'Yes. She doesn't get in here much now, does she? Nor does Connie for that matter. But I can remember the days. Jesus! Connie was married when you came to live here, wasn't he, Marcus?'
'Yes. Just.'
'It must have been a full-time business with that one. No wonder he lost his edge after that. God, he once looked a cert for a cap. First we'd have ever had. Never been a sniff since. All for love.'
Marcus poured himself a scotch.
'He did crack his ankle.' 'Of course he did. I'm not really suggesting, mind you, that kid of theirs came out pretty smartly. Like Connie's pass, they said. And the responsibility can't have helped.
But they seemed to make out all right. Didn't see all that much of Mary after that. But it was before. Like her over there. And Nancy Jennings. Trouble.' Marcus, his eyes still fixed on the noisy corner, ran his glass along his lower lip. 'Are you putting forward as a general proposition, Sid, that women with big breasts cause trouble?' 'Not absolutely. Though there's a bit of truth in it, isn't there?' 'Mary Connon never caused any trouble down here that I saw.' 'Like I said, after they married, she didn't get in here so much. Tailed off. That's an apt phrase if you like. She was six years older than him, you know.'
'Still is, isn't she?'
'You know what I mean. She'd had her fling down here. Not here exactly. That was in the days before this bloody roadhouse came into being. Remember? We had the tea-hut. None of your polished floors. You could get splinters through your shoes if you weren't careful. Then over to the Bird-in-Hand. No, Mary did the right thing for her, anyway. Married someone half a dozen years younger. And stopped coming so much. Nancy Jennings, she buggered off. It's when they marry someone ten years older than themselves and keep their wares in the shop window that the trouble starts. Here, my lad, if you're going to have another whisky, pay for the last one first.' 'Sorry, Sid. There it goes; and for this one too. Witnessed?'
But Sid wasn't paying attention.
'Here we go,' he said in a low voice. 'Here we go.' Marcus had never seen anyone whose face was really black with rage, but Arthur Evans was pretty close to it as he pushed through the door. A path opened up before him. It led to the corner where his wife sat. She looked up, flashed him a quick smile, then returned her attention to the youngster who had been talking to her. But he had seen Arthur too and seemed disinclined to talk further. With a tremendous effort, obvious to all who watched, which was about three-quarters of those in the room, Arthur turned to the bar. Marcus could almost feel the man's will forcing his broad shoulders to turn. Then his trunk followed. And finally his legs. Quickly Marcus thrust a glass up against the whisky optic. And again. 'Arthur, old son, I'm in the chair. Wrap yourself round this and tell us about your childhood in the green valleys of old Wales.'
Evans took the drink in one.
Thanks,' he said. Over his shoulder, Marcus saw Gwen casually disengaging herself from the group in the corner. Exchanging a word here and there as she came, she passed easily across the room till she arrived at her husband's shoulder. 'Hello, dear. Going to buy me a drink? I've got no money and I can't sponge off your friends all night.'
'Where've you been, Gwen?'
She smiled ironically. God, you're a beauty, thought Marcus. Sid, in an excess of desire to share his admiration of the sight before them, kicked him painfully on the ankle.
'Oh, I got tired of waiting, so I came on by myself.'
'But you were supposed to be coming with Dick and Joy.'
'Was I? Oh, I forgot.'
They called for you.'
Then I must have left.'
To come here? You took your time, didn't you, girl?'
'Do you want to quarrel, Arthur?'
She raised her voice just sufficiently to cut into the attention of those immediately adjacent to them. Marcus looked at Arthur. Surprisingly, he seemed to be considering the question on its merits.
Finally, calmly, 'No,' he said.
Then let's have that drink. Marcus, love, see if you can add a bit of gin to that slice of dried-up lemon which seems to be all that's left of a once-proud fruit.' 'A pleasure, ma'am,' said Marcus. 'A real pleasure.' He meant it. Two hours or so later, just after eleven, he put the lights out in the bar. Outside he could hear the din of departure. Car doors. Impatient horns. Voices. Song. As he passed the Gents, the door opened and a large figure fell out.
'Marcus,' it said.
'Ted. Christ, you certainly caught up, didn't you? Come on, old son. We'd better get you home.'
Arm in arm they walked out into the car park.
Jenny Connon opened the door to let her room-mate in.
'Hello,' said the newcomer brightly. 'Not too early, am I? It's after eleven.' 'What you really mean is, not too late, you hope. How are you, Helen?' said Antony. 'Well, must be off. See you both. 'Bye.'
Jenny watched him go down the corridor.
'Had a nice time?' asked Helen. 'Oh yes,' said Jenny noncommittally as she closed the door. She hoped she had done the right thing. 'The time is ten minutes past eleven,' said the announcer with evident relief. 'You are watching…' Alice Fernie switched him off in mid-sentence and yawned.
'Well, I'm off to bed. Coming?'
Behind her, her husband stood in the small bay of the window looking out into the front garden.
'No, dear. You go on. I'll be up in a minute.'
'What are you looking at?' 'Nothing. I thought I saw that bloody black and white cat from next door digging up my lawn. Off you go.'
'All right, then. Good night.'
'Good night.' And over the road, Sam Connon stood pale-faced and trembling in the darkened hall of his house, the telephone in his hand. Behind him in the lounge, stretched out in the highbacked chair he would never want to call his own again, was his wife.
She was quite, quite dead.
Chapter 2.
Superintendent Andrew Dalziel was a big man. When he took his jacket off and dropped it over the back of a chair it was like a Bedouin pitching camp. He had a big head, greying now; big eyes, short-sighted, but losing nothing of their penetrating force behind a pair of solidframed spectacles; and he blew his big nose into a khaki handkerchief a foot-and-a-half square. He had been a vicious lock forward in his time, which had been a time before speed and dexterity were placed higher in the list of a pack's qualities than sheer indestructibility. The same order of priorities had brought him to his present office. He was a man not difficult to mock. But it was dangerous sport. And perhaps therefore all the more tempting to a Detective-Sergeant who was twenty years younger, had a degree in social sciences and read works of criminology. Dalziel sank over his chair and scratched himself vigorously between the legs. Not absent-mindedly – nothing he did was mannerism – but with conscious sensuousness. Like scratching a dog to keep it happy, a constable had once said within range of Dalziel's very sharp hearing. He had liked the simile and therefore ignored it. 'You should have seen him, Pascoe. He went round their cover like a downhill skier round a line of snowmen. And he was a big lad, mark you. Still is, of course. But even then. Not one of your bloody Welsh dwarfs, but a good solid-built English fly-half. How we roared! He'd have captained the Lions if we'd been selectors.' 'Yes, sir,' said Sergeant Pascoe with the resigned condescension of one certain of the intellectual superiority of Association Football. 'Graceful, too. Ran upright. Always looking for the quickest way to the line. God, he found it that day. He was picked for the final trial, of course. Nearest thing to a certainty since Lily Jones left Crown Street. Then bang! his ankle went. The week before. No one's fault. He was overtaken by a loose scrum. Never afraid to mix it, was Connie. Solid defender, sharp attacker. But he never came again after that. Played for another eight years. No difficulty in holding his place in the club. Stood up for the County a dozen times. But never sniffed at a cap again. But he was a great runner with the ball, a great player.' He nodded two or three
