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
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
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