by Alan Hunter
‘He just told me a man. I didn’t ask for a sodding description.’
Gently gave him an incredulous look.
‘All right – that’s all for now!’
Shavers hastened after his friend, and Leyston let them out into the night. Claydon sat straighter in his chair and, with shaky fingers, lit one more cigarette.
‘Could it be true – about the Group Captain?’
‘You had better forget what you’ve just heard.’
‘I’m no gossip, but all the same . . .’ He took a Iungful of smoke straight down. ‘Is that fellow a suspect?’
‘I said, forget it.’
Leyston had come back to stand in the doorway; he sniffed the atmosphere once or twice. Claydon was squinting at the account books again.
FIVE
HAD GENTLY REALLY taken over that case, lock and stock, shouldering poor Leyston to one side? If he had not, then now was surely the time to bow out gracefully and get back to his paint-brushes. He had opened the affair up; that afternoon, virtually all Leyston had got was a corpse. Now, Gently had laid out the groundwork, stirring up leads that an application of routine would probably make productive. It was as much as the Chief Constable had asked, and more – and no doubt that Leyston was itching to get rid of him!
Only . . . was it quite so simple?
Gently brooded over the matter as they headed away from the bookshop. For example, in Capel he had a pick-lock to the local society who was probably unavailable to Leyston. Then there was Shavers, an element that Leyston might find himself ill-equipped to handle; while on the horizon, shaping plainer and plainer, was a man who might baffle him altogether. The real battle was about to begin: was it fair to leave the local man to cope on his own?
At the door of the police station, he hesitated.
‘Is there a pub that serves decent food?’
‘There’s the Smacksman . . . I was calling there anyway.’
‘Like that, we can kill two birds with one stone.’
The Smacksman was a pub on the town’s narrow promenade, close to the shingle and the lifeboat station. There, sitting with bread and cheese and a pint, he watched Leyston tackle the locals: first the landlord, then a group of darts-players, among whom was a hard-framed man with pitted features.
‘That fellow is Yaxley, the wholesaler . . he confirms what Moulton told us. So does Neal, the landlord, who knows Moulton well.’
‘Sit down and help yourself to a snack.’
‘I was thinking I ought to get back to the station.’
‘This will give you time to think. That’s part of the job, too.’
Leyston ate and drank hungrily, but if he was thinking his thoughts were gloomy, and several times Gently caught the local inspector eyeing him uncertainly. Leyston was no fool. He could probably see what was lying ahead as clearly as Gently, and obviously he wasn’t liking what he saw. At the same time, it was Leyston’s case . . .
Finally, Gently glanced at his watch.
‘I shall have to get back. My wife is expecting a call from me, later.’
Leyston received the announcement in silence, his face if possible growing longer.
‘You will need to cross-check on Shavers and turn up anyone who was using that back road yesterday afternoon. And at the same time keep probing around until you identify the boyfriend.’
Leyston drank up.
‘Does that mean I won’t be seeing you again . . . sir?’
‘It’s your case,’ Gently shrugged.
Leyston gazed into his mug.
‘I was hoping that perhaps . . .’
‘Perhaps . . .?’
‘Well, sir, the Group Captain . . . I shall need to talk to him.’
And that was it. Leyston ventured a glance, then went on staring at the mug.
‘You’d like to have me sit in?’
‘It’s this way, sir . . . I’m local here, but you aren’t. I could put my foot in it, but with you it doesn’t matter one way or the other.’
‘You’re forgetting I’m local too, now.’
‘You know what I mean, sir – you’re the Yard.’
‘I doubt if that will cut much ice with Riddlesworth.’
‘All the same, sir . . . if you can spare the time . . .’
What Leyston was never going to admit was that he, Gently, would be starting on something like equal terms, while Leyston, the local man, stood every chance of being brushed aside. To Leyston, the Group Captain must look formidable, the retired hero who was also a big noise, and perhaps even a sidekick of the Chief Constable’s. What it called for was talent from town!
