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

by Reginald Hill

  Stanley stopped sagging and looked alert, uneasy

  'Why, nothing,' he said. 'Just something I picked up, I suppose. I don't know.' 'Wasn't it something you took into the house with you, Stanley? Wasn't it something belonging to you?' A look of stubborn obstinacy came over the youth's face. Dalziel stood up and moved swiftly behind him. His hands came down like a pair of great clamps on his shoulders. 'Listen, my lad,' he hissed close to his ear. 'When Sergeant Pascoe asks you a question, he deserves an answer. He's bloody well going to get an answer, isn't he?'

  Stanley twisted free.

  'What's it matter anyway?' he cried. 'All right. It was a gun. Not a gun really, a pistol, an air-pistol. It was just an old thing. I hadn't used it for years. It was old when I got it as well. I just took it along for ... I don't know why I took it! I wouldn't have used it, I mean, it didn't work anyway, did it?' 'How should we know, Stanley?' said Pascoe. 'Where is it now?'

  'I don't know. I left it. I didn't go back and ask for it.'

  The boy crumpled again. Pascoe stood up and went to the door.

  'Excuse me a second, sir,' he said.

  'Go ahead,' said Dalziel, gloomily looking down at Stanley. 'You're in trouble, lad,' he said. 'Even if you're telling the truth, you're in trouble. You know that. But if you're not, then you're really in it. Just have a think. A long, long think and see if there's anything else you haven't told us.' They were both still bowed in contemplative silence when Pascoe returned. He was carrying a box.

  'Stanley,' he said. 'Open the box.'

  The youth reached forward and took the lid off, onehanded, then froze as he saw what was inside.

  'Stanley, is that yours?' asked Pascoe.

  The boy peered closer, then nodded. 'Yes, that's it. That's mine. But look at it. It's old and rusty. It couldn't hurt anyone, that.'

  Pascoe reached into the box and took out the pistol.

  'You're right,' he said. T don't suppose it could.'

  He looked at Dalziel and raised his eyebrows.

  Dalziel shook his head.

  Pascoe went to the door again.

  'Constable,' he said to the uniformed man outside, 'take Mr Curtis along to the interview room, will you? Both his parents are there now. He can talk to them, but be present all the time. And watch him. He's a nippy runner.' He smiled cheerfully at Stanley as he left the room and the boy managed a wan grin in reply. 'You managed that quite well, Sergeant,' said the superintendent.

  'Thank you, sir.'

  'Now suppose you let me into your confidence and tell me where you've been hiding this.' A great paw was waved at the pistol. Pascoe held it up and squinted along the barrel. It was, as Stanley had said, old and rusty, but it still looked formidably solid, eight inches of steel tube pointing menacingly at Dalziel. 'I haven't been hiding it. It was hidden though, in a pond up on the Common. It was brought back to daylight only yesterday, when they were looking for Mickey Annan. I noticed it on the list.' 'But didn't connect it with the Connon case at the time I hope?' 'Of course not, sir. I'd have mentioned it, wouldn't I? But there was a connection there for us to see, if we'd known. In the chair.'

  'The chair.'

  The chair she was killed on. There was a list of things they found in it. Ordinary things, money and the like. It's all back with Connon now.'

  'I saw it. Wait. Of course, there was a pellet.'

  That's right, one air-gun pellet.' 'But what's this leading to, Sergeant? You're not suggesting she was clubbed to death with the barrel of that thing? How the hell would you hold it if you were trying to produce something like that effect?'

  'Like this,' said Pascoe.

  He held the pistol up between them twisting his hand so they both had a side view.

  And he pressed the trigger.

  A six-inch cylinder of steel crashed out of the barrel, extending its length to over a foot. 'Now we load it,' said Pascoe, putting the end against the wall and forcing the internal cylinder back into the shorter barrel.

  Then we fire it again.'

  This time he held it close to the frame of the window.

  'Hell,' he said, nursing his wrist.

  There was a circular dent nearly half-an-inch deep in the wood. 'That's public property,' observed Dalziel. 'Also you're making forensic's job more difficult.'

  Pascoe returned the gun to the box.

  'I've told them it'll be coming down.'

  That's a nasty bit of machinery,' said Dalziel.

  'It's an old-fashioned bit. I don't know if they make them like that any more. It's years since I had an airpistol. What now, sir?'

  Dalziel scratched his navel.

  'I think we'd better have another talk with Connon.'

