A Clubbable Woman

Evans watched her impassively.

She went to the wardrobe in her slip and opened its door.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘what’s it to be? Club-wear, or kitchen-wear?’

‘Where were you last night, Gwen?’

‘At the Club with you, dear. Remember?’

She smiled sweetly.

‘Gwen,’ he said, ‘you’re right. It’s a daft question, isn’t it, girl? I know where you were. Or at least who you were with.’

She stiffened and reached down a dress from the hanging rail.

‘Oh, do you?’

‘Yes, of course I do, Gwen. And I suppose if I know, every other sod in the Club has known for months. But I don’t understand you, Gwen. I can see why you encourage all those young lads who come sniffing around you. That’d be flattering to any woman. But a man of my own age. And a friend. What made you pick him, Gwen? What made you pick Connie?’

‘A-1, I hope,’ said Dalziel when Connon reappeared.

‘I hope not, Superintendent. That would mean I couldn’t get better. And I don’t think I’ve recovered from that knock yet. I hope we won’t be much longer.’

‘This is a murder enquiry, Mr Connon. We need your help. Your wife is dead.’

I think that I am at least as aware of that as you, Superintendent. My daughter will be arriving home some time this morning. I’d like to be there to meet her.’

Dalziel looked sympathetic.

‘Of course. A father’s feelings. But have no worries on that score. My sergeant was just telling me. Your daughter’s got here safe and sound. We were able to assist a little there.’

Connon stood up.

‘Jenny? Here? You mean, here?’

‘Oh no. Never worry yourself. I mean at home, of course. We wouldn’t bring her here.’

‘At home. Then I must go.’

Dalziel let him reach the door.

‘Just one question, Mr Connon.’

‘If you must.’

‘You left the Club at twenty to six, and got home about six-thirty. Rather a long time isn’t it? It’s only seven or eight miles at the most. And there’s not much traffic about at that time.’

‘There was enough.’

Dalziel, expert at detecting ironies, thought he heard one here.

‘You didn’t stop for any reason? A drink perhaps? Or had you had enough at the Club?’

‘Why do you ask?’ said Connon quietly.

‘Well, it’s just that we’ve had a statement. Not guaranteed reliable, mark you. But admissible, and voluntary, and therefore carrying some weight. This man …’

‘Which man?’

‘A man called Fernie, says he met you last night. Is that true?’

‘Yes.’

‘About six-thirty?’

‘Yes.’

‘Outside your house?’

‘Yes again.’

‘He says that you were acting oddly. In various ways. He says, in fact he was willing to swear, but we introduced a degree of moderation, as is our wont. He says he got the distinct impression that you were drunk. Very drunk.’

‘Thank you for telling me, Superintendent. Now I must go. Goodbye.’

‘Wait!’ bellowed Dalziel.

Connon turned once more, half out of the door.

‘If you want a fairly precise statement of the amount of alcohol I had taken up to about ten past six, I suggest you contact the constables who administered a breathalyser test to me at that time in Longtrees Road. I thought that this was what you were going on about, not malicious gossip. Good day. I must get to my daughter.’

Dalziel sat for a minute looking at the open door. Then he stood up and walked slowly over to it, scratching the back of his neck with an intensity that made his skin glow redly through the grey stubble.

‘Sergeant,’ he called, pitching his voice low, but with an intensity which easily carried it along the corridor to the desk. ‘Would you step along here for a moment, if you’d be so kind? To discuss an organizational point.’

At the desk, the sergeant stopped whistling.

‘Sorry, we don’t start selling till twelve.’

‘I’m a police officer,’ said Pascoe. ‘I don’t start buying till I’m off duty.’

Sid Hope slowly rose from his crouching position behind the bar.

‘Oh yes? I’m Hope, the club treasurer. What can I do for you? Is there some trouble? About the licence, I mean?’

‘Should there be?’ said Pascoe. ‘You don’t allow non-members to buy drinks, do you? Normally?’

‘Of course not. When we know, that is. But I didn’t know who you were. On my knees, trying to set up a new keg. It’s like a bloody heart-transplant operation getting one of these things operational.’