Gently in Trees (13 page)

‘No,’ Gently said.

‘No?’

‘Turner will be accompanying me to the police station.’

‘Oh, but you can’t do that!’ Jennifer Britton burst out.

‘He will be assisting me there with my inquiries.’

They stared at him – Jennifer Britton angrily, her mother stonily; Keynes with his smile.

‘Perhaps I may have a few words with him first,’ Keynes said quietly. ‘It could help you as well as him.’

‘No.’

‘Just as his adviser. He’s only a kid of twenty-two, you know.’

Gently shook his head. ‘If he needs an adviser he will be entitled to call one from the police station.’ He looked from one to another of them. ‘I shall want you there as well, to sign amendments to your previous statements. And I shall need possession of Mr Keynes’s car in order to give it a thorough examination.’

There was a moment’s silence.

‘But this – this is so
unbelievable
!’ Jennifer Britton cried.

‘You may be making a bad mistake,’ Keynes said earnestly.

Maryon Britton looked, but said nothing.

They left the Lodge in a small convoy, headed by Metfield, who was driving the Imp; then followed the Rapier, driven by Keynes, and finally the Wolseley, with Turner sitting beside Gently.

Turner had kept his mouth buttoned after that first, brief exchange, and he was keeping it buttoned now, his thin lips compressed and pale. He was a good-looking young man, as far as his looks got past his beard: a tall, though rather narrow, forehead, handsome dark eyes, and a nose of character. His hair and beard were golden brown, and he had a lean, athletic body. His hands, now clasping his sprawled knees, were large, with strong, big-boned fingers. He stared straight ahead throughout the drive, but with empty eyes that were seeing nothing.

At Latchford police station a reporter and his camera-man were mysteriously lurking on the steps. Metfield drove past them, into the M/T yard, but they were alert for Keynes and the two women. Then it was Gently’s turn. He pulled out round the Rapier and swept into the yard after Metfield, but the camera caught them, with Turner’s hands going up in a foolish attempt to cover his face. Gently slammed to a stop.

‘Do you want press attention?’

Turner shivered. ‘Please . . . no!’

Gently grunted. ‘Well, you’ve got it now! If we don’t crucify you, they will.’

He hustled Turner through the back door and shoved him into an interrogation-room. Then he hurried through reception, where the other three were waiting, and out again to the steps. The reporter blocked his way directly.

‘Chiefie – tell us! Is it a pinch?’

‘No, it isn’t! Just public-minded citizens giving the police a little assistance.’

‘That was Maryon Britton and her daughter.’

‘Are you asking me or telling me?’

‘Who was beardie?’

‘He’s an Irish gentleman who thought you were going to take a pot at him.’

‘Now, Chiefie, give us a break! He’s helping with your inquiries, isn’t he?’

‘Everyone is helping with my inquiries, with the small exception of two present.’

The reporter’s pencil scuffled over his notebook.

‘Chiefie, give us a name, can’t you? We know the other man, Stoll’s cousin, but the lad with the beard is a new face.’

‘If he’s got something for us I’ll tell you later.’

‘Chiefie, that’s as much as to say it’s a pinch.’

‘So print it and listen for the bang.’

‘Now, Chiefie! Don’t you trust us?’

Gently turned back into the station. He met Metfield coming in from the M/T yard. The local man was rubbing his hands and he had a glint in his eye.

‘Where’s chummie?’

‘In the sweat-room. You’d better put a man in there with him. That reporter has snouted him already. He’ll be stop-press in the late editions.’

‘Do we take him now?’

Gently shook his head vigorously. ‘Let’s get those amendments down and signed. Then we can move in on chummie. He seems the sort who could sweat tender.’

Metfield took a joyous swallow of his tongue. ‘He’s our boyo, sir!’ he said. ‘It came out plain when you were interrogating. Turner is where it all points to.’

‘Maybe,’ Gently grunted.

‘Yes, sir, it stops with him,’ Metfield gloated. ‘The others are in it, I’ll swear to that, but Turner was the one who turned the gas on.’ He took another happy swallow. ‘Because look, sir, Turner is the one without an alibi. And he was planning to marry the daughter, to cut himself in on the deal. Keynes is maybe the brains, the man with the know-how to set it up – but it was Turner who came back for the car and drove into the forest with the gas. And we’ll break him, sir, that’s certain, and he’ll put a finger on the others. We just have to play it right – we can have it licked by this time tomorrow!’

