Alan Hunter: Gently where the roads go

‘Shut up,’ Gently said. ‘He’s still back there behind the building.’ She tried to open the door. He knocked her hands away from it. She screamed piercingly in her fear.

‘Who is it?’ Gently said. His eyes were hard on the building, isolating it. Nobody had come round either end of it, or through the door, still sagging open.

‘He won’t stop at you. He’ll kill both of us.’

‘What’s his name — who is he?’

‘Oh God let’s go, let’s go.’

‘Tell me who he is,’ Gently said.

She struggled again. He pinned her down. She tried to strike him. She was too weak. She sobbed and cried in frantic panic, making efforts to get the door handle. The moments passed, became minutes. Still nobody came round the building. The kitten appeared for a moment at the door, turned round deliberately, marched in again. Wanda’s struggles became less continuous. Her sobs declined into a moaning.

‘He’s a Pole, isn’t he?’ Gently said.

She whined. She went for the handle again.

‘Is he someone who was here during the war — one of the Poles who were at Huxford?’

‘Find out, you bugger,’ she whined.

‘How long has he been hiding at The Raven?’

‘Find out,’ she said. ‘Find out. I tried to stop him going after you.’

‘How were you going to get away?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Because you weren’t going to leave with him,’ Gently said. ‘He’s a psychopath. He’d kill anyone.’

She moaned, struck at him. Her eyes hated him.

‘You too,’ Gently said. ‘You’d like me to think that you’re man-proof. But he got round you. And he’s a killer.’

‘He’ll kill you,’ Wanda said.

‘Is he your husband?’ Gently asked.

She tugged savagely. ‘Talk bloody sense.’

‘We’ll find out,’ Gently said. ‘He’s shot his bolt.’

Two minutes. Three minutes. Wanda was quiet but breathing heavily. There was a big gap in the traffic coming along, the northbound traffic: the block was operating. The southbound traffic continued to flow. Nothing moved up at The Raven. The door was hanging on one of its hinges, caved inwards, hanging still. Gently looked steadily at Wanda. He put the key back in the switch.

‘I’m going back there,’ he said. ‘If he comes this way, don’t wait for him.’

‘No!’ she cried. ‘You can’t do that. He won’t give in, he’d sooner shoot you.’

‘I’m not relying on it,’ Gently said. ‘Don’t take the car except to avoid him. The road is blocked in both directions. Wait here. Unless he comes.’

‘No.’ She clung to him. ‘Don’t go after him. You can’t do anything. He’s got the gun.’

‘Yes,’ Gently said. ‘He’s got the gun.’ He pulled loose from her, got out of the car.

There was a gate in the hedge, into the field. He went to the gate and looked through it. The field was a small crop of turnips and had a cross hedge near to the gate. He climbed the gate, approached the cross hedge, found a gap through which to spy. Through the gap he could see The Raven at about a hundred yards distance. The garden was fenced with wire netting. He could see most of it. At the end of the garden were the fruit trees and from it a hedge extended to the hedge he stood by. He worked up the field to the line of this hedge. It bounded also the field of turnips. He passed through it near a small field oak, proceeded along it till he came to the garden. He looked along it and saw the yard. He saw where the man had stood when he was shooting. A scatter of shells lay about the spot, a few splinters of pinkish wood. Nothing moved. Between the yard and the fruit trees stood a poultry house with a sagged roof. He crept through the hedge, through the trees, came to the poultry house, stopped to observe. Nothing again. He moved rapidly into the yard, tried the door. It was still bolted.

He spent ten seconds listening, then came out of the yard and went to the bedroom window. Beneath it was chewed a savage rent through the wall timber and the hardboard lining. The rent was about the size of a dinner plate. He looked through it. He saw the kitten. The kitten was by the door and stretching its neck to sniff at a scar in the door frame. The room had no other occupant and the only sound was made by the kitten. He looked through the window into the cavity. There was nobody in the cavity. He looked along the wall towards the road, along the strip of ground between the wall and the fence. It was a part of the property not often trodden and was dripped on from the eaves and had a sandy surface. He trod on the surface. It gave a print. There were no other prints towards the road. He moved along it very quietly, came to the end of the short stroke where the gable faced the road. He looked up the road. Wanda was staring at him. There was now no traffic on the road. He picked up a stone, smashed the parlour window, ran quickly into the park, stood listening near the door. No sound. No movement. The kitten ran to meet him. He bent to stroke the kitten. He went in through the door.

Empty. Silent. The man had never entered the building. Gently checked through it quickly, no longer cautious. Since the shooting ten or twelve minutes had passed. The man had retreated through the fields after the shooting. The man wasn’t obsessed by his intention to kill Gently. The man was acting intelligently to retrieve his rashness. His retreat had perhaps taken him clear of the cordon which would be a local one concentrated on The Raven. Gently went to the phone, dialled, waited.

‘Superintendent Gently. Is the cordon in position?’

‘Yes sir,’ the station sergeant replied. ‘They should’ve set it up by now, sir.’

‘Are you in contact?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘I want the cordon set wider. The chummie has taken off from The Raven and is somewhere in the area north of it. He’s been gone over ten minutes. I want a cordon with a radius of two miles.’

‘Yes sir. I’ve got that, sir. But I don’t know if we’ve got the men, sir.’

‘Get on to the next county. We’re after a killer. Contact the army if that’ll be quicker.’

He put down the phone, turning suddenly. A man was standing in the kitchen doorway. The man had a gun pointed at Gently. The man was Felling. His eyes were squinting.

‘All right,’ Gently snapped. ‘Drop the gun. Our man has gone.’

Felling swayed a little. He was trembling. Then he relaxed. He lowered the gun.

Whitaker came in with Rice and Freeman. The two detective constables were carrying guns.

‘We’ve just caught your message on the radio,’ Whitaker said. ‘What’s been going on out here?’

Gently hunched. ‘It’s the way you heard it. The chummie has legged it across the fields. He came out of his hole to take a pot at me and I managed to get between him and the hole. He did some more shooting and I had to draw off. He didn’t wait. That’s the story.’

‘Who is it — Sawney?’ Whitaker asked.

‘No, not Sawney,’ Gently said.

‘Not Sawney?’

Gently shook his head. ‘A stranger. A Pole, I think he is.’

‘Did you get a look at him?’

‘In a sort of way.’ Gently’s eyebrows lifted, slanted. ‘He showed his face at a window for a moment, then he started shooting. I had to leave.’

‘So what’s he like?’ Whitaker said.

‘About fifty, tallish,’ Gently said. ‘High cheekbones, big chin, mid-brown hair, flattish nose, eyes paleish, deep lines. He can use a Sten but he isn’t an expert.’

‘He was using a Sten?’

‘He was using a Sten.’

‘You’ve got a guardian angel,’ Whitaker said. ‘I’d still have been running if he’d fired at me. Even one bullet makes me nervous. But this is a turn-up,’ he said. ‘If he isn’t Sawney, who the devil is he?’