Alan Hunter - Gently by the Shore

‘And no civilian disembarked from the time she docked to the time you went off duty at five?’ queried Gently encouragingly.

‘Only one, sir, and he came down with three or four of the ship’s officers… they seemed to be inspecting the cases of salmon which had been unloaded.’

‘The salmon? Would that have been unloaded by the ship’s crew?’

‘Yes, sir, it was in this instance.’

‘Down a separate gangway?’

‘That’s right, sir.’

‘And loaded on to trucks?’

‘No, sir, not directly. They built it up on a pile on the pier and it wasn’t till the evening when it was taken away.’

(‘That’s it!’ whispered the super, listening on an extension, ‘he bribed the sailors to get him off… they built a hollow pile for him to hide in.’)

‘This civilian who came to inspect the cases… when did he come ashore?’

‘Just before I was relieved, sir.’

‘What do you mean by “inspected”?’

‘Well, sir, they appeared to be counting them… they got one or two off the top to see how many were underneath.’

‘You noticed nothing unusual take place?’

‘No, sir. They just did their check and then stood about talking and looking about them for a minute or two. After that they strolled up the pier to the office and went inside.’

‘The civilian too?’

‘Yes, sir, the civilian and the officers.’

‘Can you describe the civilian?’

‘Middle-aged, about five-nine, medium-build, dark, dark-eyed, slanting brows, long, straight nose, small mouth, rather harsh voice.’

‘Distinguishing marks?’

‘I thought he had a scar on one side of his face, sir, but I only caught a glimpse of it as he came down the gangway. The rest of the time it was turned away from me.’

‘Ah!’ breathed Gently and propped himself up at a better functional angle with the super’s desk. ‘Now… this is important… did the civilian return on board with the officers?’

‘I don’t know, sir. My relief came just then and I went off duty. He’s in the office now, sir, if you’d like to speak to him.’

There were some confused ringing sounds at the other end and No. 2 took over. Gently repeated his question.

‘Well, sir… I regret to say I didn’t notice.’

‘Didn’t notice? Didn’t the other fellow tell you there was a civilian ashore?’

‘Oh yes, sir, he did. But soon after I got on the pier there was a row amongst some of the Polish seamen and it sort of took my mind off the others.’

‘What sort of a row was that?’

‘I don’t know what it was about, sir. Half a dozen of them came ashore and started shifting some of the cases that had been unloaded. Then all of a sudden a row broke out and a couple of them started a fight. I went up and separated them, but they kept on shouting at each other and making as though they’d let fly again, so I had to stand by and keep an eye on them. In the end one of their officers came up and sent them on board again.’

‘And during that little diversion the party in the pier office slipped aboard?’

‘I suppose they must have done, sir… they weren’t there when I checked up later.’

‘So if the civilian stayed ashore you wouldn’t have noticed?’

‘I’m afraid not, sir… I’m very sorry…’

(‘Cunning lot of bastards!’ interjected the super with reluctant admiration, ‘you can see they’re professionals!’)

Gently took in a few more inches of desktop. ‘Give me the other bloke again,’ he said. The other bloke was given him. ‘What else was going on at the pier while the Ortory was there?’

‘What sort of thing, sir?’

‘Any loading or unloading going on?’

‘There was a Swedish vessel unloading timber on the other side, sir.’

‘And that meant a bit of traffic up and down the pier?’

‘Quite a bit, sir. They were trucking some of it.’

‘Was it going past the pile of cases from the Ortory?’

’Yes, sir, just behind it. Some of the trucks parked there to wait their turn.’

Gently nodded towards the slow-mantling dawn. ‘And the Finnish Delegation?’ he asked, ‘what time did that embark?’

‘Just after lunch, sir… might have been half past two.’

They sat drinking a final mug of coffee with the electric light growing thin and fey under its regulation shade. The super was looking sleepily pleased with himself, as though he felt he had a good case to go before the ratepayers, both in forgery and homicide. After all, nobody could hang Special Branch business round his neck… concern he might show, when secret agents bumped each other off on Starmouth Sands, but he was only nominally responsible…

‘I suppose the bloke who did it is miles away by now,’ he murmured into his coffee. ‘If he shows the same ingenuity getting out of this country as he did getting into it…’

Gently shrugged slightly, but he didn’t seem to be listening.

‘And even if they get him I don’t suppose we can make a murder rap stick…’

There was a tap on the door and the duty sergeant entered.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said to the super, ‘but PC Timms has just turned in this here. It was given to him by the publican of the “Southend Smack”. He changed it for a Teddy boy in his bar last night, but later on somebody tells him about some duff ones going about, so he’s handed it in to be on the safe side.’

The super extended a nerveless hand. The duty sergeant placed therein a certain bill or note. And from an unexpected backyard at no great distance a cock crowed.

Sunday sun falling steadily on the platinum beaches, on the lazy combers, on the strangely subdued streets. On the well-spaced, comely mansions of High Town. On the quaint, huddled rookeries of the Grids. On the highly-polished bonnet of a police Wolseley as it halted on the crisp gravel of Christopher Wylie’s retired drive. On the more sober bonnet of PC Atkins as he knocked on the door of No. 17 Kittle Witches Grid.

‘I knew he won’t come to no good, that kid of Baines’s,’ said a frowsy matron to the newspaperman as they watched a goggle-eyed Bonce being marched away. ‘I said so as soon as I saw him in that fancy get-up of his. Did you ever see such frights as they look? And then for him to be mixing with that young Wylie… I said it would be his ruination.’

‘Going about the town at all hours and taking up with all sorts,’ said the cook at Wylie’s, relinquishing her vantage-point at the larder window, ‘they should’ve let me had the handling of Master Jeff — I’d have let him mix with riff-raff like the Baineses, I would!’

‘I dunno,’ returned the kitchen-maid dreamily, ‘I rather liked him in that silly suit of his.’

The cook snorted. ‘Well, you can see where it’s got him now, my girl!’

In the ill-lit parlour of No. 17 John George Baines, dock labourer, sat in his shirt-sleeves staring sullenly at the News of the World. His wife, a bold-faced woman, was slapping together the breakfast plates at a table covered with oil-cloth and two juvenile Baineses were scuffling and screaming on the floor.

‘It wouldn’t have happened,’ snapped Mrs Baines for the twentieth time, ‘it wouldn’t have happened, not if you’d kept a proper hand on him…!’

‘Oh, shut your mouth, woman… it’s your fault if it’s anyone’s.’

‘You’ve never give him a good hiding in your life!’

‘And who was it encouraged him with that bloody suit — trying to be up to His Nibs…?’

More silent was the breakfast-room in High Town. No sound fell upon the ears of Christopher Wylie, except the sobbing of his wife Cora. He stood with his back to her, staring out of the expensive oriel window, staring at his cypress and monkey-puzzle trees, his impeccable gravel drive.