Gently Between Tides

by Alan Hunter

  ‘Moulton’s name wasn’t mentioned?’

  ‘I’m telling you . . . now can I get a word in? You were on about a car parked up at the gorses, and that’s why I rang you in the first bleeding place.’

  Gently shifted his grip. ‘A car . . .?’

  ‘Yes . . . and it wasn’t my car, either! Your dozy slop has been talking to Sid Norton, who saw me loading mine down at the yard.’

  ‘So who saw the other car?’

  ‘Chiefie, this isn’t a con. It was Bob Gourbold’s missus who saw it. They live in a cottage near Bodney Church, and yesterday she biked into Thwaite to shop. So she sees this car pulled in at the gorses and thinks maybe it’s a couple there having it off. And that was around three p.m., which was when Sid saw me loading up.’

  ‘And the Gourbolds are customers?’

  ‘Have a heart, Chiefie! It was Bob who told me. I haven’t talked to Dot.’

  ‘What colour was the car?’

  ‘I didn’t ask, did I? You’ll have to ask Dot about that.’

  Gently stared at the cigarette ash lying on the carpet.

  ‘All right . . . we’ll check it out.’

  ‘And I’m in the clear?’

  ‘You’re in the clear when I say so.’

  ‘Now Chiefie, you’ll have to get off my back some time . . .’

  He depressed the studs and rang Leyston. The voice of the local man sounded weary.

  ‘I’ve been ringing round the camp-sites . . . about half of them have closed down for the season.’

  ‘Any luck?’

  ‘None. The trouble is, he could be anywhere . . .’

  Gently gave him a synopsis of events that evening, which probably did little to cheer him up. You didn’t need to select the facts to show which way the case was moving.

  ‘If it’s Riddlesworth, do you think we’ll ever nail him, sir?’

  ‘Even he can’t hide his son for ever. And meanwhile we must check and keep checking – we shall need all the answers when we move in.’

  ‘But if the son knows nothing . . .’

  ‘Something he must know, or he wouldn’t have vanished so conveniently.’

  He hung up and poured himself a drink, seeking a pause before he talked to Gabrielle. All unconscious of his involvements, she sat waiting his ring in distant Rouen. Should he tell her? He sipped deliberately for some moments, then shook his head. Enough that he should be aware of the tragedy that had happened, just a few miles off . . .

  ‘Sorry I’m late. I’ve been talking to a bookseller about the purchase of a Suckling.’

  ‘A Suckling? What is that?’

  ‘A county history . . . expert opinion is that we should own one.’

  ‘Aha. And how much is he asking?’

  ‘I’m afraid I forgot to enquire.’

  Poor Claydon. Now, among his other worries, he would have the burden of dealing with Gabrielle.

  SEVEN

  ‘WHAT TIME WILL your missus be back, Mr George?’

  It was the thought that Gently had woken up with: that, in twelve hours’ time, he would be standing on a platform, waiting for the train bringing Gabrielle home.

  Sunday morning at Heatherings was one of those moments that he was learning to savour, a time of perfect leisure whose signature was the chime of the bells in the village. When they stopped, you could hear a bell more distant, probably that of the church across the Walks; and when, shortly after, that ceased too, Mrs Jarvis would be knocking on the door with the tea tray.

  ‘Expect us at nine . . .

  ‘Will she want a meal?’

  Almost certainly, Gabrielle would. One of the first things Gently had noticed about her was her ready and eager appetite. How she kept her figure was a mystery perhaps known only to the French; it was because, she claimed, that unlike the English she didn’t stuff herself at breakfast . . .

  ‘It’s going to be a fine day, Mr George.’

  He had only to open his eyes to see that. From the windows in their room in the east wing the prospect of the Walks folded away. The heather was dark now, past its prime, but still purplish as it smoked in steady sun; birches that edged it had turned auburn, the distant poplars a delicate yellow.

  He sipped his tea and glanced at the papers, as usual thumbing through them from back to front. From the bathroom came the sound of water being run, while below, in the garden, a blackbird was sounding its silly alarm.

