Alan Hunter: Gently where the roads go

‘Mrs Lane knows,’ Gently said. ‘But Mrs Lane isn’t telling.’

‘And he was hiding here?’

‘Under her bedroom. And the hideout wasn’t thought up in a hurry. I think there was a good deal of planning in this, I think it dates back further than Saturday.’

‘Hah,’ Whitaker said. ‘Sounds like Empton.’

‘No,’ Gently said. ‘Non-political. This is the crime of an individual. A crime of revenge. But not Sawney’s. Perhaps if we get those Polish records from Huxford we’ll be able to spot what’s happened. Or maybe it’s a job for Interpol, perhaps they can tell us more about Teodowicz.’

‘Or perhaps chummie will talk,’ Whitaker said. ‘He won’t get far. I’ve got the dogs coming.’

‘He’s got the gun,’ Gently said.

‘Yes,’ Whitaker said. ‘But he’s one man.’

The dogs arrived in a van. Two Alsatians with bloody eyes. They yelped and whined and heaved on their leads as they dragged their handlers into Wanda’s bedroom. Wanda was sitting in the parlour under the supervision of Rice. Her small mouth was very small, she didn’t have any smile in her eyes. The dogs yelped around the cavity. Freeman got in, handed up the mattress. The dogs fell on the mattress, tread on it, snuffing it, dragging out the smell of the man who had the gun. Their tails swept busily, they quivered, trembled. Their black muzzles poked everywhere. They stood off, gave voice.

One of the handlers said: ‘Where shall we start them, sir?’

‘Bring them round to the back,’ Gently said.

The dogs were brought there. They whined and snuffled, followed trails and cross-trails in and out of the yard. Then one of them lifted its wedge-shaped head and bayed wolf-like from the depth of its throat. It started forward: it went straight down the garden. The second dog yelped and struggled after it. Beyond the gap they were baffled temporarily, but then picked up the fresher scent and pointed out over the field. Gently, Whitaker, Felling followed after the handlers. Freeman came last, wearing a walkie-talkie set. The field was a stubble field about two hundred yards deep. The trail led towards a gate beside which was a stile.

Whitaker said: ‘These dogs will sort him out. I’d sooner have a dog than a gun any day. How far are we behind?’

‘Half an hour,’ Gently said.

‘But there’s the cordon,’ Whitaker said. ‘He’s got to beat that, don’t forget.’

Gently didn’t say anything.

‘Don’t you think the cordon will hold him?’ Whitaker said.

Gently hunched. ‘This fellow is a planner.’

‘But he didn’t plan for this kind of thing,’ Whitaker said. ‘Not being hunted by dogs across open country. He couldn’t have seen that coming off.’

‘He was planning to leave somehow,’ Gently said.

‘No,’ Whitaker said. ‘We’ve busted his plan for him.’

Felling was walking along silently. He had his gun holster unbuttoned.

They came to the field gate. The dogs barked at it. The gate was opened for them. They went ahead. Snuffling, gasping, heaving, whimpering, they dragged across a plot on which kale had been grown. Part of the kale crop was uncut and stood on the right in a green reef. The trail passed close along the line of the standing kale, turned round the far side of it, entered a spinney of tall elms.

‘Spread out here,’ Whitaker ordered. ‘We don’t want to run into him in a bunch.’

The men spread out among the elms. They trampled the underbrush noisily. Felling stayed on the track hard behind the two handlers. The trail followed the track. The track had been rutted by cartwheels. It bore left, passed an empty cart lodge, ran out of the trees, became a lane. In the lane a uniformed man was standing. He wore a gun. He had his hand on the gun.

‘Anderson!’ Whitaker bawled. ‘Seen any signs of him yet?’

Anderson’s hand went to his helmet. ‘No sir,’ he said. ‘Haven’t seen a soul, sir.’

‘What are you doing this way, man?’

‘I thought I’d close up, sir,’ Anderson said. ‘The army are putting down a cordon behind us. Thought I’d close up towards The Raven.’

‘Well, you can drop that idea, man,’ Whitaker said. ‘Tag along with the dogs, we can probably use you.’

They followed the lane. It ran between high hedges on which bunches of green berries had begun to redden. The dogs were never in any doubt, bullocked and snorted their way along it. Some distance ahead, beyond a screen of trees, one heard the occasional buzz of a vehicle. When he heard this noise Whitaker frowned. The noises became louder as they advanced.

‘What road would that be?’ Gently asked.

‘The Bedford road,’ Whitaker said.

‘Does this lane join it?’

‘Don’t know,’ Whitaker said. ‘Would we join the road, Felling?’

‘Yes sir,’ Felling said. ‘We join it. About four or five miles above Baddesley.’

Whitaker didn’t comment, continued to frown, walked a little closer to the dogs.

They came up with the trees, which were a belt of poplars. They made on the left a small grove. An opening, flanked by old posts, gave access to the grove, and through the opening could be seen a hut. The hut was old and had felt peeling from its roof. It had double doors, not quite closed. Through the roof a rusty chimney projected and upturned over this was an empty tin. The printing on the tin was fresh printing. The dogs turned in here. They pointed to the hut.

‘Hold them back!’ Whitaker commanded. ‘Nobody to approach that hut without orders. Felling, you take Freeman and Anderson, cover the hut from the rear.’

‘Are we to shoot?’ Felling said.

‘If he bolts,’ Whitaker said. ‘But at the legs, Felling, at the legs. Unless he’s blasting with the gun.’

Felling searched the hedge, found a gap to force, went through it followed by Freeman and Anderson. The dogs were hauling and struggling, but silent, their red eyes glowing at the hut. Whitaker turned to one of the handlers.

‘Give your gun to the Superintendent. When Felling’s set you’re to take your dog up while the Super and I give you cover. I’ll give the fellow a chance to come out. If he doesn’t, pull a door open and let the dog in. Palmer, you’ll let the other dog go. Keep on the ground, Jackson, when you get to the hut. You’ve got the idea?’

‘Yes sir,’ Jackson said.

‘I’m putting you in because you’re single,’ Whitaker said. ‘Sorry, man. It’s a blasted job.’

‘I don’t mind, sir,’ Jackson said.

Thirty seconds passed. They saw Felling. He was to the left of the hut, behind a tree. He looked at them, raised his, hand warningly, looked behind the hut, kept it raised. Ten seconds later he lowered it.

‘Right, Jackson,’ Whitaker said.

Jackson went forward, his dog galloping, got to the hut, threw himself flat. Nothing stirred in the hut. Jackson had hold of the dog by its collar.

Whitaker shouted: ‘You in there! We are the police, and we’ve got you surrounded. We are armed and we have dogs. I’m giving you ten seconds to come out. Come out with your hands above your head. I’m beginning to count now.’

Whitaker counted: One bloody second, two bloody seconds, up to ten. Nobody came out of the hut. Whitaker flashed his hand downwards. Jackson ripped open one of the doors, slipped the dog, rolled sideways. The dog crashed in through the door, snarling, clashing its white teeth. The other dog shot forward simultaneously. It went through the door. Both dogs were barking. Jackson scrambled up, ran into the hut. Palmer ran forward too. Whitaker ran. Gently walked.

‘Oh, the bastard!’ Whitaker said, staring.

The hut was empty except for two petrol cans. On the earthen floor were a number of oil stains and also the clear marks of car tyres. The dogs barked. They ran about excitedly. They wagged their tails. They whined at their handlers.