A clubbable woman

Chapter 5.

Connon came up out of blackness into a dream. It was as if he had fainted in his sleep and the recovery from the faint made the level of sleep seem reality by comparison. There stretched before him a great expanse of mudtrodden grass, gleaming brokenly like water viewed from a height in the summer sun. Immeasurably distant on the horizon stood a pair of rugby posts, so high that they were clearly visible despite the miles that seemed to separate them from him. He set off running towards them, smoothly at first, balanced, feeling all the old confidence in his muscles, the ability to shift his weight at will in any direction, to stop dead, accelerate, turn, sidestep. He knew when he felt like this that, given a yard to move in, no man on earth could stop him.

But here there was no one to try to stop him.

Nevertheless he made a few feints out of sheer exuberance, suggested a turn with his hips, moved at rightangles to his forward path with no loss of speed, changed step three times in successive strides, kicking hard on the last change and accelerating away in the joy of being able to run for ever.

The posts did not get nearer.

Suddenly he felt a change. His stride shortened; his legs felt leaden; his breathing, till now perceptible only in a slight flaring of the nostrils, became harsh and ragged, his mouth wide open, his teeth biting desperately at the intangible air. The sun exploded into whiteness and the muddy grass turned to sand so fine that he sank in it ankle-deep as he ran. I am in the desert, he thought. At last I am in the desert. And I shan die if I do not reach that rock. The rock towered on the horizon where the posts had been. The sun sat on top of it like the flame on a black candle.

Desperately, failingly, he ran towards the sun.

Out of the rock's foot grew a shadow so dark that it contained all colours. Its edges, at first three-dimensionally sharp and rigid, after a while began to wave and shimmer on the red heat of the sand. Soon the undulation spread to the whole shadow and the blackness curved smoothly away from the rock. Then at the crest of each polished wave, the blackness broke for a moment into the dark green of very deep water, and the sun shimmered in it like light varnished over. The shadow stretched towards him like a great shining path. There was a beating in his ears like the roar of a mighty crowd. He sat up in bed and heard the singing of a solitary bird in the tree outside his window. Then that noise stopped too and he was not sure if he had heard even that. It was still dark. The sun came late in December if it came at all. He sat on the edge of the bed and felt for his slippers. Soon it will be Christmas, he thought. Not more than a week. Season of promises. Vows that this year it will be different. This year those brief moments of feeling, of affection while sharing the task of putting up the decorations, of humility while listening to carol-singers, of joy when waking on Christmas morning, this year these brief moments will spread and grow and shape themselves to fit the whole year, the whole of our life. But there was scarcely enough to colour the greyness of Christmas Day itself. And this year there was no use even in making promises. Mary is dead, he told himself, and we are to each other for ever what was bearable only in my intuition of its impermanence. Death doesn't change things, then. It merely petrifies things for those who go on living. He stood up and went out on to the landing. As he passed Jenny's door he paused momentarily, but shook his head at himself and went on down the stairs. If he is in there, then he is in there, and they might as well bring each other what comfort they can. To know would not help me. To know I know would probably distress Jenny. So I must be careful not to find out. As long as he is capable of tenderness, and I think he is.

He laughed softly to himself.

At least there'll be no shortage of pillow talk with that one. If kids learn by example, he'll turn out whole classfuls of pedants. At the bottom of the stairs he was surprised to find himself putting on his overcoat. He started to take it off again, then sighed and pulled it back over his shoulders. My body knows more than my mind, he thought. I might as well get it over with. Shivering a little he went through into the kitchen and opened the back door. The cold morning air struck damply into his face. A familiar but still timid stray cat peered at him from beneath a blackcurrant bush and howled piteously.

'In a minute,' he said.

He stepped across the strip of lawn which separated the side of the house from a small garden shed. Inside the shed it was dark. There was a smell of fertilizer and insecticide. Against the wall opposite the door and clearly visible in the shaft of relative light falling through the doorway was a chair. High-backed, comfortable-looking. His mind a careful blank, he reached to the shelf over it and took down a small plastic bag. Then he turned and went out in the garden again, closing the door behind him. When he got back into the kitchen the cat, finally courageous in its search for food, was sitting in the corner. It made a dart for the door as he came in, but he was too quick for it. Realizing it could not get out, it sat down and started washing itself.

'That's right,' he said. 'Breakfast in a minute.'

Then he tipped the contents of the plastic bag on to the kitchen table and began to sort through them. 'Good morning, Mr Connon,' said a man's voice, pitched deliberately softly in order not to startle. Connon was a hard man to startle in any case, as those who knew him well could vouch. Now he hardly glanced up at the dressing-gowned figure standing at the door.

'Good morning, Antony,' he said. 'Sleep well?'

'Like a log,' said the boy. 'Jenny and I sat up until the early hours chatting.'

'You're up early.'

A statement not a question. Connon continued to sort through the objects before him. 'I'm very good at toast and coffee. May I be permitted…?'

'Go ahead.'

Connon now brought his full attention to bear on the objects before him. There were four groupings on the table top. The first group contained seven pennies and three halfpennies. Some of the coins were almost green with age. The second group contained pieces of paper. Old bus tickets, theatre-tickets, a golf score-card, a shopping list, the items almost unreadable. He picked this up, and looked at the writing for a moment, then put it gently down. The third group contained a variety of items. Hairgrips, a pencil, a bobbin, a teaspoon with an apostolic head. The fourth group wasn't really a group at all. There was just one item. A very small piece of lead, like a tiny cupola with a lightly-milled edge. Connon poked at it with his forefinger. It rolled round a semi-circle and came to rest.

'Coffee,' said Antony. 'Toast follows in a trice.'

He put a large mug of steaming black coffee in front of Connon and looked enquiringly at the stuff which littered the table. Connon picked up the plastic bag, opened it, put it at the edge of the table and swept the items into it with one efficient movement of his hand. Then he tossed the bag lightly on top of a wall-cabinet behind him.

He sniffed.

'Do your habits include burning toast?' he asked. Antony turned the grill off and looked at the dark brown slices of bread. 'It is only by going too far sometimes,' he said, 'that we know we have gone far enough.' They drank their coffee and ate their toast (rejuvenated with a sharp knife) in silence at first.

Ts there any more coffee?' asked Connon.

'In a second,' said Antony. 'Mr Connon,' he said as he busied himself with the kettle and the jar of instant coffee, T didn't really have a chance last night to explain myself to you very fully. I was too occupied in explaining myself legally to that rather brutal man, Dalziel, then in explaining myself emotionally to Jenny, to have much chance of explaining myself rationally to you. Here's your coffee.'

He sat down again.

'Explain away,' said Connon. 'I was distressed, as were all her friends, to hear the sad news of Jenny's bereavement. That it was unexpected I knew. I had just been talking with Jenny about her family, yourself and Mrs Connon, that same Saturday night.'

'Had you now?' murmured Connon.

'When I read in the newspapers the details of the matter, I was even more distressed. I determined to contact Jenny, but letters and telephone conversations seemed quite inadequate means of discovering what I wanted to know, that is whether I could be of any use to her. So I vacillated, most uncharacteristically I might add, for several days. Finally I went to the Principal of the college, a sympathetic dame whose ear I have for any amount of services rendered, and told her I had decided that term must end slightly earlier for me than the others. So off I set. My intention was to arrive here during hours of daylight, but the charity of our road-users is not what it used to be. The rest you know. I arrived to find the house empty. I settled down to wait in the passageway between the garage and the house where I was a little protected from the inclemency of the weather and whence I was eventually plucked by the constabulary. More toast?' 'Thank you, no,' said Connon, looking reflectively at the youth. 'How well do you know Jenny?' 'In terms of time, not well. But in terms of attraction, very well indeed. I am her current beau.' 'If the archaism is meant to help me understand you, I don't like the implication,' said Connon with a smile. Antony looked apologetic but Connon did not let him speak. 'And now you've seen Jenny, have you learned anything that letter or telephone conversation would not have told you?' 'Possibly not. But what I have learned is absolutely clear, which it might not otherwise have been.'

