Gently Floating (12 page)

‘How interesting,’ Gently said.

‘Yes,’ the woman said, ‘a gold watch, one of them self-winders, you know. Got engraving on the back. He’ll show it to you if you ask him. Then they was talking, I don’t know, about all the boats being out for August. I don’t listen to what they say. But they weren’t having a row.’

‘Very interesting,’ Gently said. ‘What colour tie was Mr French wearing?’

‘It, it was blue,’ the woman said. ‘Yes, that’s it, a blue tie.’

John French said: ‘No. No tie.’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ the woman said. ‘No tie, I’m forgetting, that must have been some other day.’

‘Perhaps you’re forgetting about the row,’ Gently said.

‘No,’ the woman said, ‘I’m not forgetting.’

‘They did have rows, didn’t they?’ Gently said.

The woman kept her head down, didn’t say anything.

John French said: ‘If you want to see the watch—’

Gently shook his head. ‘I’ll believe the watch,’ he said.

‘I’ll fetch it, show it to you,’ John French said. ‘Then you won’t be able to say it’s a lie.’

Gently stood silent for several moments. He tapped the envelope on his knuckles. Then he shrugged, held it out to John French. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘take the money.’

John French looked at him.

‘Take the money,’ Gently said.

John French put out his hand. His hand was shaking. Gently put the envelope in it. John French took the envelope.

‘I wouldn’t bother to see Sid again tonight,’ Gently said. ‘Sid’ll be otherwise engaged. And don’t pay Sid any money. There’s nothing useful it can buy.’

John French said quickly: ‘You, you’ve got it wrong.’

‘How wrong?’ Gently said.

John French shook his head, was silent. After a moment Gently turned and went down the lawn.

T
HUS: SUPERINTENDENT GENTLY
drove back to Haynor in the launch
White Heron
when it was nearly dark on the evening of Friday August 7th. The water was pallid between heavy-shadowed banks and smoking with fine white mist and the mist hovered in level strata in motionless continents and islands. Lamps were lit in the moored craft which were all large because of the darkness and the light of the lamps was orange-yellow and the boats looked hollow and big inside. Below each lamp a serpent wriggled in the water. About the serpents the water was heavy and glasslike. The flaps of awnings were tied back showing dim outer caves leading to lit inner caves in which mahogany glowed reddishly. In the inner caves people sat eating smoking talking laughing. Occasionally an outer cave was lit and there people were cooking or washing dishes. The mooring ropes of the boats disappeared into the blackness of the rond and the marshes and the alder carrs and the reedbeds and the silence. Past these
White Heron
slid into the shanty street of the bungalows with Reuben’s lights prickling bluely beyond the stretched silhouette of roofs with Reuben’s Cakewalk hammering the sky and traffic mounting the black bridge and the square flat-roofed building of French’s yard bulking faintly above these. Nothing passed her on the way. The traffic tide was at slack water. Single and double at the quays the lit yachts burned the water. Reuben’s lights gashed the water and it was oily where the lights gashed it. People walked along the ronds. People laughed, called to each other. At the Country Club mooring a man was standing and passing car lights showed the man to be Archer. Archer was watching
White Heron. White Heron
came slowly in to the Club mooring. Archer didn’t move away. Gently stepped ashore, moored.

Archer said: ‘You’re breaking rules, should’ve had lights coming up here.’

‘I’m always breaking rules,’ Gently said. ‘What would it have cost me, breaking that one?’

‘Christ knows,’ Archer said. ‘There’s never anyone around to book you for it. The police pack up about teatime. Anything goes on the Broads.’

‘Are you working this late?’ Gently said.

Archer shook his head very slowly. ‘Wife’s a nagger,’ he said. ‘She was on a nagging jag tonight. I didn’t strangle her, perhaps I ought to. Do you think I ought to strangle her? But no, I’m forgetting, that’s one of the rules you wouldn’t break. Anyway I didn’t strangle her. I was strong. I came out to booze. Maybe tomorrow I’ll strangle her. I don’t know. Stick around.’

‘Did you want to talk to me?’ Gently said.

‘Hell no, not especially,’ Archer said. ‘I see you haven’t brought back young French in handcuffs, I thought you would when you followed him off.’

‘Why did you think that?’ Gently said.

‘I’m a philosopher,’ Archer said. ‘I get like that on Friday nights. No particular reason I know of. All the week I’m as miserable as sin and the more bottles the more I’m miserable. Maybe it takes a week to tank me up, I wouldn’t know. It’s a theory.’

‘You’re not drunk,’ Gently said.

