'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.'