Gently to a Sleep

by Alan Hunter

‘And it was after she went that Raynes made his announcement.’

  ‘Yes, sir. During coffee.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘There was an altercation . . . nobody wanted to say much about that! But after a bit Best left – I daresay he was made to feel pretty unwanted.’

  ‘It must have been emphatic if his next step was suicide.’

  Ives made a face at the beer-mugs. ‘He may have been in a depressed state earlier, sir. No doubt the family had always had a down on him.’

  ‘Is there any evidence of him being a neurotic?’

  Reluctantly Ives shook his head. ‘But we don’t know all that went on there . . . I reckon they gave him a rough old time.’

  ‘So . . . let’s come to what we do know.’

  Ives chivvied his notebook again. Clearly he was finding the conference an ordeal . . . and he’d probably been briefed to watch his step!

  ‘Best lived in a flat over Raynes’s coach-house. It’s only about fifty yards from the house. He was found next morning by the domestic, who had a key to let herself in.

  ‘Best was lying on a settee in the lounge, dressed in the clothes he’d been wearing at dinner. There was a glass and an empty aspirin bottle on a coffee-table beside him.

  ‘He lay with his eyes closed and mouth open. She tried to rouse him but couldn’t. She got the old man; he got the doctor. Best was dead. The doctor rang us.’

  Gently nodded through smoke-wreaths. ‘How long before you got there?’

  ‘About two hours after he was found . . . but the local constable was there before that.’

  ‘Who did you see?’

  ‘The old man and Clive Raynes, and Mrs Raynes was there, too. The old man was in a stupor, his wife crying. I got the details from the son.’

  ‘How was he taking it?’

  ‘Much as you’d expect, sir. A bit shaken but keeping a tight lip.’ Ives scowled. ‘As a matter of fact, he seemed most concerned about keeping the press out.’

  A cruiser passed, spilling pop-music, its crew lounging on the cabin-top. The helmsman was staring ahead anxiously, probably scanning the quays for a mooring.

  In the signal-box, a double ring on the bell produced no more response than before.

  Ives said carefully: ‘I had a scout round, sir.’ He ventured a glance at Gently. ‘Looking for the note. But the old man was there, and the son was watching everything like a hawk.’

  ‘So.’

  ‘I took a shufti in the bureau and sneaked a look at Best’s bank-sheets. No problem there. And there were letters from his ex-wife, arranging for him to visit his kid.

  ‘Then, in a bedside cabinet, I found a bottle of barbiturate capsules. I turned them in to forensic, but nothing of that sort showed up in tests.’

  ‘Who else had a key?’

  ‘Just Best himself. It was lying on the table by the glass. I made a check of doors and windows and I can swear the flat wasn’t broken into.’

  Gently puffed stolidly, watching the water which, brown and glassy, kept gliding towards the sea.

  ‘Now . . . the report from forensic.’

  ‘Nothing comic about that, sir.’

  Ives’s voice had a defensive ring. He was keeping a firm hold on the notebook.

  ‘You found his dabs.’

  ‘Yes, sir. On the bottle and the glass and the spoon that stood in it. Left-hand dabs on the bottle, right-hand on the spoon and glass.’

  ‘Right-hand on the spoon and glass?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Ives looked hot.

  Gently released a long puff at the ceiling before he said: ‘Carry on!’

  ‘There was aspirin present in the dregs in the glass and in residual powder in the bottle. The pathologist established a serum-salicylate level of 30 mgs.% and aspirin was present in the mouth and on the chin of the deceased.

  ‘From the progress of digestion the pathologist estimated that Best died at about 2 a.m., and that he’d taken the aspirin before 10 p.m.

  ‘It was 8.30 p.m. when he returned to the flat.’

  ‘30 mgs.% is roughly thirty-three tablets.’

  ‘Sir, if you’ve read the Coroner’s report—’

  Gently waved a hand. ‘Variation in absorption and reaction of individuals – on top of which Best had downed a few drinks!

  ‘But thirty-three tablets – that’s too few, even allowing a margin for absorption. Unless Best had an allergy for aspirin that isn’t mentioned in the report.’

