Gently French

by Alan Hunter

  ‘Yeah, but that was on account—!’

  ‘On account of what?’

  Rampant juggled with the cup, got coffee on his jeans.

  ‘It was on account of what you’d get from the share-out,’ I said. ‘Only there wasn’t any share-out. The two hundred was all.’

  Dutt divested him of the cup and saucer. Rampant’s blotches were mottling unhealthily. Too many bellyfuls of crisps and beer and morning lie-ins with the tarts. I let him sweat while I skimmed through his statement, a tiresome document in policese. Then I lit my pipe. He was watching me hungrily; there were yellow stains on his shaking fingers.

  ‘Want a fag, Rampant?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, I want one.’

  I nodded. ‘Tell me what happened Friday evening.’

  His eyes glazed. ‘You got it down there.’

  ‘Not what I want to hear from you, Rampant.’

  ‘It’s the truth, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not all the truth. Quarles didn’t just meet you for a social chat. I want to know what it was that fetched him there. What you had to say to each other.’

  ‘But we didn’t say nothing—!’

  ‘What fetched him there?’

  ‘I don’t bleeding know! He was dead, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Then why did you want to meet him?’

  ‘I frigging didn’t. It was his idea.’

  ‘He rang you to arrange it?’

  ‘That’s right!’

  Hanson said: ‘You’re not on the phone, you stupid bastard.’

  ‘So like it was a message, then – yeah, a note—’

  ‘And you’re a pig’s arse,’ Hanson said.

  Rampant breathed fast. I mouthed a smoke-ring.

  ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘You’re in a hole, Rampant. Your part in the wage-snatch was worth a twicer. But unless you help us to come up with a better answer, that blood on your sleeve could make it life. Is that what you want?’

  ‘I never killed Freddy.’

  ‘There’s nobody else under suspicion.’

  ‘But I frigging didn’t!’

  ‘Who’s going to believe you?’

  ‘They got to believe me!’

  ‘Shit,’ Hanson said.

  Rampant whimpered, screwing himself away from us. Suddenly he looked about fifteen. He’d got thick, ugly hands and bony wrists. Just a nasty little kid with a too-old face.

  He moaned. ‘I wanted my pay-off.’

  ‘Now he tells us,’ Hanson sneered.

  ‘He was dead. He was frigging dead. It’s true. He was all over blood when I got there.’

  ‘Just you and him.’

  ‘I wanted my cut. It wasn’t my fault the job went wrong.’

  ‘So you put the black on him.’

  ‘It was what he owed me.’

  ‘Oh Christ,’ Hanson said. ‘They come thicker and thicker.’

  I signalled to Dutt; he gave Rampant a fag. Rampant’s mouth quivered as he dragged on it. Hanson stuffed a cheroot into his own mouth and sat gazing hood-eyed at Rampant.

  So now Rampant was giving.

  I took him through his statement detail by detail, trying to squeeze out some small fact that would give us a hint, a direction. But Rampant didn’t know much. His contact with the gang had stopped short at Wicken and Quarles; the Bryanston job was his first tip-off: he had stepped up a league to come an immediate cropper. Still, I kept leaning on him. We worked through the wage-snatch and came to his phone-call to Quarles on the Friday. Rampant was sweating. This was the part he’d got to get us to believe somehow.

  ‘What happened on Friday?’

  ‘Well, on Friday I saw the papers, didn’t I?’

  ‘You saw the papers and phoned Quarles.’

  ‘Yeah, I wanted to know what was going on.’

  ‘And Quarles was happy about you phoning him?’

  ‘No, he bleeding wasn’t! He chewed me up, told me I’d got to forget I’d ever heard of him.’

  ‘Then you threatened to grass.’

  ‘Well, he asked for it, didn’t he? It wasn’t like he hadn’t got the loot. One of his blokes dodged off with it. I’d read all that in the papers.’

  ‘Who suggested the meeting?’

  ‘Like I did.’

  ‘And Quarles agreed?’

  ‘Bleeding had to, hadn’t he? I’d got my monkey up. All he wanted was to get me off the frigging phone.’

  ‘He didn’t shout back at you?’

