Alan Hunter - Gently to the Summit

Or did it deal just a shade hardly with the character of Mrs Kincaid: was it acceptable that she should make the swift descent from social secretary to prostitute? Possibly there… possibly not. She’d been going downhill with Askham.

‘Have you any trinkets of your mother’s. Any jewellery, photographs?’

‘She was blitzed, I keep telling you. I ain’t got nothing at all.’

‘What name do you go under with your friends?’

She stared hard for a second. ‘Paula, of course. And sometimes Phyllis… it really depends on who I’m with.’

‘Why Phyllis?’

‘I told you. It’s a name I calls meself.’

‘Why do you call yourself that to friends?’

‘I don’t much. Just sometimes.’

‘What name does your landlord know you by?’

‘Well… Phyllis, I’m Phyllis to him.’

‘Yet that’s the name you’ve been convicted under?’

‘Aow, I don’t know! I just use it…’

Gently nodded with profundity and struck a fresh light for his pipe. Evans re-entered; from behind Miss Kincaid’s back he gave Gently a broad wink. Gently puffed.

‘Very well, Miss Kincaid. It was kind of you to call in. Now if you’ll leave your name and address I don’t think we’ll need to detain you.’

‘You mean I can go now?’ She looked both relieved and surprised. ‘It’s all right, ain’t it?’

‘Quite all right. And you can depend on the credit you deserve.’

Her smile was doubtful, but she flashed one. She hastily gave the required particulars. Evans, sauntering over to the window, was quietly whistling ‘Men of Harlech’.

‘Now can I go?’

‘Now you can go.’

‘It seemed half as though she didn’t want to. But at last she made up her mind and rose, and minced bobbingly over to the door. Evans came across and lowered himself on to the desk. He tapped a cigarette. He tilted his head as he lit it.

‘And what do we know now, man?’

Gently stretched himself, eased backwards. ‘Quite a lot, man. And I think we’ll know a lot more before long.’

‘You’re not mourning Mrs Kincaid?’

‘It was a terrible business, that blitz was.’

‘You’re telling me. I’m glad we never had such a thing in Caernarvon.’

They smoked; Gently his pipe, Evans a couple of cigarettes. Twenty minutes ticked by in pleasurable meditation. County Hall looked a mansion of stars against the darkening, sullen sky, and the Thames observed its tides invisibly except for occasional wavering flashes. Then the phone rang.

‘Dutt reporting, sir. I’ve got chummie under surveillance. He’s sitting in a cafe in Villiers Street. He’s just ordering a pot of tea.’

‘Where did you pick him up, Dutt?’

‘By the RAF Memorial, sir. He was sitting there in a parked car, a red M.G., of which I’ve taken the number. She went straight up to it and got in with him.’

‘Did you see what happened?’

‘Yessir. He gave her some notes. Then he drove to Villiers Street and parked, and she walked off while he went into the cafe. I’m watching him now: I’m in the box across the street.’

‘Who is he, Dutt?’

‘Don’t know, sir. Nobody we’ve had dealings with. He’s young and fair-ish, around five foot nine, slim build, good looks, wearing a mid-grey lounge suit and a red tie. Prosperous-looking, I’d say, sir.’

Gently nodded to himself. ‘Well, pull him in, Dutt. Right away. You can tell him he’s wanted for questioning.’

‘And if he gives any trouble, sir?’

‘Charge him with conspiring to obstruct the police. And Dutt-’

‘Yessir?’

‘Don’t lose him. He’s worth his weight in Welsh griffins.’

Slim build, good looks, and wearing a mid-grey lounge suit. Dutt, with a flair for the dramatic entrance, had brought his man straight up. And he was an angry young man; his aspect was far from being guilty. He strode threateningly into the room with green eyes seeking whom they could devour. He settled for Gently.

‘I’d like to know the meaning of this — this illegal act of detention. I’m going to make such a stink that there’ll be a public inquiry!’

‘Sit down, Mr… who is it?’

‘I’m not going to sit down. I want an explanation, this instant, of why I’ve been seized and dragged in here!’

He smote the desk with his fist. He was an exceedingly angry young man. His age was one- or two-and-twenty and he had a faint moustache on his lip. His hair was very light brown with a side parting and a droop, his skull was round, his ears small, his nose round-tipped, his lips full. He had a determined cleft chin and his slim build was athletic. Though so angry, his voice retained elements of a public-school drawl.

‘Don’t think you’ll get away with it. You’ve picked on the wrong person for that. I’m not a nobody, I can tell you. I can make people of your sort jump through hoops.’

‘Then would you mind confounding us with your name?’

‘You see? You don’t even know it! You arrest somebody in a public place without even knowing their name. Just let me use that phone for a second.’

‘You’ll be allowed to use it if we detain you.’

‘I’ll use it now. I want my solicitor. And just you try to detain Henry Askham.’

Gently’s brows lifted. ‘Is that your name? Henry Askham?’

‘Henry Askham. Who did you think I was — some Cockney wide-boy of your acquaintance? I tell you now-’

‘Mrs Askham’s son?’

‘Yes. Yes! How many more times?’

‘You will kindly sit down, Mr Askham.’

‘Only after I’ve used this phone!’

He made a grab for it, but Dutt was there first; he quietly pinioned the young man’s arms. Askham struggled viciously and lashed out with his heels, but he was merely a child in the grip of the sergeant.

‘If you don’t take your hands off, I’ll charge you with assault!’

Gently motioned with his head and Dutt forcibly seated his charge. Then after a warning pause he released him and stepped back from the chair. Askham glared whole armouries at Gently, but he didn’t attempt to rise again.

‘Now, Mr Askham. We’ve some questions to ask you.’

‘And I’ve some to ask you. I’ll need your name for a start.’

‘Relating to a certain Phyllis Waters, alias Paula Kincaid.’

‘Mine relate to the statement I’m going to give to the Press!’

He was in no way abashed. His ferocious expression continued; like a slender, enraged terrier, he sat quiveringly on the edge of the chair. It passed through Gently’s mind that Mrs Askham’s life wasn’t all honey, though presumably some of the blame must rest with herself. As a mother, she’d perhaps leave a few things to be desired…

‘What can you tell us about this person?’

‘What do you think?’ He was nearly shouting. ‘She’s a prostitute. She lives in Kilburn. She told you herself. I sent her here.’

‘Why did you send her, Mr Askham?’

‘Oh, my God, must you be so stupid? Because she knew. She knew what happened. She knew that Paula Kincaid was dead.’

‘Why did you want her to tell us that?’

‘Is it possible to be so dense? To stop your beastly rotten prying and upsetting of my mother. She’s being terrorized by your snooping, and I was determined to put a stop to it.’

‘You know she came here this afternoon?’

‘Of course I do. You drove her to it.’

‘She didn’t seem so terrified then.’

‘Did you think she’d let you see it?’

‘But why should she be so anxious, anyway? It was scarcely a crime to employ Paula Kincaid.’

‘She was my father’s mistress. Don’t you understand that? And Mother hides it, but it hurts her as much as ever…’