A clubbable woman

Chapter 8.

'I didn't kill her,' said Stanley.

'No?' said Pascoe.

They were sitting, the three of them, in Dalziel's room at the station. Mrs Curtis had with some difficulty been persuaded to leave. She had become slightly hysterical and it had taken the intervention of the boy himself to get her out. He had spoken to her with a kindly firmness which seemed to surprise her and she had left without further protest. Pascoe too had been surprised by the maturity the youth was showing. It was as if the desperate physical effort to get away had burnt off all the panicking, fearful element in him. For the moment anyway. 'Let's start with that,' said Stanley firmly. 'I didn't kill her.'

'I hope we finish with it too,' said Pascoe.

Dalziel sat back quietly, apparently happy to leave the talking to the sergeant at this stage.

'I'd been expecting you earlier,' Stanley went on.

'Everyone seems to have been expecting us earlier. But why should you?' 'Well, the Club mainly. I'd seen you talking to people round the Club, and I'd said one or two things to my mates. Just boasting, you know.'

'About watching Mrs Connon?'

That's right. I thought someone would tell you. Sheila perhaps. You got pretty thick with her. Joe wasn't half mad.'

Pascoe nodded.

'Yes, she did. But only when I asked. And only today. I'd overheard something once, but it didn't mean anything then. Smoke?' Curtis shook his head. 'Not when I'm in training.' He looked anxious suddenly. 'Am I still in training? I mean, what'll happen?' 'It depends on what you've done, lad,' said Dalziel sternly. 'Just speak up and tell us everything.' Pascoe winked fractionally at Stanley, inviting him to join in a laugh at Dalziel's portentous manner.

'Tell us about the letters first, Stanley.'

'You found them, then? I hoped you wouldn't.' 'But we did. You went back to have another look for them, didn't you?' 'I was going to. I was dead worried. But that lad was there. I nearly died when he moved and I saw him. But he didn't see me, did he?' 'No, Stanley. But he realized that you must have been in the garden to be able to see him where he was sitting. He just realized that today as well.' 'Christmas Eve,' said Stanley. His eyes suddenly filled with tears. 'Just start at the beginning, lad,' boomed Dalziel. 'And get a move on, eh? Or it'll soon be Boxing Day.' 'All right,' said Stanley. 'I'll have a fag after all, can I? Bugger training. Thanks.'

He took a long draw and then began talking.

'It began accidentally. I mean, I just looked out of my bedroom window one night and I saw her. Her curtains weren't right closed and she was getting undressed. She moved around a bit and sometimes I could see, sometimes not. Like a show. Well, after that I kept my eyes open. I had an old telescope, just a kid's thing that I'd had for years. But it brought things up pretty close. It happened quite often. I got to looking forward to it. I like big women,' he said almost apologetically, glancing at Dalziel. 'We all do, lad. But we don't go around making obscene phone calls to them. Get on with it, eh?'

Stanley stubbed his cigarette out.

That's what I did first, made a call. I'd been watching her. I didn't dare say anything when she answered. I just put the phone down. Then I started writing letters. I didn't mean to send any. But she sort of got into my mind. You know how you sometimes start thinking about women and all, well, it was always her. Finally I sent her one. Nothing happened. So I sent another. And it was as if, well, after that, she seemed to be at the window more often, you know. As if she knew and she was putting on a real show. So I wrote again. And I telephoned her when I knew Mr Connon was out. It was stupid really but I got a kick out of it. I mean, I wouldn't have done it if it was frightening her, I wouldn't frighten her, believe me. But she seemed to join in. She laughed on the phone and told me to go on, to say more. I used to work out things to say to her, new things, you know.' 'You used to ring from the box in the street outside your house?' That's right. That was daft too, I suppose. But being able to see the house made it more exciting somehow. Anyway, I got into the box one night, but before I could pick up the phone, it rang. I nearly dropped dead. But it kept on ringing so I answered it. It was her. "Hello, Stanley," she said, laughing, you know. "What have you got for me tonight?" She'd found out somehow. Though, Christ, I suppose it was easy enough, really. I mean, I wasn't very clever. She might even have recognized my voice. I tried to disguise it a bit at first, but then it didn't seem to matter. But it was different now. It stopped being a game.' He fell silent. Pascoe shifted his position in his chair and asked, 'How do you mean, Stanley?'

'Well, she started getting me to do things for her. Like run messages. Go and get her cigarettes. Or just stupid things like walk three times round the telephone box. Or sit for an hour at my window in my overcoat and Dad's trilby.' 'How do you mean, she started getting you to do things, Stanley?' asked Pascoe. 'I mean, she had those letters, see? And she said she'd show them. To my parents, to Mr Connon, to the police. I don't know who she wasn't going to show them to.'

'So what happened?'

'Well, in the end I told her I wasn't going to play any more. I'd had enough.'

'Told her?' queried Dalziel.

'On the phone. She made me phone her regularly. We never actually met, except by accident outside and then she just smiled at me and said good-morning or whatever. Anyway she said that was up to me. If she didn't hear from me in five days, she'd start showing the letters. I just put the phone down. I mean, it seemed daft. I didn't see how she could without making herself look silly. So I wasn't bothered much at first. But as the time got nearer, the Sunday, I mean, when the five days were up, I began to really worry. Then on the Saturday, I had a couple of pints after the game and I got this idea. It seemed dead simple really. I just had to get the letters back and I'd be all right. Then there was nothing she could do. Nothing at all. I knew she had them in her bedroom, she'd told me often enough. So I got this idea that I'd just get in the house somehow, pick up the letters and be away without anyone knowing a thing about it. It seemed really funny. I thought I might even ring her afterwards for a laugh. You know, ask her to make sure the letters were safe, and all. It seemed a real giggle.' 'Was it?' asked Pascoe gently. 'Was it a giggle, Stanley?'

