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

by Reginald Hill

  No, she could not remember who had served her.

  'And what the hell business of yours is all this anyway, Sergeant?' She spoke without animosity and Pascoe smiled at her apologetically.

  'None, of course, in all probability. We never know

  what's our business, and what isn't, till we get the answers.' He could afford not to press, he thought. All he had to do to check on her story was to ask at the pub. If she'd been there, no matter how quietly, someone would remember. You couldn't go around looking like Gwen Evans and hope to remain anonymous.

  'Would you like a drink, Sergeant? Or a coffee?'

  The beer was just beginning to turn a little sour in his stomach, and his bladder felt very full. Coffee would help one, but not the other. 'Coffee would be very nice,' he said. 'May I use your bathroom?' She rose from the furry white armchair which he was sure was her choice. The thing he was sitting in felt hard and lumpy, almost certainly an Evans family hand-medown. 'First left up the stairs,' she said in the hallway and went into the kitchen. He had just shut the door, locking it from ingrained habit, when the front-door bell rang. With a longing look at the gleaming white bowl, he hastily opened the door again and stepped on to the landing. Through the railings overlooking the small entrance hall, he saw Gwen appear from the kitchen. She didn't even glance up the stairs. Not much sign of guilt there, he thought. Perhaps it's just the baker. He heard the door being opened. All he could see was Gwen's back from the waist down. It was a sight worth dwelling on, but not much use for present purposes. He wanted to see faces if this were Connon.

  'Hello Gwen.'

  A man's voice. Familiar. But not Connon's.

  'Hello Marcus,' said Gwen evenly, with just a touch of

  surprise. 'I'm afraid you've missed Arthur. In fact I think you've probably missed the coach as well.' There was a pause. The coach? Oh, damn. I'd forgotten. No, I'm not playing this week. I'd forgotten it was an away game.'

  'Anything I can do?'

  'No. I'll see him tonight. It was just that, well, I heard he'd been down at the police station this morning. I suppose I'm just being nosey, but I was worried. It's not nice this business. Anyway, I'd had a drink in the Club, that's where I heard. They were talking, you know how it is. So I thought I'd call in before Arthur got down there, just to see what was what. And to warn him the long knives were out. Some of them are like a lot of old women.' 'Thanks, Marcus. But don't worry. It was nothing at all really.' It would be diplomatic, I suppose, thought Pascoe, to stay up here till she'd disposed of Marcus. If he sees me here, trouble will be confirmed. And if he is more nosey than friendly, then the rumours will fly. But, as Bruiser might say, if God had wanted me to be a diplomat, he'd have painted pinstripes down my backside. Which he didn't. So here goes. He stepped back into the bathroom, pressed the little gleaming chrome lever, and moved hurriedly away from the sound of rushing water.

  Gwen looked as if she were about to shut the door.

  'Mr Felstead,' said Pascoe with a note of surprise more genuine, he felt, than anything Dalziel could produce. 'How pleasant to meet you again. Not playing today? You haven't been dropped, I hope?' God, it sounded bad. Perhaps he wasn't much better than Dalziel. 'No, I'm not, Sergeant. But not dropped,' he added with a grin which made him look like the prototype jovial monk. 'You've got to die to be dropped from our Fourths, and then it's best to be cremated just to be on the safe side. No, I'm retired, temporarily at least. I'll leave it to the young men, like yourself. Do you play?' 'Not rugger. No, I used to kick a rounder ball in a less violent game, but now I'm kept far too busy.' 'Even on Saturday afternoons?' asked Marcus, raising his eyebrows quizzically in Gwen's direction. 'Even then,' agreed Pascoe. Though it is not without its compensations.' Gwen yawned unconcernedly at the compliment. From the kitchen came a high whistle. 'Coffee,' she said. 'Marcus, would you care to step in and take a cup?' 'Of kindness yet, for the sake of auld lang syne,' ran absurdly through Pascoe's mind. 'No, I won't, thank you, Gwen. I'll get along. Cheerio. Cheerio, Sergeant.'

  Pascoe followed Gwen into the kitchen.

  'He didn't seem very interested in why I was here, Mrs Evans.' She heaped a teaspoonful of instant coffee into a couple of beakers and poured a steaming jet of water on to it.

