Dalziel And Pascoe: A Clubbable Woman Part 9

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

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

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

'Mr Fernie. It's you.'

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

'Is something wrong, Stan?' asked Alice.

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

He stopped again.

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

'Yes, Stanley?'

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

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

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

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

Hurst laughed.

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

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

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

Then he seemed to make his mind up about something.

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

'Yes?'

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

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

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

'Of course. Who reported this?'

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

Connon smiled thoughtfully.

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

'Jenny,' said Connon suddenly.

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

That's right.'

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

'Stop here,' she cried.

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

Connon came trotting up the pavement towards her.

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

She ignored him and looked expectantly at her father.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He too went up the driveway into the house.

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

Chapter 5.

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

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

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

The posts did not get nearer.

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

Desperately, failingly, he ran towards the sun.

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

He laughed softly to himself.

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

'In a minute,' he said.

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

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

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

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

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

'You're up early.'

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

'Go ahead.'

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

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

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

He sniffed.

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

Ts there any more coffee?' asked Connon.

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

He sat down again.

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

'Had you now?' murmured Connon.

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

'And that is?'

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

Connon sighed.

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

'Jesus wept!' said Connon, laughing loud.

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

'h.e.l.lo? Connon speaking.'

A long pause. The youngsters kissed again.

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

A very short pause.

'All right. Later. Goodbye.'

The phone clicked back on to its rest.

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

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

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

'Just answer the question, please, Arthur.' 'I went home, then, that's where I b.l.o.o.d.y well went. Can I go now?'

'Why did you go home?'

'It's where I live, see? That's what home means, don't you remember, Superintendent Dalziel? Ask your b.l.o.o.d.y amanuensis.'

Dalziel was unperturbed by the outburst.

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

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

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