Alan Hunter: Gently to the Summit

When the coffee came he sighed and lit a comfortable cigarette. He said:

‘I’m enjoying myself in spite of it… it’s a pleasant way to be losing promotion.’

Gently nodded, stirring his coffee.

‘Who have you left in charge at Caernarvon?’

‘A Sergeant Williams, a right good man. He’ll be checking on Kincaid’s alibi this moment.’

‘I’d like him to extend his inquiries a little. With special reference to Mrs Kincaid.’

‘Oh yes. I was going to suggest it.’

‘And Fleece, of course. I’d like to pinpoint his movements.’

They returned to the divisional station before driving to Hendon, and Evans rang his sergeant from there with the current instructions. When he rejoined the car he was wearing a slightly puzzled expression.

‘Here’s a curious thing that Williams has just told me!’

One of their witnesses had given them a false name and address. The address was in Bangor and was factual enough, but the occupiers knew nothing of a ‘Basil Gwynne-Davies’. The falsehood had come to light when the author was sought for to sign a statement.

‘What was he witness to?’

‘That’s the thing which surprises me. He’s the young fellow who came forward to tell us about seeing Kincaid in Llanberis. It doesn’t matter, of course; it’s no longer important. But why did he come forward if he didn’t want to be mixed up in it?’

Gently grunted. ‘Not from a pure love of justice, I’d say! You told Williams to see if he could find him, did you?’

‘Yes, and I think he may. The fellow is obviously a local. He may be an undergraduate from Bangor who was cutting lectures on that day.’

The sun had faded and the drizzle returned by the time they reached Hendon. They discovered Metropolitan Electric in a cul-de-sac near the airport. It was huge: an industrial mammoth filling all one side of its street, its approaches lined with parked cars of which most had a new appearance. Its central block had been rebuilt in the style of the New Towns, a tall, soft-brick building with blue panels between vertical windows. In a courtyard below it stood a Rolls and a Bentley and two Jaguars, while above it trailed a yellow pennon bearing the firm’s contracted nomenclature: MET. L. The whole street was pervaded by a regular murmur of industry and from the tall windows of the workshops came occasional bright flashes.

Their driver parked in the courtyard; they went up steps to the main door. Beyond it lay a large reception hall with a softly carpeted floor. An ash-blonde in a black dress was sitting at a varnished sapele-wood counter, and she rose with a touch of hauteur to deal with Gently’s inquiry.

‘Superintendent Gently, C.I.D. I’d like to have a word with your personnel manager.’

‘Er — is it the police?’ She seemed slow on the uptake.

‘That’s correct, miss.’

‘Oh, in that case… Mr Stanley did say…’

Her hand crept involuntarily towards the telephone on the counter and then faltered; she smiled brilliantly, as though to cover an indiscretion.

‘Then if you’ll please wait a moment…’

She tripped out through a door behind the counter, leaving a delicate perfume of violets to mingle with the odour of new furnishings.

Gently shrugged; surprise was a waste of emotion when you were dealing with l’affaire Kincaid. They were expected, that was obvious, though why was beyond all conjecture. After twenty-two years and a world war, what was Kincaid to Metropolitan Electric? He’d been only a unit when he was there, a lowly employee among several thousands…

The blonde returned.

‘If you’ll come this way, please… Mr Stanley will see you now.’

‘Who’s Mr Stanley?’

Her eyes widened. ‘Mr Stanley is our managing director.’

They followed her down a corridor lit by a succession of plant windows and watched her tap, very softly, on a grained walnut door. The response was scarcely audible, but she had inclined her head to catch it; immediately she threw open the door and announced:

‘Detective Gently, sir.’

They went in. The room was spacious and set out with grained walnut furniture. A buff carpet of ultimate softness extended from one skirting to the other. The two windows were fully screened with featherweight venetian blinds, and when the door closed behind them the hum of the workshops was knifed away. A tall, lion-faced man came forward from his desk to meet them.

‘Mr Gently — I didn’t catch your rank, I’m afraid.’

He was about sixty years of age and had wavy iron-grey hair, and was dressed in a black suit of a subduedly expensive cut. He smiled, holding out a large, manicured hand.

‘Ah yes — superintendent. I believe I’ve seen your name in the papers. But sit down, gentlemen, and let me hear what I can do for you. We don’t often have the pleasure of a visit from the Yard, and when we do we like to offer all the facilities we can.’

Gently chose one of the larger chairs. Evans sat to one side of them. Stanley returned to the desk and drew his trousers before sitting. He put his elbows on the desk and rested his chin on his palms, then he leaned forward towards Gently as though to drink in his every syllable.

‘Now, Superintendent,’ he said.

Gently cleared his throat prefatorily. ‘We’re investigating the identity of a… certain person,’ he replied. ‘By his own account he was employed here roughly twenty-two years ago. We’d like to check on that with your records and your personnel manager.’

‘I see.’ Stanley stared, his heavy brows slightly elevated. ‘That’s quite a time ago, if I may say so, Superintendent. A number of changes have been made since then and there may be some difficulties. As you are no doubt aware, we employ a large number of people.’

‘But you keep records, don’t you?’

‘Oh yes. Very full ones. Our administrative department is the most highly automated in the industry. But twenty-two years! That’s asking rather a lot, you know. Some of our older files, I seem to remember, went for salvage during the war.’

‘Including your personnel records?’

‘Well, no, perhaps not those. But since our rebuilding I couldn’t be certain where the earlier ones are housed.’

‘Where were they housed during the rebuilding?’

‘Oh, we moved into the south warehouse.’

‘Would that be a good place to look?’

Stanley sank into his palms. ‘Perhaps,’ he said.

‘Hmn.’

Gently knew the symptoms of obstruction when he met them, and this had the appearance of a calculated obstruction. He had no doubt that Stanley knew whom the inquiries concerned, and it was plain that they had been anticipated, and probably prepared for. But to what credible purpose? It seemed like straining to swallow a gnat. After all, the information they sought was harmless enough, surely…?

‘So you can’t produce any records?’

‘Now, I didn’t say that, Superintendent. But I thought it only fair to warn you that they might be difficult to come at. It may take us a long time to find them.’

‘I can call back tomorrow.’

‘No… I don’t think you fully appreciate the difficulties involved. But I’ll help you as much as I can. I’ll call in our personnel manager.’

Gently shook his head abruptly. ‘It seems hardly worthwhile, does it?’

‘I thought you wanted to talk to him?’

‘I find I’ve changed my mind about that. Under the circumstances, I don’t believe he can help my inquiries much.’

‘Then what…?’

Stanley extended one hand from under his chin. He was doing his best, it seemed to say: he would be cooperative if he could. By way of reply Gently rose and crossed to the other side of the room, where, housed in a walnut bookcase, was an extensive collection of reference books. He took down the copy of Who Was Who and returned with it to the desk. Then he leafed through it to a reference, picked up a pencil and marked the page.