by Alan Hunter
Empty. Silent. The man had never entered the building. Gently checked through it quickly, no longer cautious. Since the shooting ten or twelve minutes had passed. The man had retreated through the fields after the shooting. The man wasn’t obsessed by his intention to kill Gently. The man was acting intelligently to retrieve his rashness. His retreat had perhaps taken him clear of the cordon which would be a local one concentrated on The Raven. Gently went to the phone, dialled, waited.
‘Superintendent Gently. Is the cordon in position?’
‘Yes sir,’ the station sergeant replied. ‘They should’ve set it up by now, sir.’
‘Are you in contact?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘I want the cordon set wider. The chummie has taken off from The Raven and is somewhere in the area north of it. He’s been gone over ten minutes. I want a cordon with a radius of two miles.’
‘Yes sir. I’ve got that, sir. But I don’t know if we’ve got the men, sir.’
‘Get on to the next county. We’re after a killer. Contact the army if that’ll be quicker.’
He put down the phone, turning suddenly. A man was standing in the kitchen doorway. The man had a gun pointed at Gently. The man was Felling. His eyes were squinting.
‘All right,’ Gently snapped. ‘Drop the gun. Our man has gone.’
Felling swayed a little. He was trembling. Then he relaxed. He lowered the gun.
Whitaker came in with Rice and Freeman. The two detective constables were carrying guns.
‘We’ve just caught your message on the radio,’ Whitaker said. ‘What’s been going on out here?’
Gently hunched. ‘It’s the way you heard it. The chummie has legged it across the fields. He came out of his hole to take a pot at me and I managed to get between him and the hole. He did some more shooting and I had to draw off. He didn’t wait. That’s the story.’
‘Who is it – Sawney?’ Whitaker asked.
‘No, not Sawney,’ Gently said.
‘Not Sawney?’
Gently shook his head. ‘A stranger. A Pole, I think he is.’
‘Did you get a look at him?’
‘In a sort of way.’ Gently’s eyebrows lifted, slanted. ‘He showed his face at a window for a moment, then he started shooting. I had to leave.’
‘So what’s he like?’ Whitaker said.
‘About fifty, tallish,’ Gently said. ‘High cheekbones, big chin, mid-brown hair, flattish nose, eyes paleish, deep lines. He can use a Sten but he isn’t an expert.’
‘He was using a Sten?’
‘He was using a Sten.’
‘You’ve got a guardian angel,’ Whitaker said. ‘I’d still have been running if he’d fired at me. Even one bullet makes me nervous. But this is a turn-up,’ he said. ‘If he isn’t Sawney, who the devil is he?’
‘Mrs Lane knows,’ Gently said. ‘But Mrs Lane isn’t telling.’
‘And he was hiding here?’
‘Under her bedroom. And the hideout wasn’t thought up in a hurry. I think there was a good deal of planning in this, I think it dates back further than Saturday.’
‘Hah,’ Whitaker said. ‘Sounds like Empton.’
‘No,’ Gently said. ‘Non-political. This is the crime of an individual. A crime of revenge. But not Sawney’s. Perhaps if we get those Polish records from Huxford we’ll be able to spot what’s happened. Or maybe it’s a job for Interpol, perhaps they can tell us more about Teodowicz.’
‘Or perhaps chummie will talk,’ Whitaker said. ‘He won’t get far. I’ve got the dogs coming.’
‘He’s got the gun,’ Gently said.
‘Yes,’ Whitaker said. ‘But he’s one man.’
The dogs arrived in a van. Two Alsatians with bloody eyes. They yelped and whined and heaved on their leads as they dragged their handlers into Wanda’s bedroom. Wanda was sitting in the parlour under the supervision of Rice. Her small mouth was very small, she didn’t have any smile in her eyes. The dogs yelped around the cavity. Freeman got in, handed up the mattress. The dogs fell on the mattress, tread on it, snuffing it, dragging out the smell of the man who had the gun. Their tails swept busily, they quivered, trembled. Their black muzzles poked everywhere. They stood off, gave voice.
One of the handlers said: ‘Where shall we start them, sir?’
‘Bring them round to the back,’ Gently said.
