Gently Between Tides

by Alan Hunter

  ‘They are going to lock up.’

  ‘Then lock me up! Here is my corner, here is my country. Here I will stay with Hannah.’

  But in the end Stoven prevailed.

  To Claydon, Gently said: ‘Can we give you a lift?’

  The little bookseller looked utterly miserable. He no longer had a cigarette and was having to wipe his eyes and glasses.

  ‘That was terrible . . . I never guessed. Do you think he will be all right?’

  ‘Stoven will keep an eye on him.’

  ‘Why do these things happen?’

  Gently shrugged and motioned him towards the car.

  When they had dropped him off they sat for a space in the car in a street which the lunch hour was emptying. Then Leyston said gloomily:

  ‘No doubt about it now, sir. We’ve got to get our hands on that boy.’

  ‘He was her lover.’

  ‘Yes, sir. And it was his old man with the car.’

  ‘It lies between them . . .’

  So get the boy; then they could play off one against the other.

  NINE

  LATER ON, GENTLY was to wonder if things would have turned out differently if, at that juncture, he had left Leyston to get on with it. He felt tempted; and not so much this time because the case was falling together, but more because, heavy within him, he felt a depression about the whole business.

  Makovrilov was no doubt one cause of it, with his outbreaks of impassioned grief, and along with these the ex-husband’s egoistic attitude and Claydon’s mixture of anguish. But was it only that? Didn’t it go deeper, finding roots in the character of Hannah herself: Hannah who, could it be, he was coming to know too well? Too well . . . ! So that he didn’t want to go on with it, tracing her at last to that moment of violence, whether at the hands of son or father: suddenly, he didn’t want to know. It was the last of the veils hiding her nakedness, the veils he’d been stripping away at every opportunity; but now it had gone far enough and he would sooner turn away his eyes. Leave her: leave her in her tower, the sad romantic, echoing a myth . . .

  But if fate was hanging on that vacillation, it was lunch at the White Hart that settled the matter. When Gently arrived there, the first thing his eye fell on was Riddlesworth’s Jaguar, parked out front. Nor was it the only car he recognized. Not far away stood Capel’s dusty Volvo. Then there was the rented Escort, alongside a muddy white Renault 18. But it was the Jaguar that renewed the challenge, standing there so gleaming and obviously new. Because wouldn’t Riddlesworth have guessed that Gently would come to the White Hart where, on Sundays, lunch was a Shinglebourne institution?

  He went into the dining-room, to find Capel occupying a corner table. The doctor was on the watch and at once waved him over.

  ‘If you want a seat, you’d better join me . . . I was hoping you might walk in.’

  ‘Are you on your own?’

  ‘Leslie’s on call, and Tanya is visiting her mother.’

  Gently sat, at the same time letting his eyes wander round the room. The Riddlesworths had a table at the other end where they sat with heads bowed in conversation. Makovrilov, Stoven and Claydon were sitting near the bar; the musician was conducting himself in a monologue. Stoven was listening with an air of polite boredom, Claydon slumped over a pint, a cigarette trailing.

  ‘A drink?’

  ‘A lager, please.’

  As always on a Sunday, the dining-room was packed. It buzzed with lively conversation, now and then punctuated with laughter. Its big windows faced the promenade and the curtain of basking sea; one could also see the Moot Hall, probably an exercise in Victorian Tudor.

  ‘Dare one enquire how things are going?’

  Gently hunched and swallowed lager. Now it was Makovrilov who was listening, brows drawn in a frown, to something that Claydon was telling them. Capel chuckled, following Gently’s eyes.

  ‘I’ll risk a guess . . . haven’t you just been interviewing those three?’

  ‘We’ve become acquainted.’

  ‘The price of lunch on it that Stan is trying to touch the old lad.’

  ‘Is it a regular habit of Claydon’s?’

  ‘Somehow, his conversation always gets round to it. Oh lor’ – he hasn’t tried it on you, has he?’

  ‘I’m down in his books to buy a Suckling.’

  Capel shook his head in frank admiration.