‘Riddlesworth did say he wanted to help us.’
‘That’s what he’d say in any case, sir.’
‘So we’ll take him at his word.’
‘As I see it, sir, he’s got to know something.’
Gently nodded: at every turn, there had been pointers towards Riddlesworth, from Capel, the bookseller and the girls down to the suspect evidence of Moulton. The Group Captain had questions to answer . . . though whether he would answer them was a different matter.
‘Very well. We’ll see him together.’
In his sad-faced way, Leyston looked relieved.
‘If you’re free in the morning . . .’
Gently shook his head. ‘The evening is still young – we’ll see him tonight.’
Down at the Maltings the mist was now so thick that Gently had to grind along in second, while the floodlit face of the inn was barely visible as they crept by. Just there, the road faded into the yard where the lorries pulled in to load and unload, and into this they must have strayed, since suddenly Gently was standing on his brakes to avoid hitting a wall.
‘It’s the wall of his garden . . . safe to park here, sir.’
Outside the mist was raw and smelled of decay. For a moment Gently was completely disoriented, but then he found the wall again and could feel his way along it. They came to open wrought-iron gates, gravel that crunched, and at last steps leading to a door. Leyston rang, and a light fizzed above them. It was Riddlesworth himself who answered the ring.
‘Hullo . . . isn’t it a bit late for you fellows?’
‘If we could just have a word, sir.’
Riddlesworth stared at them flatly for a second, then stood back to let them in.
They entered a warm, well-furnished hall with a carpet laid over coloured tiles, from which a staircase with wrought-iron rails led to a lounge-landing. Riddles-worth however led them along smartly to a door at the end of the hall. He switched on lights, and they found themselves in a room lined with books.
‘My private sanctum.’
He closed the door and pointed to two chairs. Besides the books, framed photographs and paintings of aircraft occupied the walls. A big desk was covered with papers and beside it stood two filing-cabinets. On a stand, on a small table, stood a silver model of a four-engined bomber.
Riddlesworth strutted across to the latter and spun the propellers.
‘Do you recognize the mark?’
‘A Halifax,’ Gently shrugged.
‘The finest heavy bomber of them all.’
And in fact, when you looked round the room, every picture and photograph was of the same aircraft, each in its wartime livery of camouflage and black. Some were flying, some parked on dispersals, some had covers drooping from their engines. On the ground they looked particularly menacing, with their noses and engines cocked high.
‘You remember the Halys?’
‘I remember them.’
Riddlesworth took the model from its stand. He held it up as though it were in flight, his almost lidless eyes caressing it.
‘I’d back a Halibasher against the world . . . it’s because of a Haly that I’m alive today. You could shoot them to bits and they’d still hang together . . . yet some people have forgotten they ever existed.’
‘All the publicity went to the Lancaster . . .’
‘The Lanc was a cow, you can take
it from me. It hadn’t the guts – look at this airframe, the strength of the lines, the wings, the fins. This was an aircraft to do a job, and take its medicine if it had to. Do you know what I’m up to? I’m writing a book to give the Haly its proper place in history.’
‘To settle a bet . . . weren’t there one or two Halifaxes equipped with Hercules engines?’
‘You’re absolutely right. In fact, I had the offer of one, but turned it down because the handling was different. And that’s odd, when you come to think of it, since I was brought up on Peggies and Hercs. Remember Peggies? They had that little whistle, like a bird twittering to itself in flight . . .’
He was gazing fondly at the model, when in a flash it happened: Gently found himself staring at a different man. It was almost eerie; over the tight, frozen features floated the mask of a handsome youngster, full-mouthed, frank-eyed, brown hair falling over a determined brow. Like a ghost it hovered about the sub-structure, the cruel caricature left behind by the surgeons: the ghost of a young man who had retreated behind the eyes, but who now, in a moment of enthusiasm, had rematerialized.
