A clubbable woman

Chapter 6.

'It'll soon be Christmas,' said Pascoe inconsequently. Dalziel's gaze wandered suspiciously round the room as if seeking signs that someone had had the effrontery to deface the slightly peeling wall with festive decoration. 'What do you want, Sergeant? A present?' he asked sourly. It's getting him down, thought Pascoe with a frisson of pleasure for which he was instantly and heartily ashamed.

It was, after all, his job too.

But the past few days had been depressing. Things had seemed to be opening up. For a while there had been a feeling that they were asking the right questions and that at any moment the individual answers would shuffle themselves into a significant total. But they remained ragged, unfinished, unproductive. The enquiry's initial impetus was being lost and now they were all groping. Other matters, important and routine, had arisen. New demands on time and men were being made all the time.

'Yes, I suppose it will,' said Dalziel.

'Will what?'

'Soon be Christmas.'

Thanks,' acknowledged Pascoe satirically, but for once Dalziel ignored him. 'Something'11 happen soon. Something pretty big. We're stretched as it is. Something will happen that will almost snap us. It always does,' he ended with sour satisfaction. 'Just before Christmas.'

'What had you in mind?'

'Anything. Have you never noticed? Look, there's good reasons. People need more money at Christmas, even crooks. And there's more about. In the shops; in the wage-packets; moving to and from the banks. Right?'

'Right.'

'And it's darker. Gloomier. Half the bloody day. Makes it all seem easier. Darkness encourages other things too. Children have to come home in it. Women in lonely places are there more in the dark than at any other time of the year. Or if you want something else, the weather's rotten as well. Cars crash easier. Trains hit ice on the rails. Planes lose themselves in fog and drop out of the sky into city centres. 'But most often there doesn't seem to be any good reason. Things happen just because it's Christmas. Life showing its arse at the universal party.' 'It's the other way round, isn't it, sir? Things are just more striking if they happen against the background of Christmas. Now I bet if you looked at it statistically…' The very word, as Pascoe had half intended, was enough to jerk Dalziel out of his reverie back to his normal state of being. 'Statistically!' he sneered. 'If you're not superstitious yet, son, you bloody well get superstitious. And stuff your statistics!' 'Up life's arse at the universal party?' enquired Pascoe politely.

Dalziel laughed, almost sheepishly for him.

'I said that? It must be the high-class company I keep. But I mean what I say. Get superstitious. One of us had better get lucky soon.' Pascoe looked ruefully at the piles of paper which had accumulated since the enquiry started. 'No, sir,' he said, T can't agree. It's not luck we want now. It's a computer. The answer, or at least, an answer, is in here somewhere.' 'We're just waiting for it to rise to the surface are we, Sergeant? Have you noticed in the detective books how there's always something bothering the private-eye's subconscious? Some little oddity of behaviour or event which, when he recalls it, will prove the key to the whole problem. But it's not like that, is it, Sergeant? Nothing is odd because there's no norm. Or everything's odd. I mean, look at this lot we've got ourselves mixed up with. All of them, known and unknown, thrashing around in uncontrolled sexual activity like midnight at a Roman orgy.' 'It's like midnight all right. It's catching them at it that's difficult. If only we knew! Is there anything going on between Connon and Gwen Evans? That gives us some kind of motive if there is, but there's damn' little evidence. She might have phoned him up when we brought Evans in. It seems likely she did, but we don't know for sure. He might have gone to see her that Saturday night. Fernie saw him going into the house. Evans says the car was there when he went round. But the only person who could tell us whether Connon was in or not is Mary Connon, and she's dead.'

'Gwen Evans isn't.'

'No, but she says she was round at the local. The landlord knows her well, but couldn't remember seeing her that night. He said he'd ask the staff when they got in. He hasn't contacted me, so I assume no one saw her. But she could still have been there.' Dalziel took a noisy sip from the cup in front of him and pulled a wry face. 'It's gone cold. Carry on Sergeant, do. I'm stuck for something else to do at this minute, so I might as well listen.' Pascoe inclined his head in acknowledgment of the favour. 'Thank you for your enthusiastic reception. Then there's this letter writer, or rather, these letter writers. We're no further forward with either. You got no help on the first at the Club, and anyone from a dirty old man to a randy adolescent could have written the others.' 'They did suggest a combination of experience and athleticism,' smirked Dalziel. He must have caught a shade of disapproval in his sergeant's poker-face for he added, 'Don't be so strait-laced, Sergeant. They're just so much pornography and none of us turn up our noses at a bit of that now and then. They probably haven't anything at all to do with the case. And if it's that girl you're thinking of, forget it. They're tough nowadays. You heard her. It's a bloody permissive society.' 'Yes, sir,' said Pascoe. But he could not dismiss the thought of Jenny Connon so easily. He had never been short of girl-friends, not at university anyway. But he had discovered that joining the police had, for one reason or another, cut him off very largely from his old source of supply. The reaction of several members of his old student circle had surprised him. There had been nothing dramatic, no great debate, just a lot of jokes and heavy irony to start with, then a gradual, gentle separation. Plus, of course, he admitted to himself wryly, the fact that the hours and the work don't make me the ideal boy-friend, let alone husband. Still, there's always that little bit of vitality Sheila whatsit, Lennox, that's it, down at the Club. Now she'd shown an interest. Young perhaps. But Jenny's age at least. And enthusiastic. If Dalziel found out he'd laugh for seven days.

