Gently Instrumental

by Alan Hunter

  ‘And crime is one of the symptoms,’ Gently said.

  ‘Crime – like this one here.’

  ‘A diminished regard for the sanctity of life.’

  Capel stared at the flames and said nothing.

  At last he shrugged impatiently and set off again, across the fawn desert of the links: here dotted with dark thickets of furze and the gaping pits of stony bunkers. The greens they passed were unwatered ruins. No member was playing an evening round. At a distance to the right the pleasant, white-painted clubhouse stood deserted, its car park empty.

  Capel nodded to it. ‘No more golf until the drought breaks,’ he said.

  ‘Meaning you meet few people this way.’

  Capel summoned his leer. ‘You’d be lucky to meet any.’

  ‘So that, for an assignation . . . ?’

  Capel strode on, his leer still visible. Now he had put on pace a little, as though having some fixed object in mind.

  They came to the road and, crossing it, entered the lane to Gorse Cottage. Hozeley’s Rolls was parked in his drive and a light was showing in a window. The varnished gate was swung back and jammed open with a new wooden wedge. Capel halted in the gateway and turned, confronting Gently.

  ‘Isn’t this the place?’

  ‘It’s the place.’

  ‘And about the time?’

  ‘About the time.’

  Capel’s expression was fiendish. ‘The place, the time . . . and one, at least, of the men involved! You know, I think we ought to improve the occasion. Why don’t we reconstruct the crime?’

  He had no humour in his eyes, standing there in Hozeley’s gateway; their grey sparkle turned on Gently like a bright, thrusting probe. Gently returned the stare flatly.

  ‘Do you think it will do any good?’

  ‘Oh yes. I think there are features you could well have overlooked.’

  ‘Which . . . ?’

  ‘We don’t know, do we? They will arise from the reconstruction. But I’m convinced that if we put it together a little spark of light may fall.’

  Gently hunched. ‘Better carry on, then!’

  Capel leaned back against the gate. He rested his elbows on the bar and cocked one of his large feet.

  ‘First, a preface about the row. That was a considered act by Virtue. He intended to cut the rehearsal short and to make certain that Walt stayed away from the cottage.’

  ‘That’s Hozeley’s theory.’

  ‘It’s mine too, so you may as well take it as read. When Virtue left the Music Room on Tuesday he had something quite specific in mind. We can guess what it was – an assignation. He’d invited someone to the cottage. Only – and this is a point you may have overlooked! – the sex of that someone remains uncertain. It could have been a man, could have been a woman, and if the latter, she could have had a husband. And then you have a motive which, in my book, beats blackmail into a bran poultice.’

  ‘A husband – like you.’

  ‘Like me.’ Capel’s eyes were rock-steady. ‘Especially remembering that Tanya had an alibi that would have covered her till past midnight.’

  ‘May I take it that it was you?’

  Capel didn’t smile. ‘I’m not in the market with a confession. But you can use my case as an example – there might well have been a husband around like me.’ He hitched up on his elbows. ‘So this way comes Virtue, just as dusk is becoming darkness. He’s expecting to meet this man/woman, perhaps just here, by the gate. But no one is waiting here – or so he thinks, as he comes tripping down the lane. But then, as he reaches the gate, X steps out . . . from behind that laurel.’ He paused briefly to glance about him before indicating the shrub. ‘Are you with me?’

  Gently regarded him, then slowly shook his head. ‘I prefer the version you gave me this morning to a block alibi for the Shinglebourne Quartet.’

  Capel came down off his elbows. ‘But putting us aside – with none of your naughty little suspicions aroused – bringing a completely free mind to the problem – isn’t that just how you’d see it?’

  ‘Only my suspicions have been aroused . . .’

  ‘Never mind! Try to suspend them for two minutes. Out from that laurel steps X to plant himself in front of Virtue. X is angry, X has motive, X is carrying – say – a stout cudgel, and probably without much palaver X commences an attack.’ Capel dropped to a crouch. ‘But note this! Virtue wasn’t an easy customer. He was small but he was strong, and he’d learned to fight in a tough school. So he doesn’t crumple – far from it! – he provides himself with a counter-weapon.’ Capel lunged suddenly to the spot by the gate where the flint would have been. ‘A stone-age man’s weapon – lying here so conveniently – and with that in his hand he rushes at X.’ He checked, his eyes gleaming. ‘Doesn’t it begin to seem real?’