  A long way from London . . .

  Why had he listened to that cajoling Chief Constable and his troubles?

  ‘Your bath is ready, Mr George.’

  In a sulky mood he took his bath and afterwards went down to breakfast. Sun was peering through the breakfast-room window and lighting up a corner of the table. It was Sunday for all the world, so why not Sunday for him . . .? Mrs Jarvis, for instance, was already dressed smartly, and smelling of violets, to go to second service.

  ‘Are you in for lunch today, Mr George?’

  ‘I’ll see . . .’

  Still chewing it over, he strolled down the garden, noticing that the gardener had pruned the rose bushes and tied up the Michaelmas daisies with orange twine. The martins had left, and only yesterday he had heard the harsh notes of passing fieldfares . . . here, these were the things he wanted to be occupied with, not the guilt and fear of wretched people!

  But it wouldn’t do. He could feel himself a truant, even in enjoying the fresh, cool air. In the end he strode back to the house and the lounge still smelling of Claydon’s cigarettes. He rang the police station.

  ‘Anything fresh?’

  He thought he could detect relief in Leyston’s voice.

  ‘Yes . . . the colour of the car. It was white. And I’ve got a couple of fresh statements . . .’

  He lit his pipe and went to look for Mrs Jarvis, but she had already left for church. He propped a note for her against the tea-caddy, then locked up and went to fetch his car.

  ‘White, and what else?’

  ‘She said it looked newish, but couldn’t remember the make or registration.’

  ‘Which way was it pointing?’

  ‘Towards Harford, as though it had come from the Maltings direction.’

  Sun was also flooding Leyston’s office, making the shabby furniture look yet shabbier, and seeming to bring out the smell of soot which was always dogging the place.

  Below in the street Sunday cars cruised by, looking cleaner and shinier than on weekdays, and family groups, dressed in their best, strolled without urgency or stopped to chat.

  Driving in, Gently had glimpsed a sea that faded into the sky with scarcely a seam, while, at the end of its causeway, the Martello Tower threw a hard, dark shadow.

  ‘She reckons the time at five past three, because three was when she left home, and the car was gone again when she came back, which was between quarter and half past four.’

  ‘She heard nothing?’

  ‘She says not.’

  ‘Through the gap, she might have seen the boats.’

  ‘Says she was staring at the gorse as she rode by, on the chance of catching two of them at it.’

  It was tantalizing. Everything pointed to the car having been Riddlesworth’s, and witness had passed and repassed the spot at times that were probably crucial. If her curiosity had got the better of her or if her observation of the car had been more exact, they would now have had information that the Group Captain couldn’t have brushed aside.

  As it was, they had nothing that he couldn’t outface with a stout denial.

  ‘What were the fresh statements?’

  ‘One is from a Mrs Davies who lives opposite the Maltings. She was outside playing with her children and remembers hearing a car drive away from Riddlesworth’s at about two. She didn’t see the car because of a high hedge, but heard it come down the drive and turn towards the village.’

  ‘Probably his wife leaving.’

  ‘That’s what I thought . . . one of the people I’ve rung is the vicar. He says Mrs
Riddlesworth collected the church key at quarter past two, but he can’t say when she returned it because she put it through the letter-box.’

  Gently grunted. A chink there?

  ‘What else?’

  Leyston picked up a form.

  ‘Mason took this statement from a Frederick Willis, who does a lot of birdwatching on the marsh. He has often seen a sailing dinghy, sailed mostly by a young man, but sometimes by an older man and once by a woman. He has also seen it beached with a motor-dinghy on the opposite bank, but can’t say who was with it at the time.’

  ‘ “Mostly sailed by a young man”. . .’

  ‘That’d be the son.’

  Gently held out his hand for the statement. Like Dot Gourbold’s, it came irritatingly close to saying a lot while saying only a little. They knew all of what was down there, yet suddenly the intelligence seemed to come up fresh, as though, through the laboured handwriting, he was seeing it with different eyes.

  ‘Any line on young Riddlesworth?’

