Dalziel And Pascoe: A Clubbable Woman Part 10

'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 d.i.c.k 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 pa.s.sed 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 const.i.tute 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 d.a.m.ned 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 c.h.i.n.k 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 d.i.c.k 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 f.a.gs, 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 Sat.u.r.day afternoon when you put the boot in,' said Pascoe casually from his corner. Evans flushed and looked far more embarra.s.sed 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.'

'No,' agreed Evans, rising.

'Except perhaps for obstructing the police by not revealing all this a lot earlier.'

Ouch! thought Pascoe.

'Early or late, I've revealed it now. And it'll go no further, I hope.' 'Not unless needed, Arthur. We're always a little doubtful about statements that have to be forced out of witnesses by revealing the extent of our prior information.' Evans laughed, the first merry sound he'd made since his arrival. 'Information nothing. It's p.i.s.s-all information you had. I volunteered my statement because I wanted to volunteer, not because of your pathetic bluff. When you sort out your notes, Sergeant, you might include in them the additional information that my car was parked at the other end of Boundary Drive, the end furthest away from Glenfair Road, see? So it's purely voluntary isn't it? And now I'm going to volunteer to go home. Good day to you both.' Dalziel and Pascoe looked at each other for a long moment after the door had slammed behind Evans. Then they both began to grin, and finally laughed out loud. It was their first moment of spontaneous shared amus.e.m.e.nt that Pascoe could remember. 'Well now, boyo,' said Dalziel in a dreadful parody of a Welsh accent, 'you'd better watch your b.l.o.o.d.y self, see? Telling such lies to an honest citizen.' 'It might have been his car,' said Pascoe. 'White Hillman. I mean, why not? It didn't seem absolutely out of the question. By the way, we had a phone call.'

'From?'

'Connon. He was worried about Arthur. Wanted us to go easy on the thumbscrews, I think.'

'Did he now? And he asked for you?'

'Why yes. I expect so.'

'I see. Thinks I haven't got any better feelings to appeal to, does he? Well, go on.' 'There's nothing to go on with. I a.s.sured him we were only asking Mr Evans one or two questions that might or might not be connected with the case. And I suggested he should contact Evans himself for full details.'

'That was naughty. You didn't ask then?'

'Ask what? Sir?' Dalziel looked pleadingly up to heaven. Pascoe sighed inwardly. The party's over then, he thought. Like Christmas, a brief moment of good will and fellowship, then back to normal. You've spent your allowance, Bruiser. What're you going to do at the end of the week? 'You didn't ask who he got his information from. About Evans's being here.' He's right. I should have asked. That's another of his blasted troubles. He keeps on being right. 'No, sir. I didn't. Sorry. I'll get back on to him, shan I?' 'Don't bother,' said Dalziel. 'If he doesn't want to tell us (and the minute you ask, he won't) there's no way of finding out. From him. But the possible sources aren't many, are they?'

'No, sir.'

'Our bobbies. A couple of nosey neighbours. Or the fair Gwen herself. Who's got your money, Sergeant?'

Pascoe's mind was racing.

'That'd mean, or might mean, that Evans is not altogether wrong. And if he's not altogether wrong, then Connon suddenly gets a great big motive.'

'Motive? What motive?'

'Why, she, Mary Connon that is, finds out.' 'How?' 'Accidentally by finding something,' said Pascoe impatiently. 'Or is deliberately told. Anonymous friend, a telephone call, that kind of thing. We've got one around that doesn't like Connie much, we know that.'

'So. She knows. What then?'

'She tells him, that night. Gets nasty. Says some more unpleasant things about his daughter. Connon sees red. He's had that crack on the head remember. He grabs . . .' Pascoe paused.

'What does he grab, Sergeant?'

'How do I know? Something odd enough in shape not to be a normal part of living-room furniture. Something, anything, he can use as a club. And swings it at her.'

'At his own wife? Sitting in his own lounge? Connon?'

Pascoe sighed. 'I didn't know the lady as well as you, sir, but she seems in all particulars to have been a pretty clubbable woman.' 'No, I didn't mean her. I mean Connon. It's out of character. You've met him. Sudden violence doesn't fit.' The fat sod's fair, thought Pascoe. You've got to admit he's fair. I'm sure he'd like it to be Connon, but he doesn't try to bend matters. 'Perhaps the whole thing's a fake then, sir. Perhaps there was no concussion, no quarrel, no heat of the moment. Perhaps Connon decided he would like to marry Gwen Evans or just unmarry Mary Connon. So he goes quietly home, sits and watches the telly with her a while; then, in the commercial break perhaps, he leans forward, taps her on the head with whatever he has selected for the job, waits a couple of hours, then rings us.' Dalziel was scratching with both hands, one on his inner right thigh, the other under his chin. One movement was clockwise, Pascoe noted, the other anti. Difficult.

'That sounds better. But not by much.'

Well, let's have your ideas, for G.o.d's sake. You're the great detective! Pascoe kept back his exasperation with difficulty and put his thoughts as mildly as he could manage.

'What do you think then, sir? An intruder?'

Dalziel laughed without much merriment. 'You and your d.a.m.ned intruder. No, be sure of one thing, there wasn't any intruder, my lad. The answer's nearer home. Your intruders'll all turn out to be like that laddo last night. Bit of a disappointment that, eh? Christ, he could talk! Made even you sound like a board-school lad at the pit-face. But he seemed nice enough. He'll be good company for that kid of Connon's. He's not exactly the laughing cavalier, is he?'

Pascoe stood up.

