Gently Where the Birds Are

by Alan Hunter

  * * *

  Heath Lane was a narrow thoroughfare signed with the National Trust oak leaves. It ran between high hedges of berried hawthorn and field maple. Through gaps one glimpsed fresh-turned ploughland, and beyond that heather-dark heath. On the sea side stretched a rough pasture, edged by bushes along the cliff-line. Then a grove of tall trees rose on the left, with below them a handsome pair of gates.

  ‘This must be it, sir.’

  Their wheels crunched on gravel. A short drive wound through the trees. They came out on a wide sweep before a four-square, red-brick Edwardian house. It had the rather dreary appearance of having been expanded from a design for something smaller, with oversize windows and doors and enormous chimney breasts and gables. But clearly it signified money.

  ‘Easton Mills must be flourishing.’

  ‘Yes sir. They’re pretty big business. They’ve got a big installation down at the docks.’

  Aspall parked. They climbed broad steps to an iced-cake porch and the huge door. Gently rang, producing low chimes somewhere deep in the muffled interior. No one answered.

  ‘Do you reckon he’s hopped it . . .?’

  Gently rang again, with like result. No sound issued from that overlarge house with its polished windows and velvety paintwork. But then a step sounded on the gravel.

  ‘Sir. . .!’

  A figure had appeared at the corner of the house. It was that of a dark-haired youth, clad in jean overalls. And he didn’t look like the one in the photograph.

  * * *

  ‘You wanted someone?’

  He came forward jauntily, with a smile in his brown eyes. He was a slim youngster, not so tall as Middleton, but with an easy confidence about him. His hands were greasy and he carried a spanner; there was a smear on his narrow but well-turned features. He spoke in an agreeable, cultivated voice, and seemed rather to welcome the interruption.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s no one here but me. If you want my father he’s in Eastwich. Mother is out visiting, and it’s the domestic’s day off. What did you want?’

  ‘Are you Lionel Easton?’

  ‘Yes, of course. At your service.’

  ‘We are police officers.’

  ‘Jolly good. We’re always at home to the law.’

  Was he ribbing them? It was difficult to tell; he had such an attitude of cheerful complaisance. He stood regarding them alertly, jogging the spanner in his hand.

  ‘No doubt your friend Dick Middleton will have explained our business.’

  ‘Dick? I haven’t seen Dick today.’

  ‘He would have rung you.’

  ‘But I wouldn’t have heard him. I’ve been working in the garage most of the morning.’

  ‘Most of the morning?’

  ‘Come and see. I’m giving the passion-wagon a tune-up.’

  He made a gesture of invitation with the spanner and turned to lead them round the house. Gently glanced at Aspall, who shrugged blankly, and they followed on behind. At the back of the house they came to a courtyard enclosed on two sides by outbuildings. The double doors of one of these stood open to reveal an ancient MG sports car.

  ‘Meet Floradora. She’s one of the family. My father drove her from new. He used to have a handlebar moustache, you know. He flew Mozzies during the war.’

  ‘So what are you doing to her?’

  ‘I thought I’d give the valves a bit of a birthday.’

  ‘Just thinking about it took you most of the morning?’

  ‘Well – you don’t rush things with Floradora!’

  But it was plain that no work was in progress on that pram-like, narrow-tyred vehicle. One half of the bonnet, folded back, revealed the head and valve-cover still bolted in place. Just window-dressing. And the smiling-faced youngster seemed not at all dismayed that Gently had rumbled him . . .

  ‘You’ll know what I’m going to ask you, then.’

  ‘It could be I have a rough idea.’

  ‘So you may as well strip off those overalls.’

  Easton meekly obeyed, and hung them up on a nail.

  ‘Now – what about it?’

  ‘Well, Dick was here. I can’t tell you very much more than that. He came up in the morning, when I was skinning the waxwing, and then again in the afternoon.’

  ‘Straight after lunch?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘And stayed until when?’

  ‘Oh, teatime, thereabouts. He set off back before dark.’

  ‘So he’d be walking?’

  Lionel Easton hesitated, then smiled apologetically. ‘Actually I didn’t see him leave. It’s quite possible that he had his car.’

