A clubbable woman

Chapter 4.

They were dancing in the social room. A record-player shuffled a few simple chords violently together, then dealt them out with heavy emphasis. The upper reaches of the room were vague with cigarette smoke, the lower reaches voluptuous with long legs and round little bottoms. Dalziel watched with awful lust as the girls twisted and jerked in total self-absorption. A hand squeezed his knee.

'Watch it, Andy, or you'll be spoiling your suit.'

Dalziel laughed but didn't turn his eyes to the speaker. 'It's as if they were being rammed by an invisible man,' he said. The music stopped and now he gave the newcomer his full attention.

'They weren't like this in our day, Willie,' he said.

Willie Noolan, small, dapper, grey, bank manager and President of the Club, smiled his agreement. 'They were not. We had to earn our wages in those days.' 'The wages of sin, eh? Not that it was always difficult, if you knew where to look. Do you recall a little animal called Sheila Cripps? Eh?' Noolan smiled reminiscently. These two had known each other for well over thirty years, meeting first at school and then finding their paths crossing again and again as they shifted with their respective jobs, till finally they had both come back permanently to the town they started from. 'She's a dried-up old stick now, Andy. Sings in the Methodist choir. I can't believe my memory when I look at her.' 'Ay. They don't weather like us, Willie. Even when the shape goes,' he said, slapping his belly, 'the spirit remains constant. It's a question of dedication. But I'm sorry that little Sheila's been a backslider.'

'Oh, she's been that in her time too.'

They laughed again, each enjoying the joke, but each with the watchfulness of his profession.

The third man at the table did not join in.

'Careful, Jacko, or you'll have hysterics,' said Dalziel. The long thin mouth was pulled down at the corners like a tragic mask, the eyes were hooded, the shoulders hunched, head bent forward so that the man's gaze seemed fixed on the surface of the table. God, thought Dalziel as he had frequently thought for the past twenty years, you're the most miserable-looking bugger I ever saw. 'You're like a couple of little lads. Act your age,' Jacko said, half snarling. 'John Roberts, Builder' was a familiar sign in the area. He had built the club-house they were sitting in. He was reputed to have arrived in town at the age of sixteen with a barrow-load of junk and two and ninepence in his pocket. The war was on. He was an evacuee, said some; others that he had absconded from a Borstal. No one took much notice of him then. No one who mattered. It was only when he plunged, wallet-first, into the great post-war building wave that people began to take notice. He lived chancily, moved into many crises, both business and legal, but always emerged from the other side safely – and usually richer, more powerful. Those who remembered him with his barrow recalled a cheerful, toothy smile, an infectious, confidence-inspiring laugh. Armed with this information, they wouldn't have picked him out on an identity parade. Dalziel wouldn't need an identity parade if he wanted to worry Jacko. He knew enough about him, had done enough research on his origins and his company, to worry him a great deal. But his knowledge wasn't official. Yet.

He was saving it up for a rainy day.

'How's business, Andy?' asked Noolan. 'Putting many away?'

'Not enough. Not near enough.'

There was a pause. A new record had started. Slower, softer. Some of the dancers actually came in contact now. Sid Hope was doing the rounds, having a friendly word with those who were late in paying their subscriptions. They were due at the start of the season. Sid gave plenty of leeway, right up to Christmas. But, Christmas past, he was adamant – non-payers were ejected, quietly if possible. But noisily if necessary. 'These two coughed up, have they, Sid?' asked Noolan with a laugh. 'Oh, ay,' replied the treasurer as he passed. 'See you at the meeting.'

'Meeting?' asked Dalziel.

'Yes. The committee. At eight. Just time for another, eh? Jacko?'

'You'll be one short tonight,' said Dalziel casually.

'One? We usually are. Oh, you mean Connie? Yes, I expect so. Can't expect anything else in the circumstances. Sad. Very sad.'

'Man gets shot of his wife, that's not sad.'

'Jacko, my lad, you're lovely.'

'Didn't some bastard offer to get them in?'

'That's very kind of you, Jacko,' said Dalziel. 'Another pint. Please.' Without a word, Roberts rose and headed for the service hatch. 'You've got a way with Jacko, Andy. I've often noticed.' 'Observation's anyone's game. Detection's my business, though. Don't start looking too deep.' Make them feel almost a part of it, thought Dalziel. Just a hint's enough.

He's after something, thought Noolan.

'You were saying about Connie.'

'Was I? What?'

'About it being sad.' 'Well, it was. Very. Not that we'd seen much of Mary lately. In fact I can't remember the last time. It was probably at the bank, anyway, not here.'

'Bank with you, do they?'

'Yes.'

'Interesting account?'

'Not particularly. Just the usual monthlies, and weekly withdrawals for the housekeeping.' 'Nothing out of the ordinary, then. Recently? In or out?'

'No. Not a thing.'

Dalziel pulled up his trouser-leg and began scratching his ankle.

'Much left at the end of the month?'

'Enough. Not much. But enough to give them a week in Devon.'

Dalziel scratched on.

'You're not trying to extract confidential information from me, are you, Andy?'

They both laughed.

'And what the hell's wrong with your ankle?'

'I've got an itch. Nasty inflammation.'

'Been putting your foot in it, have you?'

They both laughed again.

'Still at it?' grunted Jacko, slamming a tray laden with three tankards on to the table. 'Like a couple of bloody tarts.' 'Is that the time?' said Noolan. 'I'd better go and convene this damn meeting. You'll be here for a while?'

'What do you think?'

'See you later, then. Cheers, Jacko. See you later.'

They watched him shoulder his way jovially through the dancers towards the door of the committee room at the far end of the social room.

'A real card,' said Jacko, deadpan.

'He's been a good help to you, Jacko. Saw you through when many wouldn't have.' 'Surely,' said Jacko. 'Beneath these pinstripes hang three balls of brass. Did he tell you owl?'

Dalziel shrugged.

'Nothing helpful.' It was no use playing games with Jacko Roberts, he thought. But then it was even less use trying to play games with Andy Dalziel – unless he'd invented the rules.

'Was she insured?'

'No. No cover at all as far as we know.' 'No cover? That'd be a sight for sore eyes with that one. By God!'

Dalziel put down his tankard in mock amazement.

'Do I detect a note of enthusiasm, Jacko?'

'There's plenty as was. Once.'

'Just once? Nothing lately?'

Jacko scowled.

'How the hell would I know?'

Dalziel nodded thoughtfully.

Td have heard, too. What about Connie? Has he been having anything on the side?' 'Nothing said. But he moves without you noticing, that one.' On and off the field, thought Dalziel. Yes, it's true. Not inconspicuous, nothing grey about Connie, no blurred edges there. But self-contained. An area of calm.

