Gently Between Tides

by Alan Hunter

  ‘Rick, these gentlemen are policemen, and that one there is top brass. For reasons completely obscure he wants to ask you questions about Mark Riddlesworth.’

  ‘About Mark . . .?’

  ‘Exactly, child. No need for you to be coy.’

  ‘But . . . I haven’t seen him since Friday.’

  ‘Tell him, fool. Not me.’

  Woodward faced Gently doubtfully.

  ‘Sir, I don’t really know Mark very well . . .’

  Gently sipped coffee before asking: ‘How long have you and he been acquainted?’

  ‘Well . . . since autumn term last year. But we’ve never been close friends. Just that we’re interested in the same things . . . and I happen to think his music is rather good.’

  ‘So you are often in his company.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. Though we don’t live in each other’s pockets.’

  ‘For example, have you ever been camping with him?’

  ‘Actually, once. But camping isn’t my thing.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  Woodward was getting flustered; he sent an appealing look to Waterhouse. A smooth-skinned youth, his dark bar of moustache gave him a faintly Latin appearance.

  ‘Well . . . Mark is keen on cycle-camping, and once he invited me to join him. I borrowed a sleeping-bag from one of the fellows and we cycled up the coast. But it wasn’t a success. The tent got full of sand, and I never slept a wink.’

  ‘Which site did you camp on?’

  ‘We camped on the beach . . . at night, the sand gets as cold as marble.’

  ‘Which beach was that?’

  ‘At Grimchurch, about half a mile from the village.’

  ‘Has he ever spoken of other places he has been to?’

  ‘If he has, I don’t remember.’

  ‘Perhaps after a longer trip than usual?’

  Woodward thought about it, but shook his head. ‘After I had tried it I lost interest . . . I suppose I’m not a very enterprising type. Mark is used to roughing it, but that night on the beach was the very end.’

  He looked half-ashamed of himself, as though somehow it reflected on his manhood. Waterhouse was nursing his pipe and gazing at the ceiling with a long-suffering expression.

  ‘Did you ever go sailing with him?’

  ‘That was the same. I went for one trip in his dinghy. But it was pretty cramped and boring, and he would never let me take the helm.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘Down to Bodney Church, and then we explored one of the creeks. Mark was bothering about the tide all the time, afraid we wouldn’t get back.’

  ‘Did you meet other boats?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you see any moored to the bank?’

  ‘It was April and pretty cold, I remember that. It must have been before other boats were about.’

  ‘Did he suggest mooring anywhere?’

  ‘We had brought a thermos and sandwiches, and pulled up on the bank for lunch. That was at a spot not far from the church, but it was freezing cold. We didn’t linger.’

  ‘Was Mark expecting to meet someone there?’

  Woodward looked surprised. ‘No, he wasn’t.’

  ‘A girlfriend, perhaps?’

  ‘Mark doesn’t have one . . . at least, I’ve never heard him mention her.’ He flushed suddenly. ‘I say! Is this to do with what’s been happening . . .?’

  ‘Moron!’ Waterhouse growled round his pipe.

  Woodward looked thoroughly put out. His colour came and went and he shifted from one foot to the other. He blurted:

  ‘Well, all I can say is, I don’t know anything about it! And I’m certain that Mark doesn’t either, and – and that’s all I’ve got to say.’

  ‘You last saw him on Friday?’

  ‘I don’t know! Yes, all right. Friday morning.’

  ‘Not later than that?’

  ‘Because after. lunch I was rehearsing, while Mark was probably doing theory.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Woodward.’

  ‘But I’d just like to say—’

  ‘Bugger off, young Woodward!’ Waterhouse growled.

  Woodward hung on briefly, his eyes large, then he turned and left in haste.

  Waterhouse noisily sucked coffee. ‘It’s an education,’ he said. ‘But now you’ve finished turning young Rick inside out, perhaps you can tell me what it’s about.’

  Gently shrugged. ‘On Friday, what time did classes finish here?’

  ‘At four-thirty.’

