Gently Where the Roads Go (13 page)

‘Yes,’ Whitaker said. ‘Nothing overlooks the car park. But if it’s as you say, why did Sawney bother to use the Sten gun – if Teodowicz was dead, where was the point?’

‘He might not have been dead,’ Gently said. ‘Sawney wouldn’t have risked a shot near the station. And then when he did open up, all his lust for vengeance went into it.’ He grinned at Whitaker. ‘Or something,’ he said. ‘I was never much good at spinning a theory. I’m just trying to get a shape that fits the facts where it touches.’

‘Oh yes, it fits,’ Whitaker said.

‘If one could only believe in it. But it calls for a surprising amount of calculation from a man whose first object is to kill. He learns he’s betrayed, he grabs a gun, he rushes off to exact vengeance, and then he embarks on a curious plan of cool-headed misdirection. And yet it worked something like that, because the facts require it. The facts we know, that is. It could be we’re lacking a key part.’

‘Such as Kasimir,’ Whitaker said.

Gently nodded. ‘He could be that factor. Until we know where he fits, there’s a blur in the focus.’

‘You’re thinking he maybe took a hand in it.’

‘I think he’s still playing his cards. But what his game is I can’t fathom. And maybe Empton can tell us that.’

‘Empton,’ Whitaker said. ‘I can’t get over him. I didn’t know blokes like him existed.’

‘Complete with Jaguar,’ Gently said.

The Town Hall clock struck another quarter.

He walked down the High to the Coroner’s Court, which was situated across a small public garden at the back of the Town Hall. The public garden was enclosed by the high walls of surrounding buildings and had a mean, sunless look, with moss growing in the lozenges of thin grass. The Coroner’s Court filled one side of it, a single-storey building of damp brick. A mortuary was attached to it on the left and both bore the date: 1887. People stood about the garden. One or two were wearing mourning. A spruce, plump man moved among them with a subdued, wistful smile. He had a supply of cards which he was discreetly offering. At the door of the court stood two uniformed constables. They touched their helmets as Gently approached. One of them said:

‘I think you’re a bit late, sir.’

Gently checked. ‘How do you mean?’

‘The inquest, sir. It’ll be about over. It’s been going on for half an hour.’

‘Isn’t it at eleven?’

‘Half-past ten, sir.’ The constable looked mildly wondering.

‘I was told eleven.’

‘No sir. Half-past ten. They naturally put it at the top of the list.’

As he was speaking a door near them opened and a number of the pressmen began to push out. They were not in a hurry, began lighting cigarettes, seemed only to wake up when they spotted Gently.

‘Any statement for us yet?’

‘No statement.’

‘Is Sawney in this?’

‘Who’s Sawney?’

‘The bloke whose picture we’re running.’

‘You’ll get a statement from HQ.’

He shoved in at the door against the current of people who were trying to get out. He found himself at the public end of the court, which was long, low and badly lit. Only the local man remained at the press tables and the public gallery was on its feet. Madsen, wearing a cheap but neat blue suit, stood at the bench saying something to the coroner. Felling stood not far behind him, looking sullen. The coroner was scribbling on a piece of paper. He nodded twice and handed the paper to Madsen, Madsen glanced fearfully at Felling, left the court. Felling saw Gently, came down to meet him.

‘There’s been some funny business, sir,’ he muttered. ‘It’s lucky I came down here early. The inquest wasn’t at eleven at all.’

‘What made you think it was at eleven?’

‘That’s where the funny business comes in, sir. Somebody rang my flat during breakfast this morning to say the inquest had been put back till eleven. Said he was calling from the Coroner’s office.’

‘Did he identify himself ?’

‘Yes sir. Said he was the Coroner’s clerk. And his voice didn’t sound unlike Mr Jimpson’s.’

‘Which is Mr Jimpson?’

‘That gentleman there, sir.’

‘Have you asked him about it?’

‘I was just going to tackle him, sir.’

Gently went up to Jimpson, who was now going over a typewritten sheet with the Coroner; a small-featured man with aggressive eyes and close-cropped silver grey hair. He turned sharply at Gently’s approach.

‘Mr Jimpson?’

‘That’s me, sir.’

‘Did you ring Sergeant Felling’s flat this morning to tell him that the inquest had been put back till eleven?’

Jimpson stared frostily at Gently.

‘No sir. I did not.’

‘Would any of your staff have done that?’

‘They would not. Why should they?’

