Gently Between Tides

by Alan Hunter

  ‘Before long he’ll run into the Ashford lads, sir.’

  ‘Is there a road or houses down that way?’

  ‘A road to the right, but no houses. The way he’s going is all trees.’

  They pressed on through the chill of the pines and in a light that was rapidly fading. From time to time the dog paused to sniff, but always to resume in the same direction. Behind them Claydon dragged along wearily, his short legs forced to go faster than theirs; ahead, they sometimes heard faint cries, now on the line of the scent, now wide of it. At length the dog began pulling to the right and they emerged into one of the principal rides.

  ‘Sir . . . listen.’

  Shavers’ whoop was coming continuously from somewhere in the trees on their left; a stupid, idiot sound that echoed strangely in the bleak air.

  ‘Sounds like he might have spotted him . . .’

  ‘Come on, then!’

  They broke into a run down the ride, with the dog, catching the excitement, beginning to set up a furious barking.

  ‘Can’t you stop him?’

  ‘He’s a young dog, sir . . .’

  Gently swore under his breath. Any hope of the fugitive’s running into their arms had vanished with that savage noise.

  ‘Look . . . there he goes!’

  About a quarter of a mile ahead a figure had flitted across the ride, without so much as turning its head towards the men and the clamouring dog. Then a second figure: Shavers: followed by Stoven and the musician, the latter’s thin body jerking puppet-like as he strove to keep up.

  ‘Shall I let Rex go?’

  ‘Hang on to him – he may nab one of the others!’

  Distance seemed to stretch as they panted on to the place where the figures had dashed across. Here was another of the minor rides, impeded by bracken and trailing briars: They could see, far off, frenetic movements as the pursuers dodged and jumped over obstacles. Then came an angry shout from Shavers, and at the same time spritely notes from a car’s siren; more shouting, the distinct slam of a door, and a sudden bright squeal of tyres.

  ‘That’s the road, there!’

  Nothing could be more plain! But even the dog was too breathless to bark. Sweating, panting, they kicked aside the last briars to come out on the twilit minor road. There the baffled hunters stood staring after the sound of an engine fading into the forest, Shavers some yards down the road, Makovrilov wheezing helplessly, all three of them looking tattered from their belt along the ride.

  ‘Who picked him up?’

  ‘Who do you bloody think! His old man was waiting in his car. And I nearly had him . . .’

  Shavers turned back, gulping breath, blood trickling from a thorn-scratch on his cheek.

  ‘You will let him escape,’ Makovrilov gasped. ‘Why are there not patrols guarding this road?’

  The dog had thrown itself down, to pant with lolling tongue, and Leyston was trying to raise control on the handler’s transceiver.

  ELEVEN

  THE TRANSCEIVER WAS beaten by the trees and there was nothing left for it but to tramp back to the vehicles, leaving Riddlesworth with whatever margin he needed to deliver his son to fresh sanctuary. There wasn’t much to say. Even Makovrilov appeared to have spent his indignation; Shavers tramped in sullen, Stoven in pensive resignation. As for the bookseller, he seemed completely done in and barely able to drag his feet: no doubt the cigarettes had taken a toll of his probably never too-robust constitution.

  And Gently was at fault! As they laboured through the dusk, he had few illusions about that. Trying to get a reaction from Riddlesworth, he had tipped his hand to the man. There had been a contingency plan, of course – with Riddlesworth, that would be second nature. If there was a search, his son was to fall back to a rendezvous on the minor road. And the plan had worked. After Gently’s naive manoeuvre, Riddlesworth had driven straight to the rendezvous, snatched his son from under their noses and rushed him away . . . to where? Because the forest, after all, must have been a pis aller, a temporary measure for something more permanent . . . and wasn’t this a coast where foreign yachts touched, and fishing boats slipped out on nocturnal occasions?

  Leyston murmured: ‘The old boy was right, sir. I should have had that road patrolled.’

  Or rather, Gently should have had it patrolled, since he had taken the case out of Leyston’s hands!

  ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘A general alert for Riddlesworth and his son.’