  ‘It was four-thirty when Mark Riddlesworth left this building?’

  ‘Well . . . it should have been.’

  ‘How is that?’

  Waterhouse drew on his pipe, scowling. ‘I suppose I shall have to tell you, to stop you grilling the entire establishment! The fact is, he didn’t turn up after lunch. He was due for sessions with Adrian and with me, then he should have attended an evening rehearsal, because, damn him, he was down to play tonight.’

  ‘He was absent from the lunch break onwards?’

  ‘So what?’

  Gently paused. ‘Was that perhaps something that had happened before?’

  Waterhouse chewed on the pipe-stem. ‘All right! You have to expect students to play hookey sometimes. Mark is no worse than the rest. And he’s always contrite about it afterwards.’

  ‘How often has it happened?’

  ‘I don’t keep a record.’

  ‘Once a week? Once a fortnight?’

  ‘Damn it, not so often.’

  ‘When did it start?’

  ‘He was punctual enough till the sailing season.’

  ‘It began, say, in April?’

  ‘I can’t give you a date.’

  ‘But his absences were always in the afternoon?’

  ‘Stop badgering me, blast you! Anyone would think I’d done for the bloody woman myself.’ Waterhouse stared fiercely, his brows ridging. ‘There’s no mystery about it, anyway. The kid’s keen on sailing and birdwatching, and that’s why it started when it did. And I daresay the tides were a factor.’

  ‘Yes – the tides.’

  ‘An afternoon with a flood slack would be irresistible. He could scull around in the creeks and get back before the ebb had him in trouble.’

  ‘In short, from April there was a pattern of truancy, always in the afternoons, and probably linked to the tides.’

  Waterhouse said bitterly: ‘That’s what you’re getting me to say, and a lot of good may it do you.’

  ‘Do you know where Mark has gone, Mr Waterhouse?’

  ‘No, I don’t. And now it’s time I got back to rehearsals.’

  He heaved his large body out of the armchair and stood waiting, scowling, for them to leave.

  ‘Don’t be too clever– that’s my advice. I know Mark and you don’t.’

  ‘If Mark turns up here, please ring us.’

  ‘I may – if I’ve nothing better to do.’

  He stalked away to the rehearsal-room, from which a fresh medley of discord was proceeding. Once more, his bawl produced silence, and, after an interval, sweet harmony.

  Riddlesworth’s car was still on the park, and now had its owner standing beside it. He was being made the target of a harangue by a meagre, bushy-haired man, dressed in a black suit and tie. Leyston murmured:

  ‘That’s her father . . . I remember him from the Festival.’

  As he talked, Stefan Makovrilov was gesturing with pale, corpse-like hands. He had impish, expressive features and glittering dark eyes; words poured from him excitedly, in contrast to the jerked responses of Riddlesworth.

  ‘What do you reckon he’s on about?’

  Gently’s shoulders twitched. ‘Probably he just wants to talk.’

  Riddlesworth’s face told him nothing, so he kept his eyes on the musician’s. A tired face, in spite of its animation: the man had probably been travelling all night, taking a sleeper down from Edinburgh, but finding anything but sleep as he tossed in his berth. And now, on a
bright English Sunday, among people at leisure who knew or cared nothing . . . While, down the bank – had he seen it? – her dinghy still lay, unclaimed.

  ‘He’s looking this way, sir.’

  A hand on Makovrilov’s arm, Riddlesworth was nodding towards the two policemen; then he paused for a moment, eyeing them, before getting in his car and starting the engine. The white car idled by them almost insolently, and at less than walking speed, before swinging in a slow turn towards the yard and the road.

  Meanwhile Makovrilov had joined them.

  ‘I am Hannah Stoven’s father . . . are you not the policemen who seek her assassin? Very good! I require the key of my daughter’s residence in Shinglebourne.’

  ‘The key, sir?’

  ‘Yes, the key. I wish to visit the place where she lived. Have no fear, I am next of kin, and all that is there belonged to Hannah.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, sir,’ Leyston demurred. ‘Not at this stage of the investigation.’