  He got up to knock out his pipe. Now a yacht under sail was slipping by on the ebb; passing by The Steampacket, its sails swung idle, but the current kept it moving down.

  ‘Listen . . . this is one way of looking at it! Someone slipped Best a dose at that dinner.’

  ‘But, sir—!’

  ‘Listen! I’m not saying it happened, but the possibility is the reason I’m down here. Someone slipped him a dose.

  ‘It had to be a narcotic, because there’s no evidence of anything else – and furthermore it was an uncommon narcotic, one that wouldn’t show up in routine testing.

  ‘Best leaves. More than likely he’s already feeling drowsy. He reaches the flat, lets himself in, then collapses in a coma.

  ‘Later comes the murderer. Either he’s a keyholder or the door is ajar. He arranges Best on the settee, shakes him into semi-consciousness, jacks open his mouth and pours in the aspirin-solution.

  ‘That’s why some was spilled on his chin!

  ‘But now the murderer makes a mistake.’

  Turning from the window, Gently picked up a beer-mug and pretended to stir it with his finger.

  ‘You see? And it doesn’t matter whether Best was right or left-handed. He’d have held the glass with one hand – and stirred it with the other!’

  Ives gazed at the mug with startled eyes.

  ‘But . . . he might have stirred it while it stood on the table.’

  ‘Was it a heavy glass, or a thin tumbler?’

  ‘A light tumbler, but—!’

  Gently’s shoulders heaved.

  ‘And on the subject of dabs! Were they clear impressions, or had the glass been mauled and smeared?’

  ‘Clear impressions—’

  ‘In fact what you would find if the glass had been wiped, and Best’s hands closed round it.’

  Sighing, Gently put down the mug.

  ‘Only of course, all that may mean nothing at all! He may have been upset for reasons we don’t know, spilled the solution himself and covered earlier dabs with later ones.

  ‘But against that you have to set the issues that were decided by Best’s death, the opportunities that were available and the weight of Walter Raynes’s suspicion.

  ‘All in all, we could scarcely do less than give the case another look.’

  The signal-box bell rang a third time, at last provoking a sign of life. Casually, the signalman appeared on his platform to gaze first upstream, then down. Then he lit a cigarette and remained leaning on the rail.

  ‘But sir . . . !’

  Ives was sitting stiffly, an affronted expression in his eyes.

  But whatever objection he was about to come out with was silenced by a knock at the door.

  ‘You are Mr Scott . . . ?’

  The man who entered was aged about forty-three or four; scrawnily-built, he had a young-old face deeply marked with dyspeptic creases.

  He was wearing a tailored suit that unluckily emphasized his stringy frame, a silk tie and fancy brogues designed to give added stature.

  He faced Gently with a hauteur in which, nonetheless, agitation was mingled.

  ‘You would be . . . ?’

  ‘My name is Clive Raynes.’

  ‘You wish to speak to me?’

  ‘I most certainly do.’

  He threw a peevish look at Ives, who had reluctantly come to his feet.

  ‘I saw you enter the hotel together . . . I am well-acquainted with Inspector Ives! You, sir, I take to be the gentleman my father has seen fit to call down from town.�
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  There was sweat on his bony forehead; his thin mouth had a slight tremor. Gesturing as he spoke, he revealed a digital wrist-watch, cased in gold.

  ‘I thought I should warn you . . . before it went any further!’

  All the time his chin was getting higher.

  ‘There’s such a thing as criminal slander, from whatever direction it may come. I don’t know exactly what my father has said . . . it must have been something completely outrageous! . . . and you’d better know now that I will not tolerate . . . if my wife is harassed, you’ll be in trouble.’

  Gently’s expression was an utter blank.

  ‘What makes you think I would harass your wife?’

  ‘Because . . . because! Do you think I don’t know what my father has been insinuating? He hates my wife . . . oh there’s a reason! But I’m sure he won’t have mentioned that . . . and you would scarcely have come down here unless . . . in so many words, I’m giving you warning!’

  His eyes were furious; yet the effect was ludicrous, as though he were acting an ill-written part. His fingers trembled as he sought to give emphasis to his words.