  ‘I reckon he’ll be expecting that, sir . . .’

  Did the fellow need to rub it in?

  It was quite dark when, half an hour later, they arrived back at the cars, and Leyston could use the radio in the minibus to get the wheels moving again. Meanwhile Shavers and his mates hung around as though they too were part of the operation – privileged, at least, to share consultations, or to be informed of the next move.

  ‘I had my hand on the door-handle of that car . . .’

  Shavers couldn’t forget his near-success. And wasn’t he in particular a privileged person, a man who knew the game and spoke the same language?

  ‘Anyway, that lighter will do for the sod.’

  ‘She may have given it to him . . .’ Claydon ventured.

  ‘Like hell! Tell a jury that. You haven’t been around the courts, mate.’

  ‘If I hadn’t spotted it . . .’

  ‘Chiefie would have spotted it. With her initials on it and all.’

  Primly, Stoven said: ‘She wouldn’t have given it to anyone. As a matter of fact, it had a special significance.’

  Makovrilov wailed: ‘But I do not care now! This young man has fled, and it does not matter. They may find him or let him go . . . now I wish to see my daughter. I want my Hannah . . .’

  He still had the fluff in his hair, and one of his trouser-legs was rent almost to the knee.

  Leyston climbed down from the minibus and beckoned Gently aside.

  ‘Sir . . . here’s a turn-up. The Group Captain is back at his house.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Our man called in. Seems the Group Captain was away for a little over an hour.’

  ‘He came back alone?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Said he was popping out to see the autumn colours. He checked in a few minutes ago, and now him and his wife are having tea.’

  They were, were they! But one thing followed: Mark Riddlesworth must still be in the area. At the most, he was a quarter of an hour’s drive from the forest, which scarcely left time even to hustle him into Shinglebourne. So where was he? Smuggled into the house? But Riddlesworth would expect them to look there first. The marshes? Not much of a prospect. Could he credibly have doubled back with him into the forest?

  ‘Do we get over there, sir?’

  ‘Wait! I’m tired of playing the Group Captain’s game.’

  Because another thing had struck him – if he’d shown his cards to the Group Captain, hadn’t the Group Captain given him just a glimpse of his own?

  ‘Within a quarter of an hour’s drive of here, how many churches?’

  ‘Churches, sir?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  Leyston stared at him strangely. ‘There’s just Thwaite and Bodney . . . and Bodney hasn’t been used for years.’

  Had he hit it? He felt a surge of certainty, almost of exultation: of course! And suddenly he was quite positive that he’d locked on to Riddlesworth’s devious mind . . .

  ‘Send a car to Bodney Church.’

  ‘Sir . . .?’

  ‘They are to collect young Riddlesworth and to drive him to the police-station.’

  ‘But sir!’

  ‘After that they can give me a ring – at Riddlesworth’s house, where I’ll be taking tea.’

  He waved Leyston back to the minibus, then strode over to the gang of four.

  ‘Right – the show is over!’

  And he waved them to their cars, too.

  ‘By chance I ran into my son, Superintendent.’

  G
ently didn’t even bother to repress a smile – this was too predictable! Given a critical situation, Riddlesworth would always try for an unexpected response. He was standing before the hearth in his drawing-room, warming his bottom as he sipped tea, still acting the man in command even though by now he must be aware that the ice was growing pretty thin.

  It was a handsome room, lit by subdued wall-lights and by a standard lamp strategically placed. In a wing-armchair beside the hearth Sue Riddlesworth sat with the tea-tray.

  ‘Could you squeeze me a cup?’

  ‘I . . . yes!’

  The wife didn’t have quite the sang-froid of the husband! But she managed a tight little smile as she handed Gently his cup.

  ‘That’s better! Now . . . you were saying?’

  Riddlesworth sipped before replying.

  ‘My son. He’s been camping in the forest . . . in fact, his gear is still out there. Quite by chance, I was able to rescue him from a rather nasty little incident.’

  ‘More sugar, if I may . . . yes?’

  Riddlesworth stared, but ploughed on.

