Gently in the Sun (6 page)

‘… little sister … brother perhaps. You aren’t to know who she’s left behind. And what do you care, any of you? Not a dashed thing! All you can think about … isn’t it the truth? She’s dead … lay there strangled … and that’s all you can think about!’

He drew a sleeve across his mouth and then gulped down some more beer. For a moment it looked as though the lachrymose vein would continue. But instead, he took a couple of belligerent steps towards the bar.

‘And I ask you again … what are they going to do about it? Where are these blessed policemen who ought to be on the job? Here’s one … just look at him. Holding up the bar! It isn’t his daughter, so what does he care? Holding up the bar, and listening to every mortal word.’

It was useless singing any longer, Hawks had gone too far for that. Swaying slightly on his feet, he was menacing Gently with his empty tankard. Spanton’s mouth organ clattered to the floor. The dart players ceased to throw their darts. Up and down the crowded bar there was a moment of bated, watchful silence.

And then, from Esau’s corner, came the scrape of a table pushed aside. Sparing a glance from the
threatening
Hawks, Gently saw the big man get to his feet. There was nothing hurried about it. Esau’s movements were slow and gentle. Taking all the time in the world, he settled a sea cap on his white head.

‘Esau … you let me be!’

Hawks’s tone was suddenly apprehensive. He stumbled back a pace and let the tankard fall to his side.

‘You haven’t got no right. Esau, listen … I’m warning you!’

Esau, deaf as the Ailsa Craig, continued his
preparations
for leaving. He shut his clasp-knife and put it away. He wrapped up his pigtail in a scrap of oilcloth. Pipe and matches went each into a stowage, and finally he drained what was left of his beer.

‘I tell you, Esau!’

Esau patted his pockets.

‘If you lay a hand on me!’

Esau took him by the arm.

There was no fuss about it and not another word. Hawks, the wind quite out of his sails, was walked out like a child. Somebody grabbed the tankard from him, somebody else gave him his cap. The whole business was so quiet that one could scarcely believe it had happened.

‘Phew!’

The publican made a gesture of wiping his brow.

‘I thought there’d be trouble there, Esau or no Esau. That Hawks … he’s a wicked so-and-so, even when he’s cold sober.’

‘They’ll be all right, will they?’

‘Oh yes! You don’t know Esau. You might say he’s the skipper here – they all pay attention to him. And one time him and Hawks were mates on a drifter together.’

At first they wondered how Gently would take it, but he continued to lean, apparently unmoved, at the
bar. Eventually Spanton rescued his mouth organ and the dart players cleaned their board. The publican, in a great bustle, filled a great many empty glasses.

If anything, the incident seemed to have cleared the air a little. The exclusive grouping of the company was beginning to relax. Gently, pipe between his teeth, listened amiably to the publican’s chatter; one would have thought his only interest there lay in a pint in congenial company.

‘Then, of course, you never saw her alive.’

Was it Hawks or was it Dawes whose departure had eased the tension?

‘Not that she ever came in here, mind you.’

Or was it just that they’d weighed him up, deciding that probably he wasn’t a trouble maker?

Spanton had succeeded in collecting a crowd round him. He’d got one of the ancients singing ‘The North Sea Fisherman’. After that it was ‘Stormy Weather, Boys’, of which they all knew the chorus: Aaron Wright sang the verses, and it was the unexpurgated version.

Yes, the tension had relaxed – but wasn’t it now, perhaps, too boisterous? From one extreme it had gone to the other, like a fit of malarial fever. Every moment it was growing noisier, more hectic, more reprehensible.

‘How much is on the slate?’

‘Come on, don’t be awkward!’

‘Just take it out of this, will you?’

‘Well, if you say so.’

Had he missed something important by the skin of his teeth?

Outside the long twilight had commenced under a pale sky. Stars prickled overhead, and the coppery west suffused opalescence. Round a shrub in
someone’s
garden moths tapped and buzzed eagerly, while bats, scarcely audible, pipped as they flickered high above.

At the turn by the council houses he almost ran into a couple of lovers. They were leaning over a bicycle, heads together, very quiet. Then again, by a field gate, another silent couple. Their eyes followed Gently but they didn’t draw apart.

