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

by Reginald Hill

  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 Saturday 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 Principal 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 passageway 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 shiny. 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.

  'Hello? 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 Saturday 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 bloody 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 bloody 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 entitled 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 God, 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 Saturday 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 Saturday evening?'

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

  'Just answer the question, please, Arthur.' 'I went home, then, that's where I bloody 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 bloody 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 bloody 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.'

/>   'I see. Is that true, Mr Evans?'

  'Yes. Anything wrong with that?'

  'Not in the least. Did you try the telephone?'

  'Yes.'

  'But without success.'

  Evans grunted. I can't put that down in words, can I? said Pascoe to himself. If I did it would probably read, if someone's rogering your wife on the hearth rug, you can't expect her to answer the phone.

  Dalziel was looking happier now.

  'You see, it's really all straightforward, isn't it? What happened then?'

  'When?'

  'When you got home.'

  'Nothing. I mean, she wasn't there.'

  Dalziel pushed his right index finger through the small hairs which fringed the cavity of his ear, and wriggled it sensuously about.

  'But you knew she wasn't there.'

  'What?' 'You knew she wasn't there. Your friends Dick and Joy Hardy had already called as arranged and had got no reply. They told you when you asked them at the Club. And you had telephoned yourself without success. So you knew she wasn't there.' He knew she wasn't answering, thought Pascoe. That's what you knew, wasn't it, Arthur?

  'I had to be sure.'

  'In case she'd had an accident or something?' suggested Dalziel sympathetically. 'Yes,' replied Evans, hardly bothering to sound convincing.

  'Relieved?'

  Evans looked up suspiciously, his body tensing, his trunk leaning forward as if he were going to rise.

  'Relieved she wasn't there. She hadn't had an accident.'

  'Yes.'

  'What did you do then?'

  'Well, I came back to the Club, didn't I? You know that bloody well. You just said so.'

  'Straight back.'

  'Yes.' 'So you left the Club about ten past eight, went home, found all was well, and went straight back?' 'That's right. Yes. Though,' he added slowly as if thinking something out, T didn't leave there for, oh, about twenty, perhaps thirty minutes, I shouldn't wonder. Yes. That's right.' Dalziel clapped his hands together as though a tricky point had been made simple. 'Good!' he said. 'That's why you didn't get back till after nine-fifteen. It's only five minutes' drive, isn't it?'

  Now Evans did stand up.

  'Yes,' he said. 'Is that all then? I don't see the point, but if it helps you, you're welcome. And I'll be on my way.'

  Dalziel shook his head with a sad smile.

  'Don't be silly, Arthur. You're not daft. You know that's not all. I'm just giving you a chance to tell us, that's all. If you don't want your chance, then just sit down again, and we'll tell you.' Slowly Arthur Evans resumed his seat.

  'Sergeant, just refresh us with your information again.'

  'Certainly, sir.' Pascoe rippled through the pages of his notebook, stopped, coughed and began to speak in an impersonal monotone as before. 'Information given to us states that Mr Evans's motorcar was seen parked in Glenfair Road just before its junction with Boundary Drive at about eight-forty p.m. on the evening of Saturday last.' He raised his eyes from the page. He might have done this a good deal earlier if he had wanted for it was completely blank.

  His interviews the previous night had been done with

  all his customary thoroughness, but the most productive one had been not the Fernies or young Curtis, those most directly concerned with the incidents which had taken him to Boundary Drive, but with Ted Morgan whom there was really no reason to interview at all. Except that he had had mud down his suit. Anyone who came back covered with mud after an evening with Jenny Connon had some answering to do, Pascoe had decided, surprised at his own concern.

  Or jealousy.

  Me jealous? he thought. Nonsense. I'm questioning this man because he might be able to help us. Not jealous. Just zealous. But whatever his motives, he soon realized that he had tapped a very useful vein of information in Ted Morgan. Ted had been a little belligerent at first but a couple of hints that Pascoe had seen him drinking in the Club earlier and an oblique reference to the breathalyser test had calmed him down and made him most cooperative. Once he got started, like all the best gossips, there was no stopping him. Ten minutes with Morgan was more informative than all the rest of his questioning put together. What he said about Evans's movements and behaviour on Saturday evening plus his confirmation of Jacko Roberts's placing of Connon high on the Evans suspect list had set Pascoe's mind racing. He knew that the constable on patrol in Boundary Drive had noticed no strange cars parked in the road that night as he passed along. Now he checked with the policeman whose beat took him down Glenfair Road, the main thoroughfare into which Boundary Drive ran. The list of car numbers he had noted that evening for one reason or another was unproductive. Evans's was not among them. But after much thought the constable did vaguely recall noticing a car parked very near to the corner of Boundary Drive, not near enough to constitute a danger, but near enough for him to notice it. 'I didn't make a note,' he had said defensively. 'Why should I? There was no offence being committed. Nothing suspicious.' But his vague memory was of a white or cream Hillman. Evans drove a white Hillman Minx. It had all been so flimsy that Pascoe had hesitated about presenting it to Dalziel. But in the end, he knew he had to. The superintendent's reaction had been unexpected. He had been as near to complimentary as Pascoe could recall. 'I've been wanting a chat with Arthur,' he had said gleefully. 'I'm worried about that wife of his. A woman like that's a ... one of those things that helps other things to get started?'

  'A catalyst,' said Pascoe.

