'But you didn't.'
'You know I didn't. I went on. Every Saturday from September to April. It was important.' To you?' said Dalziel very softly. He didn't want to disturb his man. He thought he recognized the beginnings of that half-dreamy inward-looking state in which a thought-monologue could easily lead to a confession. But his soft interjection seemed to blast into Connon's mind like a hand-grenade. 'To me?' he said, laughing. 'Of course. But that sounds selfish, doesn't it? The outskirts of a motive. No, important to us all, the three of us, my wife and child, as well as me.'
'But you said she told you. What?'
'She told me that I might as well keep on going to the Club. At least that way I might run into Jenny's father.'
'She said that!'
I'd have broken her neck, thought Dalziel. Motive? What better? I'd have broken her bloody neck! But the thought went on against his will: perhaps that's why she told you by telegram, perhaps that's why you ended up standing stupefied in the lobby of your little semi-detached, reading and re-reading the jumble of words on the buff form. He'd often thought since of his wife in some post office writing those words down, then passing the form to some clerk to count them up. Had he said anything? Had there been an expression on his face as he counted? Was there a query perhaps?
It must have cost her a packet.
But, he thought now, with a self-irony which had only developed of later years, but, he thought as he looked down at his tightly clenched fist, it had been money wisely spent.
'When was this?'
Too long ago for a motive. Fourteen, fifteen years.'
'What did you do?'
'I forget.'
Dalziel let this pass for the moment.
'Did she ever say more?' 'She repeated the claim, twice I think, both times at moments of great anger.'
'Did you believe her?'
Connon shrugged. 'I've told you, it's a matter of faith. I knew she'd been with other men before we married. But I believed she loved me. So I had faith.'
'And?'
Connon looked at Dalziel with the self-possession the detective found so irritating. 'No "and", Superintendent. I think I've said as much as I want to say.' Dalziel infused a threatening rasp into his voice, more from habit than expectation of producing any result. 'You've either said too much or too little, Mr Connon. I need to know more.'
'Or less.'
'I can't unknow what you've told me.' 'No. But you can reduce it to its proper proportions surely. Many years ago my wife implied to me that I was not the father of her daughter. She later withdrew the implication. It's doubtless the kind of nasty thing husbands and wives shout at each other fairly frequently when they're rowing. It didn't worry me, at least not too much. And less as time went on. I never thought of it. Jenny was mine, my daughter, my responsibility, even if you could have proved Genghis Khan was her father. So why should I be bothered? Now my wife's dead and my daughter's had a vicious letter. Now I'm bothered. I'm telling you all this in the hope it might be some help to you to catch the writer of that letter.'
'And your wife's murderer?'
Connon nodded wearily. 'If you like. Though I don't see how. And his bit of harm's done, isn't it? This boy's got his still to finish.' Dalziel rose ponderously and belched without effort at concealment. Connon remained seated, looking up at him. 'Good day to you, Mr Connon. Please contact us instantly should any further attempt be made to contact your daughter, by letter or any other means.'
'Other?'
'This kind of thing can become a habit. I should try to get to the telephone first in future, for instance.'
As if at command, the phone rang.
Connon looked startled, the first unguarded emotion he had shown, then moved rapidly across the room and out into the entrance hall.
Pascoe was standing there with the phone in his hand.
'Hello,' he said. 'Hello.' Jenny was in the doorway of the lounge. So he can think too, thought Dalziel.
Pascoe put the receiver down.
'No answer. It must have been a wrong number.' 'Surely,' said Dalziel. 'Well, we'll bid you good day, Mr Connon. Jenny.' He moved to the front door. Behind him he heard Pascoe say in a low voice, obviously not intended for Jenny's ears, 'Just one thing further, Mr Connon. Could you let us have a list of the TV programmes you think your wife would have been likely to want to see on that Saturday night? It might help.' 'Might it?' said Connon. 'But not two lists, surely? I passed that information to your office at Mr Dalziel's request yesterday.' 'And,' said Dalziel, smiling smugly as they walked to the car together, Td have let the girl get to the phone first if I could have managed it. It was probably the only chance we'll ever get of listening in.'
'If it was our man.'