The dogs were brought there. They whined and snuffled, followed trails and cross-trails in and out of the yard. Then one of them lifted its wedge-shaped head and bayed wolf-like from the depth of its throat. It started forward: it went straight down the garden. The second dog yelped and struggled after it. Beyond the gap they were baffled temporarily, but then picked up the fresher scent and pointed out over the field. Gently, Whitaker, Felling followed after the handlers. Freeman came last, wearing a walkie-talkie set. The field was a stubble field about two hundred yards deep. The trail led towards a gate beside which was a stile.
Whitaker said: ‘These dogs will sort him out. I’d sooner have a dog than a gun any day. How far are we behind?’
‘Half an hour,’ Gently said.
‘But there’s the cordon,’ Whitaker said. ‘He’s got to beat that, don’t forget.’
Gently didn’t say anything.
‘Don’t you think the cordon will hold him?’ Whitaker said.
Gently hunched. ‘This fellow is a planner.’
‘But he didn’t plan for this kind of thing,’ Whitaker said. ‘Not being hunted by dogs across open country. He couldn’t have seen that coming off.’
‘He was planning to leave somehow,’ Gently said.
‘No,’ Whitaker said. ‘We’ve busted his plan for him.’
Felling was walking along silently. He had his gun holster unbuttoned.
They came to the field gate. The dogs barked at it. The gate was opened for them. They went ahead. Snuffling, gasping, heaving, whimpering, they dragged across a plot on which kale had been grown. Part of the kale crop was uncut and stood on the right in a green reef. The trail passed close along the line of the standing kale, turned round the far side of it, entered a spinney of tall elms.
‘Spread out here,’ Whitaker ordered. ‘We don’t want to run into him in a bunch.’
The men spread out among the elms. They trampled the underbrush noisily. Felling stayed on the track hard behind the two handlers. The trail followed the track. The track had been rutted by cartwheels. It bore left, passed an empty cart lodge, ran out of the trees, became a lane. In the lane a uniformed man was standing. He wore a gun. He had his hand on the gun.
‘Anderson!’ Whitaker bawled. ‘Seen any signs of him yet?’
Anderson’s hand went to his helmet. ‘No sir,’ he said. ‘Haven’t seen a soul, sir.’
‘What are you doing this way, man?’
‘I thought I’d close up, sir,’ Anderson said. ‘The army are putting down a cordon behind us. Thought I’d close up towards The Raven.’
‘Well, you can drop that idea, man,’ Whitaker said. ‘Tag along with the dogs, we can probably use you.’
They followed the lane. It ran between high hedges on which bunches of green berries had begun to redden. The dogs were never in any doubt, bullocked and snorted their way along it. Some distance ahead, beyond a screen of trees, one heard the occasional buzz of a vehicle. When he heard this noise Whitaker frowned. The noises became louder as they advanced.
‘What road would that be?’ Gently asked.
‘The Bedford road,’ Whitaker said.
‘Does this lane join it?’
‘Don’t know,’ Whitaker said. ‘Would we join the road, Felling?’
‘Yes sir,’ Felling said. ‘We join it. About four or five miles above Baddesley.’
Whitaker didn’t comment, continued to frown, walked a little closer to the dogs.
They came up with the trees, which were a belt of poplars. They made on the left a small grove. An opening, flanked by old posts, gave access to the grove, and through the o
pening could be seen a hut. The hut was old and had felt peeling from its roof. It had double doors, not quite closed. Through the roof a rusty chimney projected and upturned over this was an empty tin. The printing on the tin was fresh printing. The dogs turned in here. They pointed to the hut.
‘Hold them back!’ Whitaker commanded. ‘Nobody to approach that hut without orders. Felling, you take Freeman and Anderson, cover the hut from the rear.’
‘Are we to shoot?’ Felling said.
‘If he bolts,’ Whitaker said. ‘But at the legs, Felling, at the legs. Unless he’s blasting with the gun.’
Felling searched the hedge, found a gap to force, went through it followed by Freeman and Anderson. The dogs were hauling and struggling, but silent, their red eyes glowing at the hut. Whitaker turned to one of the handlers.
‘Give your gun to the Superintendent. When Felling’s set you’re to take your dog up while the Super and I give you cover. I’ll give the fellow a chance to come out. If he doesn’t, pull a door open and let the dog in. Palmer, you’ll let the other dog go. Keep on the ground, Jackson, when you get to the hut. You’ve got the idea?’