Involuntarily, Gently blurted out:
‘In those days . . . did you drive an M.G.?’
‘What? It was an S.S. actually, a lovely little car that went like a bomb. Ever drive one?’
Gently shook his head.
‘I’ve stayed with the marque. Now I drive a Jag.’
Had Leyston noticed? Probably not; the Shinglebourne inspector sat twiddling his hands. This was Gently’s picnic, his attitude said: he, Leyston, was accepting his role of passenger.
But Hannah – wouldn’t she have noticed it, with that sympathy that could extend even to a Shavers . . . and wouldn’t that ghost have rushed to materialize in the kind light of her eyes?
‘Was yours a wartime marriage?’
‘Sue was the daughter of my first C.O. on squadron. Sue Gresham. We were married with a full turnout and an armed guard of erks. But mostly it was services of another kind in those days, with a bugler and a volley over the grave . . .’
‘For her, it must have been a harrowing time.’
Without a moment’s hesitation Riddlesworth pointed to his face.
‘You mean this?’
‘Among other things.’
‘Yes . . . well, Sue was an officer’s daughter.’
He blew on the model, setting the props spinning.
‘Actually, I did offer Sue an out. But she was a brick, she stood by me, and it’s turned out pretty well. We’ve got three children, two boys and a girl. Girl’s married to an underwriter in the city. Eldest son is training fighter-pilots. Youngest is studying to be a composer.’
‘Music means a lot to you.’
‘If Mark has talent, it certainly doesn’t come from me. Rattling off “In the Mood” on the mess piano was the limit of my achievement.’
‘But music is important.’
‘I do my best to go on building up the Festival.’
‘Hannah Stoven was a violinist.’
Riddlesworth’s eyes flickered. ‘Yes. What a bloody waste of talent.’
‘She did have talent, then?’
‘She was wasting it, anyway . . .’
‘Did you ever hear her play?’
‘Yes, once.’
‘Where was that?’
His eyes were quite steady. ‘Up at her place.’
‘I hadn’t heard she invited people there.’
‘Well . . . once she invited me. We used to talk music. There was a Brahms score which I never knew existed. She had it. One of the dances. She took me back and played it to me. Marvellous. She was as good as her father in my humble opinion.’
‘Did you try to encourage her?’
‘What do you think? And Capel tried to inveigle her into his lot. No use. She was shy as a gazelle when it came to a public performance.’
‘Yet . . . she played for you.’
‘Once.’
‘It still puts you in a special category.’
Riddlesworth ran his fingers along the row of propellers.
‘I say! I haven’t yet offered you fellows a drink.’
A decanter, siphon and glasses stood on a tray on a sidetable, and Riddlesworth, without enquiring about individual tastes, mixed three whisky-and-sodas.
‘Here’s mud.’
He threw back his drink and returned the glass to the tray. Then he picked up the model again and came to take a chair facing Gently’s.
‘You know, I’ve had a word with Sir Tom about you.’
Gently was scarcely surprised. ‘You know him?’
‘Pretty well. He’s a Festival buff and he lives at Earl’s Newton, a few miles off. Says you’re pretty top brass at the Yard and I should watch my step. Would you say that was true?’
Gently sipped his drink.
‘So what exactly do you want with me?’
There was no young man showing in the face now: just the mask the surgeons had created, tight, frozen, with the mouth a gash.
Gently said mildly: ‘We’re questioning everyone who we think may be able to help us.’
‘I’m all for that, of course. But precisely how does it apply to me?’
‘It would be useful to know when you last saw Hannah.’
‘I doubt if it would, but I’m game. It was two days ago, in town. I met her on her way to Claydon’s. Then I saw her again a little later, when I was enquiring after a book.’
‘You had conversation with her?’
‘Just chit-chat.’
‘About what?’
‘Oh, this and that. Mostly about the book I’m hunting for, which contains an account of the early daylight raids.’
