by Alan Hunter
‘How would her going off with him help that?’
‘His description would still be fresh in people’s minds, sir. A couple would attract less attention than a stranger on his own.’
Gently shook his head. How could you credit it – even if the principals were cock-eyed as coots? A body, and thirty thousand nicker going spare! Not even an idiot could expect to get away with it . . .
‘And where does the alibi bit fit in?’
‘The alibi, sir . . .?’
‘Rushmere and the girl’s! Look, it works like this: she arranged an alibi with Easton, but that was bust when his parents went out. So then it was changed to her appearing at the reserve, where the time can’t be checked, and they thought up the idea of the stork to give her an excuse for the change of plan.’
‘That’ll be what happened, sir.’
‘But what’s it about? What was the alibi supposed to cover? And if Rushmere and the girl needed one, why not the other two – why didn’t they all show up together?’
Aspall stared. ‘They’d think the girl was most vulnerable.’
‘But in connection with what?’ Gently puffed meanly. ‘Nobody can swear when that photograph was taken. Nobody can swear who exactly was involved. They’d no reason to think any of them needed an alibi – if all they were doing was faking a photograph.’
Aspall’s mouth opened. ‘You don’t think it was faked . . .?’
Gently let go another caustic puff. ‘What I’m stressing is the thirty thousand pounds. Killing has been done for less before now.’
‘But . . . sir!’
Aspall gazed at the fire, eyes part indignant and part dismayed. Plainly he’d been willing that photograph to be a fake, had anticipated that Gently would go along with him.
‘But . . . if it isn’t a fake . . . who did it?’
‘It was Rushmere and the girl who went for an alibi.’
‘But they were all in it!’
‘That’s how we’ve been seeing it. Which doesn’t mean to say that’s how it was.’
‘Then how . . .?’
Gently shrugged. In fact, they were back again where they’d started. If the corpse was real, explain the photograph. If the corpse was faked, explain the facts. Whichever way you swung the pendulum, it came to rest between the two.
‘We shall need a couple of warrants. One for the girl’s place, one for Rushmere’s.’
‘Yes sir. I’ll get them sent out from Wolmering.’ Aspall rose as though glad to break up the conference.
Gently rose too, and switched on the light. Well . . . he could forget his train back to town! Insensibly, that private room in The Fisherman’s Rest had drifted into the status of an HQ. A murder HQ . . .? If he could only be certain! But his instinct refused to commit itself. There was something odd here, perhaps something sinister, but its nature continued obscure. So they’d plod on, following the routine, trying to get a finger in the pie, keeping their theories in the background, and hoping for the break to come . . . At least, now, the case had respectability – a wanted man and thirty thousand pounds! Though in such an orphan of a case as this, might not even the bank bust be a red herring?
‘Excuse me, sir.’
The handsome landlady had stuck her close-tonsured head round the door.
‘Mr Middleton, from The Purlins, has sent to ask if you can see him.’
‘Did he say what he wanted?’
‘He said his son Dick wanted to talk to you.’
‘Did he now!’ Gently mused. ‘Then you’d better ask him to step round.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
HE WATCHED THEM from the window: the father, Claude Middleton, a lean, spare-featured, spectacled man; the son a sturdier, clumsier figure, dressed now in a tweed jacket.
They walked briskly, head down, father a few steps ahead of son: not exactly like the guilty coming to confession, more like a deputation bearing terms. Nice people . . .! You were meeting Grimchurch when you met Claude Middleton and his son.
‘This way, sir . . .’
You could tell the landlady’s opinion from her tone of voice. Smiling obsequiously, she held the door while the pair of them trooped in.
The father advanced confidently. He looked older when seen under the lights, his hair thin and parted in the middle, his mouth hemmed with heavy lines.
He nodded to Aspall: ‘Good evening, Inspector!’
Aspall responded a little awkwardly.
‘Superintendent Gently . . .’
He made it an affirmation rather than a question.
