A Clubbable Woman (11 page)

Marcus turned to the bar and ruthlessly elbowed his way through to the pole position.

Jenny looked at Morgan with interest.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry if I was rude before. But I didn’t recognize you at first. I’ve only ever seen you a couple of times, with your dad at matches.’

His face was set into the perfect sympathetic mould now. But his eyes were still assessing what lay beneath her Marks and Spencer jumper.

Perhaps I should introduce them to him. Now this one on the left is Marks, and this other is Sparks. Say hello nicely.

She grinned at the thought and the solemn angles of Ted’s mouth relaxed also.

‘I’m sorry if I was rude to you, too, Mr Morgan.’

‘Call me Ted.’

‘Is it true what Marcus said? That you’re the biggest gossip in the Club?’

‘Certainly,’ said Ted. ‘Bigger than that, even. There’s not much happens here that I don’t know.’

He nodded with mock-solemnity. Jenny found herself quite liking him.

‘And how long have you been a member?’

‘Since I was a nipper. My dad didn’t like to beat me, so he made me join him.’

Jenny laughed with more enthusiasm than the witticism merited.

‘Ted hasn’t told you one of his jokes, has he? Be careful, Ted, will you? Jenny’s not one of your ancient barmaids.’

Marcus handed her a goblet of scotch and Ted another pint.

‘I’m being entertained very well, thank you, Marcus.’

‘Good-oh. Well, here’s how.’

They all drank. A loud outburst of laughter came from the bar. Jenny glanced over. The source was the group round Gwen Evans. Beyond them, just coming in through the door, she saw Pascoe. He edged his way through the standing drinkers and for a moment she thought he was going to join her, but he merely nodded and drifted down the room, taking up a position by the wall where he seemed to become engrossed in watching the efforts of a group of youngsters on the one-armed bandit.

I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he didn’t fancy me, thought Jenny. Perhaps not though, I seem to fancy every man I meet fancies me at the moment. Either I’m at the height of my powers or I’m suffering from delusions of grandeur. Like poor Stanley. Gwen Evans wouldn’t bother with a kid like that, not when she could have the pick of the men in this room. Or any of the other rooms either.

And her heart gave just a little kick of worry as she turned to Ted Morgan again.

Clickity, clickity, clickity, click. A lemon, a bell and a cherry. Clickity, clickity, clickity, click. Two bells and an orange. Clickity, clickity, clickity. If you had stood as I have done for five hours in a draughty ante-room of a courthouse sticking sixpences into one of those things to see how frequently it paid out, you wouldn’t be so keen to chuck your money away, son. Couldn’t understand it, could he? Two or three jackpots a night in the Club. Anyone’d tell you. My client wonders if the police have been as thorough in their research as they seem to imply. Perhaps the constable who carried out the test was merely having a run of bad luck. It is in the very nature of the entertainment offered by these machines that the result should be irregular, unforecastable. Odds must be measured over weeks, months, not hours. And me with my second-class honours degree, standing there with corns on my hands saying yes sir, no sir, till I made my smart answer, my quick repartee. Then everyone tut-tuts. And they all jump on me from great heights till corns on my hand seem like the fringe benefits of delirious joy. But no joy for Pascoe, nowhere. Little Jenny there, glad she’s there, not elsewhere, listening to phone calls, opening letters; but no joy there for you Pascoe. Not yet. Not ever? She’s very friendly with those two, though; Felstead, Marcus, and Morgan, Edward. Lucky them, but not her style, not big Ted. He looks as if the pools have come up for him. And over there, beyond the blue horizon of desire, Gwen, backseat driver. Gwen, change any gears and we’re airborne. That brass ring at her neck, attached to the zip all the way down that dress, like the ring you hold on to when you leap from a plane, plunging in free fall till you dare no more, then you pull the ring down, down and float in airy freedom, master of all you survey.

For a CID man you’ve no head for beer. Another pint and you’d be like those young lads all falling over themselves to make an impression. Or like fat Dalziel. Worse. Please God, don’t let me become like fat Dalziel. But he at least is probing, sniffing around, trying to get things moving, not losing himself vainly in mazes of mental erotica. Listen. Look. Look and listen. That’s why you’re here. And don’t just look over there.

‘Everything?’ said the highly made-up girl on the table behind him, her eyes rounding with interest into O’s of mascara.