  ‘No, he never. He was talking like he’d got a cop at his elbow.’

  ‘There was someone with him?’

  ‘Well, talking like that. But bleeding nasty, all the same.’

  Point to check at the Barge-House.

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Oh Christ knows. Maybe half-past ten, eleven.’

  ‘Where were you phoning from?’

  ‘The box near my flat.’

  ‘Just you on your tod?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m telling you.’

  The meeting had been timed for eight-thirty p.m. He had spent the rest of the day in agitation. Successive editions of the evening papers made no mention of Fring’s having been arrested. At opening-time he’d gulped down two pints at his local, but swore he hadn’t mentioned the meeting to anyone. From seven-thirty to eight-fifteen he’d been alone in his flat. Then he’d got in his car and driven to the heath.

  ‘Nobody tailed you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, would I? I had to go all through the city.’

  ‘What about where you go up by the barracks?’

  ‘Wasn’t nobody behind me there.’

  So he’d arrived at the parking-place and parked there. Several other cars were present, but not the Bugatti. Rampant had waited a few minutes in case Quarles was late, then he’d set off to the rendezvous on foot.

  ‘Can you remember those other cars?’

  Rampant dusted sweat. ‘I see a couple smooching in a red A40. Then there was a Cort parked next to me. And a clapped-out Consul, all over stickers.’

  ‘Did you notice anyone sitting in them, apart from the couple?’

  Rampant shook his head reluctantly.

  ‘What colour was the Consul?’

  ‘Black, I reckon.’

  ‘And the Cortina?’

  ‘Green. A Mark 2.’

  And there had been six or seven cars more, of which he remembered not a single feature.

  ‘Let’s take it slowly, now. You went down that track, from which there’s a good view round about. What did you see?’

  ‘Well nothing, did I? It’s just a lot of trees and sort of ferns.’

  ‘Think carefully. Did you hear anything?’

  ‘There were cars going along the road.’

  ‘No sounds from below?’

  His ferret eyes were helpless. ‘Honest. I never heard a thing.’

  ‘All right. Keep going.’

  His mouth quavered. ‘So I come round the corner and see the car. At first I think the bleeder’s dozed off, that’s how it looks, him hung over the wheel. Then I come up. His frigging arm is dangling and there’s blood all over his back. So I gets hold of the bastard and tries to pull him up. Then I can see he’s bloody deado.’

  ‘Did you see a knife?’

  ‘There wasn’t no knife.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Of course I bleeding am! If there was a knife it wasn’t stuck in him. I ain’t saying it wasn’t around.’ ‘Did you touch or move anything?’

  ‘No I never. I just got out of there sharp.’

  ‘You heard, saw, nobody?’

  ‘I keep telling you, don’t I? I never see nobody at all.’

  I fed him another fag, then we went through it once again. Nothing fresh, except now he remembered two more of the cars, a Minx and a Herald. By this time Rampant was drying-up, so I let them march him back to the cells. His information had been mostly negative: but that can be important, too.

  Five minutes’ thought, while Hanson fumigated his office with a fres
h cheroot. He had been quiet during the later stages of my examination of Rampant. Now he hosed smoke at me.

  ‘So what’s the verdict from the big man?’

  I slid him a grin. ‘Better tell me yours. You’ve been longer on the case.’

  ‘I’ve seen more of Rampant.’

  ‘Granted.’

  ‘That bastard’s been in my hair a long time. He’s owing for six or seven jobs that I know about but can’t pin on him.’

  ‘One of the facts of life.’

  ‘Yeah. And now I’ve got the sod dangling. You could do me an Old Pals’ Act and he would be out of my hair for good.’

  ‘Is that what you’re suggesting?’

  ‘I’m bloody tempted. Except I know you won’t play. And except I’ve been listening to you turning him over, and I’m not so sure about him any more.’

  ‘He’s still the lad with the blood on his sleeve.’

  ‘Yeah, but he was telling his story better. At times I was almost just going to believe him, had to keep reminding myself he was Rampant.’

  I got up. ‘Too soon,’ I said. ‘We may circle round and come back to Rampant. It could be that he saw that job done, even though he didn’t use the knife himself.’

