Hill, Reginald - Dalziel and Pascoe 01 - A clubbable woman

by Reginald Hill

  The phone rang.

  'Excuse me,' said Dalziel. He listened for a moment.

  'The doctor's ready for you now, if that's OK.'

  Connon stood up. 'He won't keep you long, I expect. Like the Army. Just a cough and a piddle.'

  'Will you want to see me again, Superintendent?'

  Dalziel opened the door for him.

  'Just for a moment perhaps. Sergeant!'

  The uniformed sergeant who had brought Connon to the room appeared. The expression of unctuous sympathy with which Connon had been greeted reappeared on Dalziel's face for the first time since the interview began. 'This is very good of you. It's a trying time. Sergeant, show Mr Connon to the doctor. And get him a cup of tea, or coffee if you prefer it.' 'No, thank you,' said Connon and set off after the sergeant. 'No,' said Dalziel to himself as he watched them go. 'I expect you'll manage a piddle without it. Or I'm losing my touch. Sergeant Pascoe!'

  'You're not intending to go down to the Club in that rig,

  are you, girl?' Gwen Evans turned before the mirror and peered back

  over her shoulder.

  'What's the matter? My bum's not too big, is it?' She was wearing a tight-fitting dress of flowered silk,

  whose style was distantly Chinese in origin.

  'No, but if that slit went any further up the side, you'd be able to see your bellybutton.' 'Don't be vulgar, Arthur. What's the matter? Don't you want me to go to the Club?'

  'No, it's not that at all . . .'

  'No? I think you'd much rather have me here slaving over roast beef and two veg, waiting for you to come back full of love and beer.' 'Be fair, Gwen. Most of the time you complain that I'm too keen to get you down there.' 'Oh ay. Where you can keep an eye on me at night. But it doesn't seem to worry you at lunchtime. Do you think I've got a time switch on it, then, and can't get it to work in hours of daylight? You should know better.' Evans crossed to her in three swift strides. Instinctively she cowered back, holding her hands before her face, but he made no move to strike her. Instead he reached down, seized the hem of her dress and tugged violently upwards. There was a tearing noise as stitching came apart and the oriental split up the side extended to the waist.

  'There,' he said. 'Now you can really see your belly.'

  She relaxed, leaned against the wall and began to laugh. At first there was a very faint note of hysteria in it, but this rapidly faded and the laugh deepened to genuine amusement. 'Give us a fag, will you, Arthur?' she said finally, regarding her husband with something like real affection. 'You're not such a bad old faggot when you're roused.' Evans sat on the bed and lit two cigarettes, one of which he passed over to his wife. Thanks,' she said, drew on it deeply and placed it carefully on the edge of the dressing-table while she began to remove her ruined dress.

  Evans watched her impassively.

  She went to the wardrobe in her slip and opened its door.

  'Well,' she said, 'what's it to be? Clubwear, or kitchenwear?'

  'Where were you last night, Gwen?'

  'At the Club with you, dear. Remember?'

  She smiled sweetly. 'Gwen,' he said, 'you're right. It's a daft question, isn't it, girl? I know where you were. Or at least who you were with.' She stiffened and reached down a dress from the hanging rail.

  'Oh, do you?'

  'Yes, of course I do, Gwen. And I suppose if I know, every other sod in the Club has known for months. But I don't understand you, Gwen. I can see why you encourage all those young lads who come sniffing around you. That'd be flattering to any woman. But a man of my own age. And a friend. What made you pick him, Gwen? What made you pick Connie?'

  'A-l, I hope,' said Dalziel when Connon reappeared.

  'I hope not, Superintendent. That would mean I couldn't get better. And I don't think I've recovered from that knock yet. I hope we won't be much longer.' 'This is a murder enquiry, Mr Connon. We need your help. Your wife is dead.' I think that I am at least as aware of that as you, Superintendent. My daughter will be arriving home some time this morning. I'd like to be there to meet her.'

  Dalziel looked sympathetic.

  'Of course. A father's feelings. But have no worries on that score. My sergeant was just telling me. Your daughter's got here safe and sound. We were able to assist a little there.'