  'No? Why should he be?'

  'Because he seemed fairly interested in the police when he arrived.' Silly twit, he thought as she turned to him, faintly amused. 'So you had a listen, did you? Well, well. It must be second nature.'

  He smiled back and shook his head.

  'I'm sorry. But it's not second nature. No.'

  'No?'

  'No. It required an act of will. In fact, now you've rumbled me, may I, would you mind if I postponed the coffee just a few moments more?' He heard her laughing with real amusement as he went up the stairs once more. Dalziel wasn't getting much co-operation either. He seemed to have been elected the most avoidable man in the clubhouse. Willie Noolan gave him a distant wave; Ted Morgan did an almost military about-turn when he spotted him and disappeared through the door; even Jacko Roberts seemed to consider his offer of a drink with more sardonic suspicion than usual.

  'You've been found out,' he said.

  'Found out?' That's right. The myth of rugby veteran, dirty story teller, hail-fellow-well-met Bruiser Dalziel's been knackered and they're seeing you as what you are.'

  'What's that?'

  'A nasty, nosey, nobody's-friend copper.' Dalziel finished his drink and stood up. Peter Hurst had just come into the room, dressed in his track suit though there was some time yet till kickoff. 'Fat bugger,' said Jacko to the policeman's retreating back. Then he wondered if Dalziel had heard, and wished he didn't care. Hurst doesn't look as if he's very delighted to see me, either, thought Dalziel. He had always thought he had no illusions about the artificiality of people's reactions to him, but some must have taken root unaware. Tender young plants as yet, and all the more vulnerable to sudden blasts of cold. 'I've got that letter,' he said as jovially as he could manage.

  'Oh yes.'

  'Yes. Shall we go into the committee room?'

  Hurst looked reluctant to go anywhere.

  'Look, Superintendent,' he began. 'Andy,' interrupted Dalziel. 'We're in the Club, aren't we? This is unofficial.' That's it,' said Hurst. 'What I said to Connie last night was unofficial as well, between the two of us. I'd no idea you were listening.' 'Listen, Peter,' said Dalziel sympathetically. 'If you've got any information, you've got to give it to me. It's your duty.'

  'Suddenly it's become official again, has it?'

  Hurst's voice had risen a little, but he dropped it again as he realized that several pairs of eyes were watching them with interest.

  Dalziel's mind gave the equivalent of a shrug.

  These people never realize that I can stand a row better than any of them, he thought. They think a bit of sound and fury against me confirms something. It's like water off a duck's back. 'Mr Hurst,' he said formally, 'I have reason to believe you can help me with an enquiry. Now you can do that now. Or you can do it tonight. Or you can do it next week. But be sure of one thing. If you want to be out on that pitch when the referee blows his whistle, you'd better do it now.' 'Andy. Peter. For heaven's sake! Remember where you are!' It was Noolan, attracted by the waves of interest emanating from all sides of the room.

  The committee room?' said Dalziel with a smile.

  He put his arm over Hurst's shoulder as they went through the door, but removed it before the door was quite closed. 'Now, Mr Hurst,' he said. 'You wanted to look at the letter Jenny Connon received the day before yesterday. I have that letter here. Before I show it to you, however, I want to know your reason for wanting to see it.' Hurst looked angrily at him, then questioningly at Noolan who had followed them in.

  The bank manager nodded.

  Tell him, Peter.' 'So,' said Dalziel. 'Another in the plot? Don't say you've taken to concealing information as well, Willie?' 'No, Andy. Peter saw me last night after you'd left. Peter. Tell him
.' Hurst played with the zip on his track-suit top, moving it up and down. Like a nervous tart on her first job, thought Dalziel. Will the man never start? 'It's nothing really,' said Hurst. 'It's just that a few days ago I heard one of our members say something about Connie. It was just after we'd heard about Mary. We'd been saying how awful it was, how sorry we were for Connie. And this chap said we might well be sorry for Connie, but not to overdo it. He said that there were things about Connie that he wouldn't like his daughter to know.'

  'And?'

  'Nothing really. We'd all had a few drinks. Someone said there were things about himself he wouldn't like his wife to know, we all laughed and went off happy. It kind of broke the gloomy atmosphere.'