To get back to the letters, sir,' he said.

'We'd left them had we? Daydream on your day off, will you.' 'Sir. Well, I've read them pretty closely and though there's no date or any positive indication in them of the order in which they were written, there does seem to be a progression of a sort. I mean, two of them seem as if they are referring back to something which has happened since the first two.'

Dalziel was interested.

'You mean, they'd met. Or something like that?' 'No, nothing as positive as that. It's as though the show had become somehow more spectacular. All the time he's writing as if he'd seen her undressing, but there's something just a bit more theatrical about the last two.' 'You're being vague again, Sergeant. We'll get no further on with vagueness. We need something positive.' There was a knock on the door and the station sergeant stuck his head round. 'Excuse me, sir. There's a Mr Wilkes here to see Sergeant Pascoe.'

'Is there now? Wheel him in here, then.'

'And there's a telephone call for you, sir. From a Mr Roberts.' 'Christ, I ask for something positive and they come shooting at us from all angles. Right, Sergeant, you take your boy elsewhere and I'll see what jolly Jacko, the life and soul of the party, wants.' Pascoe got up and went out. He saw Antony standing talking animatedly to a rather bewildered looking police constable who looked relieved to get away. 'Hello there, Sergeant,' he said brightly. T was just enquiring of that officer whether in fact he was formally trained in deliberateness of manner. Perhaps you as a graduate in Social Sciences and a policeman could tell me?'

'I'm afraid I can't help you, sir,' said Pascoe woodenly.

'There you go!' said Antony. 'And the reason why I asked to see you rather than your superintendent was that you looked capable of rising above it.'

'What did you want to see me about, Mr Wilkes?'

'I'm sorry. Have I been offensive? It's just sheer nervousness, I assure you. It's like coming into a hospital.' Pascoe looked closely at the smiling youth. Suddenly he believed him. He was nervous. No one could appear as self-confident as this boy and not be nervous. Almost no one.

'Come in here,' he said. 'Sit down.'

'Here' was an empty interview room.

'What do you want to say to me?'

Antony perched himself comfortably on the edge of the table. 'It's about the letters. A piece of impudence on my part, really, but I have a strong sense of civic duty. Mr Connon when I arrived told me about the letter Jenny received and also about your warning to him that there might be phonecalls also. This made me think. I wondered if perhaps the letters Mrs Connon had received could have been associated with phone-calls as well.' Pascoe sighed at the arrogance of youth in general and this youth in particular. 'The thought had occurred to us, sir. There's little chance of checking up on it. We did ask Mr Connon if he recalled any unusual telephone calls – any that he answered, I mean, when the caller just rang off. He said no. And it would be curious if Mrs Connon took one while he was there and said nothing of it.' 'Or even when he was not there. But she hadn't mentioned the letters.'

'No, sir. Well, if that's all…?'

He moved to the door. 'Oh please, Sergeant. I would not presume to try to do your job. No, I haven't come down here with suggestions – that would be presumptuous – but with information, or what might be. This chap had obviously been watching Mrs Connon in her bedroom, from the street almost certainly, or the garden. When I was waiting at the Connons the other night before you all so efficiently arrested me, I had occasion to use the phone-box almost opposite the house. I rang my parents to say where I was. I also took the opportunity of giving them Mr Connon's phone number so they could contact me if they wished. To do this, I had to look in the directory.'

'And?'

'And it was heavily underlined.' Pascoe's mind was racing so fast he had to make an effort of will to bring it under control. Two or three small elements on the edge of the puzzle seemed to be coming together. But whether they were related directly to the main body of the puzzle was not yet clear. But it was a possibility. But that's all it is, he told himself. A possibility has been suggested to you. Nothing more. A theory. But he could hardly wait to get rid of Antony so that he could test it. 'It seemed odd at the time,' the youth went on, unconscious of his sudden undesirability. 'Why should anyone want the telephone number of a house only twenty yards away?' T can think of a dozen good reasons,' smiled Pascoe. 'But I'm very grateful to you, Mr Wilkes. Thank you for coming. If there's ever anything else you would like to tell me, please call in.' 'Do I detect a note of irony?' asked Antony cheerfully. Then I will be off. I am a sensitive plant. Like asparagus, I take a long time to grow and am easily killed off.' 'But you have a most delicate flavour all of your own,' said Pascoe as he ushered him out.

'Saucy,' said Antony. "Bye!'

Dalziel was still on the phone. Pascoe began sorting rapidly through the papers on his desk. Dalziel put the phone down with a ping that rippled violently across the room. 'Roberts,' he said.

'I know,' said Pascoe.

'Tell me, why do I have to pay my informants a quid or more a time while you have snouts who could buy and sell both of us and who rush to buy you drinks whenever you appear?' 'Beauty,' said Dalziei. 'I have a beautiful soul. What're you doing?'