  Connon stood up.

  'Jenny? Here? You mean, hereT 'Oh no. Never worry yourself. I mean at home, of course. We wouldn't bring her here.'

  'At home. Then I must go.'

  Dalziel let him reach the door.

  'Just one question, Mr Connon.'

  'If you must.' 'You left the Club at twenty to six, and got home about six-thirty. Rather a long time isn't it? It's only seven or eight miles at the most. And there's not much traffic about at that time.'

  'There was enough.'

  Dalziel, expert at detecting ironies, thought he heard one here. 'You didn't stop for any reason? A drink perhaps? Or had you had enough at the Club?'

  'Why do you ask?' said Connon quietly.

  'Well, it's just that we've had a statement. Not guaranteed reliable, mark you. But admissible, and voluntary, and therefore carrying some weight. This man . . .'

  'Which man?'

  'A man called Fernie, says he met you last night. Is that true?'

  'Yes.'

  'About six-thirty?'

  'Yes.'

  'Outside your house?'

  'Yes again.'

  'He says that you were acting oddly. In various ways. He says, in fact he was willing to swear, but we introduced a degree of moderation, as is our wont. He says he got the distinct impression that you were drunk. Very drunk.' Thank you for telling me, Superintendent. Now I must go. Goodbye.'

  'Wait!' bellowed Dalziel.

  Connon turned once more, half out of the door.

  'If you want a fairly precise statement of the amount of

  alcohol I had taken up to about ten past six, I suggest you contact the constables who administered a breathalyser test to me at that time in Longtrees Road. I thought that this was what you were going on about, not malicious gossip. Good day. I must get to my daughter.' Dalziel sat for a minute looking at the open door. Then he stood up and walked slowly over to it, scratching the back of his neck with an intensity that made his skin glow redly through the grey stubble. 'Sergeant,' he called, pitching his voice low, but with an intensity which easily carried it along the corridor to the desk. 'Would you step along here for a moment, if you'd be so kind? To discuss an organizational point.'

  At the desk, the sergeant stopped whistling.

  'Sorry, we don't start selling till twelve.'

  'I'm a police officer,' said Pascoe. 'I don't start buying till I'm off duty.' Sid Hope slowly rose from his crouching position behind the bar. 'Oh yes? I'm Hope, the club treasurer. What can I do for you? Is there some trouble? About the licence, I mean?' 'Should there be?' said Pascoe. 'You don't allow nonmembers to buy drinks, do you? Normally?' 'Of course not. When we know, that is. But I didn't know who you were. On my knees, trying to set up a new keg. It's like a bloody heart-transplant operation getting one of these things operational.' Pascoe merely looked thoughtful at this attempt to bring in a lighter note. 'Anyway, I don't know them all. You could be a member. There's one or two from the police who are. Superintendent Dalziel for one.' 'Is that so? How do you run the bar, Mr Hope? A duty roster?' Sid looked happy to get on to more general ground. That's right. We have a committee, me in charge, plus half a dozen others. We take it in turn to look after things for a week.'

  'Just one of you? By himself?'

  Sid laughed. 'Not bloody likely. No, we get some of the boys to help us when it's very busy, like weekends. Or even take over for a couple of nights. Some of us are married, you know. But, like I say, weekends the committee man in charge has really got to be here all the time. It's not just the serving, but the stock, and the till.'

  'Sounds like hard work.'

  'It is. Like now. Getting things set up for the great rush.'


  'Popular, is it?'

  'Christ, yes. It's our main source of income. Apart from the odd dance or raffle. We've just about paid back our loan now and . . .' Pascoe turned on his heel. The man was beginning to be at his ease. He stopped talking at the sight of Pascoe's back.

  'How many do you get in here on a Saturday night?'

  'I don't know. Sixty, seventy, and there's the other . . .'

  'You'd be on last night?'

  That's right.'

  'Busy?'

  'Very.'

  'Was Mr Connon in at all, Mr Sam Connon?'