  ‘No one has spoken of your wife to me.’

  ‘What . . . ?’

  ‘Until this moment, she has not been mentioned.’

  His hands halted in mid-gesture, and the angry eyes widened.

  ‘How do you mean . . . ? I know my father! He’s capable of any sort of wild allegation.’

  ‘He has made none in particular that I know of.’

  ‘Do you seriously mean to tell me . . . ?’

  Momentarily he stood rigid, the forgotten hand still extended. Then he snatched it away pettishly, making a curious little sound of disgust.

  ‘That’s all the same . . . I’m still warning you! Just don’t presume you’ll get away with it. If you know your own interest . . . but never mind that!

  ‘Really, I’ve better things to do . . . !’

  Timing it badly, he jerked around and went out, slamming the door. Moments later they heard an engine start and saw a mustard-yellow Scimitar pass one of the windows.

  Ives stayed silent.

  Pipe between teeth, Gently picked up the envelope from the table.

  The signalman had gone in; and at long last, with a soft bump, the bridge began to close.

  TWO

  THE WATERFRONT PUB was shut when they drove back along the quays; a few customers lingered at the tables, but most had returned to their boats.

  Possibly because the ebb was still running, nobody seemed anxious to get away. Children in their life-jackets were looking bored; listlessly, they watched the car go by.

  Ives drove with a certain tenseness. Gently had got his pipe going again; puffing comfortably, he sat idly gazing at the boats, houses, people.

  So little apparent alertness about this man – who yet, in his pocket, was carrying a bomb!

  Like a fateful presence he sat beside Ives, aimably releasing his whiffs of smoke . . .

  ‘Where does Clive Raynes live?’

  ‘Up at The Pines, sir.’

  They were ascending the bluff that backed the waterfront. Red brick and occasional plaster, houses huddled to the line of it, facing the river.

  About the bluff the marshes spread in a fan to make Hulverbridge a virtual promontory; at the furthest point grew a few pines, almost black against the silvery sky.

  ‘An attractive spot . . .’

  ‘It must have cost him a packet, sir.’

  ‘And about as far from the business as he could get.’ Setting his mouth tight, Ives changed down and wheeled the Cortina into a side-turn.

  Now they were descending again, along a smooth, freshly-surfaced road. Almost at once the chalk-grey sheds of Raynes-Marine appeared ahead. Then, on the right, big iron gates stood open among trees, and a drive of grey chippings led to a house before which cars were parked.

  ‘The Rayneses place . . .’

  At first sight it was a difficult building to take in. Large, built of the local rust brick, it presented an odd mixture of styles.

  To the original dwelling had been added wings; sash windows had given way to double-glazing; slate roofs, shorn of their chimney-breasts, now were patched with solar-heating panels.

  A house lacking in grace . . . but on which no expense had been spared! Around it, the lawns and flowerbeds looked over-groomed, institutional . . .

  Ives drifted the Cortina to a stop beside a beige Rover 3500. Steps led to panelled double doors, folded back to reveal a vestibule.

  But, before they could reach them, a bell chimed, triggered by some electrical device.

  ‘So they’ve sent you at last, have they!’

  The room they’d entered was in the modern part of the house. A big lounge, it had a run of picture windows overlooking the marshes and a reach of the river.

  French doors opened to a path leading down to a gate in a beech screen-fence, beyond which lay the yard: at most, half-a-minute’s walk from the house.

  ‘What’s your poison . . . to coin a phrase!’

  Raynes was utterly unlike his son – a massive man who, apart from a stomach, still looked fit at sixty-seven. When they entered, his first action had been to reach for a decanter.

  ‘I don’t believe in being – what do they call it now? Uptight? That’s never been the way here! Straight to the point is how I like it . . .’

  Without waiting, he poured whisky into cut-glass tumblers, shoved one each towards Gently and Ives and took a gulp from the third.

  ‘That’s better . . . drink up!’

  Quite certainly it wasn’t his first since lunch. His coppery nose and broad features already had a convivial glow.