'And that is?'

'That I can be of help, that she is delighted to have me here and that my presence can be of great comfort to her during these very trying times. I would like to have your permission to extend my stay, Mr Connon.' 'Do I have a choice?' asked Connon. 'If I do, which I doubt where Jenny's concerned, then I unhesitatingly offer you my hospitality for as long as you care to accept it. I also noticed Jenny's reaction to your arrival. But make sure your presence remains a comfort to her and doesn't become a complication.' 'Is this a private party or can anyone join?' said Jenny's voice from the door. She was wearing an old dressing-gown, her hair was uncombed, her nose shiny. And her eyes too shone as she looked at the two men sitting there. Antony rose to his feet and stood gazing intensely at her.

Connon sighed.

'If you're going to stay with us, Antony, you'll have to learn that in this household we don't pay all that much attention to the courtesies. You'll have to break yourself of the habit of bobbing up and down every time my daughter appears, especially when she looks like this.' 'It is not a matter of habit this time,' replied Antony. 'It is a small tribute I offer to beauty.'

'Jesus wept!' said Connon, laughing loud.

Jenny sat down, laughing even louder and eventually Antony, a pleasant glow of satisfaction in his mind, sat down laughing also. In the hall the phone rang. Jenny, nearest the door, turned in her chair, but Connon was up and out in one smooth movement. As soon as he went through the door, Antony leaned over and kissed Jenny lightly on the lips. She smiled happily at him and took his hand. They sat looking at each other without speaking. Connon's voice came drifting in from the hall.

'Hello? Connon speaking.'

A long pause. The youngsters kissed again.

'Is that all you know? But why?' Jenny shook her head in mock severity as Antony leaned nearer. 'Yes, of course we must. What? I don't know, do I? You'll have to think that out yourself.'

A very short pause.

'All right. Later. Goodbye.'

The phone clicked back on to its rest.

Jenny and Antony moved a few inches further apart, then giggled at each other because of the involuntary movement. Connon came back into the room. One look at his face and Jenny stopped giggling. 'Daddy,' she said. 'What's the matter? What's happened?' 'I'm not sure,' said Connon slowly. 'It may be nothing, but the police have picked up Arthur Evans. They've got him down at the station for questioning. About… about last Saturday night.' 'Listen, Arthur,' said Dalziel in his heartiest voice. 'We've known each other a long time. All I want's a bit of cooperation. Anything you tell me will be in strict confidence if it's got nothing to do with our enquiries. As I'm sure it hasn't. I give you my word as a public official, and a friend. I can't say fairer.' 'Confidence?' said Evans. 'You talk of confidence, do you, with laughing boy sitting here with his pencil and paper at the ready? What's he doing, then? Sketching the bloody view, is it?' Dalziel sighed and looked over at Pascoe who was sitting quietly in the furthermost corner of the room. The sergeant raised his eyebrows interrogatively. Dalziel shook his head fractionally.

Tm sorry, Arthur. Sergeant Pascoe has to stay. I have to have someone here, you see. It's the regulations. It's in your interest, you see. It's for your protection.' You bloody old hypocrite, thought Pascoe. You'd lie to your own grandmother. Suddenly it's regimental Dalziel, the slave of the rule-book. Poor old Bruiser! If he didn't want me here, I'd be out like a rocket. Though why he does want me here's a bit of a mystery. Why not try the old pals' act, just the two of us together, it'll be off the record? Why not? I'll tell you why not, you halfwit. Because he knows it wouldn't work, that's why not. These two are about as near to being old pals as Judas Iscariot and the Pope. Just look at them. Perhaps Bruiser joined the queue knocking at Gwen Evans's back door at some time. He's not promising poor old Arthur silence if he co-operates. He's threatening him with lots of noise if he doesn't! 'If it wasn't Sergeant Pascoe here, Arthur,' Dalziel continued, 'it would have to be someone else. In fact technically I ought to have someone else here as well, but I thought that as the sergeant knew the facts of the enquiry (in fact he was instrumental in getting the information we'd like to question you about), it would keep it in the family so to speak if he acted as my amanuensis, that's the word, isn't it, Sergeant Pascoe?' Pascoe smiled bleakly at the appeal to his erudition. Dalziel nodded enthusiastically as if he had received encouragement. 'Of course, you're entitled to have your own legal representative present, if you wish to be really formal about things. Would you like that? It's Stubby Barnet, isn't it? It'd be nice to see Stubby again, haven't seen him since last year's Club dinner.' Stubby Barnet! thought Pascoe. Nice to see Stubby again; Good God, the power structure in a town this size was more formidable than politics in New York City. Come on, Arthur, you can't complain, boyo! You're being offered all the protection of the law. We'll keep the crowds back as you wash your dirty linen in public. 'Listen, Dalziel,' said Evans, 'I don't know what you're getting at, see? This is Saturday morning and I've got things to do. The only reason I came in here was that I was on my way into town when your boys called and they said it would be quicker if I came in to see you. So let's make it quick, shan we?' 'With pleasure, Arthur. Then I'll just ask again the only question you've allowed me to put so far. Would you tell me where you went when you left the Rugby Club about eight-fifteen last Saturday evening?'

This is to do with Mary Connon, is it?'

'Just answer the question, please, Arthur.' 'I went home, then, that's where I bloody well went. Can I go now?'

'Why did you go home?'

'It's where I live, see? That's what home means, don't you remember, Superintendent Dalziel? Ask your bloody amanuensis.'

Dalziel was unperturbed by the outburst.

'But why did you leave the Club? You came back later, didn't you? Oh come on, Arthur! You're among friends. We have information. It's no use being coy, there's others who aren't.' 'I bet there bloody well is. Old gossiping women dressed up like men. I know them.'

'Sergeant. What is our information again, please?'

'Sir!' said Pascoe, sitting to attention. 'Our information is that Mr Evans left the Club in order to go and see what was delaying the arrival of his wife whom he had been expecting for some time.'

'I see. Is that true, Mr Evans?'

'Yes. Anything wrong with that?'

'Not in the least. Did you try the telephone?'

'Yes.'

'But without success.'

Evans grunted. I can't put that down in words, can I? said Pascoe to himself. If I did it would probably read, if someone's rogering your wife on the hearth rug, you can't expect her to answer the phone.

Dalziel was looking happier now.

'You see, it's really all straightforward, isn't it? What happened then?'

'When?'

'When you got home.'

'Nothing. I mean, she wasn't there.'

Dalziel pushed his right index finger through the small hairs which fringed the cavity of his ear, and wriggled it sensuously about.

'But you knew she wasn't there.'

'What?' 'You knew she wasn't there. Your friends Dick and Joy Hardy had already called as arranged and had got no reply. They told you when you asked them at the Club. And you had telephoned yourself without success. So you knew she wasn't there.' He knew she wasn't answering, thought Pascoe. That's what you knew, wasn't it, Arthur?

'I had to be sure.'

'In case she'd had an accident or something?' suggested Dalziel sympathetically. 'Yes,' replied Evans, hardly bothering to sound convincing.

'Relieved?'

Evans looked up suspiciously, his body tensing, his trunk leaning forward as if he were going to rise.

'Relieved she wasn't there. She hadn't had an accident.'

'Yes.'

