Alan Hunter: Gently Does It

His eye fell on the little glass box perched on the side of Railway Bridge. The bridge-keeper! A gleam came into Gently’s eye. Was it his lucky day… was his detective’s guardian angel keeping this one up his sleeve for him?

‘Police,’ he said simply. ‘Were you on duty here last Saturday afternoon?’

The bridge-keeper stared at him. ‘W’yes…’ he said.

‘Do you know Huysmann’s manager, Leaming, by sight?’

‘Mr Leaming? Yes, I know him.’

‘Did you see him crossing the bridge in this direction just about the time the match started on Saturday?’

The bridge-keeper frowned and rubbed the side of his chin. ‘There was a powerful crowd of people going over the bridge about then… I don’t suppose I’d have seen him anyway.’

‘Later on… between four and five… did you see him come back again?’

The bridge-keeper brightened up. ‘Oh no, sir — I couldn’t have done. We close down here at half-past three on a Saturday… the bridge don’t open again till Monday morning.’

It was the same wherever he went. There was plenty of fuel for his moral certainty, but the cold, hard proof eluded every enquiry. Grudgingly, he had to admire the manager of Huysmann’s for his crisp, sure performance. It had needed luck, and Leaming had had luck… but, with Sempronius, he had deserved it.

Dispirited, Gently made his way down Queen Street to Charlie’s. He had no real purpose in going there. It was rather a piece of conditioned behaviour — Charlie’s had been useful before, so he turned to it now when he was at a loose end. Outside stood the usual trucks and vans, and from the yard across the way came the familiar accompaniment of screaming and whining. Leaming’s world, going full tilt.

But Leaming himself was in Charlie’s. He was standing at the bar eating a sandwich, nonchalant, aware of himself as being of a different creation from his surroundings. He smiled brightly as Gently entered.

‘Still busy?’ he remarked, tentatively.

Gently glanced at him and grunted. Then he pushed to the bar, ignoring him, and called for a cup of tea. The ghost of a frown appeared on Leaming’s brow. He turned towards Gently confidentially, as though expecting a conversation to start. But Gently, having received his tea, went away to a table and began sipping it as though Leaming didn’t exist. Charlie watched this little by-play with interest; leant across, and whispered: ‘He’s on to something — you mark my words!’

Leaming lifted a patronizing eyebrow. ‘How do you know?’

‘I seen him like that before… and you know what happened that time.’

Leaming shrugged contemptuously. ‘Don’t judge strangers so hastily

… the Inspector is merely feeling tired.’ He went over to where Gently sat. ‘You look fed up,’ he said, ‘haven’t things turned out as well as you hoped for?’

Still Gently refused to look at him. The slight, lacing edge of anxiety in Leaming’s tone was like music. It reassured Gently. It told him that Leaming was getting worried, that the strain was beginning to tell on him. The heat should have been off by now… and it wasn’t. Gently was still after him. And though he could tell himself that he held the trump cards, yet always there must be that little element of doubt, that tiny risk of something turning up… Even the fed-up look of Gently’s was suspect. It might be assumed to lull Leaming into a deceptive sense of security.

Gently sensed this, and smiled inwardly. His labours had not been completely in vain. Leaming was tough and cool and clever, but there was a limit to him: Gently could feel the initiative beginning to pass into his hands.

‘I’ve just come from the football ground,’ he said to his tea-cup.

Leaming laughed, but his laugh betrayed no nervousness. ‘I hope they’re getting into good trim for the match tomorrow.’

‘I was talking to the car park attendant.’

‘Which one — the red-haired fellow?’

‘This one had brown hair and grey eyes and small ears that stuck out.’

‘Oh, you mean Dusty.’ Leaming grinned, as though to excuse his familiarity. ‘He’s quite knowledgeable on football matters — I had a chat with him myself the other day.’

‘So he was telling me.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Just as the match was starting, too. I think it surprised him that you should stop to talk football, when you were already late.’ Gently turned slowly and fixed his green eyes on Leaming’s.

‘Oh, he’s probably exaggerating. On Saturday, I only had a couple of words with him.’

‘It sounded like more than that, the way he told it.’

‘Well… with a policeman chivvying him and putting ideas into his head… but it’s quite true that I chatted to him as he was sticking a chit under my windscreen-wiper.’

Gently nodded with a sort of vague satisfaction, as though the answer was just what he wished. ‘And as I was coming over the bridge I spoke to the bridge-keeper.’

‘You mean… Railway Bridge?’

‘That’s right. I don’t know which one, but he knows you… by sight.’

The tenseness now was visible in Leaming’s face. He stared into Gently’s eyes as though he would reach down and pluck out the knowledge that might be lurking there. ‘You mean the one with glasses,’ he said quickly, ‘he’s so short-sighted that he can scarcely read his time-sheets… he ought not to be on that job at all.’

‘He didn’t complain of short-sightedness to me.’

‘Naturally — he doesn’t want to lose his post.’

‘I don’t even remember the glasses.’

‘He tries not to wear them when there’s anybody about.’

Gently picked up his cup and took a long, reflective sip. ‘What makes you think it was the short-sighted one I was talking to?’ he enquired affably.

Leaming hesitated. ‘I noticed he was on as I came by after lunch… in any case, he’s the only one who knows me.’

‘Would you say he was the one who was on duty last Saturday?’

‘God knows — didn’t you ask him?’

Gently shrugged and said nothing.

‘Did he tell you that they packed up at half-past three on Saturdays?’

‘He might have done.’

Leaming leaned back, away from the table. Gently could see one brown hand tighten till there was whiteness about the knuckles. Then slowly it relaxed, the long, sensitive fingers uncurling, the thumb pointing outwards as Leaming forced calmness on himself. ‘You should be on that bridge when a match is on… there can be several hundred people a minute going over it.’

‘That’s a lot of people… all going one way.’

‘And the boys selling programmes and football publications, all crowded round with their customers… just in front of the bridge-keeper’s box.’

‘You’re making it sound quite busy.’

‘If you don’t believe me — tomorrow’s Saturday — go and look for yourself.’

Gently puckered his mouth ruminatively. ‘I may do that,’ he said, ‘yes… I may do that. I hear it’s going to be a good match, against the Cobblers.’

Norchester on a football Saturday woke up from the even tenor of its week-days. Soon after eleven o’clock the coaches began to stream into the city, coaches from the distantmost parts of Northshire — for the City had a big county following — and even from further afield. Out of the brooding depths of Thorne Station poured crowds of supporters with their rattles and gay favours of yellow and green, and the streets were thronged at lunch-time with factory-workers. The little cheap cafes and snack-bars did a roaring trade. Charlie’s, for instance, took on two extra hands for football Saturdays.

Riverside and Queen Street were the two main arteries from the city. Riverside, wide, tree-lined, with a long, broad flank between itself and the river, took the coach traffic: it had brightly painted vehicles parked three or four deep, so close to the edge of the quay that passengers were obliged to dismount from one side only. Queen Street, narrow and close-set, took the crowds from the city centre. Also it took the cyclists — for whom, at the far end, an insistent body of Queen Streeters touted their cycle-parks. At Railway Bridge the seething current from the city was joined by the rushing stream from Brackendale and together they poured over the bridge, a bridge that trembled beneath their thousand feet. Small wonder that Leaming was sceptical about being seen by the bridge-keeper, thought Gently.