Gently stared woodenly at the local man. ‘Did you ever buy a bottle of gas?’ he asked.

‘Me?’ Metfield’s eyes rounded. ‘No, sir, I never did.’

‘It works like this,’ Gently said. ‘You pay a fiver for the bottle, and an odd sum for the gas. After that you just pay for the gas, exchanging your bottle for one of theirs. Then, if you’ve finished with using gas, you can get a refund on the bottle, less a percentage for deterioration calculated from the date of the original purchase. Can you get two search warrants in a hurry?’

Metfield gulped. ‘Yes, sir!’

‘Right. I think it’s time we used them – one for the Lodge, one for Keynes’s cottage.’

‘B-but are we looking for something special, sir?’

Gently’s brows lifted. ‘There is of course a contract with every bottle. The retailer enters the date of purchase. We may just be dealing with a careless chummie.’

Metfield reddened. ‘I should have known about that, sir. But the agent I spoke to didn’t mention it.’

Gently hunched. ‘Probably a long shot.’

Metfield bustled away to his office.

It was early in the evening before they got round to Turner. Low sun was shining dazzlingly through the interrogation-room window. Turner was sitting forlornly at the bare, scrubbed table, which, with three chairs, was the only furniture in the room. But there were paper and pencils on the table, for the better accommodation of co-operative chummies, and during his hours of waiting Turner had made some use of these. He had drawn the two constables who had taken turns at sitting with him. He had drawn the plastic tray on which they had brought him tea and sandwiches. Then he had drawn a memory sketch of, it appeared, the dell in Mogi’s Belt; but now he was just sitting, with his head resting on his hands.

He didn’t look up when Gently entered with Metfield. Metfield nodded to the constable, who left. The room was stuffy and smelled of floor polish; was unnaturally irradiated by the flashing sun.

‘Lawrence Turner?’

Turner drew a deep sigh and straightened up in his chair. His face was flushed, but that was probably due to the close atmosphere of the room. He looked dully at Gently.

‘Stand up, Turner. Turn out your pockets on the table.’

Turner hesitated, then obeyed; making two small heaps, one from each pocket. In one heap was a pipe, matches, a packet of twist tobacco, a penknife; in the other money, a dog-eared notebook, a stub of pencil, and a ring with two keys. Gently fingered the latter. One was a Union door-key. The other was embossed: Rootes.

‘The key of Mr Keynes’s car?’

Turner nodded, saying nothing. Gently picked up the notebook. It contained sketches, quotations and a few naïve verses. The money amounted to little over a pound. The penknife was a cheap smoker’s knife. The pipe was a charred corncob, which had probably cost forty pence.

‘Do you want a smoke?’

‘Yes – please.’

‘Where did you tear the sleeve of your shirt?’

Turner dropped his eyes. ‘Well – it was yesterday – I tore it on a nail.’

Gently took out the envelope containing the fibres he had removed from the gate at Mogi’s Belt. He went round to Turner; he took out the fibres. Plainly they came from the sleeve of the shirt.

‘All right. You can smoke now.’

Turner sagged in the chair again. His hands fumbled with the twist and the penknife, but they were like the hands of a blind man. Gently pulled up a chair, across the table from him. Metfield settled at the end of the table; he laid his notebook open before him, and sharpened a pencil with firm strokes. At last, Turner had his pipe going. Gently leaned towards him over the table.

‘Now. What makes you so interested in our business?’

Turner puffed nervously at the corncob. ‘I-I’m not interested. It’s how I told you. I didn’t want to intrude till you were gone.’

‘And this morning?’

‘I-I was in Latchford.’

Gently shook his head. ‘That’s not where your shirt was. And there’s a lot of red dust on Mr Keynes’s car. Not the sort of dust you find in Latchford.’

‘But that could have been picked up at any time!’

‘Like the red stain on the tyres?’

‘W-what red stain?’

‘The sort of stain you pick up on the track by Mogi’s Belt, after rain.’

Turner puffed furiously. ‘I don’t know about that! And I’ve never driven a car round there. I’ve told you why I didn’t come in with Edwin, and I don’t have to say any more.’