'What did you do then?'

'Well, I came back to the Club, didn't I? You know that bloody well. You just said so.'

'Straight back.'

'Yes.' 'So you left the Club about ten past eight, went home, found all was well, and went straight back?' 'That's right. Yes. Though,' he added slowly as if thinking something out, T didn't leave there for, oh, about twenty, perhaps thirty minutes, I shouldn't wonder. Yes. That's right.' Dalziel clapped his hands together as though a tricky point had been made simple. 'Good!' he said. 'That's why you didn't get back till after nine-fifteen. It's only five minutes' drive, isn't it?'

Now Evans did stand up.

'Yes,' he said. 'Is that all then? I don't see the point, but if it helps you, you're welcome. And I'll be on my way.'

Dalziel shook his head with a sad smile.

'Don't be silly, Arthur. You're not daft. You know that's not all. I'm just giving you a chance to tell us, that's all. If you don't want your chance, then just sit down again, and we'll tell you.' Slowly Arthur Evans resumed his seat.

'Sergeant, just refresh us with your information again.'

'Certainly, sir.' Pascoe rippled through the pages of his notebook, stopped, coughed and began to speak in an impersonal monotone as before. 'Information given to us states that Mr Evans's motorcar was seen parked in Glenfair Road just before its junction with Boundary Drive at about eight-forty p.m. on the evening of Saturday last.' He raised his eyes from the page. He might have done this a good deal earlier if he had wanted for it was completely blank.

His interviews the previous night had been done with all his customary thoroughness, but the most productive one had been not the Fernies or young Curtis, those most directly concerned with the incidents which had taken him to Boundary Drive, but with Ted Morgan whom there was really no reason to interview at all. Except that he had had mud down his suit. Anyone who came back covered with mud after an evening with Jenny Connon had some answering to do, Pascoe had decided, surprised at his own concern.

Or jealousy.

Me jealous? he thought. Nonsense. I'm questioning this man because he might be able to help us. Not jealous. Just zealous. But whatever his motives, he soon realized that he had tapped a very useful vein of information in Ted Morgan. Ted had been a little belligerent at first but a couple of hints that Pascoe had seen him drinking in the Club earlier and an oblique reference to the breathalyser test had calmed him down and made him most cooperative. Once he got started, like all the best gossips, there was no stopping him. Ten minutes with Morgan was more informative than all the rest of his questioning put together. What he said about Evans's movements and behaviour on Saturday evening plus his confirmation of Jacko Roberts's placing of Connon high on the Evans suspect list had set Pascoe's mind racing. He knew that the constable on patrol in Boundary Drive had noticed no strange cars parked in the road that night as he passed along. Now he checked with the policeman whose beat took him down Glenfair Road, the main thoroughfare into which Boundary Drive ran. The list of car numbers he had noted that evening for one reason or another was unproductive. Evans's was not among them. But after much thought the constable did vaguely recall noticing a car parked very near to the corner of Boundary Drive, not near enough to constitute a danger, but near enough for him to notice it. 'I didn't make a note,' he had said defensively. 'Why should I? There was no offence being committed. Nothing suspicious.' But his vague memory was of a white or cream Hillman. Evans drove a white Hillman Minx. It had all been so flimsy that Pascoe had hesitated about presenting it to Dalziel. But in the end, he knew he had to. The superintendent's reaction had been unexpected. He had been as near to complimentary as Pascoe could recall. 'I've been wanting a chat with Arthur,' he had said gleefully. 'I'm worried about that wife of his. A woman like that's a… one of those things that helps other things to get started?'

'A catalyst,' said Pascoe.

'Right. A catalyst to violence.' 'You can't question a man because his wife's well built!' protested Pascoe. 'I once questioned a vicar because his choir was too big. Other churches were complaining, he was poaching their kids. It turned out he was paying well over the odds. But it didn't stop at singing. Let's have him in first thing.'

'All right,' he said. 'So I was there. What of it?'

'Where is "there", Mr Evans?' asked Dalziel. 'There. At Connon's. You know. I'm damned if I know why I didn't tell you in the first place, back when all this started happening. Must look a bit odd, I suppose.' 'Perhaps. Perhaps not. Lies, evasions, we get 'em all the time, Arthur. I sometimes use them myself,' he said, chuckling.

'I've noticed,' said Evans drily.

Tell us about it then, Arthur,' invited Dalziel.

Evans grunted again, then started talking. Having made up his mind to talk, he spoke rapidly and fluently and Pascoe's pen flew over the paper as he took shorthand notes. He was so occupied with the accuracy of his record that he scarcely had time to pay attention to the narrative as a whole and it wasn't until Evans fell silent that the statement jelled in his mind. The Welshman had set off home in a cold fury. He was convinced that his wife was with another man. He was almost as convinced that this man was Connon. He went right through the house when he arrived home but there was no sign of Gwen; nor of anyone else. Connon had left the Club early, he remembered, saying he was going home. Now Evans got back into his car and drove round to Connon's house. He had not parked in front of the house because he had no desire to draw attention to himself. All he wanted to do was to see if Connon's car was in the garage. The only sign of life he could see in the house was the white light from a television screen shining through a chink in the living-room curtains. He went as silently as he could up the drive and peered into the garage. The car was there. Still unconvinced, he considered ringing the bell and inventing some pretext for coming to see Connon if Mary Connon answered the door. Instead, not wanting to risk a scene without more evidence of his suspicions, he went back to his car and drove back to the Club, stopping briefly at a couple of pubs on the way to see if Gwen was in either. But when he reached the Club she was there already. It's a reasonable story, thought Pascoe. And if he had rung the bell at Connon's what reason would he have had to kill Mary? 'And did you find out where Gwen had been, Arthur?' asked Dalziel softly. 'She said she thought Dick and Joy had forgotten they were to pick her up, so she set off to catch the bus.'

'It must have been a slow bus.'

It was a flat, totally unaccented statement.

'She just missed one, so she dropped in at our local for some fags, and stayed to have a drink.'

'And did she?'

Evans was having difficulty in controlling his voice. 'I do not go around public houses asking if my wife is telling me the truth. That's more in your line.' 'Oh it is. Quite right,' said Dalziel with equanimity. 'We'll ask, never fear. But we won't bother you with our findings if you feel that way.' A touch of the knife, thought Pascoe. Just a hint, a reminder.

Dalziel wasn't finished.

'Why do you suspect Connon of… whatever you suspect him of?'

'Don't be mealy-mouthed, Bruiser.'

'All right. Of having it away with your wife. Why Connon?' Evans spoke softly now so that Pascoe had to strain to catch his words. 'Nothing positive. Things she let slip. We had a row. She said I should pay her more attention, I was always round at the Club with my drinking mates. I said at least I knew where I was with them. I could trust the men I drank with. So she laughed at that, see. Said, "oh yes?" I asked what she meant. She said that not all of them were overgrown boys like me. One at least, she said, was a man. Still waters run deep, she said.'

He fell silent.

