bedroom window. I made enough noise to raise the dead, I thought, but I knew they had the telly on downstairs. It was real loud. I couldn't wait till later, see, because it was the bedroom I wanted to get into. Can I have another cigarette, please?' Pascoe handed one over again and lit it. The boy was frowning with the effort of recollection. He had a rather long, thin face, intelligent-looking, just beginning to fill out slightly, and firm into adulthood; but still with the fragility and the remains of the mild acne which is often the stigma of adolescence. He's just on the turn, really, thought Pascoe. Eighteen years old, a foot in both camps. She got him just at the turn.
'Go on, Stanley,' he said.
'I stopped in the bathroom for ages. At least it seemed like that. Then I thought, 'you stupid twit, if anyone does come up here for any reason, chances are this is the room they'll be heading for'. So I got out then. The telly was still going strong below. It was easy to work out which must be the bedroom door, so I headed along the landing towards it. The door was open. I took a step in. Then I nearly died! Someone made a noise. A sort of groan. Then this figure moved on the bed. I hadn't noticed it before, it was so dark. Then he sort of pushed himself up.' 'Who was it, Stanley? Did you know him?' asked Pascoe. 'It was Mr Connon, I think. I'm pretty certain, but I didn't stop to look closer. I just ran. I was so terrified I didn't head back for the bathroom, I went the other way to the stairs. There was still a hell of a noise down below…'
'What kind of noise?' snapped Dalziel.
'Voices. And laughing. And music. It might all have been the telly, I don't know. I didn't have time to find out, did I? I just set off down the stairs. I was half way down when the lounge door burst open and Mrs Connon came out. She saw me and screamed.' 'Did she recognize you, Stanley? Surely she'd recognize you?'
Stanley looked rather shamefaced.
'Well, no. She wouldn't. I mean, I'd put this thing, a stocking, over my head, like they do, you know!'
'Oh Christ!' groaned Dalziel.
'What happened then?' said Pascoe. 'She just stood there. She only screamed once. Then this man…'
'Which man?'
'The man in the lounge with her.'
'Did you see him? Do you know him?'
'No. I mean I didn't see him. Not really. I heard him say something like, 'What's the matter?' or something like that. And I sort of half saw him coming up behind her. But I wasn't going to wait, was I? I just threw my… this… something at her, you know, not to hurt, just in panic, and she stepped back and must have bumped into him, and I shot past and out of the front door. I don't even remember opening it.'
'What did you do then, Stanley?'
'There wasn't anyone in the road, luckily. I dragged the stocking off as I got out of the gate and ran all the way up to the main road. Then I just walked about for a bit, had a drink. I was scared stiff, I didn't know what to do. I went back home after about an hour, I suppose. I wanted to see what was happening. But it was all quiet. I watched from my bedroom for ages. Then about eleven o'clock, the police came, to Mr Connon's house, I mean. I couldn't understand why they'd taken so long. I mean, I thought it was about me, you see. I didn't find out about Mrs Connon till the next morning.'
'Why didn't you come and tell us all this, Stanley?'
The boy wrinkled his nose as if at the stupidity of the question. 'I was scared. I was so frightened I was sick. I couldn't go to work for most of that week. I just hoped that things would get quiet, that it would all blow over. But it didn't.'
His shoulders sagged hopelessly.
Pascoe leaned forward and spoke sympathetically. 'Just one more thing, Stanley,' he said. 'What was it you threw at Mrs Connon?'
Stanley stopped sagging and looked alert, uneasy
'Why, nothing,' he said. 'Just something I picked up, I suppose. I don't know.' 'Wasn't it something you took into the house with you, Stanley? Wasn't it something belonging to you?' A look of stubborn obstinacy came over the youth's face. Dalziel stood up and moved swiftly behind him. His hands came down like a pair of great clamps on his shoulders. 'Listen, my lad,' he hissed close to his ear. 'When Sergeant Pascoe asks you a question, he deserves an answer. He's bloody well going to get an answer, isn't he?'
Stanley twisted free.
'What's it matter anyway?' he cried. 'All right. It was a gun. Not a gun really, a pistol, an air-pistol. It was just an old thing. I hadn't used it for years. It was old when I got it as well. I just took it along for… I don't know why I took it! I wouldn't have used it, I mean, it didn't work anyway, did it?' 'How should we know, Stanley?' said Pascoe. 'Where is it now?'
'I don't know. I left it. I didn't go back and ask for it.'
The boy crumpled again. Pascoe stood up and went to the door.
'Excuse me a second, sir,' he said.
'Go ahead,' said Dalziel, gloomily looking down at Stanley. 'You're in trouble, lad,' he said. 'Even if you're telling the truth, you're in trouble. You know that. But if you're not, then you're really in it. Just have a think. A long, long think and see if there's anything else you haven't told us.' They were both still bowed in contemplative silence when Pascoe returned. He was carrying a box.
'Stanley,' he said. 'Open the box.'
The youth reached forward and took the lid off, onehanded, then froze as he saw what was inside.
'Stanley, is that yours?' asked Pascoe.
The boy peered closer, then nodded. 'Yes, that's it. That's mine. But look at it. It's old and rusty. It couldn't hurt anyone, that.'
Pascoe reached into the box and took out the pistol.
'You're right,' he said. T don't suppose it could.'
He looked at Dalziel and raised his eyebrows.
Dalziel shook his head.
Pascoe went to the door again.
'Constable,' he said to the uniformed man outside, 'take Mr Curtis along to the interview room, will you? Both his parents are there now. He can talk to them, but be present all the time. And watch him. He's a nippy runner.' He smiled cheerfully at Stanley as he left the room and the boy managed a wan grin in reply. 'You managed that quite well, Sergeant,' said the superintendent.
'Thank you, sir.'
'Now suppose you let me into your confidence and tell me where you've been hiding this.' A great paw was waved at the pistol. Pascoe held it up and squinted along the barrel. It was, as Stanley had said, old and rusty, but it still looked formidably solid, eight inches of steel tube pointing menacingly at Dalziel. 'I haven't been hiding it. It was hidden though, in a pond up on the Common. It was brought back to daylight only yesterday, when they were looking for Mickey Annan. I noticed it on the list.' 'But didn't connect it with the Connon case at the time I hope?' 'Of course not, sir. I'd have mentioned it, wouldn't I? But there was a connection there for us to see, if we'd known. In the chair.'
'The chair.'
The chair she was killed on. There was a list of things they found in it. Ordinary things, money and the like. It's all back with Connon now.'
'I saw it. Wait. Of course, there was a pellet.'
That's right, one air-gun pellet.' 'But what's this leading to, Sergeant? You're not suggesting she was clubbed to death with the barrel of that thing? How the hell would you hold it if you were trying to produce something like that effect?'
'Like this,' said Pascoe.
He held the pistol up between them twisting his hand so they both had a side view.
And he pressed the trigger.
A six-inch cylinder of steel crashed out of the barrel, extending its length to over a foot. 'Now we load it,' said Pascoe, putting the end against the wall and forcing the internal cylinder back into the shorter barrel.
Then we fire it again.'
This time he held it close to the frame of the window.
'Hell,' he said, nursing his wrist.