  'Connie? No. Well, yes. I mean he was in at the beginning of the evening right after the match. Look, what's all this about? Have you got any proof you really are a policeman?'

  'I thought you'd never ask.'

  Pascoe produced his warrant card. Sid examined it closely.

  'What time did Connon leave?'

  'I'm not sure. About five-thirty. Quarter to six, I think. I can't say for certain. He stopped to have a word with Arthur on his way out, but he might just have gone through into the other room.'

  'Arthur?'

  'Evans. Captain of the Fourths. That's right. Connie had been playing. Got a knock. Wanted a medicinal scotch. Hello, Marcus.' Pascoe looked to the doorway. Standing there was a short fleshy man dressed in slacks and a polo-neck sweater. Pascoe felt that he had been standing there for some time.

  Now he came into the room.

  'Hello, Sid. Sorry I'm late again.' That's all right. I've been managing. As long as you didn't send Ted.' Marcus didn't look at Pascoe but went behind the bar as though he wasn't there and began to busy himself with bottles.

  'Marcus,' said Sid, 'this is - who is it?'

  'Sergeant Pascoe.'

  'Sergeant Pascoe. He's asking about Connie.'

  Marcus looked at Pascoe now.

  'What about Connie?'

  'You know his wife?'

  'Mary? Yes. What about her?'

  'Was she a friend?'

  Sid and Marcus looked at each other.

  'Not exactly. But I know her pretty well. Connie's a close friend,' said Marcus.

  'Why do you say "was"?' asked Sid.

  'She's dead I'm afraid.' You learn nothing from their faces, thought Pascoe. A split second of surprise, incredulity, shock; perhaps not even that. Then they're all busy arranging their features to the right expression. 'She was killed last night. I'd like to ask a few more questions, please.' Marcus sank down on a bar stool. His left foot hooked repeatedly at a non-existing cross-rail.

  'Where is Connie?' he said.

  'I don't know. Home by now, I expect. His daughter's arriving.'

  'Jenny. That's good. That's good.'

  But the look on his face didn't seem to go with the words somehow.

  'Daddy?'

  'Yes.'

  'Is that you?'

  'Yes.'

  She was sitting on the edge of a dining-room chair like a nervous candidate for interview. For a moment they looked at each other as though this indeed was why she was there. Then she ran to his arms and sobbed once into the wool of his overcoat, then rested there quietly for a long minute.

  'Come and sit down, Jenny,' he said.

  'Yes.'

  They sat side by side at the table.

  'Why don't you take your coat off?' he said.

  'Why don't you?'

  'Yes. I will.' He stood up and undid the buttons. Jenny glanced down at the white and brown mock-fur coat she wore. 'It's all I had. I had to wear something, it was so cold coming. There was nothing else. And I was so worried about people seeing me in this. It's a bit gay, isn't it? That's all I thought as I walked up the path. But I don't have anything darker. Jesus! I never thought I'd give a damn about the neighbours.' 'You never used to. Some of the things you'd lie around the garden in when it was hot.' 'Oh yes. Do you remember old Mr Hawkins? He'd go in to get behind the curtain. But Mr Hall would come rushing out with his lawn-mower. All to look at my bumps.'

  She laughed, then stopped in mid-note.

  'We're talking about them as if they're all dead.' He laid his coat on the table and put his arm round her shoulders.

  'No, my dear. Not them. Just those days.'

  She stood up away from his arm and took off her coat. He looked at her, long-legged, short-skirted, wellrounded. 'They were wise to look,' he said with a smile. She trailed her coat along the floor as she walked to the window and ran her finger along the sill.

  'Tell me about it, Daddy.'

  'Are you sure?'

  'Yes. Please.'

  There's not much to tell.'

  'Not much. My mother's dead! And that's not much?'

  'No, I mean . . .'

  She sat down on the sill.

  Tm sorry. I know what you mean.' 'I came home. I was late. I'd let myself be talked into playing and I got a bit of a knock. Your mother had had her tea and was sitting watching the television. I just stuck my head into the room and said hello. She didn't say anything. I could feel the atmosphere. You know how she hated anything to spoil her timetable, no matter how unimportant. So I went into the kitchen to get myself some tea.'