'That's little enough to go on.' 'Oh, there's other things. I've seen 'em talking. Seeing her looking at him. And when she goes missing like she did last Saturday he's usually not around either. But I wasn't certain, see? That's why I didn't ring the bell.' 'You were certain enough last Saturday afternoon when you put the boot in,' said Pascoe casually from his corner. Evans flushed and looked far more embarrassed than he had done at any stage so far. 'What? Oh, that. How do you know? Oh, I don't know what made me do that, rotten thing to do, that was. I was really sorry afterwards. I'd got him to play, see? We were short anyway, always are, and I thought, right Connie, I'll know where you are this afternoon at any rate. Then he went down in this loose scrum, shouldn't have been there, but he was always a bit of a hero, and I put my foot in looking for the ball and there he was. I couldn't have missed him, but I could have slowed down a bit. But I didn't. Silly really, I've never done anything like it before. Never. Hard, you know, but never malicious. I was really sorry. Might have killed him. I thought I had for a moment.' I wish he wouldn't get so blasted Welsh when he's excited, thought Pascoe. My shorthand doesn't have the right symbols somehow. I'll never be able to read it back. 'But I didn't, did I?' Evans went on. 'And I didn't kill his missis either, if that's what all this is about, which is all I can think.' 'No one has suggested such a thing, I hope?' said Dalziel, shocked. 'Your value to us, Arthur, is that you were there. In the road. Up at the house. At a significant time. We want to know what you saw. Tell us again what you saw.' Halfway through the third telling, Pascoe was called out to the phone. He returned a minute later looking thoughtful. 'Now look,' said Evans. 'I've got to be going. Gwen will be thinking I've been put in a dungeon. And I've got to catch the team bus at twelve-forty-five. We're away today. So unless you've got ways of keeping me here you haven't revealed yet, I'm off.' 'Arthur,' said Dalziel reproachfully. 'You've been free to go any time. We've no way of holding you.'

'No,' agreed Evans, rising.

'Except perhaps for obstructing the police by not revealing all this a lot earlier.'

Ouch! thought Pascoe.

'Early or late, I've revealed it now. And it'll go no further, I hope.' 'Not unless needed, Arthur. We're always a little doubtful about statements that have to be forced out of witnesses by revealing the extent of our prior information.' Evans laughed, the first merry sound he'd made since his arrival. 'Information nothing. It's piss-all information you had. I volunteered my statement because I wanted to volunteer, not because of your pathetic bluff. When you sort out your notes, Sergeant, you might include in them the additional information that my car was parked at the other end of Boundary Drive, the end furthest away from Glenfair Road, see? So it's purely voluntary isn't it? And now I'm going to volunteer to go home. Good day to you both.' Dalziel and Pascoe looked at each other for a long moment after the door had slammed behind Evans. Then they both began to grin, and finally laughed out loud. It was their first moment of spontaneous shared amusement that Pascoe could remember. 'Well now, boyo,' said Dalziel in a dreadful parody of a Welsh accent, 'you'd better watch your bloody self, see? Telling such lies to an honest citizen.' 'It might have been his car,' said Pascoe. 'White Hillman. I mean, why not? It didn't seem absolutely out of the question. By the way, we had a phone call.'

'From?'

'Connon. He was worried about Arthur. Wanted us to go easy on the thumbscrews, I think.'

'Did he now? And he asked for you?'

'Why yes. I expect so.'

'I see. Thinks I haven't got any better feelings to appeal to, does he? Well, go on.' 'There's nothing to go on with. I assured him we were only asking Mr Evans one or two questions that might or might not be connected with the case. And I suggested he should contact Evans himself for full details.'

'That was naughty. You didn't ask then?'

'Ask what? Sir?' Dalziel looked pleadingly up to heaven. Pascoe sighed inwardly. The party's over then, he thought. Like Christmas, a brief moment of good will and fellowship, then back to normal. You've spent your allowance, Bruiser. What're you going to do at the end of the week? 'You didn't ask who he got his information from. About Evans's being here.' He's right. I should have asked. That's another of his blasted troubles. He keeps on being right. 'No, sir. I didn't. Sorry. I'll get back on to him, shan I?' 'Don't bother,' said Dalziel. 'If he doesn't want to tell us (and the minute you ask, he won't) there's no way of finding out. From him. But the possible sources aren't many, are they?'

'No, sir.'

'Our bobbies. A couple of nosey neighbours. Or the fair Gwen herself. Who's got your money, Sergeant?'

Pascoe's mind was racing.

'That'd mean, or might mean, that Evans is not altogether wrong. And if he's not altogether wrong, then Connon suddenly gets a great big motive.'

'Motive? What motive?'

'Why, she, Mary Connon that is, finds out.' 'How?' 'Accidentally by finding something,' said Pascoe impatiently. 'Or is deliberately told. Anonymous friend, a telephone call, that kind of thing. We've got one around that doesn't like Connie much, we know that.'

'So. She knows. What then?'

'She tells him, that night. Gets nasty. Says some more unpleasant things about his daughter. Connon sees red. He's had that crack on the head remember. He grabs…' Pascoe paused.

'What does he grab, Sergeant?'

'How do I know? Something odd enough in shape not to be a normal part of living-room furniture. Something, anything, he can use as a club. And swings it at her.'

'At his own wife? Sitting in his own lounge? Connon?'

Pascoe sighed. 'I didn't know the lady as well as you, sir, but she seems in all particulars to have been a pretty clubbable woman.' 'No, I didn't mean her. I mean Connon. It's out of character. You've met him. Sudden violence doesn't fit.' The fat sod's fair, thought Pascoe. You've got to admit he's fair. I'm sure he'd like it to be Connon, but he doesn't try to bend matters. 'Perhaps the whole thing's a fake then, sir. Perhaps there was no concussion, no quarrel, no heat of the moment. Perhaps Connon decided he would like to marry Gwen Evans or just unmarry Mary Connon. So he goes quietly home, sits and watches the telly with her a while; then, in the commercial break perhaps, he leans forward, taps her on the head with whatever he has selected for the job, waits a couple of hours, then rings us.' Dalziel was scratching with both hands, one on his inner right thigh, the other under his chin. One movement was clockwise, Pascoe noted, the other anti. Difficult.

'That sounds better. But not by much.'

Well, let's have your ideas, for God's sake. You're the great detective! Pascoe kept back his exasperation with difficulty and put his thoughts as mildly as he could manage.

'What do you think then, sir? An intruder?'

Dalziel laughed without much merriment. 'You and your damned intruder. No, be sure of one thing, there wasn't any intruder, my lad. The answer's nearer home. Your intruders'll all turn out to be like that laddo last night. Bit of a disappointment that, eh? Christ, he could talk! Made even you sound like a board-school lad at the pit-face. But he seemed nice enough. He'll be good company for that kid of Connon's. He's not exactly the laughing cavalier, is he?'

Pascoe stood up.

He's going to try to get the knife in, he thought. Just a little wriggle this time. 'Will that be all then? I'd better try to tidy my desk up a bit.' 'Mind you,' continued Dalziel, ignoring him, 'it wasn't all waste, was it? I mean, Ted Morgan turned out to be a real find, didn't he? The eyes and ears of the world. You must have leaned upon him pretty hard.'

'Not really,' said Pascoe.

Dalziel leered at him across the desk. 'It's not a crime to take Jenny Connon out, you know. Eh? Now don't be offended. Just take care that fancying her doesn't make you go too soft on the rest of the family, or too hard on anyone else. I glanced at the stuff from young Curtis and the Fernies. Nothing much there, eh?'

Pascoe shook his head.

'Though the Fernies do seem to be around a lot, don't you think? And I met Mrs Curtis – she came in to see what it was all about. She'd just got in, and her husband. Do you know them?' 'No,' said Dalziel without interest. But Pascoe ploughed on. 'He's nothing, a little silent man, not much there, I think. She's a talker, gab, gab, gab. The Fernies got rid of her when I left and she walked me to the front gate. Made Ted Morgan seem like an amateur. But one thing she did say was that our friend Fernie is going around telling everyone Connon killed his wife. And claiming he knows how.' Dalziel was now immersed in some papers and didn't even glance up.

'There's always plenty of them, isn't there?'

