women in the room, her skirt was by no means the shortest there, her dress zipped up the front right up to the collar and she had a cardigan draped casually over her shoulders. It was the way she moved, the animation of her face, the way she held herself that made her presence so electric, not any ultra-daring revelation of flesh. Her husband was in close attendance at the moment but Jenny knew he was due at the meeting. The man behind the bar said something to him, probably a reminder, for he nodded, spoke to his wife, then with a quick look round the room, he left. Gwen too was looking round the room, more slowly, deliberately. Her gaze met Jenny's and paused. Then she smiled an acknowledgment and dropped an eyelid in half a wink. Jenny was surprised to feel herself flattered by this hint of intimacy between them.
'What're you waiting for, Stan?'
Stanley stood up awkwardly. 'Excuse me,' he said. 'I've got some work to do at home.' He moved across the room and out of the door without a glance at Gwen. 'My!' said Sheila. 'Perhaps he's got delusions of grandeur and is playing hard to get.' Jenny suddenly didn't care for her in the least. She downed the remaining beer in her glass in one easy draught. T think I'll circulate a bit,' she said. 'It's been nice having a chat.'
'Suit yourself,' said Sheila.
'Cheerio.' Near the bar she caught a glimpse of Marcus's round head and began to make her way towards him. When she got a little closer she saw he was talking to the man she'd had the brush with when she first came in, and she hesitated in her progress. Marcus turned at that moment and saw her. His face showed surprise, then pleasure.
'Jenny,' he said. 'Come and have a drink, love.'
She smiled back and squeezed through the intervening people to his side. 'Are you by yourself?' he asked, his eyes probing the further corners of the room.
'Daddy's in the committee meeting.'
'Of course. I'm glad he decided to come. It'll do him good to get out and about. You too. Here, what'll you have?'
'I'll have a scotch if you insist.'
'Oh, but I do. One scotch. You ready for another, Ted?' He took the large man's glass without waiting for a reply. 'You know Ted, do you? Ted Morgan. This is Jenny Connon, Connie's daughter. This is Ted. He's the biggest gossip in the Club so be careful what you tell him about me. Won't be a sec.' Marcus turned to the bar and ruthlessly elbowed his way through to the pole position.
Jenny looked at Morgan with interest.
'Look,' he said. 'I'm sorry if I was rude before. But I didn't recognize you at first. I've only ever seen you a couple of times, with your dad at matches.' His face was set into the perfect sympathetic mould now. But his eyes were still assessing what lay beneath her Marks and Spencer jumper. Perhaps I should introduce them to him. Now this one on the left is Marks, and this other is Sparks. Say hello nicely. She grinned at the thought and the solemn angles of Ted's mouth relaxed also.
'I'm sorry if I was rude to you, too, Mr Morgan.'
'Call me Ted.' Ts it true what Marcus said? That you're the biggest gossip in the Club?' 'Certainly,' said Ted. 'Bigger than that, even. There's not much happens here that I don't know.' He nodded with mock-solemnity. Jenny found herself quite liking him.
'And how long have you been a member?'
'Since I was a nipper. My dad didn't like to beat me, so he made me join him.' Jenny laughed with more enthusiasm than the witticism merited. Ted hasn't told you one of his jokes, has he? Be careful, Ted, will you? Jenny's not one of your ancient barmaids.' Marcus handed her a goblet of scotch and Ted another pint.
'I'm being entertained very well, thank you, Marcus.'