  Hanson huffed smoke. ‘Is that your verdict?’

  I hunched a shoulder. ‘Rampant will keep. Meanwhile I have another appointment.’

  Hanson nodded slowly. ‘And she smells sweeter.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  RAMPANT WASN’T LEFT-HANDED: which helped his case, though it didn’t exonerate him. On the other hand, I knew he wasn’t Dainty’s squeaker the first time he opened his mouth. He spoke with a Norchester street-accent, a debased form of the more vigorous Northshire; no Met officer would have missed it, though Rampant had talked through a dozen scarves.

  In fact, Dainty had made no mention of accent: a negative point that was slightly suggestive. What accent, or nuance, wouldn’t register with a Met man? Quick answer: his own. Thus the squeaker most likely was a Londoner, though not one with a coarsely cockney accent. A man indifferently educated, perhaps a rival gang-leader – in which case the snouts should be able to finger him.

  Though they hadn’t, yet. My next move was to ring Dainty, who had no news: he sounded uffish.

  Lunch. I invited Hanson, but he had got hung up with some petty villainery – two chummies who were impersonating council rent-collectors, and making a good thing of it. I took Dutt to The Princess, a cellar-like establishment in the neighbourhood of the provision market, known to me from that early case involving a Dutch timber-importer and his ingenious manager. The Princess had changed little that I could see. The same dimly-lit cosiness and competent waitresses. We had their mixed grill followed by gateau, and the years had altered the quality of neither.

  ‘Done any thinking?’ I asked Dutt.

  ‘No sir. Excepting I don’t like Rampant.’

  ‘You don’t think he came clean?’

  ‘That’s the trouble, sir. I’ve a nasty feeling that he did.’

  ‘So leaving the field open.’

  Dutt chewed and nodded. ‘I reckon it’s a queer old job altogether. I can see another villain putting a squeak in, but knocking off Freddy would be just stupid.’

  ‘Especially the way it was done.’

  ‘Exactly, sir. It isn’t the style of our villains. They’d have picked up Freddy coming out of a pub, not tailed him out to no heath.’

  ‘Somebody with more than a professional motive.’

  ‘Yes, but the snouts would know about that, sir. And we don’t hear nothing. I’m getting the notion the bloke we’re looking for is a strict amateur.’

  I gnawed some liver. ‘Yet there was a squeak. The professionals come into the act somewhere.’

  We ate up and paid. Our waitress was elderly, and my vanity hoped that she might remember me. She didn’t, of course. I was just a stranger, betrayed by the unwonted size of my tip.

  I collected the Lotus and we drove out of Norchester by a route made unfamiliar by one-way systems. The Barge-House was at Haughton St John (pronounced Hoffen-John by Hanson), a riverside village eight miles distant. This too I had known in past times; it is a sort of hire-boat metropolis. But in autumn, when the motor-cruisers have stopped knocking value off each other, it is also a station for pike and bream.

  The road led through a gentle, paintable country of suave undulations and psychic trees, with once a glimpse of a square flint tower to give a fix in centuries. Followed the ribbon-development of half-comely Wrackstead, which lives across the river from Haughton; and finally the vandalized humpback bridge, a victim of traffic and official callousness.

  A few years ago you could have parked by the bridge while you strolled back to admire the boating scene. Now you crawled over a bumping Bailey structure to be marshalled through yellow lines to a suicidal crossways. One of the roads I remembered had vanished, its place taken by a sprawling Superstore. Another had been widened in an unlovely way, hastening more traffic to the inevitable jam. No logic, no way out, except possibly a surgical use of the bomb. Many years behind need the local authorities would doubtless concede a new river-crossing.

  We negotiated the jam, then turned left into a road that paralleled the river. The Barge-House, an Edwardian pub enlarged into a hotel, occupied a site opposite to a bank. It was a heavy, redbrick building, set flush to the pavement, with a small forecourt intended for horse-gigs; also a yard to one side, which was presently resembling a car-dealer’s lot. Not a love-some place; but what you didn’t see was that it had lawns running through to the river. A sign-board, not yet modernized, offered launches, skiffs and row-boats for hire.

