Gently Between Tides

by Alan Hunter

  The commotion of the dining-room sounded suddenly louder as a waitress with a tray pushed through the doors. She seemed momentarily nonplussed by the division of her customers, then elected to serve Capel and Sue Riddlesworth first. Gently blew smoke rings, Riddlesworth flicked ash. Eventually the tray came down to their end. Riddlesworth too had ordered brandy, and he took a sip when the glass was handed to him. The doors bumped again behind the waitress.

  Gently said: ‘You were also fishing when you rang Claydon.’

  ‘If you say so. I was certainly surprised to find you so positive that Hannah had a lover.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘So you tell me.’

  ‘She had every opportunity. From the yacht club to her dwelling is a short distance, and the moorings would be deserted for much of the week.’

  ‘Opportunity certainly.’

  ‘Isn’t your son a member?’

  ‘We have had family membership for several years.’

  ‘When the tide is right he could easily sail down there?’

  ‘Easily, though I happen to know he rarely did.’

  ‘But you yourself?’

  Riddlesworth sipped brandy and followed it with coffee.

  ‘Occasionally I do use the dinghy – perhaps more, now I’m without a yacht.’

  ‘Use it to sail where?’

  ‘Oh . . . here and there. It’s a bit cramped for a long haul. Mostly I take a trip down to the church and back, that’s quite far enough for me.’

  ‘To the church.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Near the bit of bank that you offered to point out to Hannah’s father.’

  ‘I don’t just recall making such an offer.’

  ‘But he remembers it.’

  ‘That’s his privilege.’

  ‘The bit of bank, you told him, where his daughter died.’

  ‘From what you told me, I could easily guess where.’

  ‘Where your son has moored so often this summer.’

  ‘In fact, I may have moored there myself.’

  He gave Gently a flat stare, then reached for his coffee and brandy again. Was he leading Gently, just a little? But he was a man almost impossible to fathom! The pale, taut, seamed face gave nothing away, no more did the hooded, yellowish eyes. Yet he had initiated this session himself . . . presumably there was something he was trying to do?

  ‘Principally, what I want is to question your son.’

  ‘I trust the results won’t disappoint you.’

  ‘Naturally I shall post men at your place to pick him up when he returns.’

  ‘They may have a long wait.’

  ‘You said you expected him?’

  ‘I’m not exactly Mark’s keeper. But perhaps I should warn you that on some previous occasions, Mark has gone A.W.O.L. for days.’

  ‘Are you telling me he has gone into hiding?’

  ‘Just briefing you about his habits. Ten to one he’ll run into your arms, but this may be the odd time out.’

  ‘In that case I would put out a general alert.’

  ‘I doubt if a sprat like Mark is worth one.’

  ‘To me, his absence is increasingly significant.’

  ‘That, I find quite surprising.’

  Someone had pushed open the doors again but, after a pause, had retreated: but in the brief interval they had caught the sound of Makovrilov’s querulous voice. Had he been trying to get in? Riddlesworth’s eyes had shifted for an instant from Gently to the doors. Then he had shrugged faintly and gone for another couple of sips.

  ‘Did you have something you wished to tell me?’

  ‘Yes. But I didn’t want to interrupt your questions.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ll be brief.’

  ‘If you like. You asked me something yesterday that I chose not to answer.’

  Their eyes held, each stare as blank as the other. But inside himself Gently felt a quick stab of excitement. Now they were coming to it! To make this one point, Riddlesworth had been willing to put himself up to be shot at . . .

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘Yesterday, I hadn’t spoken of the matter to Sue. I felt that she must know of it first since it touched her so closely. But now the matter is out in the open, so I am prepared to answer your question. You asked me if Hannah had been my mistress, and the answer is, yes.’