‘The book is waiting for you.’
‘Really?’
‘Yesterday, Hannah was apparently expecting to meet you. The book had come in, and Hannah told Claydon that if she saw you, she would let you know.’
Riddlesworth sawed the model back and forth.
‘Well, she didn’t see me, and that’s flat.’
‘But why would she expect she might?’
‘Couldn’t say. Unless she thought I would be down at the yacht club.’
‘But you no longer keep a yacht.’
‘I still look in there. Old habits die hard.’
‘So that often you met her there?’
‘Sometimes. But yesterday wasn’t one of them.’
‘She never told you about the book.’
He shook his head abruptly.
‘Yesterday afternoon, you didn’t see her?’
‘No.’
‘It might help to have your movements from, say, after lunch yesterday.’
The thin line of Riddlesworth’s mouth curled crookedly, and he performed a number of the manoeuvres with the model. He wasn’t going to be rushed; behind his mask he was clearly testing a decision. Yet, for all his seeming straightforwardness, one had to set a question mark beside Riddlesworth. If he had to lie, it would probably be with the same firm assurance with which he told the truth.
‘I couldn’t prove them, you know.’
‘That may not matter.’
‘As a suspect, I’d be a sitting duck.’
‘We are simply seeking your help.’
‘Nice of you to say so, but I’ve sat on a few court-martials in my time. I can see your point of view. I knew the girl over a period and even visited her at her home. She was attractive, sympathetic, and might even have been persuaded to overlook this.’ He gestured to his face. ‘And then – one thing leading to another – she might easily have become a problem. You may think I am a man with something to lose, not to mention a penny in the bank. That’s a reasonable assessment, isn’t it? I wouldn’t blame you for making it.’
Gently said evenly: ‘We look at all the possibilities.’
‘You would be a fool if you didn’t. And – though you haven’t met Sue – she would certainly have entered your calculations. I told you that she stood by me, but how long does
one stand by a man like myself? Ten years? Twenty? In the end, wouldn’t loyalty wear a little thin? So I would be easy meat for a young lady like Hannah, who might well have had ambitions to be the second Mrs Riddlesworth. Then I would have been at a crossroads, wouldn’t I? And I’m a man who has seen a bit of violence.’
‘You might also have been disturbed if she had threatened to break it off.’
Riddlesworth gave the model a jerk.
‘I didn’t think of that.’
‘And perhaps more disturbed if she were throwing you over for another.’
He started toying with the model again, making it sweep up and down in dives and climbs. No, you couldn’t rush him! He was used to taking time to look all round a proposition. That had been his training: when the chips were down to stay cool, take the right decision . . .
‘Do you remember the Stirling?’
Gently said nothing.
‘The Stirling was a brute of a kite . . . electrical undercart. They lost more Stirlings on circuits and bumps than they did on ops. Some structural weakness too. I saw one come down through cloud cover in a steep dive, pull out too flat and break its back, snapping it off clean at the taper . . . curtains all round, of course, and a bloody great hole in a field. Problem was we didn’t know if it was carrying a bomb-load. Three-oh-three going off in all directions.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Poured in foam regardless. Fire crew deserved medals, but didn’t get them.’
‘Where were you?’
‘Directing the sods. It happened on a day when I was duty officer.’
Gently sipped his drink, and Leyston, from the sidelines, contributed a dry little cough. Riddlesworth continued to make swoops with the model, apparently to illustrate the incident he had just related.
‘War is one thing, strangling girls another.’
‘Who told you that Hannah was strangled?’
‘Saw it. I was down on the quay when the fellow towed her in. He’s clear, is he?’
Gently watched him.
‘Believe it or not, but I bloody wept. I came back here and had a couple of drinks and sat blubbing in that chair. I couldn’t tell Sue.’
‘Had your wife met her?’
‘Hannah and her father too. They were at the Festival. Girl was happy then, when she was going about with her father.’