Gently Go Man

Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
About the Author
The Inspector George Gently series
Copyright

The road leading to Latchford is one of the big A roads and it has a stretch of five miles as straight as the crease in a sheet of paper. It crosses a shallow depression so you can see one end of it from the other and at the westerly end there’s a dead tree which is called the Gallows Tree. When you see the Gallows Tree you’ve got it good for forty furlongs. At around the ton it’s going to last you three minutes, more or less. You come out of the fir plantations which are the end of Latchford Chase and then you twist her hard up and she blasts off like a shell. And it’s real, man, real. You’re pushing the ton before you know it. The tree comes opening up like a flower. It sends you, the way that tree gets bigger.

But Latchford itself isn’t any big deal. Not to jeebies like us who were mostly born in the Smoke. It was just a one-street pull-up in the middle of nowhere, with a market square off one side and a station and a bridge. That was before they started in to make it an overspill area, before the factories moved in and all this neighbourhood-planning stuff. Now there’s more people live here and more going on here, but I’m telling you, it’s still a one-street pull-up at the bottom. After the slog you’ve nothing to do, there isn’t no place to go. There’s a flea pit the size of a cupboard and a weekly hop and ten pubs. Sure, they’re building it all now, it’ll be a topspot one of these days. But just now there’s nothing to it. You arse around and want to scream. You like to cut up every so often, go for a smash or a pitch in. Or you burn up a bit of road. It’s like that. It’s the way it gets you.

Well, we just weren’t born to it, that’s the way it is, man. They never ought to have moved us up here in the first place. It’s bad enough in the New Towns, they haven’t got it, they’re stupid dull. But they don’t give you the creeps like this deal
does. What I hear of Siberia it’s like that around Latchford. You ride a mile out of town and there’s nothing there at all. You dig? Just nothing. Roads, houses, we don’t have them. Not even grass we don’t grow, it’s all stones and bracken and fir trees. There’s a road coming and a road going and that’s about it, I guess. And for miles it goes on. You’re shut up. You’re in a prison.

There’s a square, one of these club leaders, hands me the patter about Latchford. How it used to be the Brum of the Stone Age, he says. Used to come here from all parts to get their axes and arrow-heads and there’s a place called Shuck’s Graves which is one of their old mines. And man, it doesn’t change any. Maybe that’s why it’s so creepy, huh? You get out there on your lonesome and not nothing would surprise you. You see a little guy shamble past you, he’s wearing a skin and carries an axe, and that fits, he’s part of the scene, it’s you who don’t belong round there. All the time you’ve got that feeling. All the time you don’t belong. It’s like you can’t wake up or something or you’ve got yourself lost, you know how it is?

Then you dig this one-street graveyard. It used to be an important outfit. A sort of capital or something if the square was giving it straight. Had their kings here and the lot around a thousand years back, then some geezers came and pitched them and burned the whole deal flat. So it’s spooky, you get it, first and last it’s spooky. And the people here are like the place. We don’t get on with the people. They don’t want us, we’re just muck. They’ve had us dumped on them, that’s it. We might as well be a lot of nigs the way they give us the breeze. And then these squares who go the other way and try to be the big brother – Jesus Christ, we could murder them. We’ve had a pitch at one or two.

There’s only one thing, man, there’s the road out of here. You had to go miles from the Smoke for a road to burn. When you’ve got the creeps on you you can kick it out to the road, then you can twist her round and go for the real. You know about that? You know the real when you touch it? Some of them smoke sticks or get the touch from a jazz scene. But not me. I’m a cool jeebie. I get the touch on the road. I want that tree growing up for me till it blacks out the sky. And then I could go, man. I could take it and keep going. I could go into the black because the black is the real. But not yet, I want to think about it, I want to go on touching. But one day I’ll do it. I’ll drive that tree into the sky.

They fetched him into Inspector Setters’ office at about nine p.m. that night. He was trembling and screwing up his eyes because the lights in the cells were very dim ones. He was five foot ten and slim built. His crew cut made his hair look paleish. He’d got brown eyes and a snubbed nose and a girlish mouth and a big round chin. He was wearing a black windcheater with white-striped sleeves and tight black jeans with varnished brass studs in them. His shoes were fancy sneakers. He sported a ban-the-bomb badge.

‘Sit down, Elton,’ Setters said.

Elton sat on the chair in front of the desk. To the right of the desk sat Detective Sergeant Ralphs. The desk had some report sheets and other documents on it.

‘Have you done some thinking, Elton?’ Setters asked.

‘Yuh,’ said Elton. ‘I’ve done a lot of that.’

‘Are you ready to give us the truth, then?’ Setters asked.

‘I’ve given it to you,’ Elton said. ‘I never busted Johnny off.’

‘That’s your story and you’re sticking to it?’

‘It’s the truth,’ Elton said. ‘I didn’t bust him.’

‘And you didn’t see the crash. Though you were passing right at that time.’

‘I don’t know that,’ Elton said. ‘It’s only what you’ve been telling me.’

‘Now I’m going to tell you something else,’ Setters said. ‘Then perhaps you’ll sing a different tune.’

He peeled off a report sheet and laid it to one side. Elton watched him. His cheeks were flushed, he kept pressing dry lips togazz-sessether. Setters picked up a
statement and flicked over a page. He sat a moment or two scanning it. He laid it down on the desk.