‘Yes sir,’ Jackson said.
‘I’m putting you in because you’re single,’ Whitaker said. ‘Sorry, man. It’s a blasted job.’
‘I don’t mind, sir,’ Jackson said.
Thirty seconds passed. They saw Felling. He was to the left of the hut, behind a tree. He looked at them, raised his, hand warningly, looked behind the hut, kept it raised. Ten seconds later he lowered it.
‘Right, Jackson,’ Whitaker said.
Jackson went forward, his dog galloping, got to the hut, threw himself flat. Nothing stirred in the hut. Jackson had hold of the dog by its collar.
Whitaker shouted: ‘You in there! We are the police, and we’ve got you surrounded. We are armed and we have dogs. I’m giving you ten seconds to come out. Come out with your hands above your head. I’m beginning to count now.’
Whitaker counted: One bloody second, two bloody seconds, up to ten. Nobody came out of the hut. Whitaker flashed his hand downwards. Jackson ripped open one of the doors, slipped the dog, rolled sideways. The dog crashed in through the door, snarling, clashing its white teeth. The other dog shot forward simultaneously. It went through the door. Both dogs were barking. Jackson scrambled up, ran into the hut. Palmer ran forward too. Whitaker ran. Gently walked.
‘Oh, the bastard!’ Whitaker said, staring.
The hut was empty except for two petrol cans. On the earthen floor were a number of oil stains and also the clear marks of car tyres. The dogs barked. They ran about excitedly. They wagged their tails. They whined at their handlers.
Gently said to Freeman: ‘Get this message through directly. The wanted man has escaped in a car by way of the Bedford–Baddesley Road. Make and registration number unknown. The existing cordons to be called in. Set up road checks outside towns within a fifty mile radius and particularly on the London approaches. The man is armed and dangerous.’
‘Roger, sir,’ Freeman said, and began to speak into his microphone.
Whitaker was flushed, his eyes were angry. ‘I’m a stupid so-and-so,’ he said. ‘You’re right, this bloke isn’t a rabbit, he’d got his escape route ready waiting. What else can we do?’
‘We can try to find out the make and number of the car,’ Gently said. ‘The car has been garaged here for over a week. Somebody ought to know something about it.’
‘Anderson!’ Whitaker called, looking round. Anderson came up, still carrying his gun. ‘Put that away,’ Whitaker said. ‘Anderson, who does this hut belong to?’
‘It belongs to the farm, sir,’ Anderson said. ‘Holly Tree Farm, a Mr Lemmon.’
‘How far away?’
‘About half a mile, sir.’
‘We’ll get over there,’ Whitaker said. ‘Palmer, Jackson, you take the dogs back. That was a nice piece of work, Jackson. Felling, you’d better come with us. And Freeman too, we may need the jukebox.’
They continued along the lane to its junction with the Bedford–Baddesley road, turned right, followed the road to a second junction, beside which stood milk churns. A rutted drive led to a farmhouse with a straw thatched roof. A woman wearing an apron answered the door. They were shown into a kitchen where two men sat eating. The elder of the two rose.
‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘Hullo.’
‘Mr Lemmon?’ Whitaker said.
‘Farmer Lemmon,’ the man said. ‘Joe Anderson here can tell you that.’
‘We’re trying to apprehend a man,’ Whitaker said. ‘We’ve tracked him into your hut in the poplar plantation. He appears to have had a car there. We’d like some information about that car.’
‘About the car, eh?’ Lemmon said. He was a broad-framed man with a thick-featured face. ‘Well, I don’t know a damn sight about that car. I never saw it. Did you, Phil?’
‘No, I never saw it,’ the younger man said. ‘Been too busy cutting to nose around.’
‘But I can tell you who owns it,’ Lemmon said. ‘And I reckon you can get your information from him. It’s a foreign bloke what comes from Offingham – Madling, Madson, that’s what his name is.’
‘Ove Madsen?’ Gently said.
‘Ah, that’d be it,’ Lemmon said. ‘Comes from Offingham, runs a truck. He shifted some stuff for me at one time.’