‘Has the time set for the inquest been changed at any point?’

‘No sir. At no point.’

‘Thank you, Mr Jimpson,’ Gently said.

Jimpson said nothing, turned back to the Coroner.

Felling shook his head, looked stupid. ‘I just don’t get this at all, sir,’ he said.

‘Neither do I,’ Gently said. ‘There doesn’t seem to have been any object in it. Where would you have been, if you hadn’t arrived here?’

‘Up at Headquarters, sir, preparing to come.’

‘Which would have meant a delay of five minutes when you were inquired for, and nothing more.’ Gently shrugged. ‘Could it have been a joke?’

Felling looked ugly. ‘It better hadn’t have been, sir.’

‘Was there anything familiar about the voice?’

‘Not that I remember, sir. I took it for Mr Jimpson’s.’

‘No foreign intonation.’

‘No sir,’ Felling said. ‘Just short and sharp, just the way he always speaks.’

Gently nodded slowly. ‘Well . . . you were here on time, whatever the object might have been. Everything went smoothly, did it – nothing unexpected turned up?’

‘Nothing at all, sir,’ Felling said. ‘It was just identification and a postponement.’

‘What was Madsen saying to the Coroner?’

‘Madsen . . . ?’

‘Just now. As I came in.’

‘Oh that – it was about the burial certificate,’ Felling said. ‘Madsen wants to bury him out of town. He’s getting worried, sir, about the publicity. The reporters have been giving him a rough passage. He asked if he could have the funeral at the Westlow Chapel, which is a couple of miles out of Offingham. I didn’t think we had any objection.’

‘He won’t fool anybody,’ Gently said. ‘When is this funeral?’

‘I think it’s later today, sir, if Madsen can put the arrangements through.’

‘It’ll be his best chance,’ Gently said. Suddenly he turned to look down the court. From the dimness of the public gallery at the other end something had faintly, briefly flashed. There was a small commotion in the gallery. A man was squeezing his way towards the door. He wore a dark suit and carried a black trilby and moved sideways, with his back to the court. Gently grabbed Felling’s arm.

‘Come on! I want that man detained.’

‘Who . . . which . . . ?’ Felling gabbled.

The man reached the door. He had begun to run.

Outside the bright sun put Gently at fault for a moment. He stood blinking, looking about the garden, while Felling rushed up behind him.

‘Who is it sir?’

‘Bring those constables!’

Felling shouted instructions to the two men.

Gently caught a quick movement across the garden and set off running towards one of the gates. The street outside was Bullock Street, leading from the Market Place towards the river; a narrow street of slovenly houses with many lane-turnings and yards. The man had gone towards the river. He had disappeared from the street when Gently reached it. There were parked cars in the street, but in that direction, few people. Gently ran on to the first turning. It was a long, empty service lane. He ran to the second. It was a cul-de-sac. An errand boy was cycling slowly down it.

‘Has a man come this way?’ Gently bawled.

‘There’s a bloke ran across the road.’

‘Which way?’

‘Down Boulting Lane.’

A plate over a turning opposite read: Boulting Lane.

Gently crossed over, ran into the lane. Felling and the constables followed after him. The lane slanted downhill between irregular tarred walls of old house-ends, warehouses, scrapyards. Halfway down it a turn revealed a parked truck on to which two men were loading baled waste paper. They stared at Gently, stopped loading the truck.

‘Has a man come by here?’ Gently panted.

‘What sort of a man?’

‘Any sort of a man!’

‘Not in the last ten minutes,’ said the speaker. ‘We haven’t seen nobody, have we, Ted?’

‘No,’ Ted said. ‘We haven’t seen nobody.’

Gently rounded on Felling and the constables. ‘One of you run back to the top of the lane. Stop anybody entering or going out. We’re looking for a man of medium build, about forty, darkish colouring, dark grey lounge suit, black trilby, probably speaks with a slight accent. Detain him by force if necessary.’

The younger constable sprinted back up the lane.

‘You stay here,’ Gently said to the other man. ‘Same instructions. Stop anyone coming or going.’

He paused a moment to get his wind, watched while the younger constable reached his station. Then he said to Felling: ‘You take that side. We’ll work up the lane and flush him out.’

‘Is it this Kasimir bloke?’ Felling breathed.

‘We’ll see when we get him,’ Gently said. ‘Take your time and search thoroughly, and don’t use kid gloves if you tangle with him.’

