Gently Where the Roads Go (8 page)

‘That’s the only Sten we’ve got in the place, sir. Don’t ask me when and how it got here – part of the furniture, that’s what it is.’

Gently only glanced at it. ‘Has it never had a barrel?’

‘No sir. Not that I can ever remember.’

‘Have you heard of any buckshee Stens about the station?’

‘No sir. Unless they’ve got some at stores.’

‘Yes,’ Withers said. ‘Never mind the stores, Sergeant, that’s an angle we’re coming to in a couple of minutes.’

‘Well, you never know what they’ve got stuck away there, sir,’ Podmore said.

‘Or alternatively,’ Withers said, ‘what they haven’t. Message received.’

Gently felt in his pocket, brought out the bottle, unwrapped it, stood it on the table.

‘Take a look at that, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Tell me what it means to you.’

Podmore picked it up, turned it, stared with cautious rounded eyes.

‘Just what I think about it, sir?’

‘Yes,’ Gently said. ‘Just what you think about it.’

‘Well sir, I’d say the bloke it belonged to had owned a gun for some time. A bottle like this goes a long way, and he’d emptied the bottle at least once. Then he got it filled with this stuff, which you can’t buy in the shops, so I’d say he was either a serviceman or had a pal who was one. Probably had a pal, sir. Or he’d have been using gun-cleaning fluid in the first place. And I’d like to know,’ Podmore said, ‘who’s been dishing this out to the civvies.’

‘So would I,’ Gently said. ‘You hold supplies of it, do you?’

‘Technical stores do,’ Podmore said. ‘We only draw it as we need it. But there’s plenty here. We’d never miss a little bottlefull like that.’ He looked suddenly through the door. ‘Dusty,’ he said. ‘Come here, Dusty.’

Miller had been shrinking out of the doorway. Now he came back, stood looking shamefaced.

‘Dusty,’ Podmore said. ‘You wouldn’t know anything about this, would you?’

Miller swallowed. ‘I think that’s the bottle the WO had,’ he said.

‘Warrant-Officer Sawney?’ Podmore said.

‘I think it’s the one,’ Miller said. ‘He asked me to fill it with fluid for him. Said he’d bought himself a four-ten.’

‘Sawney,’ Podmore repeated. ‘Warrant-Officer Sawney.’

Withers sighed. ‘I’m afraid this is where our dirty washing becomes public,’ he said.

He dismissed Miller from the office, closed the door and bolted it. He looked wry-faced at Gently. He had a creased face, like a harassed schoolmaster’s.

‘We’ve got the peelers in,’ he said. ‘The service CID from Headquarters. They’re trying to figure out the size of the racket that’s been going on in the stores. They’re trying to find the stores chiefie too. Somebody squeaked and he took off. They reckon he’s flogged off enough stores to set up a brand-new station.’

‘Warrant-Officer Sawney?’ Gently asked.

‘Yes, Sawney,’ Withers said. ‘A cockney fellow, comes from Chiswick. Only had a couple of years to do. A pal of yours, wasn’t he, Jonesie?’

‘No pal of mine,’ Jonesie said. ‘But him and me came here together, we’re two of the old originals, like. But don’t go calling us pals, sir. It will give the Superintendent the wrong impression.’

‘Well, anyway, you knew him,’ Withers said. ‘He always seemed a bit of a spiv – store-bashers do, as a matter of interest, but there was something especially spivvy about Sawney. He’d got a big nose and a wide grin, you always felt he was trying to have you. And long arms, like a gorilla. Used to be a boxing man at one time.’

‘How did you get on to him?’ Gently asked.

‘Somebody squeaked, as I said. They rang the guardroom last Monday night and told us that Sawney was on the flog.’

‘What time was that?’

‘Around twelve thirty a.m. We haven’t been able to trace the call. The corporal who took it says the voice sounded foreign – you know, very correct, but un-English.’ He stopped. He looked hard at Gently. ‘That’s rather absorbing don’t you think?’

‘Very absorbing,’ Gently said. ‘What did the corporal do about it?’

‘Nothing just then,’ Withers said. ‘He thought maybe it was a joke or somebody being malicious. But then, in the morning, he passed it on to me, and I passed it on to the acting CO. And the CO thought he’d better look into it, so he buzzed the stores for Sawney to report to him. And that was where the balloon went up. Sawney wasn’t at the stores, wasn’t at his billet. We called him on the tannoy, asked people to report on him, but no Sawney. He’d taken a powder.’

