Gently Heartbroken

by Alan Hunter

  ‘Where’s Hénault?’

  ‘We collected him,’ Guthrie said. ‘He’ll be back at the station by now. Barentin I had a flash about. They’ve taken him to the Infirmary for a check up.’

  ‘I’m going back to talk to Hénault.’

  ‘Leave this one with me,’ Guthrie said. ‘I’ve got blocks now as far south as Aviemore and on the A’s 95 and 96.’

  ‘He knows the country,’ Gently said.

  ‘So do I,’ Guthrie said. ‘I’ve got it printed on my brain like a map.’

  At Gently’s approach Frénaye climbed from the Citroën.

  ‘Monsieur, I fear that, for the moment, we have lost them . . .’

  ‘Take the Marina,’ Gently said. ‘Drive back to the police station. Wait for me in the yard.’

  ‘The Marina . . .?’

  Gently handed him the keys. He himself got into the Citroën.

  He let Frénaye precede him. The cramped cage of the Citroën brought back memories he hardly dared dwell on; yet he wanted it, the illusion of her presence, some moments alone in that precious car. It had a sweetish smell; not her scent, but the odour with which she must be familiar; and on the shelf were her maps, a purse, an open pack of Gauloise. He lit a Gauloise, and drove. Was it towards, or away, from her? Somehow he felt it was towards, though the feeling could not be supported by reason. Yet she was all round him: might it not be possible that here, in her car, some contact was being made: that an emotional radar was connecting him, pointing him, would lead him at last to her? Gabrielle . . .! In his anguish of spirit, for a while, he allowed himself to believe.

  Frénaye was waiting patiently when he arrived at the police station car park. Gently locked the Deux-Chevaux and together they entered reception. At the desk Gently asked:

  ‘You have a prisoner Hénault?’

  ‘He’s in the cells, sir,’ the desk sergeant said.

  ‘Has Superintendent Empton seen him?’

  The sergeant shook his head. ‘The Super went out half-an-hour ago.’

  ‘Went out where?’

  ‘He didn’t say, sir. One of his men came in and spoke to him. He just said to lock up the prisoner Petrie, then he was out of here in a hurry.’

  Gently shrugged: so much the better! Perhaps he’d passed Empton on the road. Driving flat out, the Special Branch man would arrive at the scene just as others were leaving . . .

  ‘Bring Hénault to Superintendent Guthrie’s office.’

  A few minutes later the Frenchman was brought in. Now one could see he was a slim-built blond with small but well-formed features. And this was the man . . .! Gently kept his stare neutral, pointed to a chair by the desk. Hénault sat. He had frank, grey eyes and on his lips hovered an appealing smile.

  ‘You are Henri Hénault?’

  ‘Monsieur.’

  What had she seen in that male model’s face? Presumably Hénault wasn’t a homosexual, yet that was somewhat the impression he gave. The small mouth on which the smile sat gapped slightly to reveal even teeth.

  ‘You are under arrest for illegal entry, conspiracy to kidnap and complicity in murder.’

  The smile was wiped off; he jerked up straight.

  ‘But . . . monsieur . . . that is scarcely fair! It is by my initiative entirely that Monsieur Barentin was rescued from assassins.’

  ‘By your initiative?’

  ‘At great risk, monsieur, and in continual danger of my life. Also, I was drawn into this affair by a deception, and have myself been a prisoner throughout.’

  ‘You were deceived into registering a false flight-plan?’

  ‘Monsieur, I did not know that at the time.’

  ‘Yet you flew to Scotland?’

  With a gun at my head! Would I have taken such risks of my own free will?’

  Gently stared at him unforgivingly. The smile was still catching at the edge of his mouth. He had the air of a dog who is being reprimanded but who nevertheless is certain you don’t really mean it. Things might happen but he wasn’t quite responsible . . . was this the trait she had found so fascinating?

  ‘What precisely was your footing with McGash?’

  ‘Monsieur, I was his prisoner and intended victim. He offered me much money, I pretended to believe him; in that way only could I stay alive.’

  ‘He trusted you to buy provisions.’

  ‘Oh monsieur, what a trust was that! While he is covering the shop with a gun. At no time was I in a position to escape.’