‘Listen to the policeman,’ Archer said. ‘Maybe they’ll cop me when I drive home and then I’ll call you as evidence, that’ll be a laugh.’

‘You’ve been watching me,’ Gently said.

‘Who guards the guardians,’ Archer said. ‘Don’t you like being watched, Mr Policeman?’

Gently didn’t say anything.

‘On Friday nights,’ Archer said. ‘Haynor belongs to me, Fridays. All the damage is done then, nobody bashes a boat on Fridays. Nobody bashes Harry French on Fridays. I don’t strangle my wife on Fridays. You don’t arrest young French on Fridays. What do you say I buy you a drink?’

‘Why were you watching me?’ Gently said.

‘It’s a habit,’ Archer said. ‘I can’t break it.’

‘Why are you pretending to be drunk?’ Gently said.

‘It’s cheaper,’ Archer said, ‘a darn sight cheaper. Do you know what they charge for Scotch these days, not the cheap stuff, genuine Scotch? It’s wicked, the government are killing the business. It costs me a fiver a day to keep sozzled. And now they’ve mucked about with methylated spirits so it makes your eyes pop out of your head, it’s getting grim, that’s a fact. You need to be a five-figure man.’

‘You’re not a five-figure man,’ Gently said.

‘I rob the till,’ Archer said.

‘You know more than you’ve told me,’ Gently said.

‘Well I’ve only known you five minutes,’ Archer said.

‘Why should John French pay Lidney money?’ Gently said.

Archer hiccupped. ‘That’s naughty,’ he said.

‘Why have you promoted Lidney?’ Gently said.

‘The system,’ Archer said. ‘Promotion. The system.’

‘Did John French tell you to promote Lidney?’

‘No,’ Archer said, ‘my goodness of heart. Can’t keep a good man down for ever. Got to promote him. That’s the system.’

‘Did you promote someone else to make room for him?’

‘New creation,’ Archer said. ‘In charge of boat’s furniture.’

‘Straight after Harry French was murdered,’ Gently said. ‘Lidney gets promoted. Just like that.’

Archer waved his hand uncertainly. ‘Don’t confuse me,’ he said. ‘For a policeman I like you, I like you a lot. But don’t confuse me. Keep it simple. You want a drink?’

‘Why did you promote him?’

‘Here we go,’ Archer said. ‘On and on and on and on. Just like my wife. Just like Gladys. You want a drink boy, that’s what. You want to forget all this ballsing. It isn’t doing you any good. What sort of life is it, I ask you.’

‘I’ll tell you why you promoted him,’ Gently said. ‘It’s because Lidney is a key witness. And that’s why John French is going to pay him money. Lidney has got you by the short hairs.’

Archer swerved, stuck his foot out, rocked himself steady. His long face and pendulous nose silhouetted a moment against Reuben’s lights.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It beats me, why I like you. You’re a rotten bastard, but I like you. Harry was a rotten bastard. I liked him. I’m a pushover for rotten bastards. My wife’s another, I like her. Rotten bastards. I reckon they fascinate me. If I was weak I’d be a rotten bastard. I can’t help myself that way. I attract them. Somehow.’

‘We could sober you up in a cell,’ Gently said.

‘Waste of time,’ Archer said. ‘Drunk or sober I’m always the same. I’m me. You can’t alter it.’

‘You’re at Lidney’s beck and call,’ Gently said. ‘Do you want that situation to last? Do you want to go on getting drunk so you can forget it? The degradation, you like that?’

‘Go on,’ Archer said. ‘I like it. Rotten bastards are meat and drink to me. Not meat, just drink, I’m a sort of vegetarian.’

‘You’re a fool,’ Gently said. ‘Nobody can cover up a murder. There’ll be a lot of you pulled in as accessories if you keep on lying and covering up.’

‘Should I care?’ Archer said. ‘Pull them all in boy. Fill the prisons top to bottom, make a clean sweep all round. That’s life, filling the prisons. You keep building them and filling them. The commies fill them with one sort, the cappies fill them with another. What’s the difference? Have a drink. You’re out in the country here boy.’

‘Yes,’ Gently said, ‘out in the country.’

‘Commies and cappies,’ Archer said. ‘I’m an anarchist myself but I never remember to be political.’

Gently didn’t say anything. People came across the bridge. The thumping rhythm of the Cakewalk was backed by the rumble of a coach, a truck. The river was stealing towards the Sounds, showed upward-moving where light fell on it. Somebody was falling around, shouting, in a moored dinghy. More people came across the bridge.