'Oh yes. I'm sure of that.' Across the road, the curtain fell back into place in a bedroom window.
'He asked me if it was true.'
'Me too.'
'What did you tell him?'
'What I told you when you asked.'
Outside they heard the car start up. There was the familiar slap as it brushed against the laburnum tree, then it was on its way. Jenny put the chain on the door and the simple action filled Connon's heart with the grief he had not yet felt. He had been telling nothing less than the simple truth when he said that his love for Jenny was in no way dependent on his being her father. But he saw that his own indifference was not shared and he regretted now that he hadn't been absolutely affirmative with her. What has she done that she must share my doubts? he thought. What have I done that I can expect her to understand my certainties? The urge to tell her it made no difference was strong in him once more, but he knew it would be a mistake. She must find for herself how little difference it did make. Now all that was necessary was to remind her she wasn't facing a stranger.
'Jenny, love, what about a pot of tea?'
'If you like.' She was pale. Her face had the shape which could take paleness and make it beautiful, but she was too pale. Connon hated the writer of that letter which had taken his daughter's colour away.
'Will they find him?'
The question slotted so neatly into his thoughts that he was slow in formulating a spoken reply.
'I don't know. He's out there somewhere. Out there.'
'At the Club?'
'Perhaps. I don't know.'
'Have you any idea?' He moved back along the hallway to the dining-room door. He spoke suddenly with a new resolution in his voice. 'There's a committee meeting tomorrow night. I think I'll go. Will you mind?'
She smiled and his heart split with love and anger.
'If you don't mind, I'll come with you. It's a long time since I showed my face there.'
'Right then.'
'Right.' Connon turned from the dining-room and moved across to the door opposite. 'We'll have tea in the lounge, shan we?' he said casually.
'All right.'
'Then a quiet night. Save our strength for tomorrow.'
'Right.'
Again he hesitated, looking for words. 'Jenny, I miss your mother. More now somehow. More than I thought.' Then he stepped into the lounge for the first time since Saturday night. In the kitchen Jenny whistled softly as she made the tea.
Chapter 4.
They were dancing in the social room. A record-player shuffled a few simple chords violently together, then dealt them out with heavy emphasis. The upper reaches of the room were vague with cigarette smoke, the lower reaches voluptuous with long legs and round little bottoms. Dalziel watched with awful lust as the girls twisted and jerked in total self-absorption. A hand squeezed his knee.
'Watch it, Andy, or you'll be spoiling your suit.'
Dalziel laughed but didn't turn his eyes to the speaker. 'It's as if they were being rammed by an invisible man,' he said. The music stopped and now he gave the newcomer his full attention.
'They weren't like this in our day, Willie,' he said.
Willie Noolan, small, dapper, grey, bank manager and President of the Club, smiled his agreement. 'T
hey were not. We had to earn our wages in those days.' 'The wages of sin, eh? Not that it was always difficult, if you knew where to look. Do you recall a little animal called Sheila Cripps? Eh?' Noolan smiled reminiscently. These two had known each other for well over thirty years, meeting first at school and then finding their paths crossing again and again as they shifted with their respective jobs, till finally they had both come back permanently to the town they started from. 'She's a dried-up old stick now, Andy. Sings in the Methodist choir. I can't believe my memory when I look at her.' 'Ay. They don't weather like us, Willie. Even when the shape goes,' he said, slapping his belly, 'the spirit remains constant. It's a question of dedication. But I'm sorry that little Sheila's been a backslider.'
'Oh, she's been that in her time too.'
They laughed again, each enjoying the joke, but each with the watchfulness of his profession.
The third man at the table did not join in.
