Gently Where the Roads Go

by Alan Hunter

  ‘Yessir, don’t mind it. I worked in a warehouse before I come in.’

  ‘How did you get on with Warrant Officer Sawney?’

  ‘Oh, all right sir. He was all right.’

  ‘Pals, were you?’

  ‘Well . . . I don’t know, sir.’ Timmins stiffened his arms, relaxed them again. ‘I wouldn’t say we was pals, not like that. He’d got his Tate and Lyle, sir. But he was all right, he was one of the lads. You used to know where you was with him. He took us on the booze now and then.’

  ‘Where did he take you on the booze?’

  ‘Oh, Baddesley, sir . . . Offingham, sometimes. Once we had a do in Bedford, but we didn’t go there much.’

  ‘Did he have any friends at these places?’

  ‘Not like friends I don’t think, sir. He knew the blokes behind the bar and that sort of thing.’

  ‘Did he talk to the civilians?’

  ‘Well, he passed the time, sir. Like what the Spurs would do to Leicester, and such like. He liked to talk.’

  ‘Did he talk to the transport drivers?’

  ‘Could’ve done, sir. I can’t say.’

  ‘Did he use to go to the Blue Bowl Café in Offingham?’

  ‘Yessir, we’d go in there for a snack.’

  ‘You often went there?’

  ‘Well, now and then, sir. When we wanted something to soak up the beer.’

  ‘Would you say he went there habitually?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that, sir. We went there with him . . . well, maybe half a dozen times.’

  ‘Did he know the waitresses in there?’

  ‘He knew one of them by her name, like.’

  ‘Did he talk to any civilians in there?’

  ‘He may have done sir. I just can’t remember.’

  ‘Did he talk to any foreigners?’

  ‘Not that I know of, sir, he didn’t.’

  ‘Did he use to go to The Raven roadhouse?’

  Timmins relaxed his arms, which had been steadily stiffening.

  ‘Yessir,’ he said. ‘He used to go there, but he didn’t take us along with him.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Well, sir.’ Timmins tried to grin. ‘There’s a bint in there, it was like that.’

  ‘A woman?’

  ‘Yessir. Wanda, her name is. He was a regular one in there.’

  ‘He used to spend nights with her?’

  ‘I reckon so, sir. Leastways, he was up there a lot of evenings. Let on she was a tidy bit of stuff, and that sort of thing.’

  ‘How often did he go there?’

  ‘Pretty often, sir. Twice a week, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Do you know who he used to meet there?’

  ‘No sir, I was never there with him.’

  ‘Have you been there yourself ?’

  ‘A couple of times, sir. Just for a cup of char, that’s all.’

  ‘Who did you see there?’

  ‘Well . . . mostly drivers . . .’

  ‘Anyone you knew?’

  ‘No sir. Nobody at all.’

  Gently nodded very slowly, struck a match for his pipe. Timmins strained his arms once or twice, ventured a look towards Gently. Withers sat sideways away from them, nursing his knees and sucking. Campling kept staring at the desk where the wisp of wool lay on the paper. The stores, the sites around them were silent. The office was hot and full of smoke.

  Gently said: ‘I’m not going to ask you how much you know about what was going on here. I’ll put it this way. Could you give me a guess who was in this business with Sawney?’

  ‘None of us wasn’t in it, sir,’ Timmins mumbled. ‘We never had no part in it.’

  ‘You had eyes,’ Gently said. ‘I’m not asking you to incriminate yourself.’

  ‘No sir,’ Timmins said. He pulled on his arms another time. ‘It was someone outside, sir,’ he said. ‘You’re right if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Have you seen him?’

  ‘Not proper I haven’t,’ Timmins said. ‘But he’s got a truck, I know that. It wasn’t one of our jobs.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Gently said.

  ‘It was once when I was on guard,’ Timmins said. He stopped. He looked halfway towards Withers.

  ‘Oh, carry on,’ Withers said. ‘I shan’t be listening to this bit, Timmins.’

  ‘Yessir,’ Timmins said. ‘When I was on guard, sir. We use the dispersal hut by number three hangar. There wasn’t no night flying or anything, everybody had packed up. So I thought I might as well drop round to the mess – there’s a Wraf I know who works there, sir. So I borrowed one of the erks’ bikes—’

  ‘What time would that be?’ Gently asked.