Like the eye of a storm.

'Jacko,' he said.

'Yes.'

'If you hear anything…' but as he spoke he became aware of someone standing behind him and Jacko's gaze was now aligned over his head.

'I didn't know you were bringing the wife,' said Jacko.

Dalziel was startled for a moment and twisted round in his chair.

'Hello,' said Pascoe.

Tm going for a run-off,' said Jacko. He stood up, his lean hunched figure making his clothes look a size too large for him. He leaned forward and said softly to Dalziel: 'I'll tell you something. Someone's fishing in Arthur Evans's pond. Welsh git.'

Pascoe watched him go with interest.

Tell me, sir. Does he always take his tankard to the loo with him?' 'What the hell are you doing here? I told you, you'd had your go. Now get out.'

Pascoe sat down.

'Nothing like that, sir. I'm here socially.'

He felt in his top pocket and produced a blue card.

'Here you are. I'm a paid-up member. The place interested me. I decided to join. I don't think that your Mr Hope was all that happy, but what could he do?' 'I'm not happy either. And I can do something, Sergeant.'

But Pascoe's attention was elsewhere.

'Before you do it, sir, just have a look at who's come through that door.'

Dalziel knew who it was before he turned.

Connon, rather pale but perfectly composed, wearing a dark suit and a black tie, stood in the open doorway. His eyes moved swiftly over the scene before him, registering but not acknowledging Pascoe and Dalziel. Then he pulled the door to behind him and moved quickly and efficiently across the floor between the dancers and disappeared into the committee room.

'I bet hardly a soul noticed him,' said Pascoe.

'Why should they? Our interest's a bit specialized. And half these buggers wouldn't recognize him if he came in with a label on. Rugby supporters, pah! They know nothing.'

'And we know?'

'At least we know where he is.' Pascoe scratched his nose ruminatively then stopped in horror as he realized who he was imitiating. 'Yes, where he is. But I wonder where his daughter is? He should have more sense than to leave her alone. These letter boys are sometimes persistent.' Oh do you now? thought Dalziel. Then you should have looked through the door before he closed it behind him. But you worry on a bit longer, lad. Just a bit longer. It's good for the soul. Jenny got half way to the bar before anyone noticed her. 'Well, hell-oh,' said a large man as she tried to slip by him with an 'excuse-me'. He was clutching a pewter tankard with a glass bottom. Now he drained it and squinted at her through the glass. He was still a good two hours from being drunk and even then he would probably manage to drive home without attracting unwanted attention. There were faint flickers of real recognition at the back of his eyes, but he preferred the mock-lecherous approach. 'What's a nice girl like you doing in a joint like this?' 'I've come about the woodworm. How are you?' Jenny could only judge the effectiveness of her cool self-possessed act from its results. Inside, it felt so phoney that the merest glimmer of amusement would have sent an embarrassed blush swirling up from her neck to her forehead. The stout man, however, was obviously nonplussed. His own opening gambit made it impossible to take offence.

'Hello, Jenny,' said a voice from a side-table.

'Excuse me,' said Jenny to the man, who now obviously recognized her and was recomposing his face to a rubbery concern. But he couldn't quite get the mouth right and traces of the leer still showed through. By the time he felt able to add sound effects, Jenny was sitting down at a table with two girls and three youths. 'Hello, Sheila,' she said, 'Mavis. How's the world wagging?' 'Fine,' said Sheila. The other girl in contrast to both Jenny and Sheila was so heavily made up that it was like looking at someone behind a mask. She nodded carefully as though afraid of disturbing it.

The three boys rearranged themselves rather selfconsciously.

'You know these creeps, do you? Joe, Colin. And the gooseberry's Stanley.'

Jenny smiled.

'Hi. I've seen them around. How's your dad, Stanley?'

'Fine,' mumbled the boy.

Jenny smiled again, feeling a kind of desperate brightness sweeping over her, a need to avoid silences. 'Stanley lives in our road. It used to be his main ambition to see my knickers. Stanley the Watcher I used to call him.' She laughed, the others smiled politely. Stanley went very red, then very pale. That's a lie. That's a stupid thing to say. I don't know why you…' He trembled to a stop as the others looked at him in mild surprise. 'You mean you didn't want to see her knickers?' said Sheila. 'That's not very complimentary. Why don't you make yourself useful, get Jenny a drink or something? You can't expect her to get them in on a student's grant.' Miaow, thought Jenny as young Curtis stood up awkwardly and set off for the bar, turning after a couple of steps to ask, 'What do you want?'

'Bitter, please. Pint.'

'Female emancipation,' said Sheila. 'I can remember doing that for "O" level history.'

'So?'

'Well, so old Wilson used to tell us that lots of men opposed it because they felt it would lead to women in trousers sitting in pubs drinking pints of bitter. It was one of his jokes. He'd laugh if he could see you.' 'Perhaps he can,' said one of the two remaining boys. 'He's dead, so he might be watching.' Something violent happened under the table, and the boy looked startled, then apologetic. 'Look, Jenny,' said Sheila, 'we were all dead sorry to hear about your mother. That was rotten.'

They all nodded agreement, Mavis carefully as ever.

'Yes, it was. Thanks,' said Jenny. 'But life goes on.'

'That's one way of looking at it,' said Sheila.

'No, that's two ways of looking at it,' answered Jenny. 'One way, my life goes on despite my mother's death; the other way, someone else's life goes on because of it.' 'My, college has made you even sharper,' said Sheila with a thin smile. Jenny sensed she was losing a friend, or rather, cutting the last few strands which held their friendship together. She and Sheila had been very close at school up to the Fifth Form. They had both planned to stop on in the Sixth, then at the last moment, half way through the summer holidays in fact, Sheila had announced she was getting a job.

That had all been more than two years before. They'd seen each other fairly regularly since, but more and more competitively as time went on.

Now it didn't matter who won or lost.

Thanks, Stanley,' she said, taking the pint which had been deposited rather ungraciously before her. 'Cheers.' She took a mouthful, coughed and grimaced wryly at Sheila, who smiled back with something of their old affection. In fact Jenny was really very fond of beer, but she recognized that while an attempt to show off could be tolerated, careless expertize would only antagonize further.

'What're you all up to, then?' she asked.

'We, that is Mavis and me (or I, should I say?) are being entertained by these young gentlemen. Lavishly, as you can see.'

'What about you, Stan?'

'He's waiting,' interjected one of the boys quickly.

Tor what?'

They all laughed. Stanley shrugged and tried to look unconcerned. He made quite a decent job of it too.

'Cheer up. She might be along later,' said Sheila.