‘Friday night,’ Archer said. ‘Haynor belongs to me, Fridays. Only a common old working man with a couple of dozen drinks inside me. Another August Bank Holiday. So Harry French has to die. Nothing special. I’m a liar if I say it’s anything special. Go back to London and forget about it. We shan’t cheek the local copper.’

‘When did you last see the Speltons?’ Gently said.

‘Just forget about it boy,’ Archer said.

‘I want an answer,’ Gently said.

‘Disappointment unlimited,’ Archer said.

Gently said: ‘I don’t know if you realize it, but none of you have an alibi worth tuppence. You haven’t. The Speltons haven’t. The Lidneys haven’t. John French hasn’t. None of you have got alibis. All of you were here. All of you gain something from Harry French’s death. All of you are lying or being obstructive. Every one of you stands close to being arrested. You may be arrested in a bunch. That’s the situation, Mr Archer. You’d better sober up and think about it.’

‘You have to say it,’ Archer said. ‘That’s your job. You have to say it. But you’re a decent bastard too, I’m an expert on bastards. Look, we’re people. I’m one. You aren’t going to say I’m not one. I’m a comic bastard. My wife nags me. I hit the bottle. You can laugh at me. We’re all like that, we’re people. We don’t go around killing each other. Nobody can remember a murder here.It isn’t like London, isn’t like Starmouth. Look, I was standing here this morning, see, after you’d bollicked me in the office, and there was a cruiser moored over the other side with a couple of blokes on board it. They’d finished breakfast, were starting off. They were turning up to go through the bridge. One of the blokes was at the wheel, the other was tidying the mooring rope forrard. And the one forrard turned to come aft and he turned outwards instead of inwards and he just walked over the side and disappeared and the bloke at the wheel didn’t see it. They never do see it when it happens. It’s always casual, like that. There’s some bloody thing about motor-cruisers that drowns people even people who can swim. So we saw it and pulled him out and he was shaking like an aspen. But we needn’t have seen it, needn’t have pulled him out, he was just bloody lucky. That’s the way they die round here. Who’d have been to blame for drowning him? We built that cruiser. Hookers let it. You going to arrest us in a bunch? We murder several like that in the season, it’s one of the conditions of the business. You won’t see it mentioned in Hookers’ catalogue but you’ll see it mentioned in the coroner’s records.’

‘So,’ Gently said.

‘So,’ Archer said. ‘It was like that, just like that. Maybe someone’s to blame, I wouldn’t know, but not the sort of blame you should put them away for. More like an accident, that’s how. Like somebody walking off a cruiser. It’s a bad business, but it isn’t murder. You’re to blame for the murder part. Just get drunk. Forget about it. You’re not doing good, you’re doing harm. Let it heal. Stop using the knife. You’re dealing with people. The law’s an ass.’

‘Supposing you’re murdered next?’ Gently said.

‘I’m wasting my time,’ Archer said. ‘Never mind, Friday night. You go on playing detectives boy.’

‘I’m not playing,’ Gently said.

‘Don’t confuse me,’ Archer said. ‘You’re playing detectives. You play a good game boy. Friday night. Have your fun.’

He swerved again, checked himself, reached into the pocket of his jacket. He brought out a quarter flask of whisky, uncapped it, put the bottle in his mouth and tilted it. His throat worked. The lights of a bus showed his eyes expanded, looking at Gently. The smell of the whisky came to Gently. Archer finished drinking and recapped the bottle.

‘Nothing special,’ he said. ‘You’re out in the country, nothing special. Why do you kick it around so much?’

Gently nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said.

Thus: Superintendent Gently crossed the road near the bridge while William Archer remained standing at the mooring and Reuben’s Cakewalk was playing ‘Dark Eyes’: and Superintendent Gently took the cinder path between Speltons’ sheds and the Country Club and noticed in passing that there was a light in the sheds but that the Spelton house opposite them was unlit. He continued along the cinder path and stopped at the gate of the seventh bungalow. He went through the gate to the back door of the bungalow and rapped on the door with the knocker. A door creaked in the bungalow. Shuffling steps approached the outer door. A bolt was shot and the door opened and a woman stood there at first smilingly. She wore a blue worsted dressing gown and fur-trimmed slippers and the dressing gown was worn carelessly and there was nothing under the dressing gown; she wasn’t young she had a matronly figure but it was strong and aggressive, she had gold-blonde hair, blue eyes, a large thin-lipped mouth with spidery lines coming from it. She smelled of cloves perhaps carnation. After the smile her eyes were hard. She stood still without adjusting her dressing gown. She looked at Gently he looked at her. She said: