Gently Where the Roads Go (19 page)

They followed the lane. It ran between high hedges on which bunches of green berries had begun to redden. The dogs were never in any doubt, bullocked and snorted their way along it. Some distance ahead, beyond a screen of trees, one heard the occasional buzz of a vehicle. When he heard this noise Whitaker frowned. The noises became louder as they advanced.

‘What road would that be?’ Gently asked.

‘The Bedford road,’ Whitaker said.

‘Does this lane join it?’

‘Don’t know,’ Whitaker said. ‘Would we join the road, Felling?’

‘Yes sir,’ Felling said. ‘We join it. About four or five miles above Baddesley.’

Whitaker didn’t comment, continued to frown, walked a little closer to the dogs.

They came up with the trees, which were a belt of poplars. They made on the left a small grove. An opening, flanked by old posts, gave access to the grove, and through the opening could be seen a hut. The hut was old and had felt peeling from its roof. It had double doors, not quite closed. Through the roof a rusty chimney projected and upturned over this was an empty tin. The printing on the tin was fresh printing. The dogs turned in here. They pointed to the hut.

‘Hold them back!’ Whitaker commanded. ‘Nobody to approach that hut without orders. Felling, you take Freeman and Anderson, cover the hut from the rear.’

‘Are we to shoot?’ Felling said.

‘If he bolts,’ Whitaker said. ‘But at the legs, Felling, at the legs. Unless he’s blasting with the gun.’

Felling searched the hedge, found a gap to force, went through it followed by Freeman and Anderson. The dogs were hauling and struggling, but silent, their red eyes glowing at the hut. Whitaker turned to one of the handlers.

‘Give your gun to the Superintendent. When Felling’s set you’re to take your dog up while the Super and I give you cover. I’ll give the fellow a chance to come out. If he doesn’t, pull a door open and let the dog in. Palmer, you’ll let the other dog go. Keep on the ground, Jackson, when you get to the hut. You’ve got the idea?’

‘Yes sir,’ Jackson said.

‘I’m putting you in because you’re single,’ Whitaker said. ‘Sorry, man. It’s a blasted job.’

‘I don’t mind, sir,’ Jackson said.

Thirty seconds passed. They saw Felling. He was to the left of the hut, behind a tree. He looked at them, raised his, hand warningly, looked behind the hut, kept it raised. Ten seconds later he lowered it.

‘Right, Jackson,’ Whitaker said.

Jackson went forward, his dog galloping, got to the hut, threw himself flat. Nothing stirred in the hut. Jackson had hold of the dog by its collar.

Whitaker shouted: ‘You in there! We are the police, and we’ve got you surrounded. We are armed and we have dogs. I’m giving you ten seconds to come out. Come out with your hands above your head. I’m beginning to count now.’

Whitaker counted: One bloody second, two bloody seconds, up to ten. Nobody came out of the hut. Whitaker flashed his hand downwards. Jackson ripped open one of the doors, slipped the dog, rolled sideways. The dog crashed in through the door, snarling, clashing its white teeth. The other dog shot forward simultaneously. It went through the door. Both dogs were barking. Jackson scrambled up, ran into the hut. Palmer ran forward too. Whitaker ran. Gently walked.

‘Oh, the bastard!’ Whitaker said, staring.

The hut was empty except for two petrol cans. On the earthen floor were a number of oil stains and also the clear marks of car tyres. The dogs barked. They ran about excitedly. They wagged their tails. They whined at their handlers.

Gently said to Freeman: ‘Get this message through directly. The wanted man has escaped in a car by way of the Bedford–Baddesley Road. Make and registration number unknown. The existing cordons to be called in. Set up road checks outside towns within a fifty mile radius and particularly on the London approaches. The man is armed and dangerous.’

‘Roger, sir,’ Freeman said, and began to speak into his microphone.

Whitaker was flushed, his eyes were angry. ‘I’m a stupid so-and-so,’ he said. ‘You’re right, this bloke isn’t a rabbit, he’d got his escape route ready waiting. What else can we do?’

‘We can try to find out the make and number of the car,’ Gently said. ‘The car has been garaged here for over a week. Somebody ought to know something about it.’

‘Anderson!’ Whitaker called, looking round. Anderson came up, still carrying his gun. ‘Put that away,’ Whitaker said. ‘Anderson, who does this hut belong to?’

‘It belongs to the farm, sir,’ Anderson said. ‘Holly Tree Farm, a Mr Lemmon.’

‘How far away?’

‘About half a mile, sir.’

‘We’ll get over there,’ Whitaker said. ‘Palmer, Jackson, you take the dogs back. That was a nice piece of work, Jackson. Felling, you’d better come with us. And Freeman too, we may need the jukebox.’