He's going to try to get the knife in, he thought. Just a little wriggle this time. 'Will that be all then? I'd better try to tidy my desk up a bit.' 'Mind you,' continued Dalziel, ignoring him, 'it wasn't all waste, was it? I mean, Ted Morgan turned out to be a real find, didn't he? The eyes and ears of the world. You must have leaned upon him pretty hard.'

'Not really,' said Pascoe.

Dalziel leered at him across the desk. 'It's not a crime to take Jenny Connon out, you know. Eh? Now don't be offended. Just take care that fancying her doesn't make you go too soft on the rest of the family, or too hard on anyone else. I glanced at the stuff from young Curtis and the Fernies. Nothing much there, eh?'

Pascoe shook his head.

'Though the Fernies do seem to be around a lot, don't you think? And I met Mrs Curtis - she came in to see what it was all about. She'd just got in, and her husband. Do you know them?' 'No,' said Dalziel without interest. But Pascoe ploughed on. 'He's nothing, a little silent man, not much there, I think. She's a talker, gab, gab, gab. The Fernies got rid of her when I left and she walked me to the front gate. Made Ted Morgan seem like an amateur. But one thing she did say was that our friend Fernie is going around telling everyone Connon killed his wife. And claiming he knows how.' Dalziel was now immersed in some papers and didn't even glance up.

'There's always plenty of them, isn't there?'

'I wouldn't know, sir. Is it worth a word with him?' 'I shouldn't think so. There hasn't been a complaint? See him if you want, though, but it'll be a waste of time.' He glanced at his watch, opened the top drawer of his desk and swept the papers in. 'Come on,' he said. 'We'll be able to get a drink in a moment. You'll be wanting an early lunch, won't you?' 'Will I?' asked Pascoe, trying to conceal from himself the effort he had to make to keep up with Dalziel down the corridor. 'Why?'

'The rugby, Sergeant. Remember?'

'We're going to watch?' asked Pascoe, puzzled.

Dalziel sighed.

'I might watch. But the game you're concerned with is Arthur Evans. You heard what he said, his coach goes at twelve-forty-five. So you get round to his house at one. Have a chat. Stop a while. Who knows? Friend Connon might even turn up to keep you company. That'd be nice. You in your small corner, Gwen curled up on the mat and Connon taking his ease in Arthur's rocking chair.' The thought obviously amused him. They were out in the street now. Dalziel was well known, hailing and being hailed by nearly every second person they pa.s.sed, it seemed to Pascoe. Though he noticed there were some who spoke to the superintendent and were completely ignored, while others looked as if they would have preferred to creep past unknown. Again there came to him a sense of how small a town of some eighty-five thousand people really was. 'Talking of chairs,' said Dalziel, 'there was a report from forensic, wasn't there, on that chair of Connon's? Nothing useful, I suppose?' Pascoe was never quite certain just how genuine his superior's casual contempt for science was. Had he really not even looked at the report? He felt tempted to find out by inventing a number of startling discoveries made through lab tests on the chair. But instead, as always, he thought, I'll play the game. 'No. Nothing. No indication that anyone had been killed in it or done anything else in it but sit in it. It went back to Connon's yesterday. He made them put it in the garden shed.' 'Did he now? Bit of degree work for you there, Pascoe! The psychology of the criminal.' They came to a halt at a busy road crossing. The town was full of Sat.u.r.day morning shoppers, more than usual even; there was only one more Sat.u.r.day before Christmas. 'Sir, what about Hurst and the letter? You mentioned last night . . .' 'Did I? No, I didn't, Sergeant. I'm not senile. Who did?'

Pascoe looked a little shamefaced.

'Well, Connon actually, on the phone. He asked if anything had been done.'

Dalziel slapped his inside pocket.

'It's here. I'll be seeing him before the match. Any other little reminders to me, Sergeant? Anything else I might have forgotten? No? Then what are we standing here for? Let's move on before some young copper picks us up for soliciting. Now, where did you say you were going to take me for that drink?' Jenny and Antony looked at each other, brown eyes unblinkingly fixed on blue, over the rims of their upraised pint pots. 'Umh,' said Antony appreciatively, putting his gla.s.s down and nodding his head, 'not bad at all. Unpretentious, with a pleasant touch of wit, should travel quite well. There is perhaps a slight tendency towards making one drunk.' They were sitting near a huge open fire in the lounge of a pub of that kind of indeterminate oldness which is the sign of constant use and development over many years. The fireplace was obviously very old indeed. It was large, and had once been larger. The table they sat at was wrought iron, with a bright bra.s.s guard-rail running round the top of it, more of a danger to gla.s.ses than anything else. In the ceiling there was visible what might have been an original oak cross-beam, but it had been unceremoniously distempered with the rest. T like it here,' said Antony. 'They have attempted neither to freeze the past, nor antic.i.p.ate the future. Nor indeed to impress the present upon us with framed photographs of actors and actresses, cricketers and jockeys, the semi-famous sub-world, with duplicated scrawls of spurious well-wishings stamped across their corners.'

T just like the beer,' said Jenny.

'It was nice of your father to chase us off together as he did,' said Antony.

'He's a nice man.'

'Yes, I'm sure he is. Well, Jenny, now we have got over the initial emotionalism of our reunion, perhaps one or two points might be clarified for me. Your father has extended to me the hospitality of his house for as long as I care to take it, or until he grows sick of the sight of me. It did not escape my notice, however, that you were accompanied last night by a rather large, rather muddy man who, I gathered from hints dropped from various quarters, had been your escort that evening. Compet.i.tion I do not mind. I thrive on it. But we Wilkeses were never dogs in mangers. A word will be enough.'

'Which word is that?' asked Jenny.

'If you don't know it, then I shan not teach you it. Good. I'm glad that's out of the way.'