'Just reading a report.'

Quickly he told Dalziei what he had just learned from Antony and of the train of thought this had started in his mind.

When he finished Dalziei nodded appreciatively.

'I like that,' he said. Then, almost modestly he added, 'I've got a little something too. Perhaps there is a God.'

He rolled his eyes at the ceiling.

There isn't a God, thought Pascoe. No one capable of creating kangaroos could have resisted hitting him in the face with a divine custard pie.

'What did he give you?'

'Nothing much, really. Some odds and ends. But one interesting thing about a gentleman we may have overlooked. Mr Felstead.' Tubby little Marcus?' laughed Pascoe. 'Well, he is overlookable.' 'Don't underestimate him. He's a man of parts, used to be a very nippy little scrum-half, and he's still a very enthusiastic wing-forward.' 'Was,' amended Pascoe. 'He seems to have given up. That's what he said on Saturday. What about him anyway?' 'Well, his best service to the Club at the moment is perhaps in the club-house. He's not married, he's keen, reliable, and he has a lot of time. So he helps a hell of a lot. With the bar, that kind of thing.'

'So.'

'He was on the bar the night Mary Connon was killed.'

'I know. It's in here somewhere.'

Pascoe struck his papers with the palm of his hand. A little dust drifted up.

'So was Sid Hope.'

'Yes.' 'So, from his own graphic account of the exit and reentry of Evans that night, was Ted Morgan. But you never asked him why.' 'Well, he did begin to go on about it being unusual for him to be that side of the bar, but I told him to get on with it.' 'Not bullying him, I hope, Sergeant,' he said reproachfully.

It was Pascoe's turn to roll his eyes at the heavens.

'Anyway,' said Dalziel, 'Morgan was on because Felstead was off.'

'Off?'

'For almost two hours. Off. No one knows where.'

He stood up and reached for his hat.

'What's worse, no one has asked where.'

Pascoe stood up too.

'Would you like me to…?' 'No thank you, Sergeant. I'll have a chat. Tonight. You'll be out yourself, won't you? Drop in at the Club later and exchange notes.' He put his hat on, flung his coat over his arm and went to the door.

'And Sergeant,' he said, as he closed it behind him.

'Marcus Felstead has a car. A cream-coloured Hillman. See you later.' Dave Fernie was shouting at his wife. Alice Fernie was shouting at her husband. The room was in a state of some disorder, but as yet, the little cool area at the back of Alice's mind told her, no permanent damage had been done. The evening paper flung aside violently and scattering into its separate half-dozen sheets accounted for a good fifty per cent of the chaos. A coffee cup had been knocked off the arm of Fernie's chair, but there wasn't much left in it and the stain would be easily removable. The saucer had broken, however. A single cushion had been hurled across the room and it lay on the edge of the fireplace. She would have to move it before it singed. It had struck the wall and disturbed a line of three china ducks. The middle one looked as if it had been shot and was going into its final dive. Even as she observed this, it did just that, slithered off the nail which supported it and plunged headfirst into the deep blue of the mantelpiece. That was no great loss, either. She'd never liked them much; in fact she had only kept them up so long because Mary Connon long ago, almost on her first visit to the house, had been openly patronizing about them. It was a kind of V-sign, ever present, to keep them there. But now that reason was gone, and the memory that remained of it seemed rather mean and cheap. It was time they were down. All these thoughts and observations co-existed with the words she was hurling across at her husband. 'You'll end up in jail!' she yelled. 'Or you'll be paying damages for the rest of your life!' 'It's a free country!' he shouted. 'I'll say what I bloody well think. I'm as good as he is. There's one law for us all!' 'You were lucky last time!' she screamed. 'He didn't care for the law. He just worked you over a bit, put you in hospital, big man!' 'Let him try that.' Bloody rugby pJayers! Bloody creampuff. I'll take him apart.' 'Can't you see, Dave? Are you blind? You'll just get us all in trouble. We've had enough. Can't you leave it alone?' The note of appeal in her voice was obviously analysed as a sign of weakness. 'Leave it alone? Why should I, for God's sake? I reckon the man's knocked off his wife and he's getting away with it! Someone's got to say something. The bloody law won't!' There was a brief pause, Alice silent in despair, Fernie for want of breath. Through the silence rang a bell as if signalling the end of a round in a boxing match.

'Who the hell's this?' snarled Fernie.

Alice didn't answer. She was moving round the room at great speed for so heavily built a woman. The newspaper resumed its normal shape, the broken duck and the pieces of saucer were dropped in the coal scuttle, Fernie got the cushion back hard in his chest.

The bell rang again.

Smoothing back her hair, Alice went to the front door and opened it.

Pascoe stood there.

'Hello, Mrs Fernie. I was beginning to think the bell was broken.'

'Who the hell is it?' asked Fernie again from the livingroom.

Pascoe walked in with a smile.

'It's only the bloody law, Mr Fernie.'

Fernie glowered at him, corrugating his eyebrows to aggressive bristles. 'You've been listening at keyholes, have you? What a job!'

