by Hunter Alan
‘You’re up the pole,’ the woman said. ‘What do we care about your brat’s money? You’re a bloody joke, with your big talk.’
‘I can fix you,’ French said.
‘Try scaring your son,’ the woman said.
‘And I can talk to the union,’ French said. ‘They won’t wear the sort of game you’re up to.’
‘What game?’ the woman said. ‘Let’s see your proof, if you’ve got any.’
French closed his eyes again, swallowed, tried to breathe regularly.
The woman said: ‘Look, you’re all mixed up. Nobody’s trying to rob your precious son. And you’ve knocked yourself up, if you ask me, you’d better sit down and have a drop of something.’
‘You’ve had your warning,’ French said.
‘Let’s go and sit down,’ the woman said. ‘Christ knows, there’s no harm in talking about it. Perhaps it’ll make you feel better.’
She turned away from him, went down the hallway, into the room on the left. The man was sitting in it. He was dabbing his mouth. His lips were cut and puffing up. She winked at the man.
‘You frig off, Sid. I’ll do better on my own.’
‘If ever I get a chance at that bastard,’ he said.
‘Just frig off, I can handle him.’
The man muttered, got to his feet, went padding off down the hallway. As he passed French he spat on the floor. He slammed the door of the bungalow, and after it, the gate. The woman came out in the hallway, beckoned to French.
‘Got a stinking temper, Sid has,’ she said. ‘But he’ll get over it, it doesn’t last. We can talk now he’s gone.’
‘You heard what I said,’ French said.
‘You’re worked up too,’ the woman said. ‘I don’t care what you’ve been saying. It’s a lot of pills. Come and sit down. I’ll tell you something about your son. You’ve worked yourself up about nothing.’
‘You’re a liar,’ French said.
‘I know I’m a liar,’ she said. ‘Come and sit down.’
French looked at her a long time. Then he went slowly along the hallway. The room on the left was furnished as a lounge and looked over a veranda which faced the river. The furniture was cheap and pre-war but there was a modern TV and a transistor radio. The room smelled of cigarette-smoke and of a cheap cosmetic. It was small and the furniture was huddled together. The woman went to a stained-wood cabinet and poured whisky into glasses from a Dewars’ bottle. She added nothing to it. She handed one glass to French.
She said: ‘Cheers,’ and swallowed half her drink.
French didn’t drink or say anything. She closed the door he had left open, sat on the settee, crossed her legs.
‘So John’s a nice boy,’ she said.
‘I don’t want to hear about it,’ French said.
‘Don’t be so bloody touchy,’ she said. ‘And sit down so I don’t have to crick my neck. I want to talk to you.’
French looked behind him, found a fireside chair, sat.
‘He’s a nice boy,’ she said. ‘You’re quite right, I made a man of him. What’s wrong with doing that, anyway? Some fast little bitch might have got hold of him.’
‘You’re only twice his age,’ French said.
‘Don’t give me that,’ the woman said. ‘That’s what they want when they’re that age – a woman who knows all about it. I’ve been bloody good for that boy – the way he is, shy. You ought to thank me instead of shouting at me. I’ve been an education to him.’
‘And Sid holds the door?’ French said.
‘Sid,’ the woman said. She made a gesture. ‘Sid doesn’t give a crap, he never did, about that. Maybe his accident did something to him.’
‘It was his own fault,’ French said.
‘I know it was,’ the woman said. ‘For chrissake climb down a bit.’
‘His own fault,’ French said. ‘He tried to walk a yacht up the slipway. Showing off to the apprentices. That’s how he hurt his back. And I paid him compensation, though I wasn’t damn well liable, and he’s been swinging the lead ever since, and making trouble. That’s Sid.’
‘Am I saying it isn’t?’ the woman said. ‘I should know what the bleeder’s like.’
‘And you’re just the mate for him,’ French said.
‘Oh, bloody stick it,’ the woman said.
She swallowed the second half of her drink and set the glass on the linoleum. Then she uncrossed her legs, hoisted them on the settee, lay back. Reuben’s Cakewalk had closed down. Some distant pub turnouts were yelling. After that it was quiet. The river flowed without sound.