'I wouldn't know, sir. Is it worth a word with him?' 'I shouldn't think so. There hasn't been a complaint? See him if you want, though, but it'll be a waste of time.' He glanced at his watch, opened the top drawer of his desk and swept the papers in. 'Come on,' he said. 'We'll be able to get a drink in a moment. You'll be wanting an early lunch, won't you?' 'Will I?' asked Pascoe, trying to conceal from himself the effort he had to make to keep up with Dalziel down the corridor. 'Why?'

'The rugby, Sergeant. Remember?'

'We're going to watch?' asked Pascoe, puzzled.

Dalziel sighed.

'I might watch. But the game you're concerned with is Arthur Evans. You heard what he said, his coach goes at twelve-forty-five. So you get round to his house at one. Have a chat. Stop a while. Who knows? Friend Connon might even turn up to keep you company. That'd be nice. You in your small corner, Gwen curled up on the mat and Connon taking his ease in Arthur's rocking chair.' The thought obviously amused him. They were out in the street now. Dalziel was well known, hailing and being hailed by nearly every second person they passed, it seemed to Pascoe. Though he noticed there were some who spoke to the superintendent and were completely ignored, while others looked as if they would have preferred to creep past unknown. Again there came to him a sense of how small a town of some eighty-five thousand people really was. 'Talking of chairs,' said Dalziel, 'there was a report from forensic, wasn't there, on that chair of Connon's? Nothing useful, I suppose?' Pascoe was never quite certain just how genuine his superior's casual contempt for science was. Had he really not even looked at the report? He felt tempted to find out by inventing a number of startling discoveries made through lab tests on the chair. But instead, as always, he thought, I'll play the game. 'No. Nothing. No indication that anyone had been killed in it or done anything else in it but sit in it. It went back to Connon's yesterday. He made them put it in the garden shed.' 'Did he now? Bit of degree work for you there, Pascoe! The psychology of the criminal.' They came to a halt at a busy road crossing. The town was full of Saturday morning shoppers, more than usual even; there was only one more Saturday before Christmas. 'Sir, what about Hurst and the letter? You mentioned last night…' 'Did I? No, I didn't, Sergeant. I'm not senile. Who did?'

Pascoe looked a little shamefaced.

'Well, Connon actually, on the phone. He asked if anything had been done.'

Dalziel slapped his inside pocket.

'It's here. I'll be seeing him before the match. Any other little reminders to me, Sergeant? Anything else I might have forgotten? No? Then what are we standing here for? Let's move on before some young copper picks us up for soliciting. Now, where did you say you were going to take me for that drink?' Jenny and Antony looked at each other, brown eyes unblinkingly fixed on blue, over the rims of their upraised pint pots. 'Umh,' said Antony appreciatively, putting his glass down and nodding his head, 'not bad at all. Unpretentious, with a pleasant touch of wit, should travel quite well. There is perhaps a slight tendency towards making one drunk.' They were sitting near a huge open fire in the lounge of a pub of that kind of indeterminate oldness which is the sign of constant use and development over many years. The fireplace was obviously very old indeed. It was large, and had once been larger. The table they sat at was wrought iron, with a bright brass guard-rail running round the top of it, more of a danger to glasses than anything else. In the ceiling there was visible what might have been an original oak cross-beam, but it had been unceremoniously distempered with the rest. T like it here,' said Antony. 'They have attempted neither to freeze the past, nor anticipate the future. Nor indeed to impress the present upon us with framed photographs of actors and actresses, cricketers and jockeys, the semi-famous sub-world, with duplicated scrawls of spurious well-wishings stamped across their corners.'

T just like the beer,' said Jenny.

'It was nice of your father to chase us off together as he did,' said Antony.

'He's a nice man.'

'Yes, I'm sure he is. Well, Jenny, now we have got over the initial emotionalism of our reunion, perhaps one or two points might be clarified for me. Your father has extended to me the hospitality of his house for as long as I care to take it, or until he grows sick of the sight of me. It did not escape my notice, however, that you were accompanied last night by a rather large, rather muddy man who, I gathered from hints dropped from various quarters, had been your escort that evening. Competition I do not mind. I thrive on it. But we Wilkeses were never dogs in mangers. A word will be enough.'

'Which word is that?' asked Jenny.

'If you don't know it, then I shan not teach you it. Good. I'm glad that's out of the way.'

'I didn't know it was.'

'Well, isn't it?' 'Of course, you fool. Didn't you get a good look at him? I was after information, that's all.'

'Information?'

Quickly Jenny explained about Ted Morgan. At least it started off as a quick explanation, but almost without noticing, she was soon telling Antony everything she had felt or feared in the past week. He listened gravely without interrupting her. When she finished, he went to the bar and refilled their glasses. 'There are evidently some very nasty people in this little town of yours,' he said reflectively. 'And some very nice ones,' said Jenny with instinctive indignation.

He grinned at her and took her hand.

'But what goes on on the terraces seems to be very simple and almost harmless compared with that Rugby Club of yours.' The look of strain which had been missing from Jenny's face most of the morning returned. 'You think it's all something to do with the Club too, do you? Daddy does, I'm sure. And I think fat Dalziel does too. Oh, I wish it was something simple, some burglar, a tramp or something, who broke in and did it. It would still be as horrid, but it'd end there at least. Instead of which it seems to be going on and on and I'm finding myself going round playing at stupid amateur detectives. And what it's doing to Daddy, I just don't know.' 'Hey, cool it, baby.' The shock of hearing such an expression in the accents of Hollywood gangsterese come from Antony's lips pulled her up sharply. He was smiling at her, but there was concern in his eyes.

'Thanks,' she said. 'I was going on a bit.'

'Nonsense,' he said. 'Of course you're concerned about everything. But there's nothing wrong with playing games to ease your concern, whether it's playing detective or playing rugby. That's what games are, recreational. They give us a space in the business of life to re-create ourselves. Don't you think I would teach R.E. extremely well? And talking of detectives, aren't those two gentlemen, who have just come in like Laurel and Hardy, of that ilk?' They were Dalziel and Pascoe. They looked around the room. 'See that? AH good detectives look around the room,' murmured Antony. Jenny giggled and kicked his ankle. Dalziel saw them and waved. Pascoe glanced over and nodded almost imperceptibly. 'You know,' said Antony, 'I think that Laurel there fancies you.' 'Don't be silly,' replied Jenny, feeling the fringe of a blush caressing her cheek. 'Silly? Am I then so esoteric in my taste as to be the only man in the world who fancies you?' Jenny finished her second pint with a swallow that reminded Pascoe, who was watching her surreptitiously through the bar mirror, of Jacko Roberts. 'Come on,' she said. 'I've got to get home and make the dinner.'

'Right,' he said. 'And this afternoon?'

'Well,' she said, 'I wondered if you'd mind going out with Daddy. Get him off to the rugby match or something.'

'Of course. But what are you going to do?'

'I want to clear out their, his, bedroom. Of Mummy's things, I mean. I've been meaning to do it, he doesn't seem to have the will, and it's more my job, I think. All her clothes and everything. I must do it now. He's been sleeping in the spare room, you see, but when you turned up last night, he moved back in. I think that's why he was up so early this morning.'

'I'm sorry,' said Antony. 'I didn't realize.'

'Why should you? Anyway, I'd like to do it. I know he's been through her papers and that, not that there was much. But the police asked, in case there was anything there to help. So if I can get rid of the rest…' 'Of course. Well, let's be on our way. I haven't really tasted your cooking yet, have I? I mean, I did in fact make my own breakfast. Not at all what I am used to.' Jenny grinned, that wide, slightly toothy grin which she tried so hard to avoid, and which filled her whole face with an animation and glow that turned Antony's heart upside down. He laughed back at her and they left the pub hand in hand. Dalziel looked meaningfully at Pascoe, but said nothing. Pascoe felt the cold beer fill his mouth and listened to the landlord's radio distantly above playing 'White Christmas'.