  ‘But I am her father!’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. But I don’t think we can do that.’

  ‘Listen, listen . . . I want her key!’

  Wretchedly, it seemed he might burst into tears. His mouth was drooped and quivering helplessly, and his glittering eyes over-brilliant.

  ‘Give him the key.’

  ‘I shouldn’t, sir . . .’

  ‘Stretch a point, and give him the key.’

  Reluctantly Leyston felt in his pocket and brought out a tagged key. Makovrilov grasped it eagerly.

  ‘It comes back to the police station,’ Gently said.

  ‘Yes, I promise . . . the police station.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Where is my daughter?’

  ‘At Ipswich. But there may be some delay in securing a release.’

  They watched him drive off in a blue Escort which bore the plate of a local hire firm, and almost at once a patrol car came bumping urgently across the yard.

  ‘Message from the station for you, sir. They’ve got a Mr Stoven there, waiting to see you.’

  Gently grimaced. One way or another, Sunday was going to be a day for relatives . . .

  EIGHT

  ‘I AM THE dead woman’s ex-husband, and I came as soon as I could after hearing the dreadful news. I realize, naturally, that in my position I must be under immediate suspicion.’

  ‘Take a chair, Mr Stoven.’

  ‘I want to say at once that I know nothing whatever about what has happened.’

  ‘Please sit down . . .’

  ‘Entirely by accident, I am unable to prove my movements on Friday beyond doubt.’

  Gently sighed, and automatically took Leyston’s chair behind the desk. He knew the feel of it; three years ago he had interrogated other suspects in that office. Then it had been in the enervating heat of a summer that had gone on for too long, with the ancient fan that stood in the corner wheezing and groaning ineffectively. Another case, other suspects; but the scene itself had barely changed.

  ‘Were you by any chance in this district on Friday?’

  ‘No, of course not – nowhere near! Only since I was working on my own, I don’t see how I can prove it. I was to have met the representative of a development firm, but for some reason he failed to turn up. On the other hand, I do have these photographs to show you . . .’

  Dennis Stoven was about forty, and he had brought with him a fat briefcase. If he was nervous, it was probably only the nervousness of a man finding himself caught in an awkward situation. He was dressed primly in a sober lounge suit and a discreetly-striped shirt with sharp collar and tie. His hair was worn short, and he had the pallid, unsmiling features that one associated with lawyers’ clerks or council officials.

  Yet he was an interesting man: because what had it been about him that had persuaded Hannah to take him as a husband?

  ‘Where were you, then?’

  ‘At Curate’s Green. That’s a development site near Colchester. The original developers went broke and work stopped on the site six months ago. I was employed to make a preliminary survey by the firm who are negotiating to take it over – Newgate Holdings. They will certainly confirm that I was sent there on Friday.’

  ‘But their representative didn’t arrive.’

  ‘I’ve already admitted that. However, it didn’t affect what I’d gone there to do. Perhaps you may care to look at these photographs . . .’

  He spread them on the desk, a bunch of black-and-white glossies showing houses in different states of completion, also unmade-up roads and a builder’s compound stocked with bricks, timber and breeze blocks.

  ‘What do these prove?’

  ‘Well, at least I was there, and made a preliminary survey of the development.’

  ‘These photographs could have been taken at any time.’

  ‘I couldn’t have known that Newgate’s man wasn’t going to turn up.’

  Gently fingered the photographs. The truth was that he felt scarcely any suspicions about Stoven – had expected him to produce a solid alibi and. satisfactorily phase himself out of the enquiry. And now the foolish fellow had gone out of his way to establish the precise contrary: as though he wanted to get in on the action! Surely he could furnish proof of some sort?

  ‘How long were you there?’

  ‘My appointment was for ten, and I remained on the site till five.’

  ‘Did you pick up a key?’

  ‘That wasn’t necessary.’

  ‘Where did you have lunch?’

  ‘I brought some sandwiches with me.’

  ‘And you saw absolutely no one?’

