by Alan Hunter
‘Was it you who waited at Miss Campion’s table?’
‘Oh yes – she sat at that one by the window.’
‘Was she easy to get on with?’
‘She wasn’t a lot of trouble.’
‘Tip you, did she?’
‘It was her boss who did the tipping.’
‘What did you think of her?’
Rosie giggled.
‘She’d got what it took, but she had her head screwed on too. All the men had a spot for her, even old Colonel Morris. If you ask me, some of the wives here aren’t so sorry about what’s happened.’
‘What do you mean by saying that she had her head screwed on?’
‘She kept her eye on the main chance, that’s what I mean. Her boss was jealous and she wouldn’t play the fool. Mind you, I wasn’t kidded. I know an act when I see one. There were times when he wasn’t about and then she wasn’t quite so starchy – only she never let it get anywhere, if you see what I mean. She’d got a wonderful talent for knowing where to draw a line.’
‘She was what you’d call a tease?’
Rosie giggled again, but the question didn’t embarrass her. At twenty-four or -five she had the assurance of a much older woman.
‘I wouldn’t know that, would I? But I wouldn’t put it past her. Some women get a kick out of that, and she was the right type. But she liked the rest too, don’t you forget it. One woman can’t keep that from another.’
‘Who did she encourage?’
‘She wasn’t too particular.’
‘Was there anyone especial?’
‘If there was she was clever about it. She let old Colonel Morris kiss her. Then she put some of the kids into a trance. And one or two married men who ought to have known better, though it’s a fact that their wives are mostly old bitches.’
‘But your impression is that none of them got very far?’
‘They didn’t get a chance, what with her boss always hanging around.’
‘What about Tuesday? He wasn’t around then.’
‘They’d had a row, I think, and she wasn’t in the mood. In any case most of them had gone to Hamby. There were only two of the old couples playing bridge in the lounge.’
‘So she spent the evening alone?’
‘She was alone at dinner.’
‘What about after that?’
‘I went off duty. It was the last time I saw her.’
In the doorway Maurice had appeared carrying a tray of dirty glasses. He set it down on the mahogany sideboard and began to pile on one or two more. His languorous eyes rested an instant on Rosie’s trim back.
‘Tell me – was she really so outstanding, or was it just her manner?’
‘It was a bit of both if you ask me, but she’d got the goods in the first place.’
‘Did she talk a lot, and laugh?’
‘Not her. She was always serious.’
‘Was she off hand to other women?’
‘She could afford to be nice to them. She’d got them all whacked.’
‘And how about you – weren’t you jealous?’
Her giggle was accompanied by a slight gesture of the hips.
‘I get along. I wasn’t worried. Some gentlemen prefer blondes.’
In the glass at the back of the sideboard Maurice was now studying her profile. He had abandoned his stacked tray and was apparently counting the serviettes.
Gently stirred at last, to Dyson’s great relief. He wandered out on to the verandah and stood gazing down at the afternoon sea. Below the lawn there were two hard courts for the use of the guests, and in spite of the temperature they were occupied by sweating youngsters in shorts and singlets. In the shade of the oak trees sat their elders, sleeping or knitting. From the other side of the marram hills could be heard the faint cries of children.
‘I’ve used the reading room for interrogation.’
Gently shrugged his multi-coloured shoulders.
‘I daresay that the manager …’
‘Let’s take a stroll along the beach, shall we?’
It was no use, Gently would have his way. He kept bulldozing aside all Dyson’s hints and veiled suggestions. He had dressed like a holidaymaker and now it seemed he was going to behave like one. With Dutt trailing behind they crossed the lawn at a leisurely saunter.
‘How does one get down to the beach?’
A few of the lotus-eaters in the deckchairs looked up as they passed. They knew Dyson, of course, but they knew nothing of Gently. Superintendent Stock had carefully delayed the news that the Yard was being called in.
‘Down there, past the tennis courts.’