  ‘What were you doing, then?’

  ‘Me? I was probably stuck in front of the telly. I don’t watch the Town very often, but of course I’m always keen to hear the results.’

  ‘And you two spent the afternoon at the telly?’

  ‘Good heavens no. Much too draggy.’

  ‘So?’

  He paused. Then, his face quite blank, said: ‘Some of the time we spent in the darkroom.’

  His face was blank: but he couldn’t entirely hide the gleam in his eye. Aspall, to judge from his expression, would dearly have loved to hit the young man. Perhaps Lionel Easton was conscious of it; he chose that moment to pick up a rag and begin scrubbing his hands.

  ‘Where is this darkroom?’

  ‘In the butler’s pantry. At least, that’s what we call it.’

  ‘Perhaps we can see it.’

  ‘Why not? Are you a camera-vulture too?’

  With apparent enthusiasm he led the way to a door at the back of the house. It admitted them to a hall and the instant blanket of central heating.

  ‘This way.’

  At the end of a passage they entered a dimly lit room. Lionel Easton pressed a switch: twin neon tubes flooded light.

  ‘Now – what can I show you? As you can see, we’re not short of equipment.’

  That was evident. Expensive apparatus ranged along a bench and overflowed on tables. By a deep sink were stacked developing trays along with a regiment of glass-stoppered jars. Over the sink and the bench hung red lights. The room smelled strongly of hypo.

  ‘Where’s your printing paper?’

  ‘In the cupboard.’

  The cupboard was stuffed with yellow boxes. Among them was paper of the size of the print they’d been sent, but alas, the brand was of the commonest.

  ‘What were you developing on Saturday?’

  ‘Some photographs that Dick took from the hide. We specialize in avocets, did you know that? Also a couple of shots of a buzzard.’

  ‘Show me the negatives.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid Dick took them with him. But I can show you some of mine. I’ve got a fine selection of waders.’

  He produced them all too readily, a fresh batch from a rack. All of birds, except a spoiled frame that appeared to be a close-up of foliage.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It should have been a Red Admiral, but I seem to have bungled the focus. I wasn’t able to measure it, of course.’ He smiled his apologetic smile.

  Was it worth a search warrant? The odds were long that the negative had been destroyed – would be, now, in any case, before the warrant could be served! To prevent it they’d have to arrest him and his friend Middleton besides, with a likelihood that the only charge would be one of hoaxing the police . . . And yet . . .

  ‘How much did your friend tell you?’

  ‘I haven’t admitted he told me anything.’

  ‘Let’s stop the fooling! You were expecting us. He was on the phone directly we left. You know about the photograph. Unless I’m much mistaken, it was you who posted it in Eastwich. You’ve had your fun, and you’ve sense enough to know that it’s time to call it a day.’

  Lionel Easton’s eyes were round with innocence. ‘Are you accusing me of something?’

  Gently snorted disgust. ‘Can’t you see that you’re wasting a lo
t of people’s time? Your stupid joke had to be investigated, along with other things that weren’t jokes! Now it’s gone far enough. It’s time you woke up and showed a bit of responsibility.’

  ‘But I know nothing of any . . . joke!’

  The nuance was faint, but was unmistakable. And Lionel Easton’s eyes were momentarily anxious, as though he’d realized he’d made a slip.

  ‘Show him the picture!’

  Aspall got out the sketch. Lionel Easton examined it without a tremor.

  ‘That’s rather good. I do some sketching, but I’m not up to his standard . . .’

  ‘You know this man!’

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘Yes! He was in the village on Saturday.’

  ‘But this is absurd . . .’

  ‘You helped Middleton photograph him!’

  ‘I assure you, I’ve never seen that man in my life!’

  And strangely, the assertion had a ring of confidence, as though here he felt himself on safe ground.

  ‘But you do know his name.’

  ‘Not even that. He’s a complete and utter stranger.’

  They gazed at each other; his eyes were steady. Then steps approached along the passage.

  ‘Hello, Mums.’

  The woman who appeared was slim and neat-figured, like Lionel Easton. She had also his narrow but handsome features, framed in exotically styled blonde hair. Perfume came with her.

