Gently Instrumental (14 page)

Capel’s eyes held still. ‘Pure deduction, l assure you. Given the sort of person Virtue was, it isn’t hard to imagine the rest.’

‘But who told you a flint was involved?’

‘Who?’ His eyebrows hooked high. ‘Walt – naturally! And here he comes, pat on cue, to be my surety.’

Hozeley had been standing in his porch for some moments and now he came across the gravel towards them. He gave Gently an unwelcoming stare before directing a glance of enquiry to Capel.

‘What was that, Henry?’

‘Your bit of flint,’ Capel said. ‘You’d told me the police had taken it away.’

‘Oh – that.’ Hozeley’s stooped shoulders lifted. ‘Well, I suppose it meant something to them. Dave has made me a wedge to replace it.’ He sent Gently another unfriendly look. ‘And you – you are still pursuing your inquiries?’

Gently replied with a faint nod.

‘He’s after Leonard,’ Capel grinned. ‘I’ve been trying to persuade him not to be an ass.’

‘Leonard?’ Hozeley looked incredulous. ‘How preposterous. I hope you succeeded.’

‘I’m not sure I have,’ Capel smiled. ‘Though I may have aroused a scintilla of doubt. What would you say, Superintendent?’

Gently said nothing. Capel’s eyes were amused again. Boyishly, he dug his hands deep in his pockets: he looked like a youngster who’d pulled off a jape.

In the office Gently found Leyston Blooming over the policewoman’s typed-up notes. He rose when he saw Gently and picked up a sheet from his tray.

‘Sir, we’ve got a line on a man who might be the one that spoke to young Crag.’

‘You’ve what!’

‘He’s only a possible, sir. But he spent Monday night at The Peal of Bells.’

Gently took the sheet. The man’s name was Spencer and he was a rep from Mill Hill. A regular visitor to Shinglebourne, he was said to be musically inclined. Gently grunted.

‘Have you talked to Mill Hill?’

‘Yes, sir. Spencer is away till tomorrow.’

‘So now forget him. What I want is another look at those snaps of the body.’

Together they pored over the photographs while Gently filled Leyston in. Beyond doubt, the position of the flint suggested that it had rolled from the upflung hand. In addition, the bruising on the buttock was explicable if the attacker’s weapon had been a cudgel . . . by deduction or other ways, Capel had supplied a definitive reconstruction.

At last Leyston sucked air through his teeth. ‘Another nail in Mr Meares’s coffin, sir.’

‘You think Meares was the source of Capel’s information?’

‘I can’t see anything else for it, sir. It bothered me at the time about the flint being clean, especially when there was a bit of blood. But his hair being coarse and bushy, the lab reckoned that it didn’t rule out the flint.’

‘I want a search party out there at first light.’

‘Yes, sir. We’ll comb the whole area.’

‘At a guess Meares picked up the weapon on the way – a heavy stick, perhaps a fence post.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Leyston looked dejected. ‘I’m sorry we missed it the first time, sir. But I was so certain we had the weapon.’

‘It may not be there. But search we must.’

Leyston touched his sideboard. ‘Do you reckon – just reckon, sir – that the doctor could have let out too much?’

‘Do
you
know his wife?’

‘Oh yes, sir. And I wouldn’t suspect funny business with her.’

‘Let’s stick to Meares, then. If the lab says “Yes” we’re in business, weapon or no.’

‘I was just wondering, sir,’ Leyston said. ‘The doctor being such a clever man.’

F
RIDAY: AND ANOTHER
dawn of sun.

It came sparkling round the edges of the bedroom curtains, waking Gently in a muck-sweat which the mutter of surf did little to alleviate. He rose with a curse for all east-facing bedrooms. The sea was the colour of tainted milk; a blue longshore boat, floating in nothing, suggested the smell of hot machinery and yesterday’s fish. Massaging his chest, he unlimbered the phone and dialled the police station with a moist finger.

‘Anything from the lab . . . ?’

There wasn’t, and it scarcely seemed to matter. Below, a sweating delivery man was carrying trays of rolls from a van over which the air was already trembling. Nothing had cooled. The night had been a fallacy, a mere pretence of returning comfort. Now the pretence had faded again and once more they were turning it on . . .

Stolidly, he bathed, dressed and went down to breakfast in a dining room throbbing with sun. The big windows gaped open to the Front but admitted only heat and glare. The waiter who served him, otherwise unoccupied, went to lounge at a window while Gently ate. But he kept an eye on Gently’s cup and returned alertly to refill it.