'Dave,' hissed Alice.

Pascoe was unconcerned. 'Not necessary, Mr Fernie. Anyone passing could hear you loud and clear.' 'We're not worried about what people hear, Sergeant,' said Alice fiercely. 'No? You sounded worried, Mrs Fernie. And I think you've got cause to worry.'

Alice's angry flush faded to pale anxiety.

'Is that why you're here?' 'Not primarily, but now it's come up we might as well talk about it. Mr Fernie, I gather you've been making certain allegations about your neighbour, Mr Connon.' 'Neighbour? He's no neighbour of mine. Neighbours are on this side of the road only in this street. And what if I have anyway? What's it to you?' 'Nothing officially, yet. If we think that what anyone says is likely to cause a breach of the peace, then we'll act. I gather you have said things in the past which caused a breach of the peace?'

'Mind your own bloody business!'

'Dave thought someone was running around with a neighbour's wife,' said Alice quietly. 'He said so. Often. Someone beat him up one night. They never got anyone' 'But you think it was something to do with the slander?' asked Pascoe.

'Slander? What's this about slander?'

'Nothing yet, Mr Fernie. Slander normally involves a civil action. If you say a man has killed his wife, you are damaging his reputation and he is entitled to damages which could be considerable. Your only defence would be that you did not publish the slander, which in this case would be very difficult, I feel. Or you might plead that it was not slanderous because it was true. Even this is not always an acceptable defence, I should add. The truth can often be slanderous if it is put in certain ways. But still, it would be your best bet.' 'Best bet? But there isn't a case, is there? He wouldn't dare!' 'Why are you so certain of this, Mr Fernie? What proof have you got of your allegations?' There was a long uncomfortable silence in which Pascoe noticed the missing duck, the broken china in the scuttle, and Alice noticed him noticing.

'You have no proof, do you, Mr Fernie?'

Fernie said nothing. Alice put her hand over his. 'You have nothing more than a dislike of Mr Connon and a very nasty twist in your mind which is going to get you into very serious trouble indeed. If I hear of one more occasion on which you make these allegations I shan feel it my duty to pass them on to Connon myself. Do I make myself clear?'

Fernie still said nothing.

'Very clear, Sergeant,' said Alice quietly.

Pascoe ignored her.

'I say you have no reason other than a dislike of Connon, Mr Fernie. I hope this is your only reason for wanting to accuse him?' Fernie shifted uncomfortably. The anger seemed to have gone out of him. 'It stands to reason, doesn't it?' he argued. 'I mean, her, with her always flaunting herself." 'What other reason, Sergeant?' asked Alice. 'What other reason could there be?' 'Mrs Fernie, I'd like to speak to your husband alone if I may.' Alice looked from Pascoe to Dave, her face tense with worry.

'Why?' she asked.

'What's this then, Sergeant?' said Fernie. 'I won't go,' said Alice, with sudden determination. 'We've got nothing to hide from each other.'

Pascoe shrugged.

'All right. Mr Fernie, you said that Mary Connon was always "flaunting herself". Those were your words, I think?'

'That's right.'

'What did you mean?'

'Mean? Well, I meant she was, well, always showing herself off, you know, putting on the style. Mutton dressed as lamb.'

'Was that all?' asked Pascoe.

Fernie looked around the room, not quite focusing on anything. Alice felt a little knot of fear tying itself in her belly.

'Yeah, that's all. What else?'

Pascoe reached in his pocket and pulled out a notebook. 'Mr Fernie, Detective-Constable Edwards who interviewed you on the morning after Mrs Connon was killed, said in his very comprehensive report that you had noticed the police arrive the previous night. You knew something was up.'

That's right. Make enough bloody noise, don't you?'

'To the best of my recollection, very little was made that night. In any case, according to Edwards, reference was made to you standing looking out of your front window for some time. Is that true?' 'No. Well, yes. I don't know. What's some time? I can look out of my own window, can't I?'

'Of course. What were you looking at? Or waiting for?'

Alice Fernie had taken enough of this. She leaned forward angrily. 'Come on, Sergeant. What are you getting at? Are you trying to suggest Dave knew something was going to happen?' 'Did you, Mr Fernie? Did you know? Or were you just hoping for something?' Fernie was obviously in some distress. He looked at his wife, then at Pascoe, picked up the newspaper and began fiddling with it. 'Know? How could I know? Of course not. No, it was just that Suggest an accusation of the larger to get an admission of the smaller, thought Pascoe smugly. But never forget, he admonished himself, that this is no proof that the larger isn't accountable also. 'Something to do with Mary Connon? Flaunting herself,' he prompted. Fernie was now talking to his wife, rapidly, with just a hint of pleading. 'It was just that a couple of times I'd been looking out, or I'd just glance up as I passed, and, well, I'd seen her there. The light blazing, curtains not drawn. Well, Christ, of course I looked. What man wouldn't? I mean you could see everything. Everything. I'd have said something to you, love, but she was your friend.'

Alice just looked at him speculatively.

'Not very nice, really,' said Pascoe. 'Being a peeping Tom.'

Fernie grew indignant.