And Dick Middleton, meanwhile, was doing his best to look at ease. His eyes were faintly scowling, but his chin was firmly held.
‘First, I think we owe you an apology.’ Middleton senior’s eyes were conciliatory. ‘You were questioning my son earlier, Super, and you rather caught him on the hop.’ He laughed shortly. ‘When you’re eighteen, the world can be a baffling place. You sometimes wonder where your loyalties lie – you need time to think it out.’
Gently’s stare was flat. ‘And has your son thought it out?’
‘I can understand your feelings, Super! You asked Dick specific questions, and he panicked and dug his toes in.’
‘You mean he lied to me.’
‘Oh . . . come, now!’
‘Have you a more flattering term for it?’
‘I think perhaps it amounted to No Comment, but Dick wouldn’t be familiar with that useful expression. He didn’t want to tell lies.’
‘Are you suggesting we forced him into it?’
‘Of course not! But I’m sure you appreciate the dilemma he was in.’
The flush on Dick Middleton’s face didn’t suggest an equal optimism; but his chin remained high and he stared unwinkingly at Gently’s chest.
‘Anyway, now he’s come to put matters right. He’s talked it over with his mother and me, and for what it’s worth, in my opinion someone’s been having a joke with the boy. But Dick’s very certain about what he saw, so there was no question that you had to be told. It was his own decision, I may say, and I think you should give him credit for that.’
Gently grunted. ‘So what did he see?’
Dick Middleton’s chin rose yet higher. ‘I saw the man . . . the one in the picture. I was there when he was shot.’
Silence for a moment! It hung electrically in that sad, bleak room, with its pub tables and chairs, disreputable piano, and the brewer’s mirror mounted over the hearth. Even the fire burned dully silent: the room was holding its breath . . .
‘You’d better sit down.’
Imperturbably, Middleton senior took a chair by the fire. His son sat more abruptly, yet with an air of brash determination. Gently sat facing them. Aspall, after drawing the curtains, sought a chair by the piano and took out his notebook.
‘Now . . . let’s have the facts.’
Dick Middleton tilted his chin. ‘I was there when they shot him.’
‘They?’
‘There was another man anyway . . . there could have been more.’
‘Where were you, then?’
‘I was in the wood, and I heard their voices . . .’
‘You didn’t see them?’
‘No, I’m telling you! But I heard them running, at least two.’
‘Two men.’
‘Yes, two men! I heard first one shout, then the other.’
‘But you didn’t see them.’
‘No. When I got there, there was just him . . .’
Gently gazed at the younger Middleton. He’d heard this sort of thing before! The stock characters in fake confessions were just such faceless, nameless shadows. And when they had vanished into the mist, still you were left not an inch further forward . . .
‘I want names.’
‘But I didn’t see them!’
‘If I’m going to believe you, you’ll have to tell.’
‘But I can’t – because I didn’t! I know it sounds like I’m making it up, but it’s true – I heard their vo
ices, and that’s all. They must have cleared off.’
‘Just their voices you heard.’
‘Yes – shouting!’
‘And of course, you didn’t hear what?’
‘Oh, my God!’ the young man burst out. ‘I knew – I just knew that no one would believe me!’
The elder Middleton cleared his throat. ‘Better take it from the beginning, Dick,’ he said. ‘I know you’re convinced it’s gospel, old fellow, but it does sound a bit thin to some of us.’
‘So what’s the use, then?’
‘You must tell what you know. It’s up to the Super what he makes of it.’
Dick Middleton scowled at the floor for some moments, his fresh young mouth stubborn and tight. Then he heaved his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug.
‘All right then! It’s to do with Ka.’
‘With Miss Stoven?’
‘Yes – Ka. I got worked up when I saw that fellow there. Not that it was really any business of mine, but – well’ – he blushed – ‘I did get worked up!’
Gently nodded. ‘We’re talking about Sternfield?’
‘The fellow who was shot. I don’t know his name. But I saw him at the cottage on Friday – and quite obviously, Ka didn’t want me to see him.’
