Gently Where the Birds Are

by Alan Hunter

  ‘No car out front?’

  ‘Nothing. Give me back my glasses!’

  Gently didn’t.

  ‘Let’s take a stroll along the beach.’

  Rushmere’s fingers were itching for the glasses. He was like a drug addict deprived of his syringe: for the moment nothing else seemed to matter. His very manhood might have been bound up in them! Perhaps it was his eyes where the virtue of him lay.

  ‘This is no better than persecution. I don’t have to go where you tell me!’

  ‘Yes . . . come on! We have to ask questions, and it’ll be pleasant along the foreshore.’

  ‘First, I want to know what it’s about.’

  ‘I’ll tell you that as we go. Do you ever get tides over these sand dunes?’

  Like it or not, Rushmere had to follow him.

  And it was pleasant along the foreshore, on the hard sand below the shingle. The low sun was yellowing the breakers and giving a warm glow to the misted distance. Grotesque driftwood, bladder-wrack and scraps of crumpled plastic strewed the tideline, and gulls yelped and wheeled. Over the dunes it was another world.

  ‘You see a lot of Miss Stoven, do you . . .?’

  Rushmere’s eyes were so distant because the pupils were small. As though he really were drugged – but that was scarcely in question: his aspect was one of vigorous good health. He had a fresh, outdoor complexion, yet that seemed somehow superimposed, as though he once might have worked in an office . . . what would he have been? A solicitor’s clerk?

  ‘I see a lot of people. That’s my job.’

  ‘But her you know on a social footing.’

  ‘What if I do?’

  ‘You visit her cottage. When something special turns up, you want to share it with her. What was it, after all?’

  ‘It was a stork, but—’

  ‘Is that such a rarity?’

  ‘Of course it’s a rarity! They’re scarce visitors. Just occasionally we get one blown across from Holland.’

  ‘So you thought at once, Ka Stoven should see it.’

  ‘I knew she’d be interested – yes!’

  ‘But you didn’t think, say, Lionel Easton might be interested – though Sandlings is closer to your place than her cottage?’

  ‘No. Why should I?’

  ‘Is Miss Stoven a photographer?’

  ‘No. You obviously know nothing about her! And I simply won’t answer any more questions until you tell me what it’s about.’

  His small mouth set stubbornly. And he still wanted the glasses so badly! Walking between Gently and the sea, he kept shooting little glances, checking if Gently’s hands were still on them. And if it came to a struggle he might prove a handful . . . plenty of power in that heavy-boned frame.

  ‘It’s about the man who died here on Saturday . . . those are some of the more common sandpipers, aren’t they?’

  From the corner of his eye he was watching Rushmere: the birdman’s mouth gaped. But he said nothing.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Of course they’re . . . sandpipers!’

  ‘Weren’t you going to say something else?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t!’

  ‘About the man who died?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid! Who was he?’

  ‘Take a look.’

  Gently pulled out the impression and shoved it under Rushmere’s nose. The birdman’s vacant eyes stared at it and his mouth was very small.

  ‘Who – who is he?’

  ‘The man who died.’

  ‘But what’s his name?’

  ‘Do I have to tell you?’

  Rushmere’s eyes flickered to his, and then away. ‘I don’t know him!’

  ‘But you’ve seen him before.’

  ‘I say I haven’t.’

  ‘He was near Miss Stoven’s cottage on Saturday.’

  ‘Does she say that?’

  ‘Didn’t you see him?’

  ‘No – and you’re just trying it on!’

  It was provoking. As near as damn it, Gently felt he had his hands on something. But his only card was bluff, and clearly it wasn’t going to take the trick.

  ‘Tell me . . . when did you last see Miss Stoven?’

  ‘Never mind when I last saw her!’

  ‘Please answer the question, Mr Rushmere.’

  ‘It may have been Monday, may have been Tuesday.’

  ‘When did she leave?’

  ‘Has she left?’

  Gently felt like punching his head.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘If the police don’t know, I certainly can’t tell them.’

  But he was lying, Gently was sure of it. Just for a moment Rushmere had been rocking. He’d believed that Gently knew more than he did, and it had worried him: just for a moment! Perhaps a name dropped . . .