It was twelve o'clock.

Time for another,' he said. Gwen Evans wasn't being very helpful. At least, not in any sense that had any bearing on the case. But Pascoe found her a great deal of help in restoring his rather worn manly pride. She was not a coquette, he had decided. She did not deliberately set out to make herself interesting to men. There was nothing selfconscious about the way she moved, stood, sat down, or talked to a man. There was nothing suggestive about her, she gave no hints of interest or invitation. She was dressed in a sloppy brown sweater and an old pair of slacks. Whoever else she might be expecting, he had thought on arrival, it surely can't be her lover. But the overall effect of two minutes in her presence had been to fill him with an all powerful sense of her sex. The beer helped, he assured himself. Three pints heightened most men's receptivity. But what the hell! he added. I don't just want her. I like her! She's a nice woman. A nice, pleasant, unfairly sexy woman. But she wasn't any help at all as far as Evans was concerned.

Yes, she knew he was jealous of Connon.

No, there was nothing in his suspicion. No, there hadn't been anything odd about the previous Saturday, either about her husband or about her own behaviour. She repeated what he had heard already from the lips of Evans. She had decided that her friends had forgotten to pick her up. Had set off to catch the bus. Missed it. Dropped into the local, the Blue Bell, to get some cigarettes. Stayed to have a drink. No, she hadn't talked to anyone in there. It had been quite crowded, but she had sat quietly in the corner with a drink.

No, she could not remember who had served her.

'And what the hell business of yours is all this anyway, Sergeant?' She spoke without animosity and Pascoe smiled at her apologetically.

'None, of course, in all probability. We never know what's our business, and what isn't, till we get the answers.' He could afford not to press, he thought. All he had to do to check on her story was to ask at the pub. If she'd been there, no matter how quietly, someone would remember. You couldn't go around looking like Gwen Evans and hope to remain anonymous.

'Would you like a drink, Sergeant? Or a coffee?'

The beer was just beginning to turn a little sour in his stomach, and his bladder felt very full. Coffee would help one, but not the other. 'Coffee would be very nice,' he said. 'May I use your bathroom?' She rose from the furry white armchair which he was sure was her choice. The thing he was sitting in felt hard and lumpy, almost certainly an Evans family hand-medown. 'First left up the stairs,' she said in the hallway and went into the kitchen. He had just shut the door, locking it from ingrained habit, when the front-door bell rang. With a longing look at the gleaming white bowl, he hastily opened the door again and stepped on to the landing. Through the railings overlooking the small entrance hall, he saw Gwen appear from the kitchen. She didn't even glance up the stairs. Not much sign of guilt there, he thought. Perhaps it's just the baker. He heard the door being opened. All he could see was Gwen's back from the waist down. It was a sight worth dwelling on, but not much use for present purposes. He wanted to see faces if this were Connon.

'Hello Gwen.'

A man's voice. Familiar. But not Connon's.

'Hello Marcus,' said Gwen evenly, with just a touch of surprise. 'I'm afraid you've missed Arthur. In fact I think you've probably missed the coach as well.' There was a pause. The coach? Oh, damn. I'd forgotten. No, I'm not playing this week. I'd forgotten it was an away game.'

'Anything I can do?'

'No. I'll see him tonight. It was just that, well, I heard he'd been down at the police station this morning. I suppose I'm just being nosey, but I was worried. It's not nice this business. Anyway, I'd had a drink in the Club, that's where I heard. They were talking, you know how it is. So I thought I'd call in before Arthur got down there, just to see what was what. And to warn him the long knives were out. Some of them are like a lot of old women.' 'Thanks, Marcus. But don't worry. It was nothing at all really.' It would be diplomatic, I suppose, thought Pascoe, to stay up here till she'd disposed of Marcus. If he sees me here, trouble will be confirmed. And if he is more nosey than friendly, then the rumours will fly. But, as Bruiser might say, if God had wanted me to be a diplomat, he'd have painted pinstripes down my backside. Which he didn't. So here goes. He stepped back into the bathroom, pressed the little gleaming chrome lever, and moved hurriedly away from the sound of rushing water.

Gwen looked as if she were about to shut the door.

'Mr Felstead,' said Pascoe with a note of surprise more genuine, he felt, than anything Dalziel could produce. 'How pleasant to meet you again. Not playing today? You haven't been dropped, I hope?' God, it sounded bad. Perhaps he wasn't much better than Dalziel. 'No, I'm not, Sergeant. But not dropped,' he added with a grin which made him look like the prototype jovial monk. 'You've got to die to be dropped from our Fourths, and then it's best to be cremated just to be on the safe side. No, I'm retired, temporarily at least. I'll leave it to the young men, like yourself. Do you play?' 'Not rugger. No, I used to kick a rounder ball in a less violent game, but now I'm kept far too busy.' 'Even on Saturday afternoons?' asked Marcus, raising his eyebrows quizzically in Gwen's direction. 'Even then,' agreed Pascoe. Though it is not without its compensations.' Gwen yawned unconcernedly at the compliment. From the kitchen came a high whistle. 'Coffee,' she said. 'Marcus, would you care to step in and take a cup?' 'Of kindness yet, for the sake of auld lang syne,' ran absurdly through Pascoe's mind. 'No, I won't, thank you, Gwen. I'll get along. Cheerio. Cheerio, Sergeant.'

Pascoe followed Gwen into the kitchen.

'He didn't seem very interested in why I was here, Mrs Evans.' She heaped a teaspoonful of instant coffee into a couple of beakers and poured a steaming jet of water on to it.

'No? Why should he be?'

'Because he seemed fairly interested in the police when he arrived.' Silly twit, he thought as she turned to him, faintly amused. 'So you had a listen, did you? Well, well. It must be second nature.'

He smiled back and shook his head.

'I'm sorry. But it's not second nature. No.'

'No?'

'No. It required an act of will. In fact, now you've rumbled me, may I, would you mind if I postponed the coffee just a few moments more?' He heard her laughing with real amusement as he went up the stairs once more. Dalziel wasn't getting much co-operation either. He seemed to have been elected the most avoidable man in the clubhouse. Willie Noolan gave him a distant wave; Ted Morgan did an almost military about-turn when he spotted him and disappeared through the door; even Jacko Roberts seemed to consider his offer of a drink with more sardonic suspicion than usual.

'You've been found out,' he said.

'Found out?' That's right. The myth of rugby veteran, dirty story teller, hail-fellow-well-met Bruiser Dalziel's been knackered and they're seeing you as what you are.'

'What's that?'

'A nasty, nosey, nobody's-friend copper.' Dalziel finished his drink and stood up. Peter Hurst had just come into the room, dressed in his track suit though there was some time yet till kickoff. 'Fat bugger,' said Jacko to the policeman's retreating back. Then he wondered if Dalziel had heard, and wished he didn't care. Hurst doesn't look as if he's very delighted to see me, either, thought Dalziel. He had always thought he had no illusions about the artificiality of people's reactions to him, but some must have taken root unaware. Tender young plants as yet, and all the more vulnerable to sudden blasts of cold. 'I've got that letter,' he said as jovially as he could manage.

'Oh yes.'

'Yes. Shall we go into the committee room?'

Hurst looked reluctant to go anywhere.

'Look, Superintendent,' he began. 'Andy,' interrupted Dalziel. 'We're in the Club, aren't we? This is unofficial.' That's it,' said Hurst. 'What I said to Connie last night was unofficial as well, between the two of us. I'd no idea you were listening.' 'Listen, Peter,' said Dalziel sympathetically. 'If you've got any information, you've got to give it to me. It's your duty.'