‘Yeah,’ said one of the two boys at the table, ‘that’s what he told me. He said he reckoned she wanted him to see. You know. Sort of egging him on.’

‘More wishful thinking,’ said the other girl scornfully.

‘Mebbe. Mebbe not. Anyway, you know what he did?’

‘No. And I don’t want to. Let’s go next door and dance a bit. Coming?’

‘Oh, all right then. Off we go.’

Even when I eavesdrop I hear nothing but sex, thought Pascoe watching the four of them disappear out of the bar. Now there was that fellow Roberts. Jacko Roberts. He seemed an interesting kind of man. Perhaps worth a word or two.

Dalziel might not like it, of course.

‘Dalziel,’ he murmured audibly enough for the fruit-machine victims to glance his way, ‘is not bloody well going to get it.’

He began to move towards the end of the bar where Jacko Roberts was drinking alone.

‘Any other business,’ asked Willie Noolan.

‘There’s this competitive rugby survey thing that’s come round from
The Times,
‘ said Reg Certes, the club secretary.

‘Propose that a general meeting of members be convened to discuss the whole question,’ said Connon.

‘Seconded,’ said Sid Hope.

‘Any opposition? Right, carried. What about timing?’

‘Week Friday’d be all right,’ said Certes.

‘Agreed? Right. Anything else?’

‘Just one thing if I may, Willie.’

Noolan glanced at his watch. If it had been anyone other than Connie … but he could hardly choke him off.

‘Yes, Connie.’

Connon looked round the table for a moment as though choosing his words carefully. But they had been chosen for some little time already.

‘Mr President,’ he said, and the formality of his voice made the others pay him even closer attention. ‘Yesterday, the day of my late wife’s funeral, my daughter received an anonymous letter. I believe it came from someone connected with this Club.’

Evans let out a long whistle. The others merely looked stunned. Then Noolan and Sid Hope both spoke at once.

‘What grounds have you …?’

‘What did it say …?’

They both tailed off.

‘Your ball, I think, Willie,’ said Hope.

‘I’ll answer you both. Or rather, I won’t,’ interjected Connon. ‘I won’t reveal my grounds. Nor will I tell you what the letter said. The writer already knows. It concerns no one else.’

‘Well, Connie,’ said Noolan expansively, ‘I’m sure we’re all very sensible of the strain of your situation and the shock this kind of thing, whatever it said, must have caused both you and Jenny. But I don’t think that a committee meeting is the proper or best place to discuss this, do you? Let’s close the meeting, then we can talk informally. This isn’t the kind of thing we’d want to see in the minutes, is it?’

‘Yes,’ said Connon. it is. I’d like to propose that the writer of this letter when known should be barred for life from the Club.’

‘You’re being a bit bloody silly there, aren’t you, Connie?’ snorted Arthur Evans. ‘I mean, how can you bar him from the Club if you don’t know who it is, then?’

He looked round, acknowledging the triumph of logic by a small rocking movement of the head. The others were looking at Connon, however, each doubtful what to say. Certes, the first team secretary and the youngest there, the man most likely to succeed Hurst as captain, had a rather different problem. He was the least well acquainted with Connon and had no intention of saying anything at the moment. His problem was knowing what to write. His pen rested, unmoving, on his notebook.

‘Connie,’ said Noolan finally, ‘I don’t think this is an admissible proposition. Firstly, Arthur’s right. We can’t bar someone we don’t know.’

‘I didn’t say I didn’t know him,’ said Connon. Now jump, you buggers. Now stare in wild surmise. This is that thing called change. Things will never be the same again. Till I let them.

Noolan was the only one who did not react.

‘Then it is your plain duty to inform the police of your knowledge.’

‘Haven’t I just done that, Willie?’

Now there’s one in the breadbasket for you, you old goat, thought Evans. That’s got you nonplussed. Spend all your life hanging around on the edge of the scrum and it comes as a bit of a shock to get a pair of fingers up your nostrils.

‘Our discussions at these meetings are minuted, Connie, and as such are published to our members.’

‘I know. I haven’t noticed Reg writing much for the past few minutes, though. Have you made a note of my proposition, Reg?’

Still without speaking, Certes began to scribble.

‘Very well, Connie,’ said Noolan resignedly. ‘We have a motion proposed by Mr Connon. Is there a seconder?’

