with an intensity which easily carried it along the corridor to the desk. ‘Would you step along here for a moment, if you’d be so kind? To discuss an organizational point.’
At the desk, the sergeant stopped whistling.
‘Sorry, we don’t start selling till twelve.’
‘I’m a police officer,’ said Pascoe. ‘I don’t start buying till I’m off duty.’
Sid Hope slowly rose from his crouching position behind the bar.
‘Oh yes? I’m Hope, the club treasurer. What can I do for you? Is there some trouble? About the licence, I mean?’
‘Should there be?’ said Pascoe. ‘You don’t allow non-members to buy drinks, do you? Normally?’
‘Of course not. When we know, that is. But I didn’t know who you were. On my knees, trying to set up a new keg. It’s like a bloody heart-transplant operation getting one of these things operational.’
Pascoe merely looked thoughtful at this attempt to bring in a lighter note.
‘Anyway, I don’t know them all. You could be a member. There’s one or two from the police who are. Superintendent Dalziel for one.’
‘Is that so? How do you run the bar, Mr Hope? A duty roster?’
Sid looked happy to get on to more general ground. ‘That’s right. We have a committee, me in charge, plus half a dozen others. We take it in turn to look after things for a week.’
‘Just one of you? By himself?’
Sid laughed.
‘Not bloody likely. No, we get some of the boys to help us when it’s very busy, like weekends. Or even take over for a couple of nights. Some of us are married, you know. But, like I say, weekends the committee man in charge has really got to be here all the time. It’s not just the serving, but the stock, and the till.’
‘Sounds like hard work.’
‘It is. Like now. Getting things set up for the great rush.’
‘Popular, is it?’
‘Christ, yes. It’s our main source of income. Apart from the odd dance or raffle. We’ve just about paid back our loan now and …’
Pascoe turned on his heel. The man was beginning to be at his ease. He stopped talking at the sight of Pascoe’s back.
‘How many do you get in here on a Saturday night?’
‘I don’t know. Sixty, seventy, and there’s the other …’
‘You’d be on last night?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Busy?’
‘Very.’
‘Was Mr Connon in at all, Mr Sam Connon?’
‘Connie? No. Well, yes. I mean he was in at the beginning of the evening right after the match. Look, what’s all this about? Have you got any proof you really are a policeman?’
‘I thought you’d never ask.’
Pascoe produced his warrant card. Sid examined it closely.
‘What time did Connon leave?’
‘I’m not sure. About five-thirty. Quarter to six, I think. I can’t say for certain. He stopped to have a word with Arthur on his way out, but he might just have gone through into the other room.’
‘Arthur?’
‘Evans. Captain of the Fourths. That’s right. Connie had been playing. Got a knock. Wanted a medicinal scotch. Hello, Marcus.’
Pascoe looked to the doorway. Standing there was a short fleshy man dressed in slacks and a polo-neck sweater. Pascoe felt that he had been standing there for some time.
Now he came into the room.
‘Hello, Sid. Sorry I’m late again.’
‘That’s all right. I’ve been managing. As long as you didn’t send Ted.’
Marcus didn’t look at Pascoe but went behind the bar as though he wasn’t there and began to busy himself with bottles.
‘Marcus,’ said Sid, ‘this is – who is it?’
‘Sergeant Pascoe.’
‘Sergeant Pascoe. He’s asking about Connie.’
Marcus looked at Pascoe now.
‘What about Connie?’
‘You know his wife?’
‘Mary? Yes. What about her?’
‘Was she a friend?’
Sid and Marcus looked at each other.
‘Not exactly. But I know her pretty well. Connie’s a close friend,’ said Marcus.
‘Why do you say “was”?’ asked Sid.
‘She’s dead I’m afraid.’
You learn nothing from their faces, thought Pascoe. A split second of surprise, incredulity, shock; perhaps not even that. Then they’re all busy arranging their features to the right expression.
‘She was killed last night. I’d like to ask a few more questions, please.’
Marcus sank down on a bar stool. His left foot hooked repeatedly at a non-existing cross-rail.
‘Where is Connie?’ he said.
‘I don’t know. Home by now, I expect. His daughter’s arriving.’
‘Jenny. That’s good. That’s good.’
But the look on his face didn’t seem to go with the words somehow.
‘Daddy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is that you?’
‘Yes.’
She was sitting on the edge of a dining-room chair like a nervous candidate for interview.
For a moment they looked at each other as though this indeed was why she was there.
Then she ran to his arms and sobbed once into the wool of his overcoat, then rested there quietly for a long minute.
‘Come and sit down, Jenny,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
They sat side by side at the table.