'Suddenly it's become official again, has it?'

Hurst's voice had risen a little, but he dropped it again as he realized that several pairs of eyes were watching them with interest.

Dalziel's mind gave the equivalent of a shrug.

These people never realize that I can stand a row better than any of them, he thought. They think a bit of sound and fury against me confirms something. It's like water off a duck's back. 'Mr Hurst,' he said formally, 'I have reason to believe you can help me with an enquiry. Now you can do that now. Or you can do it tonight. Or you can do it next week. But be sure of one thing. If you want to be out on that pitch when the referee blows his whistle, you'd better do it now.' 'Andy. Peter. For heaven's sake! Remember where you are!' It was Noolan, attracted by the waves of interest emanating from all sides of the room.

The committee room?' said Dalziel with a smile.

He put his arm over Hurst's shoulder as they went through the door, but removed it before the door was quite closed. 'Now, Mr Hurst,' he said. 'You wanted to look at the letter Jenny Connon received the day before yesterday. I have that letter here. Before I show it to you, however, I want to know your reason for wanting to see it.' Hurst looked angrily at him, then questioningly at Noolan who had followed them in.

The bank manager nodded.

Tell him, Peter.' 'So,' said Dalziel. 'Another in the plot? Don't say you've taken to concealing information as well, Willie?' 'No, Andy. Peter saw me last night after you'd left. Peter. Tell him.' Hurst played with the zip on his track-suit top, moving it up and down. Like a nervous tart on her first job, thought Dalziel. Will the man never start? 'It's nothing really,' said Hurst. 'It's just that a few days ago I heard one of our members say something about Connie. It was just after we'd heard about Mary. We'd been saying how awful it was, how sorry we were for Connie. And this chap said we might well be sorry for Connie, but not to overdo it. He said that there were things about Connie that he wouldn't like his daughter to know.'

'And?'

'Nothing really. We'd all had a few drinks. Someone said there were things about himself he wouldn't like his wife to know, we all laughed and went off happy. It kind of broke the gloomy atmosphere.'

'Exit on a joke. Is that allT

'No. On Wednesday after the selection committee meeting, I realized I'd left my fountain pen in here. I came in to get it and found this same person using it. He finished off quickly as I came in, apologized when he realized it was my pen, and that was an end to it. But I got a distinct impression he didn't want me to see what he was writing. He folded it up and tucked it away very quickly.' 'Again, is that all? It's not much, is it? And why do you want to see the letter?' Hurst obviously did not like what was happening. But he feels he ought to dislike it even more than he does, thought Dalziel. Jesus, it's all do-it-yourself public relations now. Everyone's sweating on their image. 'Whatever he was writing,' said Hurst slowly, 'he was writing in block capitals. I saw that much.' 'One block capital looks much like another, upside down, from a distance,' sneered Dalziel. 'Is that all?' 'No. It would be written with my pen, you see, if it was that letter. And that day my pen was filled with green ink. I'd run out and borrowed some from my boy. You know what kids are. Anything exotic. It happened to be green.' Carefully Dalziel reached into his inside pocket and took from it a large envelope. Out of this he drew a Cellophane packet. Framed in it they could see a letter. He held it up to the light to give a clearer view.

The ink was black.

Hurst sighed deeply.

'I'm glad,' he said.

'Who was it you saw?' asked Dalziel.

'Why? Is that necessary,' he asked, turning to Noolan.

'You'd have named him if he seemed guilty. It seems odd not to do so when he is innocent. Eh, Willie?' 'It was Arthur Evans that Peter saw. We heard he was down at the station this morning. Peter wondered

…' '… if we in our own bumbling way had caught up with him? No. Well, thank you both very much indeed for your time.' 'Not at all,' said Noolan. Tm sorry yours has been wasted.'

Hurst left without a word.

'Andy,' said Noolan. 'Don't make such a big noise round the Club, eh? You put me in an embarrassing position.'

'I shan be so quiet you'll never notice me. In fact, with your permission, I'll start now and stop here for a while. All the best fictional detectives do it. Have long thinks, I mean.' 'Be our guest,' said Noolan and went back into the social room leaving the large figure, head wreathed in cigarette smoke, seated at the top of the big committeesized table. He was still there two hours later when the whistle went for no-side. 'A curious game,' said Antony as they drove away from the ground. 'Especially when seen through a glass, distantly.' They hadn't cared to join the small crowd of spectators in the old stand, but had remained in the car parked about twenty-five yards behind one of the goals. 'A poor game,' replied Connon, 'seen from no matter what distance.' 'Why?' asked Antony, with a polite interest which ten minutes later had turned into the real thing. Whatever else you know, Jenny's father, he thought, you certainly know your rugby. At least I think that if I knew my rugby, I would be in a good position to acknowledge that you know yours. But he knew enough about the game to recognize the scope and justice of Connon's analysis. 'Now I feel I could watch the game again,' he said when Connon finished. 'Nothing is repeatable,' said the older man. 'Not even the moments that we relive a thousand times.' Connon fell silent and Antony, great talker though he was, knew when conversation was not being invited. The rest of the drive home passed in almost complete silence. But I like him, thought Antony as they got out of the car. He might do for me very well. I could not bear a dull father-in-law. And Jenny, now Jenny, there's the find of: the century. He went towards the front door with pleasurable anticipation. But there was no reply to his enthusiastic bellringing and Connon, coming from closing the garage, hadl to get his key out to open the door.

The house was quiet and felt empty.

'Jenny! Jenny!' called Connon.

There was no reply.

'She can't have gone far,' said Connon. 'She'll be back in a minute I expect. Probably gone round the corner to the shops.'

Probably, thought Antony, but he didn't feel happy.

He went upstairs to change out of the heavy boots he had (unnecessarily) decided were good rugby-watching gear. As he passed Jenny's bedroom door, he saw it was ajar. He pushed it gently open and looked in. The room was quite empty. He looked at the furnishings, the pictures, the bed with its rich crimson bedspread. Seated on top of it was a fluffy white dog, its red tongue grotesquely hanging out, its head lolling to the side. It was a nightgown case and his eyes lit up as he saw it. Quickly he moved into his own room, grabbed his pyjama top and returned. His intention was simple, to substitute this for whatever garment he found in the dog. But as he went across the room to the bed, something on the dressing-table caught his eye. It was a large sheet of paper with writing all over it. Antony was a man with considerable respect for individual privacy. Looking at other people's letters was not something that attracted him. But something about the sheet of paper, lying with its contents reflected unreadably in the mirror, drew him towards it.

He picked it up.

'Dear Christ,' he said.

He read it again.

'Dear mother of God!' he said.

His pyjama-top dropped from his hand.

'Antony? Anything wrong?'

Connon stood in the door.

'I found this. On her dressing-table.'

He reached out the letter. Connon read it with one sweep of the eyes. Then without a word he turned and'ran downstairs. Antony walking out of the room to the landing heard him dialling the telephone.

Three numbers only.

'Give me the police,' he said. 'Quick.'

'As obscene letters go,' said Dalziel, 'I've seen worse.'

'Is that supposed to be some consolation?' asked Connon. 'It's pretty graphic I should have thought,' remarked Antony, trying to hide his tremendous concern under a calm exterior. 'Oh yes. It's graphic. It's that all right. Crudely so. But it's not perverted. This is all good straightforward stuff.' 'For God's sake, Dalziel!' exploded Connon. 'Can we cut the expert critical review and get on with the job of finding out where Jenny is!'

Dalziel made squelchy soothing noises in his throat.