'Was it hell!' the boy said. 'I nearly killed myself getting in for a start. I went up the tree and through the bedroom window. I made enough noise to raise the dead, I thought, but I knew they had the telly on downstairs. It was real loud. I couldn't wait till later, see, because it was the bedroom I wanted to get into. Can I have another cigarette, please?' Pascoe handed one over again and lit it. The boy was frowning with the effort of recollection. He had a rather long, thin face, intelligent-looking, just beginning to fill out slightly, and firm into adulthood; but still with the fragility and the remains of the mild acne which is often the stigma of adolescence. He's just on the turn, really, thought Pascoe. Eighteen years old, a foot in both camps. She got him just at the turn.

'Go on, Stanley,' he said.

'I stopped in the bathroom for ages. At least it seemed like that. Then I thought, "you stupid twit, if anyone does come up here for any reason, chances are this is the room they'll be heading for". So I got out then. The telly was still going strong below. It was easy to work out which must be the bedroom door, so I headed along the landing towards it. The door was open. I took a step in. Then I nearly died! Someone made a noise. A sort of groan. Then this figure moved on the bed. I hadn't noticed it before, it was so dark. Then he sort of pushed himself up.' 'Who was it, Stanley? Did you know him?' asked Pascoe. 'It was Mr Connon, I think. I'm pretty certain, but I didn't stop to look closer. I just ran. I was so terrified I didn't head back for the bathroom, I went the other way to the stairs. There was still a hell of a noise down below…'

'What kind of noise?' snapped Dalziel.

'Voices. And laughing. And music. It might all have been the telly, I don't know. I didn't have time to find out, did I? I just set off down the stairs. I was half way down when the lounge door burst open and Mrs Connon came out. She saw me and screamed.' 'Did she recognize you, Stanley? Surely she'd recognize you?'

Stanley looked rather shamefaced.

'Well, no. She wouldn't. I mean, I'd put this thing, a stocking, over my head, like they do, you know!'

'Oh Christ!' groaned Dalziel.

'What happened then?' said Pascoe. 'She just stood there. She only screamed once. Then this man…'

'Which man?'

'The man in the lounge with her.'

'Did you see him? Do you know him?'

'No. I mean I didn't see him. Not really. I heard him say something like, "What's the matter?" or something like that. And I sort of half saw him coming up behind her. But I wasn't going to wait, was I? I just threw my… this… something at her, you know, not to hurt, just in panic, and she stepped back and must have bumped into him, and I shot past and out of the front door. I don't even remember opening it.'

'What did you do then, Stanley?'

'There wasn't anyone in the road, luckily. I dragged the stocking off as I got out of the gate and ran all the way up to the main road. Then I just walked about for a bit, had a drink. I was scared stiff, I didn't know what to do. I went back home after about an hour, I suppose. I wanted to see what was happening. But it was all quiet. I watched from my bedroom for ages. Then about eleven o'clock, the police came, to Mr Connon's house, I mean. I couldn't understand why they'd taken so long. I mean, I thought it was about me, you see. I didn't find out about Mrs Connon till the next morning.'

'Why didn't you come and tell us all this, Stanley?'

The boy wrinkled his nose as if at the stupidity of the question. 'I was scared. I was so frightened I was sick. I couldn't go to work for most of that week. I just hoped that things would get quiet, that it would all blow over. But it didn't.'

His shoulders sagged hopelessly.

Pascoe leaned forward and spoke sympathetically. 'Just one more thing, Stanley,' he said. 'What was it you threw at Mrs Connon?'

Stanley stopped sagging and looked alert, uneasy

'Why, nothing,' he said. 'Just something I picked up, I suppose. I don't know.' 'Wasn't it something you took into the house with you, Stanley? Wasn't it something belonging to you?' A look of stubborn obstinacy came over the youth's face. Dalziel stood up and moved swiftly behind him. His hands came down like a pair of great clamps on his shoulders. 'Listen, my lad,' he hissed close to his ear. 'When Sergeant Pascoe asks you a question, he deserves an answer. He's bloody well going to get an answer, isn't he?'

Stanley twisted free.

'What's it matter anyway?' he cried. 'All right. It was a gun. Not a gun really, a pistol, an air-pistol. It was just an old thing. I hadn't used it for years. It was old when I got it as well. I just took it along for… I don't know why I took it! I wouldn't have used it, I mean, it didn't work anyway, did it?' 'How should we know, Stanley?' said Pascoe. 'Where is it now?'

'I don't know. I left it. I didn't go back and ask for it.'

The boy crumpled again. Pascoe stood up and went to the door.

'Excuse me a second, sir,' he said.

'Go ahead,' said Dalziel, gloomily looking down at Stanley. 'You're in trouble, lad,' he said. 'Even if you're telling the truth, you're in trouble. You know that. But if you're not, then you're really in it. Just have a think. A long, long think and see if there's anything else you haven't told us.' They were both still bowed in contemplative silence when Pascoe returned. He was carrying a box.

'Stanley,' he said. 'Open the box.'

The youth reached forward and took the lid off, onehanded, then froze as he saw what was inside.

'Stanley, is that yours?' asked Pascoe.

The boy peered closer, then nodded. 'Yes, that's it. That's mine. But look at it. It's old and rusty. It couldn't hurt anyone, that.'

Pascoe reached into the box and took out the pistol.

