says.’
‘Then one or other of them had a gun.’
‘It might just have been used for something else, sir.’
Gently’s head shook slowly. ‘Not what’s in this bottle. The Rangoon oil might. But not this stuff.’
Felling hesitated. ‘But isn’t it Rangoon oil, sir?’
Gently shook his head again. ‘You can see. It’s bluish. Rangoon oil has a yellow tint – and it doesn’t smell of citronella.’
Felling stared at the bottle too.
‘Then what do you reckon this stuff is, sir?’
Gently said, ‘It’s gun-cleaning fluid. From a service source. Perhaps the aerodrome you mentioned.’
The noise of the sparrows; the bottle held up; the trucks brutal in their size. The perfectly still hot air with its lading of petrol and stale oil. The submarine light on the two faces. One expressionless. One puckering.
Felling murmured: ‘It’s a coincidence, sir . . .’
‘Yes,’ Gently said. ‘I was thinking the same. What was the name of that aerodrome again?’
‘Huxford, sir.’
‘Yes, Huxford,’ Gently said.
He lowered the bottle, looked about the bench, found a balled-up page of a newspaper. He wiped the bottle on a piece of rag, wrapped the bottle and slipped it into his pocket. He looked at Felling.
‘I’ll leave the dabs to you,’ he said. ‘And the check on those cafés, where Teodowicz ate his last meal. And I’d like a couple of men to search this area, all these yards and derelict buildings. Can you manage that?’
‘Yes sir,’ Felling said. ‘Freeman and Rice can do the search.’
‘Tell them to keep an eye on Madsen,’ Gently said.
‘You bet I will, sir. We’ll tab that chummie.’
Gently nodded, led the way to the side entry. Felling produced the keys. They went out into the sun.
Four p.m. on the Thursday, and Offingham very nearly asleep. Gently’s car shimmered the air over it and opened its door like a broached kiln. He got in, drove down the High Street, across the Market, over the bridge; past two lines of greyed yellow-brick council houses, a couple of pubs, a filling station. Finally a third pub, standing thwartwise at the slovenly road junction, shouldered hard on the beaten passage of the A1 itself.
He halted there to choose his moment, then slid out into the stream. One car, two, went thrusting by him before the Rover picked up its stride. A tall articulated panted ahead of him, dark smoke puffing from its side. It was making fifty and the Rover needed all its guns to overtake. And so on southwards. Under a pale hazed sky.
Everham appeared, a slight congealing of the patchy drab ribbons. A chaffy triangle with a back road, a shop blazing with Dayglo posters. A blind red-brick church flat among dusty dark trees, a phone-box, an indistinct pub, a track worn in the bald verge. And then, for once, the ribbons faltered and gave way completely to grubby hedges; with behind them straw-coloured fields, folding slightly, weighted with hedge oaks. In the hazy distance, travelling like giants with their feet below the middle horizon, peered the three pink churns of Bintly power station, self-contemplative and aloof.
Another mile. An RAC box. A belt of sloe bushes to the right. To the left, southwards, the changing plane of the shallow roof of a hangar. Then the sign: Lay-By 100 yards, painted freshly black and white; and the ribbed concrete morosity of the lay-by beyond.
Gently slowed, picked a gap, pulled over and parked on the lay-by. It was a small one, designed for no more than two or three vehicles. Because the verge there was narrow the lay-by was pushed back into the hedge; the hedge was thin and had several gaps, and behind it ranged the thicket of sloe bushes. Gently got out. Underfoot the concrete was stained with plentiful oil-marks. Near the south end was a lighter area which had been recently washed off with a broom. Owing to the set-back a small vehicle parked there would be largely concealed from approaching traffic, but an observer stationed there would be
‘Then one or other of them had a gun.’
‘It might just have been used for something else, sir.’
Gently’s head shook slowly. ‘Not what’s in this bottle. The Rangoon oil might. But not this stuff.’
Felling hesitated. ‘But isn’t it Rangoon oil, sir?’
Gently shook his head again. ‘You can see. It’s bluish. Rangoon oil has a yellow tint – and it doesn’t smell of citronella.’
Felling stared at the bottle too.
‘Then what do you reckon this stuff is, sir?’
Gently said, ‘It’s gun-cleaning fluid. From a service source. Perhaps the aerodrome you mentioned.’
The noise of the sparrows; the bottle held up; the trucks brutal in their size. The perfectly still hot air with its lading of petrol and stale oil. The submarine light on the two faces. One expressionless. One puckering.
Felling murmured: ‘It’s a coincidence, sir . . .’
‘Yes,’ Gently said. ‘I was thinking the same. What was the name of that aerodrome again?’
‘Huxford, sir.’
‘Yes, Huxford,’ Gently said.
He lowered the bottle, looked about the bench, found a balled-up page of a newspaper. He wiped the bottle on a piece of rag, wrapped the bottle and slipped it into his pocket. He looked at Felling.
‘I’ll leave the dabs to you,’ he said. ‘And the check on those cafés, where Teodowicz ate his last meal. And I’d like a couple of men to search this area, all these yards and derelict buildings. Can you manage that?’
‘Yes sir,’ Felling said. ‘Freeman and Rice can do the search.’
‘Tell them to keep an eye on Madsen,’ Gently said.
‘You bet I will, sir. We’ll tab that chummie.’
Gently nodded, led the way to the side entry. Felling produced the keys. They went out into the sun.
Four p.m. on the Thursday, and Offingham very nearly asleep. Gently’s car shimmered the air over it and opened its door like a broached kiln. He got in, drove down the High Street, across the Market, over the bridge; past two lines of greyed yellow-brick council houses, a couple of pubs, a filling station. Finally a third pub, standing thwartwise at the slovenly road junction, shouldered hard on the beaten passage of the A1 itself.
He halted there to choose his moment, then slid out into the stream. One car, two, went thrusting by him before the Rover picked up its stride. A tall articulated panted ahead of him, dark smoke puffing from its side. It was making fifty and the Rover needed all its guns to overtake. And so on southwards. Under a pale hazed sky.
Everham appeared, a slight congealing of the patchy drab ribbons. A chaffy triangle with a back road, a shop blazing with Dayglo posters. A blind red-brick church flat among dusty dark trees, a phone-box, an indistinct pub, a track worn in the bald verge. And then, for once, the ribbons faltered and gave way completely to grubby hedges; with behind them straw-coloured fields, folding slightly, weighted with hedge oaks. In the hazy distance, travelling like giants with their feet below the middle horizon, peered the three pink churns of Bintly power station, self-contemplative and aloof.
Another mile. An RAC box. A belt of sloe bushes to the right. To the left, southwards, the changing plane of the shallow roof of a hangar. Then the sign: Lay-By 100 yards, painted freshly black and white; and the ribbed concrete morosity of the lay-by beyond.
Gently slowed, picked a gap, pulled over and parked on the lay-by. It was a small one, designed for no more than two or three vehicles. Because the verge there was narrow the lay-by was pushed back into the hedge; the hedge was thin and had several gaps, and behind it ranged the thicket of sloe bushes. Gently got out. Underfoot the concrete was stained with plentiful oil-marks. Near the south end was a lighter area which had been recently washed off with a broom. Owing to the set-back a small vehicle parked there would be largely concealed from approaching traffic, but an observer stationed there would be
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