  ‘Did he talk to you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Did he mention his plans?’

  ‘But many times. When the deal is done we shall get a plane and I shall fly them out to Algiers. Then I shall be rich, I can go to Argentina and live it up with the senoritas.’ Hénault shrugged expressively. ‘But at Algiers airport two shots would have been the end of the business.’

  ‘Did he name an airport at this end?’

  ‘I am assuming it will be Inverness. When we arrived at that house he said now, it will not be so far to drive.’

  ‘What were his contingency plans?’

  Hénault looked vague. ‘I think he is expecting to wait it out at the house. Because that area has already been searched he is confident that there he will be quite safe.’

  Gently got up, took impatient steps. What he was fighting was the need for action! He couldn’t accept that the traumatic emergency was beginning to lapse into a problem of strategy. Yet minute by minute that was what was happening, while phones didn’t ring, road blocks failed: out there it was going on, but going on in a vacuum that defied every skill to pierce it.

  ‘Describe McGash.’

  He must have sounded fierce, because Hénault’s incipient smile vanished. Frénaye, squatting by the window, was regarding him with mournful eyes.

  ‘He – he is a violent man, monsieur.’

  ‘You can tell me more than that.’

  ‘He is – I think – perhaps a vain man, one who likes to be admired and thought a good fellow.’

  ‘He liked you to admire him.’

  ‘But yes. He wishes me to think him a great hero, one who has flair but at the same time is a complete professional. Of this he is proud, monsieur, that he is a professional first and last.’

  ‘And the Arab?’

  Hénault’s mouth twitched. ‘A killer, monsieur, exactly that. He says little, keeps to himself, but kills in a moment like a striking snake.’

  ‘He killed the policeman.’

  Hénault winced. ‘He shot him directly the door opened. Then his dog – crack, crack! Two shots. The policeman died in great pain.’

  ‘And McGash?’

  ‘Didn’t blink an eye, monsieur. It was professional, it was done. Immediately we are in the car and on our way to the place prepared.’

  ‘The Arab has no say.’

  ‘But no. He is merely a shadow, a gun.’

  ‘But loyal.’

  ‘That is past question. McGash to that one is as God.’

  Gently took more steps. ‘Your ex-wife was captured.’

  At first Hénault sat quite still. Then his hand went to his face and his shoulders trembled with silent sobbing.

  ‘Stop that.’

  ‘I cannot help it, monsieur! You do not know that woman. She is worth more than you or I together. And out of my cowardice I bring her to this.’

  ‘She acted to save Barentin.’

  ‘It was for me, monsieur, that she came. I begged her to come. I knew she would listen. Though I treated her badly, she would not forsake me.’

  ‘Tonight the risk she took wasn’t for you.’

  ‘It is all the same, I am responsible. I cannot bear it, monsieur, I should have stayed. I might have killed one before they killed me.’

  ‘Listen, Hénault. You know McGash. What is his reaction likely to be?’

  ‘Monsieur, I dare not think—’

  ‘I’m ordering you to think! In a crisis, would he stay rational?’

  Hénault
blubbered, swallowed, scrubbed hard at wet cheeks.

  ‘I think – yes. He is a realist. But oh monsieur, something must be done.’

  ‘He’d operate a plan.’

  ‘Yes, a plan. He always knew what to do next.’

  ‘And he talked. He talked plans to you.’

  ‘But it is only what happens after—’

  Gently grabbed his lapel. ‘Think. Any names, dates you heard him drop.’

  ‘Monsieur, there were none—’

  ‘Any reference whatever to what might happen if things went wrong.’

  ‘Monsieur – once – it is at the cottage – there he made some joke about Sutherland.’

  ‘Sutherland!’ Gently echoed.

  ‘Yes, monsieur, but it was only in jest. The cottage was damp and unpleasant but at least, he said, it was better than Sutherland.’

  Gently let go the lapel. ‘And that’s all?’

  ‘I assure you, monsieur, it was a jest.’ Hénault couldn’t help dusting himself of. ‘Monsieur, I cannot think he meant to go there.’

  Sutherland: was it credible? On the wall of the office hung a map. Gently stared at it: it merely confirmed the improbability of such a notion. Fort Augustus, Inverness barred the way of the only two routes north. Sutherland was vast and empty, but McGash would scarcely be tempted to try for it.