'Peeping Tom nothing! All I did was look. I wasn't hiding or anything. And make no mistake about it, she knew I was there. She knew she had an audience. That's what I meant by flaunting. She'd yawn, you know, like they do to show off, stretch her arms right back so that her…'

He glanced anxiously at his wife.

'Breasts?' she suggested amiably.

'… stuck right out. Right out,' he repeated.

'She had a big figure,' said Alice, as though some explanation was needed. 'Mr Fernie,' said Pascoe, 'do you ever use the phonebox outside in the street?'

Fernie looked puzzled.

'Yes, I've used it. I phoned your lot from it the other night. Why?'

'Did you ever ring the Connons' house from it?'

'No,' said Fernie. 'Why should I?'

He looked even more puzzled but Pascoe could see from Alice's face that she was beginning to get the picture.

'Did you ever write a letter to Mrs Connon?'

'No. Never. What the hell's all this about?' 'Sergeant,' said Alice, 'had someone been phoning Mary? And writing to her?'

Pascoe nodded.

'Phoning her perhaps. Writing to her certainly. Did she ever say anything to you?' Alice put her finger to her brow in the classic pose of thought. It did not look affected on her. 'No, nothing,' she said. 'But are you trying to say that Dave here might have been the man writing?' Fernie's face lit up with amazement, followed by red indignation. Could anyone really be that slow on the uptake? wondered Pascoe. Even complete innocence? Perhaps complete egotism could.

Fernie was on his feet now.

He's going to shout again, thought Pascoe. 'Now listen here, you, I don't know what you're up to, but I don't have to sit in my own house and…'

'Sit down and be quiet, Dave,' said Alice.

He obeyed instantly.

'Thank you, Mrs Fernie,' said Pascoe.

'Sergeant,' she said. 'These letters. Do you have them with you?' 'Not the originals,' he said. 'They've got to be carefully looked after and tested. Ink, paper, that kind of thing. Fingerprints. I'd like to take your husband's prints if I may. I've brought the stuff.' He knew that only a few not very helpful smudges had been found after Mary Connon's prints, taken from the dead woman's fingers at the post-mortem, had been eliminated. But it was always worth putting a scare into people. Fernie looked as if he was ready to explode again, but Alice nodded and he subsided. 'I've got a photostat copy of one of them, though,' he went on. 'Why?'

'May I see it?' she asked.

He looked dubiously at her. 'I'm a big girl now,' she said. 'I stopped reading fairy tales years ago.'

'Right,' he said. 'Here you are.'

He handed it over. She read through it quickly once. Then more slowly a second time. To his surprise a smile began to tug at her cheeks and when she finished the second reading she laughed aloud as though in relief.

'Is there something funny?' he asked politely.

'Not to you, Sergeant. But to me. It's the thought of my Dave writing this. 'I'm no psychiatrist but I'll tell you one thing. That letter was written by some poor, unhappy, twisted, frustrated man with a rather scanty knowledge of women. My Dave may be a bit short on mouth control, he may talk too much, he may not know how to make friends and influence people…' 'Alice!' interjected her husband, outraged. But she went on as if he wasn't there. '… but whatever else he is, he's not frustrated. If he sees a woman undressing in a window, he'll stop and have a look. Who wouldn't? You would!'

Oh yes, thought Pascoe, yes, I would.

'Especially if she's like Mary Connon. She was a big woman. But I'm no nymphet myself,' she said proudly. 'Anything she had, I had too, and it was thirteen years younger, and readily available to my husband as, when, and how he liked to use it. Any man can be unfaithful, but it takes special circumstances to write a letter like that.' She finished, slightly flushed, but looking him defiantly straight in the eye. Fernie was regarding her with some awe. 'You may be right, Mrs Fernie,' said Pascoe. 'Now, if I can just take your prints, Mr Fernie, I won't bother you any more.' 'Do you think whoever wrote those letters killed poor Mary?' she asked as she saw him out of the door.

'Perhaps,' said Pascoe.

'You can cut Dave right out,' she said with a smile. 'He couldn't hurt anyone. He goes queasy at those doctor programmes on the telly.' Pascoe felt inclined to agree with her as he drove along Boundary Drive. Still, it was as well to keep an open mind. But all that had really happened that evening, he thought, was that he had developed something that was very nearly envy of Dave Fernie. Dalziel's superiors would not have been happy to see him. He had already been seen once that day. A progress report had been requested. He had asked if what was wanted was a detailed account of the whole course of the investigation so far or a brief statement of what was known. The Assistant Chief Constable had mentally spoken a prayer for self-control and asked for a brief statement.

'Enquiries are proceeding, sir.'

'Is that all?' 'I have sent in full and detailed reports of every aspect of the investigation, sir. Do you also require a digest of them?' The Assistant Chief Constable had squirmed in his seat with irritation but, like the good golfer he was, he kept his head quite still.

'No thank you, Superintendent. I would like to suggest, however, that you might tread a little more carefully in certain places.'

'Like, sir?'

'Like the Rugby Club. If you go there as an investigating officer either do it more subtly or use the full paraphernalia of your office.'