They continued along the lane to its junction with the Bedford–Baddesley road, turned right, followed the road to a second junction, beside which stood milk churns. A rutted drive led to a farmhouse with a straw thatched roof. A woman wearing an apron answered the door. They were shown into a kitchen where two men sat eating. The elder of the two rose.

‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘Hullo.’

‘Mr Lemmon?’ Whitaker said.

‘Farmer Lemmon,’ the man said. ‘Joe Anderson here can tell you that.’

‘We’re trying to apprehend a man,’ Whitaker said. ‘We’ve tracked him into your hut in the poplar plantation. He appears to have had a car there. We’d like some information about that car.’

‘About the car, eh?’ Lemmon said. He was a broad-framed man with a thick-featured face. ‘Well, I don’t know a damn sight about that car. I never saw it. Did you, Phil?’

‘No, I never saw it,’ the younger man said. ‘Been too busy cutting to nose around.’

‘But I can tell you who owns it,’ Lemmon said. ‘And I reckon you can get your information from him. It’s a foreign bloke what comes from Offingham – Madling, Madson, that’s what his name is.’

‘Ove Madsen?’ Gently said.

‘Ah, that’d be it,’ Lemmon said. ‘Comes from Offingham, runs a truck. He shifted some stuff for me at one time.’

‘Madsen,’ Whitaker said. ‘Madsen. Madsen!’

‘How long had the car been there?’ Gently said.

‘Last Saturday, wasn’t it?’ Lemmon said to Phil. ‘Ah, last Saturday. He dropped by after tea. He’d bought this car, he said, and he hadn’t space for it, would I mind him sticking it in the old hut. I said no, it wouldn’t eat any grass, he could stick it there till he got rid of it. Come up here driving a green van . . . wait a minute. Wasn’t he the partner of that bloke what got murdered?’

‘Madsen,’ Whitaker said. ‘Can we use your phone, sir?’

‘Help yourself,’ Lemmon said. ‘It’s in the hall.’

‘He’ll be at the crematorium,’ Felling said, looking at his watch. ‘He got the funeral fixed up for four-thirty.’

‘He’ll be at the
what
?’ Gently said, catching Felling’s wrist.

‘At the crematorium, sir.’ Felling looked at Gently, looked away.

‘You didn’t tell me it was to be a cremation,’ Gently said.

‘The Westlow Chapel, sir,’ Felling said. ‘I didn’t think to mention it was a crematorium.’

Gently released Felling’s wrist, brushed by Whitaker into the hall. He picked up the phone book, flipped through it, picked up the phone, dialled.

‘Westlow Chapel?’ Gently said. ‘Superintendent Gently, CID. You have a cremation service in progress, subject Timoshenko Teodowicz. Stop the service immediately. The cremation must not proceed. If possible, detain the chief mourner, Ove Madsen. We’ll have men out there directly.’

He broke the connection, dialled again.

‘Superintendent Gently,’ he said. ‘I want a car sent out to Westlow Chapel to bring in Ove Madsen for questioning. Also make arrangements to collect the body of Teodowicz from Westlow Chapel. Yes . . . Teodowicz’s body. Please attend to it directly.’

He broke the connection. Whitaker was staring at him.

‘What the devil’s all this about?’ Whitaker said.

Gently shrugged, dialled again, hooked up a chair and sat down on it. Whitaker shook his big head, looked at Felling. Felling was silent.

S
UPERINTENDENT GENTLY,’ GENTLY
said. ‘Put me through to the stores, please.’ He sat with his elbow on the hall table, his eyes dreamy, looking at nothing. Felling had shoved the kitchen door closed but through it came the drone of Lemmon’s voice. There was also the clink of cutlery on plates and the sound of someone stirring his tea. ‘Squadron-Leader Campling?’ Gently said.

‘Speaking,’ Campling returned. ‘I’m glad you’ve rung. We’ve got some results here you may find interesting., I’ve your Superintendent Empton with me, I think you’d better talk to him.’

‘Is Brennan with you?’ Gently asked.

‘Yes,’ Campling said. ‘I’m handing you over.’

Empton came on. ‘Hallo, old man,’ Empton said. ‘So glad I looked in here instead of going straight back to London. How is progress with you?’

‘What have you got?’ Gently said.

‘A small item of detail,’ Empton said. ‘Something that required my frivolous knowledge. Those Polish records have come in. I’ve spent the afternoon going through them. I’ve also interrogated that little Welshman – Jones. You know the one I mean?’

‘Yes, I know him,’ Gently said.

‘A remarkable memory he’s got,’ Empton said. ‘Not always available to a straight question, but the stuff’s there. If you put in a ferret.’

‘So?’ Gently said.

