A clubbable woman

This is to do with Mary Connon, is it?'

'Just answer the question, please, Arthur.' 'I went home, then, that's where I bloody well went. Can I go now?'

'Why did you go home?'

'It's where I live, see? That's what home means, don't you remember, Superintendent Dalziel? Ask your bloody amanuensis.'

Dalziel was unperturbed by the outburst.

'But why did you leave the Club? You came back later, didn't you? Oh come on, Arthur! You're among friends. We have information. It's no use being coy, there's others who aren't.' 'I bet there bloody well is. Old gossiping women dressed up like men. I know them.'

'Sergeant. What is our information again, please?'

'Sir!' said Pascoe, sitting to attention. 'Our information is that Mr Evans left the Club in order to go and see what was delaying the arrival of his wife whom he had been expecting for some time.'

'I see. Is that true, Mr Evans?'

'Yes. Anything wrong with that?'

'Not in the least. Did you try the telephone?'

'Yes.'

'But without success.'

Evans grunted. I can't put that down in words, can I? said Pascoe to himself. If I did it would probably read, if someone's rogering your wife on the hearth rug, you can't expect her to answer the phone.

Dalziel was looking happier now.

'You see, it's really all straightforward, isn't it? What happened then?'

'When?'

'When you got home.'

'Nothing. I mean, she wasn't there.'

Dalziel pushed his right index finger through the small hairs which fringed the cavity of his ear, and wriggled it sensuously about.

'But you knew she wasn't there.'

'What?' 'You knew she wasn't there. Your friends Dick and Joy Hardy had already called as arranged and had got no reply. They told you when you asked them at the Club. And you had telephoned yourself without success. So you knew she wasn't there.' He knew she wasn't answering, thought Pascoe. That's what you knew, wasn't it, Arthur?

'I had to be sure.'

'In case she'd had an accident or something?' suggested Dalziel sympathetically. 'Yes,' replied Evans, hardly bothering to sound convincing.

'Relieved?'

Evans looked up suspiciously, his body tensing, his trunk leaning forward as if he were going to rise.

'Relieved she wasn't there. She hadn't had an accident.'

'Yes.'

'What did you do then?'

'Well, I came back to the Club, didn't I? You know that bloody well. You just said so.'

'Straight back.'

'Yes.' 'So you left the Club about ten past eight, went home, found all was well, and went straight back?' 'That's right. Yes. Though,' he added slowly as if thinking something out, T didn't leave there for, oh, about twenty, perhaps thirty minutes, I shouldn't wonder. Yes. That's right.' Dalziel clapped his hands together as though a tricky point had been made simple. 'Good!' he said. 'That's why you didn't get back till after nine-fifteen. It's only five minutes' drive, isn't it?'

Now Evans did stand up.

'Yes,' he said. 'Is that all then? I don't see the point, but if it helps you, you're welcome. And I'll be on my way.'

Dalziel shook his head with a sad smile.

'Don't be silly, Arthur. You're not daft. You know that's not all. I'm just giving you a chance to tell us, that's all. If you don't want your chance, then just sit down again, and we'll tell you.' Slowly Arthur Evans resumed his seat.

'Sergeant, just refresh us with your information again.'

'Certainly, sir.' Pascoe rippled through the pages of his notebook, stopped, coughed and began to speak in an impersonal monotone as before. 'Information given to us states that Mr Evans's motorcar was seen parked in Glenfair Road just before its junction with Boundary Drive at about eight-forty p.m. on the evening of Saturday last.' He raised his eyes from the page. He might have done this a good deal earlier if he had wanted for it was completely blank.

His interviews the previous night had been done with all his customary thoroughness, but the most productive one had been not the Fernies or young Curtis, those most directly concerned with the incidents which had taken him to Boundary Drive, but with Ted Morgan whom there was really no reason to interview at all. Except that he had had mud down his suit. Anyone who came back covered with mud after an evening with Jenny Connon had some answering to do, Pascoe had decided, surprised at his own concern.

Or jealousy.

Me jealous? he thought. Nonsense. I'm questioning this man because he might be able to help us. Not jealous. Just zealous. But whatever his motives, he soon realized that he had tapped a very useful vein of information in Ted Morgan. Ted had been a little belligerent at first but a couple of hints that Pascoe had seen him drinking in the Club earlier and an oblique reference to the breathalyser test had calmed him down and made him most cooperative. Once he got started, like all the best gossips, there was no stopping him. Ten minutes with Morgan was more informative than all the rest of his questioning put together. What he said about Evans's movements and behaviour on Saturday evening plus his confirmation of Jacko Roberts's placing of Connon high on the Evans suspect list had set Pascoe's mind racing. He knew that the constable on patrol in Boundary Drive had noticed no strange cars parked in the road that night as he passed along. Now he checked with the policeman whose beat took him down Glenfair Road, the main thoroughfare into which Boundary Drive ran. The list of car numbers he had noted that evening for one reason or another was unproductive. Evans's was not among them. But after much thought the constable did vaguely recall noticing a car parked very near to the corner of Boundary Drive, not near enough to constitute a danger, but near enough for him to notice it. 'I didn't make a note,' he had said defensively. 'Why should I? There was no offence being committed. Nothing suspicious.' But his vague memory was of a white or cream Hillman. Evans drove a white Hillman Minx. It had all been so flimsy that Pascoe had hesitated about presenting it to Dalziel. But in the end, he knew he had to. The superintendent's reaction had been unexpected. He had been as near to complimentary as Pascoe could recall. 'I've been wanting a chat with Arthur,' he had said gleefully. 'I'm worried about that wife of his. A woman like that's a… one of those things that helps other things to get started?'

'A catalyst,' said Pascoe.

'Right. A catalyst to violence.' 'You can't question a man because his wife's well built!' protested Pascoe. 'I once questioned a vicar because his choir was too big. Other churches were complaining, he was poaching their kids. It turned out he was paying well over the odds. But it didn't stop at singing. Let's have him in first thing.'

'All right,' he said. 'So I was there. What of it?'

'Where is "there", Mr Evans?' asked Dalziel. 'There. At Connon's. You know. I'm damned if I know why I didn't tell you in the first place, back when all this started happening. Must look a bit odd, I suppose.' 'Perhaps. Perhaps not. Lies, evasions, we get 'em all the time, Arthur. I sometimes use them myself,' he said, chuckling.