  ‘He deserves a notch on his gun for that! Though I’m afraid – just between professionals – that Stan’s troubles are far from imaginary. How is he taking things?’

  ‘Not as well as Stoven. Nor as badly as Hannah’s father.’

  ‘Yes . . . her father.’

  Capel studied the musician, who sat listening with drooped mouth, hands folded under chin.

  ‘I’d prescribe a sedative if he were on my list . . . he’s the type who might go over the edge. Though, looking on the bright side, that sort of person usually recovers from a knock the quickest. What did you make of him?’

  ‘Much the same as you. Just now he’s taking it on the chin.’

  ‘Yes, and that will go on for a while yet. He should be lying down, stuffed with julep.’

  ‘Perhaps you could advise it?’

  Capel shook his head regretfully. ‘He isn’t the sort of man you can offer advice to. Anyway, now he’s supping his drink, and that may assist his equilibrium.’

  The waiter took their orders and returned with the hors d’oeuvres. Up the room, the Riddlesworths were already beginning their main course. She had her back to them; he had stared directly at Gently only once, but then his lips had moved, when, after a pause, her head had turned.

  At the other table, it had been Claydon whose glasses had gleamed for a moment, preceding stares from Stoven and the musician.

  And, at either table, a little silence had followed inspection . . .

  ‘How do you go about a job like this?’

  They had agreed on a bottle of Liebfraumilch, which Capel had sampled with cocked head before signalling the waiter to pour.

  ‘It’s very largely routine.’

  ‘Oh, come on now! In that case, any fool could do your job – old Mutton-chops, for example. There must be more to it than that.’

  Gently drank. How did you explain that mixture of observation, experience and psychology which, with a touch of something else, you added to the groundwork of routine? There was no method in it. You might as well ask a composer where he got his tunes from. Just now, in this room, what was it that was operating? Because, surely enough, there were things in train . . .

  ‘A patient calls you in with a complaint, and then you apply a routine to the symptoms.’

  ‘Oh, granted.’

  ‘By elimination, you isolate the cause.’

  ‘Well, we hope so! But it isn’t so simple. You have to take into account the patient. Patients are capable of misleading doctors, even to the extent of manufacturing symptoms. They may also believe they have fabulous complaints and insist on having them treated.’

  ‘So that, along with routine?’

  Capel’s grey eyes twinkled. ‘I always knew you weren’t a common copper! All right, I asked a stupid question that didn’t deserve an intelligent answer. For that, you must let me buy lunch.’

  ‘My patients can be just as misleading.’

  Claydon was talking again to the musician, who heard him fork in hand; but it was Stoven who, an instant later, sent a cautious glance up the room. Then he too joined in the conversation, apparently firing questions at the bookseller. Claydon’s mien was apologetic. His glasses kept flickering towards Gently’s table.

  ‘Do you know your patient in the present case?’

  ‘My patient is Hannah Stoven.’

  ‘Hannah – aha. Whose symptoms you know, but with the cause still to isolate. Are you near it?’

  ‘I’ve got to know Hannah. So perhaps the cause isn’t far away.’

  ‘Not far away.’ Capel’s eyes were shrewd. ‘I suppose I must accept
that phrase as figurative. Yet you are such a wily bird . . . and looking round this dining-room, I can’t help wondering if it was by accident you came here.’

  ‘Principally to get a decent lunch.’

  ‘At one table her father, ex-husband, and employer. At another a man who was very friendly and who took her sailing alone on his yacht. You must admit it is suggestive.’

  ‘Was she alone on the yacht with Riddlesworth?’

  ‘Didn’t I mention that yesterday?’

  Gently drained his glass and helped himself to more wine.

  ‘What about that other yacht?’ Capel pursued. ‘The one she used to visit at Harford?’

  ‘We have made our checks.’

  ‘I see. And is that laddie lunching here today?’

  ‘Your glass is empty.’

  Capel grinned broadly, and reached for the bottle. But now, after a keen glance round the tables, his stare returned more than once up the room.