'You mean dress up, sir?'

'I mean act either as a policeman, or a member. Don't try to be both at once.'

'But I am both at once, sir. All the time.'

The Assistant Chief Constable sighed.

'There have been one or two…'

'Complaints?' 'No. Words, gently dropped. But from a height. How important is this Club in your investigations?' Dalziel thought a little, his hand working inside the waistline of his trousers.

If only he wouldn't scratch, thought his superior.

'Central,' said Dalziel finally. 'Will that be all?'

'For the moment. Keep me informed.'

'As always, sir.' 'And please. If you want to interview any more members of this Club, do it quietly, at the station preferably.'

'Sir!'

And here he was not many hours later sitting with Marcus Felstead in a relatively quiet corner of the clubhouse, twisting the guts out of him, though Marcus did not know it yet.

'Not bad beer here, is it?'

Marcus sipped his pint as if to make sure.

'No, not bad.'

'Many storage problems?' 'Not really,' said Marcus, a little surprised. 'It's all kegs nowadays, so as long as you keep it fairly cool, it comes up smiling.'

'How's the Club fixed for money now?'

Again surprise.

'I don't really know. Better ask Sid.' 'No, I don't mean figures. I just wondered if there was any thought of getting a permanent steward?' 'Not that I know of. It seems an unnecessary expense. There's plenty of us to do the work.'

Dalziel took a long pull at his pint and sighed happily.

'You do quite a lot, don't you, Marcus?'

'I do my share.'

'No; more, I'm certain. Just about every Saturday night.'

'Not every. But pretty frequently.'

'You were on the night Mary Connon died/ That's a shot across your bows, my lad. Field that any way you like, thought Dalziel, observing his man closely. Marcus's hand might have gripped the handle of his glass a little more tightly, but that was all.

'I think I was.'

Now a long pause. Let him wonder if it was just a casual remark. Let him try to organize his defences. Then let him relax.

'Hello, Willie!'

He waved his glass casually at Noolan, who smiled and waved back as he went to join a small group standing by the bar. 'Yes,' he said, returning his attention to Marcus. 'Yes. You were here all that night, weren't you?' 'I don't recall,' said Marcus, definitely a little ill at ease now. 'Oh, you were. We checked. All night. Except for the two hours when you went out and drove round to Boundary Drive.' Marcus went white. He pushed the beer away from him with his rather small girlish hand. 'Don't be stupid,' he said. 'I never went anywhere near Boundary Drive.'

Dalziel laughed in a friendly fashion.

'Come off it, Marcus,' he said. 'Your car was seen. What's the matter? It's no crime, is it? That's what they usually say to me.' 'I never went near Boundary Drive,' repeated Marcus, a little recovered now. 'You must be mistaken. It can't have been my car.' 'No? Well, there's a simple way to settle this, seeing as you're so worried.'

'What's that?'

Dalziel leaned across the table, pushing Marcus's glass back at him.

'Tell us where you really were, then.'

'Why the hell should I?' Oh dear, thought Dalziel resignedly. He's going to start shouting. Time for us to go. 'Listen, Marcus, my lad,' he whispered confidentially. 'There's obviously some kind of misunderstanding here. We can't discuss it properly here in the Club. Why don't we take a drive down to the station to talk things out? Less embarrassing than shouting at each other in front of all these people.' He waved his hand airily around, realizing as he did so that all these people now included Connon. Connon didn't acknowledge the greeting but just continued to stare at them. 'Coming?' said Dalziel, smiling still for the benefit of the onlookers, but infusing a new grimness into his voice. 'For God's sake, Superintendent, sit down. Look, if it means that much to you where I was…'

'Oh, it does, it does,' said Dalziel.

Marcus stared into his beer broodingly for a long minute. What's he hatching? wondered Dalziel. Have I hit the jackpot? Jesus, that'd be a laugh, Connon's best mate bashing his wife's head in. But there was still a large doubt sitting hugely at the back of his mind. What possible motive could this round, friendly, most amiable of men have for murder? It was no use going by appearances, but a man who reminded him so strongly of Winnie the Pooh…

Marcus seemed to have made up his mind.

'Come on,' said Dalziel. 'It's either the truth or a very complicated lie.' 'It's the truth,' said Marcus. 'But first, I must have your assurance that this is in the most absolute confidence.'

'As long as it has no bearing on the case.'

'It hasn't.'

Then you have my word.'

The fingers he was scratching under his arm with were crossed. Dalziel preserved many of his old childhood superstitions. 'Well, look.' He was almost whispering and Dalziel had to lean even further forward to catch the words.

'Hello, Marcus, boy!'

