Alan Hunter: Gently in the Sun

They took the turning to the guest house, which passed a public house on its left. To the right were ugly bungalows of a bad pre-war vintage and, a little further on, an estate of forbidding council houses. There were no two ways about it — Hiverton was no beauty spot. It had a breathtaking church, but it had very little else.

‘I expect you’ll want to have a talk with Mixer.’

‘To begin with I want a shower.’

‘He struck me as being… I suppose you checked with Records?’

‘And then something to eat. I scamped breakfast to catch the train.’

He caught a puzzled expression on the county man’s face: Dyson wasn’t quite used to Gently yet. He was apparently expecting him to dive straight in, armed with his particular brand of Central Office magic.

‘In my report, as you’ve seen…’

‘It was adequate, I thought.’

‘Then you agree with me that Mixer?’

‘What’s the food like at the Bel-Air?’

Dyson sliced the car through an open pair of white gates, puffing up fiercely and with a scuttling of gravel. The Bel-Air loomed above them in Edwardian grandeur; it was marzipan and brick of the most exuberant vintage. A stopped door revealed a vista of black-and-white tiles. The sash windows were fitted with pale yellow Venetian blinds. In a room not far away someone was playing a jazz record, and one could also hear the sound of a tennis ball being struck.

If Gently had been down there on holiday he could hardly have behaved more eccentrically. That was Dyson’s fixed impression by the time they had finished lunch.

Gently, resplendent in his fruity shirt, was well aware of his colleague’s opinion, but he gave no sign of it as he dallied over his coffee.

They had taken the meal alone, the three of them. It was half past two and most people had retired, some of them to the beach, some to deckchairs in the garden. Six times during the past quarter of an hour Dyson had tried to get to business, and six times Gently had merely grunted and continued to stare at the pretty waitress.

Now he was just sitting there, spinning out time over the coffee. He had had his shower, he had eaten his lunch, and that seemed to be everything at present on his mind.

‘How about some more coffee?’

Injuredly, Dyson poured it for him. From the way it was received he knew that Gently was stalling him. Nobody in this heat could want two cups of coffee.

As a matter of fact, Gently’s state of mind was curious. Ever since he had seen the photographs his ideas had been saturated by Rachel Campion. A woman… but what sort of woman? That was what he couldn’t decide on. Again and again he had summoned the pictures before his eyes, trying to fit a character to the enigma of the flat statement.

Those eyes — was it perhaps just a trick of the camera? Were they really such windows to a world of reckless passion? And her body, too, with the perfection of imperfection: was it honestly so calculated to whet the keen edge of desire?

He would never know, he could only imagine. The reality he was left with was the garbled witness of chance observers. But he wanted to know and he kept trying to surprise the knowledge. A woman… but what sort of a woman? Everything seemed to hang on it!

‘Waitress, come here a moment.’

Her name was Rosie and she was a synthetic blonde. Her fairly obvious attractions did not go unappreciated. Gently had noticed a suggestive passage between her and Maurice, the slim young bartender.

‘Was it you who waited at Miss Campion’s table?’

‘Oh yes — she sat at that one by the window.’

‘Was she easy to get on with?’

‘She wasn’t a lot of trouble.’

‘Tip you, did she?’

‘It was her boss who did the tipping.’

‘What did you think of her?’

Rosie giggled.

‘She’d got what it took, but she had her head screwed on too. All the men had a spot for her, even old Colonel Morris. If you ask me, some of the wives here aren’t so sorry about what’s happened.’

‘What do you mean by saying that she had her head screwed on?’

‘She kept her eye on the main chance, that’s what I mean. Her boss was jealous and she wouldn’t play the fool. Mind you, I wasn’t kidded. I know an act when I see one. There were times when he wasn’t about and then she wasn’t quite so starchy — only she never let it get anywhere, if you see what I mean. She’d got a wonderful talent for knowing where to draw a line.’

‘She was what you’d call a tease?’

Rosie giggled again, but the question didn’t embarrass her. At twenty-four or — five she had the assurance of a much older woman.

‘I wouldn’t know that, would I? But I wouldn’t put it past her. Some women get a kick out of that, and she was the right type. But she liked the rest too, don’t you forget it. One woman can’t keep that from another.’

‘Who did she encourage?’

‘She wasn’t too particular.’

‘Was there anyone especial?’

‘If there was she was clever about it. She let old Colonel Morris kiss her. Then she put some of the kids into a trance. And one or two married men who ought to have known better, though it’s a fact that their wives are mostly old bitches.’

‘But your impression is that none of them got very far?’

‘They didn’t get a chance, what with her boss always hanging around.’

‘What about Tuesday? He wasn’t around then.’

‘They’d had a row, I think, and she wasn’t in the mood. In any case most of them had gone to Hamby. There were only two of the old couples playing bridge in the lounge.’

‘So she spent the evening alone?’

‘She was alone at dinner.’

‘What about after that?’

‘I went off duty. It was the last time I saw her.’

In the doorway Maurice had appeared carrying a tray of dirty glasses. He set it down on the mahogany sideboard and began to pile on one or two more. His languorous eyes rested an instant on Rosie’s trim back.

‘Tell me — was she really so outstanding, or was it just her manner?’

‘It was a bit of both if you ask me, but she’d got the goods in the first place.’

‘Did she talk a lot, and laugh?’

‘Not her. She was always serious.’

‘Was she off hand to other women?’

‘She could afford to be nice to them. She’d got them all whacked.’

‘And how about you — weren’t you jealous?’

Her giggle was accompanied by a slight gesture of the hips.

‘I get along. I wasn’t worried. Some gentlemen prefer blondes.’

In the glass at the back of the sideboard Maurice was now studying her profile. He had abandoned his stacked tray and was apparently counting the serviettes.

Gently stirred at last, to Dyson’s great relief. He wandered out on to the verandah and stood gazing down at the afternoon sea. Below the lawn there were two hard courts for the use of the guests, and in spite of the temperature they were occupied by sweating youngsters in shorts and singlets. In the shade of the oak trees sat their elders, sleeping or knitting. From the other side of the marram hills could be heard the faint cries of children.

‘I’ve used the reading room for interrogation.’

Gently shrugged his multi-coloured shoulders.

‘I daresay that the manager…’

‘Let’s take a stroll along the beach, shall we?’

It was no use, Gently would have his way. He kept bulldozing aside all Dyson’s hints and veiled suggestions. He had dressed like a holidaymaker and now it seemed he was going to behave like one. With Dutt trailing behind they crossed the lawn at a leisurely saunter.

‘How does one get down to the beach?’

A few of the lotus-eaters in the deckchairs looked up as they passed. They knew Dyson, of course, but they knew nothing of Gently. Superintendent Stock had carefully delayed the news that the Yard was being called in.