T just like the beer,' said Jenny.
'It was nice of your father to chase us off together as he did,' said Antony.
'He's a nice man.'
'Yes, I'm sure he is. Well, Jenny, now we have got over the initial emotionalism of our reunion, perhaps one or two points might be clarified for me. Your father has extended to me the hospitality of his house for as long as I care to take it, or until he grows sick of the sight of me. It did not escape my notice, however, that you were accompanied last night by a rather large, rather muddy man who, I gathered from hints dropped from various quarters, had been your escort that evening. Competition I do not mind. I thrive on it. But we Wilkeses were never dogs in mangers. A word will be enough.'
'Which word is that?' asked Jenny.
'If you don't know it, then I shan not teach you it. Good. I'm glad that's out of the way.'
'I didn't know it was.'
'Well, isn't it?' 'Of course, you fool. Didn't you get a good look at him? I was after information, that's all.'
'Information?'
Quickly Jenny explained about Ted Morgan. At least it started off as a quick explanation, but almost without noticing, she was soon telling Antony everything she had felt or feared in the past week. He listened gravely without interrupting her. When she finished, he went to the bar and refilled their glasses. 'There are evidently some very nasty people in this little town of yours,' he said reflectively. 'And some very nice ones,' said Jenny with instinctive indignation.
He grinned at her and took her hand.
'But what goes on on the terraces seems to be very simple and almost harmless compared with that Rugby Club of yours.' The look of strain which had been missing from Jenny's face most of the morning returned. 'You think it's all something to do with the Club too, do you? Daddy does, I'm sure. And I think fat Dalziel does too. Oh, I wish it was something simple, some burglar, a tramp or something, who broke in and did it. It would still be as horrid, but it'd end there at least. Instead of which it seems to be going on and on and I'm finding myself going round playing at stupid amateur detectives. And what it's doing to Daddy, I just don't know.' 'Hey, cool it, baby.' The shock of hearing such an expression in the accents of Hollywood gangsterese come from Antony's lips pulled her up sharply. He was smiling at her, but there was concern in his eyes.
'Thanks,' she said. 'I was going on a bit.'
'Nonsense,' he said. 'Of course you're concerned about everything. But there's nothing wrong with playing games to ease your concern, whether it's playing detective or playing rugby. That's what games are, recreational. They give us a space in the business of life to re-create ourselves. Don't you think I would teach R.E. extremely well? And talking of detectives, aren't those two gentlemen, who have just come in like Laurel and Hardy, of that ilk?' They were Dalziel and Pascoe. They looked around the room. 'See that? AH good detectives look around the room,' murmured Antony. Jenny giggled and kicked his ankle. Dalziel saw them and waved. Pascoe glanced over and nodded almost imperceptibly. 'You know,' said Antony, 'I think that Laurel there fancies you.' 'Don't be silly,' replied Jenny, feeling the fringe of a blush caressing her cheek. 'Silly? Am I then so esoteric in my taste as to be the only man in the world who fancies you?' Jenny finished her second pint with a swallow that reminded Pascoe, who was watching her surreptitiously through the bar mirror, of Jacko Roberts. 'Come on,' she said. 'I've got to get home and make the dinner.'
'Right,' he said. 'And this afternoon?'
'Well,' she said, 'I wondered if you'd mind going out with Daddy. Get him off to the rugby match or something.'
'Of course. But what are you going to do?'
'I want to clear out their, his, bedroom. Of Mummy's things, I mean. I've been meaning to do it, he doesn't seem to have the will, and it's more my job, I think. All her clothes and everything. I must do it now. He's been sleeping in the spare room, you see, but when you turned up last night, he moved back in. I think that's why he was up so early this morning.'
'I'm sorry,' said Antony. 'I didn't realize.'
'Why should you? Anyway, I'd like to do it. I know he's been through her papers and that, not that there was much. But the police asked, in case there was anything there to help. So if I can get rid of the rest…' 'Of course. Well, let's be on our way. I haven't really tasted your cooking yet, have I? I mean, I did in fact make my own breakfast. Not at all what I am used to.' Jenny grinned, that wide, slightly toothy grin which she tried so hard to avoid, and which filled her whole face with an animation and glow that turned Antony's heart upside down. He laughed back at her and they left the pub hand in hand. Dalziel looked meaningfully at Pascoe, but said nothing. Pascoe felt the cold beer fill his mouth and listened to the landlord's radio distantly above playing 'White Christmas'.
It was twelve o'clock.
Time for another,' he said. Gwen Evans wasn't being very helpful. At least, not in any sense that had any bearing on the case. But Pascoe found her a great deal of help in restoring his rather worn manly pride. She was not a coquette, he had decided. She did not deliberately set out to make herself interesting to men. There was nothing selfconscious about the way she moved, stood, sat down, or talked to a man. There was nothing suggestive about her, she gave no hints of interest or invitation. She was dressed in a sloppy brown sweater and an old pair of slacks. Whoever else she might be expecting, he had thought on arrival, it surely can't be her lover. But the overall effect of two minutes in her presence had been to fill him with an all powerful sense of her sex. The beer helped, he assured himself. Three pints heightened most men's receptivity. But what the hell! he added. I don't just want her. I like her! She's a nice woman. A nice, pleasant, unfairly sexy woman. But she wasn't any help at all as far as Evans was concerned.
Yes, she knew he was jealous of Connon.
No, there was nothing in his suspicion. No, there hadn't been anything odd about the previous Saturday, either about her husband or about her own behaviour. She repeated what he had heard already from the lips of Evans. She had decided that her friends had forgotten to pick her up. Had set off to catch the bus. Missed it. Dropped into the local, the Blue Bell, to get some cigarettes. Stayed to have a drink. No, she hadn't talked to anyone in there. It had been quite crowded, but she had sat quietly in the corner with a drink.
No, she could not remember who had served her.
'And what the hell business of yours is all this anyway, Sergeant?' She spoke without animosity and Pascoe smiled at her apologetically.
'None, of course, in all probability. We never know what's our business, and what isn't, till we get the answers.' He could afford not to press, he thought. All he had to do to check on her story was to ask at the pub. If she'd been there, no matter how quietly, someone would remember. You couldn't go around looking like Gwen Evans and hope to remain anonymous.
'Would you like a drink, Sergeant? Or a coffee?'
The beer was just beginning to turn a little sour in his stomach, and his bladder felt very full. Coffee would help one, but not the other. 'Coffee would be very nice,' he said. 'May I use your bathroom?' She rose from the furry white armchair which he was sure was her choice. The thing he was sitting in felt hard and lumpy, almost certainly an Evans family hand-medown. 'First left up the stairs,' she said in the hallway and went into the kitchen. He had just shut the door, locking it from ingrained habit, when the front-door bell rang. With a longing look at the gleaming white bowl, he hastily opened the door again and stepped on to the landing. Through the railings overlooking the small entrance hall, he saw Gwen appear from the kitchen. She didn't even glance up the stairs. Not much sign of guilt there, he thought. Perhaps it's just the baker. He heard the door being opened. All he could see was Gwen's back from the waist down. It was a sight worth dwelling on, but not much use for present purposes. He wanted to see faces if this were Connon.