Antony,' said Connon. 'I hope your parents are not too disappointed.' 'It would be foolishly modest of me to say they will not be disappointed at all,' said Antony, 'but they are both very understanding. I hope to introduce Jenny to them very soon, when I think they'll be more understanding still.' 'Oh,' said Connon. 'Do I detect a note of serious intent creeping in?' Antony pulled out a table-cloth and shook it open with a fine flourish like a bull-fighter showing his cape. Something fluttered to the floor. 'I think it highly probable,' he said seriously, 'that I shan marry Jenny eventually, with, of course, her consent and your permission.' He bent down to pick up the photograph which was what had fallen. 'In that case,' said Connon with equal seriousness, 'we must take an early opportunity of reviewing your prospects.' Antony didn't reply. He was looking closely at the picture in his hand. For one brief moment he had thought it was Jenny, absurdly garbed and with a ridiculously short haircut. Then he realized that the only thing of Jenny's which was there was the familiar, wide, allilluminating grin on the face of the young man in muddy rugby kit who was walking alone in the picture.
Connon took the photograph from him.
'That's the only picture of me playing rugby I ever kept,' he said.
'Why this one?' asked Antony.
Connon stared down at the young man in the picture as if he was looking at a stranger and trying to analyse what made him seem vaguely familiar. 'It was the first time I played for the County. I was nineteen. Still in the army, on a weekend pass. But nearly finished. There was a five-yard scrum. I was standing square over our own line ready for the pass back and the kick to touch. The pass came, I had plenty of time and shaped to kick to the near touch-line. Then I changed my mind. All their backs were coming up like the clappers. So I chipped it into a little space over the scrum, ran round, picked it up and went up the middle of the field. I don't recall beating the full-back. They told me after I ran through him as if he wasn't there. All I could see was the posts and the exact spot centrally between them where I was going to touch down. Nothing else was real till I grounded the ball. Then I started walking back up the field. No one runs up and kisses you in a rugby match. In those days it was considered bad form even to slap you on the back. You just walked back to your position trying to look unconcerned and got your clap from the crowd. I could feel this smile on my face, feel it spreading out to a grin. The crowd all roared like mad. It was the biggest crowd I'd ever played in front of. I bent my head a bit, look, you can see on the picture, but I couldn't stop grinning. It was a grin of pure happiness. It felt as if it was fixed on my face for ever. I think I believed it was.' He stopped talking. Antony for once was stuck for words. He's in the past, he thought, the poor devil's anchored there beyond hope of release. What a state to get into. A wave of sympathy swept over him, some of which must have shown on his face, for Connon now smiled at him ironically. 'I think you may be misunderstanding me, Antony,' he said. 'I don't live down memory lane. What this photograph says to me is not that happiness is gone for ever, but that it's repeatable. I've often felt like this since, mostly on occasions connected with Jenny. The picture reminds me of what's possible again, that's all, not of what's gone for ever.' 'I'm sorry,' said Antony, rather shame-faced. 'I didn't mean to… you're very lucky. I'll go and set the table.' He left the room with the cloth cast loosely over his shoulder like the end of a toga. It suits him, thought Connon. Then he returned his attention to the photograph. Repeatable? he asked himself. I wonder. Will it ever be possible again? From the kitchen Jenny's portable radio began to play a selection of brass-band music. This faded almost at once, but then returned louder than before as though the set had been returned. Connie listened, then a smile moved slowly across his face.
I believe she's leaving it on for me.
It was five o'clock and dark and cold and wet. The shops were still crowded. Inside them it was bright and warm. Too warm. The crowds who had jostled close to each other all day, shoulder to ruthless shoulder, thigh to strange thigh, had left their unexpungeable smell. Sweat, scent, tobacco and damp clothing all mistily merged into an observable haze. The best shop-assistants were growing irritable, the worst had long been downright rude. But the artefacts of good cheer had not yet lost their power, the music was as merry as ever, the colours as gay, and nearly everyone was going home. The festive spirit stalked abroad, reaching out to seize backsliders.
Mickey Annan had still not been found.
And Jacko Roberts was talking on the telephone to Dalziel.
'What the hell do you want, Jacko? I'm busy.'
'I wish I was. This weather's no good for my business.' 'It doesn't help mine much either. Come on now. Is this social? If it is, piss off. If not, get your finger out.' One day, Jacko promised himself, one day I'll tap him on the head and wall him up in a brick kiln.
It was his perennial New Year resolution.
'A bit of both,' he said. 'I'm having a little party for a few select friends, tomorrow night. Christmas Eve. I'd like you to come.' Dalziel hesitated. Jacko Roberts rarely entertained but when he did, it was usually lavish. He regarded it as an investment. Dalziel didn't mind being invested in as long as it was done the right way. A couple of years earlier, Jacko's investment had consisted of the introduction of a group of very willing young ladies to his previously well liquored stag party of civic and other dignitaries. Dalziel had been sober enough to leave early. He had noticed that the Roberts Building Company got a large share of municipal contracts the following year and had had words with Jacko.
Now he wondered if he had forgotten.
'Don't worry yourself,' snarled his prospective host. 'It's all respectable. They'll all be there, from Noolan to the Town Clerk. With their wives.'
'What time?'
'Any time after eight.'
'I can't promise. I'll try to make it.'
'Oh, and Bruiser. As you're short of a partner, why not bring that nice sergeant along? Whatsisname?' 'Watch it, Jacko,' said Dalziel softly. 'There's a notice on my overcoat which says, this is where Christmas stops.' 'All right. But I meant it. Ask him anyway. It pleases these old cows to have a virile young man about the place.' Dalziel grunted and thought that Jacko must be doing well at the moment to be in, for him, so light-hearted a mood. He made a mental note to check on what the builder had been up to. 'Right,' he said. 'You said there was some business. Or is that what we've just been talking about?' 'That's an odd thing to say, super. No, but are you still interested in this Connon business or is it all neatly tied up?' 'Don't play clever buggers with me, Jacko. What have you got? Anything or nothing?' 'I don't know. It's just that Mary Connon and Arthur Evans were seen in close confabulation over a drink the Friday before she died.'
Dalziel digested the information for a moment.
'Where?' he asked.
'The Bull, on the coast road.'
'Anything else on a connection between them?'
'Not that I've heard.'
'It's probably nothing. That all?'
'Unless you're going to thank me.'
Dalziel put the phone down hard and sat looking at it. Then he picked up the internal phone and pressed a button.
'Sergeant Pascoe here.'
'Dalziel. Busy?'
'Well yes. I've just got in.'
'Had your tea?'
'Not yet. I was just going to…'
Then you can't be all that busy. Step along here for a minute, will you. Bring your coat. I'll probably want you to go out.' Pascoe sighed as he took his sodden riding mac off the radiator. A minute earlier he had been feeling sorry for the men who were still out on house-to-house questioning. Now he began to wonder if his sympathy was misplaced. Back in Dalziel's office the phone rang again. He picked it up crossly, but after listening for a few moments, his expression softened and he nodded twice.
'Yes, yes. That's good. I'm glad, very very glad.'
Pascoe was surprised to find him looking almost happy when he came through the door. 'Jesus H. Christ,' muttered Detective-Constable Edwards. It was his private theory that Wood field Council estate had been built as a series of experiments in wind-tunnelling. Behind him the door of the house whose occupant he had just been interviewing had been closed with considerable firmness. Some attempt had been made to turn the area