'He fancies Gwen Evans.' It was Mavis who spoke. Jenny remembered that the joke had always stopped at Mavis.

'All the men fancy Gwen,' said Sheila.

But not all the women, eh? thought Jenny. She knew Gwen Evans only slightly; she had seen her at the funeral, and previous to that a couple of times, but the memory stuck. 'I'd have thought she was a bit old for you, Stanley,' she said.

Sheila wrinkled her nose scornfully.

'It's all in the mind anyway. This lot read about all these teenage orgies and think they're missing out somehow.'

Joe and Colin grinned unconcernedly.

Now you don't look as if you're missing out, my lads, thought Jenny. 'Anyway,' Sheila went on, 'it's all happening at the universities and colleges, isn't it, Jenny? The intellectualsexual bit.'

Here we go again.

'Yeah,' said Colin with some enthusiasm, 'all those wild birds. It's all wiggle-waggle and jiggle-joggle at those places.' 'We have our moments,' said Jenny. She looked around the room. She wasn't quite sure why she had come here at all, but it certainly wasn't so she could sit and chat with this lot. They were too young for a start. Whoever it was that was menacing her with letters (a letter, she corrected herself, but feeling certain there would be more), whoever it was that had anything to do with her mother's death, that person, or those persons, would belong to her father's age group. What do I want anyway, she thought. To find out who wrote that letter? To find out if there was any truth in it? He could have denied it, he could have been positive, but all he did was tell me he loved me, that it didn't matter. Not matter? Something matters. If it doesn't matter, that matters. Miss Freud, that's me. Shortly to be Miss Sherlock Holmes. But how to start? What do people like Fat Dalziel and Popsy Pascoe do to get things moving? On the telly they just talk to people and find things out. But how do you know who to talk to in the first place?

'There she blows, Stanley,' said Joe.

Jenny turned her head. Her first impression was of an exotically beautiful woman lightly covered in a very revealing dress. But this was only for a second. Gwen Evans wore neither less nor more make-up than most other women in the room, her skirt was by no means the shortest there, her dress zipped up the front right up to the collar and she had a cardigan draped casually over her shoulders. It was the way she moved, the animation of her face, the way she held herself that made her presence so electric, not any ultra-daring revelation of flesh. Her husband was in close attendance at the moment but Jenny knew he was due at the meeting. The man behind the bar said something to him, probably a reminder, for he nodded, spoke to his wife, then with a quick look round the room, he left. Gwen too was looking round the room, more slowly, deliberately. Her gaze met Jenny's and paused. Then she smiled an acknowledgment and dropped an eyelid in half a wink. Jenny was surprised to feel herself flattered by this hint of intimacy between them.

'What're you waiting for, Stan?'

Stanley stood up awkwardly. 'Excuse me,' he said. 'I've got some work to do at home.' He moved across the room and out of the door without a glance at Gwen. 'My!' said Sheila. 'Perhaps he's got delusions of grandeur and is playing hard to get.' Jenny suddenly didn't care for her in the least. She downed the remaining beer in her glass in one easy draught. T think I'll circulate a bit,' she said. 'It's been nice having a chat.'

'Suit yourself,' said Sheila.

'Cheerio.' Near the bar she caught a glimpse of Marcus's round head and began to make her way towards him. When she got a little closer she saw he was talking to the man she'd had the brush with when she first came in, and she hesitated in her progress. Marcus turned at that moment and saw her. His face showed surprise, then pleasure.

'Jenny,' he said. 'Come and have a drink, love.'

She smiled back and squeezed through the intervening people to his side. 'Are you by yourself?' he asked, his eyes probing the further corners of the room.

'Daddy's in the committee meeting.'

'Of course. I'm glad he decided to come. It'll do him good to get out and about. You too. Here, what'll you have?'

'I'll have a scotch if you insist.'

'Oh, but I do. One scotch. You ready for another, Ted?' He took the large man's glass without waiting for a reply. 'You know Ted, do you? Ted Morgan. This is Jenny Connon, Connie's daughter. This is Ted. He's the biggest gossip in the Club so be careful what you tell him about me. Won't be a sec.' Marcus turned to the bar and ruthlessly elbowed his way through to the pole position.

Jenny looked at Morgan with interest.

'Look,' he said. 'I'm sorry if I was rude before. But I didn't recognize you at first. I've only ever seen you a couple of times, with your dad at matches.' His face was set into the perfect sympathetic mould now. But his eyes were still assessing what lay beneath her Marks and Spencer jumper. Perhaps I should introduce them to him. Now this one on the left is Marks, and this other is Sparks. Say hello nicely. She grinned at the thought and the solemn angles of Ted's mouth relaxed also.

'I'm sorry if I was rude to you, too, Mr Morgan.'

'Call me Ted.' Ts it true what Marcus said? That you're the biggest gossip in the Club?' 'Certainly,' said Ted. 'Bigger than that, even. There's not much happens here that I don't know.' He nodded with mock-solemnity. Jenny found herself quite liking him.

'And how long have you been a member?'

'Since I was a nipper. My dad didn't like to beat me, so he made me join him.' Jenny laughed with more enthusiasm than the witticism merited. Ted hasn't told you one of his jokes, has he? Be careful, Ted, will you? Jenny's not one of your ancient barmaids.' Marcus handed her a goblet of scotch and Ted another pint.

'I'm being entertained very well, thank you, Marcus.'