‘You saw him in her cottage?’
‘Yes, at the window. I called there at Friday teatime. Just to say hello to Ka – I hadn’t seen her since bonfire night. Well, she usually asks me in for a chat – a cup of tea, that sort of thing – but on Friday she kept me at the door, seemed to want to get rid of me. And then I saw this fellow peering round a curtain, though he whisked the curtain across directly. Ka must have known, because I acted so stupidly. I yammered and didn’t know what to say.’
‘Did she explain his presence to you?’
‘No! And I sheered off straight away. But I was boiling. I couldn’t help it – it was so damned furtive, so . . . I don’t know! You see, I’ve always looked on Ka as rather special, a special person . . . she should have been above it.’
Dick Middleton stared, frowningly indignant, the beginning of a tremor in his lower lip.
‘Who did you tell about seeing this man?’
‘I told Lionel, that’s all. I felt so sick about it, and I knew that Lionel wouldn’t talk. But I couldn’t just leave it at that, either. There was something so wrong about that fellow! I wanted to get another look at him, to find out what he was doing there.’
‘And did you?’
‘I . . . well.’ Dick Middleton stared at the fire uncertainly. ‘I suppose I may as well tell you, because you’ll be on to Lionel anyway.’ He chewed on his lip. ‘We thought of a way to get Ka out of the cottage. Then I was going to prowl round and spy, and perhaps get a photograph of the fellow.’
‘When was this going to be?’
‘The next day, of course. Lionel’s father is a noise in the RSPB. Lionel offered to show Ka a Society report, which he pretended was only borrowed for the weekend. Ka didn’t sound too enthusiastic, but she agreed to call round after lunch.’
‘This was a phoned invitation.’
‘Yes. Lionel tilted the phone and I heard what she said.’
‘Did it sound as though she meant to keep the engagement?’
Dick Middleton hesitated. ‘Well . . . I suppose so.’
‘But she was reluctant.’
‘Yes. What she said was something like: I suppose I’d better come, as though it were a bore. But she could just as well have declined. Ka doesn’t usually do things if she doesn’t want to.’
‘And that I can vouch for,’ Middleton senior interjected, his glasses glinting at Gently. ‘The Dryad is an independent young lady. She wouldn’t say yes out of mere politeness.’
‘Anyway, we thought she’d come,’ Dick Middleton said. ‘We reckoned she’d arrive at about half-past two. So I had my lunch early and went round to Lionel’s, then at two I set off for the cottage.’
‘But presumably not by the road.’
He shook his head. ‘I wanted to approach the cottage from the wood. Then I could come in under cover and watch everything without being seen.’ He coloured suddenly. ‘I’m not proud of all this – but I was absolutely certain that the fellow was no good!’
‘Go on.’
Dick Middleton swallowed. ‘The grounds at Sandlings go down to the cliffs. There’s a path running along the cliff edge, a bit dodgy because of falls. I worked my way along there until I was level with the wood.’
‘Did you meet anyone?’
‘No. There’s never anyone up there.’
‘On the beach perhaps?’
‘There were one or two beach anglers, but they were further up, nearer the boats.’
‘So no one saw you or recognized you.’
‘All the same, I was there!’ His cheeks were scarlet again. ‘Why wouldn’t I be telling you the truth?’
‘Go on.’
His hands clenched and unclenched. ‘I went down the side of the wood. There are paths in it – you have to stick to them if you don’t want to make a noise. I came to the cross path – I can show you where – and I was a few yards down it. Then I heard the running and the shouting. So I froze there, listening.’
‘How far were you from the track?’
‘I don’t know . . . perhaps a hundred yards.’
‘Then you could see it.’
‘No. The wood is overgrown with hazels and elders.’
‘Tell me exactly what you heard.’