  ‘We’ve been talking to young Middleton.’

  ‘Dick . . .?’ Was there a quaver of anxiety?

  ‘He was about there with his camera on Saturday.’

  Rushmere hesitated, staring at the shingle. ‘I think you’re just trying to be clever,’ he said. ‘I don’t think you know what you’re doing at all. I suspect that someone is pulling your leg. And now – for the last time! – give me my glasses.’

  Gently gave them to him. They were genuine Zeiss glasses, light and brilliant: the very thing.

  Up at the car park again he paused, taking in once more that remarkable scene – the glowing sea, beach, dunes, mere, reed jungle and brackeny hills. Rushmere’s kingdom . . . and anything to lose might be lost there till the day of doom. If you knew it existed, and knew it was there, still . . . where would you begin?

  ‘Officer . . .?’

  It was the well-wrapped lady who had been sharing the hide with Rushmere. She was sitting in a Toledo, and doubtless had been waiting for him. He approached her car.

  ‘Officer, I couldn’t help overhearing what you said to Mr Rushmere. But he was mistaken about one thing. It was later when he got to the hide with Miss Stoven.’

  It was, was it? Gently smiled at her; she had bristles on her squarish chin. Wearing a shawl over a coat and many sweaters, she overflowed the Toledo’s seat.

  ‘What time would you say it was, ma’am?’

  ‘Oh, I’d say it was after three. But that was when they came to the hide, you know, and they could have been somewhere else first. I just thought I’d tell you.’ She started her engine.

  ‘Do you come here regularly, ma’am?’ Gently asked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she smiled. ‘This is my life. I’d love to have Mr Rushmere’s job.’

  ‘Did you see the stork last week?’

  ‘Stork?’

  ‘I understand that one dropped in.’

  She shook her head. ‘You’ve been misinformed. The last stork we had here was in the spring.’

  ‘You’re sure of that?’

  ‘Dear man, yes! It couldn’t have dropped in without my knowing. I’m here every day.’

  And, beamingly, she backed the Toledo and drove away.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE SUN WAS lapsing in a brassy mist when Gently reparked at The Fisherman’s Rest. He found Aspall basking by a newly lit fire in a private room that now was becoming cosy.

  ‘Any news . . .?’

  ‘Not yet sir, but they told me to expect a tinkle. Anything new with you, sir?’

  Gently grunted. With this case you could never be certain!

  He sat down on a chair across from Aspall and stuffed his pipe before giving the details. The fire was a coal fire in an old-fashioned grate and lit the dull room with cheerful flickerings. Outside, as soon as the sun dipped, it would start to freeze like the moon’s backside. Aspall, cued by his senior, lit a fag and breathed smoke towards the flames.

  ‘Has Warren reported?’

  ‘Yes sir. I believe they’re all pretty fed up.’

  Who wouldn’t be?

  ‘Where have they got to?’

  ‘Still on the cliffs, sir, among the heather.’
/>
  Gently puffed and told his news, which sounded thin enough when recounted. But Aspall listened interestedly, his large face ruddy in the firelight.

  ‘You reckon Rushmere’s tied up with it, sir?’

  ‘I reckon he saw what he isn’t telling us.’

  ‘Him and the girl both, sir. They were both of them trying to rig up an alibi.’

  ‘It could be something simpler.’

  ‘Rushmere’s divorced, sir. They wouldn’t need an alibi for that.’

  ‘But he’s not the type . . .’

  ‘If he’s keen on the girl, sir, and she’s pally with the kids, she could have dragged him into it.’

  Gently blew smoke-rings, unconvinced. Somehow, it didn’t seem to add together. Rushmere wasn’t the type: if he’d known about a hoax, he would surely have dropped a hint. Easton and Middleton would have been the instigators, and they’d have got off with a wigging and a fine – probably deserved, Rushmere would have thought – and the girl need never have been brought into it. No . . . he wasn’t the type! And where was the girl? What reason did she have to vanish? What made her more vulnerable than the kids, so that she couldn’t stop to face a policeman . . .?