  The telephone on the desk clamoured. Gently picked it up: Guthrie.

  ‘Man, we’ve just found the car.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘A brown Volvo abandoned by the docks. The dabs men are on their way to confirm it, but it can’t be any other.’

  Gently grabbed the phone hard. ‘Could they have taken a boat?’

  ‘Not quite so bad,’ Guthrie said. ‘It was left outside a compound used by oil men to park their cars when they’re visiting rigs. The gate was forced. They’ll have nicked a fresh car, and Christ knows when we’ll find out what.’

  ‘Then they’ve gone through the town.’

  ‘Either that or they’ve doubled back this way to throw us off.’ Guthrie sounded tired. ‘But we’ve lost them for the moment. Now we don’t even have a car to look for.’

  ‘Anything in the Volvo?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Guthrie said. ‘On the back seat, a leaf from a French pocket diary.’

  ‘With writing?’

  ‘No writing,’ Guthrie said. ‘Just to let us know.’

  Gently hung up and sat silent for a time. In his corner, Frénaye drew on an empty pipe. Hénault looked as though he wanted to say something, but in the end kept his mouth shut. Finally Gently turned to him.

  ‘She’s still alive.’

  ‘Oh monsieur, I am so glad,’ Hénault said.

  ‘But that’s all,’ Gently said. ‘That’s all.’

  Hénault dropped his gaze and stared at his feet.

  It was after midnight when Guthrie returned; he went straight to a drawer and got out bottle and glasses. Fatigue was showing in the drag of his mouth, the irritability of his motions. He was a large man, perhaps fifteen stone; had bowed shoulders, the beginnings of a paunch.

  ‘Christ, I wish I could say something cheerful.’

  He had gulped his first drink and poured a second. He sat leaning elbows on the desk, gazing at nothing as he sipped.

  ‘I’m keeping the road blocks on, but McGash is far away now. I’ve ordered a general alert and special watch on ports and airfields. He’s lost out. With any luck he’ll dump the girl and go for cover. God, but I’m choked with this business – I’ve been flogging my men for three days.’

  He drank; Gently drank. Outside the office were footsteps, voices. Then the thump of doors closing, the patter of a typewriter, ringing of a phone.

  Gently said: ‘Is Barentin guarded?’

  Guthrie sighed, said: ‘Two men. I looked in on him. He’s still woozy. Otherwise the medic says he’s OK. Gautier’s there. He rang his embassy. The French still want it kept under wraps.’

  ‘What happened to Empton?’ Gently asked.

  ‘Yes, that’s rather baffling,’ Guthrie said. ‘Tate’s had a report in. Empton and his sidekicks have been down Glen Moriston, staking out a fruit farm.’

  Gently sipped. ‘A fruit farm?’

  ‘Belongs to a laddie called McCrae,’ Guthrie said. ‘I’m told he was in here today delivering a load of raspberries to a supermarket. You may have seen him. He dined at your hotel. What would have sent Empton haring after him?’

  Gently merely drank.

  ‘Anyway,’ Guthrie said. ‘McCrae spotted the stakeout and rang us. Empton was last seen heading for town. Do you reckon Petrie fed him another dud line?’

  ‘Possible,’ Gently said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Guthrie said. ‘That bastard’s too clever, he’ll cut himself. I couldn’t help a smile.’

  Gently didn’t smile.

  ‘Ach well,’ Guthrie said. He poured more drinks.

  Three hours since . . . and everything done: nothing one could think of left undone. Guthrie was tired and needing his bed, had probably been whacked when he got back from Aviemore. What was he hoping for? Gently couldn’t even think; simply that he couldn’t let up, let go. Nothing left undone except to hang on, he here, she there, somehow together. That was it . . .

  The phone went. ‘Thanks,’ Guthrie said to it. Then the door opened and Empton walked in. He closed the door with a slam, strode into the room and stood glaring.

  ‘Men at work,’ he said. ‘Men at work.’

  He reversed a chair, straddled it, sat confronting them.

  ‘Salute to the amateurs,’ he said. ‘And exit McGash to kill again.’