  ‘A fine afternoon, so I went for a drive – thought I’d take a look at the colours in the forest. As well I did. I came across Mark being chased by three ruffians – heaven knows why. I was just in time to haul him into the car.’

  ‘He didn’t tell you why he was being chased?’

  ‘He had no idea. He’d just been rambling in the forest. Not the sort of thing we get much of in these parts, in spite of what happened here Friday.’

  ‘Could I trouble you for a tea-cake?’

  ‘What? Help yourself.’

  ‘Actually, I’m waiting for a phone call.’

  Now Riddlesworth was staring at him intently, almost with expression in his frozen face.

  ‘Shall we have your son in, then?’

  ‘I’m sorry . . . I wasn’t expecting you back here so soon.’

  ‘You mean he’s still adrift?’

  ‘I dropped him off in the village . . . though of course, he knows you want to talk to him.’

  Another perfectly thought-out story, so why was it falling so very flat? With Gently munching his tea-cake cheerfully as though, on the whole, he couldn’t care less?

  ‘I’ve had a chat with Mark, you know.’

  ‘Last night, in the forest, it must have been pretty chilly.’

  ‘I suppose it was! But with regard to your business, chivvying Mark is a waste of time.’

  ‘Shouldn’t he be playing in the concert tonight?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They tell me at the school that your son has talent.’

  ‘What I’m trying to tell you is—’

  ‘If you can manage it, I should love another cup.’

  Hadn’t Riddlesworth got it yet? His wife had. She’d been biting her lip and staring at the fire. Now she took Gently’s cup savagely and splashed in more tea and milk. It was a curious moment. For once, it was the ex-bomber pilot who was being caught on the wrong foot. And he could scarcely believe it. He rocked gently on his heels, his lidless eyes gazing and vacant.

  And just then the phone rang in the hall.

  ‘It’s Mark . . . you’ve got him, haven’t you?’

  Gently motioned Leyston to take the call. His eyes were on Riddlesworth’s, Riddlesworth’s on his as they listened to the Inspector’s voice outside. Leyston came back: he nodded. After a pause, Riddlesworth put down his cup.

  ‘You’ll need me too.’

  ‘I’m afraid I will.’

  ‘Well, I don’t blame any man for doing his duty.’

  His indecision was over: he sounded almost relieved to be back again in a clear-cut situation.

  ‘Shall I see him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do I need to pack a bag?’

  ‘If it becomes necessary your wife can pack one.’

  ‘I’m coming too,’ Sue Riddlesworth said promptly. ‘Good lord, I suppose a mother is allowed to see her son?’

  ‘You may not see him tonight.’

  ‘I’m still coming. For that matter, you may as well arrest me too. I knew what was going on.’

  ‘Then we shall need your statement.’

  ‘But you’ll have to wait till I’ve locked up and put a guard on the fire . . .’

  Tonight there was only a thin mist hanging over the river and the road to the village. On second thoughts Sue Riddlesworth had chosen to drive her own car, and her lights followed them as they went. Riddlesworth sat beside Gently. He had nothing to say on the journey. There was frost in the air, and the streets of Shinglebourne looked largely deserted when they reached them. However, Stoven’s Renault was parked outside the police-station, and he was waiting in reception to grab Gently.

  ‘So you got the kid, then . . . I saw him brought in.’

  ‘Have you something to tell me?’

  ‘Yes . . . Stefan. I thought you’d like to know. I’ve persuaded him to take a couple of tablets and lie down.’

  ‘Where are your other friends?’

  ‘No friends of mine! Shavers cleared off back to Harford. Stan Claydon was with me till they brought in the kid, then he said he couldn’t stand it and went home too. All that fellow’s after is a loan . . .’

  Stoven peered at the Riddlesworths, who were standing silently, grasping hands.

  ‘So it’s them too, is it . . .?’

  Gently leaned close to him to hiss in his ear:

  ‘Bugger off!’

  Then the Riddlesworths parted, still in silence, and the Group Captain was ushered away to an interview room. In the waiting-room he must have caught sight of his son, because as he passed it he gave a thumbs-up sign.