‘Madsen,’ Whitaker said. ‘Madsen. Madsen!’
‘How long had the car been there?’ Gently said.
‘Last Saturday, wasn’t it?’ Lemmon said to Phil. ‘Ah, last Saturday. He dropped by after tea. He’d bought this car, he said, and he hadn’t space for it, would I mind him sticking it in the old hut. I said no, it wouldn’t eat any grass, he could stick it there till he got rid of it. Come up here driving a green van . . . wait a minute. Wasn’t he the partner of that bloke what got murdered?’
‘Madsen,’ Whitaker said. ‘Can we use your phone, sir?’
‘Help yourself,’ Lemmon said. ‘It’s in the hall.’
‘He’ll be at the crematorium,’ Felling said, looking at his watch. ‘He got the funeral fixed up for four-thirty.’
‘He’ll be at the what?’ Gently said, catching Felling’s wrist.
‘At the crematorium, sir.’ Felling looked at Gently, looked away.
‘You didn’t tell me it was to be a cremation,’ Gently said.
‘The Westlow Chapel, sir,’ Felling said. ‘I didn’t think to mention it was a crematorium.’
Gently released Felling’s wrist, brushed by Whitaker into the hall. He picked up the phone book, flipped through it, picked up the phone, dialled.
‘Westlow Chapel?’ Gently said. ‘Superintendent Gently, CID. You have a cremation service in progress, subject Timoshenko Teodowicz. Stop the service immediately. The cremation must not proceed. If possible, detain the chief mourner, Ove Madsen. We’ll have men out there directly.’
He broke the connection, dialled again.
‘Superintendent Gently,’ he said. ‘I want a car sent out to Westlow Chapel to bring in Ove Madsen for questioning. Also make arrangements to collect the body of Teodowicz from Westlow Chapel. Yes . . . Teodowicz’s body. Please attend to it directly.’
He broke the connection. Whitaker was staring at him.
‘What the devil’s all this about?’ Whitaker said.
Gently shrugged, dialled again, hooked up a chair and sat down on it. Whitaker shook his big head, looked at Felling. Felling was silent.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SUPERINTENDENT GENTLY,’ GENTLY said. ‘Put me through to the stores, please.’ He sat with his elbow on the hall table, his eyes dreamy, looking at nothing. Felling had shoved the kitchen door closed but through it came the drone of Lemmon’s voice. There was also the clink of cutlery on plates and the sound of someone stirring his tea. ‘Squadron-Leader Campling?’ Gently said.
‘Speaking,’ Campling returned. ‘I’m glad you’ve rung. We’ve got some results here you may find interesting., I’ve your Sup
erintendent Empton with me, I think you’d better talk to him.’
‘Is Brennan with you?’ Gently asked.
‘Yes,’ Campling said. ‘I’m handing you over.’
Empton came on. ‘Hallo, old man,’ Empton said. ‘So glad I looked in here instead of going straight back to London. How is progress with you?’
‘What have you got?’ Gently said.
‘A small item of detail,’ Empton said. ‘Something that required my frivolous knowledge. Those Polish records have come in. I’ve spent the afternoon going through them. I’ve also interrogated that little Welshman – Jones. You know the one I mean?’
‘Yes, I know him,’ Gently said.
‘A remarkable memory he’s got,’ Empton said. ‘Not always available to a straight question, but the stuff’s there. If you put in a ferret.’
‘So?’ Gently said.
‘So,’ Empton said, ‘I had him go through the records with me. He began to remember names and people, to recall little things that had gone on. Like a couple of Poles who’d been friends with Sawney, a sergeant-pilot and one of their policemen. Sawney was great buddies with these two. They used to prang the boozers together. And this fascinated me very much because of what the records said about them. They both came from the same town in Poland – the town of Grodz. Does it strike a chord?’
‘Teodowicz came from there,’ Gently said.
‘I thought you might have forgotten,’ Empton said. ‘But you’re so right, it’s the same town, the three of them all came from Grodz. The sergeant-pilot was called Kielce – my pronunciation is authentic – and he was lost on a spy-dropping raid over Holland. The policeman returned to Poland after the war and went into the diplomatic service. At present he’s on attachment in London. Isn’t that a coincidence? Guess his name.’