'You're right,' he said. T don't suppose it could.'

He looked at Dalziel and raised his eyebrows.

Dalziel shook his head.

Pascoe went to the door again.

'Constable,' he said to the uniformed man outside, 'take Mr Curtis along to the interview room, will you? Both his parents are there now. He can talk to them, but be present all the time. And watch him. He's a nippy runner.' He smiled cheerfully at Stanley as he left the room and the boy managed a wan grin in reply. 'You managed that quite well, Sergeant,' said the superintendent.

'Thank you, sir.'

'Now suppose you let me into your confidence and tell me where you've been hiding this.' A great paw was waved at the pistol. Pascoe held it up and squinted along the barrel. It was, as Stanley had said, old and rusty, but it still looked formidably solid, eight inches of steel tube pointing menacingly at Dalziel. 'I haven't been hiding it. It was hidden though, in a pond up on the Common. It was brought back to daylight only yesterday, when they were looking for Mickey Annan. I noticed it on the list.' 'But didn't connect it with the Connon case at the time I hope?' 'Of course not, sir. I'd have mentioned it, wouldn't I? But there was a connection there for us to see, if we'd known. In the chair.'

'The chair.'

The chair she was killed on. There was a list of things they found in it. Ordinary things, money and the like. It's all back with Connon now.'

'I saw it. Wait. Of course, there was a pellet.'

That's right, one air-gun pellet.' 'But what's this leading to, Sergeant? You're not suggesting she was clubbed to death with the barrel of that thing? How the hell would you hold it if you were trying to produce something like that effect?'

'Like this,' said Pascoe.

He held the pistol up between them twisting his hand so they both had a side view.

And he pressed the trigger.

A six-inch cylinder of steel crashed out of the barrel, extending its length to over a foot. 'Now we load it,' said Pascoe, putting the end against the wall and forcing the internal cylinder back into the shorter barrel.

Then we fire it again.'

This time he held it close to the frame of the window.

'Hell,' he said, nursing his wrist.

There was a circular dent nearly half-an-inch deep in the wood. 'That's public property,' observed Dalziel. 'Also you're making forensic's job more difficult.'

Pascoe returned the gun to the box.

'I've told them it'll be coming down.'

That's a nasty bit of machinery,' said Dalziel.

'It's an old-fashioned bit. I don't know if they make them like that any more. It's years since I had an airpistol. What now, sir?'

Dalziel scratched his navel.

'I think we'd better have another talk with Connon.'

'Do you believe young Curtis?'

'Yes,' said Dalziel, and added surprisingly, 'and I sympathize with him a bit. When you're that age, it's all sex, isn't it? I've seen him hanging around Gwen Evans at the Club too, wishing he dared. He does like 'em big, doesn't he? I think we all discovered the comic-obscene possibilities of the telephone in our teens, didn't we? If Mary Connon had shouted at him, told her husband, started drawing her curtains, that would have been an end to it. But she wasn't like that, Mary. She always liked to be controlling people.' 'What about. this other man? Lover? Or what?' 'How the hell should I know? But you're not the only one who's been out detecting today, Sergeant. I had a long talk with Evans, remember?'

I think he's really hurt I didn't ask, thought Pascoe.

'What did he say?' 'He said he met Mary Connon at her invitation. He said she wanted to discuss with him the relationship between his wife and her husband which was causing her considerable distress.'

Pascoe shook his head in amazement.

'That woman. I'm beginning to be glad I didn't know her.' 'Not much chance of that now anyway, lad. It's the living we're after. I've got a man sitting outside Evans's door. He won't go far. But there's a few questions Mr Connon's got to answer first of all. Let's hope he's cooperative or we'll never get to Jacko's party.' The television was on in Connon's lounge when they arrived. It was Christmas Eve fare, a selection from the old silent film comedies. Antony had turned the sound down to cut out the nauseating superimposed American commentary and the only sound for the past half hour had been his and Jenny's chuckles. Even Connon had smiled from time to time, Jenny had observed with pleasure. The doorbell's chime was an unwelcome interruption. Nor were the visitors it harbingered any the more welcome. 'Privately, please,' said Dalziel. 'We'd like to see you alone, Mr Connon. Perhaps we can leave these two young people to their television.' Jenny rolled her eyes at the unctuous condescension of Dalziel's tone. Pascoe laughed as the Keystone policewaggon lost another half dozen incumbents.

'Come into the dining-room,' said Connon.

He and Pascoe sat opposite each other at the diningtable. Dalziel stood in the bay, blocking out the light.

'Superintendent,' said Connon.

'Yes?' 'Stan Curtis. We saw what happened earlier. What has he got to do with my wife's death?'

'Should he have anything?'

T cannot imagine so for one moment. Where is he?' 'He's at the station at the moment, sir, helping us with our enquiries.'

'How?'

'He has admitted being illegally present in your house on the night of your wife's death. More serious charges against him are at present under review.' Nasty old Dalziel, thought Pascoe. What a little liar he is. 'No,' said Connon. 'No. Not Stanley. It was Stanley who was here?'

He sounded amazed.

That's right. Why not?'

'I didn't think…'

Connon tailed off. 'Didn't think what? Never mind. There'll be time for that later.' Connon was rubbing the side of his head. Dalziel suddenly wheeled round, sat down beside Connon and began speaking urgently, in a low voice to him. 'Come on, Connie. Tell us about it. Make it easy, boy. It's got to come out now. Got to. Just fill in the gaps.'

Connon sat silent. He looked really ill.