On such a night as this … two evenings ago. Hadn’t the Bel-Air been nearly empty and Mixer, presumably, in Starmouth?

An alien fragrance reached his nostrils as he
approached
the gates of the Bel-Air. Dawes, another ghost of the twilight, sat solemnly smoking on a hedge bank.

‘You wanted to see me, did you?’

The white head nodded very slightly. After an instant’s hesitation Gently sat down on the bank beside him. It was a pleasant conference seat: the bank was tall with summer grasses.

‘Bob Hawks … I wouldn’t pay much regard to him.’

The voice was like the man, slow, but full of grave decision.

‘He’s had his trouble, Bob has, and sometimes it makes him hasty. But I’ve had a word or two with him. I can answer that he’ll watch his tongue.’

‘What sort of trouble has he had?’

Dawes didn’t appear to hear him. One had the impression that he was unused to being questioned, that wherever he found himself his word was the law. Having made his pronouncement, he sat a long time silent. The smoke proceeded from his mouth with a clock-like regularity.

‘If that’s all you’ve got to say …’

‘Don’t be in a hurry.’

He hadn’t even looked at Gently, just sat there staring at nothing.

‘You were talking to that boy.’

‘Simmonds, you mean – the one with the tent?’

‘I was wondering how much he told you.’

‘Naturally, that’s confidential.’

Another silence, this time more irritating. At the mention of Simmonds Gently’s interest had been sharply roused. But he could see that it was useless to try hurrying the old autocrat. For years, very probably, Dawes had ruled the Hiverton roost.

‘Did he tell you he got a thrashing?’

For answer Gently shrugged.

‘So he didn’t – I thought as much. They don’t like to admit it, these youngsters.’

‘Who gave him the thrashing – you?’

Dawes puffed impassively four or five times.

‘Him up there who they say you’ve got an eye on.’

‘Mixer – the man who was with her?’

‘He found them together in the tent.’

Now there was room for a pause – Gently was frankly taken aback. So there had been more to the Simmonds story – apparently, a very great deal more!
Simmonds had been leading him up the garden … as a matter of fact, he had almost convinced him.

‘How do you know about this?’

‘Saw it happen. From the net store.’

‘When?’

‘Last Tuesday, just before tea.’

‘Describe it to me.’

‘That’s all there is to it.’

‘How long had they been in the tent – how did Mixer come to find them?’

Esau shifted his long legs as though to express his disapproval. Nobody badgered him like that, the slow movements seemed to say.

‘I’ve seen him once or twice trying to find them up the marrams. Tuesday he hung around near the tent – have you seen that old pillbox? So then they came back and went into the tent together. He ran across there like a madman and hauled the boy out by his ankles.’

‘And the woman – what about her?’

‘She came out of her own accord.’

‘Didn’t she try to intervene?’

‘She might have said something, but that’s all.’

‘And when it was over?’

‘Why, he marched her off with him. They came by the store and went off towards the guest house.’

‘What were they saying as they passed you?’

‘Nothing I heard. But they looked the more for it.’

‘When was the next time you saw her?’

‘Under the sacks by Bob Hawks’s boat.’

‘Who else saw it happen?’

‘There wasn’t only me.’

‘Then why didn’t you report it?’

‘Didn’t think to till I saw you with the boy.’

Esau scratched a leisurely match, his pipe having died on him. The bobbing flame lit his stem features with their viking-like cut. In his ears he wore gold rings, his beard was brushed to a point. His blue eyes seemed permanently fixed on some far-distant
horizon
.

But they saw plenty, those eyes, there was no doubt about that.

‘And what else do you know?’

‘Nothing – about your business.’

‘I shouldn’t think you’re one to miss much.’

‘Nor one to talk about it, neither.’

‘Perhaps I’d better remind you.’

But Gently could see it was a waste of time. The Sea-King of Hiverton had concluded his audience: there was nothing more to be got from him but steady puffs of smoke.

Still, he hadn’t done so badly for his first day on the case. Gently got to his feet feeling that things had woken up a little. He’d got a handle now, both for Simmonds and for Mixer – especially on the latter he could put a little pressure!

Eager to press home his advantage, he nearly bowled over a hurrying Dutt. The sergeant was coming out of the Bel-Air and seemed in a state of high excitement.

