Gently French (13 page)

Hanson wriggled. ‘So what’s the next move?’

‘Bilney hadn’t returned to town this morning.’

‘Meaning he’s still here?’

‘We had better assume that. And assume also that he’s still in touch with the lady.’ I puffed. ‘What would you do in her place?’

‘Me?’ Hanson champed on the cheroot. ‘I’d get him out of circulation fast. It’s too late in the game to leave him around loose.’

‘And where would you put him?’

He sighed smoke. ‘This time it has to be Hernando’s Hideaway. But for crying out loud, we’ve been doing our nuts over it. Maybe you’d better call in the Army.’

We went back down into the parlour. Hanson had a map fetched from the car. We spread it out on Silkin’s great mahogany dining-table and clustered round it in a hopeful seance. Breckles, the local man, pointed out the venues of holiday-bungalow development. They peppered the river-banks for miles and choked minor backwaters and tributaries. Then there were boatyards and mooring dykes where house-boats were lodged in their dozens. The Army wasn’t such a bad idea; a thorough check of the riverside might take weeks.

‘Have you been in touch with the rating department?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Breckles said. ‘They are getting out lists for us, all the properties with registered owners in the London district.’

‘Roughly how many?’

‘Over two thousand, sir. And we’re getting lists of house-boat owners from the River Commissioners. But it’s all taking a bit of time. I reckon the men on the spot have got the best chance.’

Perhaps.

‘You’re a native here, aren’t you?’

‘That’s right, sir. Born in Haughton.’

‘Right. Now forget the map. Just close your eyes and think of the river. The quiet, hidden places. Places that for some reason missed being devel- oped. Maybe ruinous, ramshackle places. Silted-up dykes, too shallow to navigate. Lonely; poor access; barely good enough to get a car down. Are you doing that?’

‘I’m trying, sir.’

‘Then make me a list of all those places.’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll certainly try.’

Hanson’s expression said I’d never rated lower.

S
ILKIN
’
S WIFE SUPPLIED
us with sandwiches and we took them, with bottles, to a bench across the road; not on the staithe, but beside a mooring cut used by the trip-boats to decant their pay-load. A path led to the cut through a grove of alders, and the bench stood in the shade of the grove. Except for a mound of dredged mud that lay steaming on the bank the spot was pleasant, being screened from the broad.

We ate and drank silently. Hanson had a dreamy expression. He was beginning to see the end of this case. Our discoveries at Raynham had reduced it to a routine-matter – time-wasting, of course, but no longer speculative. Sooner or later, most probably sooner, we would have Bilney tucked away in the cooler; and with any sort of policeman’s luck, enough hard evidence for a copper-bottomed case. Like the knife, like blood on sleeves. Bilney would be fortunate if we didn’t find something. And with Bilney in the cooler we could play him against Deslauriers, and Deslauriers against him – routine, routine!

Then why wasn’t I feeling happy too, who didn’t have to bother even with the routine? A few loose ends? But every case has them. Otherwise defence counsels would go out of business. So I didn’t know how Deslauriers communicated with Bilney – well, no doubt I would know, later. And I didn’t know why Bilney stayed around after the job – well, there were a couple of theories covering that. Then there was the right-hand, left-hand business: wasn’t I attaching too much importance to it? If it wouldn’t throw a jury (and it wouldn’t), had I any right to let it throw me? No: when you added it all together, I had no grounds for feeling so pensive over my sandwiches. From the moment we had tied Bilney into the case its main outlines were cut and dried.

I finished my bottle, and Hanson offered me one of his sin-black Burmese cheroots. While I was lighting it we were joined by the man who had been sent to make enquiries at the staithe. He had had no luck. About twenty cars were left parked on the staithe every night, some from the guest-house up the road, some belonging to vacationists who rented the cottages. Nobody specifically remembered a blue Viva, though some remembered cars that were blue. Among them Bilney’s, without doubt. Only a Viva-driver notices another Viva.

‘Did anyone remember seeing Bilney himself?’