  Not by a glimmer did his expression change, yet suddenly Gently knew he was lying. It was as though between them had sprung a certain field of tension of which their blank faces were the two poles. Yet, without a moment of hesitation, he produced the next question:

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Since last summer. Since those trips on the yacht. She made me understand she was willing, and we moored up and went below.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘You were shrewd enough to notice the opportunities there might be. The Tower is close to the yacht club which, except at weekends, is little used. She kept our books, so I was never at a loss for an excuse to meet her there. Not that I was ever called upon to find one. I believe our discretion was quite complete.’

  In other words, advance notice that checking would produce no results.

  ‘Did she ever ask you for money?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you give her money?’

  ‘I may have done.’

  ‘How long did the liaison last?’

  ‘We agreed to end it a fortnight ago.’

  ‘By mutual agreement.’

  ‘She was always concerned about us deceiving Sue, and so was I. We agreed that, from then on, we would simply be friends.’

  ‘And not a single person knew.’

  ‘To the best of my knowledge.’

  ‘For example, your son Mark.’

  ‘Mark included.’

  It was neat, it was probable, it left no loose ends: and had the air of conceding what Gently had suspected. Yet it was false. It fitted every factor except the important one: Hannah. Because Hannah wouldn’t have accepted him. Face and all, he was too strong, too self-sufficient: not the type that Hannah would take under her wing, write poetry about, pretend to be a myth. It was Hannah who was telling him that Riddlesworth lied, a protesting ghost at his elbow.

  ‘On Friday afternoon, where were you?’

  ‘On Friday afternoon, in my study.’

  ‘Where was your son?’

  ‘I don’t know that, but when he turns up you can ask him.’

  ‘He was sailing his dinghy.’

  ‘To the best of my knowledge, the dinghy was never out on Friday, my car was used only in the morning, and Sue used hers to drive to Thwaite church. That really is all I can tell you, however unsatisfactory you may find it.’

  The complete tale. And one that would stick if Mark Riddlesworth was half as good a liar as his father – or if they failed to find him, and Riddlesworth had pretty well hinted that they weren’t going to. Once again, you couldn’t help admiring this man who studied his cards so coolly, who played them so immaculately, never letting a trick pass him by . . .

  ‘If that’s all, I’d better be toddling.’

  ‘That’s all.’

  Riddlesworth finished his brandy. The swing doors were suddenly busy, several parties entering the lounge together. He rose and collected his wife, who smiled a goodbye to Capel but ignored Gently; then, when the gangway had cleared, once more held the door for her.

  Capel was shaking his head and grinning.

  ‘There’s a pigeon pair for you! But I thought the lady seemed a little anxious about the yarn you were having with her old man.’

  Gently drew on a cold pipe. ‘Answer this off the top of your head! If you wanted to hide out with a tent round here, where would be the place to go?’

  ‘A tent? I’d try Foulden Forest.’

  ‘The forest . . . isn’t that a bit frequented?’

  ‘Yes, but they let the replanted sections run wild, and you could poke in there for a month together. But h
ey – look at this!’

  Capel moved rapidly to the window. Outside on the park a little scene was enacting as the Riddlesworths went to their car. Makovrilov was standing near the Jaguar, his stare fixed malevolently on Riddlesworth, and along with him Stoven and the bookseller, while Shavers had scrambled out to join them. It was all over in a moment. As Riddlesworth unlocked his car, Makovrilov fell upon him with hysterical reproaches, his eyes wild, hands flailing, tears streaming down his face. Stoven tried to intervene, but was thrust aside; Claydon was wringing his hands and moaning; Shavers stood by, eating it all up, an expression of triumph in his face. And Riddlesworth? He totally ignored them, handed his wife into the car, got in himself, started the engine and, so slowly, drove away. It was impressive. Makovrilov was left standing, his hands frozen in a gesture; then, still weeping, he ran to his car, jumped in and drove off after the Jaguar. Stoven jumped into his, Claydon after him, to follow in Makovrilov’s wake; and Shavers was left gazing after them with a savage pleasure in his eyes.

  ‘Sorry – I must leave you now.’

  Gently hustled out of the hotel. At once Shavers ran across to grab him by the arm.

  ‘Chiefie – I’ve been waiting for you!’

  ‘Clear off, Shavers.’

