‘I’m no psychiatrist but I’ll tell you one thing. That letter was written by some poor, unhappy, twisted, frustrated man with a rather scanty knowledge of women. My Dave may be a bit short on mouth control, he may talk too much, he may not know how to make friends and influence people …’
‘Alice!’ interjected her husband, outraged. But she went on as if he wasn’t there.
‘… but whatever else he is, he’s not frustrated. If he sees a woman undressing in a window, he’ll stop and have a look. Who wouldn’t? You would!’
Oh yes, thought Pascoe, yes, I would.
‘Especially if she’s like Mary Connon. She was a big woman. But I’m no nymphet myself,’ she said proudly. ‘Anything she had, I had too, and it was thirteen years younger, and readily available to my husband as, when, and how he liked to use it. Any man can be unfaithful, but it takes special circumstances to write a letter like that.’
She finished, slightly flushed, but looking him defiantly straight in the eye. Fernie was regarding her with some awe.
‘You may be right, Mrs Fernie,’ said Pascoe. ‘Now, if I can just take your prints, Mr Fernie, I won’t bother you any more.’
‘Do you think whoever wrote those letters killed poor Mary?’ she asked as she saw him out of the door.
‘Perhaps,’ said Pascoe.
‘You can cut Dave right out,’ she said with a smile. ‘He couldn’t hurt anyone. He goes queasy at those doctor programmes on the telly.’
Pascoe felt inclined to agree with her as he drove along Boundary Drive. Still, it was as well to keep an open mind. But all that had really happened that evening, he thought, was that he had developed something that was very nearly envy of Dave Fernie.
Dalziel’s superiors would not have been happy to see him. He had already been seen once that day. A progress report had been requested. He had asked if what was wanted was a detailed account of the whole course of the investigation so far or a brief statement of what was known.
The Assistant Chief Constable had mentally spoken a prayer for self-control and asked for a brief statement.
‘Enquiries are proceeding, sir.’
‘Is that all!’
‘I have sent in full and detailed reports of every aspect of the investigation, sir. Do you also require a digest of them?’
The Assistant Chief Constable had squirmed in his seat with irritation but, like the good golfer he was, he kept his head quite still.
‘No thank you, Superintendent. I would like to suggest, however, that you might tread a little more carefully in certain places.’
‘Like, sir?’
‘Like the Rugby Club. If you go there as an investigating officer either do it more subtly or use the full paraphernalia of your office.’
‘You mean dress up, sir?’
‘I mean act either as a policeman, or a member. Don’t try to be both at once.’
‘But I am both at once, sir. All the time.’
The Assistant Chief Constable sighed.
‘There have been one or two …’
‘Complaints?’
‘No. Words, gently dropped. But from a height. How important is this Club in your investigations?’
Dalziel thought a little, his hand working inside the waistline of his trousers.
If only he wouldn’t scratch, thought his superior.
‘Central,’ said Dalziel finally. ‘Will that be all?’
‘For the moment. Keep me informed.’
‘As always, sir.’
‘And please. If you want to interview any more members of this Club, do it quietly, at the station preferably.’
‘Sir!’
And here he was not many hours later sitting with Marcus Felstead in a relatively quiet corner of the club-house, twisting the guts out of him, though Marcus did not know it yet.
‘Not bad beer here, is it?’
Marcus sipped his pint as if to make sure.
‘No, not bad.’
‘Many storage problems?’
‘Not really,’ said Marcus, a little surprised. ‘It’s all kegs nowadays, so as long as you keep it fairly cool, it comes up smiling.’
‘How’s the Club fixed for money now?’
Again surprise.
‘I don’t really know. Better ask Sid.’
‘No, I don’t mean figures. I just wondered if there was any thought of getting a permanent steward?’
‘Not that I know of. It seems an unnecessary expense. There’s plenty of us to do the work.’
Dalziel took a long pull at his pint and sighed happily.
‘You do quite a lot, don’t you, Marcus?’
‘I do my share.’