‘Listen,’ she said. ‘You’re making a hell of a lot of fuss about nothing. Some time your son was going after it, and he might have done a damn sight worse than me. And you don’t like Sid. So bloody what? He doesn’t slay me either. But you’ve got him wrong about pinching the kid’s money, he isn’t a rogue. It’s a bit of business.’
‘Business,’ French said.
‘What’s the use of being so bloody sour?’ she said. ‘The kid gets on with Sid if you don’t, and it’s all fair and above board.’
French looked at her.
‘All right,’ she said, ‘you want to know what it is? You don’t trust Sid and me, do you, but I’ll show you we can trust you. It’s Jimpson’s dance hall, that’s what, over the other side of the bridge.’
‘What about the dance hall?’
‘That’s the idea,’ she said. ‘Running the dance hall again.’
‘That wreck?’
‘It wants doing up,’ she said. ‘But it’ll pay, don’t you worry.’
After a pause, French said: ‘I’ll buy it. I’ll tear it down and make a car park.’
‘Oh, no you don’t,’ the woman said. ‘Sid’s got an option. Molly Jimpson’s his cousin.’
‘I’ll buy the option,’ French said. ‘Is that what you’re after? How much?’
‘We’re not bloody selling,’ the woman said. ‘So you can stick that idea. This is business, like I said. And your son’s coming in on it. Why the hell shouldn’t he branch out if he wants to? He doesn’t give a frig for the boats.’
French closed his eyes, said: ‘I’ll find a way to fix that. Option or not, I’ll fix it. I’ll get my son clear of you.’
‘Be your age,’ the woman said. ‘Didn’t I trust you, telling you about it?’
‘Your mistake,’ French said. ‘You whore. I’m glad I let you talk.’
‘Now look here,’ the woman said. She sat up. ‘I’ve been straight with you, Harry. I told you that in bloody confidence. Sid would knock me about if he knew. So why not play ball?’
French came to his feet.
‘You might as well as not,’ the woman said. ‘The kid’ll hate you if you bugger it up, and he’ll perhaps do worse, just to spite you. Can’t you be a bit bloody human? Let other people live too? I should think a woman would do you good, living alone in that damn great house.’
‘You?’ French said.
‘What’s wrong with me?’
French put down his glass on the table.
‘I’d sooner take a bath in a cesspit,’ he said.
‘You’d smell about the same if you did,’ the woman said.
They looked at each other.
‘Sid’s sacked,’ French said. ‘He needn’t come in. I don’t want to see him. I’ll send his money and cards round.’
‘Get stuffed,’ the woman said. ‘I hope a bus runs over you.’
He turned, went straight through the door, down the hallway, out of the bungalow. When the gate slammed behind him he took a few steps down the cinder path, came to a stand. He was trembling. A faint night breeze pressed over the marshes from the direction of the Sounds, very soft, not enough to stir the leaves of a bush willow. Reuben’s blaze had been dipped. The traffic lights were switched off. Only Spelton Bros.’ shed showed a dim panel of light. French took several steady breaths, feeling the pulses beat in his temples. The trembling didn’t decrease. His bruised arm and stom
ach ached. The little breeze carried a fragrance of reeds, water, marsh-litter, forcing an image of the Sounds through the obsession in his mind. He let it lay there as he breathed. Then the pulsing, trembling, receded. He walked on down the path and across the rough ground to the staithe. The launch lay downstream, streamed on the ebb. He loosed the painter, reached for the coaming. The Sounds were still in his mind. When everything vanished.
Everything: the Sounds, the obsession underlying them, French’s body, the launch, the river, the night; the ninety-six craft, all let, the quays, the bridge, Reuben’s Cakewalk, the yard, the memory of his wife, his house, his son, the big sky. Out, out, out, out. Not even distant memories left. Not the wide country nor the ocean nor the world’s rim nor the stars. Thou art That was so no longer, the stubborn deception resolved: the one appearing two now the one appearing one. And the appearance of the two vanished, vanished, vanished, vanished.