  ‘Yes, but I know something that you don’t. It was Groupie’s son who was with Hannah, and now he’s sodded off no one knows where.’

  ‘We know that.’

  ‘But you don’t know this. I’ve had a chat with Groupie’s daily. Yesterday morning there was a fair old ding-dong in Groupie’s study, behind locked doors.’

  ‘Who told you to ask questions?’

  ‘Listen, sonny came out as white as a sheet, then they packed him off with his camping gear, all this first thing yesterday morning. So what about that for a cover-up? Sonny’s the bloke you’re looking for. And Hannah’s old man knows it, he’s no mug, which is why he’s off after Groupie now . . .’

  ‘Just keep your nose out of things!’

  ‘But it’s my business too, Chiefie . . .’

  Violently, he pushed Shavers from him. At the police station he found Leyston in his office, making a snack lunch of sandwiches and beer.

  ‘We need a warrant for Riddlesworth’s place – first, we’re going to check that his son isn’t there.’

  ‘First . . .?’

  ‘If we draw a blank, then we’re putting men into Foulden Forest. And right away, send a patrol out to the house.’ Gently sighed. ‘To keep the peace!’

  TEN

  AND PEACE was apparently being kept when, a little later, they drew up at the house, heading a small cavalcade of two patrol cars and a minibus loaded with uniform men. The Escort and the Renault were parked close by and Makovrilov and his supporters hovered near the gate; but just inside a hefty patrolman stood rocking on his heels and gazing at nothing. Shavers was there too, watching events with sharp eyes, while in the garden of a cottage across the road a couple with two children were looking on with interest.

  ‘Give the minibus the down to park at the Maltings.’

  Because the last thing they needed was a show of strength! Even now some visitors, who’d been hanging over the bridge, had begun strolling curiously up the road. One blessing was that the press were absent, which they wouldn’t have been had they known about Gently: to date, they had been satisfied with a cagey statement issued too late to make Saturday’s stop-press. Without pausing, Gently drove through the gates, then dropped his window to speak to the patrolman.

  ‘Any trouble?’

  ‘Just the foreign gent, sir. Says he’s the girl’s father and he wants to come in.’

  ‘No one comes in . . .’

  ‘Hi up, sir!’

  He had to move swiftly to field Makovrilov. The musician had seized on the momentary diversion to make a dive through the gates.

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Take your hands off – I will speak to that man!’

  ‘You can’t come in here, sir.’

  ‘Yes, I am her father, I will confront him and his criminal son—’

  ‘Just take it easy, sir . . .’

  Struggling like a wilful child, Makovrilov thrust his face towards Gently’s window.

  ‘You are protecting him – why? Because he is a hero? Because my daughter and myself are not English? But it shall not be. I will have justice. I will talk to the press, to a Member of Parliament . . .!’

  The patrolman eased him away, still shouting, into the hands of the alarmed Stoven, and in his mirror Gently could see the architect trying to placate him, while Makovrilov’s hands weaved passionately.

  Leyston said tonelessly: ‘We’ll have trouble from him, sir.’

  ‘Then the sooner we clear up this business the better.’

  ‘I reckon he knows how to make a stink.’

  Gently drove on up the drive.

  The white Jaguar was parked before the house, which today one saw to be a long, double-fronted building, built in yellow-grey brick with a slate roof and tall sash windows. Gently parked by the Jaguar. Behind him parked a patrol car, from which climbed two detective-constables. Four of them, they marched up the steps, and Leyston pressed the bell. Riddlesworth, who must have been waiting for them, opened at once; in his manner there was not the smallest concern.

  ‘Come in, by all means.’

  ‘I’ll just show you this, sir.’

  Leyston exhibited his warrant.

  ‘Understood, all correct. I hope I can trust you fellows to make a neat job.’

  If it was his intention to catch them on the wrong foot, in Leyston’s case he had certainly succeeded. The local man had been nerving himself for a rough reception and now he could only gape foolishly.