'For God's sake!' exploded Dalziel. 'Don't you believe us? We don't know it all, but we know enough. All we want are the little things. Why did you clean up the bathroom windowsill and close the window, for instance? And drop the pistol into the pond on the Common? What were they doing when you came downstairs? What were they up to? Making love?' Tut, tut, thought Pascoe. He's at it again. He read the pathologist's report as closely as I did. 'Come on, Mr Connon,' he said. 'It'll help everyone to get it out in the open. You. And Jenny. Who was it downstairs? Arthur Evans?' Connon sat looking blankly ahead. Outside the telephone rang. The door opened and Jenny came in. 'It's for you,' she said to Pascoe. 'Daddy, are you all right? What's going on anyway?'

Pascoe went out to the phone.

It was the desk-sergeant down town. 'Pete?' he said. 'Alan here. Sorry to interrupt whatever I'm interrupting but you did say you wanted anything new at once. Well, it's probably nothing, but a chap called Johnson just rang up for you. Landlord of a boozer, the Blue Bell. He said you'd been asking about Gwen Evans, whether she'd been in on the sixth. None of his lot could remember her, he said, and then it had gone out of his mind, till they started talking about her leaving her husband. News gets round. Then he mentioned it again and one of his women, a temp, only comes in at weekends, says she was definitely in that night, for at least an hour. She served her twice. She remembers clearly she says, because she went sick on the Sunday after and was laid up for the next two weekends.'

'What's she doing there now then? It's not a weekend.'

'It's Christmas Eve. Remember? Lots of people actually go out and enjoy themselves. Big crowds in pubs. Merry Christmas.'

'You too, Alan. Thanks.'

So Gwen had been in the Blue Bell that night as she said at first, not lying spread out on the counterpane as she was willing to admit later. Later, when Dalziel had had a go at… He went quickly back into the lounge. He'd been dimly aware of background noises as he took his call. Now they stopped, but the little tableau that greeted him – Jenny, flushed, standing with her hands on her father's shoulders; Antony, concerned, just behind her; Connon, blank, staring at the empty rose-bowl in the centre of the table; and Dalziel, hands spread out in front of him, with his injured, professional footballer's what-haveI-done expression on his large face – this was enough to tell him there had been some kind of row. He didn't need to be a detective to guess the details. But he was a detective, and he was too near the truth now to be deterred by considerations of health, feeling, or sentiment. 'Tell me, Mr Connon,' he said harshly. Tell me, why had Mr Felstead come to see your wife that night?' The tableau remained the same. Only the expressions changed. But it was Connon's alone that he watched. For a second it froze into an even greater withdrawal, a kind of desperation. Then slowly it dissolved, the life and movement came back and something very like relief rose to the surface of the eyes. He let out a long sigh and glanced round at his daughter and Antony.

'May they stay?' he asked.

'If you wish it,' said Dalziel.

'Yes. It's best. I'll do my best to be brief.'

'No need to hurry, Mr Connon,' said Pascoe.

He smiled.

'Once you decide to have a tooth out, Sergeant, don't you want to run to the dentist? It's not all that complicated really, not any more than human beings are, anyway. Though that's enough I suppose. What happened was this. Everything I told you about my going home and passing out was true. Only I woke up again much earlier. Shortly after eight I should think. I went out on to the landing. There seemed to be some kind of disturbance downstairs, but I was still too dazed to pay much attention. I went into the bathroom and bathed my face in cold water. That woke me up a little. I noticed the window was wide open and the fresh air helped clear my head as well. Then I set off downstairs.' 'How long had this taken?' asked Dalziel. Jenny looked at him angrily. 'Five minutes. Longer. I don't know. Anyway, I came downstairs and opened the lounge door. The television was still on, no other lights. Mary was still in the chair with its back to me. In front of her stood Marcus. He had this pistol in his hand. I could hear Mary laughing, it was as if something very funny had happened. The pistol was sort of hanging loose. Now Marcus raised it up. Mary stretched out her hand and seemed to pull it towards her. I couldn't see properly because of the chair.'

'What did Mr Felstead look like?' asked Pascoe.

'Like?'

'Angry? Puzzled? Or was he joining in the joke?'

'He looked… annoyed. Not in a rage, but annoyed.'

'What happened then?'

'There was a kind of crash and an odd kind of splintering noise. Marcus stepped back. He said something like, "Oh Christ!" And he went deadly pale. Then he looked up and saw me. I came into the room and walked round the chair so I could see Mary.' He glanced up at Jenny who took his hand and held it hard. 'Her forehead was crushed in. Not much, it seemed, but I could tell she was dead. She still had a cigarette in her hand. I took it out and put it in the ash-tray. Then Marcus started to talk.' This is very important,' said Pascoe urgently. 'What did he say?' The exact words? I can't remember. He was very very upset. So was I. But he told me he didn't mean it, it was an accident. He kept on saying this. He said over and over again that it was an accident. He begged me to believe him. He became almost hysterical.'

'And you, Mr Connon.'

'I felt numb at first. Then my head began to ache again and I felt sick and faint, just like before. But Marcus was in a worse state, I think, and this seemed to help me. I had to help him out of the room. I got him a drink. Then I went to the telephone. I suppose I was going to phone McManus, or the police. I don't really know. It just seemed necessary to phone someone.'

'And did you?'

Connon shook his head regretfully.

'No. No, I didn't. He stopped me. He begged me not to, till I'd heard him out. Then he told me his story. He told me about him and Gwen Evans to start with.'

'Didn't you know before?'

'Not a thing. He'd kept it very dark. I knew Arthur was very jealous and reckoned that something was going on. Now and then I got the impression he even suspected me.'

He laughed shortly.

