It was, after all, Sunday.
'Sorry to get you out of bed, Mrs Fernie,' said DetectiveConstable Edwards. 'Don't apologize,' interjected Fernie. 'I told her this might happen last night.'
'Last night? Why was that, Mr Fernie?'
'Well, I happened to notice your cars pull up outside Connon's house…' 'Happened to notice!' sneered Alice Fernie, pulling her nylon housecoat closer round her. 'You must have been stood at that window for half an hour or more.' Fernie started to reply but the constable interrupted them. The important point to ask both of you is, did you notice anything earlier on?' 'Anything? What kind of thing? How much earlier?' asked Alice. 'Anything at all concerned with the Connons or their house. Any time yesterday.'
'Well, no. I was over there in the afternoon…'
'Over there?' The constable leaned forward.
'Did you know the Connons well, then?'
'Mary Connon, I know – knew her very well. We were friends,' said Alice; then, 'We were friends,' she repeated softly to herself, as though the import of the comment was just beginning to sink in.
'And how did Mrs Connon seem to you then?'
'Oh fine, fine. Just the same as ever. Nothing out of the ordinary.'
'Did she say anything that struck you as unusual?'
'No.'
'Were there any phone calls? Any callers?'
'No, nothing.'
'What time did you leave?'
'Shortly after four. I don't know exactly. I came back to get Dave's tea ready.'
'What were Mrs Connon's last words?'
'Last words?' 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean it to sound… what did Mrs Connon say as you left?' 'Well, nothing really. Cheerio. And something about getting Mr Connon's tea ready, if he got home in time for it.'
'What did she mean by that?'
'Well,' said Alice, 'I'm not sure…' 'Come off it, Alice,' said Fernie. 'She meant that if he didn't get home on time he'd get his own tea. She was a stickler for that, you've often told me. And he didn't get home on time either.'
'How do you know that?'
'I saw him. About half past six. And I'll tell you something else.'
'Dave!' said Alice with real annoyance in her voice.
'What's that?'
'He was drunk. Could hardly stand.'
The constable scribbled assiduously in his notebook.
'You're certain of that?'
'Dave!' said his wife again.
'Oh yes,' said Fernie, looking at his wife. She ignored his glance. 'If you're finished with me, I think I'll go back to bed,' said Alice, standing up so that her housecoat fell open revealing her thin nightdress. 'Thank you very much, Mrs Fernie,' said Edwards. 'You've been most helpful. We might want to see you again.'
'I'll be ready.'
She went out, leaving the constable smiling and her husband scowling. 'Now, Mr Fernie. What exactly happened when you met Mr Connon last night?'
'So that's all you can tell me, Mr Connon?'
That's right, Superintendent.'
'You got home about half past six. How positive is that time?'
'I don't know. Pretty approximate.'
'That's a help. You say the television was on when you stuck your head into the lounge?' 'That's right. I see what you mean. There was some variety show. Dancers, girls, not much on. Dancing behind a singer. Big youth, rather Italianate, singing something about flowers.'
Dalziel smiled sardonically.
'So you were out for four hours?'
That's right.'
'Nasty that. What'd your doctor say?' 'I don't know what his diagnosis was. He just seemed concerned with getting me to bed.'
'You'll be seeing him again?'
'Of course.'
'I wonder if you'd mind if our man cast his eye over you while you're down here? It might save your McManus a crisis of conscience.'
Connon smiled wanly.
'Again I see what you mean. I have no objection.' 'Good. Good. But first, there's one thing that puzzles me. You felt sick in the kitchen. You end up by passing out on your bed. Why not be sick downstairs? The kitchen-sink. Or if your notions of hygiene are so strong, why not use the downstairs toilet? I noticed you had one.' Connon spoke the words of his reply very slowly and distinctly as if learned by rote from a linguaphone record.
'I did not wish to disturb my wife.'
Dalziel crossed his legs cumbersomely and started prying into his nostrils with thumb and forefinger. 'Tell me, Mr Connon, Connie, I always think of you as Connie, do you mind?'
'I always think of you as Bruiser, Superintendent.'
Dalziel was amused and gave a few snorts of laughter. 'If the name fits, wear it, eh? Give a dog, eh? But yours doesn't tell us much. Doesn't fit, does it? Connie. A bit girlish. Which reminds me. You did not wish to disturb your wife. Now me, I'm a blunt Scottish lad by birth, a blunter Northcountryman by domicile. So perhaps the finer points of marital diplomacy have passed me by. (I wish my lad Pascoe could hear me!) But I don't quite follow the workings of your mind here. You come home, you're a bit under the weather, your wife ignores you, you've got to make your own tea. And you don't want to disturb her. There are some men would've disturbed her. Men you've played rugby with who'd have put their boots through the telly screen.' 'Men who have no respect for their wives do not deserve to keep them. Superintendent.' That was a mistake, thought Connon. He's taking it personally. Dalziel's wife, now divorced, had gone off with a milkman fifteen years before. At least, she had gone off. The milkman might have been malicious invention. 'Yes, Mr Connon. You're right. We should respect those who are weaker than us. Or older. Of course we should. Like forgiving our enemies.'
The phone rang.
'Excuse me,' said Dalziel. He listened for a moment.
'The doctor's ready for you now, if that's OK.'
Connon stood up. 'He won't keep you long, I expect. Like the Army. Just a cough and a piddle.'
'Will you want to see me again, Superintendent?'
Dalziel opened the door for him.
'Just for a moment perhaps. Sergeant!'
The uniformed sergeant who had brought Connon to the room appeared. The expression of unctuous sympathy with which Connon had been greeted reappeared on Dalziel's face for the first time since the interview began. 'This is very good of you. It's a trying time. Sergeant, show Mr Connon to the doctor. And get him a cup of tea, or coffee if you prefer it.' 'No, thank you,' said Connon and set off after the sergeant. 'No,' said Dalziel to himself as he watched them go. 'I expect you'll manage a piddle without it. Or I'm losing my touch. Sergeant Pascoe!'
'You're not intending to go down to the Club in that rig, are you, girl?' Gwen Evans turned before the mirror and peered back over her shoulder.
'What's the matter? My bum's not too big, is it?' She was wearing a tight-fitting dress of flowered silk, whose style was distantly Chinese in origin.
'No, but if that slit went any further up the side, you'd be able to see your bellybutton.' 'Don't be vulgar, Arthur. What's the matter? Don't you want me to go to the Club?'
'No, it's not that at all…'