The launch went down on the ebb and found its way through the bridge, touched gently at dark quays, at the boats moored to them. It moved slantways and sideways, but never directly ahead; strayed small and soundless among the tall-sided cruisers. By the slack, which was near dawn, it was down below the bungalows, the downstream bungalows which stretched for a mile. A white mist was on the river. The launch was wet, dark, still. It had its stem to the reeds as though come to a mooring. Then the sun rose, at first redly, spilling into the wide marshes, thinning the swirling smoke vapour, warming the tones of the reeds; touched the launch’s deep mahogany and its smart red plastic-covered cushions and its terylene painter hanging down in the water. The reed birds began to sing. A heron heaved up with broad slow wings. The heron wheeled to inspect the launch, carried its legs across the river. The mist collapsed, lower, lower, rolled along the surface, flattened, dissolved; the launch lay sharp and hard on the film of pale water. At half past five an angler rowed by. He stared at the launch, sat letting his blades drip. Then he pulled over, came alongside, saw the launch was empty, tied on to it.
Thus: the launch was returned to the yard and the angler left a note on it and resumed his angling. Later the note was seen by a yard-hand called Nunn who took it to the office and gave it to the manager. The manager’s name was William Archer. He gave the French house a ring. He talked to the son, John French, who told him that French had apparently not returned to the house. Then the manager frowned, sat thinking, got up, made some inquiries around the yard, discovered that French had been at the office the previous evening, that the office had been found unlocked in the morning. He took the yard foreman with him and searched the yard. It was staring hot midday by then. The two men sweated as they climbed ladders, peered into lofts smelling of tar, timber, canvas. They found a suit of sails which had been missing since Whitsun, but they found no body turning on a rope. The manager returned to the office to telephone, found John French waiting there. John French was nervous.
Thus: the Haynor police constable was called from his lunch, and the River Police were informed and sent a patrol boat to Haynor. The two authorities conferred. From the known facts they evolved a theory. It was that Harry French fell in and was drowned when embarking in his launch to drive home from the yard. The River Police approximated the area of search, impressed two rowboats, sank their grapnels. People watched from the bank, from the bridge. Yard-hands came to the quay, watching. Mr Archer was kept busy in the office. John French was not in the office, nor watching. The dragging went on from three till six p.m. in the reach from the bridge to the first bend downstream. At six p.m. a message came from Speltons. The body had been found submerged in their downstream slipway. Downstream for Speltons, upstream from the bridge: but the movements of a body under water have not been reduced to an exact science.
Thus: the police took charge of the body and laid it in Speltons’ rigger’s shop. They telephoned, stood by. A police Wolseley arrived from Starmouth. One of the men who got out of it carried a black leather bag. This was at ten minutes to seven. At seven p.m. there was more telephoning, and two of the men out of the car went across to French’s office. They saw the manager, asked for John French, asked questions, did further telephoning. Until very late they were in the office, so that tea and sandwiches were sent over from the restaurant. Afterwards two of them went to the French house. Meanwhile, the launch lay where the angler had tied it.
Thus: on Thursday August 6th a conference was held at Police Headquarters, Starmouth, at which it was decided to request the assistance of an expert from the Central Office.
Thus: the Central Office instructed Superintendent George Herbert Gently to proceed to Starmouth and to provide such assistance.
The weather continued fine, with heavy dews at night.
CHAPTER TWO
SUPERINTENDENT GENTLY LEFT London on the A12 and drove through Ipswich and along the coast to Starmouth. He drove alone. He stopped at a café in Saxmundham for an iced drink. He arrived at Starmouth at four-thirty p.m. and drove directly to the County Police Headquarters in Trafalgar Road. He parked in a slot in front of Headquarters, put on his jacket, went in. The desk sent an usher with him to the first floor, to the office of Superintendent Glaskell. He met Glaskell. Glaskell sent for his C.I.D. Inspector Parfitt. Neither of these men were wearing jackets. Gently took off his jacket again. They sat. Glaskell said:
‘Parfitt has been on the case since yesterday. He’s pretty sure who the chummie is, but we haven’t found a way to make it stick. The trouble is getting hard facts. On circumstantial evidence we might nail him. No weapon, nothing like that. We need a breakthrough badly.’