  I parked and sat appraising the scene. The road was called Bylore Road. Traffic was queued all along it, waiting to break into the chaos at the crossroads. Adjacent to the Barge-House were three sad terrace cottages, apparently built with bricks left over; then a slightly more engaging, white-plastered building, exhibiting the sign of Three Tuns. I nudged Dutt.

  ‘Think like a villain who wants to keep an eye on Flash Freddy.’

  Dutt grinned. ‘He couldn’t have hired the bank, sir.’

  ‘So go buy yourself a pint before the bar closes.’

  Dutt went. I parked the Lotus in the forecourt, where there was space beside a badge-heavy Alfa. Two good-looking cars: though one had stood there lately which – for looks – would have smeared either into the woodwork.

  The exterior of the Barge-House did it an injustice; once through the swing-doors things became plusher. You stepped into a long hall with concealed wall-lighting, a spongy carpet and a smell of old brandy. Left was the reception office: empty. I pressed the bell-push and waited. Across the end of the hall passed deft young waiters, presumably en route between kitchen and dining-room. A door to the bar was opposite the office and from that way came conversation, clinking and laughter. Finally, from kitchenwards, hurried a man in a lounge-suit. He glided up to me, smiling apologetically.

  ‘So sorry to keep you. We’ve been busy.’

  ‘Mr Frayling?’

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Shall we go in the office?’

  His smile slipped a notch; but only for a moment. We went into the office.

  Frayling was the manager. He had guessed who I was, but I told him all the same. He was a slim, willowy type, mid-forties, a lined face and conciliatory eyes. Somehow he suggested to me a busted school-master, but I didn’t go into his record. He flicked the glass shutter across the reception window and we sat down on two well-padded chairs.

  ‘I’m here about the killing, not the robbery, though there’s a probable connection. I intend to make the hotel my base. I’ll need rooms for myself and my Inspector.’

  ‘Of course, I’d like to help you, but—’

  ‘Good. You can begin by booking us in.’

  He shrugged but pulled over the register. A couple of the existing guests got shunted.

  ‘Now tell me about Quarles.’
<
br />   Frayling’s eyes jumped. ‘I – I made a full statement to Inspector Hanson.’

  ‘I know.’ I patted the brief-case I had with me. ‘And now I want to hear it at first-hand. Have you any objection?’

  ‘No, of course not!’

  ‘You had no connection with Quarles, for instance?’

  ‘Good lord, no!’

  ‘Then give me a quick run through. I’d like to know why he chose the Barge-House.’

  Frayling couldn’t tell me that, and the point was probably of no importance. But it got Frayling going on the wrong foot, which is the first move in interrogation. Quarles had booked by phone a fortnight ahead, no doubt when he’d received the tip from Rampant. He had booked for a week, from Saturday to Saturday, just like any other vacationist. He had arrived at mid-day, making some stir with his car and his companion. Frayling had given them his best room, overlooking the river. Quarles had registered Mimi as his wife.

  ‘Were you happy about that?’

  Frayling’s smirk was edgy. ‘I can’t ask too many questions, can I? Most of our guests are married couples. You take them on trust if it isn’t too obvious.’

  ‘Wasn’t this obvious?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t have said so. Even ladies like this one can get married. And they were matter-of-fact enough with each other, they’d obviously been together for a while.’

  ‘Matter-of-fact?’

  ‘I think that describes it. They weren’t rushing to jump into bed. Actually, I was wondering if they’d had a tiff. But they were just the same later on.’

  Interesting.

  ‘Did they have any quarrels?’

  ‘No. Not to my knowledge.’

  ‘Displays of jealousy?’

  ‘She could be catty, but there wasn’t any real venom behind it.’

  ‘What about Quarles?’

  Frayling fidgeted. ‘I have to admit that I rather liked him. He was a well-educated man, you know, very polite, a lot of charm. But subdued, that’s how he struck me. As though he might have some sadness in his background. I was never more taken aback in my life than when I learned he was a crook.’

  ‘Did he show any jealousy?’

  ‘He wasn’t easy to read. He had that sort of public-school veneer. But it didn’t seem to bother him what the lady got up to. I suppose he must have been used to her winsome ways.’