  ‘Be about one,’ Timmins said. ‘I hung on in case the duty officer showed up.’

  ‘Wasn’t me,’ Withers said to his pipe.

  ‘No sir,’ Timmins said. ‘I don’t remember who it was, sir.’

  ‘I should keep it like that,’ Withers said, ‘were I you.’

  ‘Yessir,’ Timmins said. ‘I don’t remember. But when I got down here there was a light in the store – not all of them on, just one, I reckon – and there was a truck standing out in the yard, and a couple of blokes were loading stuff into it.’

  ‘And you were on guard?’ Campling inquired sourly.

  ‘I did go and look, sir,’ Timmins said. ‘I wasn’t to know it wasn’t something proper, we have had calls for stuff during the night.’

  ‘So what else did you see?’ Gently said.

  ‘I saw that one of the men was the WO, sir. And I reckoned it must have been on the up-and-up, though it did strike me as a bit queer at the time.’

  ‘What about the other man?’

  ‘I didn’t recognize him, sir. There was only the light coming through the door. But he was a big bloke, like the WO, and he’d got on one of those khaki jackets.’

  ‘Did you see the truck clearly?’

  ‘It was one of those big jobs, painted a dark colour. Not one of ours.’

  ‘Did you notice the make?’

  ‘I reckon it might have been a Leyland, sir. I didn’t pay a lot of attention to that.’

  ‘A Leyland,’ Gently said. ‘Could the dark colour have been green?’

  ‘Yessir, could have been,’ Timmins said.

  ‘Thank you,’ Gently said. ‘That’ll be all for now, Corporal.’

  Timmins dragged his feet together, threw up an uncertain salute.

  ‘Hook it,’ Campling said tersely. ‘I might forget you’ve been given immunity.’

  Timmins slunk to the door, but there halted, partly turning again.

  ‘What’s worrying you, Timmins?’ Withers asked.

  ‘I was wondering,’ Timmins mumbled, ‘if we could go to tea, sir?’

  Withers chuckled. ‘Go on. Clear off. But don’t show your nose out of camp.’

  ‘No sir,’ Timmins said. ‘Thank you, sir.’ He went through the door, closing it meticulously.

  Campling lit a fresh cigarette, blew fierce smoke at the ceiling. ‘Can we tie Sawney in any tighter?’ he asked. ‘Or won’t a simple hanging do for you?’

  Gently gave a little shrug. ‘It’s pretty tight,’ he admitted.

  ‘Teodowicz’s truck was a Leyland, painted green?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gently said. ‘But there are two Leylands. Two Leylands, two big men, and possibly two khaki jackets.’ He struck another light for his pipe. ‘Will Jonesie have gone to tea?’ he asked Withers.

  ‘Not till I get back,’ Withers said.

  ‘Get him on the phone,’ Gently said.

  Withers rose from his toolbox, went over to the desk, phoned the Orderly Room.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ he asked.

  ‘More about past personnel,’ Gently said. ‘I seem to remember airmen with Norwegian flags on their shoulders. I’d like you to ask Jonesie if he remembers any being here.’

  ‘R
oger,’ Withers said. He put the question to the phone. ‘Yes,’ he said, after a pause. ‘Oddly enough, there were some here.’

  ‘Does he remember any names?’

  Withers asked. ‘No, no names. Apparently there were only one or two, and they were soon remustered somewhere else.’

  ‘Can you get me their names?’ Gently asked Campling.

  ‘I’ll try,’ Campling said. ‘Is it important?’

  Gently also blew smoke at the ceiling. ‘It’s an angle,’ he said. ‘It had better be covered.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  THURSDAY, IN THE evening. The August twilight beginning. The sun melted away indefinitely into a haze of red, orange and umber. The bleached sky becoming dusty. A single large and very yellow star. The air thick and sodden with heat and with the humidity that would be a dew. Beetles flying. A bat disporting itself like a butterfly, in a quiet corner. A flush of young starlings going to roost. A partridge scolding from the stubble. Aircraft, black, swathed, huge, standing silent around the deserted perimeter, breathing, to a little distance, oil and glycol and a certain sourness. Number three hangar, closed, but with a draped Magister standing outside it. A Nissen hut with bikes stood about it, a couple of starting trolleys, some gantries, covers. An airman in shirtsleeves appearing at the door, watching incuriously, vanishing again.

