Gently Heartbroken

by Alan Hunter

  ‘My guess is they’re not far away.’

  ‘Monsieur has spoken my thoughts,’ Frénaye said. ‘A telephone is essential to their plans, and they would prefer to approach it without use of a car.’

  ‘There is also this.’ Gently pointed to the map. ‘Within three miles the road reaches Loch Loyne. The crossing was presumably by means of a causeway, and the odds are that by now it is no longer usable.’

  ‘Then, my dear colleague, the less ground to cover.’

  ‘For one of us,’ Gently said, ‘no ground at all. One man will be less conspicuous than two – and I’m the man who is carrying a gun.’

  ‘But, monsieur!’ Frénaye expostulated.

  ‘Monsieur, I desire an eye to be kept on the phone box. I may or may not discover the hideout, but that phone box is a certain point of contact.’

  Frénaye looked sulky. ‘Monsieur is disagreeable. It was understood that we ventured together.’

  ‘Monsieur, today is strictly a reconnaissance, as you were kind enough to remind me earlier.’

  The rain ceased. Gently donned the anorak and packed his jacket into the rucksack. He attached the ‘impermeable’, pulled on the cap, slung the glasses by his side and shouldered his load.

  ‘Give me three hours.’

  ‘And then, monsieur . . .?’

  ‘After three hours consult your initiative.’

  He stalked away under the trees without looking back at the resentful Frénaye.

  ‘Warning: weakened bridges – unsafe for traffic’. The sign was an old one with flaking paint. But the first long stretch of crumbling tarmac strode tamely enough across the rain-darkened moors. On the left a deer fence protected young pine saplings, on the right rocky knolls humped above the heather; then there were islands of trees, level plashes of water, and ahead denser trees and the long spur of a low hill. One saw cotton grass, harebells, orchids, the yellow stars of tormentil beside the track; and circling the horizon a theatre of peaks, blued and sharpening in dissolving mist.

  But there was no sign of habitation in that unruly, abandoned landscape. No sheep grazed there, or cattle; no sheltering grey wall capped any of the knolls. Only the road had gone that way, crossing country that none had ventured to settle: from lonely Tomdoun to lonely Cluanie. And now the road itself a ghost . . .

  So, how good was Frénaye’s information? After the first half mile it seemed, very little. The broken, grass-grown road offered few suggestions of recent traffic. Scanning it as he marched along, Gently could spot no tell-tale oilstains, rubber smear or fresh crumblings of the weather-picked surface. It wasn’t proof, but it was discouraging. And meanwhile the country grew wilder, emptier. Reaching the dense stand of trees, he halted to survey the scene with glasses.

  At this point the road had begun to climb and provided a useful viewpoint. Far off, in the direction of Tomdoun, he could still see the red spot of the phone box. Followed the broken expanse of moor, knolls, pools, groups of trees, and finally the long scarp of the hill that closed the landscape to the north. And then something that brought back his glasses with a jerk! A faint line of track was visible on the moor; reaching out from the trees behind him, it proceeded to a knoll clothed in tall sycamores. He focused on the knoll. He could see only trees. Yet the track ended there, didn’t resume beyond. An island site offering cover enough: perhaps a third of a mile from where he stood . . .

  He jammed the glasses back in their case and hastened on into the trees. Within a hundred yards he came to the junction of the track with the road. Originally of granite chip, it was now bound hard and choked with grass: but where it joined the road a skim of mud showed the unmistakable imprint of a tyre. He went down the track; at the edge of the trees he again focused glasses on the knoll. Still nothing to see: just the track, swinging round to vanish behind the sycamores.

  What to do now!

  For several minutes he studied the knoll and its surroundings, but clearly a nearer approach from that direction was ruled out. The track was bare of cover and must be regarded as under observation; furthermore a lookout, if there was one, would have had him in view all the way from Tomdoun. He would have been seen to enter the trees: now, without too much delay, he must be seen to leave them . . . it was also probable that, from higher up the road, a more revealing view might be had of the knoll.

