Gently Where the Roads Go (11 page)

Her eyes found him, smiled. ‘You don’t have to worry about your figure.’

‘I’m not that hungry,’ he said. ‘It’s warm.’

‘Well, don’t be backward in asking for anything.’

She took the tray, retired to the counter, began to wash and dry saucers and cups. The drivers who sat together, and who had fallen silent, now resumed their conversation. The man beside the jukebox came for another cup of tea. The snorer woke up, stared, went back to sleep. The man with the ring tilted his newspaper to get a good look at Gently eating. He was sitting at the far end of the room and was wearing what appeared to be brand-new dungarees.

‘That’s a fresh egg,’ Wanda said. Gently’s table was nearest to the counter. ‘I get them from a man up at Everham. Are you certain I haven’t seen you before?’

Gently grunted, drank some tea.

‘You’re not a film star,’ Wanda said. ‘I shall probably place you, if I think hard.
You’re
not in a hurry to go, are you?’

‘No,’ Gently said. ‘My time’s my own.’

‘I’m glad,’ Wanda said. ‘I like company. I never keep open later than eleven. Sometimes, if it’s slow, I close earlier. I shall probably close early tonight. You’re the type who smokes a pipe, aren’t you?’

Gently nodded. ‘I smoke a pipe.’

‘Yes,’ Wanda said. ‘A real pipe-smoker. A man should always smoke a pipe.’

Gently smoked his pipe. The trucks, the articulated, left. Eventually the man by the jukebox, a neckless cockney, looked at a pocket-watch and woke the sleeper.

‘Time to roll, Alf. We got to see a man.’

The sleeper came to himself with a start. He stared at Gently, blinked his eyes, picked up his cap and took from it a tab end. He lighted the tab end and coughed.

‘I been asleep, Len,’ he said.

‘Blinking telling me,’ Len said. ‘Like a flipping diesel you sounded.’

‘Snoring was I?’ Alf asked.

‘That’s being polite,’ Len said. ‘Never met a bloke like you. But on your feet chum. We got to roll.’

Alf rose, yawned, stretched, coughed again, drank some dregs from a cup. Wanda, who’d been behind the curtain, ducked through it again. She’d a comb in her hand.

‘With you,’ Alf said. ‘Bye, Wanda. Might be through here again Tuesday.’

‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t,’ Wanda said.

‘Do us a favour,’ Alf said. ‘Bye for now.’

‘He’s got his old woman back,’ Len said. ‘You don’t have to worry about him, Wanda.’

‘Bye,’ Wanda said.

‘Bye,’ Len said.

They went out. Len slammed the door.

‘Regulars,’ Wanda said, coming out from the counter, putting the comb through her hair. A scent of sandalwood came with her. She had touched up her lips with pale red lipstick. ‘We used to be a smart place here, you know, until the war put an end to it. My husband ran it. We’re divorced. He divorced me. The place has gone down. Is that 105 yours?’

‘Yes,’ Gently said.

Outside the furniture van was moving out of the park.

‘They’re a nice car,’ Wanda said. ‘Not showy, just nice.’

She leaned at the table, looking down at him. She had powdered her face very slightly. She touched her lips with the tip of her tongue and her eyes smiled. She rocked a little towards him. The man with the newspaper rustled the newspaper. Wanda looked sulky, looked towards him.

‘Is there anything I can get you?’ she asked him.

He fumbled the newspaper nervously.

‘I’m just closing,’ Wanda said. ‘If you want anything you’d better ask for it.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing I want.’ He got the newspaper together. Besides the dungarees he wore a khaki shirt and a slouch cap which also seemed new. He rose from the table. He didn’t look towards them. He made for the door. When it closed Wanda went quickly across to it and shot the bolts at the top and bottom. She came back shrugging, laid a hand on Gently’s shoulder. The hand laid still, very light.

‘Is he a regular?’ Gently asked.

‘Him? I’ve never seen him before.’

‘Can I use your phone?’

‘Of course you can. It’s through here, in the parlour.’

She led him behind the curtain and into a small kitchen, switching off the lights in the café as she went. From the kitchen a door led left into a larger room which was dimly lit by a low-wattage lamp. The room was carpeted and furnished with a studio couch and three fireside chairs; two tables, a larger and a smaller, a pouffe, a bookcase, an old radiogram. The furniture was not new but it had been of good quality. On the wall hung a photographed nude. The subject of the photograph was Wanda. The telephone stood on the smaller table.

