'You checked, of course?' 'Of course. She was nearly a hundred miles away. We know that.' 'It's about all we bloody well do know. The only thing we make any progress with is the list of things we don't know. Item: who had a strong motive to kill her? No one we know, not even the great Connie as far as we know.'
'Strength of motive is in the mind of the murderer, sir.'
'Confucius, he bloody well say. To continue. Item: what did he kill her with? A metal object or at least an object with a metal end, cylindrical in shape, long enough to be grasped probably with both hands and smashed right between the eyes of a victim who sits there smiling and doesn't even try to duck.' 'The pathologist's report did say that Mrs Connon had unusually fragile bones, sir. Perhaps we're overestimating the strength needed.' 'So what? Thanks for nothing. And Mary Connon fragile? I don't believe it. It couldn't be true. With tits like those she'd have broken her collar-bone every time she stood up. To continue again. Item: who saw anything suspicious or even anyone anywhere near the house that night? Not a soul. Not even the eyes and ears of the Wood field Estate, your friend Fernie. All he can swear is that Connon was rolling drunk. Which Connon can disprove with con-bloody- siderable ease.' 'It does fit with Connon's account, though. About his giddiness, I mean. Makes his story that bit stronger, don't you think? And our doctor did find signs of a slight concussion. He's still seeing his own man, too. I checked.' Dalziel slammed his fist so hard on the desk that Pascoe broke his rule of stony non-reaction to his superior and started in his chair. 'I'm not interested in the bloody man's health. If he's innocent, he can drop dead tomorrow for all I care.' 'A sentiment that does you credit, sir. But there is one thing about this injury to Connon that's a little bit odd.' 'What's that, and why isn't it in your report?' asked Dalziel suspiciously.
'Apparently irrelevant. But I felt you might like it, sir.'
Dalziel licked his lips and looked as if the task of strangling Pascoe personally and instantly might not be unattractive. 'It's just that when I was down at the Club, I talked among others to a chap called Slater.'
'Fat Fred. I know him.'
'Slater remembered Connon being laid out. But, he added casually and as far as I could see without malice, that he reckoned the boot that did the damage belonged to Evans, his own captain. He seemed to think it was just a case of mistaken identity.' 'Fred would. He's thick as pigshit, that one. But Arthur Evans isn't made that way. He plays hard, but he'd never put the boot in.'
'So?'
'So Fred Slater should start wearing his glasses on the field. Or better still, give up. It's indecent a man that size exposing himself in public. I don't know how his wife manages him.' He chuckled to himself at the thought and murmured, 'Levers, I should think.'
'Pardon?'
'Sergeant,' he said quietly, 'is there anything we've left undone which we ought to have done?'
'I don't think so, sir.'
'Right. Then somewhere, in some area we are covering, or have covered, lies the clue.'
'The clue?'
'There's always a clue, boy. Don't you read the Sunday papers? All this started somewhere and it wasn't Boundary Drive. Or if it was, we're not going to get much help there. Now where's our best bet?' Pascoe spoke like a bored actor who was thinking of things other than his lines.
'At the Club.'
That's right. I think I'll just drop in there tonight. No, tomorrow. That's a training night. They'll all be there. Socially, I mean, for a pot of ale. If there's anything known, they'll tell me by chucking-out time. They'll tell me.' He spoke with some satisfaction. Like a… but the phone interrupted Pascoe's search for the right simile.
Dalziel nodded at it.
'Well, get it, then.'
Pascoe lifted up the receiver.
'Sergeant Pascoe here. Yes?' He listened for a few moments then replaced the receiver and stood silent. 'Not a private call, I hope, Sergeant,' said Dalziel. 'Or are you just playing hard to get.' 'I'm sorry, sir,' said Pascoe. 'No. It's the Connons. They got home and there was a letter. For the girl, it seems. Something unpleasant. Connon wants us to go out there straight away.' Alice Fernie had gone straight home from the funeral, not doing some shopping first as she had told Jenny. She possessed a great deal of natural tact as well as independence of spirit, a quality which had made possible her friendship with Mary Connon. But the journey had involved two buses and a great deal of waiting. So she had plenty of time to think. Buses and trains both set you thinking, she thought. But not in the same way. Trains gave you a rhythm, sent you into dreams, cut you off from reality. Buses were always stopping and starting; traffic, road-junctions, lights; and of course, bus-stops. The world you passed through was observable. And real.
So was the world inside your head.
Buses were good places to worry on. Alice Fernie was worried. She was wondering what the law might do to her husband if it caught up with him.
'Hello there, Alice. What a grand drying day it is, eh?'
Maisie Curtis from next door had got on the bus and was easing herself into the seat beside her. They were both broad-hipped women and the woeful inadequacy of the Corporation's transport service was very apparent. Alice didn't mind. The Corporation didn't provide much heating either and the warmth generated by the collision of two such large areas was very welcome.
'Hello, Maisie.'
'You're looking smart. You've been to her funeral, then?'
That's right.'
There was a short pause while Maisie paid her fare.
'Many there?'
'A few.'
'Oh.'
She'll want names, thought Alice resignedly. She'll want a guest-list. And she'll get it.
There's no funeral meats, then?'
'No. Everyone's just going home. Quietly. Like me.'
'Was there anyone from the police there?'
Alice sighed. 'As a guest, I mean, a mourner. They wouldn't be there official, would they? Not unless…'
'What?'
'Unless they wanted to watch him, keep an eye on him.' 'Who?'
'Mr Connon, of course.'
Alice shifted herself in the seat so that Maisie had to give a couple of inches. The conductor looked in awe at the overhang.
'Why should they want to watch him?'
'I don't know. In case he decided to skip, that's why. Well, he might, mightn't he? If he felt like it.'
'Like what?'
'Like getting away.'
'In his shoes, who wouldn't feel like getting away?'
Maisie was used to deliberate obtuseness on the part of her neighbour and was neither distracted nor offended by it.
'I mean escaping. If he did it.'
'If he did it? What makes you say that? You should watch what you say, Maisie. That kind of talk could get you into trouble.' Alice found herself speaking with greater vehemence than she'd intended, but once more Maisie greeted the affront with a smile. 'Well, if I'm in trouble, I won't be the only one. There'll be lots of company,' she said smugly.
Alice's heart sank.
'Who do you mean?'
'Why, your Dave for one.'
Oh God, she thought. Was he still at it? In spite of the row last night? He'd say it to someone who mattered sooner or later. And then, then the law would have its course with David Fernie. Alice knew nothing of the law of slander. But she knew how much compensation she herself would demand for being falsely accused of murder.
She tried to speak casually.
