He obeyed instantly.
'Thank you, Mrs Fernie,' said Pascoe.
'Sergeant,' she said. 'These letters. Do you have them with you?' 'Not the originals,' he said. 'They've got to be carefully looked after and tested. Ink, paper, that kind of thing. Fingerprints. I'd like to take your husband's prints if I may. I've brought the stuff.' He knew that only a few not very helpful smudges had been found after Mary Connon's prints, taken from the dead woman's fingers at the post-mortem, had been eliminated. But it was always worth putting a scare into people. Fernie looked as if he was ready to explode again, but Alice nodded and he subsided. 'I've got a photostat copy of one of them, though,' he went on. 'Why?'
'May I see it?' she asked.
He looked dubiously at her. 'I'm a big girl now,' she said. 'I stopped reading fairy tales years ago.'
'Right,' he said. 'Here you are.'
He handed it over. She read through it quickly once. Then more slowly a second time. To his surprise a smile began to tug at her cheeks and when she finished the second reading she laughed aloud as though in relief.
'Is there something funny?' he asked politely.
'Not to you, Sergeant. But to me. It's the thought of my Dave writing this. 'I'm no psychiatrist but I'll tell you one thing. That letter was written by some poor, unhappy, twisted, frustrated man with a rather scanty knowledge of women. My Dave may be a bit short on mouth control, he may talk too much, he may not know how to make friends and influence people…' 'Alice!' interjected her husband, outraged. But she went on as if he wasn't there. '… but whatever else he is, he's not frustrated. If he sees a woman undressing in a window, he'll stop and have a look. Who wouldn't? You would!'
Oh yes, thought Pascoe, yes, I would.
'Especially if she's like Mary Connon. She was a big woman. But I'm no nymphet myself,' she said proudly. 'Anything she had, I had too, and it was thirteen years younger, and readily available to my husband as, when, and how he liked to use it. Any man can be unfaithful, but it takes special circumstances to write a letter like that.' She finished, slightly flushed, but looking him defiantly straight in the eye. Fernie was regarding her with some awe. 'You may be right, Mrs Fernie,' said Pascoe. 'Now, if I can just take your prints, Mr Fernie, I won't bother you any more.' 'Do you think whoever wrote those letters killed poor Mary?' she asked as she saw him out of the door.
'Perhaps,' said Pascoe.
'You can cut Dave right out,' she said with a smile. 'He couldn't hurt anyone. He goes queasy at those doctor programmes on the telly.' Pascoe felt inclined to agree with her as he drove along Boundary Drive. Still, it was as well to keep an open mind. But all that had really happened that evening, he thought, was that he had developed something that was very nearly envy of Dave Fernie. Dalziel's superiors would not have been happy to see him. He had already been seen once that day. A progress report had been requested. He had asked if what was wanted was a detailed account of the whole course of the investigation so far or a brief statement of what was known. The Assistant Chief Constable had mentally spoken a prayer for self-control and asked for a brief statement.
'Enquiries are proceeding, sir.'
'Is that all?' 'I have sent in full and detailed reports of every aspect of the investigation, sir. Do you also require a digest of them?' The Assistant Chief Constable had squirmed in his seat with irritation but, like the good golfer he was, he kept his head quite still.
'No thank you, Superintendent. I would like to suggest, however, that you might tread a little more carefully in certain places.'
'Like, sir?'
'Like the Rugby Club. If you go there as an investigating officer either do it more subtly or use the full paraphernalia of your office.'
'You mean dress up, sir?'
'I mean act either as a policeman, or a member. Don't try to be both at once.'
'But I am both at once, sir. All the time.'
The Assistant Chief Constable sighed.
'There have been one or two…'
'Complaints?' 'No. Words, gently dropped. But from a height. How important is this Club in your investigations?' Dalziel thought a little, his hand working inside the waistline of his trousers.
If only he wouldn't scratch, thought his superior.
'Central,' said Dalziel finally. 'Will that be all?'
'For the moment. Keep me informed.'
'As always, sir.' 'And please. If you want to interview any more members of this Club, do it quietly, at the station preferably.'
'Sir!'
And here he was not many hours later sitting with Marcus Felstead in a relatively quiet corner of the clubhouse, twisting the guts out of him, though Marcus did not know it yet.
'Not bad beer here, is it?'
Marcus sipped his pint as if to make sure.
'No, not bad.'
'Many storage problems?' 'Not really,' said Marcus, a little surprised. 'It's all kegs nowadays, so as long as you keep it fairly cool, it comes up smiling.'
'How's the Club fixed for money now?'
Again surprise.
'I don't really know. Better ask Sid.' 'No, I don't mean figures. I just wondered if there was any thought of getting a permanent steward?' 'Not that I know of. It seems an unnecessary expense. There's plenty of us to do the work.'
Dalziel took a long pull at his pint and sighed happily.
'You do quite a lot, don't you, Marcus?'
'I do my share.'
'No; more, I'm certain. Just about every Saturday night.'
'Not every. But pretty frequently.'
'You were on the night Mary Connon died/ That's a shot across your bows, my lad. Field that any way you like, thought Dalziel, observing his man closely. Marcus's hand might have gripped the handle of his glass a little more tightly, but that was all.
'I think I was.'
Now a long pause. Let him wonder if it was just a casual remark. Let him try to organize his defences. Then let him relax.
'Hello, Willie!'
He waved his glass casually at Noolan, who smiled and waved back as he went to join a small group standing by the bar. 'Yes,' he said, returning his attention to Marcus. 'Yes. You were here all that night, weren't you?' 'I don't recall,' said Marcus, definitely a little ill at ease now. 'Oh, you were. We checked. All night. Except for the two hours when you went out and drove round to Boundary Drive.' Marcus went white. He pushed the beer away from him with his rather small girlish hand. 'Don't be stupid,' he said. 'I never went anywhere near Boundary Drive.'
Dalziel laughed in a friendly fashion.
'Come off it, Marcus,' he said. 'Your car was seen. What's the matter? It's no crime, is it? That's what they usually say to me.' 'I never went near Boundary Drive,' repeated Marcus, a little recovered now. 'You must be mistaken. It can't have been my car.' 'No? Well, there's a simple way to settle this, seeing as you're so worried.'
'What's that?'
Dalziel leaned across the table, pushing Marcus's glass back at him.
'Tell us where you really were, then.'
'Why the hell should I?' Oh dear, thought Dalziel resignedly. He's going to start shouting. Time for us to go. 'Listen, Marcus, my lad,' he whispered confidentially. 'There's obviously some kind of misunderstanding here. We can't discuss it properly here in the Club. Why don't we take a drive down to the station to talk things out? Less embarrassing than shouting at each other in front of all these people.' He waved his hand airily around, realizing as he did so that all these people now included Connon. Connon didn't acknowledge the greeting but just continued to