  He stopped and after a moment Jenny turned from the

  window which she had been staring out of since he started talking. Connon was resting his head in his hands, his elbows on the table.

  'Are you all right?'

  'Yes, yes. It's just this pain again. That's what happened on Saturday. It came on then, in the kitchen. I couldn't eat. I felt sick, so I went upstairs. And I passed out on the bed.'

  'What is this pain? Have you seen about it?'

  'Not really. McManus has had a look. And a police doctor, but he didn't give me a diagnosis. I told you I got a knock during the game. Anyway, when I awoke it was nearly eleven. I still felt a bit groggy, but I remember thinking it was rather odd your mother hadn't been up to look for me. I came downstairs. The telly was still going in the lounge. I went in.' He stopped and made a gesture which might have been a shudder, or a shrug, or an incipient reaching out to his daughter. Jenny didn't move and Connon became still again.

  'Go on.'

  'She was sitting in the big chair. Sprawled out. She was dead.' He was silent again, studying his daughter from between half-closed lashes. As if making a decision, he stood up and walked over to her so that he was standing close to her, not touching, not offering to touch, but there if required. 'Her eyes were open. Her forehead was smashed in just above her nose. She was obviously dead. I stood there for a minute. It was odd. I was quite calm. I thought, I mustn't touch anything. And I walked out into the hall and picked up the telephone. Then this thing in my head started again. I could hardly dial. But I managed.'

  'Who did you ring?'

  'Old Dr McManus first. Then the police. McManus was more interested in me than your mother. Just took one look at her. But gave me a shot of something and put me to bed. There were police all over the place, but they didn't get far with asking me questions. I was out like a light.'

  'And this morning?'

  They were round first thing. That's where I've been. They told you that?'

  'Yes.'

  'It's that fellow Dalziel. I know him vaguely from down at the Club. He's a brute of a fellow. I don't know what they expected him to find out.'

  'Have they any ideas?'

  'Yes, I think so. A couple.'

  'What are they?'

  'Firstly, that I am lying about this pain in my head and passing out. I came in last night, smashed your mother's head in and waited a few hours before calling the police.'

  'Secondly?'

  'That I'm telling the truth about passing out. But, unknown to me or forgotten by me, I nevertheless killed your mother.' Now there was the longest silence of all. Finally Jenny opened her mouth to speak but her father gently laid his index finger across her lips. 'You needn't ask, Jenny. The answer is no, 1 did not consciously kill her.'

  'And unconsciously?'

  'I don't think so. What els
e can I say?' Now she took his hand and pressed it to her cheek. Connon looked fondly down at her flowing golden-brown hair. He ran his fingers through its softness; it was a happy mixture of her mother's once vivid red and his own light brown. 'Don't worry, darling. It'll soon pass over, all this. Perhaps we can go away. It's almost your Christmas holidays. Would you like that, to go away, I mean?'

  She looked up at him.

  'Is that what you want? To go away, I mean?' He rolled the question round in his mind for a moment, trying to read her thoughts. But nothing of them appeared in her face.

  Finally he settled for the truth.

  'No, I don't think so. No. It isn't.'

  She nodded her head in serious accord.

  'No. Neither do I. We'll stay. There'll be lots to do here. We'll stay and do whatever we have to. Together.' She kept on nodding her head till her hair fell in a golden curtain over her white face.

  Chapter 3.

  It was a glorious day. The sun laid a deep shadow obliquely across the polished oak of the coffin as it was lowered into the grave. The sky was cloudless, its blue more thinly painted than the blue of summer but the sun was too bright to stare in the eye. The air was just cold enough to make activity pleasant and the mourners shifted gently, almost imperceptibly, under their coats from time to time.

  Only Connon and Jenny stood in absolute stillness.

  Dalziel was scratching his left breast, his hand inside his coat moving rhythmically. 'Ironical,' he whispered loudly. 'Suit you, my boy. Subtle.'