  ‘I thought I heard voices . . . do introduce me, Lionel!’

  ‘These are police officers, Mums. I’m afraid we haven’t got round to names.’

  ‘Police officers. . .?’ Her eye fell on the picture. ‘Oh, now I understand! I’ve been to Laura’s. While I was there Police Constable Campsey called with that picture. But we didn’t know him. Do you, Lionel?’

  ‘Perfect stranger to me, Mums.’

  Mrs Easton looked at Gently with avid curiosity. ‘What’s he supposed to have done?’

  ‘We wish to interview him.’

  ‘Oh – I see! You are not permitted to tell me that. But for heaven’s sake let’s get out of this smelly place. We can talk just as well in the lounge.’

  Gently shrugged, and they followed her. The lounge was a high-ceilinged, over-furnished room. French windows gave a view of a terraced lawn with well-groomed flower beds, backed by trees.

  ‘Who is it I’m talking to?’

  Gently told her.

  ‘My goodness – top brass. I’d better get you a drink. I would invite you to lunch, but it’s only a scratch meal today.’

  She supplied them with generous Scotches from a cabinet that lit when she opened it. Her son smilingly poured himself a beer – the heat was off him now, and he knew it!

  Mrs Easton sat and crossed her shapely legs.

  ‘Now, what can we tell you, Superintendent? I take it that you weren’t in the darkroom merely to ask Lionel about the picture.’

  ‘We are interested in a photograph of the man in question.’

  ‘But surely you don’t expect to find one here?’

  ‘The photograph was taken in Grimchurch. At a short distance from Miss Stoven’s cottage.’

  Mrs Easton made a small mouth. ‘Well, that isn’t very far away! And of course, we’re great friends with Ka, though I still fail to see the connection. When was this photograph supposed to have been taken?’

  ‘We think it was taken on Saturday.’

  ‘On Saturday.’ She looked at the smiling Lionel. ‘You were in all day on Saturday, weren’t you?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve just been trying to tell them, Mums.’

  ‘You didn’t photograph that man?’

  ‘Rather not. I was nowhere near the Dryad’s place.’

  Mrs Easton beamed at Gently. ‘Then we don’t seem able to help you, Superintendent. But I wish you would bend the rules for a moment and tell us what the man has done.’

  Gently returned the smile and sipped his drink. ‘Were you at home on Saturday, Mrs Easton?’

  ‘Yes, in the morning. But Cosmo is a golfer. I always go visiting in the afternoon.’

  ‘I understand that young Middleton was here.’

  ‘Dick? I saw him around before lunch.’

  ‘He came back after lunch, Mums,’ Lionel Easton said. ‘We were developing his avocet spool.’

  Mrs Easton raised her eyes. ‘Oh, this birdwatching! And I never could really see much in it. But Dick and Lionel are completely hooked. They’ll crouch around freezing for hours on end.’

  ‘Miss Stoven too, I’m told,’ Gently smiled.

  ‘Yes, Ka’s as crazy as the rest. Lionel invited her here on Saturday, but she went off to see some bird instead.’

  ‘On Saturday . . .?’

  Lionel Easton gestured. ‘It was just a passing thought,’ he said. ‘Dad brought home some literature she wanted to see, so I gave her a tinkle.’

  ‘On Saturday.’

  ‘Yes, actually.’

  ‘And she didn’t turn up?’

  ‘Well, Phil Rushmere rang her about a stork that had dropped in, and apparently she went to see that instead.’

  ‘Without saying a word,’ Mrs Easton laughed. ‘And I’m sure that the boys would have liked to have seen it. But that’s Ka all over. You never know what she’ll do next.’

  ‘This was on Saturday afternoon?’

  ‘I rang her in the morning,’ Lionel Easton said shortly. ‘But it was nothing. She could have dropped in at any time. I wasn’t surprised when she didn’t turn up.’

  Yet there was a pause while he stared at his beer, and Mrs Easton smiled at nothing.

  ‘Oh, but Ka!’ she exclaimed at last. ‘Ka really is an original. She dresses ’twentyish, with cropped hair – thinks she’s Katherine Mansfield or someone.’

  ‘We are hoping to talk to her,’ Gently said.