'I even told Mary. She was very amused.' Pascoe glanced at Dalziel who shook his head almost imperceptibly. 'But he certainly never gave Marcus a thought,' went on Connon. 'Nor did I. But according to Marcus, Mary had somehow found out. I don't know how, nor did he.'

He glanced anxiously at his daughter.

'Don't think badly of your mother, dear. I'm sorry you've got to hear this at all, but it's better now than later.' He looked at Dalziel and added, very clearly, 'In court.' 'What was Mrs Connon up to, sir?' asked Pascoe. 'Some kind of blackmail?'

He kept his gaze firmly away from Jenny.

'Not in the real sense of the word, not in any criminal sense,' said Connon urgently. 'Believe that. No, according to Marcus, she was just entertaining herself, if that's the word, by ringing Gwen up from time to time. She seemed to have a keen instinct for when they were together. She'd just chatter about this or that, ordinary everyday things, but just slanted so that all the time Gwen knew she knew. When they met, it was the same. Conspiratorial glances behind Arthur's back, that kind of thing. Nothing else though. No threats.'

'You believed what Mr Felstead told you.'

Another quick glance at Jenny.

'Yes,' he said slowly. 'I could believe it.' I bet you could, thought Pascoe. I never met your wife and / could believe it.

'Let's get back to that Saturday night,' said Dalziel.

Connon pulled out a packet of cigarettes and began to light one, then pulled himself up as at an unconscious discourtesy and offered them round. They all refused. Pascoe was reminded of Stanley Curtis. 'Marcus said that the previous day, Friday, in the morning, Mary had telephoned Gwen to say that she was going to have a drink with Arthur at lunch time. She said it casually, but made it sound full of significance. Gwen was worried sick. She said that Arthur was very strange that night. I don't know whether Mary had seen him or not, or if she had, what she had said.' Again the glance between Pascoe and Dalziel. This time, Pascoe realized, Antony had caught it too. 'But the following night, Saturday, when Marcus called on Gwen just to see her briefly before she went down to the Club, he found her near breaking point. Mary had been on the phone again earlier in the evening. She'd asked if Arthur had mentioned their meeting. Gwen had started to scream at her down the phone, but Mary had just laughed. She'd kept on listening and laughing. She was capable of great cruelty at times.' Times we shan never hear of, thought Pascoe. Is the girl old enough to understand? I hope to God she is for both their sakes.

'So Marcus headed round here?' said Dalziel.

'Yes.'

'In a rage? To have a showdown?'

'Yes. I expect so. He told me he came determined to see us both. He'd been tempted to talk to me for some time, he said. But when he asked where I was, Mary told him I was sleeping it off upstairs. She said I was drunk. She must have been up to see where I was earlier and found me on the bed. She'd undone cny collar, I think,' he added, as though in irritation. 'Anyway they had a row; or rather, Marcus told me, he yelled and threatened while she just sat and smiled at him. Finally there was a pause and they heard a movement upstairs. I don't know whether it was me or Stanley.'

'Stanley?' said Jenny in surprise. 'Stanley who?'

'I'll explain later, love,' he said. 'She got up then and said it was time I came down to hear what my so-called best friend thought of her. She went to the door and opened it, then screamed. Marcus went after her just in time to see someone scuttle across the hall and out of the front door. He'd thrown something down. It was an airpistol. Marcus picked it up and was going after the intruder, but she stopped him. He said he had a feeling that she thought she knew who it was. If it was Stanley, he was probably right. Well, to cut things short, it all started again. Things got very nasty from the sound of it. Mary suggested they should ring Arthur and ask him what he thought about the affair. Marcus said he was still waving the pistol around. She laughed at him and asked him if he imagined he was a gangster or something. He told me he thought of firing it at her then, but as he lifted it up, he said that the slug came trickling out of the barrel and dropped on the chair beside her. It must have looked a bit absurd. Mary thought it was hilarious. According to Marcus she made a big thing of it, saying things like, "was he going to kill me, then? With his little toy gun?" that kind of thing. She reached out, he said, and lifted the gun up till it rested against her forehead. That's when I must have come down. Then, Marcus said, still laughing she pressed his finger where it was over the trigger.'

He ran his hand over his face nervously.

'I'm glad you know,' he said. 'But I don't understand,' said Jenny. 'What happened? If there was no pellet in it…' 'The pistol was of a type that worked by pressing an inner cylinder into the outer one against a very strong spring as well as the resulting air pressure. Even unloaded, the inner cylinder is jerked out with very great force to an extent of about six inches. Pressed hard against someone's head which in turn was resting hard up against the back of a chair…' Pascoe didn't finish, Jenny sat down, her face pale. Antony hovered anxiously over her. 'Why didn't you ring the police, Mr Connon?' asked Dalziel. 'You still haven't told us.'

Connon shrugged hopelessly.

'I don't know. I wish to God I had. He swore it was an accident, but he asked me how it would sound to the police. Would they believe him? I couldn't say they would. I…'

'Go on.'

'I half didn't believe him myself. He was my friend, but it was my wife sitting there, dead. I was lost, quite lost. I couldn't see what to do.'

'Do you believe him now?'

'Yes. Yes, I think I do. The pellet helped. I thought of it later, but I couldn't find it anywhere. Then I doubted him very much. But it turned up among those objects your people found down the chair. I was overjoyed to find it. It makes a difference, doesn't it?' 'Yes, it does,' said Pascoe, more reassuringly than he felt Dalziel would approve. 'Marcus said if I changed my mind later, he'd be ready to tell you everything. But he begged me not to involve him now. He wanted us to let the burglar, Stanley that is, be blamed. But I refused to do that. I said we couldn't do that. I wouldn't risk anyone else being blamed. I suppose once I started arguing on those lines, I'd really agreed to help him. He agreed in the end and in fact it was Marcus who suggested that we should cover up any traces of the intruder.' 'He must have realized that if we got on to the burglar there'd be even more chance of us getting on to him,' observed Dalziel drily.