The way led through a dusty shrubbery. At the bottom there was a gate with a spring giving access to the back of the marrams. Everything one touched was burning to the hand, and the ground struck hot through the soles of shoes. The marram grass, pale and rustling, looked as though it had been dried in a botanical press.
‘You can see what it’s like for footprints.’
Gently nodded, plodding through the scalding sand. Still that silent face was haunting him, charging every step with its presence. Hadn’t she come this way, perhaps, not much more than thirty-six hours ago? When the sand, now hot, was already cold, and the dew falling chill on the sere of the marram?
He had propped the photograph against his mirror and kept his eyes on it while he was dressing. After reading Dyson’s report he had been certain that the face would tell him something. Several things might have happened. It depended upon the type of woman. Once you had settled that, then you could begin to see your way.
Only the face had told him nothing of those things he wanted to know. The obvious thing was unimportant. Even Dyson could hardly have missed it.
‘There’s Mixer over there now.’
They had got to the top of the hills. Below them, a steep slide, lay the silvery-fawn beach, the tiniest of combers sending white washes along its margin. The sea looked heavy and drunken with sun. Its dark acres were mottled with purple and green patches. At the tideline the children paddled and screamed, their dumpy bodies showing through their sagging swimsuits. Higher up sat the parents, some of them beneath sunshades.
‘He’s watching us, you bet.’
Could it even have been that passion …?
‘You see? He’s getting up.’
Or the body, would that tell him?
He turned impatiently in the direction which Dyson was indicating. One hadn’t had to ask the county man where his suspicions lay. Alfred Joseph Mixer – he was the candidate! The ‘company promoter’ with his cash and cockney accent: who, in all probability, had outsmarted Dyson.
‘He’s expecting us to tackle him.’
Gently was only confirming impressions. In his twenty years with the Central Office he had met a lot of Mixers, and this one seemed to follow the general pattern. A biggish man of about forty with something of a stomach. Thinned hair, a large nose, and small, hard eyes. He had been sitting under a sunshade and was wearing shiny black bathing trunks. Now he was standing up apprehensively, twisting his sunglasses as he watched the three policemen.
‘Don’t you think perhaps?’
‘What makes you so sure he did it?’
‘The evidence … well … one forms an impression.’
‘He’s done time for embezzlement.’
‘There – I was certain!’
‘At the same time, there’s nothing about violence on his record.’
Gently dug in his heels and went skidding down through the loose sand. At the moment he hadn’t got time for Mixer. A little higher up the beach he could see the boats and the fishermen, and above them, on the hill, somebody painting at an easel. Two days ago hadn’t she looked on this same scene?
At this point the shore was very slightly convex, but one could see at least a mile of beach in either direction. At quarter-mile intervals pillboxes had been built, a few of which remained poised drunkenly above the beach. On the nearest one of these some youths
were performing acrobatics.
‘What sort of fish do they catch?’
In the shallows a child with tucked-up skirt was pushing a shrimp net and looking the picture of earnestness. ‘Soles … plaice … I don’t know.’
Another, a little boy, was trying his best to fly a kite.
They came up with the boats, still a centre of interest. The reporter and his colleague were in conversation with the fishermen. One of the latter was showing the photographer where the body had lain; another, a freckled-faced youngster, was sweating over an engine.
‘Any statement for us yet?’
‘It was probably a man who did it.’
‘You told us that before.’
‘It could have been a woman.’
The reporter touched his photographer’s shoulder. It wasn’t often that one got a present like this! Gently, apparently unconscious of his picturesque qualities, continued his unhurried survey of the group of boats.
Of the seven, six were gaily painted and one alone was white. This was the boat in which the freckled youth was working at the engine. They were bluff-bowed, deep-bodied, powerfully built little craft, not more than seventeen feet long but big and burly for their size. Each had an ‘S.H.’ registration board bolted to its gunwale and its name, with suitable flourishes, carved in its transom. There was the Girl Betty, the Boy Cyril, the We’re Here, and the Willing Boys. The white boat had a varnished name board and was called the Keep Going.