'Good-oh. Well, here's how.' They all drank. A loud outburst of laughter came from the bar. Jenny glanced over. The source was the group round Gwen Evans. Beyond them, just coming in through the door, she saw Pascoe. He edged his way through the standing drinkers and for a moment she thought he was going to join her, but he merely nodded and drifted down the room, taking up a position by the wall where he seemed to become engrossed in watching the efforts of a group of youngsters on the one-armed bandit. I shouldn't be at all surprised if he didn't fancy me, thought Jenny. Perhaps not though, I seem to fancy every man I meet fancies me at the moment. Either I'm at the height of my powers or I'm suffering from delusions of grandeur. Like poor Stanley. Gwen Evans wouldn't bother with a kid like that, not when she could have the pick of the men in this room. Or any of the other rooms either. And her heart gave just a little kick of worry as she turned to Ted Morgan again. Clickity, clickity, clickity, click. A lemon, a bell and a cherry. Clickity, clickity, clickity, click. Two bells and an orange. Clickity, clickity, clickity. If you had stood as I have done for five hours in a draughty ante-room of a courthouse sticking sixpences into one of those things to see how frequently it paid out, you wouldn't be so keen to chuck your money away, son. Couldn't understand it, could he? Two or three jackpots a night in the Club. Anyone'd tell you. My client wonders if the police have been as thorough in their research as they seem to imply. Perhaps the constable who carried out the test was merely having a run of bad luck. It is in the very nature of the entertainment offered by these machines that the result should be irregular, unforecastable. Odds must be measured over weeks, months, not hours. And me with my second-class honours degree, standing there with corns on my hands saying yes sir, no sir, till I made my smart answer, my quick repartee. Then everyone tut-tuts. And they all jump on me from great heights till corns on my hand seem like the fringe benefits of delirious joy. But no joy for Pascoe, nowhere. Little Jenny there, glad she's there, not elsewhere, listening to phone calls, opening letters; but no joy there for you Pascoe. Not yet. Not ever? She's very friendly with those two, though; Felstead, Marcus, and Morgan, Edward. Lucky them, but not her style, not big Ted. He looks as if the pools have come up for him. And over there, beyond the blue horizon of desire, Gwen, backseat driver. Gwen, change any gears and we're airborne. That brass ring at her neck, attached to the zip all the way down that dress, like the ring you hold on to when you leap from a plane, plunging in free fall till you dare no more, then you pull the ring down, down and float in airy freedom, master of all you survey. For a CID man you've no head for beer. Another pint and you'd be like those young lads all falling over themselves to make an impression. Or like fat Dalziel. Worse. Please God, don't let me become like fat Dalziel. But he at least is probing, sniffing around, trying to get things moving, not losing himself vainly in mazes of mental erotica. Listen. Look. Look and listen. That's why you're here. And don't just look over there. 'Everything?' said the highly made-up girl on the table behind him, her eyes rounding with interest into O's of mascara. 'Yeah,' said one of the two boys at the table, 'that's what he told me. He said he reckoned she wanted him to see. You know. Sort of egging him on.'

'More wishful thinking,' said the other girl scornfully.

'Mebbe. Mebbe not. Anyway, you know what he did?' 'No. And I don't want to. Let's go next door and dance a bit. Coming?'

'Oh, all right then. Off we go.'

Even when I eavesdrop I hear nothing but sex, thought Pascoe watching the four of them disappear out of the bar. Now there was that fellow Roberts. Jacko Roberts. He seemed an interesting kind of man. Perhaps worth a word or two.

Dalziel might not like it, of course.

'Dalziel,' he murmured audibly enough for the fruitmachine victims to glance his way, 'is not bloody well going to get it.' He began to move towards the end of the bar where Jacko Roberts was drinking alone.

'Any other business,' asked Willie Noolan.

There's this competitive rugby survey thing that's come round from The Times,'' said Reg Certes, the club secretary. 'Propose that a general meeting of members be convened to discuss the whole question,' said Connon.

'Seconded,' said Sid Hope.

'Any opposition? Right, carried. What about timing?'

'Week Friday'd be all right,' said Certes.

'Agreed? Right. Anything else?'

'Just one thing if I may, Willie.' Noolan glanced at his watch. If it had been anyone other than Connie… but he could hardly choke him off.

'Yes, Connie.'

Connon looked round the table for a moment as though choosing his words carefully. But they had been chosen for some little time already. 'Mr President,' he said, and the formality of his voice made the others pay him even closer attention. 'Yesterday, the day of my late wife's funeral, my daughter received an anonymous letter. I believe it came from someone connected with this Club.' Evans let out a long whistle. The others merely looked stunned. Then Noolan and Sid Hope both spoke at once.

'What grounds have you…?'

'What did it say…?'

They both tailed off.

'Your ball, I think, Willie,' said Hope. I'll answer you both. Or rather, I won't,' interjected Connon. 'I won't reveal my grounds. Nor will I tell you what the letter said. The writer already knows. It concerns no one else.' 'Well, Connie,' said Noolan expansively, 'I'm sure we're all very sensible of the strain of your situation and the shock this kind of thing, whatever it said, must have caused both you and Jenny. But I don't think that a committee meeting is the proper or best place to discuss this, do you? Let's close the meeting, then we can talk informally. This isn't the kind of thing we'd want to see in the minutes, is it?' 'Yes,' said Connon. 'It is. I'd like to propose that the writer of this letter when known should be barred for life from the Club.' 'You're being a bit bloody silly there, aren't you, Connie?' snorted Arthur Evans. 'I mean, how can you bar him from the Club if you don't know who it is, then?' He looked round, acknowledging the triumph of logic by a small rocking movement of the head. The others were looking at Connon, however, each doubtful what to say. Certes, the first team secretary and the youngest there, the man most likely to succeed Hurst as captain, had a rather different problem. He was the least well acquainted with Connon and had no intention of saying anything at the moment. His problem was knowing what to write. His pen rested, unmoving, on his notebook. 'Connie,' said Noolan finally, 'I don't think this is an admissible proposition. Firstly, Arthur's right. We can't bar someone we don't know.' 'I didn't say I didn't know him,' said Connon. Now jump, you buggers. Now stare in wild surmise. This is that thing called change. Things will never be the same again. Till I let them.

Noolan was the only one who did not react.

'Then it is your plain duty to inform the police of your knowledge.'

'Haven't I just done that, Willie?'

Now there's one in the breadbasket for you, you old goat, thought Evans. That's got you nonplussed. Spend all your life hanging around on the edge of the scrum and it comes as a bit of a shock to get a pair of fingers up your nostrils. 'Our discussions at these meetings are minuted, Connie, and as such are published to our members.' 'I know. I haven't noticed Reg writing much for the past few minutes, though. Have you made a note of my proposition, Reg?'

Still without speaking, Certes began to scribble.

'Very well, Connie,' said Noolan resignedly. 'We have a motion proposed by Mr Connon. Is there a seconder?' The blare of music from the social room came in very loud. Connon felt a drum start beating in his head. The edge of pain began to intrude between the muffled notes. He put up his hand and began to massage his temple.

'Are you all right, Connie?' asked Hurst.

'Yes, fine. Just a headache.' The wheels were turning now. He hadn't felt anything for three days now. But it was back. McManus would have to do something. Old fool. Long past it. What can he know about…

I'll second it.'

Well, that's scuppered you, Willie.

It was Arthur Evans's distinctive lilt.

'In that case, unless there's any further discussion we'll take a vote.' 'Just one point,' said Hurst. 'What does it mean if we pass this motion?' 'Nothing until they catch this fellow, whoever he is. Then if he's in the Club, he gets thrown out. If he's not in, he can't get in.' 'We're still very much in the dark though, Connie. Can you assure us that the contents of this letter were such as make such action reasonable?' 'You know my daughter? They caused her very real distress. Actionable assertions were made.'

'Right-oh. Go on, Willie.'

