Gently Heartbroken

by Alan Hunter

  ‘Well,’ the AC said. ‘You know your business. I’m merely here to follow instructions.’

  ‘Which brings us back to France’s choice,’ Empton said. ‘There really will be nothing for you to do, old man. I should take a fishing rod. There are trout in the Ness and they run a steamer trip down the loch.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Gently said.

  The AC spread his hands. ‘Probably good advice, Gently,’ he said. ‘Treat it as a holiday. You haven’t been yourself since you came back from France.’

  Empton locked away his photographs. Buchy glanced at his watch. The AC rang Transport for a car to Heathrow. After shaking hands all round Buchy hesitated, then motioned Gently aside. He spoke in quick French.

  ‘This Mademoiselle Orbec . . . she enjoys a high level of protection . . .?’

  ‘She knows nothing.’

  ‘Agreed. And I understand it is your wish . . .?’

  ‘She has suffered deeply.’

  ‘Then that is enough. My dear colleague, may we meet again.’

  He shook hands a second time, nodded to the others and left. Digging into his pockets, Empton said to the ceiling:

  ‘Why don’t the Frogs treat me like that?’

  Gently took a tube to Finchley North and walked the difference to Elphinstone Road. He stared ahead, seeing no one, never glancing at the familiar pavements. In the Gardens kids were playing. Mrs Jarvis, his housekeeper, was chatting to a neighbour. He went straight through into his den and poured and drank a large whisky.

  Gabrielle . . .!

  Pinned to the wall was Michelin map 55: Honfleur, Deauville–Trouville, Cabourg, Lisieux . . . Rouen. And names such as Pont l’Evêque, Villerville, Touques . . . and that road that drew his eye like a magnet, running straight through the green shading of the forest. Near there, of necessity, they had snatched Barentin, most likely on the lightly used D62; they would have checked his route of an evening, found he avoided the busy coast road . . .

  ‘I’ve a nice bit of steak, Mr Gently. Would you like it with or without?’

  Had he answered her? He was sitting now at his desk, apparently sinking his second whisky. Then he found himself sucking a dead pipe which he couldn’t remember filling and lighting. And either he’d switched the light on, or Mrs Jarvis had done it for him . . .

  So after it had happened, in spite of Frénaye, he had rushed out to that hospital on the Pont l’Evêque road – Geoffrey had gone with him, and that had been lucky, since Frénaye had a gendarme posted in reception.

  ‘Monsieur, you cannot be admitted . . .’

  ‘Monsieur, it is essential that I see her!’

  ‘Monsieur, I have express orders . . .’

  That was when he would have hit him.

  Presumably Geoffrey had got him away, and the next morning Frénaye had rung to say she had left the hospital. Saying nothing to the others, he’d rented a car and headed like a maniac down the Autoroute Normande. To Rouen . . . to Rouen! The damned officials at the toll-gates had insisted he took his change – fighting, he’d won through the swirling traffic to the heart of the old city, to the Place Barthel. Her shop was larger than he’d imagined but inside were only assistants and Madame Glatigny:

  ‘Oh Monsieur George, she is not here – and if she were she would not see you!’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘She has gone to Paris, and even to me she would give no address . . .’

  She was lying, he was sure of it. A directory, a street-map found him the house. Up in St-Aignan in a steep, quiet road . . . for minutes he’d kept his thumb on the bell. Nothing, nothing, nothing! Then he’d sat watching through the whole afternoon, gone back to stare at the now-shuttered shop, to limp home again to Honfleur, Equemauville . . .

  She’d gone. And suddenly Normandy was a vacuum he could scarcely bear. Honfleur, Lisieux, the rest, she had taken their soul with her when she went. He couldn’t bear it . . . but he couldn’t leave it! Each day he’d gone down to the old town, hung about the harbour, the basin, the Place Ste-Catherine, his heart pumping at the sight of every green Deux-Chevaux. In love there were miracles, she had said. Could there not be a miracle now? To pluck from her heart those intolerable memories that, in the evening of that day, she’d felt unable to live with . . .?

  But the green Deux-Chevaux were never her Deux-Chevaux, no more she came running across the Place Ste-Catherine. Geoffrey painted his pictures, Bridget went her pilgrimages, and one day they were on the ferry slipping out of Dieppe. It couldn’t end there! That miracle must happen! He’d stood watching the stooping cliffs fade to haze. Then the wake, stretching back to France, the last, tenuous link between him and her . . .