‘There you are. Help yourself. It’s a local call, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Gently said. ‘Offingham Police Station.’

‘Oh, that’s all right, that’s local.’

She leaned her elbows on the table and watched him hook off the number. Her breasts were compressed between her arms and hung enlarged and defined. He was connected to the desk.

‘Gently speaking,’ he said. ‘I want you to trace the owner of a black Mini-Minor, registration number XOL 7397. Yes. Probably from the town. Yes. Everham 86. Otherwise when I come in. Thank you, sergeant.’ He hung up.

‘Is that man wanted for something?’ Wanda asked.

Gently stared at her, shrugged.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘It’s no business of mine. And I’m not in a mood for business, anyway. And now you’ve told me who you are, but don’t think that makes any difference. If I didn’t like you you wouldn’t be in here. I’m not trying to bribe you with my body.’

‘You knew who I was,’ Gently said.

Wanda nodded. ‘Of course I did. And if you want to ask me a lot of questions go ahead, that’s all right by me. But when you’ve done your job. . ..’ Her eyes swam at him. ‘Life isn’t so very long,’ she said. ‘You can waste so much time with the proprieties. And opportunity. That’s what counts.’

Gently puffed. ‘You’re a surprising woman.’

‘Because I say what I mean?’ she asked. ‘But don’t forget that I’m a divorcee, I’ve had all the silliness knocked out of me. It was the corespondent who took that photograph. It was produced in the court.’

‘How long ago?’

‘Oh . . . fifteen years. I was thirty-six last March.’

‘Where’s your husband?’

‘He’s dead. He was killed in an accident soon after.’

‘Hmm,’ Gently said. ‘Shall I get a warrant, or will you let me search this place?’

‘Don’t be a bloody fool,’ she said. ‘Come and search. I’ll show you round.’

She led him back through the kitchen and into a corridor beyond. She threw open a door on the left and switched on a light in a bare-looking sitting room.

‘That was the residents’ lounge – when we aspired to having residents. Now I just get a few bed-and-breakfasts, and they mostly spend their time in the café. I flogged the furniture after the war.’

‘Does it pay, this place?’

‘I hope I don’t look like a millionairess. I break about even after drawing a salary.’

‘Who was that bloke in the dungarees?’

‘You’d better ask him. He’s new here.’

She passed on to an entry. Beyond it were two bathrooms and two toilets. There was also an outer door leading into a concreted yard. On one side of the yard was a fuel shed about one quarter full of small coke, on the other a scullery containing a washing machine, spin dryer, some domestic lumber. Outside the yard, dimly illuminated by a torch Gently shone at it, lay a neglected kitchen garden and some stunted, unpruned fruit trees. He stood listening. He heard a moan of traffic, an owl hooting in the distant fields.

‘You’re about half a mile from the lay-by here. Are you sure you didn’t hear that shooting?’

From behind him she said: ‘If I did, I didn’t notice it.’

‘How was that?’

‘You hear so much of it. There’s Huxford just over there. They often fire a burst when they’re night flying. You get so you don’t pay it any attention.’

‘But this was closer, in a different direction.’

‘It wouldn’t register, indoors,’ she said. ‘And the wind has a lot to do with it, too – sometimes it sounds just over the road.’

‘Was anyone staying here that night?’

‘No.’

‘Isn’t there a path from here to the lay-by?’

She paused. ‘You can get through the fields, but there isn’t what you’d call a path. There’s a gap in the hedge here. I sometimes walk in the fields.’

‘And nobody came that way that night?’

‘No.’

‘An airman?’

‘No. Not an airman.’

‘Nobody left a vehicle standing in your park?’

‘Not after I closed. As far as I know.’

‘How long had that bloke in the dungarees been here?’

‘Most of the evening. And I repeat, I don’t know him.’

‘Let’s go back in.’

They walked side by side, she letting him go through the door first. She closed the door and bolted that also, ran a hand lightly over her dew-wet hair.

‘The rest is all bedrooms.’

She nodded towards the corridor, which passed the entry turned right; traversing the front of the long stroke of the building with a number of doors opening off it to the left. The doors were numbered one to twelve. Gently opened the first of them. Behind it was a room about ten by ten containing a bed, a wardrobe, a dressing-table, two chairs. The wardrobe contained two coat-hangers. The bed was made up but looked flat and unused. The window was ajar but the room smelt stuffy and there was a bloom of dust on the worn buff linoleum.