  ‘Listen,’ Guthrie said.

  ‘No, you listen,’ Empton said. ‘Because you and Lucky Jim are going to answer for this. You withheld information, sent me off on a goose hunt and handed a free pass to a leading terrorist. Call it obstruction, call it bungling, but in my report I’ll be calling it complicity.’

  ‘Complicity!’ Guthrie said.

  ‘Complicity,’ Empton said. ‘You got off his hostage and let him go. You’ve been in communication with McGash, Lucky Jim’s had a line to him from the start. Big deal, jock. But I’m the man with the brief, and that brief was to neutralize McGash. So don’t think you can put in Barentin for bail, because Barentin isn’t worth a plugged wolly.’

  ‘By Jesus you’d better watch what you’re saying,’ Guthrie said.

  ‘Had I, old man?’ Empton said. ‘Don’t think you’ll be sitting for long in that chair after this little lot comes to light. I laid it on the line. Barentin was a zero. Barentin didn’t count alive or dead. Our target was McGash, and McGash we could have had, but why didn’t we? That’s for you to answer.’

  ‘Answer it!’ Guthrie said. ‘I’ll answer it. To the Commission or whatever or wherever. And I’ll answer you were after bloody murder, and not fit to be in charge.’

  ‘Ha, ha,’ Empton said. ‘So funny. Take that line and your feet won’t touch. The man who had McGash in a corner. The man who kissed him and waved him goodbye.’

  ‘I’ve got a GA out,’ Guthrie said. ‘He can’t get away.’

  ‘Oh you lovely man,’ Empton said. ‘But a few hours ago you could have laid your hands on him, and what did you do then?’ He turned to Gently. ‘And you, old man, Britain’s answer to the Kremlin, when you knew where he was what did you do – apart from sending me to chase my tail?’

  Gently stared and said nothing.

  ‘He’s strong, he’s silent,’ Empton said. ‘Though not, apparently, an instant hero when it comes to facing Czech M52s. Better send in the girl friend, eh, old man? She’s got some equipment that you lack. No doubt she’s using it now to advantage. I daresay McGash can be quite a thrill.’

  Gently rose. He picked Empton off the chair. He struck him in the stomach, then struck him in the face. Empton went down. He got up, sprang at Gently. Gently struck him again. Empton stayed down.

  ‘You bastard!’ Empton gasped. ‘That was before witnesses.’


  ‘What witnesses?’ Guthrie said. ‘I didn’t see anything.’

  ‘The Frog saw it!’

  ‘Monsieur,’ Frénaye said, ‘by chance, I was looking out of this window.’

  Empton went. They had another drink. Even the phones seemed to have fallen asleep. When finally Gently got back to his hotel room he searched it afresh; but there were no more bugs.

  NINE

  GUTHRIE HAD promised him immediate intelligence, but during the night Gently’s phone stayed silent. He hadn’t undressed, but lay dozing on the bed, snatching perhaps a couple of hours sleep. At seven he was wide awake. He stuffed his pipe, lit it, rang in. He got Tate.

  ‘Give me a report.’

  They had checked the Volvo, Tate told him; it had been stolen in Glasgow three weeks earlier, resprayed and given false plates. Dabs matched those at the cottage, the white house: one window was starred and a panel dented.

  ‘What car did they take?’

  ‘Nothing in yet, sir. The company are querying rigs and supply tenders. But these fellows get around, and it’s a funny old job to locate everyone who might have left a car there.’

  ‘Possible sightings?’

  ‘Sorry sir. We kept the blocks on till an hour ago.’

  He smoked a while, went to stare through the window, then stripped and took his shower. Somehow he’d got to get an angle on it, find a way to come to grips with the problem. Hénault knew nothing. Petrie? Petrie had resisted Empton for hours, likely had no information beyond that of the safe house at Loch Ruthven. McGash might use him, but he wouldn’t confide in him, wouldn’t brief him except for his job. Unless there was a third safe house, Petrie was a dry well. Then? But the alternatives stopped there. One was left to stare at maps and pray for hunches.

  He dressed and went down. He found Frénaye in the breakfast room. The Frenchman was also looking dull eyed; he glanced questioningly at Gently, who shrugged and shook his head.