  ‘It’s ready for you, Mr Gently.’

  ‘A moment!’

  He was searching in his desk for the telephone codebook. Rouen was now STD, while in his notebook a scribbled number . . .

  ‘Hullo . . . yes?’

  It was Madame Glatigny.

  ‘Madame, it’s me. You must let me speak to her!’

  ‘Oh Monsieur George, if only you could. But, in any case, she is not here.’

  ‘Isn’t there . . .?’

  ‘No, monsieur. She has gone I know not where. This morning early she had a phone call, then she packed a bag and left.’

  ‘But . . . she must have said where?’

  ‘No. No. Monsieur knows how it is with mademoiselle. I ask her of course, but she says it is personal, that she will be back in a few days.’

  ‘Madame . . . did she take her passport?’

  ‘Monsieur, I could not say.’

  ‘Do you know where she keeps it?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Madame, I would be obliged if you would check whether it is gone.’

  Followed harmonics. Tense, blank faced, Gently sat sniffing a faint odour of grilled steak. He daren’t let himself think! In Elphinstone Road, lights suddenly blinked above the pavements.

  ‘Monsieur?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It is not here.’

  ‘Ah !’

  More harmonics.

  ‘Monsieur, may I say you must not hope that it is to England that she goes.’

  ‘Madame Glatigny—’

  ‘Oh monsieur! Mademoiselle has been so very unhappy. I am hoping always that she will reconsider, but I do not think that time is yet.’

  ‘Madame, with regard to the phone call—’

  ‘Monsieur, at the time I was in the bathroom.’

  ‘Thank you, madame.’

  ‘Oh Monsieur George, I pray that one day all shall be well.’

  He hung up and went to eat his steak. Having served it, Mrs Jarvis returned to her television. He ate stolidly, the background to his thoughts a wailing voice with interruptions of applause.

  ‘Frenchie,’ the bearded man had said, ‘there’s no going back to France for you, man. If they believed you, which they won’t, you’d still be in for a long stretch. So make up your mind, Frenchie boy. It’s us who hold the key to Fort Knox. At the end of this caper we’ll be flying out, and we’d sooner have a peelo who doesn’t need a gun on him.’

  ‘But of course, Jamie,’ he’d said. ‘Did I not come in with my eyes open? What it was about I did not care, and for such payment I would shoot my grandmother.’

  ‘Aye, stick to that, Frenchie,’ the bearded man had said. ‘Just think of that million dollars in Aden. And whist! A word in your ear – you must not cross Dusty at any rate. He’s a real nasty man, Frenchie, who would sooner blast you than share a hot dinner. You’ll bear that in mind?’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind, Jamie.’

  ‘Aye,’ the bearded man had said. ‘Then I doubt you’ll do.’

  Much later they had passed a village with a shop and the bearded man had ordered Dusty to stop. He had taken out a written list and peeled English money from a wad.

  ‘Now Frenchie, my man, you’re a French tourist – they’re used to such cattle round here. Just ask them to put up what’s
on the list – and never act edgy. There’s no cry out yet.’

  He had taken the list and money, crossed the parking and entered the shop. So early, the shop was empty and attended only by one woman.

  ‘Madame . . . miss . . .?’

  She had taken his list smilingly and begun to place items on the counter. The shop, which was also a post office, had a public phone at the back.

  TWO

  AT NOON ON Wednesday 23rd they were in the circuit above Dalcross Airport, with Moray Firth sun-dusted below and Inverness sharp beyond a wing tip. South west one could see the Great Fault stretching away to the pale smudge of Fort Augustus at the head of the loch, then on through blue hills to infinity and at last the Atlantic. The cleft that split Scotland in two: was it surprising that legend clung to it? Even seen from the seat of an aircraft it inspired a sensation of the uncanny. A geological flashpoint, half-sleeping potential . . . in that deep trough might not mysteries remain?

  Superintendent Guthrie, porridgy, beaming, came forward to meet them at reception. He shook hands with a hearty clasp and hurried them through to a waiting Jaguar. As they sped away from the airport he twisted round to face Empton.

