staring bulbously at the lino; Bradfield tapped his foot, wore a doubting expression.
‘Well . . . ?’
Perkins swallowed. ‘May I see the picture again?’
Gently produced it and they all clustered round. Plainly nobody else was prepared to go nap on it, though Kennet kept nodding his head cautiously.
‘What do you think?’
‘It’s the expression, really! I know there’s not much to go on in the face . . .’
‘What about the rest of you?’
Kennet shuffled his feet.
Bradfield said: ‘I don’t know the man myself . . .’
‘When did Hastings arrive here?’ Gently asked.
‘He hasn’t been here long,’ Bradfield said. ‘It used to be Sayers who had the business – Samuel Sayers. I bought my place through him.’
‘How long ago was that?’
‘March 59 . . . over four years. It couldn’t have been long after that when it changed hands, though Sayers was living here till recently. There’s a flat over the business. Sayers lived in that. He was a bachelor.’
‘He had some form, sir,’ Gipping said. ‘Soliciting men for immoral purposes.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘He’s slung his hook, sir. I wouldn’t know where he’s gone to.’
Gently nodded. It had a promising sound; Shimpling had also been a queer. And along with the ‘G’ in the ‘black book’ there had been an ‘H’ and an ‘S’.
‘Is he a married man, your David Hastings?’
After the trial, Cheyne-Chevington’s wife had left him.
‘No, he’s a bachelor too,’ Perkins said. ‘He used to live in a service-flat opposite my house. That’s why I know what he looks like, I’d see him going in and out. The wife says he had girls there. But he was living on his own.’
‘Where’s he living now?’
Perkins looked unhappy. ‘Somewhere in the town.’
‘When did he move?’
‘Last year some time. Now it’s an accountant who lives there.’
‘What else do you know about him?’
‘That’s about all. He seems to have plenty of money – dresses well, runs a Jag. Does a lot of advertising in the
Free Press
.’
‘Does he know Groton?’
Perkins shook his head. ‘But it’s him all right, I’m sure of that.’
He fixed his gaze rigidly on the photograph as though willing Cheyne-Chevington to be Hastings.
Bradfield said quickly: ‘I wouldn’t want to upset him, not unless we’re positive, that is. Abbotsham’s a small place really . . . we try not to play things tough, here.’
Of course. Abbotsham had tone!
‘Somebody was playing it tough last year . . .’
‘Oh, I’m not trying to make obstacles!’
‘Good. I think we’d better talk to Mr Hastings.’
Bradfield bit his lip and looked slantingly, but raised no other objection.
* * *
They crossed the Buttermarket: Gently and Perkins, with Dutt following behind.
It was a broad, lazy street proceeding from one corner of the Market Place.
Cars were double-parked along one side, which was blocked at the top by a projecting building, so that the street had the aspect of a narrow plain which was only partly a thoroughfare.
It was lined by a variety of decorative fronts of Georgian and early Victorian origin, dwelling-houses which had since been converted to shops and offices. Some, on the side used only for parking, still had sweeps of steps with wrought-iron railings.
Looking towards the Market Place, you saw the gabled flint front of the Jew’s House.
‘This area would be rather expensive?’
Perkins nodded. ‘Yes. All round here. When these places come up for sale it’s usually a chain store that buys them.’
‘Which is Hastings?’
‘Behind the cars. You can see the gold lettering on the windows. But nobody owns anything along this side, they’re all on lease from an insurance company.’
Rather surprisingly, the building which contained Hastings was of Edwardian red-brick, a double-fronted doll’s house of a place loaded with rococo ornament.
Yet, perhaps because the ornamentation was so thorough-going, so
‘Well . . . ?’
Perkins swallowed. ‘May I see the picture again?’
Gently produced it and they all clustered round. Plainly nobody else was prepared to go nap on it, though Kennet kept nodding his head cautiously.
‘What do you think?’
‘It’s the expression, really! I know there’s not much to go on in the face . . .’
‘What about the rest of you?’
Kennet shuffled his feet.
Bradfield said: ‘I don’t know the man myself . . .’
‘When did Hastings arrive here?’ Gently asked.
‘He hasn’t been here long,’ Bradfield said. ‘It used to be Sayers who had the business – Samuel Sayers. I bought my place through him.’
‘How long ago was that?’
‘March 59 . . . over four years. It couldn’t have been long after that when it changed hands, though Sayers was living here till recently. There’s a flat over the business. Sayers lived in that. He was a bachelor.’
‘He had some form, sir,’ Gipping said. ‘Soliciting men for immoral purposes.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘He’s slung his hook, sir. I wouldn’t know where he’s gone to.’
Gently nodded. It had a promising sound; Shimpling had also been a queer. And along with the ‘G’ in the ‘black book’ there had been an ‘H’ and an ‘S’.
‘Is he a married man, your David Hastings?’
After the trial, Cheyne-Chevington’s wife had left him.
‘No, he’s a bachelor too,’ Perkins said. ‘He used to live in a service-flat opposite my house. That’s why I know what he looks like, I’d see him going in and out. The wife says he had girls there. But he was living on his own.’
‘Where’s he living now?’
Perkins looked unhappy. ‘Somewhere in the town.’
‘When did he move?’
‘Last year some time. Now it’s an accountant who lives there.’
‘What else do you know about him?’
‘That’s about all. He seems to have plenty of money – dresses well, runs a Jag. Does a lot of advertising in the
Free Press
.’
‘Does he know Groton?’
Perkins shook his head. ‘But it’s him all right, I’m sure of that.’
He fixed his gaze rigidly on the photograph as though willing Cheyne-Chevington to be Hastings.
Bradfield said quickly: ‘I wouldn’t want to upset him, not unless we’re positive, that is. Abbotsham’s a small place really . . . we try not to play things tough, here.’
Of course. Abbotsham had tone!
‘Somebody was playing it tough last year . . .’
‘Oh, I’m not trying to make obstacles!’
‘Good. I think we’d better talk to Mr Hastings.’
Bradfield bit his lip and looked slantingly, but raised no other objection.
* * *
They crossed the Buttermarket: Gently and Perkins, with Dutt following behind.
It was a broad, lazy street proceeding from one corner of the Market Place.
Cars were double-parked along one side, which was blocked at the top by a projecting building, so that the street had the aspect of a narrow plain which was only partly a thoroughfare.
It was lined by a variety of decorative fronts of Georgian and early Victorian origin, dwelling-houses which had since been converted to shops and offices. Some, on the side used only for parking, still had sweeps of steps with wrought-iron railings.
Looking towards the Market Place, you saw the gabled flint front of the Jew’s House.
‘This area would be rather expensive?’
Perkins nodded. ‘Yes. All round here. When these places come up for sale it’s usually a chain store that buys them.’
‘Which is Hastings?’
‘Behind the cars. You can see the gold lettering on the windows. But nobody owns anything along this side, they’re all on lease from an insurance company.’
Rather surprisingly, the building which contained Hastings was of Edwardian red-brick, a double-fronted doll’s house of a place loaded with rococo ornament.
Yet, perhaps because the ornamentation was so thorough-going, so
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