'Let's have a vote then. Those in favour?' Firmly, Arthur's hand went up, Hurst's. Certe's. More slowly Hope's.

'And you, of course, Connie.'

'Of course. And you, Willie?' 'It's not part of my function to vote here, unless the meeting is deadlocked. Carried unanimously. Anything else? No? Then I declare the meeting closed.' They sat still for a second, then Evans stood up and pushed his chair back and the others followed.

'Let's get a drink,' said Evans.

'Just hang on a moment,' said Certes. 'I've got the tickets we ordered for the Welsh match at Twickenham next month. They're a bit scattered around – we must have been near the bottom of the pile, I'm afraid.' 'Bloody inefficiency,' said Evans. 'It wasn't like this when I was secretary. Eh, Sid?' Too true. The nearest we ever got to Twickenham was Cardiff.'

Certes grinned amiably.

'Anyway, I've sorted them out so we can all sit next to our nearest and dearest.'

'With the best seats for committee members, of course?'

'But of course. Here you are Sid. Three it was, eh? One for you, Peter. Two for you, Willie.' He hesitated and a note of uncertainty came into his voice.

'And you too, Connie. There's two here for you.'

'Two?' said Connon. 'Let's go and have that drink,' said Noolan over-loudly. 'All this talking!' That's right,' said Connon, reaching over and taking the tickets. 'It was my turn to get Marcus's this year. I hope we can see this time. I was behind a post last year and the Irish scored three tries right on the other side of it.' Trust the bloody Irish. Second only to the Welsh in low cunning,' said Hurst. 'Are you sure you're OK, Connie?' he whispered to Connon as the others went ahead through the door. 'Yes. Just a bit of a head, that's all. I don't think I'll go through just yet, Pete. I'll catch you up in a minute or two.'

'OK, Connie. See you do. It's good to see you around again. We missed you at the selection meeting earlier. There's copies of the teams on the board there. I'd be interested to hear what you think.'

'I'll have a look.'

'Right. Don't linger too long, though. There's not much drinking time left.' From the far end of the social room, Superintendent Dalziel noted with interest the order of emergence from the committee meeting. 'Sit down, Willie,' he said to Noolan who was so deep in thought he'd almost walked past the table. 'What kept you so long?' Pascoe found Jacko Roberts fascinating and Roberts himself seemed to be almost obsessively interested in the (to him) paradoxical situation of a well-educated man joining the police-force.

'You went to college, did you?' he asked again.

'Yes. University.' 'Like them posh-talking bastards over there in the corner?' 'Yes. That's right. Beneath this rough exterior lies the education of a posh-talking bastard.' 'But they'd make you a sergeant straightaway? No uniform or anything?' 'No. I had to spend the usual time on the beat, in uniform.'

'Directing traffic?'

'Yes. That too.' That's what your boss should be. Directing traffic. I can understand him, but your 'What's a nice guy like me doing in a dirty job like this? Well, I'm trying to get information out of you for a start.' For a while as Jacko's interest grew, Pascoe had seen the outline of a softer, happier, younger face beneath the deeply etched misanthropy of his usual expression. But now the mask returned – or the illusion faded.

'It's your round.'

Pascoe brought Roberts two pints.

'It'll save time.'

'What do you want to know?' 'Simple questions, really. Who'd want to harm Mary Connon?'

'Next question?'

'Who'd want to harm Connon?'

'Next?'

'Who's knocking off Gwen Evans?' He jerked his head slightly towards the other end of the bar where someone was describing to the lady in question some event which seemed to involve a great deal of grappling with her unresisting frame. It could have been anything from a dance routine to a loose maul.

'Anything else?'

That'll do for starters.'

Another half-pint gulp.

'I'm no bloody oracle. And I don't see why I should help you. But I'm big-hearted. That's why I'm so poor. Last first. That thing along the bar there, there's so many trying it's hard to say who's succeeding. But I'll tell you who Evans has elected front runner.' 'Yes?' 'Connon. That's right. The boy wonder. And that answers two of your questions, doesn't it?' Perhaps, thought Pascoe. Perhaps it answers three. More likely it doesn't answer any. Not a word of this before, not a hint; surely there'd have been a hint, a nod, a wink? Surely Dalziel would have known?

Perhaps Dalziel did know.

Or perhaps there was nothing to know. Perhaps Gwen Evans was as pure as the driven snow. Perhaps.

But it didn't matter. No woman could look like that without someone starting a rumour about her and someone. But there had been no mention of Connon exercising his talents there. Of course, there wouldn't be. You didn't mention that kind of thing to a detective investigating the death of a fellow club-member's wife. Especially when he was the best fly-half the club had ever had. No, it just wasn't done. Not unless you were a jumped-up bastard like Jacko Roberts. Or a woman. He hadn't talked to any women down here. But the place seemed full of them. Camp-followers. Regulars as regular in their attendance as any man. He'd have to pick one out. They had a different scale of loyalties.

'Do you believe it?' he asked.

'Me? I'd believe anything bad about anybody, if I didn't know they were all a load of bloody liars.' 'Evans, now. I thought he was an old mate of Connon's?' 'The first people you suspect are always your friends. Usually you're right.'

'Is Evans right?'

Jacko looked him in the eyes for the first time since they'd met. His head, ill-constructed out of sharp edges and loosely-hung skin, rested against the wall, out of place between two framed photographs of past successful teams, young men, glowing with health. 'Welshmen weren't born to be right. They were born to be bloody tragic.' He finished the second pint with a definitive swallow and the backward movement of his head shifted one of the pictures. Pascoe reached forward to straighten it. The fifteen young men smiled brigh ly at him. One face, happier than the others, caught his attention. He looked at the names underneath.

/\y‹-. itt. ii -. iiiin In \ii-, ‹ io\‹U: ii Boy ‹\ays.'

'Connon?' He looked closer. Yes, unmistakable now. Connon's face looked back at him.

'He looks as if he'd been made King of the Harem.'

Now Jacko peered closely, this time at the date. 'He had,' he said. 'Twenty years old. Happy in the day time, happier in the night-time. Just picked for the first trial. Six weeks later he's bust his ankle and put this girl in the club. He wakes up one morning and though he doesn't know it, he must suspect it – the party's over. And no one's ever going to ask him to another.'

'Never?'

'Never. From now on he's a gatecrasher.' Jacko nodded sagaciously and rattled his glasses together. Pascoe smiled and shook his head. 'No thanks, Mr Roberts. I'll be getting on, I think. Thank you for the chat. Cheerio!' Let me find some nice little girl, with someone else's drink swilling inside her nice flat little belly, who'll talk and talk and talk, and be nice to look at. Or even just one who's nice to look at. I wonder where Jenny is? But when he turned to look, she was gone and Marcus was talking to someone else.