Gently paused beside the latter, so utterly different was it from the others. Quite apart from the paint and the name board, it stood out as a separate species. It had a finish like a yacht. All the fittings were chromium plated. The paintwork had been built up until the surface resembled velvet, while the gunwale and the transom were of varnished teak that shone like glass.
‘Is this one a pleasure boat?’
The youngster wiped his brow with a hand which left a greasy mark.
‘There isn’t a lot of pleasure in her!’
‘No … but does she go fishing?’
‘W’yes, that’s what she’s for.’
‘Then what was the idea of getting her up like this?’
‘You’d better ask Mr Dawes – it just happen he take a pride in his boat.’
A wave of a spanner indicated the net store on the hill. Beside it was standing a tall fisherman with a white beard. He was leaning against one of the tarred posts from which the drying nets were slung; his eyes, staring out to sea, had the peculiar vacancy of seafaring men ashore.
‘He like to show off his money!’
One of the fishermen spat contemptuously – the same man who had been showing the site of the tragedy to the photographer. He was a lean but powerfully built fellow of sixty or so. His face had a vindictive cast and his dark eyes looked angry.
‘Boats like mine aren’t good enough for Esau Dawes – did you ever see such truck on a longshore fishing boat? Next thing you know it’ll be gold-plated ringbolts!’
‘Shut you up, Bob!’ came from several of his mates.
‘Why should I shut up? I don’t owe nobody no money!’
Gently hunched his shoulders and wandered over towards the gap. The Keep Going’s owner paid him no attention as he passed by. Fifty yards further on sat the young artist with his easel; he held a brush between his teeth while he stroked vigorously with another. An old umbrella tied to a broom handle was keeping the glare of the sun from his work.
‘That’s Simmonds … you remember?’
If he did, Gently made no reply. Like any other curious stroller he went up to see what was happening to the canvas. Simmonds, a taut-faced young man with reddish-gold hair, charged his brush nervously as he felt himself being overlooked. He was painting a beach-scape in rather sombre colours; he had perhaps noticed it and was now darkening his sky.
‘Do you sell any of your pictures?’
Simmonds looked round quickly, flushing. He possessed wide hazel eyes which had an oddly vulnerable appearance. His lips made a perfect Cupid’s bow and the lower one trembled.
‘As a matter of fact I do!’
He was forcing a hardness into his voice.
‘I’ve sold several pictures – I’m not entirely an amateur! Now, if you don’t mind, I prefer not to talk while I’m working.’
‘I thought I might buy one.’
Simmonds seemed more upset than ever. He attacked his sky with an awkwardness that threatened to ruin everything. In the background his tent looked snug with its flaps neatly rolled and tied. One of the tracks which intersected the marrams passed close beside it on the way from the village.
‘What do you know about him?’
Dyson was eager to supply information. It was the first time since they had left the guest house that Gently had shown the slightest curiosity.
‘His age is twenty-two. He comes from Cheapham but he’s living in Norchester. His mother is dead and he had a row with his father, who keeps a butcher’s shop in Cheapham. He works for an insurance firm in Norchester, but his head is full of this artistic nonsense.’
‘Who saw him with Rachel Campion?’
‘A girl from the guest house, name of Longman.’
‘What did she say they were doing?’
‘Just walking on the beach. Simmonds was carrying his painting gear.’
‘He’s got good looks, of course.’
‘Do you think – shall we pull him in?’
Gently smiled through his sweat.
‘Let him finish his picture! We’ll go back to the Bel-Air and have a long iced shandy.’
As Dyson said later, Gently had a genius for getting backs up.