‘Yes,’ Gently said. He looked at Glaskell. Glaskell was a heavy-featured, balding man. He had a thickly boyish face and green-grey eyes that protruded slightly. Parfitt was big-boned, level-shouldered, had a large face with a pointed jaw. He had light-blue eyes. They stared intently. Neither man had smiled when shaking hands.
Glaskell said: ‘They’d have given you the facts, would they? An outline, something like that?’
‘Merely an outline,’ Gently said. ‘I’ve seen the press accounts, of course.’
‘Yes, those,’ Glaskell said. ‘French was a V.I.P. of sorts. His yard is one of the biggest in the Broads. Did a lot of Admiralty work during the war. Plenty of money. Wife died last year. Now his son collects everything.’ He cleared his throat. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘They didn’t get on, and now the son collects.’
‘I see,’ Gently said. ‘What’s his alibi?’
Glaskell grunted, Parfitt moved his shoulders.
‘About as weak as it can be,’ Glaskell said. ‘Only, let’s face it, we can’t break him. Parfitt had an all-night session with him. Parfitt’s good at interrogation. The chummie was lying like an idiot, but he stuck to the tale. And no witnesses.’
‘Still, what’s the alibi?’ Gently said.
Parfitt said: ‘He was out sailing.’
Gently thought, said: ‘Sailing in the dark?’
‘That’s right,’ Parfitt said. ‘It’s what he says. He took out a half-decker after tea, went up to Hickstead and back. He’d be breaking the by-laws, sailing without lights, but that doesn’t concern us. He’d have got back to Haynor at about eleven-thirty p.m., then he walked back to the house and got there at midnight. He knocked on the door of the housekeeper’s bedroom, asked her where he could find some cold sausage. But he knew darned well where to find the cold sausage. He was just making sure she knew when he came in.’
‘Yes,’ Gently said, ‘but how does that cover him? The E.T.D. was between nine p.m. and midnight.’
‘It covers him this way,’ Parfitt said. ‘We’ve got a witness to when Harry French left his office. One of the French boats was moored there and the hirer was using the phone-box. He’d met French when he took over the boat and he saw him come out of the office at around ten p.m. French had switched off the office light and he went straight across the yard to the quay. The hirer was using the phone-box till ten-thirty p.m., then he went back to his yacht. French’
s launch had been moored near the yacht when the hirer went to phone but it was gone when he returned. So French must have been killed at about ten p.m., when the son says he was still upriver.’
Gently nodded. He said: ‘You’re accepting the theory that French was killed as he embarked.’
‘I can’t see anything else for it,’ Parfitt said, ‘unless it was arranged to look like an accident. But it could hardly have been that, with that sort of head injury. Nobody was going to think that French did it when he fell in.’
‘How about the bruising?’ Gently said.
‘I don’t know,’ Parfitt said. ‘If there’d been a fight it would have attracted attention. I can’t see there having been a fight. But someone could have bashed him and he slipped in, and nobody noticed the splash. Nobody did notice a splash. Unless they’d gone before we talked to them.’
‘Was there any sign of a struggle in the launch?’ Gently asked.
‘None,’ Parfitt said. ‘Nor on the quay.’
‘In the office?’ Gently said.
‘Nor there either,’ Parfitt said. ‘Dr Thomas had a look at the son, and there was no evidence that he’d been fighting. He couldn’t have stood up to French anyway. We reckon the bruising doesn’t come into it. Perhaps French took a knock off something, it’s easy enough in a boat-yard. Anyway, he was bashed from behind. We reckon chummie crept up on him.’
‘Can I see the photographs?’ Gently said.
Parfitt opened a box-file he’d brought with him. He handed Gently a sheaf of glossy full-plate prints. They showed Harry French and his injuries. Harry French’s skull had a depressed fracture about an inch above the nape of the neck. It was a circular depression, almost regular, not more than two inches in diameter at its widest.
‘Blunt instrument,’ Glaskell said, looking at the prints over Gently’s shoulder.