  ‘Are we any the forwarder, then, on this job?’

  Empton gave him a blue stare. ‘First, old man, if you don’t mind, we’ll hear what the locals have been up to.’

  ‘Ach . . . well.’ Guthrie glanced at Gently, who met him with wooden face. The local man had pale, jowled features and a clipped accent, perhaps of Edinburgh origin. ‘You’ll understand we have been working in the dark, with not so much as a description of the men we’re seeking. Furthermore we’ve no clue to where they might have been heading. For all we know they could be in England.’

  ‘Not,’ Empton said, ‘in England. Just take my word for that, old man.’

  ‘Well then,’ Guthrie said. ‘Suppose they’re in Scotland, it is not like alerting the home counties. Here our men are thin on the ground, and much of the country without roads. If they’ve taken to Knoydart, for example, or The Parph, or A’Mhoine, they could declare independence for all we’d hear of it.’

  ‘But meanwhile,’ Empton said, ‘they have a car, old man, and a tactical need to use a telephone. So let’s forget the Celtic Twilight and hear what you’ve been doing where they speak English.’

  Guthrie flashed Gently another look. ‘There has been a general alert,’ he said. ‘We assumed that these men did not arrive here by accident and that they had a safe house waiting. In consequence we have been checking rented property, hotels and boarding houses. Also remote farms and such as shooting-lodges, where occupation is occasional.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Empton said. ‘And by way of results?’

  Guthrie merely shut his mouth tight. They were speeding along beside the Firth, across which, in the distance, rose cloud-dappled hills.

  ‘Well, well, old man,’ Empton said. ‘We must try to put things on a more hopeful footing. Which, be it known, is why I’m here. With full Home Office authority, it goes without saying.’

  ‘We shall cooperate,’ Guthrie said through his teeth.

  ‘Yes,’ Empton said. ‘I think so, old man. I’m playing a game for rather high stakes, so we’ll just take cooperation for granted.’

  ‘And your colleague?’ Guthrie said, nodding to Gently.

  ‘Ah, I’m glad you mentioned him,’ Empton said. ‘I want a little leak to the local press saying that he’s here to study Scottish police procedure.’

  Guthrie gaped. ‘But why should we do that? His presence here requires no explanation.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ Empton said. ‘But follow orders, old man. That way we’ll all know what we’re doing.’

  Guthrie clamped his mouth shut again. They navigated a roundabout and entered Inverness by a ramshackle street. Then they were creeping with massed traffic down the broad, much lane-marked High Street. Guthrie jerked round to Gently.

  ‘I’ll just say this,’ he said. ‘I’m at sea in this matter, and I admit it. But if you are Chief Superintendent Gently, then I ken a man who kens you. That’s Superintendent Sinclair, as he now is, who runs his show up in Dornoch. Perhaps you recall him?’

  ‘I recall him,’ Gently said.

  ‘Aye. And a good word he puts in for you. So you’re welcome here, man, to Inverness, whatever daft doings they’ve sent you up for.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Gently said.

  ‘Ha, ha,’ Empton said. ‘I went to Winchester, myself.’

  Guthrie’s neck looked a little pink. They made a left turn towards the Castle.

  Guthrie led them into an incident room which however seemed singularly devoid of incidents. Two men sat manning phones, a third rose from a desk as they entered.

  ‘Inspector Tate,’ Guthrie said. ‘He’s i/c of the operation.’

  Empton ignored him. He went to the desk, sat, unlocked his briefcase and produced the photographs. These today included one of Hénault, at a glimpse a good-looking man with a pencilled moustache. Then, from a separate file, he took a press photo of Barentin. He spread the photographs on the desk and added some sheets of printed particulars.

  ‘To be copied and circulated,’ he said. ‘For a start to every police station within a hundred mile radius.’

  Guthrie gulped. ‘Have a heart, man,’ he said. ‘We don’t have the facilities here that you’re used to in London.’

  ‘For a start,’ Empton said. ‘Meaning this afternoon. I don’t think you appreciate the urgency, old man. By tomorrow morning I want this lot circulated to every police station north of the Tweed.’

  ‘But we can never do it!’

  ‘Oh, I think so,’ Empton said. ‘Cooperation, old man. Chop-chop.’