Dick Middleton groaned. ‘It was so confused. There were running steps – two people at least – and one of them calling after the other. He sounded angry – perhaps shouting to him to stop, but I didn’t catch the words – then the other shouted something, sort of desperate, threatening – then there was the shot and . . . silence.’
‘Just . . . silence?’
‘No – wait!’ Dick Middleton’s eyes jumped large. ‘There was something else I could hear – but I’d forgotten it till now!’ He stared apprehensively at Gently. ‘I could hear a police siren.’
‘A police siren . . .!’
Dick Middleton blushed from his hair to his hands. ‘Of course, I know it couldn’t have anything to do with it. But you did ask me exactly what I’d heard.’
Gently shook his head. ‘A police siren in the wood?’
‘No, I didn’t say that! It was on the main road, a long way off, but it was sounding at just that time.’
‘You didn’t mention it to us, old chap,’ his father murmured.
‘But Dad, that’s because I’ve only just remembered it! It was simply there, in the background. I’d forgotten about it till now.’
Gently sighed. ‘Well . . . at least it’s checkable! What would be your estimate of the time?’
‘About two-fifteen. And please do check it – then at least you’ll know I’m not lying about that!’
Gently nodded to Aspall, who rose and went to colloquize with the phone. They sat silently awaiting the fiat, Middleton père jiggling his glasses. Aspall hung up.
‘It’s right, sir,’ he said. ‘There was a pile-up at Yaxley Green. A squad car was alerted at Blyburgh crossroads, and it used its siren for over a mile.’
‘Time?’
‘Between two-seventeen and two-nineteen.’
‘So now you know!’ Dick Middleton exclaimed. ‘Perhaps now you’ll start believing me about the other things – I didn’t really come here to tell lies.’
Gently regarded him without expression. ‘The shot was fired while the siren was still sounding?’
‘Yes it was. I could hear the siren all the time this was going on.’
‘Before and after.’
‘Yes – which gives you the exact time, doesn’t it?’
‘According to you.’
‘Oh dear, oh dear!’ He pummelled his thigh with exasperation.
‘Go on,’ Gently said.
‘But what’s the use, when you’re utterly determined not to believe me?’
‘I’d like to hear what you saw at the track.’
Dick Middleton gazed with bitter eyes. ‘I thought it was simply a matter of telling the truth – of owning up, helping you. I didn’t realize you’d treat me like a liar unless I could prove everything I said.’
‘Still . . . let’s hear it.’
Dick Middleton bored at his thighs with pink fists.
‘I heard the shot, then. It wasn’t loud. It sounded like a banger that’d only half gone off. It didn’t really strike me as being a shot . . . for a moment I wasn’t sure what it was. Then I thought it might be a gun, someone popping off at the pigeons. Well, I wasn’t going to have that, so I started running towards the spot.’
‘How long from the shot till you started running?’
‘I don’t know. A second or two.’
‘Did you try to approach quietly?’
‘No. They had a gun, and I wanted them to hear me.’ His eyes sparkled. ‘This area is protected. No one has a right to shoot around here. Even the farmers play the game – you can’t allow guns near a reserve.’
‘You reckoned you were about a hundred yards from the track.’
‘Yes, it would be about that.’
‘It would take you, say, fifteen seconds to reach it, and you paused before beginning to run.’
Dick Middleton nodded.
‘So it may have been half a minute from the time of the shot till you reached the track.’
‘It could have been as long as that. I would put it at a bit less.’
‘Tell me what you saw.’
Dick Middleton scrubbed with his fists. ‘Well, I saw him . . . that’s all. Whoever shot him had cleared out.’
‘Did you look around for them?’
‘Of course I did. I knew they couldn’t be far away. But by then I wasn’t too inclined to go looking for them – they’d just shot a man, and they might have shot me.’
‘From that spot you can see the gate of the cottage. Did you notice if it was shut or open?’
‘No I didn’t.’
‘If a car was parked there?’
‘There wasn’t a car or anything else.’
‘You heard no sound of movement?’
‘Nothing. Just the siren tailing away.’