  'Exit on a joke. Is that allT

  'No. On Wednesday after the selection committee meeting, I realized I'd left my fountain pen in here. I came in to get it and found this same person using it. He finished off quickly as I came in, apologized when he realized it was my pen, and that was an end to it. But I got a distinct impression he didn't want me to see what he was writing. He folded it up and tucked it away very quickly.' 'Again, is that all? It's not much, is it? And why do you want to see the letter?' Hurst obviously did not like what was happening. But he feels he ought to dislike it even more than he does, thought Dalziel. Jesus, it's all do-it-yourself public relations now. Everyone's sweating on their image. 'Whatever he was writing,' said Hurst slowly, 'he was writing in block capitals. I saw that much.' 'One block capital looks much like another, upside down, from a distance,' sneered Dalziel. 'Is that all?' 'No. It would be written with my pen, you see, if it was that letter. And that day my pen was filled with green ink. I'd run out and borrowed some from my boy. You know what kids are. Anything exotic. It happened to be green.' Carefully Dalziel reached into his inside pocket and took from it a large envelope. Out of this he drew a Cellophane packet. Framed in it they could see a letter. He held it up to the light to give a clearer view.

  The ink was black.

  Hurst sighed deeply.

  'I'm glad,' he said.

  'Who was it you saw?' asked Dalziel.

  'Why? Is that necessary,' he asked, turning to Noolan.

  'You'd have named him if he seemed guilty. It seems odd not to do so when he is innocent. Eh, Willie?' 'It was Arthur Evans that Peter saw. We heard he was down at the station this morning. Peter wondered . . .' '. . . if we in our own bumbling way had caught up with him? No. Well, thank you both very much indeed for your time.' 'Not at all,' said Noolan. Tm sorry yours has been wasted.'

  Hurst left without a word.

  'Andy,' said Noolan. 'Don't make such a big noise round the Club, eh? You put me in an embarrassing position.'

  'I shan be so quiet you'll never notice me. In fact, with

  your permission, I'll start now and stop here for a while. All the best fictional detectives do it. Have long thinks, I mean.' 'Be our guest,' said Noolan and went back into the social room leaving the large figure, head wreathed in cigarette smoke, seated at the top of the big committeesized table. He was still there two hours later when the whistle went for no-side. 'A curious game,' said Antony as they drove away from the ground. 'Especially when seen through a glass, distantly.' They hadn't cared to join the small crowd of spectators in the old stand, but had remained in the car parked about twenty-five yards behind one of the goals. 'A poor game,' replied Connon, 'seen from no matter what distance.' 'Why?' asked Antony, with a polite interest which ten minutes later had turned into the real thing. Whatever else you know, Jenny's father, he thought, you certainly know your rugby. At least I think that if I knew my rugby, I would be in a good position to acknowledge that you know yours. But he knew enough about the game to recognize the scope and justice of Connon's analysis. 'Now I feel I could watch the game again,' he said when Connon finished. 'Nothing is repeatable,' said the older man. 'Not even the moments that we relive a thousand times.' Connon fell silent and Antony, great talker though he was, knew when conversation was not being invited. The rest of the drive home passed in almost complete silence. But I like him, thought Antony as they got out of the car. He might do for me very well. I could not bear a dull father-in-law. And Jenny, now Jenny, there's the find of: the century. He went towards the front door with pleasurable anticipation. But there was no reply to his enthusiastic bellringing and Connon, coming from closing the garage, hadl to get his key out to open the door.

  The house was quiet and felt empty.

  'Jenny! Jenny!' called Connon.

  There was no reply.

  'She can't have gone far,' said Connon. 'She'll be back in a minute I expect. Probably gone round the corner to the shops.'

  Probably, thought Antony, but he didn't feel happy.

  He went upstairs to change out of the heavy boots he had (unnecessarily) decided were good rugby-watching gear. As he passed Jenny's bedroom door, he saw it was ajar. He pushed it gently open and looked in. The room was quite empty. He looked at the furnishings, the pictures, the bed with its rich crimson bedspread. Seated on top of it was a fluffy white dog, its red tongue grotesquely hanging out, its head lolling to the side. It was a nightgown case and his eyes lit up as he saw it. Quickly he moved into his own room, grabbed his pyjama top and returned. His intention was simple, to substitute this for whatever garment he found in the dog. But as he went across the room to the bed, something on the dressing-table caught his eye. It was a large sheet of paper with writing all over it. Antony was a man with considerable respect for individual privacy. Looking at other people's letters was not something that attracted him. But something about the sheet of paper, lying with its contents reflected unreadably in the mirror, drew him towards it.