  Their food came. Gently’s was a cod steak that had the delicate savour of complete freshness, served with a sauce flavoured with the fennel that grew wild along the coast. He ate appreciatively, with sips of wine. Capel, meanwhile, was dealing with a grill. Around them the surf of conversation grew louder as food and wine had their effect. Across at the table by the bar, only Stoven seemed to be tucking in with relish; the bookseller was picking at his food, while Makovrilov spent much of his time gazing up the room. There, Riddlesworth had eyes for nobody except his companion across the table, and you could see him sitting very straight, as though defying any eyes that might be upon him. Sue Riddlesworth, too, was sitting stiffly upright: the pair struck a curiously hieratic note.

  What were they expecting? That at the end of the meal, Gently was going to tap them on the shoulder?

  ‘I can recommend the peach melba, old lad.’

  Capel was quietly taking it all in. Every so often his angular head tilted as he compared impressions of the two tables. Wasn’t it so obvious what was going on? Clearly Claydon had said his piece to the other two. Makovrilov’s stare was becoming ever fiercer as he eyed the stubborn figure of the Group Captain. Now Stoven was beginning to get apprehensive, was leaning across to murmur to Makovrilov. But the musician merely gestured him away. Like Riddlesworth, he was sitting up rigidly in his chair.

  ‘Another drop?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I’ve got some Bruiseyard at home – their ’79 is a good young ’un. Have you tried it?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Even your French wife would appreciate that.’

  Was Makovrilov going to confront the Group Captain? At every moment it seemed more probable. The bookseller, too, was now trying to pacify him, perhaps scared of an explosion that would include himself. Why hadn’t the foolish little man kept his mouth shut? His tremulous hand was on Makovrilov’s arm: and he must have made an impression, because the musician’s mouth was twitching, and suddenly his hand was over his face. He was crying again! But it was over quickly, and he used his napkin to dab his eyes. Then he seized his fork with a sort of desperation and pitched some food into his mouth.

  ‘Hullo . . . what’s that fellow’s interest in Groupie’s car?’

  Capel’s eyes had switched to the window. Out there a car had cruised by, to halt a few yards from the gleaming Jaguar. Its driver had got out, and now stood eyeing the Jaguar with calculated intent.

  ‘Do you know him?’

  It was Shavers, and Gently could hazard a guess why he was there. Shavers also had been putting things together, and probably asking questions in all directions.

  ‘I say – would he be Hannah’s friend from Harford?’

  Capel was too sharp altogether!

  ‘If so, I can’t admire her taste. He looks like a lad with something on his conscience.’

  Dressed in bomber jacket and faded jeans, Shavers did present a shifty appearance, the more so when, with ducked head, he prowled round the Jaguar like an intending thief. But finally he got back in his own car and reversed it into a slot; then lit a cigarette, and settled down to watch the hotel . . .

  At Riddlesworth’s table, both heads had turned briefly towards the window.

  ‘You know, I’ve got the feeling that I’m sitting in on something.’

  Capel was quizzing Gently with amused eyes.

  ‘You aren’t about to make a pinch, or something of that order?’

  ‘Let’s finish the bottle and have our coffee in the lounge.’

  Because the lounge was where the next scene would be played, if another scene there was going to be. The Riddlesworths had already risen and were making their way to the swing doors. Alert at once, Makovrilov was following their movements with burning eyes, while out in his car Shavers stirred and hitched up higher in his seat.

  Did they know – or care, how many eyes were on them? Politely, Riddlesworth held the door for his wife; she drifted through it like a duchess and, without a backward glance, he followed. Yes, they knew – but they didn’t care: that was the message of their exit.

  ‘For some reason, I’m almost holding my breath.’

  Makovrilov was trying to rise, but Stoven was preventing him. Both he and Claydon were talking in lowered tones to the musician, and Stoven was nodding towards Gently. They prevailed, and Makovrilov sank back on his chair. But he threw Gently a scathing look.

  ‘Coffee in the lounge – with brandy.’

  Capel sorted out the bill. The surprising thing was that all these little dramas had passed unnoticed by the other diners. The conversation, the laughter proceeded, and champagne corks were popping at some of the tables. People who knew Capel waved to him or called out familiar greetings.