‘I’ve been back half-an-hour, sir!’

‘What’s the matter, Dutt – something popped?’

‘Popped is right, sir – listen to this! It isn’t quite what you might have expected.

‘There’s been a flap on at Starmouth – they’ve had some charlies raiding a warehouse. It took place on the Wednesday morning and there were four of them involved. Now one of them meets the others at a caff on the Castra Road – his description fits our Mixer – and he was driving a green Citroen!

‘That’s all, sir, excepting they’ve got witnesses who can identify him. I told them we’d bring him back, and they’re waiting for us now.’

I
T WASN’T EXACTLY
a race into Starmouth, but it developed into something distinctly undignified. Gently, whose driving was usually unexceptional, was led into small but reprehensible excesses.

The lounge of the Bel-Air was where it had started. Mixer had installed himself there with whisky and a sporting paper. As soon as Gently entered he was set on by two reporters; one of them he had seen before, but the other was a fresh arrival.

‘They’ll just be in time to catch the early edition.’

‘My editor’s been in touch with the Yard.’

Like a couple of terriers they yapped round his heels, pushing, keen eyed, determined to get some copy from him. From his basket chair Mixer cast them
apprehensive
glances. Gently swore under his breath. This would have to happen!

‘Come into the bar, will you?’

He appeared to capitulate, but on the way he had exchanged a couple of quick words with Dutt. Five minutes later he had heard the Wolseley’s horn sound
twice: at the first excuse he had terminated his impromptu press conference.

The trouble was that they had been too sharp for him, that pair of reporters. They had smelled a rat, they had shadowed Gently out of the house. Apparently it was their Morris which stood parked on the gravel, and the Wolseley had scarcely reached Hamby before headlights began to pursue it.

So he had stood on the accelerator, foolishly, needlessly. He had practised several little tricks to get rid of those persistent lights. At Castra he’d turned left and gone round the houses, and again at Starmouth he’d done his best to shake them off.

And all to no purpose – they had stuck to him like pitch. Getting a big kick, no doubt, out of chasing a police car. While all the time he’d known that he was being a trifle childish, that at the bottom of it he was upset by this new and perplexing development.

‘This sort of lets him out sir.’

Dutt had quickly put his finger on it. Yet it didn’t let him out, not in a way that closed the file on him. Mixer, if it was he, had met his associates soon after midnight. In other words he could have strangled Rachel and still been in time to keep his rendezvous. But the probability had lessened, it had lessened considerably. With a robbery on his plate Mixer would hardly have chased back to Hiverton. Hadn’t he already eased his feelings by giving Simmonds a pasting?Wouldn’t he have lectured Rachel and perhaps threatened her with some punishment?

For this one night, at all events, he’d have let the
matter ride. With three assistants down from town he couldn’t afford to play the jealous lover.

To which one had to add his reactions when he heard the time of her death. One could read them clearly now – he knew he was safe from the capital charge! If the worst came to the worst, then he had a cast-iron alibi! In his own mind he must have been confident that the warehouse job would clear him.

Yet … that little doubt remained. He
could
have got back to murder Rachel. Even – though criminals were rarely so devious – he could have planned the robbery for insurance. He might have driven back to Hiverton with her murder expressly in his mind.

It was perplexing and unsatisfactory, an untidy bundle of facts. In sum it was getting one nowhere, it simply had the appearance of progress. Mixer had the better alibi – but he also had the better motive.

Gently dragged the Wolseley to a standstill before the steps of Starmouth Borough Police H.Q. Behind him he heard a squeal of tyres followed almost immediately by running feet. A photographer bounded on to the steps, his camera poking at the ready: he got a beautiful shot of Dutt shoving Mixer out on the pavement.

‘That’s Alfred Mixer, isn’t it?’

‘You’ll get a statement later.’

‘Is it an arrest or are you just detaining him?’

‘Later, I said! Do you think we’ve nothing else to do?’

Mixer covered his face as he was hustled up the steps. He’d said scarcely a word on that journey into
Starmouth. In the lobby they were met by Copping, with whom Gently had worked before. The Starmouth inspector shook hands cordially and signed to Dutt to take Mixer into a waiting-room.