  He picked it up.

  'Dear Christ,' he said.

  He read it again.

  'Dear mother of God!' he said.

  His pyjama-top dropped from his hand.

  'Antony? Anything wrong?'

  Connon stood in the door.

  'I found this. On her dressing-table.'

  He reached out the letter. Connon read it with one sweep of the eyes. Then without a word he turned and'ran downstairs. Antony walking out of the room to the landing heard him dialling the telephone.

  Three numbers only.

  'Give me the police,' he said. 'Quick.'

  'As obscene letters go,' said Dalziel, 'I've seen worse.'

  'Is that supposed to be some consolation?' asked Connon. 'It's pretty graphic I should have thought,' remarked Antony, trying to hide his tremendous concern under a calm exterior. 'Oh yes. It's graphic. It's that all right. Crudely so. But it's not perverted. This is all good straightforward stuff.' 'For God's sake, Dalziel!' exploded Connon. 'Can we cut the expert critical review and get on with the job of finding out where Jenny is!'

  Dalziel made squelchy soothing noises in his throat.

  Take it easy,' he said. 'We have her description out. Every policeman in town's on the look out for her. I'm sure she'll have come to no harm.' 'Thanks,' said Connon. 'You realize there was no envelope with this thing. And there's only one post on Saturday and this had arrived well before I left?' 'Yes, sir. We realize that. So now you're imagining that he, whoever he is, popped this through the letterbox, waited till she had had time to read it, then rang the bell and invited her to take a stroll with him. Now is that likely?' 'Only if,' said Connon slowly, 'only if it was someone she knew well.' The same thought had crossed Dalziel's mind much earlier, but he still found it hard to believe. In his experience those who wrote letters like this were unlikely to follow them up, at least so rapidly. But there was something disturbing about the letter. Not just in its contents. He had been speaking nothing less than the truth when he put it well down the list of those he had seen.

  No, there was something else.

  The door of the lounge opened, and Pascoe came in. They all looked at him, Dalziel interrogatively, Antony hopefully, Connon fearfully. A single shake of the head did for them all. He went across the room to Dalziel.

 
'Nothing yet, sir. We've got everything on it we can.'

  He was plainly as concerned as anyone else there, really concerned, not just professionally.

  Antony found himself quite liking Laurel after all.

  He went up to the two detectives and coughed delicately. 'Forgive me for my effrontery,' he said. 'But my father always taught me never to be afraid of pointing out the obvious. I'm sure you have noticed the implication of the letter, that the writer has in fact observed Jenny undressing for bed? I just wondered if you also knew, as I'm sure you do, that her bedroom's at the rear of the house?'

  'So?' said Dalziel.

  'Well, as I know from personal experience it's almost impossible to get to the rear of this house from the front when the door at the end of the passageway between the garage and the house wall is locked. There is a very stout trellis on the other side of the house, with an equally well-barred door in it.'

  'Through someone else's garden?' said Pascoe.

  'From my brief observation of Mr Connon's hedges, he seems to have a peculiar fondness for a near lethal mixture of African thorn, briar rose, and bramble.' 'May we, Mr Connon?' said Dalziel, setting off without waiting for an answer. They all stood in the rapidly darkening garden, most of them glad to have even the illusion of activity to take their minds off the unchanging situation. It was a long garden, the kind of length which only generous pre-war builders gave to house-buyers. There'd be a two-bedroomed bungalow tucked away there on a modern estate, thought Pascoe. Not that it bothers me. A bachelor gay. The hedges were as Antony had described them. The door to the garage passage was bolted and locked, as was the door in the trellis work on the other side.

  'You always keep these locked?' asked Dalziel.

  'Always at night,' said Connon. 'It's habit. One of us, Mary and me I mean, always checked. Sometimes both. It was a bit of a joke.' It was growing very cold in the garden. There was frost in the air. None of them was wearing an overcoat and Antony shivered violently.