  ‘Not yet. He doesn’t seem to be staying on a regular camp-site.’

  ‘Have you queried the music school?’

  ‘I was going to ring them, only today there may be nobody there.’

  ‘Ring them, and if there is, say we’ll be calling on them in half an hour.’

  Leyston consulted a well-worn directory, ran his nail along an entry and dialled. Someone answered, and he gave the message, listening for a moment before hanging up.

  ‘They’re giving a concert this evening to an invited audience . . . most of the students are in residence, anyway.’

  But Gently was still brooding over the statement and scarcely seemed to be listening. At last he passed the statement back to Leyston.

  ‘Have you anything new on Shavers?’

  ‘Just confirmation. Witness saw him and his car at the moorings at about three-thirty. Then there’s Moulton’s statement . . . which leaves out the bit about him seeing Shavers on his yacht.’

  Steps forwards and backwards . . .!

  ‘What colour is his car?’

  ‘It’s a beige Cortina estate.’

  ‘Have you checked Claydon’s movements?’

  ‘There’s confirmation from Russell, but Claydon’s manageress has gone out for the day.’

  Isolate Riddlesworth, that was the game: close out every other available suspect. Then he would be left alone in the middle, with his assertions growing thinner at each repetition.

  And with the son to come . . .

  Leyston said: ‘Chigwell have been on the phone about Hannah Stoven’s ex-husband. Seems he was out photographing a development site on Friday and Chigwell didn’t contact him till yesterday. They say he intends to come down here.’

  Gently was silent. He had almost forgotten about Hannah’s ex-husband! But Stoven was another who would have to be checked off before the ring round Riddlesworth was complete.

  ‘We’ll have a word with him when we see him. But our first priority is Mark Riddlesworth.’

  ‘Just thought I ought to mention him.’

  In Leyston’s sad eyes was a gleam of what might even have been taken for pleasure.

  Though it was barely mid-morning the car park at the Maltings was already filling up, and visitors were strolling about the grassy frontage or straying along a rough path beside the river. Of the mist there was no sign: the still, bright sun had rolled it up. Sun sparkled on the river, which was at half-flood, and gave a reddish tone to its fringe of dead reeds. Buildings were sharp in light and shade, with a sheen on their slate roofs. The craft shop was open, and in the concert hall forecourt a display of vintage cars formed a lively attraction.

  A fine Sunday in October: an Indian summer. There were even late swallows to skim the river . . .

  ‘Look over there, sir.’

  They had parked under willows from which yellow leaves were dropping on the cars. Across at the quay, a stocky figure had turned to watch their arrival. Today Riddlesworth was dressed in quiet tweeds, which, on him, seemed almost a disguise; he made no attempt to hide his interest, but stood boldly staring at the two policemen.

  ‘Shall we have a word with him?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Gently glanced round the cars on the park. Only half a dozen places from their own stood a glinting white Jaguar XJS-HE. Deliberately, he walked across to it and sauntered round the expensive car: then paused to stare at Riddlesworth, who stared back without a flicker of expression.

  A moment of challenge!

  And each of them knew it, standing there in the soft sun, with visitors strolling between them and a car creeping by, looking for a space. They were suddenly alone, the two of them, aware that battle had been joined.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  Gently turned away casually, pausing at his own car to lock the door. He didn’t look back, though Leyston could scarcely tear his eyes away from Riddlesworth.

  ‘Shouldn’t we tackle him about the car?’

  Gently shook his head. What was the use? They didn’t hold enough cards in their hand – yet! Later on, when they were holding trumps . . .

  A board directed them to the music school, which was housed in buildings behind the concert hall. They pushed open swing doors to be met by a barrage of musical discord from somewhere within. But just at that moment a voice barked sharply and the discord tailed away, to be replaced, after a short pause, by a slow, controlled succession of phrases.

  ‘Are you the policemen?’

  A head had poked round a door in the hall they had entered, that of a bland-faced woman wearing glasses, with hair braided tightly on the top of her head.

  ‘Am I speaking to a tutor?’