  And on the Road the vehicles had sidelights for the light which was neither one thing nor the other, bating no speed although the drivers were squinting and reacting less surely to their problems in velocity. Two had died in the past ten minutes, having failed in some calculation of differential. Other mathematics allowed for further mortality at a predictable rate per minute. Some of these condemned had read of Teodowicz. They had been deaf to more distant bells. And they would die with little stir, though perhaps more fearfully and no less bloodily. But nobody would hang because of that. Their deaths were too numerous and commonplace. A vehicle is a clumsy blunt instrument which can scarcely be wielded more than once. A small fine, a brief imprisonment, that would be society’s limit. Death itself is unimportant. Only the weapon has significance.

  And the stars began to define themselves above the statistics of the Road, dusting the greyish dim hemisphere with a thousand million of computations, clarifying the terrestrial egotism with an index of mild infinity, but unseen: infinitesimally, North and South went its way.

  Gently came to The Raven.

  It was a one-storey timber building and was shaped like an L, with the gable-end of the short stroke nearest to the road. It stood alone. It was two miles from Everham, a mile and a half from Huxford village. Behind the building lay a garden with some fruit trees, but beyond that the fields, and the fields were dark. The interior of the L formed a vehicle park. At the front of the park were three derelict petrol pumps. Near the pumps stood a post carrying a rusted sign. The sign represented an heraldic raven and bore the name beneath in Gothic letters. At the foot of the post was a painted board which read: Transport Café; Meals; Bed and Breakfast. The windows of the short stroke were dimly lighted. The windows of the long stroke were not. A door, set in the short stroke near the angle, had a naked bulb over it and a sign: Open. In the park were two trucks, an articulated, a removal van, a black Mini-Minor and a moped. From the building came the distorted sound of a jukebox playing.

  Gently slid the 105 into the park, locked it, stood for some seconds looking at the vehicles. Then he went in. He entered a long room with a service counter opposite the door. Behind the counter stood a woman, and on the counter leaned an airman, talking to her. They both stopped talking to look at him. He went up to the counter.

  ‘Yes?’ she said, her face a blank.

  ‘A cup of tea,’ Gently said. ‘What are you serving?’

  ‘Well, I can do you egg and chips. Or a pie. Or some cold meat and salad.’

  ‘Egg and chips,’ Gently said.

  ‘Bread and butter?’

  ‘No, just egg and chips.’

  She hadn’t taken her eyes off him, and now, suddenly, the eyes smiled. Not the mouth, which was small and tight, but the eyes: they unexpectedly flowered.

  ‘You’d like your tea now, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll have it to go on with.’

  She felt under the counter for cup, saucer and spoon without letting her eyes wander away. The airman, a sergeant, looked down into the glass which rested half-empty in his hand. The jukebox hammered to a stop, gritted, clicked and was not restarted. She poured the tea, pushed a sugar bowl towards him.

  ‘You haven’t been here before, have you?’ she asked.

  Still the eyes and not the face. The face was flattish but with a delicate chin.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘This is my first visit.’

  ‘I just thought your face seemed familiar,’ she said. ‘I’ll bring your egg and chips if you’ll sit down. It shouldn’t take five minutes.’

  He sat down. He felt hot. He sipped the tea, looked at the room. It held about twenty small square tables, each with four chairs to it. The walls were lined with plasterboard which had been at some time distempered cream and on them were hung a few cockled advertisement cards featuring soft drinks and potato crisps. There were seven other customers, crews of the vehicles parked outside. Four of them sat at one table, eating and talking, one was reading a paper, one had his feet up, snoring. The other one had been playing the jukebox, but now sat solemnly drinking tea. The one with the paper sat at the end of the room and wore a ring that flashed when he turned a page. The room smelt of fried chips, coffee, tobacco-smoke. It was lit by two bulbs and there was one behind the counter.