‘That’s him, I’m willing to swear to it! We’ve got two independent descriptions. One is the watchman, who they left tied up, and the other the proprietor of the café where they met. Do you think that, now we’ve got him, we can get a line on the others?’

‘If he’s your man then you can rely on Records.’

Copping led him to the super’s office where Symms himself was waiting for them. There was further handshaking and exchanges of compliments. The office, Gently noticed, had been redecorated. The last time he was there it had been a depressing blue.

‘Your man gave you an outline?’

The super was his old spry self, spare, military, his small moustache crisply trimmed.

‘I’d like to have some details – Mixer is suspect in the other business. I don’t think there’s much
connection
, but a check won’t do any harm. And by the way … if your canteen’s open … I managed to miss my supper.’

Copping dispatched a constable with an order of coffee and sandwiches. Gently reversed himself a chair and stuck his empty pipe in his mouth. From somewhere down the corridor came a murmur of voices – volunteers, he guessed, for the identity parade impending.

‘The robbery took place at one o’clock yesterday morning. It was a fur warehouse – Svandal’s. They’re
a Swedish firm with a depot here. Is Mixer the sort of man who’d be interested in furs?’

‘Yes. It checks in with what Records know about him.’

‘Good – that’s another point. We’re in luck, having you around. There were four men concerned and they drove up in two vehicles. One was a
fifteen-hundredweight
van and the other a saloon car. The watchman, William Hannent, has an office by the main gates. They told him they’d got a crate for him and coshed him when he came out.’

‘How many men can he describe?’

‘Only this man and another fellow. The other two were in ambush – they struck him down from behind.

‘They opened the gates with Hannent’s keys and drove the vehicles into the yard. There was no key to the inner store so they broke it open with fire axes. That’s where the choice stuff’s kept – the rest they didn’t bother about. Hannent they left gagged and fastened to a chair. He was found there by the warehousemen seven hours later.’

‘And the man on the beat – did he notice nothing?’

‘They’d timed it too well. It was a pretty piece of planning. As a matter of fact, our man’s on the carpet – he noticed Hannent was missing and did Fanny Adams about it. But then, of course, Hannent might have been on his rounds. We get precious little warehouse breaking in this part of the world.

‘Well, that was the job that we were called in on, and Copping can tell you that it didn’t bristle with leads. We guessed it was some city chummies and
called up the Yard, but to date we’ve heard nothing from that direction.

‘Then this morning we got a message from a man named Blaydon. He keeps a transport café on the Castra Road. He told us that at around eleven on the Tuesday night three men pulled up there in a fifteen-hundredweight Commer.

‘They ordered a meal and sat down in a corner. He was able to give us a first-rate description of them. One of them was called Jerry and another one Polski, and he overheard a reference to “skins in the
thousand-nicker
class”.

‘At ten minutes past twelve they were joined by a fourth man. He was better dressed than the others and drove up in a green Citroen. He ordered a cup of tea and had five minutes conversation with them. Then they left, the Citroen leading, going in the direction of the town.’

‘You reported this to London?’

‘Naturally. One would have thought that by now …’

‘It wasn’t much to go on. There’s a lot of Poles in the fur trade.’

Gently sucked at his empty pipe, a wooden
expression
on his face. The more one heard of this, the more certain did it seem.

‘This Blaydon – did he notice from which direction the Citroen was coming?’

‘From town, which set us thinking that a local man was involved. Copping put on someone to check – there aren’t so many Citroens in Starmouth. But there
are only four green ones and this one was certainly green. Blaydon made a special note of it. He was surprised to see it pull in.’

‘A pity he didn’t make a special note of the number, too!’ The super looked surprised, but went on with his account.

‘By this evening, I have to admit, we were near the end of the road. Copping had double-checked every angle without uncovering anything fresh. Then your sergeant came to see us wanting assistance for the other affair, and as soon as Copping heard the description he knew he was on to something good.

‘Especially when it came to the Citroen! That was the clincher in the business. We rang you at Hiverton directly, but unfortunately you weren’t in. So, while the sergeant went to collect you, we fetched our witnesses and arranged a parade. Do you think it might be advisable to get on to London straight away?’

Gently hunched his shoulders sourly.

‘First I think you’d better identify him. He’s got an alibi of sorts – though he may not want to use it.’