Take it easy,' he said. 'We have her description out. Every policeman in town's on the look out for her. I'm sure she'll have come to no harm.' 'Thanks,' said Connon. 'You realize there was no envelope with this thing. And there's only one post on Saturday and this had arrived well before I left?' 'Yes, sir. We realize that. So now you're imagining that he, whoever he is, popped this through the letterbox, waited till she had had time to read it, then rang the bell and invited her to take a stroll with him. Now is that likely?' 'Only if,' said Connon slowly, 'only if it was someone she knew well.' The same thought had crossed Dalziel's mind much earlier, but he still found it hard to believe. In his experience those who wrote letters like this were unlikely to follow them up, at least so rapidly. But there was something disturbing about the letter. Not just in its contents. He had been speaking nothing less than the truth when he put it well down the list of those he had seen.

No, there was something else.

The door of the lounge opened, and Pascoe came in. They all looked at him, Dalziel interrogatively, Antony hopefully, Connon fearfully. A single shake of the head did for them all. He went across the room to Dalziel.

'Nothing yet, sir. We've got everything on it we can.'

He was plainly as concerned as anyone else there, really concerned, not just professionally.

Antony found himself quite liking Laurel after all.

He went up to the two detectives and coughed delicately. 'Forgive me for my effrontery,' he said. 'But my father always taught me never to be afraid of pointing out the obvious. I'm sure you have noticed the implication of the letter, that the writer has in fact observed Jenny undressing for bed? I just wondered if you also knew, as I'm sure you do, that her bedroom's at the rear of the house?'

'So?' said Dalziel.

'Well, as I know from personal experience it's almost impossible to get to the rear of this house from the front when the door at the end of the passageway between the garage and the house wall is locked. There is a very stout trellis on the other side of the house, with an equally well-barred door in it.'

'Through someone else's garden?' said Pascoe.

'From my brief observation of Mr Connon's hedges, he seems to have a peculiar fondness for a near lethal mixture of African thorn, briar rose, and bramble.' 'May we, Mr Connon?' said Dalziel, setting off without waiting for an answer. They all stood in the rapidly darkening garden, most of them glad to have even the illusion of activity to take their minds off the unchanging situation. It was a long garden, the kind of length which only generous pre-war builders gave to house-buyers. There'd be a two-bedroomed bungalow tucked away there on a modern estate, thought Pascoe. Not that it bothers me. A bachelor gay. The hedges were as Antony had described them. The door to the garage passage was bolted and locked, as was the door in the trellis work on the other side.

'You always keep these locked?' asked Dalziel.

'Always at night,' said Connon. 'It's habit. One of us, Mary and me I mean, always checked. Sometimes both. It was a bit of a joke.' It was growing very cold in the garden. There was frost in the air. None of them was wearing an overcoat and Antony shivered violently.

'Over the tree?' suggested Pascoe.

A large sycamore tree growing in the front garden had branches which stretched along the side of the house over the trellis. 'I don't know,' said Dalziel. 'Possible, but I don't see why. He could hardly know he was going to get a show for his efforts, could he?' 'No,' said Pascoe, glancing at Connon and Antony. 'I don't suppose he could. Shall we go back in? It's a bit chilly out here.' Connon took a last look back at the gathering gloom before he stepped into the house. I know what he's thinking, Pascoe told himself. If they don't find her before it's dark…

He didn't much like the thought himself.

Dalziel still wasn't happy about the letter. He let the others go on, sat down on a kitchen stool and took it out of his pocket. Pascoe stepped back into the kitchen.

'There you are,' he said.

'You checked the house?' asked Dalziel, not raising his eyes from the sheet of paper he held gingerly before him.

'Yes. She's not tucked away here.'

'Then she'll probably be all right. Sergeant, read this letter again.' Silently Pascoe looked over his chief's shoulder and read. He felt again the anger which had gripped him when he first saw it.

'Any comment?'

'Well, sir, it's not really the same kind of vein as the last one, is it? I don't know if we can tell really much about such things, but I'd have said it wasn't from the same man.' "I think you're right. But something else too. You're our expert here. Making allowances for the natural exaggeration of this kind of mind and the rather stereotyped language, does that sound to you like Jenny Connon?'

Pascoe was puzzled.

'Well, I don't know,' he began, but Dalziel wasn't finished. 'And look at this paper. Look at the way it's folded. You know what I think

…' But he didn't finish. Outside in the hall they heard the front door open, footsteps pattered along the polished parquet floor and a light high voice cried, 'Daddy? Antony? Are you there?'

Pascoe's stomach did a quick flip-over, he beat Dalziel to the door by a full two yards and almost fell into the lounge. Jenny was being embraced by her father and Antony looked as if he was standing in the queue. 'Welcome home, Jenny,' said Dalziel. 'We were worried about you.' She turned and saw them. Her face lost some of its animation.

'Hello,' she said. 'You're here.'

'Jenny, what happened?' said her father. 'Why did you go out when you got the letter? You should have phoned us at the Club.' 'Got the letter?' she said. 'Oh, the letter. You found it?' Dalziel held it up gravely. Her face suddenly lit up with understanding.

'And you thought… oh, I see. Daddy, I'm so sorry.'

She put her arms around him again. Antony still stood patiently in the background. Connon looked puzzled.

'Sorry? What for, dear?' he asked.

Dalziel answered. 'Jenny is sorry she inadvertently misled us all, I think. You see, she didn't receive the letter. It wasn't meant for her. She found it. I think.' 'Among your mother's things!' said Antony with sudden understanding.

Connon's grip on his daughter relaxed.

'You mean, that letter was sent to Mary?' he said, incredulous. To Mary? No! She would have told me. You don't receive a letter like that and not…' His voice tailed off and he sat down heavily on the arm of a chair.

'Where did you find it, Jenny?' asked Pascoe gently.

There were tears in the girl's eyes now. 'In the wallet pocket of one of Mummy's old handbags. I thought I'd better turn everything out, you see, and then this came up. I just glanced at it, I didn't want to pry, but I had to look to see if it was important. I felt ill when I read it. It wasn't what it said, I mean I've read books and heard jokes just as bad, it was just the thought of Mummy getting it. I went into my own bedroom and sat on the bed for a few minutes. But then, I don't know, I got a bit frightened. The telephone rang, but I didn't answer it. I just got my coat and went out. I didn't want to talk to anyone, you know, but I wanted to be near people. So I got a bus into town. I thought I'd walk down to the Club and see you and Antony there, Daddy, but there were so many people, I could hardly move. I'd almost forgotten it was so near Christmas. Anyway I realized I'd have missed you at the Club, so I turned round and set off back. It took me ages. I'm sorry. I should have phoned. I didn't want you to find the letter before I'd told you about it.' She was crying hard now, tears coursing down her face over the pale curve of her cheeks. 'Sergeant,' said Dalziel, 'perhaps you'd take Miss Connon upstairs and ask her to show you where she found the letter.'

He waited till the door closed behind them.

'Now Mr Connon, I'll want to talk at length to you about this, you realize. But quickly now while Jenny's upstairs, do you have any knowledge, any suspicion even of the source of this letter?' 'None. Nor did I even suspect its existence,' said Connon. 'Superintendent, could this have anything to do with Mary's death?'

'I don't know. I really don't know.'

The door opened again and Pascoe came in alone. He motioned with his head to Antony, who nodded and went swiftly out of the room and up the stairs.

'Well, Sergeant?'

Pascoe held up a large envelope. 'I've put them in here. Three more in all, sir. In the same place. Jenny must have just got hold of the first. And, sir.'

'Yes.'

'Mrs Connon's bedroom is at the front.'