  'Do you believe young Curtis?'

  'Yes,' said Dalziel, and added surprisingly, 'and I sympathize with him a bit. When you're that age, it's all sex, isn't it? I've seen him hanging around Gwen Evans at the Club too, wishing he dared. He does like 'em big, doesn't he? I think we all discovered the comic-obscene possibilities of the telephone in our teens, didn't we? If Mary Connon had shouted at him, told her husband, started drawing her curtains, that would have been an end to it. But she wasn't like that, Mary. She always liked to be controlling people.' 'What about. this other man? Lover? Or what?' 'How the hell should I know? But you're not the only one who's been out detecting today, Sergeant. I had a long talk with Evans, remember?'

  I think he's really hurt I didn't ask, thought Pascoe.

  'What did he say?' 'He said he met Mary Connon at her invitation. He said she wanted to discuss with him the relationship between his wife and her husband which was causing her considerable distress.'

  Pascoe shook his head in amazement.

  'That woman. I'm beginning to be glad I didn't know her.' 'Not much chance of that now anyway, lad. It's the living we're after. I've got a man sitting outside Evans's door. He won't go far. But there's a few questions Mr Connon's got to answer first of all. Let's hope he's cooperative or we'll never get to Jacko's party.' The television was on in Connon's lounge when they arrived. It was Christmas Eve fare, a selection from the old silent film comedies. Antony had turned the sound down to cut out the nauseating superimposed American commentary and the only sound for the past half hour had been his and Jenny's chuckles. Even Connon had smiled from time to time, Jenny had observed with pleasure. The doorbell's chime was an unwelcome interruption. Nor were the visitors it harbingered any the more welcome. 'Privately, please,' said Dalziel. 'We'd like to see you alone, Mr Connon. Perhaps we can leave these two young people to their television.' Jenny rolled her eyes at the unctuous condescension of Dalziel's tone. Pascoe laughed as the Keystone policewaggon lost another half dozen incumbents.

  'Come into the dining-room,' said Connon.

  He and Pascoe sat opposite each other at the diningtable. Dalziel stood in the bay, blocking out the light.

  'Superintendent,' said Connon.

  'Yes?' 'Stan Curtis. We saw what happened earlier. What has he got to do with my wife's death?'

  'Should he have anything?'

  T cannot imagine so for one moment. Where is he?' 'He's at the station at the moment, sir, helping us with our enquiries.'

  'How?'

  'He has admitted being illegally present in your house on the night of your wife's death. More serious charges against him are at present under review.' Nasty old Dalziel, thought Pascoe. What a little liar he is. 'No,' said Connon. 'No. Not Stanley. It was Stanley who was here?'

  He sounded amazed.

  That's right. Why not?'

  'I didn't think . . .'

  Connon tailed off. 'Didn't think what? Never mind. There'll be time for that later.' Connon was rubbing the side of his head. Dalziel suddenly wheeled round, sat down beside Connon and began speaking urgently, in a low voice to him. 'Come on, Connie. Tell us about it. Make it easy, boy. It's got to come out now. Got to. Just fill in the gaps.'

  Connon sat silent. He looked really ill.

  'For God's sake!' exp
loded Dalziel. 'Don't you believe us? We don't know it all, but we know enough. All we want are the little things. Why did you clean up the bathroom windowsill and close the window, for instance? And drop the pistol into the pond on the Common? What were they doing when you came downstairs? What were they up to? Making love?' Tut, tut, thought Pascoe. He's at it again. He read the pathologist's report as closely as I did. 'Come on, Mr Connon,' he said. 'It'll help everyone to get it out in the open. You. And Jenny. Who was it downstairs? Arthur Evans?' Connon sat looking blankly ahead. Outside the telephone rang. The door opened and Jenny came in. 'It's for you,' she said to Pascoe. 'Daddy, are you all right? What's going on anyway?'

  Pascoe went out to the phone.

  It was the desk-sergeant down town. 'Pete?' he said. 'Alan here. Sorry to interrupt whatever I'm interrupting but you did say you wanted anything new at once. Well, it's probably nothing, but a chap called Johnson just rang up for you. Landlord of a boozer, the Blue Bell. He said you'd been asking about Gwen Evans, whether she'd been in on the sixth. None of his lot could remember her, he said, and then it had gone out of his mind, till they started talking about her leaving her husband. News gets round. Then he mentioned it again and one of his women, a temp, only comes in at weekends, says she was definitely in that night, for at least an hour. She served her twice. She remembers clearly she says, because she went sick on the Sunday after and was laid up for the next two weekends.'