‘Are you permanent staff here?’ Gently asked him.

He had been at The White Hart for two seasons: a fresh-faced youngster with appealing eyes and a nose that had begun to peel.

‘You’d know the Dr and Mrs Capel, then.’

‘Yes sir, they’re regulars here.’

‘She attends his rehearsals, perhaps.’

‘Now and then, sir. They have a meal in here before he goes in.’

‘Would you call her a good mixer?’

‘Well . . .’ He looked nonplussed. ‘She’s very popular with the doctor’s friends. And Mr Hozeley, the composer. They all seem to like Mrs Capel.’

‘What about the fellow the fuss is about?’

‘Yes, sir, she’d chat with him too.’

‘You’d see them together sometimes?’

‘Well . . . I don’t know, sir!’ The young waiter suddenly got hot. ‘She did have a drink with him once in the bar, when she was waiting for the doctor.’

‘Just the once.’

‘Just the once, sir.’

Gently sighed and let him escape.

In reception he happened on the blonde who took occasional charge of the desk. She too knew Mrs Capel and described her as a looker who liked plenty of attention. Characteristically you would find her playing the Queen Bee to a group of men.

‘Any gossip?’ Gently hazarded daringly.

The blonde giggled. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me. When a woman goes on like that there’s usually something in the wind.’

‘Have you heard any names mentioned?’

‘Go on. It’s as much as my job is worth.’

‘One particular name . . . ?’

She longed to oblige but, regretfully, couldn’t slander Mrs Capel. Then the phone rang.

‘It’s for you.’

Leyston was at the other end. ‘Sir, the lab report . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Positive, sir,’ Leyston said sombrely.

In effect there was blood on the right sandal and the group matched Virtue’s but not Meares’s: it had been detected in the seam of the sole at the toe, and the sandals bore evidence of having been rinsed. A single hair had also been recovered, from the right leg-cuff of the charcoal slacks. It was a close match for a sample taken from the scalp of the deceased.

‘So he’d spotted the blood, sir,’ Leyston mused, as they considered the report in his Sahara-like office. ‘Lucky he wasn’t up on lab techniques or he’d have shoved the sandals in an incinerator.’ He pondered. ‘Do you reckon he was putting the boot in?’

Gently wiped sweat. ‘It was his right foot.’

‘I’d say he must have done,’ Leyston said. ‘Just a parting kick before he cleared out. It makes you think, sir.’

Gently grunted. ‘Nothing yet from your search party?’

‘Not yet, sir.’

‘Better take a warrant and see what you can pick up at the house. All his sticks. And don’t forget the garage. Where is Meares now, by the way?’

‘Gone to his office.’

‘Pick him up then. Before this hell gets any hotter.’

Like the bedroom, Leyston’s den faced east and was blasted to its joists by the morning sun. Gently departed from it in haste to seek the relative cool of the M.T. yard. Somehow, this morning, the heat was getting to him, sapping his will to take things seriously. With his work cut out, with the cards in his hand, he was feeling indifferent to the whole business. Meares was ripe for destruction . . . so what? There must be better things to do! He lit his pipe and dumped himself down on someone’s toolbox, to wait.

‘Meares is here, sir.’

Leyston, on the other hand, was displaying a commendable stiffening of attitude.

‘He’s looking pretty sick, sir. I shouldn’t think he got a lot of sleep last night.’

‘Where have you put him?’

‘In the interrogation room. It’s cooler in there than in the office. But he’s looking really knocked-up, sir. He must know we’ve got the drop on him this time.’

Yes . . . a change of attitude! The lab report had done Meares for Leyston. ‘Mr Meares’ was chummie to him now, and Leyston prick-eared for a kill.

‘Have you sent to the house?’

‘Yes, sir. Sergeant Mason is taking care of that. And here’s another thing, sir. The man Spencer was in town all Monday afternoon. He was taking orders till after closing at Mansfield’s, the jewellers, so he couldn’t have been out at the cottage asking questions about Virtue.’

Gently issued a smoke-ring. ‘That keeps it tidy.’

‘I think we can forget about the man out there, sir. If there really was one I daresay young Crag got hold of the wrong end of the stick.’ He lounged against the wall and lit a cigarette. ‘How long do you reckon we should let him stew, sir?’