‘When was he last seen?’ Gently asked.

‘On the Monday night, in the Sergeants’ Mess. He was having his usual beery session, didn’t seem to have anything on his mind. But this is what you might call the pay-off – he had a telephone call, too. According to witnesses it was around twenty-past twelve, and whatever it was it seemed to sober him. He left the mess, drove off in the store’s Hillman, and that’s positively the last we’ve seen of him.’

‘Have you found the van?’

‘Yes,’ Withers said. ‘It was parked in the yard at Baddesley station. Euston one way, Glasgow the other. They remember several airmen, but they can’t pinpoint Sawney.’

‘Is his house covered?’

Withers nodded. ‘Our police can stumble along pretty effectively. His house has been covered since Tuesday afternoon, and we’re reasonably certain he hasn’t contacted his wife. But that telephone call . . . the two telephone calls. In my humble opinion, they add together rather neatly. I think he was warned that we were going to be tipped. I don’t like to surmise any further than that.’

‘Holy St David,’ Jonesie said. ‘You don’t think it was him who duffed up the Pole, sir?’

‘You’re being prematurely conclusive,’ Withers said. ‘You’d better leave that line of thought to the Superintendent.’

‘Yes sir, but I’ve just remembered something,’ Jonesie said. ‘We used to have Poles here in ’forty-three, sir. Flying Whitleys and Halibashers they were in those days, and throwing them around like old prams. And Sawney was thick with some of those Poles, he used to go around and booze with them. It may not mean a bloody blind thing, sir, but I thought the Superintendent might like to know.’

‘Well, fancy,’ Withers said. ‘You could be right, too, Jonesie.’

‘Would you remember any names?’ Gently asked.

‘Gracious no,’ Jonesie said. ‘There’s no remembering Polish names. It takes a Russian to pronounce them.’

‘Nothing like Teodowicz or Kasimir?’

‘Nothing half so simple, sir. But you could get on to Records at Ruislip, sir, they’ll probably still have the documents.’

‘They will indeed,’ Withers said. ‘This is becoming ultra-absorbing. I think you should talk to our peelers, Superintendent. I feel you’re going to have a lot in common.’

‘Yes,’ Gently said, ‘where shall I find them?’

‘In the stores, where else,’ Withers said. ‘I’ll take you over to them now. Before they go to tea, or something.’

T
HURSDAY, FIVE-FORTY-FIVE P.M.
A faint breeze across Huxford airfield. A breeze smelling of sun-dried grass, tansies, one hundred octane and glycol. An arid breeze, spreading the heat collected over the plane geometry of the runways, scarcely lifting the flaps of engine covers or moving the vane above flying-control. Around the perimeter, cycling figures in oil-stained working-dress uniform, soiled webbing side-packs slung over their shoulders, dope-painted mugs clinking on their lamp-brackets; cycling wearily round the great circumference, all proceeding in one direction; converging into groups and a steady stream past the guardroom, towards the domestic sites. Two NCOs stepping briskly. An officer, keeping his eyes to himself. A clay-daubed Works & Bricks truck with navvies sitting on a plank in the back. The tea-time exodous at Huxford, draining personnel from A to B, leaving here a clerk, there a duty man, whose chits had been honoured by the mess earlier. And in the guardroom four SPs. And in the stores, two other men.

The stores was a long, wide Nissen building with khaki-washed plastered ends; having in each end green-painted double doors and at one end a yard enclosed with steel mesh netting. There were notices pinned to one of the doors announcing a clothing parade and details of boot repairs, signed: A. L. W. Sawney, WO, i/c Stores, and incorporating a warning about sabotaged garments. The name appeared again painted on the door opposite, and once more, on a board, on the office door inside. The store interior smelled of concrete dust and leather. Apart from the slab-walled office it was open down its length. Facing the door was a wide counter, beyond it tall ranges of metal rack-shelves, against each wall steel lockers, open crates and bins. The smell of leather came from piles of boots which lay strewn on the floor, a ticket tied to each pair.

