'Pardon?' he said.
'Come along in, then. It's draughty out here. Gets right under my skirts if you'll excuse the expression. If I've written to the Council once about that front door, I've written fifty times. I told her next door you'd be coming, but I didn't think you'd be so long about it. If this is what you're like when you are anxious I wouldn't like to wait for you when you're not.' The small living-room she took him into was made even smaller by the amount of stuff she had in there. Every ledge and shelf was crowded with ornaments of one kind or another, most of them bearing some civic inscription ranging geographically from 'A gift from Peebles' to 'A souvenir of Ilfracombe'. Mrs Grogan, Edwards decided, was strongly attached to the past. He knew very well the dangers of any allusions to any of these articles, but the mere unavoidable act of looking at them was more than enough for his hostess. He reckoned he had done well to get away with two cups of tea and forty minutes of reminiscence before an opening arose to thrust in a question. 'Mrs Grogan,' he said, 'you said before that you thought we were anxious to see you…'
'No,' she said. 'You said that.'
'Did I?' he asked, half ready to believe anything.
'Yes. Here. Look, I'll show you.'
She dived into a pile of newspapers which lay in an untidy stack beneath her chair and after a short search, triumphantly produced a neatly folded paper which she handed to Edwards. He looked down at it and found himself reading an account of Mary Connon's death. Mrs Grogan's gnarled and knuckle-swollen finger was interposed between his eyes and the paper. The meticulously clear and polished nail came to rest on a line near the end of the story. The police are anxious to interview anyone who may have walked or driven along Boundary Drive between seven and nine on the night in question.' 'But that means,' Edwards began to explain, then pulled himself up with a smile. 'I'm sorry we've taken so long to get round to you, Mrs Grogan, but we've been very busy. Now, I understand then that you did take a walk down Boundary Drive on that night?' 'Oh yes. Of course I did. I always do. I go to my nephew's for tea on Saturday afternoons and if the weather's not too bad I get off the bus in Glenfair Road and walk down the Drive. It saves me threepence on the fare that way. My nephew thinks I stay on the bus right into the estate, but I don't always. It would worry him if he knew. This won't have to come out in court, will it?'
'We'll try to keep it quiet,' Edwards assured her.
'Well, I'd just got opposite that poor woman's house, and I glanced up at it. I always look at the houses as I walk by them. It's really interesting. And then I saw the man.'
'The man.'
'Yes. I saw him quite clearly. A man.'
'Mr Connon?' suggested Edwards.
'Oh no. Not him. I saw his picture in the paper. It wasn't him. Someone quite different.' 'Evans,' interjected Dalziel when Edwards reached this part of his story.
'Probably,' agreed Pascoe gloomily.
'Evans?' asked Edwards. 'Yes. Arthur Evans. He was round there that night. I've talked to him about it.' 'Oh, I see,' said Edwards disappointedly. 'I didn't know. I suppose you asked him, sir, what he was doing up the tree?' 'Up the tree? Up what tree?' said Pascoe, his interest revived. 'No. We didn't ask him that, Constable,' said Dalziel. 'Do go on.' Edwards finished his story rapidly. Mrs Grogan had seen a man half way up the sycamore tree in the Connons' front garden. Despite the darkness and the distance, she claimed she saw him quite distinctly and, taking Edwards to her own window, she gave him a convincing demonstration of the excellence of her eyesight.
'What did you do then?' asked Edwards.
'What should I do? Nothing, of course. It's none of my business. I always look at the houses as I walk past, and I see a lot of things odder than that, but it's not my business, is it? No, it wasn't until I read about the murder in the paper that I thought any more about it. And when it said you were anxious to see me, I've been waiting ever since. I've even missed going out a couple of nights.' 'I'm sorry,' said Edwards gently. 'Next time why don't you come down to see us, to hurry us along a bit? Ask for Mr Dalziel if you do.'
But he didn't put that bit in his report.
