Part 5 (1/2)

'Many there?'

'A few.'

'Oh.'

She'll want names, thought Alice resignedly. She'll want a guest-list. And she'll get it.

There's no funeral meats, then?'

'No. Everyone's just going home. Quietly. Like me.'

'Was there anyone from the police there?'

Alice sighed. 'As a guest, I mean, a mourner. They wouldn't be there official, would they? Not unless . . .'

'What?'

'Unless they wanted to watch him, keep an eye on him.' 'Who?'

'Mr Connon, of course.'

Alice s.h.i.+fted herself in the seat so that Maisie had to give a couple of inches. The conductor looked in awe at the overhang.

'Why should they want to watch him?'

'I don't know. In case he decided to skip, that's why. Well, he might, mightn't he? If he felt like it.'

'Like what?'

'Like getting away.'

'In his shoes, who wouldn't feel like getting away?'

Maisie was used to deliberate obtuseness on the part of her neighbour and was neither distracted nor offended by it.

'I mean escaping. If he did it.'

'If he did it? What makes you say that? You should watch what you say, Maisie. That kind of talk could get you into trouble.' Alice found herself speaking with greater vehemence than she'd intended, but once more Maisie greeted the affront with a smile. 'Well, if I'm in trouble, I won't be the only one. There'll be lots of company,' she said smugly.

Alice's heart sank.

'Who do you mean?'

'Why, your Dave for one.'

Oh G.o.d, she thought. Was he still at it? In spite of the row last night? He'd say it to someone who mattered sooner or later. And then, then the law would have its course with David Fernie. Alice knew nothing of the law of slander. But she knew how much compensation she herself would demand for being falsely accused of murder.

She tried to speak casually.

'Dave? What's he been saying to you?' To you. Maisie Curtis. Queen gossip of the Wood field Estate. Which meant of the town. To me? Nothing. Your Dave doesn't pa.s.s the time of day with me. No, it was our Stanley he was talking to.'

This was worse. Maisie Curtis's Stanley was a direct channel to the Rugby Club. The only one Dave had, probably. And, equally probably, he'd know it. There'd be gossip enough at the Club. Bound to be. Suppose Stanley, young, b.u.mptious, keen to impress . . . lived nearly opposite the murder-house . . . next to a key witness.

Witness! To what?

Like that time in Bolton. That was a few years ago, but her memory was longer than her husband's. The law had been brought in then, but only to ask why anyone should have wanted to break Fernie's jaw and kick three of his ribs in. But Mr Connon was a different kettle of fish. It wouldn't be the law of the jungle this time. Gossip was one thing. Innuendo, knowing winks, impudent questionings. But someone saying he knew was quite different; someone saying he was certain. Dave Fernie, big Dave Fernie. He knew. He always b.l.o.o.d.y well knew. Not even G.o.d Almighty was as certain about things as Dave Fernie. 'What's Dave been saying, then?' she asked as calmly as she could, shredding her ticket with meticulous care. 'Well, according to my Stanley, your Dave says he knows how he, Mr Connon that is, killed his wife. And he knows why.' Maisie nodded as affirmatively at this point as if she had been Fernie himself. Soul-mates, thought Alice. They're soul-mates. Born under the same star.

'Was that all?'

'All? Wasn't it enough? It quite upset our Stanley, it did. That's how I got to hear of it. I could see something was bothering him. And he's not been in the best of health lately, had a few days off work with one of his tummy upsets. So I asked him and he told. He's always looked up to Mr Connon, you see. Well, I mean, they all do, down at that Club. He's on the selection committee as well, you see.' Alice didn't see, because she'd stopped listening. To think they said that it was women who had the vicious tongues. There'd been one or two near things since Bolton. One or two unpleasant moments. One or two lost friends.

But this could mean the law.

'Alice! Are you not getting off, then?' The pressure had gone from her flank. Maisie was standing in the aisle, looking down at her.

'Yes, of course.'

They set off down the main road together, Maisie chattering away about other matters now. She was unoffendable herself and never considered for one moment that anyone could be hurt or angered by anything she might say.

After fifty yards they turned left into Boundary Drive.

It was quieter here, away from the main course of traffic. The private side of the road was lined with trees which, even though stripped for winter, added something to the peacefulness of the scene. The trees which should have been on the other side of the road had been swept away at one fell swoop, without warning, when the Corporation bulldozers had moved in at the end of the war. An act of civic vandalism, the residents had called it, complaining even more when they realized they would have to pay road charges now the council was making up the road-surface. But the trees had gone beyond recall, and their absence accentuated as much as the architecture the differences between the old and the new. Still, the trees and the pleasant outlook over to the more solid and architecturally varied private houses had made Alice glad that they had been offered a house here rather than in the middle of the estate.

Up till now.

Maisie's voice suddenly rose so sharply that it penetrated the confused web of her own thoughts. That's them, isn't it, Alice? In that car. I thought I recognized them.' Her eyes focused ahead. A black saloon had just driven by them. She remembered seeing it in the cemetery car park. She watched with trepidation as it slowed down further along the street. For a moment of heart-sinking shock, she thought it had pulled over to stop in front of her own house. But the driver was merely giving himself enough room to swing round to the left, over the pavement and into the Connons' drive. 'I wonder what they're after?' asked Maisie, increasing her pace. Alice didn't wonder. She didn't care. As long as they weren't after Dave. She'd have to talk to him again. She'd have to make it quite clear that he was worrying her silly with his slanderous gossip. She'd have to get him to realize that he could get himself into very serious trouble with these terrible accusations against Mr Connon. Very serious trouble.

Unless . . .

It was curious that the thought had never entered her mind before.

Unless they were true.

She began to lengthen her stride to keep up with Maisie Curtis.

'”Dear Miss Connon, 'It must be terrible for you to find that your mother is dead and to realize your father is a murderer. Nothing can bring your mother back. But it may be some comfort to you to know that the man you think is your father is not. Your mother married him only so that her baby (you) would have a name. What a name! It is a murderer's name. Think yourself lucky he is nothing to do with you.”'

'No signature.'

'Let me see,' said Dalziel. Pascoe handed over the letter. The superintendent took it carefully by the same corner that Pascoe had used and glanced down at the writing.

'At least it's clean,' he said.

'That's little consolation,' said Connon, who was standing with his arm protectively over Jenny's shoulders. To Pascoe the girl did not look particularly in need of protection. In fact she had the same rather dangerously angry look he'd seen wrinkle her brow after the funeral.

'Let's get this clear . . .' Dalziel began.

Connon interrupted him.

T presume that means you want me to repeat myself.'