  He kept sipping the tea. The woman had gone through a curtained doorway. From behind it came the hiss of an egg broken into hot fat. The four drivers together were talking about breakdowns which always occurred on a Saturday or a Sunday. The sergeant, a young man with a flushed complexion, remained leaning on the counter and paying attention to nobody. Beyond where the egg was cooking a door opened and closed: softly. Then somebody attended to the egg.

  She brought out his order on a tin tray and set it briskly on the table. She was wearing a sleeveless black dress and beneath it her small breasts rolled nakedly.

  ‘Some sauce?’ she asked him.

  ‘Just pepper and salt.’

  ‘You’d better let me fill your cup up.’

  Her voice was neutral-toned, fastidious, with a slight contralto huskiness. Several of the men had an eye on her, including the one who was reading a paper. He lowered the paper at the sound of her voice, stared furtively, raised it again. She wasn’t pretty. She had a slight figure. She wasn’t young. Her expression was unpromising. But her eyes smiled, sometimes. From the whole depth of her body.

  ‘You’re sure you wouldn’t like some bread and butter?’

  She hesitated by the table, stooping towards him. The sergeant suddenly put his glass down hard, straightened himself, made a dab at his tie. She looked at him indifferently.

  ‘Oh – are you going now, Johnny?’

  He picked up his hat and pulled it on before replying: ‘I reckon I am.’

  She shrugged slim shoulders. ‘You weren’t here for very long!’

  ‘No,’ he said. His mouth was petulant. ‘Think I’ll be on my way,’ he said.

  ‘You can stay if you like.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Think I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘Just as you like.’

  He made a business with his tie. ‘Goodnight, Wanda,’ he said.

  ‘Goodnight, Johnny.’

  He finished with the tie, walked out smartly, looking at nobody. A moment later came the racket of the moped and the sound of it being fiercely accelerated.

  ‘He’s jealous of you,’ Wanda muttered, but without looking at Gently. ‘He’s a damned little fool, as he’ll find out. I didn’t ask him to come up here.’

  ‘Why should he be jealous of me?’

  She shrugged again. ‘They get ideas, these kids. They all think y
ou’re going to sleep with them. What about that bread and butter?’

  ‘No thank you,’ he said.

  Her eyes found him, smiled. ‘You don’t have to worry about your figure.’

  ‘I’m not that hungry,’ he said. ‘It’s warm.’

  ‘Well, don’t be backward in asking for anything.’

  She took the tray, retired to the counter, began to wash and dry saucers and cups. The drivers who sat together, and who had fallen silent, now resumed their conversation. The man beside the jukebox came for another cup of tea. The snorer woke up, stared, went back to sleep. The man with the ring tilted his newspaper to get a good look at Gently eating. He was sitting at the far end of the room and was wearing what appeared to be brand-new dungarees.

  ‘That’s a fresh egg,’ Wanda said. Gently’s table was nearest to the counter. ‘I get them from a man up at Everham. Are you certain I haven’t seen you before?’

  Gently grunted, drank some tea.

  ‘You’re not a film star,’ Wanda said. ‘I shall probably place you, if I think hard. You’re not in a hurry to go, are you?’

  ‘No,’ Gently said. ‘My time’s my own.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ Wanda said. ‘I like company. I never keep open later than eleven. Sometimes, if it’s slow, I close earlier. I shall probably close early tonight. You’re the type who smokes a pipe, aren’t you?’

  Gently nodded. ‘I smoke a pipe.’

  ‘Yes,’ Wanda said. ‘A real pipe-smoker. A man should always smoke a pipe.’

  Gently smoked his pipe. The trucks, the articulated, left. Eventually the man by the jukebox, a neckless cockney, looked at a pocket-watch and woke the sleeper.

  ‘Time to roll, Alf. We got to see a man.’

  The sleeper came to himself with a start. He stared at Gently, blinked his eyes, picked up his cap and took from it a tab end. He lighted the tab end and coughed.

  ‘I been asleep, Len,’ he said.

  ‘Blinking telling me,’ Len said. ‘Like a flipping diesel you sounded.’

  ‘Snoring was I?’ Alf asked.

  ‘That’s being polite,’ Len said. ‘Never met a bloke like you. But on your feet chum. We got to roll.’

  Alf rose, yawned, stretched, coughed again, drank some dregs from a cup. Wanda, who’d been behind the curtain, ducked through it again. She’d a comb in her hand.