Dalziel smiled sardonically.
'So you were out for four hours?'
That's right.'
'Nasty that. What'd your doctor say?' 'I don't know what his diagnosis was. He just seemed concerned with getting me to bed.'
'You'll be seeing him again?'
'Of course.'
'You'll be seeing him again?'
'Of course.'
'I wonder if you'd mind if our man cast his eye over you while you're down here? It might save your McManus a crisis of conscience.'
Connon smiled wanly.
'Again I see what you mean. I have no objection.' 'Good. Good. But first, there's one thing that puzzles me. You felt sick in the kitchen. You end up by passing out on your bed. Why not be sick downstairs? The kitchen-sink. Or if your notions of hygiene are so strong, why not use the downstairs toilet? I noticed you had one.' Connon spoke the words of his reply very slowly and distinctly as if learned by rote from a linguaphone record.
'I did not wish to disturb my wife.'
Dalziel crossed his legs cumbersomely and started prying into his nostrils with thumb and forefinger. 'Tell me, Mr Connon, Connie, I always think of you as Connie, do you mind?'
'I always think of you as Bruiser, Superintendent.'
Dalziel was amused and gave a few snorts of laughter. 'If the name fits, wear it, eh? Give a dog, eh? But yours doesn't tell us much. Doesn't fit, does it? Connie. A bit girlish. Which reminds me. You did not wish to disturb your wife. Now me, I'm a blunt Scottish lad by birth, a blunter Northcountryman by domicile. So perhaps the finer points of marital diplomacy have passed me by. (I wish my lad Pascoe could hear me!) But I don't quite follow the workings of your mind here. You come home, you're a bit under the weather, your wife ignores you, you've got to make your own tea. And you don't want to disturb her. There are some men would've disturbed her. Men you've played rugby with who'd have put their boots through the telly screen.' 'Men who have no respect for their wives do not deserve to keep them. Superintendent.' That was a mistake, thought Connon. He's taking it personally. Dalziel's wife, now divorced, had gone off with a milkman fifteen years before. At least, she had gone off. The milkman might have been malicious invention. 'Yes, Mr Connon. You're right. We should respect those who are weaker than us. Or older. Of course we should. Like forgiving our enemies.'
The phone rang.
'Excuse me,' said Dalziel. He listened for a moment.
'The doctor's ready for you now, if that's OK.'
Connon stood up. 'He won't keep you long, I expect. Like the Army. Just a cough and a piddle.'
'Will you want to see me again, Superintendent?'
Dalziel opened the door for him.
'Just for a moment perhaps. Sergeant!'
The uniformed sergeant who had brought Connon to the room appeared. The expression of unctuous sympathy with which Connon had been greeted reappeared on Dalziel's face for the first time since the interview began. 'This is very good of you. It's a trying time. Sergeant, show Mr Connon to the doctor. And get him a cup of tea, or coffee if you prefer it.' 'No, thank you,' said Connon and set off after the sergeant. 'No,' said Dalziel to himself as he watched them go. 'I expect you'll manage a piddle without it. Or I'm losing my touch. Sergeant Pascoe!'
'You're not intending to go down to the Club in that rig, are you, girl?' Gwen Evans turned before the mirror and peered back over her shoulder.
'What's the matter? My bum's not too big, is it?' She was wearing a tight-fitting dress of flowered silk, whose style was distantly Chinese in origin.
'No, but if that slit went any further up the side, you'd be able to see your bellybutton.' 'Don't be vulgar, Arthur. What's the matter? Don't you want me to go to the Club?'
'No, it's not that at all'
'No? I think you'd much rather have me here slaving over roast beef and two veg, waiting for you to come back full of love and beer.' 'Be fair, Gwen. Most of the time you complain that I'm too keen to get you down there.' 'Oh ay. Where you can keep an eye on me at night. But it doesn't seem to worry you at lunchtime. Do you think I've got a time switch on it, then, and can't get it to work in hours of daylight? You should know better.' Evans crossed to her in three swift strides. Instinctively she cowered back, holding her hands before her face, but he made no move to strike her. Instead he reached down, seized the hem of her dress and tugged violently upwards. There was a tearing noise as stitching came apart and the oriental split up the side extended to the waist.
'There,' he said. 'Now you can really see your belly.'
She relaxed, leaned against the wall and began to laugh. At first there was a very faint note of hysteria in it, but this rapidly faded and the laugh deepened to genuine amusement. 'Give us a fag, will you, Arthur?' she said finally, regarding her husband with something like real affection. 'You're not such a bad old faggot when you're roused.' Evans sat on the bed and lit two cigarettes, one of which he passed over to his wife. Thanks,' she said, drew on it deeply and placed it carefully on the edge of the dressing-table while she began to remove her ruined dress.
Evans watched her impassively.
She went to the wardrobe in her slip and opened its door.
'Well,' she said, 'what's it to be? Clubwear, or kitchenwear?'
'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-l, 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, hereT '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 nonmembers 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.' Pascoe merely looked thoughtful at this attempt to bring in a lighter note. 'Anyway, I don't know them all. You could be a member. There's one or two from the police who are. Superintendent Dalziel for one.' 'Is that so? How do you run the bar, Mr Hope? A duty roster?' Sid looked happy to get on to more general ground. That's right. We have a committee, me in charge, plus half a dozen others. We take it in turn to look after things for a week.'
'Just one of you? By himself?'
Sid laughed. 'Not bloody likely. No, we get some of the boys to help us when it's very busy, like weekends. Or even take over for a couple of nights. Some of us are married, you know. But, like I say, weekends the committee man in charge has really got to be here all the time. It's not just the serving, but the stock, and the till.'
'Sounds like hard work.'
'It is. Like now. Getting things set up for the great rush.'