CHAPTER THREE
THE BEL-AIR HAD an unsuspected merit: it really did seem cooler inside it than out. This may have been due to the trees, which were the only ones in Hiverton – they were wind-sculptured oaks and threw little enough shade, but their dark leaves tempered the all-pervading glare.
In the bar Maurice was serving milkshakes to a group of noisy teenagers. He seemed very popular with them and they all addressed him by his Christian name.
‘Some of that pineapple, Maurice.’
‘Maurice, make mine with maple syrup!’
A slim girl with a gamine cut had plugged in an electrical recorder. In a moment half of them were clapping and tapping to a recording of ‘Jailhouse Rock’.
‘How’s our crime coming along, Maurice?’
‘Jimmy looks like a killer, and he had a pash on her!’
‘Is it right that there’s a couple of Yard men down here?’
‘Dig that boss of hers – he’s got something on his conscience!’
Dyson had gone off to catch a bus into Norchester. He had got fed up with trying to help Gently. The manager of the Bel-Air, who wore a lounge suit despite the weather, had taken Gently aside for no conceivable reason. In his office he had produced a file of testimonials. One was signed by a former minister and another by a well-known comedian.
‘This has always been a place with a reputation. I don’t know how—’
‘Nobody remembers what they read in the papers.’
‘I only hope we shan’t have a rush of cancelled bookings.’
He treated Gently to a drink and seemed to want to hang on to him. Eventually he was called away to conduct a telephone conversation with some caterers.
Gently took his drink on to the lawn, where he found a vacant deckchair. A maid, not Rosie, was collecting glasses, and several guests had woken up to give her fresh orders. Mixer came by from the beach; he clenched his hands and stared at Gently. The tennis players, who had been sprawling on the grass, suddenly all chased indoors to fetch their swimsuits and towels.
‘They tell me in the office …’
Gently was almost in a doze. The dead woman’s image was hypnotizing him, he wanted to do nothing but puzzle and brood over it. In his mind he had been fitting to it one alternative after another.
‘They tell me you’re the bloke sent down to
take charge here.’
He opened his eyes, frowning, and found that Mixer had come back. The man was still clad in his trunks but with the addition now of a flowered beach shirt. The shirt was unbuttoned to reveal a hairy chest: Mixer was tanned all over, though some of it was probably stain.
‘Aren’t you Chief Inspector Gently?’
‘What was it you wanted?’
‘I want to have a talk – don’t say you don’t know who I am!’
Gently nodded indifferently. Several pairs of eyes were watching them. Mixer was using a blustering tone as though to challenge everybody’s attention.
‘I’ve got a right to have a word with you – this is a serious matter for me! Already people have got the idea …’
‘You made your statement, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, but that’s different.’
‘You mean you want to add something to it?’
‘It isn’t that either. You know what I mean.’
Gently grunted. Yes, he knew! In his briefcase he had brought with him the thing that was worrying Mixer. It was headed ‘Mixer, Alfred Joseph (alias Thomas Beaumont)’. It had been typed out for him by Records less than twelve hours before.
‘Put yourself in my position. When it comes to a thing like this.’
The perspiration was trickling down through the hair on Mixer’s chest.
‘Now I want to get things straight. There’s nothing I have to hide. Otherwise I’d have had my solicitor down – as yet I haven’t bothered him.’
Not many of them were sleeping now, or even pretending to. The maid had come up with a fresh tray of drinks but her customers had mostly forgotten their orders.
‘You want to talk about it here?’
Mixer dashed a furious glance at the audience.
‘I don’t see why I shouldn’t, when everyone’s so concerned! Right from the start they’ve picked on Alfie – that Inspector Dyson, too! Do you think they’d have called you in if there’d been half a case against me?’
‘Let’s go into the house.’
Gently rose from his deckchair. Mixer was sweating so much that his whole body seemed to run with it. Behind them, as they crossed the lawn, they heard a faint stir and murmur. Mixer clenched his fists convulsively and breathed heavily through his nostrils.
