‘Spooky, isn’t it?’ Deeming commented out of the corner of his mouth. ‘You know, I go for this, screw. Like it reminds me of the outback. You ever been down under, screw?’
‘No,’ Gently said. ‘Not yet.’
‘You get it just like this,’ Deeming said. ‘But like it’s hotter and the sky’s hollow. I had a spell at a station out a bit from Alice. Big drought country, screw, say it’s five hundred from Alice. I was herding on the trail, slept in places like this. Mulga trees. Abos. Spooky as hell, it was.’
‘On the borders?’ Gently asked.
‘Yeah, plumb on them,’ Deeming said. ‘Like I hadn’t thrown that jazz then, but I was getting the kick all the same. And the kick you get here, maybe you get it a bit stronger. Because like your abos are ghosts, screw, though they’re still here, they haven’t moved out.’
‘It’s a theory,’ Gently said.
‘Too right it is,’ said Deeming.
They went on riding. At times the track seemed to disappear altogether. Its line was straight, it followed a depression or climbed a ridge indifferently. From the top of the ridges you could see some miles, but all those miles were more breck: there was only the black Chase far behind, perhaps a couple of firs far ahead. The sky was whitish without gradation. The sun was a brightness over to the left.
At last they did arrive at something that made an event in the sameness. It was a level depression of a few acres, grown with scanty, brownish grass. At either side it had hummocky ground and on one of the hummocks were the two firs they had seen. The track passed by the nearer hummocks and crossed the depression to a point near the fir trees. Deeming followed it there and stopped. He killed the engine, thrust up his goggles.
‘What do you make of this?’ he asked.
Gently climbed stiffly off the bike. He was getting tired of his pillion-riding, tired of the weight of the helmet.
‘It could have been camping ground,’ he said.
Deeming shook his head. ‘No water, cobber. The abos didn’t build camps away from water. Like you must give them a little sense.’
‘What do you say it is?’ Gently asked.
‘Well, it could be a holy place,’ Deeming said. He had his eyes fixed hard on Gently. ‘You reckon it might be a holy place?’ he said.
Gently didn’t say anything. He felt for his pipe and filled it. After a moment Deeming propped the bike, fetched out a case, lit a cigarette.
‘Like these broken bits here could have been barrows,’ he said. ‘Maybe some squares bust them up, looking for loot and whatnot.’
‘Maybe,’ Gently said.
‘You think it’s likely?’ Deeming asked.
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Gently said. ‘Better ask an archaeologist.’
‘Yeah, but I’m curious,’ Deeming said. ‘I get a wild kick out here. I stop here long and it sends me, I don’t know who or where I am. You ever get a kick like that?’
‘I’m too much of a square,’ Gently said.
‘I was out here this morning,’ Deeming said. ‘You know? It sent me, I was gone for hours.’
‘Which particular hours?’ Gently said.
‘Like you’ve beat me there,’ said Deeming. ‘But man, I touch it here so hard it’s a wonder I get back in again.’
‘Try eating chocolates,’ Gently said.
‘Yuh?’ Deeming said. ‘What’s that for a crack?’
Gently shrugged, climbed up the hummock, took some steps round its perimeter. It was very roughly circular and the middle and one side seemed to have been excavated. The hollow was carpeted with needles and fir cones. There lay in it also a cigarette packet and two or three ends. He climbed down the side of the hollow and retrieved them. They were fresh. They hadn’t been in the dew.
‘You smoke Player’s?’ he demanded of Deeming.
Deeming grinned. ‘Like I do, screw,’ he said.
‘They’d be Player’s,’ Gently said, ‘in your case?’
Deeming took out his case, snapped it open, showed them.
‘I needn’t have asked that, need I?’ Gently said.
‘Sure,’ Deeming said. ‘You’re a screw. It checks. I tell you I’ve been here all the morning, and like you want to prove it. That’s being a screw.’
‘Why should I want to know you’d been here all the morning?’
Deeming opened his big palms. ‘You tell me,’ he said.
‘I’ll tell you something,’ Gently said. ‘There’s a lot of imagination being used.’
‘Imagination?’ Deeming said.
‘Yes. And Bixley hasn’t got much.’
Deeming made a face at him. ‘You’re being subtle, screw,’ he said. ‘Man, you’re the one for the sly dig. It sends me, the way you give it spin.’
Gently looked at him, puffing. He dropped the packet and ends back in the hollow.
The track bore to the right past the depression, or perhaps was joined by a second track. Neither track was distinct enough to suggest which way it was. But they rode away from the two firs at a right angle to their line of approach, the depression quickly melting back into the anonymity of the brecks. Deeming was humming to himself. It was a theme of Beethoven’s. He rode faster on this return leg, but still not very fast. The sun had strengthened as it began to set and was filling the hollows with slaty shadow. Some low mist was forming. It kept in the hollows.
Eventually the track become more regular and some low trees showed ahead of it, then they came up with a scrubby hedge, a bit of pasture, and a sheep-pen. The pasture showed more frequently. They passed a cottage with a smoking chimney. Just beyond it they went through a farmyard and through farm gates on to a narrow road. A mile further and they could see traffic passing on a hedgeless, straight, main road. It was the Norwich road. At the intersection a fingerpost said ‘Latchford 3’. Deeming turned his head, showing his teeth.
‘You’ll be back for tea, screw,’ he said. ‘You like it I break two minutes between here and town?’
He didn’t wait for an answer but wound the throttle three parts open. The machine soared off like a comet. They broke two minutes quite easily. Deeming tickered it in to Tony’s park where the other machines were still lined up, placed it precisely in the line, shut it down and dropped the rest. Bixley strutted out from the doorway, stood looking ugly with his swollen upper lip.
‘That was the coda, screw, that last bit,’ Deeming said, swinging his goggles. ‘Like I wanted you to have the full treatment, double-side L.P.’
His eyes were sparkling, he looked elated, he gave Bixley a flip on the shoulder.
‘The screw just loved it,’ he said. ‘The screw just loved every minute.’
‘Yuh, he must have done,’ Bixley said thickly.
‘Sure, he was crazy with it,’ Deeming said. ‘Like he would have gone on touching till we ran out of gas. You underestimate the screw, Sid. You underestimate him bad. But he’s wild there at the bottom of him, he’s a wild, way-out screw. And like you’d do well to remember that, Sid, if you have any deals with him. It’s crazy, the way he picks up tricks. You don’t fool him for five minutes.’
‘I’ll remember it,’ Bixley said.
‘Yeah, he’s mustard-sharp,’ Deeming said. ‘I wouldn’t try pulling the wool with this screw. He’s all round you. He digs everything.’
Gently took off the helmet and goggles, pulled his trousers out of his socks.
‘Thanks for the entertainment,’ he said. ‘It makes a change from dull routine.’
‘Any time,’ Deeming said. ‘We don’t like screws having it dull.’
‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ Gently said. ‘Murder can never really be dull.’
He unlocked the Rover, got in, lit his pipe. They watched him silently. He drove away.
At the Sun it was later than teatime but his waitress fetched a tray for him in the lounge. He was surprisingly stiff from his bout of riding and his arm was aching where Hallman had punched it. He had the evening paper brought in. The Lister case had gone off the front page. The paper originated in Norwich and there was nothing in it about the business at Castlebridge. He ate his toasted teacakes sombrely, drank his tea, stared at the window.