‘So you were a pal of Johnny’s?’ he asked.

‘I was his pal,’ Elton said.

‘On Tuesday night?’ Setters asked.

‘Yuh … Tuesday night too.’

‘Then listen to this statement,’ Setters said. ‘It’s just come in from Castlebridge.’

He began to read the statement.

‘Statement made to Castlebridge Borough
Constabulary
by Edward Frank Bagley, 23 St John’s Road, witnessed by Detective Constable Hill. “On the
evening
of Tuesday 22nd September I proceeded to the Ten Spot Milk Bar in Prince’s Street with Thomas Cook, Mary Stebbings, Harry Robson, Nina Black, and Jill Copling with the purpose of attending the weekly jazz session held there. We arrived at about half-past seven and parked our scooters in the park opposite the milk bar and there met John Lister, Betty Turner, Sydney Bixley, and Anne Wicks, who had ridden over from Latchford. While we were talking to them a young fellow who I later learned was Laurence Elton rode up to park his motorcycle, and when he saw Lister he walked up to him and began to be offensive. Lister tried to ignore him and walked away towards the milk bar, but Elton followed him across the road and I saw him make a threatening gesture. Then Lister went into the milk bar with Betty Turner and some of the others, and Elton came back to finish parking his motorcycle. With regard to the order in which they drove off afterwards, Lister and Betty Turner went off directly after the jazz
session. I saw Elton go for his motorcycle about five minutes later.”’

Setters stopped reading. He looked at Elton and waited. Elton ungummed his lips.

‘Yuh, that was nothing,’ he said.

‘You were going to hit him,’ said Setters.

‘No,’ Elton said. ‘I wouldn’t have pitched him.’

‘It doesn’t sound like it,’ Setters said.

‘I’m telling you straight,’ said Elton.

Setters rapped on a sheaf of papers. ‘I’ve got supporting statements from all those kids. There was only Bixley who didn’t see it. He’s your only friend, Elton.’

‘Yuh, but it was nothing,’ said Elton.

‘You hated his guts and you know it,’ Setters said. ‘Shall I tell you why? Because he pinched your girl. Her sister told me, and it’s all down here.’

Elton dragged up one of his sneakers. He twisted his hands in his lap.

‘It’s just the same,’ he said. ‘I didn’t bust him and I didn’t see it.’

‘Right,’ Setters said. ‘Now we’ll come to the real business. You’ve had your chance to change your story, and it’s the last one you’ll get. I’m going to tie you into this job till even Houdini couldn’t get you loose. You’ve heard of Houdini, have you, Elton?’

‘Yuh,’ Elton said, ‘I’ve heard of him.’

Setters took back the report sheet he’d taken off his pile. He held it out in front of him with both his arms flat on the desk.

‘This is a report from the forensic laboratory at Castlebridge,’ he said. ‘The subject of it is those leathers
and riding boots you kindly lent us. You did a nice job on them, Elton. You sponged them and polished them up a treat. But it didn’t work, Elton. You ought to have burnt them, you know that?’

Elton didn’t say anything.

‘Yes,’ said Setters, ‘you ought to have burnt them. Then you wouldn’t have a report like this one to explain away. Because you know what it says, don’t you, Elton? It says there was blood on those boots. You’d sponged it and polished it off the surface, but we dig a little deeper than that.’

‘There’s a cat I ran over—’ Elton began.

‘Hold it, sonny,’ said Setters quickly. ‘As from now what you’re saying is evidence and may be introduced in court. It breaks my heart to tell you this, but you needn’t say a bloody word. But what you do say we’re taking down. Have you got that clear, Elton?’

‘I got it clear,’ Elton said.

‘So now you can tell us about the cat.’

‘I ran over one,’ said Elton. ‘That’s how I got the blood on my boots.’

Setters nodded very slowly. Sergeant Ralphs had begun to scribble. Elton licked his gummy lips. It didn’t seem to wet them much.

‘Yes,’ Setters said. ‘That’s a very nice explanation. People do run over cats and splash some blood about, Elton. But do you really want to know something? That wasn’t cat’s blood, sonny boy. It was blood like yours and mine. It was human blood, Elton.’

‘I cut my hand,’ Elton said.

‘Do you know your blood group?’ Setters asked.

‘I cut it at work,’ Elton said.

‘We know your blood group,’ Setters said.

‘I don’t know anything about blood groups,’ Elton said. ‘I cut my hand on a bit of piping.’

‘But we know your blood group,’ Setters said. ‘And it’s not what’s down here in this report. What’s down here is Lister’s blood group. It was Lister’s blood you had on your boots.’

Elton gummed his lips up close. He swayed a little in the chair.

‘Any comment?’ Setters asked.

Elton didn’t make any comment.

‘And there’s another thing,’ Setters said. ‘We took some casts back there by the body. We took two casts of a size nine boot with a Goodyear sole which had had pedal-wear. A bit of blood there is on those casts. There had to be. The boots had paddled in it. Like somebody had come to have a close look, to make sure that Lister was really a goner. But it wasn’t you, was it, sonny boy? You didn’t bust him and you didn’t see the crash. You just sailed by like a bat out of hell, then you sponged your boots and you went to bed. And you left the girl there to die if she wanted to. That was a sweet touch, leaving the girl.’