Ted Morgan had gone too.

The price of information was too high, decided Jenny. So far she had got no information and she had come dangerously near to paying the price. Ted Morgan's car was parked high above the town about five yards down a narrow cart-track which led off the road between two steeply sloping fields. Jenny was heartily relieved that the recent bad weather had made the track so muddy that even the passionate and rather drunk Ted had not dared go any further.

They were not really out of the town. The hill, or knoU, they were on was almost completely surrounded below by two horns of suburb. The gossip was that the farmer who owned the land was merely hanging on till the price came up to his requirements, then some builder would carve out of the hillside a super executive-type estate, with views for fifteen miles and mortgages for fifty years. The only bit of information Jenny had got out of Morgan was that he 'knew' the builder was Jacko Roberts. It was obviously a popular site, if not for builders, then certainly for lovers. Four or five sets of headlights had blazed rudely into the neck of the lane, then turned in disappointment away. The sudden illumination did not seem to inhibit Ted, but Jenny found it comforting. She'd also refused to transfer from the front seat and the gear-lever, handbrake and steering-wheel were welcome allies. At the moment there was a truce. She lit her second cigarette. She didn't really smoke, but it was timeconsuming and also provided a potential weapon. Ted puffed energetically at his, uncertain yet whether to congratulate himself on being parked up here with this very attractive young girl, or to commiserate with himself for his failure to make more than token progress. 'Ted,' said Jenny brightly, 'how long have you known my father?' Morgan shifted uneasily. He didn't like any of the implications of the question. 'Oh, a good few years.'

'Are you one of his special friends?'

'I wouldn't say that. Not really. Not like Marcus. Or Arthur.'

'Owen's very pretty, isn't she?'

'So-so,' said Ted casually.

Jenny laughed and started coughing.

'Don't be so offhand,' she spluttered. 'You wouldn't say no, would you?'

He grinned.

'No, I don't suppose I would. Chance'd be a fine thing.' 'I suppose there's a lot of competition for a pretty woman?' How the hell do you get a man to gossip about your dead mother? she thought. I bet Pascoe could.

Ted grew enthusiastic.

'You bet there is. It can be fun.' run?'

'Depends whether you join it, or watch it. Me, I weighed up my chances and decided to watch it. Then it's fun.' He's still talking about Gwen, she thought disappointedly. But what can I expect? If he knew what I wanted he'd be out of the car and away in a flash of shock. But I can't sit here all night. It'll be time for round two soon. Come on, my girl, you're supposed to be a budding teacher. Skilful questioning of the child can make him tap sources of knowledge he didn't know he had. But it'd be easier to give him a work-card. Tell me, Ted,' she began, but he wasn't finished yet. Like the good gossip he was, he had merely been marshalling the various elements of his anecdote to their best advantage. 'You should have been there last Saturday night. Arthur starts looking at his watch about seven. She should have been there by then. He doesn't go home after the game, you see, not worth it, has his tea here and starts straight in on the beer. Well, I was there, behind the bar, standing in for Marcus, for a few minutes he said, more like two hours, so I saw it all develop. He'd look at his watch, then at the clock on the wall, then at his watch. Finally about quarter to eight he shoots through to the other room and finds Dick and Joy Hardy there, they were supposed to be picking Gwen up and bringing her round. But it turns out she wasn't in. So he comes back through trying to look unconcerned. But he's shooting some pretty piercing glances around, I tell you. I let him see me there bright and clear!'

He paused to chuckle.

'Why?' asked Jenny in puzzlement.

Ted sighed at the stupidity of women.

'Because those who were there couldn't be where his old woman was, could they?'

'And who wasn't there?'

Suddenly the impetus of Ted's narrative seemed to fail. 'Oh, lots,' he said without enthusiasm. 'I mean, I couldn't see, could I?' 'But you were behind the bar? That means Uncle Marcus wasn't there.' Ted cheered up. That's right. He wasn't. Though I can't imagine Marcus

… anyway it doesn't matter.' He reached over and put his arm round her shoulders, more paternalistically than passionately.

'Is that the end of the story, then? It's a bit pathetic.'

'Pathetic? Yes, I suppose it is. You've got to feel sorry for him, haven't you? I'm sure there's nothing to any of it, really. Anyway, let's talk about something interesting, like you and me.' Poor Ted, she thought. He's just remembered what happened last Saturday night. But it's more than that, isn't it? He's remembered that Daddy wasn't there either; he's remembered who he's talking to and he's just sober enough to mind his p's and q's. Does he really know something about Daddy and Gwen? I wonder. Or is it all in that cotton-wool mind? She half turned to look at the figure beside her and this proved a near fatal mistake.

Ted mistook the move completely and his other arm came round with an enthusiasm which had nothing paternal in it. Jenny found herself dragged uncomfortably over the gear-stick and hand-brake, her left cheek was pressed in against her teeth by the pressure of an ardent but misdirected kiss and she felt a button on her cardigan give with a violence which boded ill for Marks and Sparks cowering beneath. Round two, she thought, and I didn't even hear the bell. Now this long metal rod with the knob on the end which is doing God knows what damage to my pelvis is the gear-lever. From the freedom of play it seems to have in relation to my belly it must be in neutral. This other more rigid lever which is gouging a hole in the knee of my tights must be the hand-brake. Therefore if I move my hand down there, poor Ted, he's shifting out of the way, God knows what he imagines I'm going to do, there we are, rather stiff, but there she goes, I think. It took Ted several seconds to realize the car was moving. Jenny clung to him tightly, partly to delay his attempts to remedy the situation, partly to buffer herself against any possible impact. By the time he got his foot to the brake pedal they were down among the mud and the car slid on for several yards before coming to a halt. Below them the lights of the town twinkled unconcernedly on. Jenny had a very poor topographical imagination and needed to apply herself with great concentration to the task of relating the main lines of street lights to her own knowledge of the town. It was a task she devoted herself to while Ted with a most ungentlemanly violence of language put the car into reverse and tried to back up the lane. The wheels spun in the mud-lined cart-tracks. Jenny let them spin on for a while; but she was above all things a sensible girl and had no desire to find herself irretrievably stuck. That would be jumping out of the frying-pan into a raging inferno. 'Why don't you,' she said in the ultra-kind voice she reserved for very recalcitrant children, 'get out, put some branches or stones or something under the wheels, then start pushing? I will drive. I do have a licence and I'm really quite good.' Without a word, Ted climbed out of the car and began pulling at the hedgerow. Jenny felt quite sorry for him.

