Now he came into the room.

'Hello, Sid. Sorry I'm late again.' That's all right. I've been managing. As long as you didn't send Ted.' Marcus didn't look at Pascoe but went behind the bar as though he wasn't there and began to busy himself with bottles.

'Marcus,' said Sid, 'this is – who is it?'

'Sergeant Pascoe.'

'Sergeant Pascoe. He's asking about Connie.'

Marcus looked at Pascoe now.

'What about Connie?'

'You know his wife?'

'Mary? Yes. What about her?'

'Was she a friend?'

Sid and Marcus looked at each other.

'Not exactly. But I know her pretty well. Connie's a close friend,' said Marcus.

'Why do you say "was"?' asked Sid.

'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.