A clubbable woman

'A great player.'

Then he could hardly commit a murder, could he?' said Pascoe, hoping by this irony to recall his superior to the realities of their work. 'No. Probably not. Or not one like this. He'd use his head, that one. Which,' added Dalziel, standing up and walking to the window, 'is what you should do, Pascoe, before wrapping up another of your little ironies for me.'

Pascoe refused to be squashed.

'Perhaps he is using his head, sir. Perhaps he is, in the sporting idiom, selling us a dummy.' Dalziel flung up the window with a ripping sound from the parts where the paint had fused, and let in a solid cube of icy air which immediately expanded to fit the room. 'No one ever sold me a dummy. Point yourself at the man and bugger the ball, you can't go wrong.'

'But which man?' said Pascoe.

'No,' said Dalziel, slapping his thigh with a crack which made Pascoe wince, 'at this stage the question is, which bloody ball? Is that enigmatic enough for your scholarship, eh?'

Pascoe had grown used to jokes about his degree when a constable, but Dalziel was the only one who hung his wit on it now. The trouble is, he thought, looking at the broad slope of the back whose bulk stopped the light but not the draught, the trouble is, deep down he believes that everyone loves him. He thinks he's bloody irresistible.

'What did you make of him last night anyway?'

'Not much. That doctor of his had pumped him full of dope and was hovering around like a guardian angel when I got there.'

Dalziel snorted.

'At least you saw him. He was tucked up in bed by the time I arrived. I'd have liked a go at him while the iron was hot.'

'Yes, sir. The early bird…'

'Only if it knows what it's all about, Pascoe.' Pascoe did not let even the ghost of a smile appear on his lips. He went on speaking. 'In any case, the iron wasn't all that hot at eleven. She'd been dead at least three hours, possibly five. The room temperature seems to be a rather uncertain factor. Signs of a big fire, but the place was like an ice-box by the time we got there. That was a sharp frost that set in last night.' 'Bloody science. All it does is give us reasons for being imprecise. I can manage that without logarithms.'

'The cause of death's a bit more exact, isn't it, sir?'

'Oh, yes.' Dalziel rippled through the papers scattered on the desk before him. Pascoe tried to show none of the offence this lack of organization caused him. 'Here we are. Skull fracture… bone splinters into frontal lobes… blow from a metal implement, probably cylindrical… administered with great force to the centre of forehead… perhaps long enough to permit a twohanded grip. That's a great help. Found anything yet, have they?'

'No, sir.'

'I should bloody well think not, eh? Not if you knew and I didn't. Where is this man, anyway?' Pascoe pushed back his stiffly laundered white cuffs to glance at his watch.

The car went for him half an hour ago.'

'Waiting for him to finish breakfast, I expect. Hearty, I hope. He'll need his strength.'

Pascoe raised his eyebrows.

'I thought you said…' 'I didn't think he'd done it? But I might be wrong. It's been known. Twice. But whether he did it or not, if it wasn't done casually by an intruder, he'll probably know why it was done. He might not know he knows. But know he will.'

'Have we dismissed the possibility of an intruder, sir?'

'We? We? You're not my bloody doctor. No, I haven't. But if you look at your bloody scientifically based reports,. you'll see that she seems to have been sitting very much at her ease.' 'Could it have been from behind? With, say, a narrowheaded hammer. That way you'd get the force…' 'Pish and cobbles, Pascoe! Didn't you see the height of that chair-back? And she was sprawling in it at her ease. You'd need arms like an orang-outang. No, I think it was someone she knew pretty well.'

'And how narrow does that make the field?'

Dalziel grinned lecherously. 'Not as narrow as you'd think. Twenty years ago there were a hell of a lot of people down at the Rugby Club who knew Mary James pretty well. I've had a bit of a nuzzle there myself. And that kind of acquaintance doesn't get forgotten all that quickly.'

'You make her sound like a professional.'

'Don't get me wrong, son. She wasn't that. Not even an enthusiastic amateur. She just liked the gay life. There's one in every club. Where the booze is strongest, the dancing wildest. The girl who doesn't flinch when the songs get dirty. Who can even join in. It's the gay crowd she likes, not the slap and tickle in the dark corners. But her image demands she has a large following. And she's bound to be overtaken from time to time.'

'Was Connon an overtaker?'

'Oh no. He was taken over. Your old stager begins to smell danger when the gaiety girl passes the quartercentury with no strong ties. Your young lad's easy meat, though. Easily frightened too.'

'Frightened?'

'They got married at a dead run. Their girl appeared eight months later. Premature, they called it.' Pascoe listened with distaste to the rasp of laughter which followed. 'But you'll find out all about that, my lad. Have a walk down there this lunchtime. They always get a good crowd in. Have a chat with one or two of them. See if anything's known. They'll all be eager to natter. Here, I've scribbled out a list of who's who down there. It's not definitive by any means, but it'll tell you whether you're talking to a mate of his – or hers – or not.' He passed over a scruffy sheet of foolscap, one corner of which looked as if it had been used for lighting a cigarette. 'You're best at this stage. If we haven't sorted this lot out in a couple of days, I'll drop in for a social drink myself. The tension'll have gone by then and they'll all imagine they're pumping me for information.' Whereas you pump stuff into barrels, not out of them, thought Pascoe. Dalziel turned to the window again and took a couple of deep breaths. His fingers drummed impatiently on the sill.

'Anything in from house-to-house yet?'

'Not yet, sir.'

'They'll all be in bed. Christ. Bloody Sundays!'

There was a long pause. Then…

'Here he comes,' said Dalziel, slamming the window shut with even more violence than he had used to open it. 'Anything you want here, laddie?'

'Well, no; I mean yes,' said Pascoe in puzzlement.

'Grab it and go, then. What's the matter? Did you hope to see the master at work?' 'No. But I thought that as you know him – I mean, you are a vice-president of the Rugby Club and something of a friend.. .' 'A friend?' said the superintendent, twisting his fingers in one pouchy cheek so that his big mouth was dragged sinisterly out of shape. 'You've jumped to conclusions, Sergeant. Perhaps I better had let you watch the master some time. He's a great player, but I never said I liked him. Nor he me. Oh no, I never said I liked him. Push off now. We'll save you for later if need be.' Quickly Pascoe gathered a couple of files and some papers together and made for the door. There was a knock and it opened just as he reached it. 'Mr Connon, sir,' said the uniformed sergeant standing there. 'How are you, Mr Connon?' said Pascoe looking at the pale-faced man who stood a pace or two behind the sergeant. Solid. Yes, he looked solid all right. Still firm. No flabbiness in the face. Just the paleness of fatigue. But what is it that has drained your blood, Mr Connon? Grief? Or… 'Please come in, Mr Connon.' The loud voice broke his thoughts. He glanced round. Dalziel, his face a mask of sympathy so obviously spurious that Pascoe shuddered, was advancing with his hand outstretched. He stood aside to let Connon enter, then stepped out into the corridor leaving them together. 'He's like Henry Irving,' he said to the sergeant, shaking his head.