She wound down the window.

T think we'll need some more branches,' she said. Dave and Alice Fernie were walking like a couple of children down the private side of Boundary Drive. They were hand in hand, about a yard apart, swinging their joined hands high and indulging in a tug-of-war every time they encountered a lamp-post or a tree. Alice screamed with laughter as Fernie gave her a jerk which pulled her forward so hard that her left shoe stayed behind, its heel bedded deep in the grass verge. 'Oh-Dave-you-silly!' she half-panted, half-laughed, hopping towards him as he retreated, holding her at arm's length, but didn't finish for he let her catch up, caught all her weight to his body and kissed her passionately. It had just been an ordinary night, starting like a hundred others. They had walked to the local pub, about half a mile into the estate, to have a couple of drinks with a handful of old acquaintances. But things had gone absolutely right from the start, contrary to usage. Perhaps the Christmas decorations in the pub had helped. Dave had had just the right amount of drink, he hadn't been tempted to display his superior knowledge in argument; he hadn't produced any slanderous gossip, he hadn't felt it necessary to demonstrate his virility by being overattentive to someone else's wife. He had irritated no one, offended no one; he had been moderate in speech, witty in comment, generous in purchase and was now obviously amorous in intent. There was a sharp edge of frost in the air. Above, clouds ragged as crows' wings beat across the sky, turning the moon into a pale flower drifting beneath the sea. When for a moment it floated into a clear patch of the sky, it turned to silver the branches and few tenacious leaves of the tree against which they now leaned. There had been nights like this years ago, when they were younger, before there was a house and a television set, before they were married. Memories real as the rough bark pressing against the back of her hands came crowding into her mind. But she did not speak them. Dave did not like the past and she was not going to risk losing any part of the present. The wind rose suddenly and her foot began to feel the cold. Gently she pulled away. I'll get my shoe, Dave, and we'll get on home,' she said.

'Right, love.'

His arm was round her waist now as they walked on, quietly, anticipatingly. It was darker on this side of the road. The trees, the older less efficient lamp-posts, all contributed. Ahead they could see the telephone-box which stood almost outside their gate. They didn't need one till the hoi polloi came,' Fernie had once commented. When he was in the mood, everything appeared as evidence of the difference between 'us' and 'them'. Now it looks like a beacon, welcoming us home, thought Alice, though not without a wry glance at her own romanticism. They were nearly there and she turned to cross the road. But he pulled her back and leaned her against another tree.

'Dave!' she said.

He kissed her again.

'Afraid of the neighbours?' 'Of course not. I'm afraid of me. There's some things you can't do out on the street.'

'Why not?' he whispered. 'It'd be fun.'

'Oh, you fool,' she murmured.

They kissed once more.

'Let's go in now,' he said, eagerly. As they stepped out from behind the tree, a figure, walking rapidly and glancing back over his shoulder, stepped off the pavement a few yards up and came at them on a collision course. There was an urgency about the way he moved which caught Alice's attention, but it was her husband who spoke first.

'Hey, Stanley! What's up, then?'

The figure stopped dead and saw them obviously for the first time.

'Mr Fernie. It's you.'

Then no more. It was Stanley Curtis, his face rather pale, breathing deeply, quickly.

'Is something wrong, Stan?' asked Alice.

'No. Well, yes. It's just that, well, I was passing Mr Connon's house and I just looked over the hedge and I saw someone. Someone there.'

He stopped again.

'Where, boy?' asked Fernie, sharply. 'What doing?' 'In the garden. Just prowling around. Then he disappeared up the side of the house. I thought it might be…'

'Yes, Stanley?'

'… the man who killed Mrs Connon.' Fernie nodded vigorously, not so much, it seemed to Alice, at what Stan had said, but rather at some thought going through his own head.

'Right. Come on, lad. Alice, you stay here.'

'Dave! What are you going to do?' To have a look. What else? There's two of us. Come on, Stan.' But Stanley made no movement. Poor kid, thought Alice, he's scared stiff. She moved to him and put her arm over his shoulders. He was shivering violently. 'Don't be a fool, Dave,' she said sharply. 'Stan's not coming with you. And you're not going either. There's the phone-box. Get on to the police straightaway.' Fernie stood irresolutely for a moment. Alice glanced round. The Curtis house was in darkness. Maisie and her husband were obviously out. 'I'm taking Stan inside,' she said. 'You come on in when you've talked to the police. You can watch in comfort then.' So much for the perfect end to a perfect night, she thought resignedly as she walked up the path. All that build-up gone to waste. It'd have been better if I'd told him to go ahead up against the tree. We might have missed Stanley. And he was too scared to notice us. But he'd have called the police anyway and they might really have caught us at it. Against a tree! The thought made her smile. Alice Fernie was a woman of indomitable spirit. Behind her, her husband stepped into the telephonebox and began to dial. 'Connie,' said Hurst, 'I've brought you a drink. You're not going to hide in here all night, are you?' Connie recognized the half-jocular, half-sympathetic note in Hurst's voice. It was a tone he was growing familiar with. Condolences first. Then afterwards talk as if nothing had happened, but inject enough sympathy into your voice to show you're still aware that something has.

He hadn't meant to sit so long by himself. He had come down to the Club that night with a real purpose, a purpose only half of which had been carried out at the meeting. The sight of Dalziel and Pascoe had disconcerted him more than he had cared to show. He felt illogically that somehow he was responsible for introducing a dissonant element into the Club. It was a rugby club. He had long been disturbed by the growing diversification of the Club's interests. And therefore of the Club's membership. But he put these thoughts to the back of his mind now, with a silent promise that they would be uttered one day soon. 'I've been glancing through the teams, Peter,' he said. 'What's happened to Jim Davies?' 'He knocked his knee on Saturday. Seemed all right at first, but came up like a balloon over the weekend.' 'So you brought in Gerald on the open side. He'll never hold the place, will he? Did you think of any of the youngsters? Jo Walsh? Or Stan Curtis?'

Hurst laughed.

'You might almost have been eavesdropping, Connie. Yes, both of them. But Joe's best-manning at a wedding on Saturday so he's not available. Though he'd come along, white carnation, wedding-ring and all, I reckon, if he was asked to play for the Firsts. But we couldn't do that. And young Curtis has been a bit under the weather, missed training this week, so he's out. Anything else?'

'Yes. I see Marcus's name's missing from the Fourths.'

'Time marches on, Connie! He's asked not to be considered, for a while at least. Feeling his age, he says.' 'Considered!' smiled Connon. 'You don't get considered for the Fourths. You get press-ganged. He'll have to join the great gang of us who move around in disguise on Saturdays till half an hour after kick-off time. You'll be one of us soon, Peter.' Hurst nodded and started to pin the team-sheets back up on the board.