‘An alibi! Are you certain?’

The super sounded incredulous.

‘One of the Bel-Air staff can vouch for him. He’s supposed to have been there when you say he was in the café.’

Only now you could see right through it, that alibi of Mixer’s. Against this latest information it was as transparent as tissue paper. It hadn’t been for the murder: it had been for the robbery. That was why it didn’t fit, why it had sounded mildly convincing.
Maurice the bartender … couldn’t one see him pocketing the fiver?

‘He won’t want to use it.’

Gently bit at his pipe stem.

‘There won’t be any trouble about making your job stick. But I’d like to see your witnesses – principally this Blaydon fellow. There’s just an off-chance that he’s got something for me.’

Blaydon was brought in, a thin man with narrow shoulders. He didn’t seem a very good advertisement for his trade.

‘It’s quite right about the car, sir. I was washing up in my scullery. The window looks out on the road, as this gentleman can tell you.’

Gently went over it with care though he knew it was a forlorn hope. He had no reason to suspect what Blaydon was telling him. The man was just an average citizen who wanted to help – a little gratified, perhaps, by his momentary importance.

‘When did you first see this car?’

‘When it was coming along from the town
direction
.’

‘What made you notice it?’

‘It slowed down, you see. The man who was driving it was looking at my caff. I thought: “He won’t stop!” – I only cater for drivers, really – but just then he made a turn and came sliding in to my pull-up.’

‘Do you own a car yourself?’

‘Yes, I’ve got a Ford “Pop” …’

‘How many cars have you owned?’

‘Well, five or six, one time or another.’

‘Have you ever owned a Citroen?’

‘No, I stick to English makes.’

‘I’d like you, if you would, to describe the car that pulled in.’

In doing so he used terms which showed that the subject was familiar to him. One could hardly have pitched on a better witness for the description of a car.

‘Of course it was dark at the time?’

‘Yes, but I’ve got a big light over the pull-up.’

‘Are you sure it wasn’t a blue car?’

‘No – green. It was a light-coloured green.’

‘What else was parked in the pull-up?’

‘Just a Leyland truck and the Commer.’

‘Wouldn’t they have hidden the other car?’

‘No. Because of them he parked near my window.’

‘Describe the man who came in.’

Without a shadow of doubt it was Mixer. His eyes, his skin, his accent: one could almost smell his sweat. He had tipped his hat to the three of them and ordered a strong cup of char. He had been wearing a dark blue suit and a matching wide-brimmed hat.

‘Who else was in the café?’

‘The driver and his mate from the Leyland.’

‘Who were they – people you know?’

‘They’re from Brum … G.U.S., I believe.’

‘Don’t you have an assistant at the café?’

‘Not after ten. It’s just me and the missus.’

‘Where was she when this man came in?’

‘She was having her snooze in the room at the back. Ten till three, three till eight is how we work it. Then our man comes in and we both knock off.’

Mixer had paid for his tea and joined the others at their table. From their attitude it was clear that he was known to and expected by them. He pulled something from his wallet and laid it on the table. This they appeared to study while, keeping his voice low, he talked to them as though giving instructions.

At the end of five minutes they got up and left together.

‘Why did you take so much interest in them?’

‘As I said, he was a bit of an unusual customer. On top of that it seemed rum, him knowing those other three. They looked a rough lot and they didn’t come from these parts.’

‘From which direction did the Citroen come?’

‘From the town way, from Starmouth.’

‘You’re quite positive of that?’

‘As certain as I’m sitting here.’

Gently shrugged and picked up a sandwich, a plate of which had lately been put by him. There was no shaking evidence of this description: it was a bonus for any prosecuting counsel. And Mixer, if he’d come from Starmouth, was just about in the clear. He’d have had to go miles out of his way to avoid arriving by the Castra Road.

Unless … dare one build any hope on it?

‘Would you have been busy about then?’

‘Not on a Tuesday. It’s usually pretty quiet.’

‘How long had you been washing up?’

‘I don’t know. Quarter of an hour, might have been twenty minutes.’

‘And you were watching the road all the time?’

‘You have to watch something on that job.’

‘Did you see much traffic pass?’

‘Not at that time on a Tuesday.’