  He regained the road. It continued to climb until clear of the belt of trees but then, exasperatingly, bore left, keeping the trees between him and the knoll. Sweating, he toiled along between verges lined with meadow-sweet and foxglove, always with the deer fence to his left, the birch-scattered moorland to his right. At last, after much meandering, the road crested a slight rise, bringing into view what was apparently Loch Loyne and the dishevelled blocks of its former causeway. A judgement confirmed . . . but the knoll with the sycamores? He left the road and struggled through heather. A hundred yards distant, fenced with scrub birches, a platform of rock made a convenient eminence. He climbed up through twigs, through bracken, and focused the glasses. He could see a house!

  A house: a low, stone-walled cottage; with small, blank windows and slated roof: about a mile away, set close to the sycamores, and invisible from any viewpoint but this. A half-ruined house: he could see gaps where slates had shed from rafters: probably abandoned when the new road was opened, forgotten, erased from their maps by cartographers . . .

  For twenty minutes he watched it, seeing in that time not a flicker of movement. If there was a car it was out of sight, parked either in the trees or behind the cottage. But that this was the hideout he could have no doubt: it was the only habitation south of the causeway. Invisible, unsuspected, almost unapproachable, it was a perfect choice for McGash’s purpose. To effect a rescue . . . how was it possible? A car would be spotted from far away. By night as well as by day they would have a watcher: and a gun always pointed at Barentin’s head.

  But a closer look . . . that might be possible! Grunting, Gently put away the glasses. It meant some heavy going through the rough, but . . . keeping to the clumps, the rocky outcrops . . .

  In effect it was easier than he had supposed: he struck a burn that drained southwards towards the Garry. Shuffling, often sodden-footed, along its course, he drew closer and closer to the knoll of the sycamores. At quarter of a mile’s distance he halted to observe, lying prone in wet bracken. Now, with the glasses, he could study detail, spot movement, if any, at the deep-set windows. But still . . . nothing stirred! So where was their lookout? Did they feel so secure that they hadn’t set one? His eye passed, returned to the shadowed porch: a darker shadow showed the door to be ajar.

  He crept on along his comfortless gully. No challenge, no alarm came from the cottage. All he could hear was the chuckle of the burn and the chinking of a stonechat somewhere above. He was close: too close. Squirming flat to the heather, he made a gap to observe again. Yes . . . the door was ajar: and there was something else: a few yards from the door lay the body of a dog . . .

  He drew his gun. Nothing moved. He rose, ran crouching to flatten himself against the cottage wall. The dog was an Alsatian. Its head was blown off. The body lay stiffened and sodden with rain. Gun-first, he kicked the door wide. Sprawled inside was the body of a man. A policeman, he lay clutching his stomach with bloody hands, his mouth in a snarl, his eyes staring. Gently went by him. The cottage was deserted. Sleeping bags, clutter, lay about the rooms. In the kitchen, a carton containing groceries, a camping stove, tins.

  He left. He set himself a trot, panted back to the road, pounded on towards the phone box. It seemed never to grow bigger. While it was still some way off he saw a car pass it: a green Deux-Chevaux.

  Lounging in one of the comfortable chairs, the bearded man sipped from a glass. Sitting like that he looked almost amiable, relaxed, half amused. But then you noticed, protruding from an armpit, the handle of the gun he wore night and day. He was an educated man, the Frenchman had decided, in spite of his trick of using the vernacular. At moments of str
ess, when giving orders, the lilt vanished from his speech.

  ‘So now you know the truth of it, Frenchie,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t kittling you up about Dusty. I mean, shooting a policeman, that’s venial, but to blow away his poor doggie! Aye, I’m afraid he has a nasty nature. You can never teach a foreigner to be kind to brutes.’

  ‘But he had no option, Jamie,’ the Frenchman said. ‘You or I would have done the same.’

  ‘Would you now,’ the bearded man said. ‘That’s interesting, Frenchie, very interesting.’ He drank. ‘But what do you think of our quarters – isn’t this better than a shift up the glen?’

  ‘Oh yes, Jamie,’ the Frenchman said. ‘Yet I am wondering . . . is it wise?’

  ‘Is it wise!’ The bearded man laughed. ‘It’s just the canniest move in the book. They’ll not be back searching here again – for one thing, they haven’t the men to spare for it. No, no, we shall sit tight here till the caper is over and the cash paid – and the cash is on its way, Frenchie. That’s the word I had from Glasgow.’

  ‘And our comrades, Jamie?’