The blare of music from the social room came in very loud. Connon felt a drum start beating in his head. The edge of pain began to intrude between the muffled notes. He put up his hand and began to massage his temple.

‘Are you all right, Connie?’ asked Hurst.

‘Yes, fine. Just a headache.’

The wheels were turning now. He hadn’t felt anything for three days now. But it was back. McManus would have to do something. Old fool. Long past it. What can he know about …’

‘I’ll second it.’

Well, that’s scuppered you, Willie.

It was Arthur Evans’s distinctive lilt.

‘In that case, unless there’s any further discussion we’ll take a vote.’

‘Just one point,’ said Hurst. ‘What does it mean if we pass this motion?’

‘Nothing until they catch this fellow, whoever he is. Then if he’s in the Club, he gets thrown out. If he’s not in, he can’t get in.’

‘We’re still very much in the dark though, Connie. Can you assure us that the contents of this letter were such as make such action reasonable?’

‘You know my daughter? They caused her very real distress. Actionable assertions were made.’

‘Right-oh. Go on, Willie.’

‘Let’s have a vote then. Those in favour?’

Firmly, Arthur’s hand went up. Hurst’s. Certe’s. More slowly Hope’s.

‘And you, of course, Connie.’

‘Of course. And you, Willie?’

‘It’s not part of my function to vote here, unless the meeting is deadlocked. Carried unanimously. Anything else? No? Then I declare the meeting closed.’

They sat still for a second, then Evans stood up and pushed his chair back and the others followed.

‘Let’s get a drink,’ said Evans.

‘Just hang on a moment,’ said Certes. ‘I’ve got the tickets we ordered for the Welsh match at Twickenham next month. They’re a bit scattered around - we must have been near the bottom of the pile, I’m afraid.’

‘Bloody inefficiency,’ said Evans, it wasn’t like this when I was secretary. Eh, Sid?’

‘Too true. The nearest we ever got to Twickenham was Cardiff.’

Certes grinned amiably.

‘Anyway, I’ve sorted them out so we can all sit next to our nearest and dearest.’

‘With the best seats for committee members, of course?’

‘But of course. Here you are Sid. Three it was, eh? One for you, Peter. Two for you, Willie.’

He hesitated and a note of uncertainty came into his voice.

‘And you too, Connie. There’s two here for you.’

‘Two?’ said Connon.

‘Let’s go and have that drink,’ said Noolan over-loudly. ‘All this talking!’

‘That’s right,’ said Connon, reaching over and taking the tickets, it was my turn to get Marcus’s this year. I hope we can see this time. I was behind a post last year and the Irish scored three tries right on the other side of it.’

‘Trust the bloody Irish. Second only to the Welsh in low cunning,’ said Hurst.

‘Are you sure you’re OK, Connie?’ he whispered to Connon as the others went ahead through the door.

‘Yes. Just a bit of a head, that’s all. I don’t think I’ll go through just yet, Pete. I’ll catch you up in a minute or two.’

‘OK, Connie. See you do. It’s good to see you around again. We missed you at the selection meeting earlier. There’s copies of the teams on the board there. I’d be interested to hear what you think.’

‘I’ll have a look.’

‘Right. Don’t linger too long, though. There’s not much drinking time left.’

From the far end of the social room, Superintendent Dalziel noted with interest the order of emergence from the committee meeting.

‘Sit down, Willie,’ he said to Noolan who was so deep in thought he’d almost walked past the table. ‘What kept you so long?’

Pascoe found Jacko Roberts fascinating and Roberts himself seemed to be almost obsessively interested in the (to him) paradoxical situation of a well-educated man joining the police-force.

‘You went to college, did you?’ he asked again.

‘Yes. University.’

‘Like them posh-talking bastards over there in the corner?’

‘Yes. That’s right. Beneath this rough exterior lies the education of a posh-talking bastard.’

‘But they’d make you a sergeant straightaway? No uniform or anything?’

‘No. I had to spend the usual time on the beat, in uniform.’

‘Directing traffic?’

‘Yes. That too.’

‘That’s what your boss should be. Directing traffic. I can understand him, but
you!’

‘What’s a nice guy like me doing in a dirty job like this? Well, I’m trying to get information out of you for a start.’

For a while as Jacko’s interest grew, Pascoe had seen the outline of a softer, happier, younger face beneath the deeply etched misanthropy of his usual expression. But now the mask returned - or the illusion faded.