  Gently’s face was a blank. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Now X is in dire peril. Virtue is coming at X viciously, he certainly means business. But X is no weakling either. X dodges Virtue’s attack. Then X catches Virtue on the skull with a cracking blow, and Virtue collapses.’ Capel’s eyes came at Gently powerfully. ‘And meanwhile Walt is strolling on the shingle, Laurel is describing the row to her people, Tom and I are downing a pint and Leonard is squatting on the john.’ He spread his hands. ‘QED. That’s about as close to it as anyone will get.’

  Gently held his eye. ‘Except, possibly, X.’

  ‘Oh yes – X!’ Capel’s mouth puckered. ‘What about the tall dark stranger seen in the vicinity by young Dave?’

  ‘Of course . . . you’d know about that.’

  ‘Of course. I had the story from Crag. And Crag was loud in his complaints about policemen and their methods.’

  ‘And the flint . . . ?’

  Capel’s eyes held still. ‘Pure deduction, l assure you. Given the sort of person Virtue was, it isn’t hard to imagine the rest.’

  ‘But who told you a flint was involved?’

  ‘Who?’ His eyebrows hooked high. ‘Walt – naturally! And here he comes, pat on cue, to be my surety.’

  Hozeley had been standing in his porch for some moments and now he came across the gravel towards them. He gave Gently an unwelcoming stare before directing a glance of enquiry to Capel.

  ‘What was that, Henry?’

  ‘Your bit of flint,’ Capel said. ‘You’d told me the police had taken it away.’

  ‘Oh – that.’ Hozeley’s stooped shoulders lifted. ‘Well, I suppose it meant something to them. Dave has made me a wedge to replace it.’ He sent Gently another unfriendly look. ‘And you – you are still pursuing your inquiries?’

  Gently replied with a faint nod.

  ‘He’s after Leonard,’ Capel grinned. ‘I’ve been trying to persuade him not to be an ass.’

  ‘Leonard?’ Hozeley looked incredulous. ‘How preposterous. I hope you succeeded.’

  ‘I’m not sure I have,’ Capel smiled. ‘Though I may have aroused a scintilla of doubt. What would you say, Superintendent?’

  Gently said nothing. Capel’s eyes were amused again. Boyishly, he dug his hands deep in his pockets: he looked like a youngster who’d pulled off a jape.

  In the office Gently found Leyston Blooming over the policewoman’s typed-up notes. He rose when he saw Gently and picked up a sheet from his tray.

  ‘Sir, we’ve got a line on a man who might be the one that spoke to young Crag.’

  ‘You’ve what!’

  ‘He’s only a possible, sir. But he spent Monday night at The Peal of Bells.’

  Gently took the sheet. The man’s name was Spencer and he was a rep from Mill Hill. A regular visitor to Shinglebourne, he was said to be musically inclined. Gently grunted.

  ‘Have you talked to Mill Hill?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Spencer is away till tomorrow.’

  ‘So now forget him. What I want is another look at those snaps of the body.’

  Together they pored over the photographs while Gently filled Leyston in. Beyond doubt, the position of the flint sugge
sted that it had rolled from the upflung hand. In addition, the bruising on the buttock was explicable if the attacker’s weapon had been a cudgel . . . by deduction or other ways, Capel had supplied a definitive reconstruction.

  At last Leyston sucked air through his teeth. ‘Another nail in Mr Meares’s coffin, sir.’

  ‘You think Meares was the source of Capel’s information?’

  ‘I can’t see anything else for it, sir. It bothered me at the time about the flint being clean, especially when there was a bit of blood. But his hair being coarse and bushy, the lab reckoned that it didn’t rule out the flint.’

  ‘I want a search party out there at first light.’

  ‘Yes, sir. We’ll comb the whole area.’

  ‘At a guess Meares picked up the weapon on the way – a heavy stick, perhaps a fence post.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Leyston looked dejected. ‘I’m sorry we missed it the first time, sir. But I was so certain we had the weapon.’

