Alan Hunter: Gently where the roads go

Gently said to Freeman: ‘Get this message through directly. The wanted man has escaped in a car by way of the Bedford-Baddesley Road. Make and registration number unknown. The existing cordons to be called in. Set up road checks outside towns within a fifty mile radius and particularly on the London approaches. The man is armed and dangerous.’

‘Roger, sir,’ Freeman said, and began to speak into his microphone.

Whitaker was flushed, his eyes were angry. ‘I’m a stupid so-and-so,’ he said. ‘You’re right, this bloke isn’t a rabbit, he’d got his escape route ready waiting. What else can we do?’

‘We can try to find out the make and number of the car,’ Gently said. ‘The car has been garaged here for over a week. Somebody ought to know something about it.’

‘Anderson!’ Whitaker called, looking round. Anderson came up, still carrying his gun. ‘Put that away,’ Whitaker said. ‘Anderson, who does this hut belong to?’

‘It belongs to the farm, sir,’ Anderson said. ‘Holly Tree Farm, a Mr Lemmon.’

‘How far away?’

‘About half a mile, sir.’

‘We’ll get over there,’ Whitaker said. ‘Palmer, Jackson, you take the dogs back. That was a nice piece of work, Jackson. Felling, you’d better come with us. And Freeman too, we may need the jukebox.’

They continued along the lane to its junction with the Bedford-Baddesley road, turned right, followed the road to a second junction, beside which stood milk churns. A rutted drive led to a farmhouse with a straw thatched roof. A woman wearing an apron answered the door. They were shown into a kitchen where two men sat eating. The elder of the two rose.

‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘Hullo.’

‘Mr Lemmon?’ Whitaker said.

‘Farmer Lemmon,’ the man said. ‘Joe Anderson here can tell you that.’

‘We’re trying to apprehend a man,’ Whitaker said. ‘We’ve tracked him into your hut in the poplar plantation. He appears to have had a car there. We’d like some information about that car.’

‘About the car, eh?’ Lemmon said. He was a broad-framed man with a thick-featured face. ‘Well, I don’t know a damn sight about that car. I never saw it. Did you, Phil?’

‘No, I never saw it,’ the younger man said. ‘Been too busy cutting to nose around.’

‘But I can tell you who owns it,’ Lemmon said. ‘And I reckon you can get your information from him. It’s a foreign bloke what comes from Offingham — Madling, Madson, that’s what his name is.’

‘Ove Madsen?’ Gently said.

‘Ah, that’d be it,’ Lemmon said. ‘Comes from Offingham, runs a truck. He shifted some stuff for me at one time.’

‘Madsen,’ Whitaker said. ‘Madsen. Madsen!’

‘How long had the car been there?’ Gently said.

‘Last Saturday, wasn’t it?’ Lemmon said to Phil. ‘Ah, last Saturday. He dropped by after tea. He’d bought this car, he said, and he hadn’t space for it, would I mind him sticking it in the old hut. I said no, it wouldn’t eat any grass, he could stick it there till he got rid of it. Come up here driving a green van… wait a minute. Wasn’t he the partner of that bloke what got murdered?’

‘Madsen,’ Whitaker said. ‘Can we use your phone, sir?’

‘Help yourself,’ Lemmon said. ‘It’s in the hall.’

‘He’ll be at the crematorium,’ Felling said, looking at his watch. ‘He got the funeral fixed up for four-thirty.’

‘He’ll be at the what?’ Gently said, catching Felling’s wrist.

‘At the crematorium, sir.’ Felling looked at Gently, looked away.

‘You didn’t tell me it was to be a cremation,’ Gently said.

‘The Westlow Chapel, sir,’ Felling said. ‘I didn’t think to mention it was a crematorium.’

Gently released Felling’s wrist, brushed by Whitaker into the hall. He picked up the phone book, flipped through it, picked up the phone, dialled.

‘Westlow Chapel?’ Gently said. ‘Superintendent Gently, CID. You have a cremation service in progress, subject Timoshenko Teodowicz. Stop the service immediately. The cremation must not proceed. If possible, detain the chief mourner, Ove Madsen. We’ll have men out there directly.’

He broke the connection, dialled again.

‘Superintendent Gently,’ he said. ‘I want a car sent out to Westlow Chapel to bring in Ove Madsen for questioning. Also make arrangements to collect the body of Teodowicz from Westlow Chapel. Yes

… Teodowicz’s body. Please attend to it directly.’

He broke the connection. Whitaker was staring at him.

‘What the devil’s all this about?’ Whitaker said.

Gently shrugged, dialled again, hooked up a chair and sat down on it. Whitaker shook his big head, looked at Felling. Felling was silent.

' Superintendent Gently,’ Gently said. ‘Put me through to the stores, please.’ He sat with his elbow on the hall table, his eyes dreamy, looking at nothing. Felling had shoved the kitchen door closed but through it came the drone of Lemmon’s voice. There was also the clink of cutlery on plates and the sound of someone stirring his tea. ‘Squadron-Leader Campling?’ Gently said.

‘Speaking,’ Campling returned. ‘I’m glad you’ve rung. We’ve got some results here you may find interesting., I’ve your Superintendent Empton with me, I think you’d better talk to him.’

‘Is Brennan with you?’ Gently asked.

‘Yes,’ Campling said. ‘I’m handing you over.’

Empton came on. ‘Hallo, old man,’ Empton said. ‘So glad I looked in here instead of going straight back to London. How is progress with you?’

‘What have you got?’ Gently said.

‘A small item of detail,’ Empton said. ‘Something that required my frivolous knowledge. Those Polish records have come in. I’ve spent the afternoon going through them. I’ve also interrogated that little Welshman — Jones. You know the one I mean?’

‘Yes, I know him,’ Gently said.

‘A remarkable memory he’s got,’ Empton said. ‘Not always available to a straight question, but the stuff’s there. If you put in a ferret.’

‘So?’ Gently said.

‘So,’ Empton said, ‘I had him go through the records with me. He began to remember names and people, to recall little things that had gone on. Like a couple of Poles who’d been friends with Sawney, a sergeant-pilot and one of their policemen. Sawney was great buddies with these two. They used to prang the boozers together. And this fascinated me very much because of what the records said about them. They both came from the same town in Poland — the town of Grodz. Does it strike a chord?’

‘Teodowicz came from there,’ Gently said.

‘I thought you might have forgotten,’ Empton said. ‘But you’re so right, it’s the same town, the three of them all came from Grodz. The sergeant-pilot was called Kielce — my pronunciation is authentic — and he was lost on a spy-dropping raid over Holland. The policeman returned to Poland after the war and went into the diplomatic service. At present he’s on attachment in London. Isn’t that a coincidence? Guess his name.’

‘Would it be Razek?’ Gently said.

‘That’s phenomenal,’ Empton said. ‘It could, it would be, and it is, my old friend Stephan Tadeusz Razek. Not just any Razek, you see. The full name is given here in the record. He came from Grodz. He was Sawney’s buddie. And he sent little Jan to talk to Teodowicz.’

‘Hmn,’ Gently said. ‘So what do you make of it?’

‘What I’ve always made of it,’ Empton said. ‘In my crazy boy-scout way. I think it was Razek who ordered the killing. I’m not sure why, it might have been personal, both of them coming from the same town. But I’m sure he ordered it, just as I’m sure he set up his old buddie as the fall-guy. He knew the ropes here at Huxford, and he’s not particularly a man of sentiment.’