Alan Hunter - Gently where the roads go

‘Thank you,’ Gently said. ‘The reaction of the man on the job is also a fact. And I’m puzzled, that’s another fact.’ He puffed once or twice. ‘Because there’s another case against another man which another investigator finds logical. And there seems no connection between the two. Except the shooting of Teodowicz.’

Both of them stared at him.

‘This is getting too devious for me,’ Campling said. ‘What do you want us to do?’

‘Just carry on,’ Gently said. ‘You’re better placed than we are to handle this end of the business. Go on clarifying the picture of Sawney’s racket and its connections. We’ll put out an all-stations for him, and give you a hand tracing his outlets.’

‘You mean you’re not convinced that Sawney’s the man?’

‘I’m not convinced or unconvinced.’

Campling shook his head. ‘You’re a queer lot, up at the Yard,’ he said. ‘I’d go to court with half this case. But you know your own business best. We’ll do what you say, of course. We’d continue to clear up this mess in any case.’

‘Have you those particulars for me?’

Campling stared at him for a second. Then he reached up a briefcase, opened it, took out some documents.

‘These are from Records and consequently sacred.’

‘I’ll see they’re returned in due course.’

‘Do,’ Campling said. ‘Or they’ll serve up my head on crossed prop blades.’

The first document was an identity card. It bore a photograph of Sawney. It showed a large-faced man with a slightly squashed nose and a wide-lipped mouth and small eyes. The eyes were not looking straight at the camera and appeared glazed and absent. The mouth was tilted between a grin and a smile. The flesh under the eyes was puffy. Beneath the photograph was a printed form with typed-out details. Date of Birth: 15.3.19. Height: 6 ft. 0? ins. Weight: 13 st. 10 lbs. Colouring: brown hair, blue eyes. Scars: 2? scar, left knee. Distinguishing Marks: broken nose. Married or Single: married. The card was headed, Full Name: Sawney, Albert Leonard Wilfred. Subsequent forms recorded that he was born at Fulham, had an elementary education, entered the service as an apprentice in 1934, was a service heavyweight boxing champion in 1940, 1941, rose progressively to the rank of Warrant Officer (Stores), had been stationed at Tern Hill, Leuchars, Hornchurch, Compton Bassett, Padgate, Matlaske and Huxford, was married in 1947, was presently in receipt of allowances for three children, had been punished for several petty offences including AWOL and being drunk and disorderly, and was regarded by a succession of commanding officers as Efficient, Conscientious, Skilled in his Trade, Unstable but Conscientious, Conscientious, Conscientious and Efficient, and Conscientious. He had been on several ground defence courses. He was graded as a marksman.

‘Ground defence?’ Gently queried.

‘But of course,’ Withers said. ‘As though you hadn’t enough against him anyway, he’s an expert at handling weapons. Rifle, revolver, automatic weapons, and a dab hand with a grenade. I know. I’m a shooting man myself. He was a regular at the range.’

‘What else does ground defence consist of?’

‘Oh, gas lectures. Field tactics. Crawling for miles on one’s stomach. Anything strenuous and unpleasant.’

‘And he was good at these things?’

‘Yes. He was that sort of bloke.’

‘Handy,’ Campling said. ‘Very handy. And now he’s on the run with a Sten.’

Gently nodded at nothing. ‘You had Poles stationed here,’ he said. ‘We don’t think Teodowicz was in England during the war, but it’s an angle we can’t overlook. Could you have the record checked — for a Timoshenko Teodowicz?’

‘I’ll get on the blower.’ Campling made a note.

‘Also for a Jan Kasimir. Spelt with a K.’ He felt in his pocket. ‘Then there’s this.’ He took out the envelope with its wisp of wool. He went to the desk, shook the wool on to a sheet of paper, put the sheet in front of Campling. ‘What would you say it was?’

Campling poked at the wisp. ‘It’s been snagged off an Air Force uniform,’ he said. He was silent a moment. ‘That’s important,’ he said, ‘isn’t it? It’s something that’s going to hang Sawney.’

‘It’s a piece of evidence,’ Gently said. ‘I want its identification made steam-proof.’

‘We can do that for you,’ Campling said. He sighed. ‘The bloody fool,’ he said.

‘Now I’d like to talk to that Corporal out there.’

‘The bloody fool,’ Campling repeated.

The Corporal came in. He was a thin, pale-faced man. He had nicotine-stained fingers. His hands trembled all the time. He was about thirty-five years old. His name was Corporal Timmins. He had to stand up because there was no seating.

‘This is Superintendent Gently of the Yard, Corporal,’ Campling told him. ‘He wants to ask you some questions.’

Timmins flashed a nervous look at Gently, dropped his eyes, mumbled, ‘Yessir.’

‘You can stand easy,’ Gently said.

Timmins tried to stand easy. His feet dragged apart a little, his hands crept round behind him.

Gently said: ‘How long have you been stationed at Huxford, Corporal?’

‘About… a couple of years, sir,’ Timmins mumbled. ‘I come here in March fifty-nine.’

‘Were you a corporal then?’

‘Yessir, I was. I was made up a corporal when I come here.’

‘You like store work?’

‘Yessir, don’t mind it. I worked in a warehouse before I come in.’

‘How did you get on with Warrant Officer Sawney?’

‘Oh, all right sir. He was all right.’

‘Pals, were you?’

‘Well… I don’t know, sir.’ Timmins stiffened his arms, relaxed them again. ‘I wouldn’t say we was pals, not like that. He’d got his Tate and Lyle, sir. But he was all right, he was one of the lads. You used to know where you was with him. He took us on the booze now and then.’

‘Where did he take you on the booze?’

‘Oh, Baddesley, sir… Offingham, sometimes. Once we had a do in Bedford, but we didn’t go there much.’

‘Did he have any friends at these places?’

‘Not like friends I don’t think, sir. He knew the blokes behind the bar and that sort of thing.’

‘Did he talk to the civilians?’

‘Well, he passed the time, sir. Like what the Spurs would do to Leicester, and such like. He liked to talk.’

‘Did he talk to the transport drivers?’

‘Could’ve done, sir. I can’t say.’

‘Did he use to go to the Blue Bowl Cafe in Offingham?’

‘Yessir, we’d go in there for a snack.’

‘You often went there?’

‘Well, now and then, sir. When we wanted something to soak up the beer.’

‘Would you say he went there habitually?’

‘I wouldn’t know about that, sir. We went there with him… well, maybe half a dozen times.’

‘Did he know the waitresses in there?’

‘He knew one of them by her name, like.’

‘Did he talk to any civilians in there?’

‘He may have done sir. I just can’t remember.’

‘Did he talk to any foreigners?’

‘Not that I know of, sir, he didn’t.’

‘Did he use to go to The Raven roadhouse?’

Timmins relaxed his arms, which had been steadily stiffening.

‘Yessir,’ he said. ‘He used to go there, but he didn’t take us along with him.’

‘Why was that?’

‘Well, sir.’ Timmins tried to grin. ‘There’s a bint in there, it was like that.’

‘A woman?’

‘Yessir. Wanda, her name is. He was a regular one in there.’

‘He used to spend nights with her?’

‘I reckon so, sir. Leastways, he was up there a lot of evenings. Let on she was a tidy bit of stuff, and that sort of thing.’