Alan Hunter - Gently Go Man

‘Johnny came home to lunch, did he?’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘at about twenty to one.’

‘Was that his usual time for lunch?’

‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘They leave off at twelve-thirty.’

‘Was there anything you noticed at lunch?’

‘He was quiet,’ she said. ‘He had nothing to say. And usually he read the lunchtime paper. I thought he was brooding about Betty. I tried to talk to him about it. I could have helped him, I know. I’d give anything now.’ She stopped. ‘He snapped at me,’ she said.

‘What made you think he was brooding over Betty?’

She paused. ‘Woman’s intuition,’ she said. ‘But no, that’s not quite true, really. I’d seen him worrying over her before. I watched him the more because he’d gone so far from me. I sometimes knew what he was thinking. Poor Johnny. Poor Johnny. But all the time I was with him really.’

‘So you’d begun to lose him,’ Gently said, ‘when you lost your husband.’

She nodded silently. Her hand lifted and fell again in her lap.

‘It’s been all one tragedy.’

‘All one,’ she said.

‘These kids,’ Setters said. He wrung his hands, making the joints crack.

‘Was there anything else about lunch?’ Gently asked.

She was on the point of shaking her head. She changed her mind. ‘One thing,’ she said, ‘since you want to know every detail. He went to his room when he came in. Before he washed or did anything. I thought perhaps he’d gone to fetch something, but he was carrying nothing when he came out.’

‘Did he take something in there?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘he’d nothing with him. Or it was something very small which he carried in his pocket.’

‘Have you noticed anything in his room?’

‘No, nothing,’ she said.

‘You’ve been in there since Tuesday?’

‘Once,’ she said, ‘I went in.’

‘Let’s go on from after lunch.’

She leant her head on the wing of the chair. ‘It was one of those blank afternoons,’ she said. ‘Nothing happened much at all. After the washing-up I did some mending, Peter’s socks, Jean’s gym-slip. Then I looked at the TV, but there was nothing on that. So I pottered about in the house till it was time to fetch the kiddies. They’d had their tea and were out playing by the time Johnny got back. He was angrier if anything.’

‘Had he been angry before?’

‘With me,’ she said. ‘He’d been angry all day. And now he was angrier. We couldn’t exchange a civil word. I was bushed, I felt desperate, I couldn’t think what I was going to do about him. I’ve been miserable. It needed a man. Johnny needed a man to cope with him.’

‘Can you remember anything significant he said?’

‘It was just angriness,’ she said. ‘Picking on things, you know, making a tragedy out of nothing. The tea wasn’t ready when he wanted it, he couldn’t find a clean shirt, Mrs Jillings hadn’t pressed his tie, I got in his way in the bathroom. By the time it was over and he’d gone I was practically in tears. I put the kiddies to bed early. Jean came in for a smacking.’

‘And you put it down to his anxiety about Betty.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I suppose I did. Betty and everything she stood for.’

‘Not just Betty.’

‘Betty and the rest. It’s all one in my mind,’ she said. ‘If she’d been a decent sort of girl she wouldn’t have led him on so far.’

‘Just briefly,’ Gently said, ‘did anything happen during the evening?’

‘I played bridge,’ said Mrs Lister. ‘The Dawsons came over. I played bridge.’

In the report it said she’d been rung at a quarter to one on the Wednesday morning. Later that day she’d seen the body and identified the motorcycle and some clothes. Her doctor, Setters had said, had given her a strong sedative, but after the initial shock she had declined to use it.

A car pulled in to the driveway.

‘That’s Mother with the kiddies,’ Mrs Lister said.

‘One more question,’ Gently said, ‘then we’ll stop being a nuisance to you. What sort of cigarettes did your son smoke?’

Mrs Lister looked puzzled. ‘Guards, I think.’

‘Did he ever talk of sticks?’ Gently asked.

‘No,’ she said. ‘What are sticks?’

‘Reefers,’ Gently said.

Still Mrs Lister looked puzzled.

‘Cigarettes,’ he explained, ‘with a percentage of marijuana added.’

‘Oh,’ she said. She flushed slightly. ‘That’s dope, isn’t it?’ she said.

Gently nodded. ‘That’s dope.’

‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘he wouldn’t. No.’

‘He never mentioned them at all?’

‘Never,’ she said. ‘Not Johnny.’

‘You didn’t suspect he might be smoking them? They have a strong, heady aroma.’

She hesitated. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Johnny just wouldn’t have done it.’

Gently rose. ‘Would it very much upset you if we looked through his room?’ he said.

Her flush was heightened. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘You can do that if you want to.’

She rose and led the way out into the hall and down a short passage. They passed a door behind which could be heard the voices of children in expostulation. She checked there but then continued. She opened a door at the end of the passage. It gave into a small bedroom with an enormous window that faced the trees.

‘Johnny’s room,’ she said, catching her breath. She went to the window and stood looking out.

Gently entered. He sniffed delicately. Stale cigarette smoke and newish furnishings. A bedroom suite in unpolished oak, a bedside cabinet, a table. On the table was a record player and a plastic rack stuffed with records. In the top of the cabinet there were books. There was a yellow Penguin on the Buddhist Scriptures. A glass ashtray stood on the cabinet, recently emptied but not washed. A working jacket hung over a chair. Some boots were shoved underneath.

Gently opened the door of the cabinet. It contained magazines, a camera, junk. The dressing-table drawers were crammed with clothes and in the tallboy was clean bedlinen. Setters went over the wardrobe. He had exploring fingers like a pickpocket’s. Soon he closed the door noiselessly and gave a small, negative shrug. Shoes, boots were all empty. Nothing was hidden about the bed.

‘About how long was Johnny in here at lunchtime on Tuesday?’ Gently asked.

‘Only a moment,’ said Mrs Lister. ‘He went straight in and came straight out again.’

Gently went to the doorway, stood looking round the room. He walked across to the record player, snapped the catches, lifted the lid. A record lay on the turntable. He lifted the record. Underneath, wrapped in a serviette, were five unbranded cigarettes. They were clumsily rolled in a greyish paper and made from a coarse brown tobacco. He showed them to Setters.

‘Like the others you’ve seen round here?’ he asked.

Setters nodded. He turned one of them over with his nail.

Mrs Lister came forward, stared at the five cigarettes. She was very pale.

‘And they’re reefers?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ Gently said. ‘They’re reefers.’

‘I can’t believe it,’ she said. ‘Oh God, not Johnny. It’s beyond me, I can’t believe it. There’s no meaning any longer.’ She began to laugh hysterically, the tears plunging down her cheeks.

‘I’m sorry,’ Gently said.

‘There’s no meaning,’ she repeated.

‘We’ll have to take these,’ Gently said. ‘We’ll perhaps find out who’s been pushing them.’

‘There’s no meaning,’ she went on. ‘And I’m so tired of it, so tired of it. There’s no point in it all. And I’m so tired, so tired.’

Some feet scuffled in the passage. A little boy stood in the doorway. He was six or seven, fair-haired, wearing a school blazer with a huge badge. His eyes were round. His mouth was working. His chubby hands were balled hard. He suddenly ran screaming to Mrs Lister.