waves of interest emanating from all sides of the room.
The committee room?' said Dalziel with a smile.
He put his arm over Hurst's shoulder as they went through the door, but removed it before the door was quite closed. 'Now, Mr Hurst,' he said. 'You wanted to look at the letter Jenny Connon received the day before yesterday. I have that letter here. Before I show it to you, however, I want to know your reason for wanting to see it.' Hurst looked angrily at him, then questioningly at Noolan who had followed them in.
The bank manager nodded.
Tell him, Peter.' 'So,' said Dalziel. 'Another in the plot? Don't say you've taken to concealing information as well, Willie?' 'No, Andy. Peter saw me last night after you'd left. Peter. Tell him.' Hurst played with the zip on his track-suit top, moving it up and down. Like a nervous tart on her first job, thought Dalziel. Will the man never start? 'It's nothing really,' said Hurst. 'It's just that a few days ago I heard one of our members say something about Connie. It was just after we'd heard about Mary. We'd been saying how awful it was, how sorry we were for Connie. And this chap said we might well be sorry for Connie, but not to overdo it. He said that there were things about Connie that he wouldn't like his daughter to know.'
'And?'
'Nothing really. We'd all had a few drinks. Someone said there were things about himself he wouldn't like his wife to know, we all laughed and went off happy. It kind of broke the gloomy atmosphere.'
'Exit on a joke. Is that allT
'No. On Wednesday after the selection committee meeting, I realized I'd left my fountain pen in here. I came in to get it and found this same person using it. He finished off quickly as I came in, apologized when he realized it was my pen, and that was an end to it. But I got a distinct impression he didn't want me to see what he was writing. He folded it up and tucked it away very quickly.' 'Again, is that all? It's not much, is it? And why do you want to see the letter?' Hurst obviously did not like what was happening. But he feels he ought to dislike it even more than he does, thought Dalziel. Jesus, it's all do-it-yourself public relations now. Everyone's sweating on their image. 'Whatever he was writing,' said Hurst slowly, 'he was writing in block capitals. I saw that much.' 'One block capital looks much like another, upside down, from a distance,' sneered Dalziel. 'Is that all?' 'No. It would be written with my pen, you see, if it was that letter. And that day my pen was filled with green ink. I'd run out and borrowed some from my boy. You know what kids are. Anything exotic. It happened to be green.' Carefully Dalziel reached into his inside pocket and took from it a large envelope. Out of this he drew a Cellophane packet. Framed in it they could see a letter. He held it up to the light to give a clearer view.
The ink was black.
Hurst sighed deeply.
'I'm glad,' he said.
'Who was it you saw?' asked Dalziel.
'Why? Is that necessary,' he asked, turning to Noolan.
'You'd have named him if he seemed guilty. It seems odd not to do so when he is innocent. Eh, Willie?' 'It was Arthur Evans that Peter saw. We heard he was down at the station this morning. Peter wondered
…' '… if we in our own bumbling way had caught up with him? No. Well, thank you both very much indeed for your time.' 'Not at all,' said Noolan. Tm sorry yours has been wasted.'
Hurst left without a word.
'Andy,' said Noolan. 'Don't make such a big noise round the Club, eh? You put me in an embarrassing position.'
'I shan be so quiet you'll never notice me. In fact, with your permission, I'll start now and stop here for a while. All the best fictional detectives do it. Have long thinks, I mean.' 'Be our guest,' said Noolan and went back into the social room leaving the large figure, head wreathed in cigarette smoke, seated at the top of the big committeesized table. He was still there two hours later when the whistle went for no-side. 'A curious game,' said Antony as they drove away from the ground. 'Especially when seen through a glass, distantly.' They hadn't cared to join the small crowd of spectators in the old stand, but had remained in the car parked about twenty-five yards behind one of the goals. 'A poor game,' replied Connon, 'seen from no matter what distance.' 'Why?' asked Antony, with a polite interest which ten minutes later had turned into the real thing. Whatever else you know, Jenny's father, he thought, you certainly know your rugby. At least I think that if I knew my rugby, I would be in a good position to acknowledge that you know yours. But he knew enough about the game to recognize the scope and justice of Connon's analysis. 'Now I feel I could watch the game again,' he said when Connon finished. 'Nothing is repeatable,' said the older man. 'Not even the moments that we relive a thousand times.' Connon fell silent and Antony, great talker though he was, knew when conversation was not being invited. The rest of the drive home passed in almost complete silence. But I like him, thought Antony as they got out of the car. He might do for me very well. I could not bear a dull father-in-law. And Jenny, now Jenny, there's the find of: the century. He went towards the front door with pleasurable anticipation. But there was no reply to his enthusiastic bellringing and Connon, coming from closing the garage, hadl to get his key out to open the door.
The house was quiet and felt empty.
'Jenny! Jenny!' called Connon.
There was no reply.
'She can't have gone far,' said Connon. 'She'll be back in a minute I expect. Probably gone round the corner to the shops.'
Probably, thought Antony, but he didn't feel happy.
He went upstairs to change out of the heavy boots he had (unnecessarily) decided were good rugby-watching gear. As he passed Jenny's bedroom door, he saw it was ajar. He pushed it gently open and looked in. The room was quite empty. He looked at the furnishings, the pictures, the bed with its rich crimson bedspread. Seated on top of it was a fluffy white dog, its red tongue grotesquely hanging out, its head lolling to the side. It was a nightgown case and his eyes lit up as he saw it. Quickly he moved into his own room, grabbed his pyjama top and returned. His intention was simple, to substitute this for whatever garment he found in the dog. But as he went across the room to the bed, something on the dressing-table caught his eye. It was a large sheet of paper with writing all over it. Antony was a man with considerable respect for individual privacy. Looking at other people's letters was not something that attracted him. But something about the sheet of paper, lying with its contents reflected unreadably in the mirror, drew him towards it.
He picked it up.
'Dear Christ,' he said.
He read it again.
'Dear mother of God!' he said.
His pyjama-top dropped from his hand.
'Antony? Anything wrong?'
Connon stood in the door.
'I found this. On her dressing-table.'
He reached out the letter. Connon read it with one sweep of the eyes. Then without a word he turned and'ran downstairs. Antony walking out of the room to the landing heard him dialling the telephone.
Three numbers only.
'Give me the police,' he said. 'Quick.'
'As obscene letters go,' said Dalziel, 'I've seen worse.'
'Is that supposed to be some consolation?' asked Connon. 'It's pretty graphic I should have thought,' remarked Antony, trying to hide his tremendous concern under a calm exterior. 'Oh yes. It's graphic. It's that all right. Crudely so. But it's not perverted. This is all good straightforward stuff.' 'For God's sake, Dalziel!' exploded Connon. 'Can we cut the expert critical review and get on with the job of finding out where Jenny is!'
Dalziel made squelchy soothing noises in his throat.
Take it easy,' he said. 'We have her description out. Every policeman in town's on the look out for her. I'm sure she'll have come to no harm.' 'Thanks,' said Connon. 'You realize there was no envelope with this thing. And there's only one post on Saturday and this had arrived well before I left?' 'Yes, sir. We realize that. So now you're imagining that he, whoever he is, popped this through the letterbox, waited till she had had time to read it, then rang the bell and invited her to take a stroll with him. Now is that likely?' 'Only if,' said Connon slowly, 'only if it was someone she knew well.' The same thought had crossed Dalziel's mind much earlier, but he still found it hard to