‘No; more, I’m certain. Just about every Saturday night.’
‘Not every. But pretty frequently.’
‘You were on the night Mary Connon died.’
That’s a shot across your bows, my lad. Field that any way you like, thought Dalziel, observing his man closely.
Marcus’s hand might have gripped the handle of his glass a little more tightly, but that was all.
‘I think I was.’
Now a long pause. Let him wonder if it was just a casual remark. Let him try to organize his defences. Then let him relax.
‘Hello, Willie!’
He waved his glass casually at Noolan, who smiled and waved back as he went to join a small group standing by the bar.
‘Yes,’ he said, returning his attention to Marcus. ‘Yes. You were here all that night, weren’t you?’
‘I don’t recall,’ said Marcus, definitely a little ill at ease now.
‘Oh, you were. We checked. All night. Except for the two hours when you went out and drove round to Boundary Drive.’
Marcus went white. He pushed the beer away from him with his rather small girlish hand.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said. ‘I never went anywhere near Boundary Drive.’
Dalziel laughed in a friendly fashion.
‘Come off it, Marcus,’ he said. ‘Your car was seen. What’s the matter? It’s no crime, is it? That’s what they usually say to me.’
‘I never went near Boundary Drive,’ repeated Marcus, a little recovered now. ‘You must be mistaken. It can’t have been my car.’
‘No? Well, there’s a simple way to settle this, seeing as you’re so worried.’
‘What’s that?’
Dalziel leaned across the table, pushing Marcus’s glass back at him.
‘Tell us where you really were, then.’
‘Why the hell should I?’
Oh dear, thought Dalziel resignedly. He’s going to start shouting. Time for us to go.
‘Listen, Marcus, my lad,’ he whispered confidentially. ‘There’s obviously some kind of misunderstanding here. We can’t discuss it properly here in the Club. Why don’t we take a drive down to the station to talk things out? Less embarrassing than shouting at each other in front of all these people.’
He waved his hand airily around, realizing as he did so that all these people now included Connon.
Connon didn’t acknowledge the greeting but just continued to stare at them.
‘Coming?’ said Dalziel, smiling still for the benefit of the onlookers, but infusing a new grimness into his voice.
‘For God’s sake, Superintendent, sit down. Look, if it means that much to you where I was …’
‘Oh, it does, it does,’ said Dalziel.
Marcus stared into his beer broodingly for a long minute.
What’s he hatching? wondered Dalziel. Have I hit the jackpot? Jesus, that’d be a laugh, Connon’s best mate bashing his wife’s head in.
But there was still a large doubt sitting hugely at the back of his mind. What possible motive could this round, friendly, most amiable of men have for murder? It was no use going by appearances, but a man who reminded him so strongly of Winnie the Pooh …
Marcus seemed to have made up his mind.
‘Come on,’ said Dalziel. ‘It’s either the truth o
r a very complicated lie.’
‘It’s the truth,’ said Marcus. ‘But first, I must have your assurance that this is in the most absolute confidence.’
‘As long as it has no bearing on the case.’
‘It hasn’t.’
‘Then you have my word.’
The fingers he was scratching under his arm with were crossed. Dalziel preserved many of his old childhood superstitions.
‘Well, look.’ He was almost whispering and Dalziel had to lean even further forward to catch the words.
‘Hello, Marcus, boy!’
Evans’s heavy hand smacked down on the small man’s shoulder. Marcus went white and jerked round sharply to look at the figure behind him. Even Dalziel, who was facing him, had not noticed his arrival, so intent had he been on catching Marcus’s words.
‘Give you a fright, did I? What’re you two hatching anyway? You’ve got to be careful who you drink with these days, Marcus. Might lose your good name.’
‘Evening, Arthur,’ said Dalziel as unwelcoming as he could be in the limits of politeness. ‘Gwen not with you?’
That should get rid of him, he thought with malice. He won’t fancy a needling match on these terms.
But Evans merely grinned and helped himself to a stool from under a neighbouring table.
