Last first. That thing along the bar there, there's so many trying it's hard to say who's succeeding. But I'll tell you who Evans has elected front runner.' 'Yes?' 'Connon. That's right. The boy wonder. And that answers two of your questions, doesn't it?' Perhaps, thought Pascoe. Perhaps it answers three. More likely it doesn't answer any. Not a word of this before, not a hint; surely there'd have been a hint, a nod, a wink? Surely Dalziel would have known?
Perhaps Dalziel did know.
Or perhaps there was nothing to know. Perhaps Gwen Evans was as pure as the driven snow. Perhaps.
But it didn't matter. No woman could look like that without someone starting a rumour about her and someone. But there had been no mention of Connon exercising his talents there. Of course, there wouldn't be. You didn't mention that kind of thing to a detective investigating the death of a fellow club-member's wife. Especially when he was the best fly-half the club had ever had. No, it just wasn't done. Not unless you were a jumped-up bastard like Jacko Roberts. Or a woman. He hadn't talked to any women down here. But the place seemed full of them. Camp-followers. Regulars as regular in their attendance as any man. He'd have to pick one out. They had a different scale of loyalties.
'Do you believe it?' he asked.
'Me? I'd believe anything bad about anybody, if I didn't know they were all a load of bloody liars.' 'Evans, now. I thought he was an old mate of Connon's?' 'The first people you suspect are always your friends. Usually you're right.'
'Is Evans right?'
Jacko looked him in the eyes for the first time since they'd met. His head, ill-constructed out of sharp edges and loosely-hung skin, rested against the wall, out of place between two framed photographs of past successful teams, young men, glowing with health. 'Welshmen weren't born to be right. They were born to be bloody tragic.' He finished the second pint with a definitive swallow and the backward movement of his head shifted one of the pictures. Pascoe reached forward to straighten it. The fifteen young men smiled brigh ly at him. One face, happier than the others, caught his attention. He looked at the names underneath.
/y‹-. itt. ii -. iiiin In ii-, ‹ io‹U: ii Boy ‹ays.'
'Connon?' He looked closer. Yes, unmistakable now. Connon's face looked back at him.
'He looks as if he'd been made King of the Harem.'
Now Jacko peered closely, this time at the date. 'He had,' he said. 'Twenty years old. Happy in the day time, happier in the night-time. Just picked for the first trial. Six weeks later he's bust his ankle and put this girl in the club. He wakes up one morning and though he doesn't know it, he must suspect it – the party's over. And no one's ever going to ask him to another.'
'Never?'
'Never. From now on he's a gatecrasher.' Jacko nodded sagaciously and rattled his glasses together. Pascoe smiled and shook his head. 'No thanks, Mr Roberts. I'll be getting on, I think. Thank you for the chat. Cheerio!' Let me find some nice little girl, with someone else's drink swilling inside her nice flat little belly, who'll talk and talk and talk, and be nice to look at. Or even just one who's nice to look at. I wonder where Jenny is? But when he turned to look, she was gone and Marcus was talking to someone else.
Ted Morgan had gone too.
The price of information was too high, decided Jenny. So far she had got no information and she had come dangerously near to paying the price. Ted Morgan's car was parked high above the town about five yards down a narrow cart-track which led off the road between two steeply sloping fields. Jenny was heartily relieved that the recent bad weather had made the track so muddy that even the passionate and rather drunk Ted had not dared go any further.
They were not really out of the town. The hill, or knoU, they were on was almost completely surrounded below by two horns of suburb. The gossip was that the farmer who owned the land was merely hanging on till the price came up to his requirements, then some builder would carve out of the hillside a super executive-type estate, with views for fifteen miles and mortgages for fifty years. The only bit of information Jenny had got out of Morgan was that he 'knew' the builder was Jacko Roberts. It was obviously a popular site, if not for builders, then certainly for lovers. Four or five sets of headlights had blazed rudely into the neck of the lane, then turned in disappointment away. The sudden illumination did not seem to inhibit Ted, but Jenny found it comforting. She'd also refused to transfer from the front seat and the gear-lever, handbrake and steering-wheel were welcome allies. At the moment there was a truce. She lit her second cigarette. She didn't really smoke, but it was timeconsuming and also provided a potential weapon. Ted puffed energetically at his, uncertain yet whether to congratulate himself on being parked up here with this very attractive young girl, or to commiserate with himself for his failure to make more than token progress. 'Ted,' said Jenny brightly, 'how long have you known my father?' Morgan shifted uneasily. He didn't like any of the implications of the question. 'Oh, a good few years.'
'Are you one of his special friends?'
'I wouldn't say that. Not really. Not like Marcus. Or Arthur.'
'Owen's very pretty, isn't she?'
'So-so,' said Ted casually.
Jenny laughed and started coughing.
'Don't be so offhand,' she spluttered. 'You wouldn't say no, would you?'
He grinned.
'No, I don't suppose I would. Chance'd be a fine thing.' 'I suppose there's a lot of competition for a pretty woman?' How the hell do you get a man to gossip about your dead mother? she thought. I bet Pascoe could.
Ted grew enthusiastic.
'You bet there is. It can be fun.' run?'
'Depends whether you join it, or watch it. Me, I weighed up my chances and decided to watch it. Then it's fun.' He's still talking about Gwen, she thought disappointedly. But what can I expect? If he knew what I wanted he'd be out of the car and away in a flash of shock. But I can't sit here all night. It'll be time for round two soon. Come on, my girl, you're supposed to be a budding teacher. Skilful questioning of the child can make him tap sources of knowledge he didn't know he had. But it'd be easier to give him a work-card. Tell me, Ted,' she began, but he wasn't finished yet. Like the good gossip he was, he had merely been marshalling the various elements of his anecdote to their best advantage. 'You should have been there last Saturday night. Arthur starts looking at his watch about seven. She should have been there by then. He doesn't go home after the game, you see, not worth it, has his tea here and starts straight in on the beer. Well, I was there, behind the bar, standing in for Marcus, for a few minutes he said, more like two hours, so I saw it all develop. He'd look at his watch, then at the clock on the wall, then at his watch. Finally about quarter to eight he shoots through to the other room and finds Dick and Joy Hardy there, they were supposed to be picking Gwen up and bringing her round. But it turns out she wasn't in. So he comes back through trying to look unconcerned. But he's shooting some pretty piercing glances around, I tell you. I let him see me there bright and clear!'
He paused to chuckle.
'Why?' asked Jenny in puzzlement.
Ted sighed at the stupidity of women.
'Because those who were there couldn't be where his old woman was, could they?'
'And who wasn't there?'
Suddenly the impetus of Ted's narrative seemed to fail. 'Oh, lots,' he said without enthusiasm. 'I mean, I couldn't see, could I?' 'But you were behind the bar? That means Uncle Marcus wasn't there.' Ted cheered up. That's right. He wasn't. Though I can't imagine Marcus
… anyway it doesn't matter.' He reached over and put his arm round her shoulders, more paternalistically than passionately.
'Is that the end of the story, then? It's a bit pathetic.'
'Pathetic? Yes, I suppose it is. You've got to feel sorry for him, haven't you? I'm sure there's nothing to any of it, really. Anyway, let's talk about something interesting, like you and me.' Poor Ted, she thought. He's just remembered what happened last Saturday night. But it's more than that, isn't it? He's remembered that Daddy wasn't there either; he's remembered who he's talking to and he's just sober enough to mind his p's and q's. Does he really know something about Daddy and Gwen? I wonder. Or is it all in that cotton-wool mind? She half turned to look at the figure beside her and this proved a near fatal mistake.