  ‘Well, you’ll be lucky if she makes much sense.’

  ‘We don’t seem lucky in being able to find her.’

  ‘Ka?’ She sounded surprised. ‘Have you seen her, Lionel?’

  ‘Not lately, Mums,’ Lionel Easton said. ‘According to Dick she’s gone away.’

  ‘Gone away where?’

  He shrugged smilingly. ‘You know how she works as well as most people.’

  Mrs Easton shook her head. ‘That girl needs a father,’ she said reprovingly. ‘She comes of a broken home, you know. Her father died and her mother remarried. Rather sad. Now she’s living up here and never sees her mother at all.’

  ‘So where would she have gone?’

  ‘Heaven only knows. But I doubt if she’s gone to Wimbledon.’

  ‘Isn’t that where her mother lives?’

  Mrs Easton nodded. ‘She’s living with her second husband in Ka’s old home. Ka moved to a flat. She was working for a publisher. Then her father’s estate was settled. Ka got a lump sum and a bit of income, and that’s when she bought the cottage up here. So now she lives alone, writing her poetry. Perhaps it isn’t a father she needs, but a husband.’

  ‘Dick’s stuck on her, of course,’ Lionel Easton said, to his beer.

  ‘But she needs a man,’ Mrs Easton asserted.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A SPALL WAS SILENT as they drove back down the drive and paused at the impressive gates. Then, when they’d regained the road, he turned impetuously to Gently.

  ‘By crikey, I’m getting choked with this caper, sir!’

  Gently grunted. He could understand it!

  ‘I mean you know, I know that kid is the joker, and he sits there playing the old soldier with us. And I’ve got men here – seven, with the sergeant – hunting for a body that doesn’t exist! I’d like to take that mother’s boy across my knee and spank the living daylights out of him.’

  ‘He’s carrying my money, I have to agree . . .’

  ‘It’s getting plainer all the time, sir. If young smiler rang the girl at all, it was just to make sure she wouldn’t be at home. And no one’s eye on them the whole afternoon! Nobody around to hear the
shot. And what can we do about it? Perishing nothing – because if we lean on those kids there’ll be hell to pay!’

  ‘We still haven’t got a line on the third one.’

  Aspall snorted. ‘You can leave him to me. He’ll be one of their student pals from Eastwich. I’ll soon get him sorted out.’

  ‘Yet it’s strange that he isn’t known in the village.’

  ‘They’d take care to pick one who wasn’t, sir. He could’ve driven out here and been photographed and away before anyone spotted him.’

  ‘If they could trust him they’d have to know him well . . . the odds are he’d have been here before.’

  ‘You can trust our smart boy to have thought of that. He had all the other answers ready for us.’

  They passed the lane end: Gently glanced towards the cottage. Just the minibus stood there, deserted. A bend hid the track through the wood from the road, from any eye . . . perhaps from any ear.

  ‘Did it strike you that Easton seemed . . . less-informed, than Middleton?’

  ‘Pardon, sir?’ Aspall’s face jerked towards him.

  ‘As though to him it was indeed just a joke, whereas to Middleton . . .’ He left it trailing.

  Aspall digested the notion. ‘They’ve different temperaments, sir. You could get Middleton to crack sooner.’

  ‘But allowing for that . . . I was inclined to believe Easton when he denied having met or seen the man.’

  Aspall was silent again. They drove into the yard of The Fisherman’s Rest, to rendezvous with Campsey.

  The Fisherman’s Rest was a sober brick building that suggested a council office more than a pub. It stood at a corner, across from The Purlins, and half a dozen cars were already parked in the yard.

  Campsey approached.

  ‘I’ve ordered lunches, sir . . . they do you quite well here.’

  ‘Have they a private room?’

  ‘Yes sir. Would you like a pint to go on with?’

  The room was bleak, but an electric fire was doing its best to provide cheer. Their drinks were fetched by a flamboyant lady of uncertain age but powerful presence.

  ‘The beer’s good, anyway . . .’

  ‘Yes sir.’ Campsey looked gratified. ‘It’s from one of the last of the independents, sir. They still deliver by dray, over at Wolmering.’

  ‘What’s your news, then?’