‘She’s in the loo making herself lovely for you, Bruiser. Marcus, boy, it’s you I wanted to see. Listen, I’m having a hell of a job holding this team together. You know how important it is, a club’s known by the quality of its fourth side. Now you drop out, one of the regulars. It’s a big hole to fill. You should have seen us last Saturday. Walking bloody wounded! Couldn’t you hang on till the end of the season?’
He’s not listening to you, Arthur, thought Dalziel. He was going to tell me something, now he’s having another little think. He’s very worried. That’s how I like them, worried. You’ll have to go, Arthur. If you won’t take a hint, I’ll put it to you in terms even a thick-skinned Welshman can understand.
But before Dalziel could begin his dismissal operation, Marcus forestalled him.
‘My round, I think,’ he said. ‘Arthur, will you have one? A pint? Right.’
He swept Dalziel’s glass from under his nose and set off to the bar at the quick march. Dalziel watched him go in amused exasperation. But it was merely a postponement.
‘Here, Arthur,’ he said. ‘When Marcus comes back, piss off for a bit, will you? We’re having a bit of a serious talk.’
‘Are you now? It can’t be more serious than the Fourths, can it? After all, this is a rugby club.’
Oh, they’re all getting in on the act, are they? thought Dalziel. All dropping their little words in the direction of my bosses. But yours don’t come from very on high, Arthur.
‘In any case,’ said Evans, ‘what makes you think he’s coming back? He seems to have bloody well disappeared altogether. And his round too!’
Dalziel looked sharply round at the bar. Noolan and his group were still there. Connon was standing a little apart from them, still looking across at the superintendent’s table.
But of Marcus Felstead there was no sign.
Pascoe had pulled into the Club car park close behind the Evanses’ car. He had not got out immediately, but sat and watched the broad Welshman and his wife pick their way carefully over the already frosted surface towards the club-house.
They looked just like any other couple, he reflected. Comfortable. Affectionate. Evans had taken Gwen’s arm to help her circumnavigate a frozen puddle. She said something to him and he seemed to laugh. Then they disappeared through the door.
Perhaps it was all a mistake, thought Pascoe. Perhaps it was just in Evans’s mind, this other man. It would be impossible to live with a woman like Gwen and not know that other men envied you, would like to fish in your pond. And a temperament a lot less volatile than Arthur’s could easily come to believe this was exactly what was happening.
What would it prove anyway if it turned out that there was a man and that man was Connon? A motive, he had said earlier to Dalziel. It would prove a motive. Or rather it would give a possible base for the possible erection of two or three possible motives. Lots of possibles. No probables. Probables versus possibles. And a young man, certain of his own strength and skill, running with balanced ease round all opposition as he made for the line.
I’m beginning to think in their imagery, he admonished himself, and lit a cigarette, somehow reluctant to leave his car and go in search of Dalziel. Or perhaps it was because Sheila Lennox might be there. He had had to stand her up on their second date. Nothing dramatically urgent to season an apology with; no startling new development, breathtaking chase, or a second murder. Just pressure of paper and organizational routine.
Her voice on the phone had been cold. His suggestion of another meeting ignored. Perhaps it was for the best. She was only a child. Nearly nineteen. That meant eighteen. And he was nearly twenty-nine. That meant thirty. But they grew up early these days. Or at least they seemed to. She had promised a wealth of experience on their exploratory first date. But it had been mostly verbal. What lay behind it he would probably never know.
He opened the car door and dropped his cigarette end on to the concreted surface where it glowed with vulgar ruddiness on the silver sharpness of the frost till he ground it under his foot as he stepped out.
Then, half in, half out of the car, he suddenly became very still.
The club-house door had opened and a man came carefully out. He was unrecognizable at this distance, but the woman who followed him a moment later only had to take a couple of steps for Pascoe to know that this was Gwen Evans again. She had taken her coat off. He could see her bare arms gleam whitely for a moment as she too disappeared into the shadow down the side of the building.