‘Yes, sir. He used the shop on the staithe a few times. He bought his fags and newspapers there. The lady who runs it gave a good description.’

‘At what times was he in there?’

‘In the morning, sir. And it was the local paper he bought.’

Naturally. ‘Did she notice his hand?’

‘Yes, sir. Also his scar.’

I ran it through my mind: Bilney buying a paper, feeling in his pocket for a coin. If he had felt with his right hand, holding the paper in his left, would the lady have been able to see that finger? But he had bought cigarettes there, too, putting out his left hand as he tended with his right – or vice versa: and either way, giving her a sight of the finger.

‘Is there a garage in Raynham?’

‘No, sir. The nearest is in Sallowes.’

‘Call in and enquire if he bought petrol there. With special reference to Friday evening.’

The man ducked and went; Hanson dragged smoke; a trip-boat came nosing up the cut. We watched her naval-suited crew moor her to two posts, then got out ahead of the crowd.

In Silkin’s parlour Breckles was still sitting with the map spread out before him, but now a number of red ball-pen carrots had been neatly marked upon it. Breckles rose as we entered.

‘I’ve had a shot at your idea, sir.’

‘Are these your probables?’

‘I wouldn’t like to say that, sir. But there’s a couple we could take a look at. I’ve just been checking with the Rates Department and two of these places have London-registered owners. One is a private person with a Kensington address, the other is a holding company in Balham.’

‘And where are those places?’

‘Both near here, sir. This one is Blackdyke Fen, at Beastwick. Then there’s Turnpudden Hole, between Sallowes and Wrackstead. Both of them are pretty well off the map.’

‘Which is your choice?’

Breckles shrugged embarrassedly. ‘I’d say it was all a bit of guess-work, sir. Turnpudden Hole is nearest to Wrackstead, but I can’t think how a Londoner would get to know about it.’

‘It’s part of the old Gifford estate,’ Hanson said. ‘The estate was sold up after the war. A development company bought a lot of it, all the fens down that side.’

‘What about the other place?’

‘Perhaps more likely,’ Breckles said. ‘But I wouldn’t care to bet on that, either. It’s a converted mill right out on the marshes. As far as I know it isn’t being lived in.’

‘But that one is privately owned?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Breckles took out a notebook and flipped the pages. ‘E. V. Selkirk, 73 Glebe Road, Kensington. He’s been the owner since ’68.’

I looked at Hanson. ‘Any preference?’

Hanson chewed his cheroot unhelpfully.

‘Right then,’ I said. ‘We’ll try the mill.’

Hanson opened and closed his bony hand.

We collected a fourth man and drove to Beastwick, a pretty village with its back to the river. The cottages were styled in Art Nouveau rustic, but grouped with a keen eye for effect. We entered a skein of jumbled lanes, with the marsh and carr hazy below us, and came at last to a humpy marsh track, where marl combined with flints and brickbats.

‘How much further?’ I asked Breckles.

‘It’ll be about another quarter of a mile, sir.’

‘Any cover?’

‘There’s alder carrs, sir. But you’ll maybe go in up to your backside.’

‘Is there any other way out besides this?’

‘No sir, unless chummie has got a boat. But I passed by on a River Patrol launch last week, and the cut was empty then.’

‘Suppose he is a swimmer?’

Breckles shook his head. ‘It’s all carrs and marshes, both sides. He might lose himself in there for a couple of days, but he would be damned glad to come out after that. If he takes to the marshes, we’ll have him.’

‘Unless he steps into a mud-hole,’ Hanson said.

We bumbled on a short way further, then I halted and parked to block the track. Just there it was running through thick groves of alder in-filled with willow brush and sedge. Off the track it was sloughy black peat-mud; the air was sweatily humid and smelling of mint. The four of us alighting disturbed a jay, which blundered off through the twigs with klaxon-like cries.

‘Christ,’ Hanson muttered. ‘That should tell him!’

We waited by the car for a couple of minutes. Once the jay had settled the carrs fell silent: just the murmur of mosquitoes that had come to inspect us.

‘You lead,’ I said to Breckles.