  ‘The site is isolated, two miles away from the village.’

  ‘Weren’t there any kids playing around it?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Perhaps a tractor in the fields?’

  ‘The harvest is over.’

  It was a model of a non-alibi, well-nigh as foolproof as Riddlesworth’s. The difference was that, in Stoven’s case, you could almost swear that it was true.

  ‘What colour is your car?’

  ‘A white Renault 18, but I’m afraid there’s nothing distinctive about it.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘I took delivery in August, when the new date-letter was due.’

  You could hardly believe it. It was one of those coincidences sent to plague the life of the police. Grumpily, Gently shuffled the photographs together and handed them back to Stoven. Had there been a scintilla of evidence against this man he’d have come to hand like a pint pot . . .

  ‘Exactly what was your position with regard to the dead woman?’

  ‘Well, I can’t conceal that I paid her an allowance. I suppose you’ll think that’s against me, but I was perfectly able and willing to pay it. I bore Hannah no grudge. We parted amicably, and she still regarded me as a friend. I made the Tower over to her entirely. She was fond of Shinglebourne because of its musical associations.’

  He spoke of her with no emotion, but was probably of a type to have concealed it anyway. What was intriguing was that he had actually lived with her and was speaking of her, as it were, from the inside. All the others had seen her from the outside, finding her more or less of an enigma.

  ‘How did you meet her?’

  ‘She worked for the partnership . . . she had been through business school, you know. I was the junior partner and she worked in my office, doing secretarial jobs. Her English was sometimes quaint, but she was capable for all that.’

  ‘What attracted you to her?’

  He paused over that one. ‘I suppose, because at that time I was interested in music. She often had tickets for concerts when her father was performing in town.’

  ‘You married her for that – a joint interest in music?’

  ‘No . . . it wasn’t only that!’

  ‘Then why?’

  Stoven stiffened slightly, his humourless face resenting.

  ‘I don’t really see what that has to do with it, but I suppose you have some purpose in asking these
questions. No doubt I married Hannah because I was in love with her, and believed that she was in love with me.’

  In a sudden inspiration, Gently asked: ‘Was she your first woman?’

  ‘Really! I don’t feel called upon—’

  ‘Was she?’

  ‘Well, you could say that . . .’

  ‘How old were you then?’

  ‘. . . Thirty.’

  It fitted. He was timid with women, and perhaps teetering on the brink of resigned bachelorhood: sexually, a lame duck, the type to whom Hannah instinctively responded. Why? A response, it might be, from the depths of her own alien-ness, a tenderness towards another lost soul, a reaching out to touch hands. She, who had been torn from her roots so brutally, so young, had a keen eye for a human casualty.

  ‘Who was it suggested marriage?’

  ‘If you must know . . . Hannah.’

  Yes.

  ‘Were you living together at the time?’

  He scarcely needed to ask that question!

  ‘It isn’t what you think . . . my lease ran out, and I was desperate to find another flat. Hannah had a flat not far from the office and she suggested that, for the time being . . .’

  ‘How soon were you married?’

  ‘A year later.’

  ‘How long did it last?’

  ‘Five years.’

  ‘What broke it up?’

  ‘I don’t know, it’s difficult to explain! But it wasn’t because . . .’

  Not because he was impotent, he’d been about to say. Gently eyed him with a grain of pity. He must have feared it, and she had probably understood his fears, making her response to him yet stronger. But it wasn’t because . . .

  Stoven was missing his eye and spots of colour had appeared in his cheeks.

  ‘Your interest in music lapsed.’

  ‘Well, I suppose . . . my work made extra demands on me. But we still went to concerts together, at least when her father was in town. But it wasn’t that either. I can’t explain . . . if I told you what happened, you’d never believe me. Sometimes I felt like a child at school who had passed an exam, after which it was expected . . .’

  A child at school!

  ‘Let me guess. Hannah introduced you to another woman.’

  ‘How . . . how could you know that?’

  ‘One day, you had a serious talk together.’

  ‘Yes – exactly! But how could you guess?’