  ‘Yes . . . right, then. Jackson, you take the outside. Miller, you’d better come in with me . . .’

  They entered, but in the hall Leyston still seemed at a loss what to do next.

  ‘This is just a formality, really, sir . . .’

  ‘I am quite used to formalities, Inspector.’

  ‘If I may, sir . . . upstairs?’

  ‘It seems as good a place as any to begin.’

  ‘Yes, well then . . .’

  Towing Miller behind him, Leyston beat a hasty retreat up the stairs.

  ‘A drink while you wait, Superintendent?’

  You would have thought Riddlesworth was running the show himself; and perhaps he was. Standing there in his hall, he gave every impression of being the man in charge. For certain they weren’t going to find his son there, either in the house or the grounds, while from a window in the hall that looked down the long gardens one could see the dinghy, sitting innocently on its chocks. No, he wasn’t so naive: the son hadn’t come back. He would be sitting tight somewhere, obeying orders . . .

  ‘I’ll just remain here.’

  ‘Do take a seat. I believe Sue is watching television in the lounge – show jumping from Hickstead. Sue is an enthusiast, used to be one for the ponies herself.’

  ‘Is your son interested in horses?’

  ‘Mark’s only other interest is a passion for old churches. I don’t know where he gets it from – certainly not from either of us.’

  Could it have been a hint, thrown out so off-handedly? But Riddlesworth wasn’t a man to throw out hints. He was merely amusing himself, making conversation: rubbing it in that he knew himself to be fireproof.

  ‘Then your son’s principal hobby is birds.’

  ‘Mark has been a birdwatcher since he was a kid.’

  ‘Here, you have a wide variety of habitats . . . heathland, marsh, sea and forest.’

  ‘All those, and a reserve at Grimchurch.’

  ‘You will have arboreal birds almost on your doorstep.’

  ‘Odd you should mention them. Only this morning I saw a green woodpecker on one of our elms – a warning, no doubt.’

  ‘There must be plenty in Foulden.’

  ‘Mark claims to have seen crossbills there, too. Are birds your inte
rest?’

  ‘Birds, and trees.’

  ‘Then you’ve come to the right place to live.’

  Impossible to tell if the man was fencing – his responses were so immediate, so unforced. Gently had an uneasy feeling that he might be giving away more than he was getting. What did you do to rattle such a man? He must have seen the little tussle down the drive, be aware that Makovrilov was waiting for him, ready at any moment to create a scene.

  ‘Sir . . . if you will.’

  Leyston had come to the stairhead.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘Of course.’

  And Riddlesworth actually moved aside so that Gently shouldn’t have to go round him to reach the stairs.

  ‘What have you found?’

  ‘Come this way, sir. We’ve taken a quick look through the kid’s belongings.’

  He led the way across the lounge-landing to a door at the end of a passage. It opened into a pleasant apartment that was half-bedroom, half-study, with a window looking towards the river and the distant tower of Bodney. There Miller sat on the edge of a desk, rapidly leafing through a file. Another file lay open on the desk, and from it Leyston took a loose sheet.

  ‘What do you think, sir – isn’t this her writing?’

  One glance was enough to establish that: the sheet was written over in Hannah’s hand, and in a language that had to be Czech. It appeared to be a poem in four-line stanzas, each with a wavy line scrawled beneath it, and though the text was quite impenetrable there appeared in the title a name: Endymion.

  ‘Is that the only one?’

  ‘It’s all we’ve found.’

  ‘Letters – a diary?’

  ‘Nothing like that, sir.’

  But there it was: perfect and damning, a piece of evidence they could never have expected to turn up.

  ‘Ask the Group Captain to step this way.’

  At last, a card had come to hand! And catching sight of a family photograph that hung on the wall, Gently felt even more certain that he was holding a trump. Between Riddlesworth and his wife stood a slim young man, smiling apologetically at the camera, a fragility in his large eyes and in the delicate structure of his features. Yes, he resembled his mother in the fine lines of his face and his slender build, yes, there was a dreamy vulnerability about the gaze, slightly unfocused.