We followed him down the track at twenty yards distance. The track made a slow turn through the alders and brought into view the tops of giant willows. Breckles signalled us to wait. He edged cautiously forward, was lost to sight behind a screen of scrub willow. We stood moistly flipping at the mosquitoes for what seemed an unnecessary interval. Then Breckles reappeared, waving to us. We joined him beside the scrub willow. Peering round it, we could see the brick mill-tower standing among the tall willows, with the river beyond.

‘I don’t think he’s at home,’ Breckles whispered. ‘I’ve been up to have a squint in the garage.’

He indicated a sagging out-building with a roof of reed thatch, which was beginning to shed.

‘Any signs of use?’

‘None I’ve seen. But you would expect chummie to play it clever. He may have parked his car on the hard-standing. You would never spot it from the river.’

I grunted and took in the scene. Once, someone had spent a lot of money on the mill. Fresh windows had been pierced at each of its four stories and a circular, white-painted verandah constructed around the cap. Once, too, there had been a lawn under the willows, trellised roses, a quay-heading. The mill-dyke had been enlarged and piled and had doubtless housed a launch or a motor-cruiser. Once. But not now. Now, the jungle was taking it back. The white paint was flaking, the quay-headings ruinous, and persicaria blooming in the silted-up dyke. And it gave an impression of intense loneliness, of a far-off outpost that had died. If it wasn’t haunted, it ought to be. A place fit only for ghosts.

‘Where is the door?’

‘It faces the river.’

‘Let’s spread out and take a look.’

Dyke, marsh and undergrowth prevented us from surrounding the mill, but we did our best with what was left. I crossed a shaky bridge and followed a tiled path, of which the pemmons were sinking and choked with grass. It brought me to a shabby door. The door was secured with a massive rusty chain and a rusty padlock. Breckles joined me.

‘Is this the only entry?’

‘There’s a ground-floor window, sir. But it looks intact.’

‘Would you say this door had been unlocked since Christmas?’

Breckles poked the padlock, and swallowed. ‘No, sir.’

But we were there, so we went through the motions. Hanson thumped the door and called on Bilney to come out. He disturbed the jay again. It went clamouring through the carrs like a panicky blackbird with roup. Then silence.

‘We have tools, sir,’ Breckles ventured. ‘I could get that lock off in two minutes.’

I looked at Breckles, Breckles looked at his feet.

We went back to the car.

Before we set out on our second goose-hunt I rang Dutt from a box in the village. Dutt had seen no more of Bilney than we had and could offer only minor and marginal information. Dainty had rung. The French police at Cap Ferrat had paid a call at Freddy’s villa. It was empty, but they had found signs of a very recent occupation. The caretaker, a retired procuress from Marseilles, had attempted to explain this by admitting to the illicit entertainment of friends there; the French police had pretended to accept the explanation. They were now keeping a close watch on the villa.

‘Any word of Bilney from Shepherd’s Bush?’

‘No, sir. But they’ve posted a man at his flat.’

‘What has the lady been doing?’

‘She’s been shopping, sir. She bought two blouses and a George Formby record. Then she went up to her room and played the record, and about half-past twelve she must have rung for a drink. Bavents fetched it, a Dubonnet and lemon, and he was in her room about twenty minutes.’

‘Was your ear to the key-hole?’

‘Well, actually, yes, sir. But all I could hear was that blooming record. First it was
If Women Like Them
and then
Swimmin With The Women
.’

I clicked my tongue. ‘She’s adding to her repertoire. Has Bavents gone out or made any phone calls?’

‘No, sir. He was serving at lunch, and now he’s in the kitchen manicuring vegetables.’

Which sounded innocent enough, unless one remembered that he would be fixing the veg with his left hand.

I rejoined the others in the car and we went on our way to Turnpudden Hole. Nobody was saying much. Breckles in particular had a droopy expression on his round-cheeked face. Hanson was silently savaging a cheroot. The D.C., who was driving, stared over his bonnet. I chewed my pipe-stem. We passed through Sallowes and turned once more into the lanes.