CHAPTER SIX
Inspector Hansom, the Lion of Police HQ, had departed to his home shortly after six p.m. He had left a note, however, with the sergeant at the desk, and this was handed to Gently as he passed through with Stephens.
‘I thought you’d like to have the low-down on Butters, who rang a couple of times while you were out this afternoon. They’re an old county family, used to have the stuff in pots, and they still carry quite a bit of pull about the place. Butters himself is a pal of Sir Daynes Broke. Naturally, we’d be obliged if you soft-pedalled with him.’
Gently grinned to himself as he folded the note away in his wallet. Sir Daynes, the county Chief Constable, was also a pal of his own. It was probably as a result of this common denominator that Butters had insisted on speaking to Gently — rejecting, perhaps ungraciously, the respectful overtures of Hansom. But what had Butters got to do with the demise of Shirley Johnson?
Aymas was sitting alone in the charge room, looking ready to eat a dragon, and he sprang passionately to his feet as Gently peered round the door.
‘What the hell do you think all this is about-!’ His powerful frame shook with anger and defiance.
Gently shrugged and closed the door again: there was an excellent treatment for angry young men. It consisted of protracting their stay in the charge room, and during a long experience, Gently had rarely known it to fail.
‘Good… let’s go into Hansom’s office. It’s time we discussed the details together.’
Stephens was reluctant, but deferred to his senior. His hands were soiled with black grease and he had an oil smudge on his nose.
‘You drew a blank on the rest of them, did you?’
‘Yes, sir, I’m afraid so. Though Baxter’s brakes aren’t up to standard…’
‘Where did Allstanley say he parked on that night?’
‘Behind the taxi rank, sir, on the island near the marketplace.’
‘Any verification?’
‘Yes, sir, the taxi drivers. He often parks there and it gets in their way.’
So that closed the account of the group members who owned cars, leaving Aymas standing out as the only likely customer. His car had been near the spot if not actually standing on it, and the nearest way to it from the bus stop led directly across the car park.
‘It raises one or two problems, though…’ Gently filled Stephens in on this. ‘He could hardly have stabbed her in his car, so why did he sell it to the breakers?’
‘He might have had blood on himself, sir, and then traasferred it to the car.’
‘It’s a possibility, of course — only there wasn’t a lot of blood.’
But the point might still be settled by a lucky find at the breaker’s yard, though the fact that the parts had been dispersed would weaken the evidence if it came to a case. It would be necessary to prove to the hilt that they had, in fact, come from Aymas’s car.
‘I’ll give you the rest of the dope on Aymas…’
Stephens heard him with eyes that glinted; it was plain from the youngster’s enthusiasm that he was abandoning his theory of blackmail. Now it was clearly a crime passionel, a case of sudden and irresistible impulse. Shirley Johnson had quarrelled with her passionate lover, and with the first weapon to hand he had stabbed her to the heart. Didn’t the facts support this thesis? Hadn’t they the grounds of an open-and-shut case?
But even as he was building it up, Gently was slowly rejecting the idea. Could it be that Stephens’s enthusiasm had sounded a still, small note of warning for him? It was altogether too simple — it didn’t harmonize as it should! There were undertones everywhere that produced an overall chord of dissonance. He had got so far into the business that he was beginning to feel it intuitively; it was no use selecting some facts from it to make a pattern that jarred with the remainder.
‘It might be best to wait a little…’
‘You mean, we’re not going to charge him tonight?’
Stephens, whose mind had been racing ahead, sounded as disappointed as a child.
‘Oh… we’ll put him through the hoop and see how much we can squeeze out of him. But don’t expect him to break down and dump confessions in your lap. For the rest, it depends on tying in his car, and unless you can do that, the Public Prosecutor won’t look at it. Now give me the phone — I want to hear what Butters can tell us.’
The number was on the Lordham exchange, and this, at eight p.m., seemed difficult to contact. The Grieg dance which Gently had heard persisted in running through his head, conjuring up, quite irrelevantly, a picture of the rainy Bergen hills. And below them, in the fish market, knives were flashing on the busy slabs, while down the quay, beyond the Tyskebryggen, the Venus or the Leda waited…
‘Lordham one-five-eight.’
‘This is Superintendent Gently.’
‘Ah! I’m very glad to hear it. I’ve been trying to get you since lunch, sir.’
It was indeed a ‘county’ voice — a blend of Eton and the hunting field; one imagined that its owner was wearing spurs, or at the least, was flicking a dog whip.
‘My name is William Butters and I am acquainted with Sir Daynes Broke. He has always given me to understand that one can talk to you, Superintendent.’
‘Is it about the death of Mrs Johnson?’
‘Yes, it most certainly is. I have what I feel to be some vital information, and I would like you to call on me without further delay.’
Gently made a face at Stephens. ‘Couldn’t you tell me over the phone, sir?’
‘No, Superintendent, I couldn’t. It involves some highly personal explanations.’
In spite of his brusqueness a note of anxiety had crept into Butters’s voice — it was as though he wanted to ask a favour, and didn’t know quite how to set about it.
‘You are busy, sir, I am sure, but I am positive that you won’t be wasting your time… this may well affect the whole case. It is essential that you should see me at once.’
‘Then if you would care to drive over, sir…’
‘No, I’m afraid it won’t do.’
‘Then if you could give me a little idea…’
‘No, Superintendent. You must come here.’
There was obviously no help for it, and Gently hung up with a sigh. Stephens, who had divined the state of affairs, was watching his senior’s expression anxiously. Gently gave him a grin:
‘You don’t have to wait for me, you know. Just carry on with Aymas according to the rules they gave you at Ryton.’
‘You mean me… I’m to interrogate him?’
‘Why not? It’s all good practice.’
‘But I thought, sir — since a charge is so near-’
Gently chuckled and punched the younger man’s shoulder.
The drive out to Lordham took him through familiar country, it being at Wrackstead that he had arrested Lammas, the burnt-yacht murderer. There, and at Lordham Bridge, the moorings were busy with pleasure craft, and Gently needed to drive slowly through the careless crowds of yachtsmen. The address he had been given was The Grange House, Lordham, a premises not to be found without a due amount of inquiry; he was directed down narrow lanes which seemed to have lost their raison d’etre, and it was by following his instinct that he at last arrived at his destination. It was a moderate-sized property of Regency period, and stood palely among trees on a slope above the River Ent. A portico with an elegant flight of steps graced the front, commanding a panoramic view of the sedgy, twining river. Its decoration, Gently noticed, was not in first-class order, and there were signs of neglect in the rather fine terrace gardens. The garage doors stood apart to reveal a highly polished Rolls, but it was a Rolls of a period which predated the Second World War.
He parked his Riley on the notched tiling in front of the garage, and made his way to the portico, of which the door was also open. Then, quite unconsciously, he threw a glance at the upper windows — to find that a pair of frightened eyes were staring down into his. It was only for a second. In the next, they had disappeared. From such a glimpse he had been unable to register either the sex or age of their owner. An instant later a curtain was pulled, though actually this was quite unnecessary; the room behind it was already darkened by the subdued light of the evening.