Connon ignored him.

'I remembered the bathroom window. We cleaned up the sill and closed the window. Marcus put the gun in his pocket and said he'd get rid of it. I could hardly think straight at all, he had to think of everything.' The prospect of a murder charge concentrates the mind wonderfully,' said Dalziel.

This time Connon answered.

'No, I don't think it was that. I think it was the thought of Arthur Evans more than anything else. Arthur is potentially a violent man. Marcus isn't. He's a terrible tackier, always was. Not frightened for himself, so much as frightened of causing damage. I think he was thinking of Gwen as much as himself.'

'He's let it all come out in the open now,' said Pascoe.

'I know,' said Connon. 'I had a letter.'

'Where? Where from?' snapped Dalziel eagerly.

'Posted in town, Superintendent. So it's no help, I'm afraid. Oh, you're welcome to see it. He just says they're going. Tells me to tell it all if I have to, not to worry, but says he and Gwen want a time alone, together, without having to worry and lie.'

'He needs to worry,' said Dalziel. 'We'll find him.'

Connon gave a sudden smile which lit up his face. 'I doubt it, Superintendent. Marcus'11 see the papers and read between the lines and, in his own time, he'll find you. What happens now? To me I mean. I suppose I've committed any number of offences.'

Dalziel loomed menacingly over him.

'You've been bloody stupid, Connie. No, it's no good giving me those nasty looks, Jennifer! He has and he knows it. He's not a stupid man. He just acts stupid sometimes.' 'I did it for friendship,' said Connon. 'Mary was dead. It seemed to serve no purpose letting my friend be dragged through the courts. But you're right, Dalziel. I knew you were right the next morning. I was even more certain when that letter came to Jenny. I think another week of it would have broken me down, friendship or none. I'm glad you know.' 'So am I,' said Dalziel. 'Don't worry, there'll be no more letters.' 'What happens next isn't up to me,' Dalziel went on. 'You know that. We'll need your statement first. Then a full account of the case will have to be studied by the decision-makers. I hope for your sake they're not soccer men.' He glowered at Pascoe who said, 'Whatever happens, Mr Connon, you'll be here for Christmas if that's any consolation.' Connon looked round at Jenny and Antony, who smiled reassuringly at him.

'Yes. Yes,' he said. 'I think it is.'

The Fernies watched the police-car drive away with Connon in it. 'If you say "I told you so",' said Alice, 'I'll hit you so hard you won't be able to sup beer tomorrow, let alone chew turkey.' 'No, no,' said Fernie. 'It's not that. They haven't arrested him. Look at those two, Jenny and that lad. They're looking far too pleased with each other for that.' 'Now you're a long-distance psychiatrist too,' said Alice. 'Hey, get off! What do you think you're on? I've got work to do.'

'Mine when, as and how I cared to use it. That's what you told that policeman, wasn't it? You wouldn't like to be got for perjury, would you?'

'Oh God. This'll ruin the stuffing.'

'But you're right. You've as much as she ever had. And it is noticeably younger.' 'He looks so much happier,' said Jenny as she drove her father's car after the police-car towards town. 'No wonder he was cracking up, with all that on his mind.'

Antony observed her curiously from the passenger seat.

'What about you, love? All that about your mother, I mean, didn't it come as a shock?' 'Not really. I don't mean I approve or defend her, but whatever she was like, she was like that when I knew her, so I don't see why I should suddenly change towards her now.' She accelerated to cross a light at amber while Antony stood on an imaginary brake. 'I think that she was just jealous. Women do strange things when they're jealous. You'll find out when we get back to college. I want a ring, I don't care if it's expensive or not, but it's got to be bloody big! No, she was jealous of Gwen, that's all. Wanted to control her somehow. She made a friend of Alice Fernie, you see; condescended to her, could control her that way. But with Gwen it had to be something different. Do I sound very cold?' Antony looked at her face. Her eyes were brimful of tears. 'No, love,' he said. 'Not at all. But if you're going to cry, pull in to the kerb before you give us all something to cry about.' Her face broke apart into the Connon grin as the tears overflowed and, glinting in the Christmas lights strung across the streets, rolled down the curve of her cheeks. 'She was a bitch. Thank God I didn't know her,' said Pascoe thickly. Connon's statement had taken some time. They had got to Jacko's party very late, but had quickly made up for lost time. 'She wasn't that bad,' said Dalziel, more clearly, though Pascoe knew he'd taken twice as much drink as himself. 'Not when I knew her. It depends how you look at them. At least they stayed together.' He had shown a surprising desire to stick in his sergeant's company at the party. Pascoe wondered if his inferior rank made him a more desirable auditor of drunken ramblings. 'Not like the Evanses. She left him a letter. Hey, talking of letters, what did you mean when you said to Connon, there'd be no more?' That letter,' said Dalziel solemnly. 'That letter to Jenny Connon. It was written in green ink.'

'Oh yes?' said Pascoe puzzled. 'What's that signify?'

'It signifies Arthur Evans wrote it. My copy was in black ink. That signified he didn't.'

Pascoe digested this in silence for a while.

'I see,' he said finally. 'What does all that signify?' 'It signifies,' said Dalziel, 'that men do bloody stupid things when they're worried about their wives. I spoke to him. He listened to me. He listened to the advice of experience.'