‘Give him ten minutes to settle in.’

Leyston drew an anticipatory lungful.

The interrogation room was about twelve feet by ten and had one window, high up in the wall. It was furnished with a lino-topped trestle table, four varnished chairs and a reek of polish. Meares sat at the table. He did indeed look sick. There were bruise-like patches about his eyes. Yet he was dressed neatly, if inappropriately, in a sleeved shirt and bow tie. He raised his head as they came in, followed by the policewoman with her gear. The room, which faced to the rear of the building, had not yet generated a head of heat. Gently took the chair opposite Meares. Leyston sat to his left, the policewoman to his right. Leyston signed to the constable who had been attending: he left, closing the door.

‘Now . . . Mr Meares.’

Meares was sitting with his arms leant on the table. His eyes met Gently’s for an instant, slightly staring, glazed.

‘Yesterday you weren’t being altogether helpful. There were questions we felt you could have answered. It may save time if you are prepared to write a new and more informative statement.’

‘I have given you my statement.’ His voice was husky.

‘Yes, but that was forty-eight hours ago. Now, in view of our recent investigations, you may care for an opportunity to revise it.’

‘I – don’t wish to do that.’

‘Here are pencils and paper.’

‘No! I’ve said all I’m going to say.’

‘It would probably shorten this interview.’

‘I have nothing to add to what I told you.’

Gently nodded, quite agreeably. Meares was staring at his sweaty hands. Sweat was standing on his forehead and gleaming on his sallow cheeks.

‘Before we continue, then, a formality. I am required to administer a caution. You are not obliged to answer questions, but what you say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.’

‘I . . . understand.’ Meares’s mouth was trembling.

‘Good.’ Gently folded his hands. ‘Now perhaps we can clarify some points that were left in doubt yesterday. What exactly were your relations with Virtue?’

‘You – you said I needn’t answer questions.’

‘This is clarification, you understand. Naturally we’ve formed a certain opinion.’

‘I was . . . friendly towards him. No more.’

‘Friendly in a rather tendentious way?’

‘I deny that!’

‘But you admitted it yesterday. And that was the impression of independent witnesses.’

‘I didn’t – admit it!’ He fought for words. ‘I – I was treating him according to his nature. That – that’s a professional requirement, something I’m doing every day.’

‘Then you weren’t courting him – as some people thought?’

‘No, I absolutely deny it!’

‘So that if he was seen offering to go with you into the marrams, it wasn’t necessarily for an improper purpose.’

‘I didn’t go with him—’

‘You’re denying that too?’

‘Yes.’ Meares’s head weaved. ‘Yes, I’m denying it.’

‘That’s rather awkward,’ Gently said. ‘Because we have testimony from a witness of unusual integrity. Of course, you may be right and he may be wrong, but the test in these cases is credibility. We may believe you, but would other people – for example, would a jury?’

Meares swayed. ‘I – still deny it!’

‘Could this simply be a question of faulty memory?’

His hands dragged together shakily and he sat with tight lips.

‘Well – we’ll leave it!’ Gently said cheerfully. ‘What isn’t in dispute is that you were friends with him. You were ready to play up to his temperament, to give him your company and make much of him. Yet – suddenly – on Tuesday all this changed. That’s a point we’d better clear up. Why were you hostile to him on Tuesday, when you’d been so friendly with him before?’

‘I wasn’t hostile—’

‘It’s in the statements. You were the first to take exception.’

‘I merely said – what the occasion justified!’

Smilingly, Gently shook his head. I’m sure you understand what is implied here.’

‘I don’t wish to answer any more questions.’

‘What we can allege is that Virtue was blackmailing you over the incident in the marrams on Saturday.’

‘There was no incident – no blackmail!’

‘Then we need to account for your change of face.’

‘I . . . there was no change of face!’

‘You can’t help us.’

Meares raised his clasped hands and let them fall.

‘So we’ll leave that too,’ Gently said. ‘Along with Virtue’s threats on that occasion. We can perhaps come back to it later when the situation is clearer in your mind.’ He picked up one of the pencils lying on the table and stroked a firm line on a sheet of paper. ‘Here’s a question you can answer – yes or no! Are you certain what clothes you were wearing on Tuesday?’

Meares’s sweating face wavered and his hand shot to his mouth: he half-rose.

‘Right!’ Gently snapped. ‘Get him along to the john.’