  'Right. A catalyst to violence.' 'You can't question a man because his wife's well built!' protested Pascoe. 'I once questioned a vicar because his choir was too big. Other churches were complaining, he was poaching their kids. It turned out he was paying well over the odds. But it didn't stop at singing. Let's have him in first thing.'

  'All right,' he said. 'So I was there. What of it?'

  'Where is "there", Mr Evans?' asked Dalziel. 'There. At Connon's. You know. I'm damned if I know why I didn't tell you in the first place, back when all this started happening. Must look a bit odd, I suppose.' 'Perhaps. Perhaps not. Lies, evasions, we get 'em all the time, Arthur. I sometimes use them myself,' he said, chuckling.

  'I've noticed,' said Evans drily.

  Tell us about it then, Arthur,' invited Dalziel.

  Evans grunted again, then started talking. Having made

  up his mind to talk, he spoke rapidly and fluently and Pascoe's pen flew over the paper as he took shorthand notes. He was so occupied with the accuracy of his record that he scarcely had time to pay attention to the narrative as a whole and it wasn't until Evans fell silent that the statement jelled in his mind. The Welshman had set off home in a cold fury. He was convinced that his wife was with another man. He was almost as convinced that this man was Connon. He went right through the house when he arrived home but there was no sign of Gwen; nor of anyone else. Connon had left the Club early, he remembered, saying he was going home. Now Evans got back into his car and drove round to Connon's house. He had not parked in front of the house because he had no desire to draw attention to himself. All he wanted to do was to see if Connon's car was in the garage. The only sign of life he could see in the house was the white light from a television screen shining through a chink in the living-room curtains. He went as silently as he could up the drive and peered into the garage. The car was there. Still unconvinced, he considered ringing the bell and inventing some pretext for coming to see Connon if Mary Connon answered the door. Instead, not wanting to risk a scene without more evidence of his suspicions, he went back to his car and drove back to the Club, stopping briefly at a couple of pubs on the way to see if Gwen was in either. But when he reached the Club she was there already. It's a reasonable story, thought Pascoe. And if he had rung the bell at Connon's what reason would he have had to kill Mary? 'And did you find out where Gwen had been, Arthur?' asked Dalziel softly. 'She said she thought Dick and Joy had forgotten they were to pick her up, so she set off to catch the bus.'

  'It must have been a slow bus
.'

  It was a flat, totally unaccented statement.

  'She just missed one, so she dropped in at our local for some fags, and stayed to have a drink.'

  'And did she?'

  Evans was having difficulty in controlling his voice. 'I do not go around public houses asking if my wife is telling me the truth. That's more in your line.' 'Oh it is. Quite right,' said Dalziel with equanimity. 'We'll ask, never fear. But we won't bother you with our findings if you feel that way.' A touch of the knife, thought Pascoe. Just a hint, a reminder.

  Dalziel wasn't finished.

  'Why do you suspect Connon of ... whatever you suspect him of?'

  'Don't be mealy-mouthed, Bruiser.'

  'All right. Of having it away with your wife. Why Connon?' Evans spoke softly now so that Pascoe had to strain to catch his words. 'Nothing positive. Things she let slip. We had a row. She said I should pay her more attention, I was always round at the Club with my drinking mates. I said at least I knew where I was with them. I could trust the men I drank with. So she laughed at that, see. Said, "oh yes?" I asked what she meant. She said that not all of them were overgrown boys like me. One at least, she said, was a man. Still waters run deep, she said.'

  He fell silent.

  'That's little enough to go on.' 'Oh, there's other things. I've seen 'em talking. Seeing her looking at him. And when she goes missing like she did last Saturday he's usually not around either. But I wasn't certain, see? That's why I didn't ring the bell.' 'You were certain enough last Saturday afternoon when you put the boot in,' said Pascoe casually from his corner. Evans flushed and looked far more embarrassed than he had done at any stage so far. 'What? Oh, that. How do you know? Oh, I don't know what made me do that, rotten thing to do, that was. I was really sorry afterwards. I'd got him to play, see? We were short anyway, always are, and I thought, right Connie, I'll know where you are this afternoon at any rate. Then he went down in this loose scrum, shouldn't have been there, but he was always a bit of a hero, and I put my foot in looking for the ball and there he was. I couldn't have missed him, but I could have slowed down a bit. But I didn't. Silly really, I've never done anything like it before. Never. Hard, you know, but never malicious. I was really sorry. Might have killed him. I thought I had for a moment.' I wish he wouldn't get so blasted Welsh when he's excited, thought Pascoe. My shorthand doesn't have the right symbols somehow. I'll never be able to read it back. 'But I didn't, did I?' Evans went on. 'And I didn't kill his missis either, if that's what all this is about, which is all I can think.' 'No one has suggested such a thing, I hope?' said Dalziel, shocked. 'Your value to us, Arthur, is that you were there. In the road. Up at the house. At a significant time. We want to know what you saw. Tell us again what you saw.' Halfway through the third telling, Pascoe was called out to the phone. He returned a minute later looking thoughtful. 'Now look,' said Evans. 'I've got to be going. Gwen will be thinking I've been put in a dungeon. And I've got to catch the team bus at twelve-forty-five. We're away today. So unless you've got ways of keeping me here you haven't revealed yet, I'm off.' 'Arthur,' said Dalziel reproachfully. 'You've been free to go any time. We've no way of holding you.'