‘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 belly-button.’
‘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 …’
‘No? I think you’d much rather have me here slaving over roast beef and two veg, waiting for you to come back full of love and beer.’
‘Be fair, Gwen. Most of the time you complain that I’m too keen to get you down there.’
‘Oh ay. Where you can keep an eye on me at night. But it doesn’t seem to worry you at lunchtime. Do you think I’ve got a time switch on it, then, and can’t get it to work in hours of daylight? You should know better.’
Evans crossed to her in three swift strides. Instinctively she cowered back, holding her hands before her face, but he made no move to strike her. Instead he reached down, seized the hem of her dress and tugged violently upwards.
There was a tearing noise as stitching came apart and the oriental split up the side extended to the waist.
‘There,’ he said. ‘Now you can really see your belly.’
She relaxed, leaned against the wall and began to laugh. At first there was a very faint note of hysteria in it, but this rapidly faded and the laugh deepened to genuine amusement.
‘Give us a fag, will you, Arthur?’ she said finally, regarding her husband with something like real affection. ‘You’re not such a bad old faggot when you’re roused.’
Evans sat on the bed and lit two cigarettes, one of which he passed over to his wife.
‘Thanks,’ she said, drew on it deeply and placed it carefully on the edge of the dressing-table while she began to remove her ruined dress.
Evans watched her impassively.
She went to the wardrobe in her slip and opened its door.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘what’s it to be? Club-wear, or kitchen-wear?’
‘Where were you last night, Gwen?’
‘At the Club with you, dear. Remember?’
She smiled sweetly.
‘Gwen,’ he said, ‘you’re right. It’s a daft question, isn’t it, girl? I know where you were. Or at least who you were with.’
She stiffened and reached down a dress from the hanging rail.
‘Oh, do you?’
‘Yes, of course I do, Gwen. And I suppose if I know, every other sod in the Club has known for months. But I don’t understand you, Gwen. I can see why you encourage all those young lads who come sniffing around you. That’d be flattering to any woman. But a man of my own age. And a friend. What made you pick him, Gwen? What made you pick Connie?’
‘A-1, I hope,’ said Dalziel when Connon reappeared.
‘I hope not, Superintendent. That would mean I couldn’t get better. And I don’t think I’ve recovered from that knock yet. I hope we won’t be much longer.’
‘This is a murder enquiry, Mr Connon. We need your help. Your wife is dead.’
I think that I am at least as aware of that as you, Superintendent. My daughter will be arriving home some time this morning. I’d like to be there to meet her.’
Dalziel looked sympathetic.
‘Of course. A father’s feelings. But have no worries on that score. My sergeant was just telling me. Your daughter’s got here safe and sound. We were able to assist a little there.’
Connon stood up.
‘Jenny? Here? You mean, here?’
‘Oh no. Never worry yourself. I mean at home, of course. We wouldn’t bring her here.’
‘At home. Then I must go.’
Dalziel let him reach the door.
‘Just one question, Mr Connon.’
‘If you must.’
‘You left the Club at twenty to six, and got home about six-thirty. Rather a long time isn’t it? It’s only seven or eight miles at the most. And there’s not much traffic about at that time.’
‘There was enough.’
Dalziel, expert at detecting ironies, thought he heard one here.
‘You didn’t stop for any reason? A drink perhaps? Or had you had enough at the Club?’
‘Why do you ask?’ said Connon quietly.
‘Well, it’s just that we’ve had a statement. Not guaranteed reliable, mark you. But admissible, and voluntary, and therefore carrying some weight. This man …’
‘Which man?’
‘A man called Fernie, says he met you last night. Is that true?’
‘Yes.’
‘About six-thirty?’
‘Yes.’
‘Outside your house?’
‘Yes again.’
‘He says that you were acting oddly. In various ways. He says, in fact he was willing to swear, but we introduced a degree of moderation, as is our wont. He says he got the distinct impression that you were drunk. Very drunk.’
‘Thank you for telling me, Superintendent. Now I must go. Goodbye.’
‘Wait!’ bellowed Dalziel.
Connon turned once more, half out of the door.
‘If you want a fairly precise statement of the amount of alcohol I had taken up to about ten past six, I suggest you contact the constables who administered a breathalyser test to me at that time in Longtrees Road. I thought that this was what you were going on about, not malicious gossip. Good day. I must get to my daughter.’
Dalziel sat for a