Withers led in, and into the office. It was a small room cluttered with metal filing cabinets. At a desk sat a bold-faced man in rank uniform noting details from some forms on to a sheet of paper. Beside him, on his knees at a filing cabinet drawer, a flight-sergeant was staring at some forms out of a file.

‘Squadron-Leader Campling,’ Withers said. ‘This is Superintendent Gently of Scotland Yard. He’s making inquiries about the death of that Pole, and it seems likely that they may coincide with your inquiries.’

Campling looked at both of them without saying anything for a moment. He had brown eyes under thick brows, a straight thick nose, a dimpled chin. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ He rose and stuck out his hand. ‘I heard you were down here on the Teodowicz case. I didn’t think I was going to meet you.’

Gently shrugged. ‘Teodowicz was killed with a Sten gun,’ he said. ‘We naturally want to know where it came from, and Huxford is nearest and handiest.’

‘Yes, it is,’ Campling said. ‘Are you having any luck?’

‘Not as yet. But I’ve a feeling that I’m getting quite warm.’

Campling said: ‘Hah,’ and exchanged looks with the flight-sergeant. ‘I think you’re more than warm,’ he said. ‘I think you’re smack on the target. Brennan,’ he said to the flight-sergeant, ‘show the Superintendent what we found. It did flit through my mind that there might be a connection.’

Brennan got up off his knees. ‘Out in the store, sir,’ he said. He opened the counter-flap, turned right, went down the aisle next to the outer wall. A bored-looking corporal lounged in the aisle, a cigarette concealed under his hand. He winced slightly and vanished among the rack-shelves, leaving the smell of cigarette smoke behind him. From across the store came the gulping sound of someone pouring liquid from a Thermos.

‘This is it, sir,’ Brennan said, stopping at a gap between two lockers. ‘You’ll notice how the curve of the Nissen wall leaves a space behind these fixtures. There was a dump of obsolete gas equipment in this gap, stuff that ought to have been returned to Central Stores, and we just happened to move it, out of curiosity, and this is what we spotted behind a locker.’

He pointed to a small, stout wooden case which stood on the floor between the lockers. It was about twenty inches by twelve, had two rope handles, was painted with a green wood preservative. On the lid was roughly stencilled:
STEN MK II 6 AM
.

‘What’s inside it?’ Gently said.

Brennan reached down, lifted the lid. The lid had originally been nailed into place but it had been prized up and stood loose on the nail points. The case contained five guns, two above, three below; a number of long, narrow magazines; and the space for a sixth gun.

‘Any ammunition?’ Gently asked.

‘Yes sir.’

Brennan opened the door of a locker. He removed a number of empty cartons from the lowest shelf, and finally an unpainted wooden box. In the wooden box were three cardboard boxes and in each cardboard box two fibre cartons. The cartons each contained 250 rounds of 9 mm rimless (Sten) ammunition. There was a fourth box. This was empty.

‘Are these shown on the inventory?’ Gently asked.

‘Not on any inventory we’ve found,’ Brennan said. ‘But they’re not alone when it comes to that. About half this stuff isn’t on the inventory.’

‘What have the stores people got to say about it?’

‘They’re pleading ignorance.’ Brennan made a grimace. ‘They’re blaming the whole thing on Sawney. But we’ve hardly got started on them. Yet.’

Gently nodded. ‘Take charge of this stuff. Try not to handle it more than you have to.’

‘Yes,’ Brennan said. ‘Don’t worry about that, sir. I’ve done some training down at Ryton.’

Gently returned to the office. Campling sat toying with a retractable ball pen.

‘Well?’ he said, snapping the pen. ‘Is it homicide as from now?’

Gently shrugged, looked round for a seat, settled for a toolbox stood on end. Withers was squatting on another box and puffing evenly at a Lovat-pattern briar.

‘Tell me about this business,’ Gently said. ‘What’s the extent of it? How long has it gone on? What were the channels Sawney was using? Who do you think was in it with him?’

Campling grinned, snapped the pen. ‘Easy questions, difficult answers. We haven’t got to the bottom of this thing yet, but I’ll give you a run-down as far as we’ve gone. The racket was a pretty steady racket. It’d been going on for at least two years. During that time . . . these are very rough figures . . . I’d say that Sawney netted around fifteen thousand pounds. It may have been a good deal less than that, it depends on what he got for the stuff. And it wouldn’t all be going into his pocket. There had to be someone else in the deal.’