang.

Connon looked startled, the first unguarded emotion he had shown, then moved rapidly across the room and out into the entrance hall.

Pascoe was standing there with the phone in his hand.

'Hello,' he said. 'Hello.' Jenny was in the doorway of the lounge. So he can think too, thought Dalziel.

Pascoe put the receiver down.

'No answer. It must have been a wrong number.' 'Surely,' said Dalziel. 'Well, we'll bid you good day, Mr Connon. Jenny.' He moved to the front door. Behind him he heard Pascoe say in a low voice, obviously not intended for Jenny's ears, 'Just one thing further, Mr Connon. Could you let us have a list of the TV programmes you think your wife would have been likely to want to see on that Saturday night? It might help.' 'Might it?' said Connon. 'But not two lists, surely? I passed that information to your office at Mr Dalziel's request yesterday.' 'And,' said Dalziel, smiling smugly as they walked to the car together, Td have let the girl get to the phone first if I could have managed it. It was probably the only chance we'll ever get of listening in.'

'If it was our man.'

'Oh yes. I'm sure of that.' Across the road, the curtain fell back into place in a bedroom window.

'He asked me if it was true.'

'Me too.'

'What did you tell him?'

'What I told you when you asked.'

Outside they heard the car start up. There was the familiar slap as it brushed against the laburnum tree, then it was on its way. Jenny put the chain on the door and the simple action filled Connon's heart with the grief he had not yet felt. He had been telling nothing less than the simple truth when he said that his love for Jenny was in no way dependent on his being her father. But he saw that his own indifference was not shared and he regretted now that he hadn't been absolutely affirmative with her. What has she done that she must share my doubts? he thought. What have I done that I can expect her to understand my certainties? The urge to tell her it made no difference was strong in him once more, but he knew it would be a mistake. She must find for herself how little difference it did make. Now all that was necessary was to remind her she wasn't facing a stranger.

'Jenny, love, what about a pot of tea?'

'If you like.' She was pale. Her face had the shape which could take paleness and make it beautiful, but she was too pale. Connon hated the writer of that letter which had taken his daughter's colour away.

'Will they find him?'

The question slotted so neatly into his thoughts that he was slow in formulating a spoken reply.

'I don't know. He's out there somewhere. Out there.'

'At the Club?'

'Perhaps. I don't know.'

'Have you any idea?' He moved back along the hallway to the dining-room door. He spoke suddenly with a new resolution in his voice. 'There's a committee meeting tomorrow night. I think I'll go. Will you mind?'

She smiled and his heart split with love and anger.

'If you don't mind, I'll come with you. It's a long time since I showed my face there.'

'Right then.'

'Right.' Connon turned from the dining-room and moved across to the door opposite. 'We'll have tea in the lounge, shan we?' he said casually.

'All right.'

'Then a quiet night. Save our strength for tomorrow.'

'Right.'

Again he hesitated, looking for words. 'Jenny, I miss your mother. More now somehow. More than I thought.' Then he stepped into the lounge for the first time since Saturday night. In the kitchen Jenny whistled softly as she made the tea.