Evans's heavy hand smacked down on the small man's shoulder. Marcus went white and jerked round sharply to look at the figure behind him. Even Dalziel, who was facing him, had not noticed his arrival, so intent had he been on catching Marcus's words. 'Give you a fright, did I? What're you two hatching anyway? You've got to be careful who you drink with these days, Marcus. Might lose your good name.' 'Evening, Arthur,' said Dalziel as unwelcoming as he could be in the limits of politeness. 'Gwen not with you?' That should get rid of him, he thought with malice. He won't fancy a needling match on these terms. But Evans merely grinned and helped himself to a stool from under a neighbouring table. 'She's in the loo making herself lovely for you, Bruiser. Marcus, boy, it's you I wanted to see. Listen, I'm having a hell of a job holding this team together. You know how important it is, a club's known by the quality of its fourth side. Now you drop out, one of the regulars. It's a big hole to fill. You should have seen us last Saturday. Walking bloody wounded! Couldn't you hang on till the end of the season?' He's not listening to you, Arthur, thought Dalziel. He was going to tell me something, now he's having another little think. He's very worried. That's how I like them, worried. You'll have to go, Arthur. If you won't take a hint, I'll put it to you in terms even a thick-skinned Welshman can understand. But before Dalziel could begin his dismissal operation, Marcus forestalled him. 'My round, I think,' he said. 'Arthur, will you have one? A pint? Right.' He swept Dalziel's glass from under his nose and set off to the bar at the quick march. Dalziel watched him go in amused exasperation. But it was merely a postponement. 'Here, Arthur,' he said. 'When Marcus comes back, piss off for a bit, will you? We're having a bit of a serious talk.' 'Are you now? It can't be more serious than the Fourths, can it? After all, this is a rugby club.' Oh, they're all getting in on the act, are they? thought Dalziel. All dropping their little words in the direction of my bosses. But yours don't come from very on high, Arthur. 'In any case,' said Evans, 'what makes you think he's coming back? He seems to have bloody well disappeared altogether. And his round too!' Dalziel looked sharply round at the bar. Noolan and his group were still there. Connon was standing a little apart from them, still looking across at the superintendent's table.

But of Marcus Felstead there was no sign.

Pascoe had pulled into the Club car park close behind the Evanses' car. He had not got out immediately, but sat and watched the broad Welshman and his wife pick their way carefully over the already frosted surface towards the clubhouse. They looked just like any other couple, he reflected. Comfortable. Affectionate. Evans had taken Gwen's arm to help her circumnavigate a frozen puddle. She said something to him and he seemed to laugh. Then they disappeared through the door. Perhaps it was all a mistake, thought Pascoe. Perhaps it was just in Evans's mind, this other man. It would be impossible to live with a woman like Gwen and not know that other men envied you, would like to fish in your pond. And a temperament a lot less volatile than Arthur's could easily come to believe this was exactly what was happening. What would it prove anyway if it turned out that there was a man and that man was Connon? A motive, he had said earlier to Dalziel. It would prove a motive. Or rather it would give a possible base for the possible erection of two or three possible motives. Lots of possibles. No probables. Probables versus possibles. And a young man, certain of his own strength and skill, running with balanced ease round all opposition as he made for the line. I'm beginning to think in their imagery, he admonished himself, and lit a cigarette, somehow reluctant to leave his car and go in search of Dalziel. Or perhaps it was because Sheila Lennox might be there. He had had to stand her up on their second date. Nothing dramatically urgent to season an apology with; no startling new development, breathtaking chase, or a second murder. Just pressure of paper and organizational routine.

Her voice on the phone had been cold. His suggestion of another meeting ignored. Perhaps it was for the best. She was only a child. Nearly nineteen. That meant eighteen. And he was nearly twenty-nine. That meant thirty. But they grew up early these days. Or at least they seemed to. She had promised a wealth of experience on their exploratory first date. But it had been mostly verbal. What lay behind it he would probably never know. He opened the car door and dropped his cigarette end on to the concreted surface where it glowed with vulgar ruddiness on the silver sharpness of the frost till he ground it under his foot as he stepped out. Then, half in, half out of the car, he suddenly became very still. The club-house door had opened and a man came carefully out. He was unrecognizable at this distance, but the woman who followed him a moment later only had to take a couple of steps for Pascoe to know that this was Gwen Evans again. She had taken her coat off. He could see her bare arms gleam whitely for a moment as she too disappeared into the shadow down the side of the building. Pascoe watched them out of sight. Then he slipped his hand into the glove compartment of his car till his finger rested on the heavy rubber casing of a torch. With this in hand and keeping low, he now stepped out of his car and closed the door quietly behind him, certain he was unobserved. He had long ago severed the connection between the door and the interior courtesy light. Three hours' extremely cold and tedious observation had been ruined by the sudden flash of this light several years earlier. Pascoe was a man who learned from his mistakes. Silently he moved across to the club-house and made his way along the side wall. At first in the shadow of the wall it seemed pitch black, but his eyes rapidly adjusted to the light, or lack of it.

There was no one there.

He moved swiftly down the line of the wall, slowing as he neared its end. It was lighter here. A faint glow came through an opaque window which must belong to one of the cloakrooms. He stopped beneath it. From round the corner came voices.

First Gwen's. Anxious. Tense. An edge of panic.

'Darling, darling. What're we to do? What's going to happen?' Then a man's. Reassuring, but also anxious beneath. And familiar. 'It'll be all right, Gwen. I'll have to tell him. He'll want to talk to you. But we can still keep it quiet.' 'Quiet!' Almost a sob now. 'Quiet! I'm tired of it all. I'm tired of being quiet. I can't see where it's leading. I can't, I can't!' The voices lowered to an indistinguishable mixture of near-sobbing and reassuring murmurs.

