Connon shrugged. 'I've told you, it's a matter of faith. I knew she'd been with other men before we married. But I believed she loved me. So I had faith.'
'And?'
Connon looked at Dalziel with the self-possession the detective found so irritating. 'No 'and', Superintendent. I think I've said as much as I want to say.' Dalziel infused a threatening rasp into his voice, more from habit than expectation of producing any result. 'You've either said too much or too little, Mr Connon. I need to know more.'
'Or less.'
'I can't unknow what you've told me.' 'No. But you can reduce it to its proper proportions surely. Many years ago my wife implied to me that I was not the father of her daughter. She later withdrew the implication. It's doubtless the kind of nasty thing husbands and wives shout at each other fairly frequently when they're rowing. It didn't worry me, at least not too much. And less as time went on. I never thought of it. Jenny was mine, my daughter, my responsibility, even if you could have proved Genghis Khan was her father. So why should I be bothered? Now my wife's dead and my daughter's had a vicious letter. Now I'm bothered. I'm telling you all this in the hope it might be some help to you to catch the writer of that letter.'
'And your wife's murderer?'
Connon nodded wearily. 'If you like. Though I don't see how. And his bit of harm's done, isn't it? This boy's got his still to finish.' Dalziel rose ponderously and belched without effort at concealment. Connon remained seated, looking up at him. 'Good day to you, Mr Connon. Please contact us instantly should any further attempt be made to contact your daughter, by letter or any other means.'
'Other?'
'This kind of thing can become a habit. I should try to get to the telephone first in future, for instance.'
As if at command, the phone rang.
Connon looked startled, the first unguarded emotion he had shown, then moved rapidly across the room and out into the entrance hall.
Pascoe was standing there with the phone in his hand.
'Hello,' he said. 'Hello.' Jenny was in the doorway of the lounge. So he can think too, thought Dalziel.
Pascoe put the receiver down.
'No answer. It must have been a wrong number.' 'Surely,' said Dalziel. 'Well, we'll bid you good day, Mr Connon. Jenny.' He moved to the front door. Behind him he heard Pascoe say in a low voice, obviously not intended for Jenny's ears, 'Just one thing further, Mr Connon. Could you let us have a list of the TV programmes you think your wife would have been likely to want to see on that Saturday night? It might help.' 'Might it?' said Connon. 'But not two lists, surely? I passed that information to your office at Mr Dalziel's request yesterday.' 'And,' said Dalziel, smiling smugly as they walked to the car together, Td have let the girl get to the phone first if I could have managed it. It was probably the only chance we'll ever get of listening in.'
'If it was our man.'
'Oh yes. I'm sure of that.' Across the road, the curtain fell back into place in a bedroom window.
'He asked me if it was true.'
'Me too.'
'What did you tell him?'
'What I told you when you asked.'
Outside they heard the car start up. There was the familiar slap as it brushed against the laburnum tree, then it was on its way. Jenny put the chain on the door and the simple action filled Connon's heart with the grief he had not yet felt. He had been telling nothing less than the simple truth when he said that his love for Jenny was in no way dependent on his being her father. But he saw that his own indifference was not shared and he regretted now that he hadn't been absolutely affirmative with her. What has she done that she must share my doubts? he thought. What have I done that I can expect her to understand my certainties? The urge to tell her it made no difference was strong in him once more, but he knew it would be a mistake. She must find for herself how little difference it did make. Now all that was necessary was to remind her she wasn't facing a stranger.
'Jenny, love, what about a pot of tea?'
'If you like.' She was pale. Her face had the shape which could take paleness and make it beautiful, but she was too pale. Connon hated the writer of that letter which had taken his daughter's colour away.
'Will they find him?'
The question slotted so neatly into his thoughts that he was slow in formulating a spoken reply.
'I don't know. He's out there somewhere. Out there.'
'At the Club?'
'Perhaps. I don't know.'
'Have you any idea?' He moved back along the hallway to the dining-room door. He spoke suddenly with a new resolution in his voice. 'There's a committee meeting tomorrow night. I think I'll go. Will you mind?'
She smiled and his heart split with love and anger.
'If you don't mind, I'll come with you. It's a long time since I showed my face there.'
'Right then.'
'Right.' Connon turned from the dining-room and moved across to the door opposite. 'We'll have tea in the lounge, shan we?' he said casually.
'All right.'
'Then a quiet night. Save our strength for tomorrow.'
'Right.'
Again he hesitated, looking for words. 'Jenny, I miss your mother. More now somehow. More than I thought.' Then he stepped into the lounge for the first time since Saturday night. In the kitchen Jenny whistled softly as she made the tea.
Chapter 4.
They were dancing in the social room. A record-player shuffled a few simple chords violently together, then dealt them out with heavy emphasis. The upper reaches of the room were vague with cigarette smoke, the lower reaches voluptuous with long legs and round little bottoms. Dalziel watched with awful lust as the girls twisted and jerked in total self-absorption. A hand squeezed his knee.
'Watch it, Andy, or you'll be spoiling your suit.'
Dalziel laughed but didn't turn his eyes to the speaker. 'It's as if they were being rammed by an invisible man,' he said. The music stopped and now he gave the newcomer his full attention.
'They weren't like this in our day, Willie,' he said.
Willie Noolan, small, dapper, grey, bank manager and President of the Club, smiled his agreement. 'They were not. We had to earn our wages in those days.' 'The wages of sin, eh? Not that it was always difficult, if you knew where to look. Do you recall a little animal called Sheila Cripps? Eh?' Noolan smiled reminiscently. These two had known each other for well over thirty years, meeting first at school and then finding their paths crossing again and again as they shifted with their respective jobs, till finally they had both come back permanently to the town they started from. 'She's a dried-up old stick now, Andy. Sings in the Methodist choir. I can't believe my memory when I look at her.' 'Ay. They don't weather like us, Willie. Even when the shape goes,' he said, slapping his belly, 'the spirit remains constant. It's a question of dedication. But I'm sorry that little Sheila's been a backslider.'
'Oh, she's been that in her time too.'
They laughed again, each enjoying the joke, but each with the watchfulness of his profession.
The third man at the table did not join in.
'Careful, Jacko, or you'll have hysterics,' said Dalziel. The long thin mouth was pulled down at the corners like a tragic mask, the eyes were hooded, the shoulders hunched, head bent forward so that the man's gaze seemed fixed on the surface of the table. God, thought Dalziel as he had frequently thought for the past twenty years, you're the most miserable-looking bugger I ever saw. 'You're like a couple of little lads. Act your age,' Jacko said, half snarling. 'John Roberts, Builder' was a familiar sign in the area. He had built the club-house they were sitting in. He