'Careful, Jacko, or you'll have hysterics,' said Dalziel. The long thin mouth was pulled down at the corners like a tragic mask, the eyes were hooded, the shoulders hunched, head bent forward so that the man's gaze seemed fixed on the surface of the table. God, thought Dalziel as he had frequently thought for the past twenty years, you're the most miserable-looking bugger I ever saw. 'You're like a couple of little lads. Act your age,' Jacko said, half snarling. 'John Roberts, Builder' was a familiar sign in the area. He had built the club-house they were sitting in. He was reputed to have arrived in town at the age of sixteen with a barrow-load of junk and two and ninepence in his pocket. The war was on. He was an evacuee, said some; others that he had absconded from a Borstal. No one took much notice of him then. No one who mattered. It was only when he plunged, wallet-first, into the great post-war building wave that people began to take notice. He lived chancily, moved into many crises, both business and legal, but always emerged from the other side safely - and usually richer, more powerful. Those who remembered him with his barrow recalled a cheerful, toothy smile, an infectious, confidence-inspiring laugh. Armed with this information, they wouldn't have picked him out on an identity parade. Dalziel wouldn't need an identity parade if he wanted to worry Jacko. He knew enough about him, had done enough research on his origins and his company, to worry him a great deal. But his knowledge wasn't official. Yet.
He was saving it up for a rainy day.
'How's business, Andy?' asked Noolan. 'Putting many away?'
'Not enough. Not near enough.'
There was a pause. A new record had started. Slower, softer. Some of the dancers actually came in contact now. Sid Hope was doing the rounds, having a friendly word with those who were late in paying their subscriptions. They were due at the start of the season. Sid gave plenty of leeway, right up to Christmas. But, Christmas past, he was adamant - non-payers were ejected, quietly if possible. But noisily if necessary. 'These two coughed up, have they, Sid?' asked Noolan with a laugh. 'Oh, ay,' replied the treasurer as he passed. 'See you at the meeting.'
'Meeting?' asked Dalziel.
'Yes. The committee. At eight. Just time for another, eh? Jacko?'
'You'll be one short tonight,' said Dalziel casually.
'One? We usually are. Oh, you mean Connie? Yes, I expect so. Can't expect anything else in the circumstances. Sad. Very sad.'
'Man gets shot of his wife, that's not sad.'
'Jacko, my lad, you're lovely.'
'Didn't some bastard offer to get them in?'
'That's very kind of you, Jacko,' said Dalziel. 'Another pint. Please.' Without a word, Roberts rose and headed for the service hatch. 'You've got a way with Jacko, Andy. I've often noticed.' 'Observation's anyone's game. Detection's my business, though. Don't start looking too deep.' Make them feel almost a part of it, thought Dalziel. Just a hint's enough.
He's after something, thought Noolan.
'You were saying about Connie.'
'Was I? What?'
'About it being sad.' 'Well, it was. Very. Not that we'd seen much of Mary lately. In fact I can't remember the last time. It was probably at the bank, anyway, not here.'
'Bank with you, do they?'
'Yes.'
'Interesting account?'
'Not particularly. Just the usual monthlies, and weekly withdrawals for the housekeeping.' 'Nothing out of the ordinary, then. Recently? In or out?'
'No. Not a thing.'
Dalziel pulled up his trouser-leg and began scratching his ankle.
'Much left at the end of the month?'
'Enough. Not much. But enough to give them a week in Devon.'
Dalziel scratched on.
'You're not trying to extract confidential information from me, are you, Andy?'
They both laughed.
'And what the hell's wrong with your ankle?'
'I've got an itch. Nasty inflammation.'
'Been putting your foot in it, have you?'
They both laughed again.
'Still at it?' grunted Jacko, slamming a tray laden with three tankards on to the table. 'Like a couple of bloody tarts.' 'Is that the time?' said Noolan. 'I'd better go and convene this damn meeting. You'll be here for a while?'
'What do you think?'
'See you later, then. Cheers, Jacko. See you later.'
They watched him shoulder his way jovially through the dancers towards the door of the committee room at the far end of the social room.
'A real card,' said Jacko, deadpan.
'He's been a good help to you, Jacko. Saw you through when many wouldn't have.' 'Surely,' said Jacko. 'Beneath these pinstripes hang three balls of brass. Did he tell you owl?'
Dalziel shrugged.
'Nothing helpful.' It was no use playing games with Jacko Roberts, he thought. But then it was even less use trying to play games with Andy Dalziel - unless he'd invented the rules.
'Was she insured?'
'No. No cover at all as far as we know.' 'No cover? That'd be a sight for sore eyes with that one. By God!'
Dalziel put down his tankard in mock amazement.