  The bearded man drank. ‘That’s a different story,’ he said. ‘I’m thinking there are words to put to that bargain – they’ll not trust us over-much concerning Abraham. But cash, they’re always free with that, and a plane you can have for the asking. So drink up, Frenchie, man – your part of the deal is cut and dried.’

  The Frenchman drank. ‘You’re a remarkable man, Jamie.’

  ‘Aye, some would say so,’ the bearded man said. ‘And Frenchie – feel free to kick the furniture. This joint is costing us a hundred a week.’

  FIVE

  GUTHRIE PUT DOWN the office phone; he kept his face turned from Gently. ‘They’ve found his van,’ he said. ‘He left it parked behind the shielings under the trees. No doubt he thought the walk would exercise the dog.’ He leaned hard against the desk. ‘The poor laddie.’

  Tate said: ‘He was twenty-six, sir. He was engaged to the daughter of the people at the store.’

  ‘And they shot him down.’ Guthrie made his fingers creak. ‘My God and soul we’ll get those devils. Put me in sight of them. That’s all I ask.’

  ‘He mentioned the cottage to McBain yesterday,’ Tate said. ‘They stopped at the box to phone in. But McBain thought it too unlikely and they carried on down.’

  ‘Unlikely, unlikely,’ Guthrie said. ‘Who could have guessed they would know such a place. And the laddie goes back there in his own time to make sure – just to make sure! He’d have walked in there like a lamb, Tate. Told the dog to sit. Then walked in.’

  ‘Rotten luck, sir,’ Tate said.

  Guthrie clenched his fists and sat silent.

  Empton came in; he glanced around.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Well, well.’

  He closed the door, pulled up a chair to the desk and sat.

  ‘Information,’ he said. ‘If you want a name I can give you one, Yousef Hajjar. A typical job, two bullets. He’s what you might call a ballistics expert.’

  Guthrie stared at him.

  ‘Ah,’ Empton said. ‘Well, a round up of the rest of the news. We’ve McGash’s and Hajjar’s dabs plus two other sets, doubtless Hénault’s and Barentin’s. So Barentin is still alive, or was still alive, allowing for any moments of natural impatience. Under drugs I rather fancy, since we found an empty paraldehyde bottle. Then there are these.’ He produced two expended shells. ‘Skoda of course, but that’s academic.’

  ‘Listen,’ Guthrie said. ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘Tut,’ Empton said. ‘Such impatience. Wonderful what a dead wolly can do in getting enthusiastic cooperation. Perhaps we’re beginning to see eye-to-eye.’

  Guthrie struck the desk. ‘I want those men.’

  ‘Of course, old man,’ Empton said. ‘At the end of a gun. Isn’t that the meaning of the glitter in your eye?’

  Guthrie looked away. Empton laughed.

  ‘Give your conscience a rest, old man,’ he said. ‘We’re way beyond morals. Terrorism negates them. We’re operating in conditions of total pragmatism.’

  ‘I want them in a cell,’ Guthrie said.

  ‘You want them dead.’

  ‘I want them put away for good and all.’

  ‘Not you,’ Empton said. ‘Not you. You want to see them holding their guts like your wolly. You want revenge, I want a solution. That puts us in the same boat. The difference is that I keep my poise while you’re knocked off balance by your emotions.’

  Guthrie’s hands jerked. ‘Just let’s get them.’

  Empton laughed again. ‘So hear now,’ he said. ‘While your wolly was flushing them out of the glen, my men were severing their hot line to Paris.’

  ‘Doing what?’ Guthrie asked.

  ‘Nobbling their agent. We do have our moments,’ Empton said. ‘A jock called Petrie, better known in Glasgow as a car-ringer and fixer. We’ve had an eye on him for some while on account of his colourful acquaintances. I had his phone tapped. He rang a certain Paris number, very naughty. So we closed him down.’

  ‘You mean you’ve arrested him?’

  ‘Something like that. The Frogs meanwhile will have copped his contact. It was a toss up whether to let them rip, old man, but on balance I felt this way would be quickest. You see Petrie will know where McGash has gone. And Petrie will be delivered here shortly.’

  Guthrie’s eyes were small. ‘But . . . will he talk?’