  But, on the other hand, if it wasn’t a hoax, what credible explanation could there be for the facts? Blackmail? That was a laugh! Who was there, here, to be blackmailing whom?

  ‘We need something solid. A lever . . .’

  Aspall nodded. ‘The body would have done, sir.’

  Gently pulled a face. ‘You think it’s time we called them off?’

  ‘It’s up to you, sir. We’ll keep searching.’

  But clearly Aspall had lost faith in that body and probably in any useful outcome. Sitting there alone, toasting his toes, he’d doubtless been seeking a face-saving formula. His anger had evaporated. They’d done their best, now for Christ’s sake . . . get back to the villains! And by the fire, in the flame-lit room, didn’t that sound the only reasonable viewpoint?

  The phone rang. Aspall stirred himself reluctantly to take it. He listened a while, his eyes rounding, then he held out the receiver to Gently.

  ‘The Yard, sir – I thought it best to go through them. Wimbledon have got a name for us.’

  ‘Hello, sir – how are the swedes?’ It was Dutt’s perky voice at the other end.

  ‘Never mind the swedes! What have you got?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure, sir. But it sounds comic.’

  ‘So make me laugh.’

  Behind Dutt’s voice one could hear the sounds of the outer office – a typewriter tacking, door slamming, someone beefing about a file. A long way from The Fisherman’s Rest! Even the smell seemed in his nostrils . . .

  ‘Some geezer did a bank at Wimbledon last week, sir.’

  ‘A bank?’

  ‘Yes sir. The National Provincial.’

  ‘What’s that to us?’

  ‘I’m coming to it, sir. The bank was bust on Thursday morning. They’d just taken a delivery for a wages payout, hadn’t even had time to lock the vault. The Securicor van drove away from the front and chummie came swanning in at the back. He was masked and had a gun. He got away with thirty thousand nicker.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘An alarm was rung, sir, and the lads were round there real sharp, and what with one thing and another they reckoned they were dealing with an inside job. Was there anyone off sick? Yes, there was, sir – a young counter clerk called Sternfield. So they shot off round to his flat, and that’s where they seemed to have dropped a clanger.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘They was there too quick, sir. Seems like Sternfield had cached the loot on the Common. The dogs sniffed out a hole there, but no loot and no Sternfield. They reckon he must have come back from stashing the loot to see the cars outside his flat, so then he doubled back, collected the dough, and lit out for foreign parts.’

  ‘And he’s the one on the photograph?’

  ‘Yes sir. Positive identification from the bank. Wimbledon would have identified him sooner, only they didn’t have a picture of Sternfield. They couldn’t find one at his flat and he doesn’t have any relatives – he’s an ex-Barnardo Boy. Then you came along asking about the girl.’

  ‘How did that help?’

  ‘You asking about her friends, sir. Her mother straightaway mentioned this Sternfield. So then the penny dropped and they showed the photograph to the bank.’

  ‘And the girl? Is she there?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir. Her mother hasn’t heard from her for a year.’

  Gently shifted his grip on the phone and leaned his bulk against the wall. From having nothing he seemed suddenly to have everything, all done up in a neat parcel! A fleeing bank robber, a gun, a motive for murder as big as a house – you really couldn’t ask for more. And yet . . . as always . . .

  ‘How much do we know about Sternfield?’

  ‘Aged twenty-four, sir, and quite bright. Has a flat up the Hill. Worked at the bank since he left school.’

  ‘What about associates?’

  ‘None known. He didn’t make many friends at the bank. A lot of books and stuff at the flat – seems he was a bit of a birdwatcher.’

  That figured!

  ‘Was he keen on Miss Stoven?’

  ‘They seem to have been thick at one time, sir. Then she got some dough when her father died and went off to live in the sticks.’

  ‘Were any of her letters found in the flat?’

  ‘Didn’t hear any mention of them, sir.’

  ‘What make of gun?’

  ‘A pistol. Nobody could give a precise description.’

  ‘And the money?’

  ‘A lot of used notes, sir. Chummie packed them in a paper carrier. But he must have had something else handy, because they found the carrier at the hole.’

  ‘He was on foot?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. They reckoned he caught a bus into town.’