‘I don’t own kid gloves,’ Felling said. ‘A chummie comes quiet or a chummie is carried.’

They began to search. There were seven entries off the lane. They served a metal scrapyard, a wholesale fruit warehouse, a cardboard-box manufacturer’s warehouse, a paint store, a tyre store, a signwriter’s and a building contractor’s. In six of these seven premises men were working. They gladly left off working to answer questions and watch. They had not seen a man running, had not admitted any stranger. They pointed out places where he might have hid. He was in none of those places. At the top and bottom of the stretch of lane the two constables rocked slowly on their heels. There remained the metal scrapyard with its wire-mesh gates, which were ten feet high. Felling frowned at the gates.

‘It’s here or nowhere, sir,’ he said. ‘But chummie was a bit of a spring-heeled Jack if he sailed over those gates.’

‘Who has the keys to these?’ Gently asked.

‘They’ll be in Cambridge,’ said one of the watchers. ‘Dukey and Son, that’s who owns it. They’ve got a big place in Cambridge.’

‘A big help,’ Felling said. ‘A big help.’

Gently went to the gates, began examining the mesh. The mesh was galvanized but was beginning to rust and at one place the rust had been chafed and showed orange. He examined the mesh a little higher. He found another chafed spot. It was two-and-a-half inch mesh into which a toe could not be effectively inserted. He stood back, ran an eye over the watchers.

‘You,’ he said to a slim youth in a boiler suit. The youth edged forward. ‘Could you climb those gates?’

‘Reckon I could,’ the youth said. ‘Give me time.’

‘You haven’t got time,’ Gently said. ‘You’re in a hurry. You’re belting down the lane with the cops behind you and you see these gates and you want to get over them.’

The youth looked at the gates, narrowing his eyes. ‘Reckon I could,’ he said.

‘Right,’ Gently said. ‘Show me. Go up the lane and take a run at them.’

The youth stared a little, then spit on his hands and stalked some paces up the lane. He came flying back, threw himself at the gates, scrabbled desperately at the mesh and hauled himself up. He waved some bleeding fingers at Gently.

‘Nothing to it,’ he said.

‘The saucy young devil!’ Felling said. ‘Those gates are supposed to be prowler-proof.’

‘Thanks,’ Gently said. ‘You did that nicely. You’d better come down and have the cuts seen to. And perhaps some of you will find us a couple of ladders so we don’t have to tackle the gates the hard way.’

The youth came down and stood sucking his fingers. Two ladders were fetched from the contractor’s yard. Since the gates were on the side which Felling had been searching he took the initiative in climbing over. But he had barely got to the top when Gently said ‘Hold it!’ and the watchers went quiet. Felling stared into the yard. A figure had appeared there. It stood across by the far wall and was brushing the dust from its grey lounge suit.

‘You over there!’ Gently shouted.

The man looked towards them, kept dusting himself. He was standing at the foot of a mound of old gas cookers which may have been thirty feet high. The suit fitted him very well and showed that he had a neat, athletic figure, and as his hands moved the sun glinted from the big stone of his ring. Finally he picked up his hat and dusted that too, settled it squarely on his head. He looked at his hands, flexed the fingers. He began to walk towards the gates.

He came up to the gates. He stood looking through them at Gently. He had walked with a very slight limp. He had dark hair and black-brown eyes and wide cheekbones and a narrow chin. The chin was not a receding chin. The mouth was thin and the corners drooped. The nose was handsome and large. He had no moustache. His tie was not a bow tie. He stood looking through the meshes at Gently. His eyes were steady. But his hands trembled.

‘What’s your name?’ Gently asked.

His lips opened, then he said: ‘Campbell.’

‘Donald Campbell?’

‘Campbell,’ he said.

‘A Scotsman, are you?’

‘That is right. A Scotsman.’

‘Have you any proof of identity?’

‘I am Campbell,’ he said.

‘What were you doing in this yard?’

He shook his head, saying nothing.

‘Good,’ Gently said. ‘So have you any objection to accompanying me to the police station?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘of course. No objection.’

‘Then perhaps you’ll climb over that gate.’

He went to the ladder which was placed his side and mounted it with quick, jerky movements. Felling came down the other ladder and the man stepped over to it and descended into the lane. He looked at nobody. He straightened his suit, felt for the brim of his hat. Then he was suddenly bolting up the lane, slipping by Felling’s clumsy lunge for him.