  The woman laughed. ‘I’m Sheila, the dogsbody who runs the office. Did you want to see a tutor?’

  ‘I’d like a few words with the tutor responsible for Mark Riddlesworth.’

  ‘Oh dear. Is Mark in trouble?’

  ‘Just that he may be able to help us.’

  The woman stared at him uncertainly, as though trying to make up her mind what to do. Tall and lean, she was wearing a dress in flowered material that reached to her ankles.

  ‘You see there’s only Geoffrey here, and he’s busy with a rehearsal . . . he’ll be livid if we interrupt. But they’ll be breaking for coffee in half an hour.’

  ‘Is he Mark’s tutor?’

  ‘He’s one of them, yes. Adrian takes Mark in musical theory.’

  ‘Perhaps Geoffrey wouldn’t mind breaking half an hour early.’

  ‘Well . . . I’ll see. But if he bites your head off . . .’

  She led them down the hall to double doors from behind which the music was emanating, and timidly pushed them open: just as a bassoon gave a hoarse warble.

  ‘Get out, damn you!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Geoffrey . . .’

  She slipped aside hastily to let them enter. In a large, high room young men and girls were seated in a semicircle, each with an instrument. On a rostrum before them stood a plump, bearded man, who had turned an angry face towards the door. He was dressed in a turtle-neck sweater and held a baton which he raised threateningly. Meanwhile the music had faded to silence.

  ‘Sheila, you know the rules of this place.’

  ‘I’m sorry Geoffrey, but these gentlemen—’

  ‘I don’t give a hoot for any gentlemen!’

  ‘They’re policemen.’

  ‘And I’m a conductor – and I’ve got a performance to give tonight.’

  But after a few more testy growls he threw down the baton and bawled that the orchestra would take a break. Immediately there was a stir and a scrape of chairs, then a rush of feet towards the exit. The plump man came over.

  ‘So what do you fellows want?’

  ‘Perhaps we can talk about it in your office.’

  ‘It’s about that bloody woman, is it?’

  ‘Were you expecting us?’

  ‘Why not, when she came ashore at our doorstep?’

  Gru
dgingly, he led them to another room where there were comfortable armchairs. It was probably his den, and besides shelves of books contained a piano and music deck. It had a window facing the bend of the river and smelled of pipe-smoke and beer.

  ‘Fetch us some coffee, Sheila.’

  He prowled round the room, to come up with a pipe. A large teddy-bear of a man, his beard was greying and his hair thinning on top. In the sweater his big body looked shapeless, while the rolled collar gave him a neckless appearance.

  ‘Who am I talking to, by the way?’

  Gently told him.

  ‘I’m Geoffrey Waterhouse. I run this school and produce musicians.’

  ‘I am told that Mark Riddlesworth is one of your students.’

  ‘What do you want to know about him?’

  ‘What sort of a student is he?’

  ‘He wants to be a composer, which makes it lucky that he has money and influence behind him.’

  ‘Is he a talented young man?’

  ‘Just now he’s working on a song cycle based on traditional airs – the usual two-finger exercise for budding composers. What is your interest in him anyway?’

  He had dropped into one of the armchairs, to sit regarding Gently with narrowed eyes. Sheila brought the coffee. Waterhouse sipped his with the pipe still hanging from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Is he a popular student?’

  ‘He isn’t unpopular. In looks, he takes after his mother – slim, fine-featured, fair hair worn with a quiff. Shy with girls, though I doubt if that means much. He’s no great mixer with either sex.’

  ‘No girlfriend then.’

  ‘None that I know of.’

  ‘How about men?’

  ‘He makes a pal of Rick Woodward – a flautist with real prospects, who doesn’t mind helping him with his arranging.’

  ‘Is Woodward in today?’

  ‘He’s playing a solo in the concert tonight.’

  ‘I would like to talk to him.’

  Waterhouse stared for a while, then raised his head to shout:

  ‘Rick!’

  They were joined by a dark-haired, moustached youngster, who entered without knocking. He glanced questioningly at Waterhouse before venturing a look at the other two men.