  'What's she doing there now then? It's not a weekend.'

  'It's Christmas Eve. Remember? Lots of people actually go out and enjoy themselves. Big crowds in pubs. Merry Christmas.'

  'You too, Alan. Thanks.'

  So Gwen had been in the Blue Bell that night as she said at first, not lying spread out on the counterpane as she was willing to admit later. Later, when Dalziel had had a go at . . . He went quickly back into the lounge. He'd been dimly aware of background noises as he took his call. Now they stopped, but the little tableau that greeted him - Jenny, flushed, standing with her hands on her father's shoulders; Antony, concerned, just behind her; Connon, blank, staring at the empty rose-bowl in the centre of the table; and Dalziel, hands spread out in front of him, with his injured, professional footballer's what-haveI-done expression on his large face - this was enough to tell him there had been some kind of row. He didn't need to be a detective to guess the details. But he was a detective, and he was too near the truth now to be deterred by considerations of health, feeling, or sentiment. 'Tell me, Mr Connon,' he said harshly. Tell me, why had Mr Felstead come to see your wife that night?' The tableau remained the same. Only the expressions changed. But it was Connon's alone that he watched. For a second it froze into an even greater withdrawal, a kind of desperation. Then slowly it dissolved, the life and movement came back and something very like relief rose to the surface of the eyes. He let out a long sigh and glanced round at his daughter and Antony.

  'May they stay?' he asked.

  'If you wish it,' said Dalziel.

  'Yes. It's best. I'll do my best to be brief.'

  'No need to hurry, Mr Connon,' said Pascoe.

  He smiled.

  'Once you decide to have a tooth out, Sergeant, don't you want to run to the dentist? It's not all that complicated really, not any more than human beings are, anyway. Though that's enough I suppose. What happened was this. Everything I told you about my going home and passing out was true. Only I woke up again much earlier. Shortly after eight I should think. I went out on to the landing. There seemed to be some kind of disturbance downstairs, but I was still too dazed to pay much attention. I went into the bathroom and bathed my face in cold water. That woke me up a little. I noticed the window was wide open and the fresh air helped clear my head as well. Then I set off downstairs.' 'How long had this taken?' asked Dalziel. Jenny looked at him angrily. 'Five minutes. Longer. I don't know. Anyway, I came downstairs and opened the lounge door. The television was still on, no other lights. Mary was still in the chair with its back to me. In front of her stood Marcus. He had this pistol in his hand. I could hear Mary laughing, it was as if something very funny had happened. The pistol was sort of hanging loose. Now Marcus raised it up. Mary stretched out her hand and seemed to pull it towards her. I couldn't see properly because of the chair.'

  'What did Mr Felstead look like?' asked Pascoe.

  'Like?'

  'Angry? Puzzled? Or was he joining in the joke?'

  'He looked . . . annoyed. Not in a rage, but annoyed.'

  'What happened then?'

  'There was a kind of crash and an odd kind of splintering noise. Marcus stepped back. He said something like, "Oh Christ!" And he went deadly pale. Then he looked up and saw me. I came into the room and walked round the chair so I could see Mary.' He glanced up at Jenny who took his hand and held it hard. 'Her forehead was crushed in. Not much, it seemed, but I could tell she was dead. She still had a cigarette in her hand. I took it out and put it in the ash-tray. Then Marcus started to talk.' This is very important,' said Pascoe urgently. 'What did he say?' The exact words? I can't remember. He was very very upset. So was I. But he told me he didn't mean it, it was an accident. He kept on saying this. He said over and over again that it was an accident. He begged me to believe him. He became almost hysterical.'

  'And you, Mr Connon.'

  'I felt numb at first. Then my head began to ache again and I felt sick and faint, just like before. But Marcus was in a worse state, I think, and this seemed to help me. I had to help him out of the room. I got him a drink. Then I went to the telephone. I suppose I was going to phone McManus, or the police. I don't really know. It just seemed necessary to phone someone.'

  'And did you?'

  Connon shook his head regretfully.

  'No. No, I didn't. He stopped me. He begged me not to, till I'd heard him out. Then he told me his story. He told me about him and Gwen Evans to start with.'

  'Didn't you know before?'

