Dalziel And Pascoe: A Clubbable Woman Part 16

'On the windowsill?'

'On the wall.' 'That's absurd,' said Connon. 'No one could get in there. And the window was fastened in any case.' Pascoe didn't answer but went out to the phone. Jenny looked worriedly at her father. Today he looked paler than ever. T wish they could have left this alone till Christmas was over,' she whispered to Antony. He squeezed her shoulder and went out into the hall after Pascoe who was just replacing the receiver. 'He's out,' said Pascoe, more to himself than Antony. 'He'll ring here when he gets back.' 'Sergeant,' said Antony. 'Forgive me if I seem to be playing the amateur sleuth once again, but something else occurred to me the other day, which might or might not be of interest to you.' 'Let's have it,' said Pascoe. 'Every little helps. Shall we go into the other room?' 'Well no,' said Antony. 'It would make my explanation easier if we stepped outside.'

Two minutes later Antony returned to the lounge.

'Has he gone?' asked Jenny, who was sitting on the arm of her father's chair. 'No. He's in the garden again. But he sent me in to ask you something. You know a girl called Sheila Lennox?'

'Yes.'

'He wants to know if you know where she works.' Thirty minutes later the three of them were still sitting in the lounge. 'I hope he's going to pay for his telephone calls,' said Jenny. 'It's a little price to pay to see the great detective's great detective at work,' said Antony. Connon sat with his hand pressed to the side of his brow. 'Have you got your headache again, Daddy?' asked Jenny.

'No. Not really. Just a little. It'll pa.s.s.'

'Oh, I wish . . .' but the front-door bell interrupted Jenny's wish. Antony rose, but they heard the door being opened before he left the room.

'How do you do, Sergeant?' boomed a familiar voice.

'Oh G.o.d,' groaned Jenny, 'it's Fat Dalziel.'

'The gang's all here,' intoned Antony.

In the dining-room, Pascoe was speaking swiftly, persuasively to Dalziel who listened intently. 'All right,' he said when the sergeant had finished. I'll buy it. Let's ask him now, shan we? Where's he work?' 'He doesn't today. It's Christmas Eve, remember? He finished early for Christmas. That's why I left word for you to come here.'

'That makes it easier. Come on.'

Pascoe hung back, his memories of training thronging his mind.

'Shouldn't we call up a little support? Just in case.'

Dalziel laughed contemptuously.

'A strapping young lad like you? Not to mention me, the terror of seven counties. You must be joking. Anyway, it might still be a lot of hogwash. Let's ask.'

Jenny heard the front door close.

'That's b.l.o.o.d.y polite, I must say,' she said angrily. 'In and out without a by-your-leave, and they don't even say goodbye.' 'Perhaps they're not going far,' said Antony, peering through the curtains. 'In fact, they're not. They're just going across the road.' 'Where to?' demanded Jenny, jumping up and rus.h.i.+ng to the window.

Connon stood up too and slowly followed her.

Over the road, Dalziel held his thumb down hard on the bell-push. 'Someone knows we're here,' he said laconically. 'Or there's a big draught behind the curtains.'

'Here we are,' said Pascoe.

The door opened. 'Good morning, madam,' said Dalziel with effusive politeness to the large woman who stood there, still rubbing her sleepy eyes. 'We're police officers. I wonder if I might have a word with your son.' Maisie Curtis opened her mouth to say something. From somewhere at the rear of the house came the slam of a door.

'Sergeant,' said Dalziel. The back.'

But he was speaking to an already retreating Pascoe. Stanley Curtis was young, fit, and had a good start. When Pascoe rounded the back of the house, he had already moved across the Fernies' garden and was clearing the next hedge like a trained hurdler. Pascoe made no attempt to follow him but rapidly a.s.sessed the situation. While the barriers between the Boundary Drive gardens were uniformly low, the hedges and fences which separated the bottoms of the gardens from those of the houses behind were generally much higher. Pascoe took this in, turned and ran past Dalziel again without a word. The Connons saw him leap into his car like a Le Mans driver and accelerate explosively up the street. Two hundred yards on he brought the car to an equally violent halt. Stanley Curtis, dragging in great mouthfuls of air through his hugely open mouth, was coming out of someone's gate. He stopped when he saw the car and made as if to turn back.

Pascoe leaned over and opened the pa.s.senger door.

'Come on, Stan,' he said. 'It's no weather to be out without your jacket.' His chest still rising and falling spasmodically, the youth came across the pavement and climbed into the car. 'Let's get Superintendent Dalziel,' said Pascoe, swinging the car in a turn which took him up on to the pavement. 'Then we'll go somewhere quiet and have a talk. I expect you're ready for a talk, aren't you?'

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 f.a.g after all, can I? b.u.g.g.e.r 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. "h.e.l.lo, 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 s.h.i.+fted 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 Sat.u.r.day, 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 h.e.l.l!' 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 h.e.l.l 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 b.u.mped 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 h.e.l.l 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.'