'His wife still left him.'

'He's still in the Club.' 'I suppose that's some compensation,' said Pascoe doubtfully. 'Better than her being in it, eh, sir?'

They laughed raucously.

'Was she a bitch? She left him. Connon's wife seemed a bigger bitch, but she didn't leave him. Are those the bigger bitches, do you think? Isn't it better to get a letter?' 'My wife,' said Dalziel slowly, 'my wife sent me a telegram.' Pascoe shifted uneasily, suddenly rather more sober. He wasn't at all sure he wanted to be cast in the role of Dalziel's confidant. Christmas comes but once a year, the jingle tripped incessantly through his mind.

He tried to divert the conversation on to fresh tracks.

'There's a silly game called "Telegram",' he said brightly. (Christ! my brightness is more hammy than even his performances!) But neither his brightness nor his attempts at diversion seemed to be noticed. They would be registered, however; that he was certain of. Dalziel's mind might get as soggy as a damp brantub, but sometime, somehow, he would grope around in the clart and come up with these moments clear and sharp as a policeman's whistle. 'Words too harsh to be spoken,' said Dalziel. 'Words too bloody violent to be heard. Things she couldn't say to me, face to face. Me. Her husband. She wrote them down. On a bit of paper. Gave them to a counter-clerk to count.' (Which of course is what a counter-clerk ought to be doing, thought Pascoe. Or he might have said it. He couldn't tell which one second later.) 'A stranger read them. They were copied. Printed out. Despatched. All those people knowing what I didn't know.' Please God, prayed Pascoe, let him stop. I'm an ambitious man. I don't want to hear him. Besides I'm sure Noolan's wife fancies me. Not so old either. But if I don't move soon I'll have to join a queue. Somewhere in the house a clock chimed midnight. For a moment everyone was still. Most of the Rugby Club lot, the elders at least, were there. He saw them all it seemed as he glanced round the room. He felt almost fond of them. He fumbled in his pocket and produced a small cylinder of gay Christmas paper. He hadn't known till now whether he would dare give it.

'Merry Christmas, sir.'

'What the hell's this? Apple for teacher?'

That was better.

'Just a little gift. Christmas. And end of case.' Dalziel carefully unwrapped the large expensive cigar and sniffed it appraisingly. 'It's not ended yet,' he said. 'We've still got to find Felstead.'

'What'll happen?'

'God knows. Manslaughter? At least, I should think. But let's catch him first.' 'Tomorrow, Boxing Day. He's an amateur. And he's got Gwen Evans to attract attention. Five bob they have him in forty-eight hours.'

Dalziel shook his head gloomily.

'I won't take your money, lad. Thanks for this, though.'

He put the cigar in his mouth and lit it.

'Not a bad party,' he said. 'Hey, Willie. Where've you been hiding? Take me to Jacko's brandy bottle.' Kids, thought Pascoe. Big kids. Like Jenny Connon, and Antony, and Stanley, and Sheila. Little kids. He started to cut an efficient path through the crowd towards the ample, mature charms of Mrs Willie Noolan.

Envoi

It was a cold, hard January day, the last Saturday in the month. The weather delighted the hearts of thousands who by car, foot, and train were making their way towards Twickenham. Connon let himself be swept out of the station by the steady onward flow of the crowd. A loudspeaker warned him that the official programme was on sale only in the ground. As usual, the police seemed to have invented a new system of pedestrian diversion since his last visit and the route they followed afforded him several tantalizing glimpses of the stands before the final approach. Even so, there was still half an hour to go before kickoff when he reached the ground. He joined a small queue for an official programme, another for an official cushion. Then he joined a larger queue winding its way into the urinal, and smiled to hear someone say, 'Someone's pissing in my pocket.' He always smiled at that. Outside again he paused, buffeted by the purposeful swirl of people all around him. On an impulse he did not head round to the West Bar where he usually met up with old friends, but made his way directly to his seat. It was high in the East Stand. Round and round he climbed, finally emerging into the bright sunlight and almost frightening spaciousness of the stand itself. A man in a sheepskin jacket and Robin Hood hat looked at his ticket and directed him to his row. He found he was sitting next but one to the aisle. Far below, an unreal distance it seemed, lay the ground. From up here there was nothing to mar the perfection of the white-edged rectangles of bright green. A military band stood in the middle playing fitfully into the gusty wind. Clusters of notes rose up to the top of the stand and he pieced together a melody from Oklahoma. Two boys suddenly ran in from the ringside seats. They carried between them a banner which had painted on it in large red letters 'WALES'. Boos and cheers rose in almost solid blocks from different parts of the ground. Another group of boys climbed over the fence as the banner was brought beneath the West Stand. The Welsh boys recognized the enemy and ran, but found themselves cut off. There was a brief skirmish and the banner was torn. Around the ground the boos and cheers changed places. 'There's a lot more of this nowadays,' said a greyhaired man in front of Connon.

Too bloody much if you ask me,' said his neighbour.

The ground was very full now. Connon looked along his row. Every seat was taken except the one next to the aisle. Down below the band was on the move. It left the playing area and came to a halt on the touch-line. There was a momentary hush from the crowd. Connon leaned forward expectantly. Then out of the tunnel beneath the West Stand came trotting the red-shirted Welshmen. A great scream of welcome went up from the crowd. The red-rosetted man next to Connon waved his arms so violently that Connon felt in some danger. The noise still had not died down when it was overtaken and swallowed by the great trumpeting cry which announced the appearance of the English. Clapping enthusiastically, Connon thought, the Celts make more noise, perhaps, but there's a touch of hysteria about it. It's partly a threat. We roar for love. They also sing better, he had to acknowledge a few moments later. But then so do canaries. England kicked off. The wind caught the ball, held it in the air, then dropped it just short of the ten-yard line. The Welsh took the scrum and won the ball. But the English back row were round like lightning and the ball was despatched to touch. It didn't bounce.