  ‘If you would care to wait in your car, Mrs Riddles-worth.’

  ‘Thank you, but I’d sooner stay here.’

  Forlornly, she sat on one of the hard little chairs standing in full draught, by the door of reception.

  So the scene was set: an interview room where the only furniture was a table and chairs, with a strong overhead light that lit the bare compartment harshly. Statement forms and a ballpen lay on the table, which was old, with a scrubbed top. The room was heated by an electric wall-stove which buzzed, and it smelled of disinfectant and stale tobacco smoke.

  ‘Let’s have him in, then.’

  Gently sat behind the table with Leyston at one elbow; at the other sat a WPC, a hawkish-faced blonde, sharpening her pencils. Together they seemed to fill the small room, which couldn’t have been more than ten feet by eight. When Mark Riddlesworth was prodded in by a constable he stood hesitating where to put himself.

  ‘You go there.’

  He sat himself awkwardly. He was dressed in a zip jacket and crew-necked sweater. His dark hair had got dishevelled so that a lock fell across his narrow forehead. He had smooth tanned cheeks and a high-bridged nose, and a small but firm mouth. His eyes were the same yellow-hazel as his father’s; just now they were staring at Gently helplessly.

  ‘Your name is Mark Riddlesworth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What were you running away from this afternoon?’

  ‘I wasn’t exactly . . . some people were chasing me. I thought . . . well, that I better hadn’t hang around.’

  He spoke with a certain boldness, yet that wasn’t the message of his eyes. He was clasping his hands beneath the table and leaning forward as he spoke.

  ‘We are investigating the death of Mrs Stoven.’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘Didn’t you understand that the police would want to question you?’

  ‘No, why should I? No . . . of course! Not until my father told me. . .’

  ‘That was the first you knew of it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why then were you hiding in Bodney Church?’

  ‘I wasn’t hiding – exactly—’

  ‘What would you call it?’

  ‘I went there . . . I’m interested in churches . . .’

  Did he even expect to be believ
ed? His eyes were fascinated by Gently, appealing to him . . . but for what? Not to ask questions that he wasn’t briefed to answer?

  ‘How long had you been acquainted with Mrs Stoven?’

  ‘I’m not. I mean, I wasn’t.’

  ‘Didn’t you first meet her on April 28th, when you were sailing your dinghy near Bodney Church?’

  ‘No . . . I’ve never met her.’

  ‘That is the date she gives in her diary.’

  ‘But it wasn’t me . . . I mean, it couldn’t have been. She must have been writing about someone else.’

  ‘Do you know her handwriting?’

  ‘No – yes! You mean that poem you found in my desk. Dad gave it to me . . . I was interested . . . she gave it to him, for some reason.’

  ‘Why would he give it to you?’

  ‘I’ve told you, I was interested . . . it was in Czech, or something like that.’

  ‘It mentioned a name.’

  ‘It wasn’t mine. And it wasn’t me she mentioned in her diary, either.’

  ‘There are other dates.’

  ‘I can’t help that.’

  ‘On certain dates you didn’t turn up to classes.’

  ‘Because I was birdwatching—’

  ‘Yet your dinghy and hers were seen pulled up together, near Bodney Church.’

  ‘No – not my dinghy!’

  ‘But if the dates coincide?’

  ‘I tell you – I can show you my notebook . . .’

  ‘But if they exactly coincide?’

  ‘It’s to do with the tides . . . if they suited me, perhaps they suited her . . .’

  The reason why the interview room smelled of disinfectant was because customers occasionally vomited, and Mark Riddlesworth’s pallor, perspiration and swerving eyes suggested that he was about to join their number. The small room with its five inmates was hotting up and its atmosphere becoming close.

  ‘Open that window a fraction.’

  To get to it, the constable had to borrow Leyston’s chair. Then one could feel an icy draught alternating with waves of warmth from the buzzing heater.

  ‘Let’s come to Friday . . .’

  Mark Riddlesworth wasn’t looking greatly revived by the improved ventilation.

  ‘Describe your movements to me.’