Gently leaned back from the table. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘You were at Mogi’s Belt this morning. You were spying to see what we were up to, and when you were spotted you ran away. Then this afternoon you drove to the Lodge with Mr Keynes and you saw a police car parked in the yard. Mr Keynes came in, but you didn’t. You hung about outside, trying to eavesdrop. That’s twice in one day you’ve played that trick, and twice you’ve tried to give us the slip. And you’re the driver of a car that was at Mogi’s Belt at about the time Mr Stoll was killed. Of course you don’t have to say any more – and you’ll know best whether to keep your mouth shut. But either you talk, or we shall have to assume that there are very good reasons for your silence. So the ball is in your court. It’s up to you how you play it.’

The pipe was trembling in Turner’s fingers. ‘Are – are you arresting me?’ he faltered.

Gently folded his arms comfortably and gazed at the wall above Turner’s head.

‘Look,’ Turner said. ‘Look – I’m innocent! I didn’t kill Mr Stoll. I know it looks bad, but I didn’t do it – please! You’ve got to give me a chance.’

Gently shrugged at the wall. ‘Somebody did kill him.’ ‘I know –

I know – but it wasn’t me! I was in bed – I went straight home. I don’t know anything about it at all!’

‘Then why were you spying and trying to avoid us?’

‘Because – because –!’ Turner stuttered. ‘I knew you’d be after me, don’t you see? I had to find out what you were up to.’

Gently grunted contemptuously. ‘How likely!’

‘But it’s the truth!’ Turner exclaimed.

‘I could believe that someone else put you up to it.’

‘No – no! It was because of myself.’

‘And why were we going to bother with you?’

Turner brought hand and pipe down on the table. ‘Because I was alone. I couldn’t prove anything. It was just my word – my word only!’

And suddenly his flush had turned to pallor, and his eyes were beginning to stare. He lolled sideways, pushing heavily on the table; sweat-beads were showing on his blanched forehead.

Gently got up hurriedly and shoved open the door. ‘Fetch a glass of water!’ he bawled to the constable. Then he went to wrestle with the paint-sealed window.

Behind him, Turner was vomiting over the table.

So now the room was stinking of Jeypine, but at least the window was ajar. Also, Gently had drawn one of the blue cotton curtains to cut out the buzzing glare.

Turner, cleaned up and hugging a glass, looked damp and fragile amongst his beard. His dark eyes were large and vacant and he sat slumped, one arm supporting him.

The picture of a killer? Gently shrugged to himself. The young painter had crumpled like wet paper.

‘How well did you know Stoll?’

Turner hugged the glass a little closer. ‘I saw him often, of course . . . I’ve been living at the cottage for a year.’

‘Like him?’

Turner was silent for a space. ‘I . . . admired what he did. He was an artist, a true artist. There was no getting away from that.’

‘But did you like him?’

Turner wrestled with the glass. ‘He wasn’t . . . he was different from other men. He had this gift, this great gift. It somehow . . . swamped him. You had to accept that.’

‘You found him inhuman.’

‘In a way – yes!’

‘Egotistic and calculating.’

‘Well . . . yes . . .’

‘Other people didn’t count. He just drove them.’

‘I suppose so . . . it seemed like that.’

‘So he was asking for what he got.’

‘No!’ Turner raised his eyes to Gently’s. ‘It wasn’t like that. You couldn’t really hate him. Because you felt he couldn’t help himself, either.’

‘That’s a charitable viewpoint.’

‘But it’s true. Everyone had that feeling about Adrian. He had this talent which he had to live with, and it didn’t give him room to be like other people. He had to be a dictator; that was his job. He could only work by imposing his will. Every creator must be a dictator, but Adrian’s material was human beings. So in a way, he had to keep acting like God, and if he lost the touch he couldn’t do his job.’

‘You would have thought it was something he could have left in town.’

Turner shook his head. ‘I think he tried. But he couldn’t really let up, ever. Just as I can’t let up seeing things as pictures.’

‘So you admired him though you didn’t like him.’

‘I think . . . perhaps, I liked him too.’

‘Did he buy your pictures?’

‘No, he didn’t. But once he invited me to stay in town.’

‘What was that about?’

Turner shuffled the glass. ‘I think just that he thought it would do me good. You know, meet people, get in the swim. There’s nothing of that sort doing out here.’

‘And did you meet people? For example, Nina Walling?’

Turner coloured faintly. ‘Yes, I met her. But I had met her and Ivan Webster before, when Adrian brought them down to the Lodge.’

‘Friends of yours.’

‘No – never!’ He jerked the glass, slopping some water. ‘I don’t think they were friends of Adrian’s either, whatever was going on between them.’