Someone took the seat next to Connon.

'Hello Marcus,' he said. The English fly-half had the ball. He sent the defence moving the wrong way with a dummy scissors, but not enough. Kick through! urged Connon mentally. He didn't and was dragged down by a Welsh centre.

'Well Connie,' said Marcus. 'What are our chances?'

'Fair, if we use the wind properly. That full-back of theirs has got a big bum. He's slow on the turn. How are you?'

'Very well,' said Marcus.

The Welsh had the ball from the ruck and were developing an attack down the middle. But the cover was good and too quick to allow a break. Play finally came to a halt ten yards behind the English twenty-five.

'They'll be watching for you, Marcus,' said Connon.

'They've found me already,' said Marcus with a laugh. Now Connon looked round. Standing at the entrance to the stairs about ten feet back were Dalziel and Pascoe. 'I think they were disappointed that I came, in a way. They hoped to see more of the match.'

'Why did you come, Marcus?'

The English full-back took the ball almost on his own line and found touch near half way. 'I couldn't hide forever, could I? I just wanted a few weeks with Gwen. That's all. In case it goes badly. You never know, do you?'

'You kept well out of the way.'

'A cottage in the Lakes. We've been snowed up most of the time. The local bobby actually ploughed his way through to check if we needed help.'

'Did you?'

'It's been the happiest month of my life,' replied Marcus quietly. The Welsh had the ball again. This time their fly-half had room to move and side-stepped the over-impetuous approach of the wing-forward with ease. This took him back towards the packs but he went on happily with an arrogant certainty that his pack would retrieve the ball from any ruck which made Connon's heart sink. They did, but only with a helping hand from the floor. The English full-back indicated he was going to have a kick at goal. 'You've changed, Connie. I don't know how, but somehow,' said Marcus as preparations for the kick were undertaken. 'You don't believe that I… that what happened to Mary wasn't an accident now, do you?' 'No,' said Connon. 'But what I did, or what I didn't do, when I found out what happened, later I knew I couldn't have acted like that if somewhere deep I hadn't been glad Mary was dead. I was glad then, Marcus, glad in some dead, secret way. That stopped it from being a real accident. Volition and result, they don't make an accident.'

Marcus was aghast.

'Listen, Connie,' he urged, 'it was nothing to do with you that it happened. You can't blame yourself…' 'Oh, I don't,' said Connon. 'Not now. Because I found I quickly stopped being glad in any way. Mary wasn't a good woman, I know, and often not a very pleasant person. I'd often wished I could escape her. Get far far away from her, from everyone.'

He laughed at himself.

'I got away. To my desert. I got to my desert, and it was just what you'd expect a desert to be. Hot, dusty, empty, killing.'

The full-back stabbed at the ball and sliced it badly.

An ironic cheer went up. A Welshman gathered it on his own line and shaped to kick for touch. 'I'm sorry, Connie,' said Marcus quietly. 'I suppose because I knew, about you and Mary I mean, I suppose I thought it didn't matter as much somehow.' 'It always matters. To all of us it matters. It matters to me, it matters to Arthur Evans. I suppose it even mattered to him.' He jerked his head back to where Dalziel was still standing pointing out some feature of the game to Pascoe. 'Now I can mourn properly. Goodbye Marcus. I shan see you again. I'm in a little bit of trouble myself, you know.'

'I'm sorry,' said Marcus again, standing up. 'Goodbye.'

He went back up the steps to the policemen. 'Well, I got some use out of my ticket,' he said. 'Thanks. Why don't you stay, Bruiser, and see the rest of the game? The sergeant here's more than capable of dealing with me, I'm sure.' Dalziel looked tempted for a moment, but shook his head. 'Can't be done,' he said. 'Would look bad on my report. Anyway we've got a great deal to ask you, Mr Felstead.' 'So formal,' murmured Marcus. He moved forward, but Dalziel restrained him.

'Wait a mo',' he said.

The Welsh kick had found touch. Now the ball had come back badly on the English side, but the scrum-half got to it. He was pounced on before he could move and the best he could do was to throw out a slow lobbing pass to his fly-half, who had to take it standing still. But miraculously with a simple twist of his hips, he opened a gap between the two Welsh forwards bearing furiously down on him, stepped through it and suddenly accelerated straight ahead.

'Run! Run!' screamed Dalziel.

'Go now!' yelled Pascoe, not quite sure why he felt so excited by this alien game.

'Nothing can stop him,' said Marcus with certainty.

He was right. The cover was far too slow in coming across. Head high, ball held lightly before him, beautifully balanced, he rounded the full-back as though he were rooted and touched down gently, undramatically, between the posts.

'Oh, you beauty!' breathed Dalziel. 'You beauty!'

He sighed and shook his head as though coming back to reality.

'Right,' he said. 'Let's go.'

'The kick?' suggested Marcus. To hell with the kick. He might miss it. Let's go now,' said Dalziel. Marcus took a last glance back at Connon before going through the exit, but he wasn't looking. He was slowly sitting down again after the leap of jubilation which had taken him and thousands of others to their feet.

There were tears in his eyes. He rubbed one away.

The Welshman next to him nudged his neighbour and surreptitiously pointed to Connon.

The buggers have got feelings after all, boy,' he said.