  Empton showed his teeth. ‘I shouldn’t wonder, old man. But while we’re waiting there’s another matter which has been puzzling my naive mind.’ He turned for the first time to Gently, who was sitting apart by the window. ‘Your luck, old man, your proverbial luck. I know it’s damned bad form to question it. But do tell us how, with all of Scotland to choose from, you happened first time on the very spot.’

  * * *

  Gently remained staring through the window. ‘I applied your appraisal to a map,’ he said at last.

  ‘Oh come on,’ Empton said. ‘You’re among friends. Be British and all that.’

  ‘Glengarry seemed a probable area. The phone box suggested a point of departure.’

  ‘And from there – straight to it?’

  ‘I explored the road, saw the cottage and investigated.’

  ‘Oh brilliant,’ Empton said. ‘A man with X-ray eyes. He sees through trees and solid rock.’

  ‘I saw the track and made a detour until I could see to where it led.’

  ‘And then, because no one shot at you, you walked straight in and found the wolly.’

  ‘Something like that,’ Gently said.

  ‘You’re lovely,’ Empton said. ‘Oh you’re lovely.’ He made nickering sounds with his tongue. ‘All the same, I keep getting this feeling that men are at work somewhere. Then I ask myself, why would Lucky Jim take a Froggy new chum up the glen with him?’

  ‘Frénaye is a police officer,’ Gently said.

  ‘Nice,’ Empton said. ‘Do tell us some more. Like how he turns up in a hotel bedroom just before your blinding success with a dead wolly.’

  Gently said: ‘He’s here unofficially.’

  ‘But he’s here,’ Empton said. ‘Here.’

  ‘Frénaye was involved in the original police hunt. He is also acquainted with Monsieur Barentin.’

  ‘And,’ Empton said.

  Gently was silent.

  ‘I think I ought to know about this,’ Guthrie said. ‘Official or unofficial, -I think I should know what a French policeman is doing on my patch.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ Empton said to the ceiling. ‘Barentin was snatched near Deauville–Trouville. If our Frog was involved in the police hunt then he must be stationed in that area. So Lucky Jim knows him, he knows Lucky Jim. And suddenly we find him at Lucky Jim’s side. And straight-way Lucky Jim puts his finger on the hideout which every damned policeman in Scotland has been searching for. My oh my, what a coincidence. Surely one for the Book of Records.’

  Guthrie turned to stare at G
ently. ‘Was it like that?’

  ‘Let me guess a little more,’ Empton said. ‘Lucky Jim knows Hénault’s ex-wife, in fact I seem to recall he knows her rather well. And she would know the Frog – how it all fits together! – and before her Hénault might not be discreet. So some information trickles through that is much too stalky for Lucky Jim to lay on the table.’ Empton showed his teeth. ‘You’ve been naughty, old man. And it’s cost our friend a wolly.’

  Gently said levelly: ‘I had no information that could have prevented the death of Constable Dickie.’

  ‘But,’ Empton said, ‘you had information.’

  Gently ignored him, spoke to Guthrie. ‘Frénaye is here on his own initiative because of his concern for Monsieur Barentin. In addition he learned from the Yard that I was engaged on the case.’

  ‘Oh how convenient,’ Empton said. ‘And almost true.’

  ‘It is true I am engaged on this case.’

  ‘Ha, ha,’ Empton said. ‘And that gives you the right to sit on vital information.’

  ‘Was there information?’ Guthrie said.

  ‘A very small pointer,’ Gently said. ‘Given to me personally on the understanding that it would not be used to Monsieur Barentin’s peril. In my judgement, that might have been the case if the information was prematurely revealed.’

  ‘Now,’ Empton said, ‘I’ve heard everything. In other words you weren’t to tell me.’

  ‘In other words,’ Gently said.

  Empton picked up a ball pen from the desk and snapped it.

  ‘Old man,’ he said. ‘Get this very straight. This show is outside your moral parameters and I won’t take interference from God himself. So you love Jews, you love Frenchmen, you’re the hair on Jesus’ chin. But I’m the bastard they bring in when the other bastards have shot the umpire. That’s my job and I know my job. And heaven help you if you cross me.’

  Gently turned to stare at Empton.

  ‘Now, old man – that information.’

  Gently took out his pipe and slowly began to fill it.

  ‘Is there – is there anything fresh, man?’ Guthrie faltered.