Reginald Hill - A clubbable woman

'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.

'Why don't you take your coat off?' he said.

'Why don't you?'

'Yes. I will.' He stood up and undid the buttons. Jenny glanced down at the white and brown mock-fur coat she wore. 'It's all I had. I had to wear something, it was so cold coming. There was nothing else. And I was so worried about people seeing me in this. It's a bit gay, isn't it? That's all I thought as I walked up the path. But I don't have anything darker. Jesus! I never thought I'd give a damn about the neighbours.' 'You never used to. Some of the things you'd lie around the garden in when it was hot.' 'Oh yes. Do you remember old Mr Hawkins? He'd go in to get behind the curtain. But Mr Hall would come rushing out with his lawn-mower. All to look at my bumps.'

She laughed, then stopped in mid-note.

'We're talking about them as if they're all dead.' He laid his coat on the table and put his arm round her shoulders.

'No, my dear. Not them. Just those days.'

She stood up away from his arm and took off her coat. He looked at her, long-legged, short-skirted, wellrounded. 'They were wise to look,' he said with a smile. She trailed her coat along the floor as she walked to the window and ran her finger along the sill.

'Tell me about it, Daddy.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes. Please.'

There's not much to tell.'

'Not much. My mother's dead! And that's not much?'

'No, I mean…'

She sat down on the sill.

Tm sorry. I know what you mean.' 'I came home. I was late. I'd let myself be talked into playing and I got a bit of a knock. Your mother had had her tea and was sitting watching the television. I just stuck my head into the room and said hello. She didn't say anything. I could feel the atmosphere. You know how she hated anything to spoil her timetable, no matter how unimportant. So I went into the kitchen to get myself some tea.'

He stopped and after a moment Jenny turned from the window which she had been staring out of since he started talking. Connon was resting his head in his hands, his elbows on the table.

'Are you all right?'

'Yes, yes. It's just this pain again. That's what happened on Saturday. It came on then, in the kitchen. I couldn't eat. I felt sick, so I went upstairs. And I passed out on the bed.'

'What is this pain? Have you seen about it?'

'Not really. McManus has had a look. And a police doctor, but he didn't give me a diagnosis. I told you I got a knock during the game. Anyway, when I awoke it was nearly eleven. I still felt a bit groggy, but I remember thinking it was rather odd your mother hadn't been up to look for me. I came downstairs. The telly was still going in the lounge. I went in.' He stopped and made a gesture which might have been a shudder, or a shrug, or an incipient reaching out to his daughter. Jenny didn't move and Connon became still again.

'Go on.'

'She was sitting in the big chair. Sprawled out. She was dead.' He was silent again, studying his daughter from between half-closed lashes. As if making a decision, he stood up and walked over to her so that he was standing close to her, not touching, not offering to touch, but there if required. 'Her eyes were open. Her forehead was smashed in just above her nose. She was obviously dead. I stood there for a minute. It was odd. I was quite calm. I thought, I mustn't touch anything. And I walked out into the hall and picked up the telephone. Then this thing in my head started again. I could hardly dial. But I managed.'

'Who did you ring?'

'Old Dr McManus first. Then the police. McManus was more interested in me than your mother. Just took one look at her. But gave me a shot of something and put me to bed. There were police all over the place, but they didn't get far with asking me questions. I was out like a light.'

'And this morning?'

They were round first thing. That's where I've been. They told you that?'

'Yes.'

'It's that fellow Dalziel. I know him vaguely from down at the Club. He's a brute of a fellow. I don't know what they expected him to find out.'

'Have they any ideas?'

'Yes, I think so. A couple.'

'What are they?'

'Firstly, that I am lying about this pain in my head and passing out. I came in last night, smashed your mother's head in and waited a few hours before calling the police.'

'Secondly?'

'That I'm telling the truth about passing out. But, unknown to me or forgotten by me, I nevertheless killed your mother.' Now there was the longest silence of all. Finally Jenny opened her mouth to speak but her father gently laid his index finger across her lips. 'You needn't ask, Jenny. The answer is no, 1 did not consciously kill her.'

'And unconsciously?'

'I don't think so. What else can I say?' Now she took his hand and pressed it to her cheek. Connon looked fondly down at her flowing golden-brown hair. He ran his fingers through its softness; it was a happy mixture of her mother's once vivid red and his own light brown. 'Don't worry, darling. It'll soon pass over, all this. Perhaps we can go away. It's almost your Christmas holidays. Would you like that, to go away, I mean?'

She looked up at him.

'Is that what you want? To go away, I mean?' He rolled the question round in his mind for a moment, trying to read her thoughts. But nothing of them appeared in her face.

Finally he settled for the truth.

'No, I don't think so. No. It isn't.'

She nodded her head in serious accord.

'No. Neither do I. We'll stay. There'll be lots to do here. We'll stay and do whatever we have to. Together.' She kept on nodding her head till her hair fell in a golden curtain over her white face.

It was a glorious day. The sun laid a deep shadow obliquely across the polished oak of the coffin as it was lowered into the grave. The sky was cloudless, its blue more thinly painted than the blue of summer but the sun was too bright to stare in the eye. The air was just cold enough to make activity pleasant and the mourners shifted gently, almost imperceptibly, under their coats from time to time.

Only Connon and Jenny stood in absolute stillness.

Dalziel was scratching his left breast, his hand inside his coat moving rhythmically. 'Ironical,' he whispered loudly. 'Suit you, my boy. Subtle.'

'What?' said Pascoe.

This,' he said. 'Nature.'

'Human nature? Or red in tooth and claw?'

'Don't get bloody metaphysical with me. The day, I mean. Fine day for a funeral. Sun. No wind blowing dead leaves or any of that. Fine day for golf.'

'What are you doing here then, sir?'

Dalziel sniffed loudly. A few heads turned and turned away. He obviously wasn't about to break down. 'Me? Friend of the family. Last respects must be paid. Heartfelt sympathy.' He fluttered his hand inside his coat so that the cloth pulsated ludicrously. 'What's more to the point, what are you doing here? I come within smelling distance of having a reason. You're a non-starter. Bloody policeman, that's all. You'll get the force a bad name. Intrusion of grief, it could be grounds for complaint.'