Pascoe watched them out of sight. Then he slipped his hand into the glove compartment of his car till his finger rested on the heavy rubber casing of a torch. With this in hand and keeping low, he now stepped out of his car and closed the door quietly behind him, certain he was unobserved. He had long ago severed the connection between the door and the interior courtesy light. Three hours’ extremely cold and tedious observation had been ruined by the sudden flash of this light several years earlier. Pascoe was a man who learned from his mistakes.
Silently he moved across to the club-house and made his way along the side wall. At first in the shadow of the wall it seemed pitch black, but his eyes rapidly adjusted to the light, or lack of it.
There was no one there.
He moved swiftly down the line of the wall, slowing as he neared its end. It was lighter here. A faint glow came through an opaque window which must belong to one of the cloakrooms.
He stopped beneath it. From round the corner came voices.
First Gwen’s. Anxious. Tense. An edge of panic.
‘Darling, darling. What’re we to do? What’s going to happen?’
Then a man’s. Reassuring, but also anxious beneath. And familiar.
‘It’ll be all right, Gwen. I’ll have to tell him. He’ll want to talk to you. But we can still keep it quiet.’
‘Quiet!’ Almost a sob now. ‘Quiet! I’m tired of it all. I’m tired of being quiet. I can’t see where it’s leading. I can’t, I can’t!’
The voices lowered to an indistinguishable mixture of near-sobbing and reassuring murmurs.
Pascoe took another step forward.
And trod on something.
A plastic coated cardboard cup, his trained ear told him. Or an empty ice-cream carton.
It cracked like a beechwood fire.
The talking stopped.
Oh dear, thought Pascoe. Well, here we go.
He switched on his torch and stepped round the corner. They were close in each other’s arms and the beam of the torch was enough to catch them both.
‘Good evening, Mrs Evans,’ he said apologetically trying to keep the note of astonishment out of his voice. ‘And good evening to you too, Mr Felstead
. You’ll catch your deaths out here if you’re not careful.’
‘I thought he’d made a bolt for it,’ said Dalziel. ‘He looked bloody scared.’
‘I daresay he was,’ grinned Pascoe. ‘I mean, imagine you are about to confess you’re knocking off Arthur Evans’s wife and suddenly his great hand comes down on your shoulder. Anyone’d be scared. On the other hand he carried it off well. When he came back in, I mean. Did Evans notice anything?’
Dalziel nodded his great bull’s head.
‘Oh yes. He noticed something. I mean, I moved quite quickly when I saw Felstead had gone. But Connon stopped me, said Marcus had asked him to order while he went to the bog, and thrust a pint into my hand. You can’t give pursuit under those conditions. Anyway, by the time he came back, Arthur was getting too impatient for his wife to put in an appearance to pay much attention to anyone else.’
‘I told her to go into the other room and say she thought he was going to be in there. Not that I needed to coach her, she must have had plenty of practice. But what a turn up, eh?’
‘You’ve never said a truer word, Sergeant. She confirmed everything?’
‘Oh yes. They were at it in the house, then in Felstead’s car on the way to the Club, all the time he was away from the bar. The way they were hanging on to each other when I caught them, it’s very easy to believe.’
Easy to believe? Dalziel asked himself, thinking of Marcus Felstead and trying to revise his mental picture of him. The physical reality couldn’t be changed! Five feet four or five at the most, looking almost as round as he was high, with a balding pate that rose like a monk’s tonsure through an unruly and still retreating fringe.
Then he thought of Gwen Evans. He had always felt he was a bit of an expert on Gwen Evans. He had spent many beery hours just assessing the value of all visible assets, and visualizing the invisible.
That she should spare a first glance, let alone a second, on this man was almost incredible.
But it all fitted. It had been Marcus who turned up at the Evans house on Saturday afternoon when Pascoe was there. He’d played it very cool, they both had. He could imagine the facial contortions, the mouthed warnings, at the front door.
A Clubbable Woman Page 17