  Silence for a moment. Then Tate motioned to a phone-watcher, who took the photographs and left. Empton smiled cheerfully and took yet another file from his briefcase.

  ‘Let’s put it in focus, shall we?’ he said. ‘Up till now I feel the response has been rather tentative. You’ve been treating this as one of your amateur crimes, which it most distinctly is not.’

  ‘If you’re accusing us of slackness—’ Guthrie began.

  ‘Yes,’ Empton said. ‘Don’t interrupt, old man. I’m here to talk, you’re here to listen, taxpayers’ money and all that.’ He drew a typed sheet from the file. ‘This came in from Paris last night,’ he said. ‘The ungodly have been in touch with the Quai D’Orsay through the good offices of a certain foreign lawyer. Seven releases, four in France, two in Germany, one in Holland, twenty million dollars to accounts in Aden, plane and safe conduct to Algiers. About –’ he fanned himself with the document ‘– what our colleagues had been expecting.’

  Guthrie’s eyes had rounded. ‘That’s – that’s their demand?’ he said.

  ‘For the safe return of Barentin,’ Empton said. ‘But of course they’re certain to kill him.’

  ‘Twenty million dollars!’

  ‘Inflation, old man. They used to be content with five or ten.’

  ‘But that’s preposterous!’

  ‘Barentin can pay it. The meat in the sandwich is the seven releases.’ Empton’s eyes bored at Guthrie. ‘Not an amateur crime is it, old man? So forget the Stone of Scone and Great Train Robberies, we’re in the Premier League here. Our business is to track, find and neutralize and to be otherwise un-British. We’re outside the cosy world of Magna Carta. Here we don’t ask questions even afterwards.’

  Guthrie stared. ‘You can’t mean that.’

  Empton’s teeth showed white. ‘Sorry to shock you, old man,’ he said. ‘But it’s time you learned what you have on your plate. I want those men. I prefer them dead. I am not in the least concerned about Barentin. And now we’ve got that out of the way, perhaps we can descend to business.’

  ‘You’d actually – shoot them?’

  ‘Yes,’ Empton said. ‘Please give your attention, old man. That message to Paris tells us something. Our men are almost certainly on the end of a phone.’

  Gut
hrie looked sick. He pulled up a chair. Tate remained standing, his eyes fascinated. The remaining phone-watcher was talking thick Scots to a colleague reporting in from Achnasheen. From a gold case Empton took and lit a straw-coloured cigarette.

  ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Small deductions. Routine ploys are out. McGash knows better than you do where the police begin a search. He knows the country, has at least one agent, the man who relays calls to Paris. He’s inside a hundred miles from the wreck because it wouldn’t have paid him to have driven much further. Suggestions?’

  ‘To go north,’ Tate ventured, ‘he’d have to drive through the town, sir.’

  ‘A map.’

  Tate hurriedly found one. Empton spread it on the desk and studied it.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘East is lowlands, sir, he wouldn’t find so much cover there. South, he’d have to take the main A9. To my mind he would have stayed with the B851.’

  ‘Ah,’ Empton said. ‘Down the loch. What sort of country is it over there?’

  ‘Fairly well populated, sir, between the loch and the Monadhliath Hills.’

  ‘But then he’s through west,’ Guthrie said. ‘With plenty of glens and nooks to choose from. A hundred miles would take him into Kintail, or up by Garry, or Arkaig.’

  ‘Right,’ Empton said. He exhaled smoke. ‘I want an operation in all that sector. From Daviot here down the loch into Kintail as far as Shiel Bridge. I want it combed to the last shieling, in fact particularly the last shieling. Because, old man, that’s where we’ll find them – not in hotels or bed-and-breakfasts.’

  ‘But that’ll take weeks,’ Guthrie said. ‘You’d need an army.’

  ‘No, I think not,’ Empton said. ‘Because why? Because they need a telephone, and where there isn’t a telephone we needn’t search. Start at a phone box, work outwards. Check with shops adjacent to phones. They need to eat, will want to buy the papers, may have to replenish gas, petrol, paraffin.’ He sucked pensively. ‘With regard to shooters, I think we should make an issue, old man. Damned un-British and all that, but probably better than a lot of dead policemen. McGash will have Czech M52’s most likely, a darling weapon that can shoot through bricks.’