A Clubbable Woman

Dalziel rippled through the papers scattered on the desk before him. Pascoe tried to show none of the offence this lack of organization caused him.

‘Here we are. Skull fracture … bone splinters into frontal lobes … blow from a metal implement, probably cylindrical … administered with great force to the centre of forehead … perhaps long enough to permit a two-handed grip. That’s a great help. Found anything yet, have they?’

‘No, sir.’

‘I should bloody well think not, eh? Not if you knew and I didn’t. Where is this man, anyway?’

Pascoe pushed back his stiffly laundered white cuffs to glance at his watch.

‘The car went for him half an hour ago.’

‘Waiting for him to finish breakfast, I expect. Hearty, I hope. He’ll need his strength.’

Pascoe raised his eyebrows.

‘I thought you said …’

‘I didn’t think he’d done it? But I might be wrong. It’s been known. Twice. But whether he did it or not, if it wasn’t done casually by an intruder, he’ll probably know why it was done. He might not know he knows. But know he will.’

‘Have we dismissed the possibility of an intruder, sir?’

‘We? We? You’re not my bloody doctor. No, I haven’t. But if you look at your bloody scientifically based reports, you’ll see that she seems to have been sitting very much at her ease.’

‘Could it have been from behind? With, say, a narrow-headed hammer. That way you’d get the force …’

‘Pish and cobbles, Pascoe! Didn’t you see the height of that chair-back? And she was sprawling in it at her ease. You’d need arms like an orang-outang. No, I think it was someone she knew pretty well.’

‘And how narrow does that make the field?’

Dalziel grinned lecherously.

‘Not as narrow as you’d think. Twenty years ago there were a hell of a lot of people down at the Rugby Club who knew Mary James pretty well. I’ve had a bit of a nuzzle there myself. And that kind of acquaintance doesn’t get forgotten all that quickly.’

‘You make her sound like a professional.’

‘Don’t get me wrong, son. She wasn’t that. Not even an enthusiastic amateur. She just liked the gay life. There’s one in every club. Where the booze is strongest, the dancing wildest. The girl who doesn’t flinch when the songs get dirty. Who can even join in. It’s the gay crowd she likes, not the slap and tickle in the dark corners. But her image demands she has a large following. And she’s bound to be overtaken from time to time.’

‘Was Connon an overtaker?’

‘Oh no. He was taken over. Your old stager begins to smell danger when the gaiety girl passes the quarter-century with no strong ties. Your young lad’s easy meat, though. Easily frightened too.’

‘Frightened?’

‘They got married at a dead run. Their girl appeared eight months later. Premature, they called it.’

Pascoe listened with distaste to the rasp of laughter which followed.

‘But you’ll find out all about that, my lad. Have a walk down there this lunchtime. They always get a good crowd in. Have a chat with one or two of them. See if anything’s known. They’ll all be eager to natter. Here, I’ve scribbled out a list of who’s who down there. It’s not definitive by any means, but it’ll tell you whether you’re talking to a mate of his – or hers – or not.’

He passed over a scruffy sheet of foolscap, one corner of which looked as if it had been used for lighting a cigarette.

‘You’re best at this stage. If we haven’t sorted this lot out in a couple of days, I’ll drop in for a social drink myself. The tension’ll have gone by then and they’ll all imagine they’re pumping me for information.’

Whereas you pump stuff into barrels, not out of them, thought Pascoe.

Dalziel turned to the window again and took a couple of deep breaths. His fingers drummed impatiently on the sill.

‘Anything in from house-to-house yet?’

‘Not yet, sir.’

‘They’ll all be in bed. Christ. Bloody Sundays!’

There was a long pause. Then …

‘Here he comes,’ said Dalziel, slamming the window shut with even more violence than he had used to open it. ‘Anything you want here, laddie?’

‘Well, no; I mean yes,’ said Pascoe in puzzlement.

‘Grab it and go, then. What’s the matter? Did you hope to see the master at work?’

‘No. But I thought that as you know him – I mean, you are a vice-president of the Rugby Club and something of a friend …’

‘A friend?’ said the superintendent, twisting his fingers in one pouchy cheek so that his big mouth was dragged sinisterly out of shape. ‘You’ve jumped to conclusions, Sergeant. Perhaps I better had let you watch the master some time. He’s a great player, but I never said I liked him. Nor he me. Oh no, I never said I liked him. Push off now. We’ll save you for later if need be.’

Quickly Pascoe gathered a couple of files and some papers together and made for the door. There was a knock and it opened just as he reached it.

‘Mr Connon, sir,’ said the uniformed sergeant standing there.

‘How are you, Mr Connon?’ said Pascoe looking at the pale-faced man who stood a pace or two behind the sergeant.

Solid. Yes, he looked solid all right. Still firm. No flabbiness in the face. Just the paleness of fatigue. But what is it that has drained your blood, Mr Connon? Grief? Or …

‘Please come in, Mr Connon.’ The loud voice broke his thoughts. He glanced round. Dalziel, his face a mask of sympathy so obviously spurious that Pascoe shuddered, was advancing with his hand outstretched. He stood aside to let Connon enter, then stepped out into the corridor leaving them together.

‘He’s like Henry Irving,’ he said to the sergeant, shaking his head.

‘Which one?’

‘Which one? I don’t know. Perhaps both. I’ll be in here if I’m wanted.’

And for all his resentment at his dismissal, he found he wished that he had been wanted.

‘It might be nice to see the master at work.’

The sergeant turned round, but Pascoe had closed the door of his temporary office behind him with a bang.

The sergeant went back to his desk whistling, ‘Dear Lord and Father of mankind’.