'What price my intruder now, sir?' asked Pascoe, with some slight jubilation.' 'It depends who he is,' said Dalziel thoughtfully. 'And if he is. It's late now. And dark. Sergeant, first thing in the morning, you exercise your limbs round at Connon's and see what you're like at climbing trees. And I'll do a bit of sick-visiting, and go and talk to my old mate, Arthur, again. But watch yourself. Listen to that wind.' And a few miles away Antony heard the boughs of the sycamore tree sawing together and watched the sinister patterns moved by the wind across the frosted glass of the bathroom window. He put his toothbrush down and rinsed his mouth out. Then moving quietly along the landing in his bare feet, he came to Jenny's bedroom door.
It made a small noise as he opened it and he paused.
'Jenny,' he whispered. There was a little silence, then the sound of movement in the bed as she sat up. He could see her faintly, whitely.
'Come in,' she said.
They're looking very pleased with themselves this morning, thought Pascoe. Even from this angle. 'This angle' was almost ninety degrees. He had left the comparative safety of the platform of the step-ladder and was now clinging to what felt like a dangerously pliable branch of the tree. Below him, hand in hand, staring up with lively interest, were Jenny and Antony. Looking up, it had seemed no height at all. Looking down corrected the illusion, so instead he applied his mind to the business in hand. If there had been a man up the tree on the night of Mary Connon's death – and a conversation with Kathy Grogan earlier that morning had convinced him, though her interpretation of the written word might be naively literal, there was nothing wrong with her senses, then that man could have been there for only one of three purposes. Unless he was a bird-watcher, he told himself. Joke. No, either he was up here to have a good look through one of the windows. In which case he'd be disappointed. Only if he really craned his neck sideways could he see anything of the front bedroom windows and then not enough to make the effort worthwhile. Or he wanted to get over the fence into the back garden. Which would be easy enough. Oops! Christ, nearly did it myself without trying. Or he was trying to get in through the one window in the house which was approachable from the tree side. The bathroom. Frosted glass. No good for your keen voyeur with an eye for detail, not even with the curtains open, blurred white shapes, very frustrating. So, decided Pascoe, if it was the window he was after, he was trying to get in. It was too much to hope that any sign of human presence in the tree would have survived two and a half wintry weeks. Not unless the climber had been wearing hobnailed boots. None the less Pascoe examined the likely branches conscientiously and as always in such cases, the satisfaction of expectation was a disappointment. Then he selected what looked like the safest route to the window and edged his way carefully out along the chosen branches. A sharp gust of wind set the whole tree in motion and he clung on desperately like a sailor in the rigging, remembering Dalziel's jocular injunction to 'watch himself. One thing's certain, he told himself, it wasn't fat Dalziel who climbed up this tree. Or anyone built like him. I reckon I'm about the limit. I reckon also I've reached the limit. He was as near to the window as he felt he could get without falling. There was nothing to be seen. Again he had expected nothing. One of the first things that had been done when the police arrived at the house was to examine all windows and doors for signs of forcible entry. There had been nothing. There was still nothing. The wind rose again, and again he tried to combine safety with dignity, thinking of the watchers below. And elsewhere. He had seen a few curtains moving in neighbouring houses. It was time to descend, he decided, and began to move backwards, fixing his eyes on the wall of the house in his determination not to look down. Then he stopped moving and kept on staring. At first he thought it was merely the effect of looking too hard, and he blinked his eyes twice. But it was still there. Just below the windowsill on the vertical brick there was something which looked like a footprint. Not much of a footprint, more of a toe-print. But it was there. As if someone scrabbling desperately for a hold had used even the little frictional grip pressure against the vertical could give. Wind and height forgotten, Pascoe swung down from the tree like a gymnast. Jenny's hair was blowing wildly all over her face, evading all the effort of her hand to restrain it. She was beautiful. 'Have you found anything, Sergeant?' she asked, pitching her voice high to get over the wind. 'Give us a hand with the steps,' he said to Antony. 'Over here.' Together they moved the step-ladder right up against the wall. The earth was soft here and the feet of the ladder began to sink as he ascended. 'Hang on,' he grunted to Antony and clambered quickly to the top. The bathroom windowsill was not far above his head. He stood on his toes and peered up towards it. 'Look out!' cried Antony, and the steps lurched violently sideways. But he was smiling as they helped him out of the herbaceous border. It was definitely a print, most probably made by the toe of a rubber-soled sports-shoe; a tennis-shoe, perhaps, or basket-ball boot.