  Yet it was a grim face – perhaps given its tone by a mouth that drooped between savage lines. In each large ear there was a tuft of white hair, though the hair on his head was barely grey.

  Six foot at least, he had ploughman’s shoulders, long swinging arms and huge hands. He was wearing a suit of expensive cut which nevertheless was baggy and sagged at the pockets.

  ‘You’re a pipeman, so they tell me! Be honest, and tell me what you think of this.’

  He pulled out a brushed deerskin pouch and thrust it into Gently’s hand. Gently hesitated then accepted a fill. All the time Raynes’s grey eyes were on him. He took back the pouch, filled a pipe of his own and borrowed Gently’s matches to light it.

  ‘What do you say . . . ?’

  ‘It’s a cheap shag.’

  ‘And that’s the best tobacco money can buy! I’ve smoked it since I was a nipper cleaning out the pigs, and I’ll never change from it now.’

  He drew fiercely, still watching Gently.

  ‘Finish your drink and let’s get to business.’

  His own he tossed back with a flourish before waving them to chairs facing the windows.

  ‘Look out there . . . that’s what it’s all about!’

  From the chairs they had a perfect view of the yard – the great wide-span sheds, crane, gantry and a mooring-basin filled with craft.

  Between the sheds and the house was an office-block where people were coming and going; outside it, among other cars, Clive Raynes’s yellow Scimitar was prominent.

  ‘Do you know what it’s worth? Of course you don’t! But recently I had a bid of . . . well, never mind. I won’t mention names, but it came from a consortium who’re out to collar the UK industry.

  ‘No sale! And there never will be while there’s breath left in my body. People buy my boats for one reason – because there’s a man behind them.

  ‘Me!’

  His teeth clicked on his pipe and he took a number of hard draws.

  ‘And that’s the crux of the matter, understand me? Because there’s no one here to take my place. My eldest son . . . well, you’ll meet him. And the other is just a spineless loafer.

  ‘As for my girls . . . I call them mine, but in fact the whole brood take after their mother – a clergyman’s daughter.

  ‘I
met her playing tennis, and even at that . . .’

  ‘Oh, I’m on my own!’

  He broke off, his attention alerted by activity at one of the sheds. A tractor was towing in a trailer bearing another of the unfinished shells.

  Raynes pulled out folding glasses, opened them and trained them on the tractor; one could see the driver glance at the house, well aware of whose eyes were on him . .

  ‘Then two years ago . . . wait! First, there’s something I ought to show you.’

  Jumping up, he went to a bureau, returning with a framed photograph.

  ‘Look . . . this’ll tell you better than words.’

  The photograph showed a smiling young man. Only because the print was modern could one be certain that it wasn’t of Raynes, taken thirty years earlier. The resemblance was astonishing.

  ‘This is . . . Best?’

  ‘No doubt about who his dad is, eh?’

  Fondly, Raynes took back the photograph and set it on a table by his chair.

  ‘Yet – would you believe it – my loving son Clive hired a private detective to try to prove different! Yes, they got in touch with Ronnie’s sister, Somerset House and the devil knows who – but nothing doing!

  ‘If ever I had a son in this world, it was Ronnie.’

  Suddenly the grim mouth quivered and Raynes turned his head away.

  ‘Those bastards . . . !’

  He drove fists into pockets, sniffed, and dropped back on his chair.

  His pipe, a flawless briar, had gone out but remained clamped in his mouth. After sucking it for a few moments he held out his hand:

  ‘Give me a light!’

  He puffed till the match burned down, then flicked it away with a growl. Between puffs, he sighed:

  ‘It’s two years almost to the day.’

  ‘Since Best arrived here . . . ?’

  ‘He came through that door – I must have stared at him for above a minute. The first thing I asked him was when he was born. And then I knew . . . and so did he.’

  Raynes puffed, his eyes kindling.

  ‘From the start I knew I’d found my man. It wasn’t just his looks. He’d got the same flair, the same temperament – if you like, the same devil!

  ‘Because that’s what counts in the business jungle. You have to outsmart the smartest . . . that’s the only way to the top and the only way to stay there . . .