'Do I detect a note of enthusiasm, Jacko?'
'There's plenty as was. Once.'
'Just once? Nothing lately?'
Jacko scowled.
'How the hell would I know?'
Dalziel nodded thoughtfully.
Td have heard, too. What about Connie? Has he been having anything on the side?' 'Nothing said. But he moves without you noticing, that one.' On and off the field, thought Dalziel. Yes, it's true. Not inconspicuous, nothing grey about Connie, no blurred edges there. But self-contained. An area of calm.
Like the eye of a storm.
'Jacko,' he said.
'Yes.'
'If you hear anything . . .' but as he spoke he became aware of someone standing behind him and Jacko's gaze was now aligned over his head.
'I didn't know you were bringing the wife,' said Jacko.
Dalziel was startled for a moment and twisted round in his chair.
'Hello,' said Pascoe.
Tm going for a run-off,' said Jacko. He stood up, his lean hunched figure making his clothes look a size too large for him. He leaned forward and said softly to Dalziel: 'I'll tell you something. Someone's fishing in Arthur Evans's pond. Welsh git.'
Pascoe watched him go with interest.
Tell me, sir. Does he always take his tankard to the loo with him?' 'What the hell are you doing here? I told you, you'd had your go. Now get out.'
Pascoe sat down.
'Nothing like that, sir. I'm here socially.'
He felt in his top pocket and produced a blue card.
'Here you are. I'm a paid-up member. The place interested me. I decided to join. I don't think that your Mr Hope was all that happy, but what could he do?' 'I'm not happy either. And I can do something, Sergeant.'
But Pascoe's attention was elsewhere.
'Before you do it, sir, just have a look at who's come through that door.'
Dalziel knew who it was before he turned.
Connon, rather pale but perfectly composed, wearing a dark suit and a black tie, stood in the open doorway. His eyes moved swiftly over the scene before him, registering but not acknowledging Pascoe and Dalziel. Then he pulled the door to behind him and moved quickly and efficiently across the floor between the dancers and disappeared into the committee room.
'I bet hardly a soul noticed him,' said Pascoe.
'Why should they? Our interest's a bit specialized. And half these buggers wouldn't recognize him if he came in with a label on. Rugby supporters, pah! They know nothing.'
'And we know?'
'At least we know where he is.' Pascoe scratched his nose ruminatively then stopped in horror as he realized who he was imitiating. 'Yes, where he is. But I wonder where his daughter is? He should have more sense than to leave her alone. These letter boys are sometimes persistent.' Oh do you now? thought Dalziel. Then you should have looked through the door before he closed it behind him. But you worry on a bit longer, lad. Just a bit longer. It's good for the soul. Jenny got half way to the bar before anyone noticed her. 'Well, hell-oh,' said a large man as she tried to slip by him with an 'excuse-me'. He was clutching a pewter tankard with a glass bottom. Now he drained it and squinted at her through the glass. He was still a good two hours from being drunk and even then he would probably manage to drive home without attracting unwanted attention. There were faint flickers of real recognition at the back of his eyes, but he preferred the mock-lecherous approach. 'What's a nice girl like you doing in a joint like this?' 'I've come about the woodworm. How are you?' Jenny could only judge the effectiveness of her cool self-possessed act from its results. Inside, it felt so phoney that the merest glimmer of amusement would have sent an embarrassed blush swirling up from her neck to her forehead. The stout man, however, was obviously nonplussed. His own opening gambit made it impossible to take offence.
'Hello, Jenny,' said a voice from a side-table.
'Excuse me,' said Jenny to the man, who now obviously recognized her and was recomposing his face to a rubbery concern. But he couldn't quite get the mouth right and traces of the leer still showed through. By the time he felt able to add sound effects, Jenny was sitting down at a table with two girls and three youths. 'Hello, Sheila,' she said, 'Mavis. How's the world wagging?' 'Fine,' said Sheila. The other girl in contrast to both Jenny and Sheila was so heavily made up that it was like looking at someone behind a mask. She nodded carefully as though afraid of disturbing it.
Hill, Reginald - Dalziel and Pascoe 01 - A clubbable woman Page 7