  ‘It may not be there. But search we must.’

  Leyston touched his sideboard. ‘Do you reckon – just reckon, sir – that the doctor could have let out too much?’

  ‘Do you know his wife?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. And I wouldn’t suspect funny business with her.’

  ‘Let’s stick to Meares, then. If the lab says “Yes” we’re in business, weapon or no.’

  ‘I was just wondering, sir,’ Leyston said. ‘The doctor being such a clever man.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  FRIDAY: AND ANOTHER dawn of sun.

  It came sparkling round the edges of the bedroom curtains, waking Gently in a muck-sweat which the mutter of surf did little to alleviate. He rose with a curse for all east-facing bedrooms. The sea was the colour of tainted milk; a blue longshore boat, floating in nothing, suggested the smell of hot machinery and yesterday’s fish. Massaging his chest, he unlimbered the phone and dialled the police station with a moist finger.

  ‘Anything from the lab . . . ?’

  There wasn’t, and it scarcely seemed to matter. Below, a sweating delivery man was carrying trays of rolls from a van over which the air was already trembling. Nothing had cooled. The night had been a fallacy, a mere pretence of returning comfort. Now the pretence had faded again and once more they were turning it on . . .

  Stolidly, he bathed, dressed and went down to breakfast in a dining room throbbing with sun. The big windows gaped open to the Front but admitted only heat and glare. The waiter who served him, otherwise unoccupied, went to lounge at a window while Gently ate. But he kept an eye on Gently’s cup and returned alertly to refill it.

  ‘Are you permanent staff here?’ Gently asked him.

  He had been at The White Hart for two seasons: a fresh-faced youngster with appealing eyes and a nose that had begun to peel.

  ‘You’d know the Dr and Mrs Capel, then.’

  ‘Yes sir, they’re regulars here.’

  ‘She attends his rehearsals, perhaps.’

  ‘Now and then, sir. They have a meal in here before he goes in.’

  ‘Would you call her a good mixer?’

  ‘Well . . .’ He looked nonplussed. ‘She’s very popular with the doctor’s friends. And Mr Hozeley, the composer. They all seem to like Mrs Capel.’

  ‘What about the fellow the fuss is about?’

  ‘Yes, sir, she’d chat with him too.’

  ‘You’d see them together sometimes?’

  ‘Well . . . I don’t know, sir!’ The young waiter suddenly got hot. ‘She did have a drink with him once in the bar, when she was waiting for the doctor.’

  ‘Just the once.’

  ‘Just the once, sir.’

  Gently sighed and let him escape.

  In reception he happened on the blonde who took occasional charge of the desk. She too knew Mrs Capel and described her as a looker who liked plenty of attention. Characteristically you would find her playing the Queen Bee to a group of men.

  ‘Any gossip?’ Gently hazarded daringly.

  The blonde giggled. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me. When a woman goes on like that there’s usually something in the wind.’

  ‘Have you heard any names mentioned?’

  ‘Go on. It’s as much as my job is worth.’

  ‘One particular name . . . ?’

  She longed to oblige but, regretfully, couldn’t slander Mrs Capel. Then the phone rang.

  ‘It’s for you.’

  Leyston was at the other end. ‘Sir, the lab report . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Positive, sir,’ Leyston said sombrely.

  In effect there was blood on the right sandal and the group matched Virtue’s but not Meares’s: it had been detected in the seam of the sole at the toe, and the sandals bore evidence of having been rinsed. A single hair had also been recovered, from the right leg-cuff of the charcoal slacks. It was a close match for a sample taken from the scalp of the deceased.

  ‘So he’d spotted the blood, sir,’ Leyston mused, as they considered the report in his Sahara-like office. ‘Lucky he wasn’t up on lab techniques or he’d have shoved the sandals in an incinerator.’ He pondered. ‘Do you reckon he was putting the boot in?’

  Gently wiped sweat. ‘It was his right foot.’

  ‘I’d say he must have done,’ Leyston said. ‘Just a parting kick before he cleared out. It makes you think, sir.’

  Gently grunted. ‘Nothing yet from your search party?’

  ‘Not yet, sir.’

