Alan Hunter: Gently by the Shore

‘I haven’t got to tell you, flattie… you’ve got nothing on me!’

Gently nodded and turned out the fragments from his pipe. ‘Between nine, say… and midnight…’

‘All right, you bleeding copper!’ Frenchy jumped to her feet and raised her voice to a scream. ‘So he wants to know… he wants to know what I was doing on Tuesday night when someone was doing-in the bloke they found on the beach… I’m a naughty girl, and of course he picks on me!’

‘That’s right!’ bawled the sporty-looking individual, sliding off his stool, ‘you tell him, Frenchy, you tell him where to get off!’

‘He doesn’t know anything… he’s just picking on me… maybe he’s after something else too, the dirty so-and-so!’

‘He wouldn’t be the first, either!’

‘And now he’s looking for a chance to run me in… that’s what it is…’

‘Shame!’ welled up from all over the bar.

‘He comes from tarn just to pinch our Frenchy!’ yapped the sporty-looking individual.

‘They’re a dirty lot… there isn’t a man I’d call one amongst them

… they’re sent down here to find a murderer and all they can do is make trouble for girls like me.’

‘It’s all they’re good for, chasing-up women!’

Gently looked up mildly from the refilling of his pipe. ‘We don’t seem to be getting very far with what you were doing on Tuesday night

…’ he murmured.

Frenchy rocked on her heels, fuming at him. ‘I’ll tell you!’ she screamed. ‘I’ll tell everybody, and they can bear me out. I was right here, that’s where I was. I didn’t shift an inch from this bar, and God help me!’

‘It’s the truth!’ barked the sporty-looking individual, coming up, ‘we saw her here, didn’t we, boys?’

There was a unanimous chorus of assent.

‘And after half past ten?’ proceeded Gently.

‘I was outside playing with the machines.’

‘And after that?’

‘Christ, can’t a girl have any private life these days?’

‘What was his name?’ asked Gently amid laughter and jeering.

‘Jeff!’ shouted Frenchy, ‘come and shake hands with a chief inspector.’

Gently glanced sharply at Frenchy’s nook, where one of the two shadowy figures was getting reluctantly to his feet. He was a tall, well-made youth of sixteen or seventeen, not unhandsome of feature but with a weak, wide, thin-lipped mouth. He wore a Teddy boy ensemble of all one colour — plum red. It began with his bow tie and collar, descended through a straight-cut narrow-sleeved jacket and reached the ground via drain-pipe trousers and spats — a red of the ripest and fruitiest.

Gently eyed this vision curiously. It hovered uncertainly at some little distance.

‘It was him?’ inquired Gently, a shade of incredulity in his tone.

‘Of course it was bloody well him… they all have to make a start, don’t they?’

Gently beckoned to Jeff. ‘Don’t be frightened,’ he said, ‘it wasn’t indictable…’

The Teddy boy came forward, flushing.

‘Can you confirm what this woman says about Tuesday night?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Would you care to describe it… I mean, the relevant parts?’

‘There isn’t anything to describe!’ scowled Frenchy, ‘he met me in the bar, that’s all.’

Gently glanced at Jeff interrogatively.

‘That’s right… in the bar,’ he said.

‘And then?’

‘And then we went to her… place.’

‘Where is that?’

‘It’s a flat in Dulford Street.’

‘And you spent the night?’

‘I… actually… you see…’

‘Of course he didn’t!’ Frenchy broke in, ‘did you think I wanted his old man on my barrow? I turned him out at half past twelve… he’d done enough by then, anyway!’

There was a roar of laughter.

‘And who is his old man?’ inquired Gently smoothly.

‘He’s Wylie of Wylie-Marine.’

‘You mean that big factory on the quays near the station…?’

‘That’s right, copper,’ Frenchy sneered, ‘you’re good, aren’t you?’

Gently drew a few slow puffs from his newly-filled pipe. Most of the occupants of the bar seemed to have drawn closer to a centre of such absorbing interest. But the second figure in Frenchy’s nook wasn’t joining in the general enthusiasm. On the contrary, he had shrunk back almost out of sight.

‘And Bonce?’ inquired Gently, inclining his head towards the nook.

‘Bonce?’ queried the Teddy boy. He had stuck his hands in his jacket pockets and seemed to be screwing himself up to an air of toughness.

‘If you’re Jeff, I take it that your shy friend is Bonce. What was he doing while you were getting off with Frenchy here?’

‘Bonce!’ shouted Frenchy, ‘stop hiding yourself… the big noise is on to you too.’

All eyes turned towards the nook, where there was an uneasy stirring. Then there ventured forth a second version of the plum ensemble, shorter, clumsier and even more youthful looking than its predecessor. Bonce was no beauty. He had carroty hair, round cheeks, a snub nose and an inherent awkwardness. But he was sartorially correct. His outfit matched Jeff’s down to the tie of the shoes.

‘And what’s your name when you’re at home?’ queried Gently.

Bonce licked his lips and stared agonizedly. ‘B-Baines, sir,’ he brought out, ‘Robert B-Baines.’ He spoke with a Starmouth accent.

‘And where do you live?’

‘S-seventeen Kittle Witches Grid, sir.’

‘Well, Baines, you’ve heard the account of Tuesday night your friend has given… I take it that you can endorse it?’

‘Oh yes, sir!’

‘You came here with him, in fact?’

‘Yes, sir!’

‘And you were with him until he departed with this woman here?’

‘Yes, sir!’

‘All the time?’

‘Yes, sir!’

‘Even when he was ingratiating himself with her?’

Bonce stared at him round-eyed.

‘When he was getting off, I mean?’

‘Oh yes, sir!.. I mean… no, sir…’

‘Well… which is it to be?’

‘I… I…!’ stuttered Bonce, completely floored.

‘And when they had gone,’ pursued Gently affably, ‘what did you do then… when you were left on your own?’

‘Don’t you tell him!’ screamed Frenchy before Bonce could flounder into a reply, ‘it’s all a have — you don’t need to tell him nothing.’

‘No, we haven’t done anything,’ blurted Jeff, trying to swagger, ‘you keep quiet, Bonce.’

‘He just comes in here trying to stir something up, trying to get people to say something he can pinch them for… that’s how they work, the bleedin’ Yard! I-!’

‘ CLOSING TIME!!!’ roared a stentorian voice, a voice which drowned Frenchy, drowned the jazz and rattled empty glasses on some of the tables.

Every head spun round as though jerked by a string. It was as though a bomb had exploded over by the counter.

‘ FINISH YOUR DRINKS!!!’ continued the voice, ‘ IT ’ S HALF PAST TEN!!!’

Gently peered round Frenchy’s shapely form, which was hiding the owner of the voice from his view.

‘ DRINK UP, LADIES AND GENTS. YOU WOULDN’T WANT ME TO LOSE MY LICENCE!!!’

He was an enormous man, not so much in height, though he topped six feet, but enormous in sheer, Herculean bulk. His head was bald and seemed to rise to a point. His features were coarse and heavy, but powerful. There was a fleck in the pupil of one of his grey eyes and he had, clearly visible because of the sag of his lip, a gold tooth of proportions to match the rest of his person.

‘ BREAK IT UP NOW, LADIES AND GENTS. YOU CAN STILL AMUSE YOURSELVES WITH THE MACHINES!!!’

About fifty, thought Gently, and still in good fighting trim.