Alan Hunter - Gently through the Mill

The village was typical of that part of the county, a short, level street winding between a huddle of quite spacious houses, several with architectural pretensions. In the centre it broadened into a small plain where grew a massive oak tree. Here there was a shop and post office, and around the corner a garage with a solitary petrol pump.

Griffin followed Gently doggedly as he strolled into the latter.

‘Is there a Fred Larkin here?’

A figure in soiled dungarees eased itself from under a pre-war Singer which almost filled the small building.

‘I’m a police officer… I understand you had your bicycle stolen last night.’

He was a young fellow with ginger hair, obviously alarmed by this unnatural incursion of policemen.

‘I… yes — somebody took it.’

‘Would you like to repeat the registration number?’

He was so upset that he had to have two goes at it.

The village hall was a rather ornate structure of red brick and stone, incorporating also the village’s two war memorials. On the noticeboard was still pinned a weird amateur poster advertising in brushwork last night’s ‘Gala Supper Dance’; in a cycle stand beside it three machines had been left.

‘I put it there, three from the end… there was two other blokes with me.’

‘What time was that?’

‘About eight… you see, my girlfriend…’

‘Was that the last time you saw it?’

‘I’m going to tell you — she wasn’t ready! I went up for her, and

… one thing and another… it was getting on for ten, and the bike was here then.’

‘When did you miss it, then?’

‘When I came out. I thought someone had shifted it for a joke. When it wasn’t here this morning, I went to the police.’

‘Where’s the bus stop?’

‘It’s over there by the oak.’

He hung around uncomfortably, probably under the impression that he was going to get his bicycle back. Gently ignored him and went over to the post office. There, in a red frame, were posted the times of the village’s rather infrequent bus service. There was nothing in the evening between 7.10 and 10.42.

‘We’ll want a list of all these villages covered by Service 56 — the ones that use it as well as the ones it goes through. Better phone in to H.Q. and get them on the job. I want the check-up before the evening paper gets around.’

‘You think they were biding out there?’

Even Griffin was beginning to be impressed by the breaks Gently was getting.

‘I think it’s worth a try — and we may be lucky. Though if Roscoe’s got any brains he won’t be waiting for the evening papers.’

‘He might be thinking that Ames-’

‘That’s why I want a quick check-up.’

Again he got back into the car and left Griffin to deal with the donkey work. Now he was almost truculent — damnation, he wasn’t in the Central Office for nothing!

Larkin, still wandering like a ghost, seemed fascinated by the sight of his bicycle strapped to the roof of the car. It wasn’t until Griffin came back from the phone box that he learned that certain formalities must be gone through…

It was still only half past eight when Gently, further postponing his shave, sat down in the breakfast room of the St George. Dutt, who had had a relief, was already embarked on his bacon, egg and kidney.

‘Been a dirty night, sir.’

Gently grunted and poured himself some coffee. A plate of cornflakes was laid at his place, but he felt made of sterner stuff and had them taken away.

‘My man has just been in, sir. He’s got a streaming cold and left a copper watching the mill.’

‘What was Blacker doing last night?’

‘Nothink, sir. Being very quiet, he was.’

‘You know what’s turned up?’

‘Yessir. The copper told my relief. But Blacker was in kip when I handed over, and he never showed his nose again till he went to the mill this morning.’

‘Would he have a back way?’

‘No, sir. I checked it personal.’

‘He’s a lucky man, Dutt.’

‘Yessir — we did him a favour, didn’t we?’

‘Keep on tailing him. He isn’t in the clear yet.’

After breakfast he sat smoking awhile. He had already had a brief interview with Superintendent Press. The Lynton police chief was plaintive almost — this time there couldn’t be much doubt that his crimeless town was tied into the business. That Roscoe was the culprit was his only hope now, and he had tried to sell Gently the idea with the shameless persistence of desperation. Gently, looking owlish, had mumbled unintelligible nothings.

Actually, there had always been two sides to this affair. From the very first it had split neatly into two perplexingly connected sections.

On the one hand, you might say, the rogues, Taylor, Ames, and Roscoe; they seemed to have been playing a game on their own, with nothing to show how it had ever brought them to Lynton.

On the other hand, Lynton, as represented by the mill and bakehouse — defensive, apprehensive, involved, suspect… yet still, in some odd way, quite detached from the other.

That was the heart of the problem and always had been. Sitting in his office, the assistant commissioner had straightway put a finger on it. And Gently, working round it, had done nothing but set the enigma in higher relief.

Griffin alone had been able to suggest a credible bridge between the two factions…

Shaking his head, Gently knocked out his pipe. There was far too much now that wanted explaining! Money came into it, apparently a great deal of money; and it was Lynton money, that was pretty well established.

And now two of them had gone, leaving only Roscoe.

What would the fellow do… faced by two such examples?

It was straight, steep, regular, rhythmic Northshire rain, which, having struck its tempo, seemed intending to continue till the crack of doom.

The market square, its gutters rushing with water, was as empty as a hosed-out fish barrel. In the streets one met only a few housewives hastening between the shops, their brightly coloured plastic macs glistening under advanced umbrellas.

It was dark, too. The shops had on all the lights in their display windows, usually switched off during the day. Near St Margaret’s Church, where there were no shops worth speaking of, a murky gloom seemed to have settled among the buildings.

As for the pigeons… who knew where they went on a day like this? Probably they had long since congregated in Fuller’s mill, taking charge of one forgotten corner or another.

Gently, who could rarely be bothered with such things, had been obliged to accept the offer of a car.

It had stood most of the morning among the puddles in the mill yard, getting in the way of the lorries which came in for loading.

Then it had disappeared, not long before lunch, going back in the town direction. Fuller from his office and Blythely from his shop had both watched it departing — the one con espressione and the other with none at all.

And still it had rained and rained and rained; you couldn’t shift a yard without huddling into a raincoat and doing up every button.

The sky, a smoky wrack, seemed to rest on the gleaming rooftops. Some of the storm drains had got blocked with rubbish and were spreading aprons of water which they should have carried away.

Going in for lunch, grumpy and depressed, Gently had been obliged to change his shoes, socks, and trousers. He hated the rain, even of any kind, and this bout looked like being the limit.

‘It’s those atom bombs what’s doing it!’

He had exchanged a word or two with the maid who had taken away his discarded clothing to be dried. Logically speaking and according to the scientists… but had they really had such filthy weather in those halcyon days before the Second World War?