Then he seemed to make his mind up about something.

'Connie, that letter. I was desperately sorry to hear about it.'

'Yes?'

It was a calm, simple interrogative, inviting but not pleading for a continuation.

'I'd like to see it if I might,' said Hurst.

'Why?' 'I might be able to help. Might, perhaps; there's just something; that's why I asked at the meeting, but I'd have to see the letter first, partly to see what's in it, partly just to see it.' 'Well now, Mr Hurst. I think that might be arranged. We'll get in touch with you tomorrow shan we?' In the doorway stood the solid bulk of Dalziel. Hurst flushed an angry red. But Connon remained as cool and unmoved as he had been while listening to Hurst. 'He'd have to know, Peter,' he said calmly. The police have the letter. Did you want to speak to me, Superintendent?' That's right. I didn't come just to eavesdrop. We've had a report on an intruder on your premises. The station have just phoned me here. I've told them to observe, but keep off till I get there. I'd like you to come too, if you would.'

'Of course. Who reported this?'

'Your friend Fernie. He seems to spend most of his spare time keeping an eye on your house.'

Connon smiled thoughtfully.

'Yes, he does, doesn't he? Good night, Peter. Perhaps we can talk again tomorrow.' They moved out into the social room. As they passed through the dancers, Connon noticed Pascoe moving slowly around with an attractive young girl. Sheila, he thought. I saw you last Saturday. It seems like a thousand years. Dalziel noticed him also and made a motion of the head. Pascoe didn't seem to notice and carried on dancing. But as they walked towards the car park, buttoning up their coats against the frost, footsteps came up quickly behind and Pascoe joined them.

'Jenny,' said Connon suddenly.

'She left,' said Pascoe laconically. A cold fear gripped Connon's stomach. 'Where?' he asked. There was no reason why they should know the answer, but he felt sure they would. 'It's all right,' said Pascoe. 'Not home, I shouldn't think. She left with Ted Morgan.' Connon tried not to let his relief show. Ted Morgan was manageable. Ted was forecastable. As far as anyone was forecastable, that was. And perhaps that was not very far at all. He reached into his pocket for his car keys. The frost on his windscreen was merely dampness still and after four or five sweeps of the wiper-blades he began to see more clearly. Dalziel's car was waiting for him by the exit. Carefully he began to follow it out on to the main road. It was a silent drive back down into the town. Ted lived with his mother, an arrangement which, while it lacked many of the usual tragi-comedy trappings of such situations, did present certain problems. Ted was not altogether happy at the prospect of explaining to her how he came to be covered with mud down the front of his suit. Jenny had put Ted quite out of her mind and was threshing over problems and questions she would not have believed could have existed a week ago. She felt very lonely. There was only her father. She loved him deeply, but their relationship had generally been tacit; there had never been a need for definition, explanations, analyses. Love didn't need these things. But now she needed someone to talk to, with; at, if you liked. She needed someone to take her thoughts and rethink them. Look at them in a new way. She had thoughts she did not wish her father to look at. And she was certain that whatever was going on in his mind, only the sheltered, leeward aspect would be revealed to her. I don't want to be protected, she thought angrily. I want to be consulted, listened to, argued with. I'll make him talk to me, I'll force him. I know I can. I know! But even in her anger she also knew she could not add anything more to the heavy burden of worry and doubt she had seen her father was already carrying. 'Is it right here?' asked Ted in the voice of one speaking only through dire necessity.

That's right.'

Poor Ted. He'd had a bit of a raw deal. And to slip in the mud must have been the last straw. If Daddy was home, she'd invite him in for a coffee and a cleanup. But only if Daddy was at home. 'This side of the road, just before that phone-box,' she said. There seemed to be a lot of cars parked in the street tonight. Without lights. Like taxis. Or… She rubbed the side-window and peered out. She had been right. That was her father's car.

'Stop here,' she cried.

They were almost at the house and Ted was already braking. But her sudden command made him stand violently on the pedal and they were both jerked forward against their seat-belts. Jenny smacked the release button sharply, opened the door and stepped out.

Connon came trotting up the pavement towards her.

'Daddy,' she said, her voice full of relief. 'What's hapening? What's the matter?' 'No need to worry, my dear,' said Dalziel, coming up behind her.

She ignored him and looked expectantly at her father.

'Someone's been seen prowling round the house. Or at least Mr Fernie believes he saw someone.' 'You have too little faith in Fernie,' said Dalziel. 'A man who feels his civic responsibilities more than some. Still, we'll soon see. My ferrets are in. We'll see what they nip out.' Connon put his arm over his daughter's shoulder as she shivered at Dalziel's imagery. There was some kind of sound made remote and distant by the night. 'Ah, action, I think,' said Dalziel. 'Let's have a look, shan we?' He strode out energetically towards the gate. Connon and Jenny followed. Jenny was curiously reluctant to come face to face with this intruder whoever it was. A small group of men were coming down the path. Some were uniformed policemen. One silhouette she thought she recognized as Pascoe's. And another outline looked strangely familiar. 'My dear officers,' said a rather breathless but still wellmodulated voice, 'of what am I accused that you should treat me like the nucleus of a civil rights demonstration? Is this the effect television-watching is having upon the constabulary? Have a care – my father sells meat to the wife of a prospective Liberal candidate.'

'Antony,' she said with delight. 'Daddy, it's Antony.'

The group stopped before them. 'Ah, there you are, Jenny. I cannot say how touched I am at the warmth of the reception you have arranged for me.'

Even dishevelled as after a slight struggle and with his arms firmly gripped by two impassive policemen, he looked elegantly in control of the situation.

'Do you know this man, miss?' asked Dalziel.

'Of course I do. Please let him go at once. How bloody stupid can you get?' Dalziel nodded at the policemen, who released Antony's arms. 'I think we had better go inside for some explanations,' he said with a sigh. 'If you don't mind, Mr Connon.' Connon nodded and set off up the drive. Jenny put her arm protectively round Antony's waist and led him after her father, the uniformed police still in close attendance. Dalziel looked around. At Ted Morgan who stood against his car, hardly able to take in what was happening. At Dave Fernie who was coming over the road. At Alice Fernie and Stanley Curtis who stood at the Fernies' gate. 'You look after matters out here, will you, Sergeant? Make a thorough job of it, eh?'

He too went up the driveway into the house.

Pascoe looked after the vanishing figure. Then turned back to those remaining, letting his eyes run coldly over them, finally coming to rest on Morgan's mudstained suit. Yes, he thought, I'll make a thorough job of it, never fear. Sir.