by Alan Hunter
‘Do you know the place he came from? Is it anything like Lynton?’
Oddly enough, it wasn’t, except…
‘There’s a similar sort of atmosphere. You get it in all places of about the same size.’
‘Ah, that accounts for it!’
‘That, and the fact that Lynton is the width of England away from Bristol, and rather cut off.’
‘It was a risk, though, wasn’t it?’
‘Not as much as you might think.’
‘But going racing — what about that?’
‘I understand he didn’t start again until after the war, by which time, being so well secured…’
Even so, ten years had elapsed before that fatal day at Newmarket. Nobody who had once known the showy bank clerk had happened on, or recognized, the distinguished frequenter of Tattersall’s with his horsey wife and gleaming Bentley. Until a little Stepney spiv with a memory sharpened by malpractice…
‘He sees him first by the paddock.’ Roscoe had joined Blacker in a desire to provide Queen’s Evidence. ‘“Here,” he says, “that geezer’s dial strikes me as familiar. Now where was it I see him before?”’
He hadn’t remembered at once — it had been many a long year! — but during the course of the day he probed back into his memory. Twice more they had seen Pershore, the second time as he was leaving, and it was then that the spark of recognition fell.
‘Cor blimey O’Riley!’
Taylor had been thunderstruck by his discovery. Could it really be
… after all this time… flourishing on his ill-gotten wealth…?
‘Ask any of them what had to do with Steinie — he never forgot the face of a client. Got a gift that way, he had, it was what made him so useful. If Steinie recognized a bloke that was good enough for Jimmy Roscoe.’
A few inquiries amongst the fraternity gave them the name by which Palmer was known. Armed with this, they obtained his address from the nearest telephone directory — phoning, at the same time, for reservations at the Lynton Roebuck.
‘I wrote the letter — no names, of course! We made it five thou the first go, just to see how the charlie took it. He came up with it like a bird, no bother at all. Steinie collected it from the convenience near the docks.’
So then, naturally, they doubled it, and after Steinie had been strangled ‘The sky was the flipping limit, and who the hell could blame us?’
As with morality, in turpitude there were degrees.
‘The C.C. got a cable from his wife. Tomorrow night she’s flying back.’
‘Has she money of her own?’
‘I believe so, fortunately.’
‘It’s an interesting point, but with the devaluation since 1934…’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me if they found his assets…’
At last the super seemed to have talked himself out of the subject. For a long time he sat silently staring into his current coffee cup, which was empty. Then, as Gently made signs of rising:
‘Do you think he’ll hang, or is it genuine?’
Gently’s shoulders lifted in his familiar gesture.
‘“Regression” they’ll call it… it’s up to the judge. If he sums up against him nine juries out of ten…’
‘But in your opinion?’
‘I’m only a policeman.’
‘Nevertheless…’
‘Do sane people kill?’
The spring weather was probably a flash in the pan, but nobody in Lynton was troubling his head about that. Sports shirts and summer dresses had come out in earnest, and in the Abbey Gardens people were sitting on the grass to eat their sandwiches.
Gently, waiting for the fast train, had been mooching about the town doing nothing in particular. Now he was gazing in a tobacconist’s window, now, though he had had his lunch, at the pies in a pork butcher’s.
If one was there long enough, did one grow to like Lynton? He hadn’t formulated the question, but that was what was passing through his mind. Certainly the place had grown on him, little by little; the streets no longer seemed petty and so depressingly parochial.
Was it the sun, cutting shadows and making the pigeons sleek their feathers?
But he remembered the rain, and before that, the east wind! — he had seen the worst of Lynton and been miserable and out of sorts in it. At one time he had loathed it, as one only loathes a place with which one is out of sympathy.
Yet now, about to leave it…
Had he come to understand the place?
‘Don’t buy that muck — try some of mine!’
He turned to find Blythely, of all people, standing just behind him. He was wearing his black shapeless suit and a cheap tie dragged out of shape — no concession, obviously, to the rising thermometer.
‘You don’t know what they put in them — a bit of horse, it wouldn’t surprise me. Mine are solid pork and a proper piece of pastry round it.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of buying any…’
‘I’ve been in touch with the bank.’
He made an awkward motion as though for Gently to accompany him, and without giving it a thought the man from the Central Office fell into step. Side by side, they made their way along the chequered pavements in the direction of Fenway Road.
‘It’ll be a takeover, won’t it?’
‘Undoubtedly the bank will have a major voice.’
‘I’ve put in an offer for it, lock, stock and barrel. I know what it’s worth down to the last farthing.’
‘You mean the bakehouse?’
‘No, the whole lot.’
What was the point of being surprised by anything Blythely did? To begin with, you wouldn’t have thought he had a penny with which to bless himself. And then again, looking at that porous, sallow face…
‘What about Fuller?’
‘He hasn’t got the money.’
‘You’ll turn him out?’
‘Why? He’s a tradesman.’
‘I was simply thinking…’
Surely Blythely must understand! Already it was bad enough while he was the miller’s subtenant — reverse the situation, and the thing became impossible.
Blythely, expressionless as always, was apparently refusing to see it.
‘He came to have a talk with me — I don’t know what it was all about!’
They were going round by Cosford Street, a way slightly longer than that by the Gardens and The Roebuck.
‘He’d got something worrying him, but I couldn’t get it clear. I told him to pray if he was in trouble. I doubt whether he did, but Godly advice is never wasted — his conscience seemed clearer after we had spoken together.’
The baker glanced sidelong at Gently as though to canvass his views. They had turned the corner near the crossroads and were approaching the passage to the drying-ground.
‘They tell me you’re a fisherman.’
Was there no fathoming the man?
‘If you want to know where to get some bream, just listen to what I say. A couple of hundred yards below the sluice — the one where they pulled the body out…
‘Get some groundbait from the mill and use a number twelve hook with a French float. Paste, mind you — I’ll give you a special loaf — and if you don’t pull a couple of stone out you can’t call yourself a fisherman.
‘On a good feeding day I’ve had four or five.’
‘Why not come along and show me?’
Gently halted at the top of the passage.
‘In the season we could make a day of it — I could give you a ring in advance.’
‘As a rule I fish alone…’
For once the baker was hesitant. To cover his indecision he pulled out his gold half-hunter and pretended to consult it.
‘I don’t know but what for once in a while…’
‘And while we’re at it, why not ask Fuller?’
Blythely’s foxy eyes jumped suddenly from the watch to Gently. For a long, long moment he seemed unable to drag them away.
‘Hmn —
I’ll have to think about it… did you say you’d ring me?’
Gently nodded woodenly. It was his turn to lack expression.
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