'Good-oh. Well, here's how.' They all drank. A loud outburst of laughter came from the bar. Jenny glanced over. The source was the group round Gwen Evans. Beyond them, just coming in through the door, she saw Pascoe. He edged his way through the standing drinkers and for a moment she thought he was going to join her, but he merely nodded and drifted down the room, taking up a position by the wall where he seemed to become engrossed in watching the efforts of a group of youngsters on the one-armed bandit. I shouldn't be at all surprised if he didn't fancy me, thought Jenny. Perhaps not though, I seem to fancy every man I meet fancies me at the moment. Either I'm at the height of my powers or I'm suffering from delusions of grandeur. Like poor Stanley. Gwen Evans wouldn't bother with a kid like that, not when she could have the pick of the men in this room. Or any of the other rooms either. And her heart gave just a little kick of worry as she turned to Ted Morgan again. Clickity, clickity, clickity, click. A lemon, a bell and a cherry. Clickity, clickity, clickity, click. Two bells and an orange. Clickity, clickity, clickity. If you had stood as I have done for five hours in a draughty ante-room of a courthouse sticking sixpences into one of those things to see how frequently it paid out, you wouldn't be so keen to chuck your money away, son. Couldn't understand it, could he? Two or three jackpots a night in the Club. Anyone'd tell you. My client wonders if the police have been as thorough in their research as they seem to imply. Perhaps the constable who carried out the test was merely having a run of bad luck. It is in the very nature of the entertainment offered by these machines that the result should be irregular, unforecastable. Odds must be measured over weeks, months, not hours. And me with my second-class honours degree, standing there with corns on my hands saying yes sir, no sir, till I made my smart answer, my quick repartee. Then everyone tut-tuts. And they all jump on me from great heights till corns on my hand seem like the fringe benefits of delirious joy. But no joy for Pascoe, nowhere. Little Jenny there, glad she's there, not elsewhere, listening to phone calls, opening letters; but no joy there for you Pascoe. Not yet. Not ever? She's very friendly with those two, though; Felstead, Marcus, and Morgan, Edward. Lucky them, but not her style, not big Ted. He looks as if the pools have come up for him. And over there, beyond the blue horizon of desire, Gwen, backseat driver. Gwen, change any gears and we're airborne. That brass ring at her neck, attached to the zip all the way down that dress, like the ring you hold on to when you leap from a plane, plunging in free fall till you dare no more, then you pull the ring down, down and float in airy freedom, master of all you survey. For a CID man you've no head for beer. Another pint and you'd be like those young lads all falling over themselves to make an impression. Or like fat Dalziel. Worse. Please God, don't let me become like fat Dalziel. But he at least is probing, sniffing around, trying to get things moving, not losing himself vainly in mazes of mental erotica. Listen. Look. Look and listen. That's why you're here. And don't just look over there. 'Everything?' said the highly made-up girl on the table behind him, her eyes rounding with interest into O's of mascara. 'Yeah,' said one of the two boys at the table, 'that's what he told me. He said he reckoned she wanted him to see. You know. Sort of egging him on.'
'More wishful thinking,' said the other girl scornfully.
'Mebbe. Mebbe not. Anyway, you know what he did?' 'No. And I don't want to. Let's go next door and dance a bit. Coming?'
'Oh, all right then. Off we go.'
Even when I eavesdrop I hear nothing but sex, thought Pascoe watching the four of them disappear out of the bar. Now there was that fellow Roberts. Jacko Roberts. He seemed an interesting kind of man. Perhaps worth a word or two.
Dalziel might not like it, of course.
'Dalziel,' he murmured audibly enough for the fruitmachine victims to glance his way, 'is not bloody well going to get it.' He began to move towards the end of the bar where Jacko Roberts was drinking alone.
'Any other business,' asked Willie Noolan.
There's this competitive rugby survey thing that's come round from The Times,'' said Reg Certes, the club secretary. 'Propose that a general meeting of members be convened to discuss the whole question,' said Connon.
'Seconded,' said Sid Hope.
'Any opposition? Right, carried. What about timing?'
'Week Friday'd be all right,' said Certes.
'Agreed? Right. Anything else?'
'Just one thing if I may, Willie.' Noolan glanced at his watch. If it had been anyone other than Connie… but he could hardly choke him off.
'Yes, Connie.'
Connon looked round the table for a moment as though choosing his words carefully. But they had been chosen for some little time already. 'Mr President,' he said, and the formality of his voice made the others pay him even closer attention. 'Yesterday, the day of my late wife's funeral, my daughter received an anonymous letter. I