  'Not a thing. He'd kept it very dark. I knew Arthur was very jealous and reckoned that something was going on. Now and then I got the impression he even suspected me.'

  He laughed shortly.

  'I even told Mary. She was very amused.' Pascoe glanced at Dalziel who shook his head almost imperceptibly. 'But he certainly never gave Marcus a thought,' went on Connon. 'Nor did I. But according to Marcus, Mary had somehow found out. I don't know how, nor did he.'

  He glanced anxiously at his daughter.

  'Don't think badly of your mother, dear. I'm sorry you've got to hear this at all, but it's better now than later.' He looked at Dalziel and added, very clearly, 'In court.' 'What was Mrs Connon up to, sir?' asked Pascoe. 'Some kind of blackmail?'

  He kept his gaze firmly away from Jenny.

  'Not in the real sense of the word, not in any criminal sense,' said Connon urgently. 'Believe that. No, according to Marcus, she was just entertaining herself, if that's the word, by ringing Gwen up from time to time. She seemed to have a keen instinct for when they were together. She'd just chatter about this or that, ordinary everyday things, but just slanted so that all the time Gwen knew she knew. When they met, it was the same. Conspiratorial glances behind Arthur's back, that kind of thing. Nothing else though. No threats.'

  'You believed what Mr Felstead told you.'

  Another quick glance at Jenny.

  'Yes,' he said slowly. 'I could believe it.' I bet you could, thought Pascoe. I never met your wife and / could believe it.

  'Let's get back to that Saturday night,' said Dalziel.

  Connon pulled out a packet of cigarettes and began to light one, then pulled himself up as at an unconscious discourtesy and offered them round. They all refused. Pascoe was reminded of Stanley Curtis. 'Marcus said that the previous day, Friday, in the morning, Mary had telephoned Gwen to say that she was going to have a drink with Arthur at lunch time. She said it casually, but made it sound full of significance. Gwen was worried sick. She said that Arthur was very strange that night. I don't know whether Mary had seen him or n
ot, or if she had, what she had said.' Again the glance between Pascoe and Dalziel. This time, Pascoe realized, Antony had caught it too. 'But the following night, Saturday, when Marcus called on Gwen just to see her briefly before she went down to the Club, he found her near breaking point. Mary had been on the phone again earlier in the evening. She'd asked if Arthur had mentioned their meeting. Gwen had started to scream at her down the phone, but Mary had just laughed. She'd kept on listening and laughing. She was capable of great cruelty at times.' Times we shan never hear of, thought Pascoe. Is the girl old enough to understand? I hope to God she is for both their sakes.

  'So Marcus headed round here?' said Dalziel.

  'Yes.'

  'In a rage? To have a showdown?'

  'Yes. I expect so. He told me he came determined to see us both. He'd been tempted to talk to me for some time, he said. But when he asked where I was, Mary told him I was sleeping it off upstairs. She said I was drunk. She must have been up to see where I was earlier and found me on the bed. She'd undone cny collar, I think,' he added, as though in irritation. 'Anyway they had a row; or rather, Marcus told me, he yelled and threatened while she just sat and smiled at him. Finally there was a pause and they heard a movement upstairs. I don't know whether it was me or Stanley.'

  'Stanley?' said Jenny in surprise. 'Stanley who?'

  'I'll explain later, love,' he said. 'She got up then and said it was time I came down to hear what my so-called best friend thought of her. She went to the door and opened it, then screamed. Marcus went after her just in time to see someone scuttle across the hall and out of the front door. He'd thrown something down. It was an airpistol. Marcus picked it up and was going after the intruder, but she stopped him. He said he had a feeling that she thought she knew who it was. If it was Stanley, he was probably right. Well, to cut things short, it all started again. Things got very nasty from the sound of it. Mary suggested they should ring Arthur and ask him what he thought about the affair. Marcus said he was still waving the pistol around. She laughed at him and asked him if he imagined he was a gangster or something. He told me he thought of firing it at her then, but as he lifted it up, he said that the slug came trickling out of the barrel and dropped on the chair beside her. It must have looked a bit absurd. Mary thought it was hilarious. According to Marcus she made a big thing of it, saying things like, "was he going to kill me, then? With his little toy gun?" that kind of thing. She reached out, he said, and lifted the gun up till it rested against her forehead. That's when I must have come down. Then, Marcus said, still laughing she pressed his finger where it was over the trigger.'