‘So,’ Empton said, ‘I had him go through the records with me. He began to remember names and people, to recall little things that had gone on. Like a couple of Poles who’d been friends with Sawney, a sergeant-pilot and one of their policemen. Sawney was great buddies with these two. They used to prang the boozers together. And this fascinated me very much because of what the records said about them. They both came from the same town in Poland – the town of Grodz. Does it strike a chord?’

‘Teodowicz came from there,’ Gently said.

‘I thought you might have forgotten,’ Empton said. ‘But you’re so right, it’s the same town, the three of them all came from Grodz. The sergeant-pilot was called Kielce – my pronunciation is authentic – and he was lost on a spy-dropping raid over Holland. The policeman returned to Poland after the war and went into the diplomatic service. At present he’s on attachment in London. Isn’t that a coincidence? Guess his name.’

‘Would it be Razek?’ Gently said.

‘That’s phenomenal,’ Empton said. ‘It could, it would be, and it is, my old friend Stephan Tadeusz Razek. Not just any Razek, you see. The full name is given here in the record. He came from Grodz. He was Sawney’s buddie. And he sent little Jan to talk to Teodowicz.’

‘Hmn,’ Gently said. ‘So what do you make of it?’

‘What I’ve always made of it,’ Empton said. ‘In my crazy boy-scout way. I think it was Razek who ordered the killing. I’m not sure why, it might have been personal, both of them coming from the same town. But I’m sure he ordered it, just as I’m sure he set up his old buddie as the fall-guy. He knew the ropes here at Huxford, and he’s not particularly a man of sentiment.’

‘Has it occurred to you,’ Gently said, ‘that Sawney may have been the source of Razek’s tip-off ?’

‘It has, old man,’ Empton said. ‘I do occasionally look all round my facts. But why should Sawney break up this racket by sticking Razek on to Teodowicz? The threat would have made Teodowicz toe the line, it didn’t need to go any further. No, I think Sawney is innocent there. I think Razek got on to his man independently. What really stumps me is the reason for the killing, unless, as I said, the motive was personal. But that isn’t terribly satisfying, old man. It may be for you, but it isn’t for me.’

‘It isn’t for me either,’ Gently said.

‘Cheers,’ Empton said. ‘Perhaps you know the motive?’

‘I don’t know the motive,’ Gently said. ‘But I’m picking up someone who certainly does.’

Empton was silent, then he said: ‘Not Madsen, surely?’

‘Madsen for one,’ Gently said. ‘He knows. And I’m hoping I’ll persuade him to talk very shortly. Would you care to come along to the station?’

‘Charmed, old man,’ Empton said. ‘You may need me to help with the persuasion.’

‘I’d like Campling and Brennan to come too,’ Gently said. ‘Would you mind handing me back to Campling?’

Campling came back. Gently said: ‘I think you should be present at Offingham HQ. We’re dealing with some business that relates to Sawney and which will probably be helpful to you. And I’d like Brennan right away. I’ve got some jobs for him to do. Tell him to bring his outfit with him and Sawney’s cards and a set of his dabs.’

‘You want Brennan to do something for you?’ Campling asked.

‘Yes,’ Gently said. ‘I’ve a reason for asking.’

‘Well, that’s all right with me,’ Campling said. ‘I was just surprised that you wanted Brennan. We’ll come right along.’

‘Thank you,’ Gently said. He rang off. He stood up. ‘That’s all,’ he said. ‘We can pick up Mrs Lane on the way.’

Whitaker said: ‘I’m not quite with you.’

‘We’ll have a meal,’ Gently said. ‘Then we’ll talk.’

The early evening of Friday, August 16th. Coloured shadows taking a slant in the market place of Offingham. A man stripped to the waist sculling meditatively down the Ound. A man with a hose washing market refuse from the backs of the stalls, into a heap. Youths, girls, on the stroll. Cars parked near the pubs and cafés. Couples loitering on the towpath. Pensioners sitting with their pipes. Outside Police HQ, a number of cars, some with pressmen sitting in them. A straight shaft of blue smoke from the fish-and-chip van by the conveniences. Windows open very wide. Doors open. Fans turning. A soundless chalkline extending itself across the deeper blue of the sky. In its brick tower, dusty, hot, the Town Hall clock ticking boredly. Pigeons crooning by the clock, perched on tender pink feet. Pigeons dropping to run among the stalls. Large-eyed pigeons. Running pigeons. In the mortuary the body of a man who was not cremated or buried. A man with arms. A man with hands. A man with fingers and skin on the fingers. A man whose finger-skin was being printed by another man, who kept breathing in starts. While other men waited in other places to see what the finger-skin would print. All in the early evening of Friday. Night in Russia. Day in America.