‘When did you last have a bed-and-breakfast?’

‘Oh.’ She thought about it. ‘Last Tuesday week. There was a driver from Newcastle came in with a puncture and stayed the night. You can see my book.’

‘Which room did he stay in?’

‘He stayed in this room. I only keep a couple of beds made up.’

‘Did Tim Teodowicz ever stay here?’

‘Of course not – why should he? He only lived in Offingham.’

They continued looking at the bedrooms. Only the first six were furnished. Two had double beds without any mattresses. One of the other six had some folding chairs stored in it, one a trunk of old clothes, the rest were empty except for their linoleum and the smell of disuse. None of them had a light bulb of above forty watts.

‘What’s up in the roof ?’

‘Oh hell!’ she said. ‘A water tank and a lot of spiders. I wish you knew when you were wasting your time. We’ll have to get a ladder from the shed.’

‘You know Ove Madsen?’ he asked.

‘Vaguely.’

‘Has Madsen ever stayed here?’

‘But he lives in Offingham too,’ Wanda said. ‘They don’t stay here when they’re near home.’

‘Have you seen him and Teodowicz here together?’

‘Yes, perhaps. Once or twice.’

‘Were they friendly?’

‘They were partners, weren’t they? As far as I could see they were good chums.’

‘How often did they meet Albert here?’

Wanda’s face had no expression.

‘Who are we talking about now?’

‘Let’s go and fetch the ladder,’ he said.

She followed him without pursuing the question and they went out again into the yard. The ladder was suspended from the brackets of a shelf by pieces of cord which were extravagantly knotted. They untied them, carried the ladder in. The opening in the loft was above the toilets. It was closed by a grimy panel of hardboard which was laced to its frame with spiders’ webs. Gently pushed it up, flashed his torch in the loft. He was placed at the junction of the L. The torchlight showed a recession of dusty joists as far as the gable ends, in both directions. Beside him, mounted on cross-pieces of timber, stood a galvanized tank marked by rusty dribbles. He climbed up to it, shone his torch inside. It contained water above a deposit of sludge. He went down.

‘That’s all,’ she said. ‘Except the two rooms off the parlour. But if you’re not satisfied you can always come back in daylight and root around where you like. I’ve got nothing to hide here.’ The eyes smiled. ‘That’s the truth,’ she said.

‘You’re not surprised?’ he asked.

‘What have I got to be surprised about?’

‘That I should be searching your premises to find if you are harbouring someone here.’

‘Is that what you’re doing?’

Gently nodded. ‘Have I been looking in drawers and places?’

She screwed up her mouth. ‘You’re the police. How should I know how your minds work?’

‘When did you last see Albert?’

‘Albert Sawney?’

‘Yes.’

‘He came in one night last week.’

‘He slept here?’

‘Yes.’

‘With you?’

‘Of course.’

‘Did he have Teodowicz and Madsen with him?’

‘I don’t’, she said, ‘go in for orgies.’

‘Were they with him here any of the time?’

‘No. I’m pretty certain Albert doesn’t know them.’

‘Have you had a message from Albert?’

‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘He just comes in.’

‘Do you think he’ll get in touch with you?’

‘No,’ she said. Adding: ‘Why should he?’

Gently nodded again. ‘I’ll just see those other rooms.’

‘I’ve been waiting,’ she said. ‘One is my bedroom.’

The ladder was returned, the outer door re-bolted. She waited while Gently refilled his pipe and stood again for some moments listening. She showed no impatience. There was no sound in the premises except the tick of a meter, which was mounted over the entry. Outside the plunge of the traffic had grown less continuous but without ever quite giving moments of silence. She watched the smoke eddying from the pipe. She was breathing shallowly but evenly.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

She turned and preceded him along the corridor. Through the kitchen, into the parlour, to a closed door at the back of the parlour. Behind it was a long narrow room with a further door at the end of it. The narrow room appeared half a junk room but had a divan behind the door.

‘Who sleeps here?’

‘You may, tonight. Sleeping with me is a figure of speech. I’m fastidious in some things, please understand, and I don’t like sharing my bed with people.’

‘Did Sawney sleep here?’

‘He did if he stayed.’

‘What happened with Sawney last week?’

‘That was one of the times he stayed.’

‘Did he come in his van?’

‘No. He had a bike.’