  And from there it was easy for the enterprising bank clerk in his C & A jacket and country shoes – though doubtless, for the raid, he had worn some over-garment to prevent recognition by his colleagues. He had merged into the crowds at Liverpool Street and caught the next train to Eastwich . . . was there a bus service to Grimchurch? . . . by the afternoon, he’d have been at the cottage. On Thursday . . . leaving ample time to arrange any plans for the weekend . . .

  ‘Sir?’ At Dutt’s end the typewriter was still clacking, in nervous bursts.

  ‘I want a pick-up out on Miss Stoven.’

  ‘There’s one out already, sir.’

  ‘And just in case . . . tell them not to jump to any conclusions about Sternfield. Not to cancel his pick-up.’

  He put down the phone: and London died.

  They sat in silence on each side of the fire, each staring at the glowing coals. Though it wasn’t four yet it was almost dusk; there were lights across the road, at The Purlins.

  At last Aspall looked across: ‘Sir, now we know the shooting was faked!’

  Gently chewed on his cold pipe. That really was the only feasible line . . .!

  ‘But they’d all have to be in on it.’

  Aspall nodded eagerly. ‘That’s how I see it, sir. And it fits. They’re the right little lot to try to pull a stunt like this.’

  ‘The two youngsters, perhaps.’

  ‘Rushmere too, sir. He’d play along. If you’re right about him being sweet on the girl, you can bet he’d keep his trap shut.’

  ‘Even though Miss Stoven was clearing out with a lover?’

  ‘He wouldn’t like it, sir, but he wouldn’t shop her.’

  ‘Don’t forget young Middleton fancies her, too.’

  ‘But he knows there’s no chance, sir. It wouldn’t stop him from helping her.’

  Gently tapped out his pipe: still the picture wasn’t focusing! Uneasily in his mind was the picture of Ka Stoven’s cottage. So neat, so personal . . . would she have left it at a moment’s notice, perhaps never to return? Irritably, he filled h
is pipe again.

  ‘Let’s hear how you’re putting it together.’

  ‘Yes sir.’ Aspall hitched his chair closer. ‘I reckon this Sternfield was so stuck on the girl that he was ready to do something desperate. That’s what it’s about. He couldn’t offer her enough, not after she’d got the money from her father. As I read it she gave him the push when she came to live up here.’

  Gently thumbed his pipe: this was ingenious!

  ‘You don’t think they set it up together?’

  Aspall hesitated. ‘No sir. It sounds like she’d given him the shove. No one has ever seen him up this way, and we don’t hear of her making trips to town.’

  Gently nodded. ‘Keep shooting.’

  ‘Well sir, he arrives with his thirty thousand quid. The trouble is he hasn’t been quite fly enough and we’ve got a sticking-plaster on him. So what’s he to do? He can’t stay with the girl, because sooner or later we’d snout her out. And he can’t stay in circulation, because then we’d have him even sooner. There’s only one way to get the heat off him, and that’s to kid us that he’s dead.’

  Gently blew smoke in a long stream. ‘But could they really have been so stupid?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Even a bunch of amateurs must have realized that faking a death would only double our interest.’

  Aspall looked blank. ‘I don’t think so, sir. More likely they’d treat it all as a lark. And sir, they must have felt pretty confident that we could never identify the scene.’

  ‘But the heat would get hotter!’

  ‘All the same, sir, I doubt if they’d really give it much thought. Not at the time. They’d be too busy faking up their comic snapshot.’

  Gently grunted over his pipe. Perhaps in this case anything was credible! But then there was Rushmere, far from being stupid . . . or didn’t he come into it till later?

  ‘Now tell me why the girl would go off with Sternfield – bearing in mind that she owns the cottage?’

  Aspall was beginning to get warm: he was gripping the arms of the chair.

  ‘She could still fancy him, sir.’

  ‘Rubbish. She hadn’t bothered about him for months.’

  ‘Well, he did have a bagful of money . . .’

  ‘Hot money. And she’s got enough of her own.’

  ‘Look sir, if she went along with faking the photograph she might have gone along a bit further. Like helping him to get fixed up somewhere, get started with a new identity.’