  ‘Shall we go through?’

  Once the swing doors had thudded, the sound was reduced as though by a switch. At first glance the lounge appeared empty, just a deserted arrangement of chairs and tables. Then they caught sight of Riddlesworth and his wife seated at a table in a corner, he with an unlit cheroot in his mouth, she smoking a cigarette in a holder. He rose at once and came across.

  ‘I would appreciate a private word, Superintendent.’

  The ruined face, the tight-lidded eyes met Gently with complete blankness.

  ‘Very well. Where do you suggest?’

  ‘The other corner will do. Perhaps, in the meantime, the doctor will be kind enough to keep Sue entertained.’

  Capel bobbed his head, and Riddlesworth led Gently to the far end of the lounge.

  A faint tang of Turkish tobacco that pervaded the lounge must have come from Sue Riddlesworth’s cigarette, and Gently’s first move on sitting down was to fill and light his pipe. Riddlesworth watched him patiently, then pushed an ashtray towards him: an act of casual politeness that nevertheless seemed to carry a challenge. He lit his cheroot.

  ‘No doubt I may take it that you have made progress with your enquiries.’

  ‘First things first! It will save a lot of time if you can tell me where I can find your son.’

  ‘I’m afraid that situation hasn’t changed.’

  ‘It has changed a lot, and will change still more if he doesn’t turn up tonight.’

  ‘I can understand your interest, but I can’t help you. I have given you what information I possess.’

  They were talking in low tones like two men discussing some interesting gossip, heads together, ignoring the clamour that came subduedly through the swing doors. Gently had kept his pipe in his mouth, Riddlesworth was drawing evenly on his cheroot. From the other end of the lounge they could hear Capel’s voice and Sue Riddlesworth’s curt rejoinders.

  ‘As you probably know, I have asked questions at the music school.’

  ‘About Mark cutting classes, yes.’

  ‘He had been cutting them at intervals since the spring.’

  ‘If I had known at the time, I would have had it out with him.’

  ‘He cut them on Friday.’

  ‘Because the tide was suitable, and we are in the middl
e of the autumn migration.’

  ‘His dinghy was seen moored by Hannah Stoven’s.’

  ‘With respect, that rests on the word of a doubtful witness.’

  ‘We have witness that it happened on earlier occasions.’

  ‘Mark’s isn’t the only dinghy on the river.’

  ‘Yesterday and today the tide was also suitable, yet Mark’s interest in migration seems suddenly to have lapsed.’

  ‘He may have gone to the Grimchurch reserve or some other place.’

  ‘Then tonight he should be home.’

  ‘As you know, we expect him.’

  If Riddlesworth had presented a dead bat before, now he had pads and all behind it. With the pressure on he simply grew cooler, getting quickly to the line of every ball. You could scarcely help admiring him: thus it must have been when his aircraft was disintegrating round him, when with half a face and his crew dead or dying he’d held on, still making the right moves . . .

  ‘At the critical time on Friday, a car was left parked near the spot where Hannah died.’

  ‘We’ve been over that. It wasn’t mine. I spent the afternoon in my study.’

  ‘A white car.’

  ‘It’s a popular colour.’

  ‘A new white car.’

  ‘Some cars are new. If you care to look outside, you’ll see a new white Renault. And I’m certain you’ll know who it belongs to.’

  ‘Mr Stoven has accounted for his movements.’

  ‘And so, I feel sure, has Mr Shavers.’

  ‘Why do you mention Shavers?’

  ‘Because he is waiting outside, also with some interest in new white cars.’

  ‘Last night you rang him.’

  ‘And if I did?’

  ‘You were interested in the name of a certain witness.’

  ‘No doubt that is what Shavers told you, and you are welcome to take his word if you wish.’

  ‘Are you denying it?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Then I’m inclined to take Shavers’ word. You were trying to find out who had seen the two boats together, and might identify the person seen near them.’

  ‘Would such curiosity be unnatural?’

  ‘And, at the same time, you were fishing for any gossip about yourself and Hannah.’