  ‘Better take a warrant and see what you can pick up at the house. All his sticks. And don’t forget the garage. Where is Meares now, by the way?’

  ‘Gone to his office.’

  ‘Pick him up then. Before this hell gets any hotter.’

  Like the bedroom, Leyston’s den faced east and was blasted to its joists by the morning sun. Gently departed from it in haste to seek the relative cool of the M.T. yard. Somehow, this morning, the heat was getting to him, sapping his will to take things seriously. With his work cut out, with the cards in his hand, he was feeling indifferent to the whole business. Meares was ripe for destruction . . . so what? There must be better things to do! He lit his pipe and dumped himself down on someone’s toolbox, to wait.

  ‘Meares is here, sir.’

  Leyston, on the other hand, was displaying a commendable stiffening of attitude.

  ‘He’s looking pretty sick, sir. I shouldn’t think he got a lot of sleep last night.’

  ‘Where have you put him?’

  ‘In the interrogation room. It’s cooler in there than in the office. But he’s looking really knocked-up, sir. He must know we’ve got the drop on him this time.’

  Yes . . . a change of attitude! The lab report had done Meares for Leyston. ‘Mr Meares’ was chummie to him now, and Leyston prick-eared for a kill.

  ‘Have you sent to the house?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sergeant Mason is taking care of that. And here’s another thing, sir. The man Spencer was in town all Monday afternoon. He was taking orders till after closing at Mansfield’s, the jewellers, so he couldn’t have been out at the cottage asking questions about Virtue.’

  Gently issued a smoke-ring. ‘That keeps it tidy.’

  ‘I think we can forget about the man out there, sir. If there really was one I daresay young Crag got hold of the wrong end of the stick.’ He lounged against the wall and lit a cigarette. ‘How long do you reckon we should let him stew, sir?’

  ‘Give him ten minutes to settle in.’

  Leyston drew an anticipatory lungful.

  The interrogation room was about twelve feet by ten and had one window, high up in the wall. It was furnished with a lino-topped trestle table, four varnished chairs and a reek of polish. Meares sat at the table. He did indeed look sick. There were bruise-like patches about his eyes. Yet he was dressed neatly, if inappropriately, in a sleeved shirt and bow tie. He raised his head as they came in, followed by the policewoman with her gear. The room, which faced to the rear of the building, had not yet
generated a head of heat. Gently took the chair opposite Meares. Leyston sat to his left, the policewoman to his right. Leyston signed to the constable who had been attending: he left, closing the door.

  ‘Now . . . Mr Meares.’

  Meares was sitting with his arms leant on the table. His eyes met Gently’s for an instant, slightly staring, glazed.

  ‘Yesterday you weren’t being altogether helpful. There were questions we felt you could have answered. It may save time if you are prepared to write a new and more informative statement.’

  ‘I have given you my statement.’ His voice was husky.

  ‘Yes, but that was forty-eight hours ago. Now, in view of our recent investigations, you may care for an opportunity to revise it.’

  ‘I – don’t wish to do that.’

  ‘Here are pencils and paper.’

  ‘No! I’ve said all I’m going to say.’

  ‘It would probably shorten this interview.’

  ‘I have nothing to add to what I told you.’

  Gently nodded, quite agreeably. Meares was staring at his sweaty hands. Sweat was standing on his forehead and gleaming on his sallow cheeks.

  ‘Before we continue, then, a formality. I am required to administer a caution. You are not obliged to answer questions, but what you say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.’

  ‘I . . . understand.’ Meares’s mouth was trembling.

  ‘Good.’ Gently folded his hands. ‘Now perhaps we can clarify some points that were left in doubt yesterday. What exactly were your relations with Virtue?’

  ‘You – you said I needn’t answer questions.’

  ‘This is clarification, you understand. Naturally we’ve formed a certain opinion.’

  ‘I was . . . friendly towards him. No more.’

  ‘Friendly in a rather tendentious way?’

  ‘I deny that!’

  ‘But you admitted it yesterday. And that was the impression of independent witnesses.’

  ‘I didn’t – admit it!’ He fought for words. ‘I – I was treating him according to his nature. That – that’s a professional requirement, something I’m doing every day.’