Pascoe took another step forward.

And trod on something. A plastic coated cardboard cup, his trained ear told him. Or an empty ice-cream carton.

It cracked like a beechwood fire.

The talking stopped.

Oh dear, thought Pascoe. Well, here we go.

He switched on his torch and stepped round the corner. They were close in each other's arms and the beam of the torch was enough to catch them both, 'Good evening, Mrs Evans,' he said apologetically trying to keep the note of astonishment out of his voice. 'And good evening to you too, Mr Felstead. You'll catch your deaths out here if you're not careful.' 'I thought he'd made a bolt for it,' said Dalziel. 'He looked bloody scared.' 'I daresay he was,' grinned Pascoe. 'I mean, imagine you are about to confess you're knocking off Arthur Evans's wife and suddenly his great hand comes down on your shoulder. Anyone'd be scared. On the other hand he carried it off well. When he came back in, I mean. Did Evans notice anything?'

Dalziel nodded his great bull's head.

'Oh yes. He noticed something. I mean, I moved quite quickly when I saw Felstead had gone. But Connon stopped me, said Marcus had asked him to order while he went to the bog, and thrust a pint into my hand. You can't give pursuit under those conditions. Anyway, by the time he came back, Arthur was getting too impatient for his wife to put in an appearance to pay much attention to anyone else.' 'I told her to go into the other room and say she thought he was going to be in there. Not that I needed to coach her, she must have had plenty of practice. But what a turn up, eh?' 'You've never said a truer word, Sergeant. She confirmed everything?' 'Oh yes. They were at it in the house, then in Felstead's car on the way to the Club, all the time he was away from the bar. The way they were hanging on to each other when I caught them, it's very easy to believe.' Easy to believe? Dalziel asked himself, thinking of Marcus Felstead and trying to revise his mental picture of him. The physical reality couldn't be changed! Five feet four or five at the most, looking almost as round as he was high, with a balding pate that rose like a monk's tonsure through an unruly and still retreating fringe. Then he thought of Gwen Evans. He had always felt he was a bit of an expert on Gwen Evans. He had spent many beery hours just assessing the value of all visible assets, and visualizing the invisible. That she should spare a first glance, let alone a second, on this man was almost incredible. But it all fitted. It had been Marcus who turned up at the Evans house on Saturday afternoon when Pascoe was there. He'd played it very cool, they both had. He could imagine the facial contortions, the mouthed warnings, at the front door. It had also been Marcus who had phoned Connon with the news of Arthur's visit to the police station. And he, of course, had had it direct from Gwen the minute Arthur left the house. 'We were both very worried,' Marcus had said. 'We've got a very great respect for Arthur.' Dalziel had laughed inwardly when he heard that. Tell that to him when the Celtic red mist's before his eyes and he's kicking your head in in a jealous rage, he thought.

But he hadn't spoken, just gone on listening.

Marcus told everything, reluctantly at first, but more freely after a few minutes. Then when Evans went in to a selection committee meeting, the reason for Connon's presence that night, Dalziel had had a long talk with Gwen. They were obviously telling the truth about themselves. Too many details fitted. The affair had been going on for nearly two years. 'I bet he's been dying for an audience,' Dalziel said to Pascoe. 'It must be hell having a woman like Gwen and not to be able to strut around in public possession. Mark you, it might have worked both ways. Perhaps it was the secrecy that made Marcus acceptable to Gwen, eh? Christ, Arthur was no oil-painting, but he was like the Winged Victory compared with himV And where does that place you in the beauty stakes? thought Pascoe. But what's it matter? Hell, in one day I've been jealous of a sour-faced moron like Dave Fernie and of a little tub of lard like Marcus Felstead! Dalziel shook his head finally in dismissive amazement at the inscrutability of woman. 'It can't be true,' he said. 'It's a bloody lie all of it. Only, Marcus wouldn't dare to tell a lie like that unless it was true.'

'Irish,' said Pascoe.

'You know what I mean,' said Dalziel. 'More important,' said Pascoe, 'is, where does it leave us? Does it put us any further forward?' 'It teaches us humility,' said Dalziel pompously. 'No other revelation in this case can possibly surprise us after this.' 'Not even if it turns out to be an intruder?' asked Pascoe. 'Not even if your intruder turns out to be Jack the Ripper. I'm off to my bed now. I might even go to church in the morning. Good night.' He lumbered away shaking his head. Pascoe watched him go with a feeling he was disgusted to find almost resembled affection. But as he climbed into his own bed in his little tworoomed flat half a mile from the police station his mind was occupied still with the case. He wished he had one of those 'feelings' which Dalziel had so efficiently mocked. But he hadn't. All he had was the certainty that whatever steps had been taken that day had led them in one direction only.

Backwards.

He switched off the light and fell into an uneasy sleep troubled by dreams in which Gwen Evans, Sheila Lennox and Jenny Connon blended and merged into one.