park to the ground. One had to return to the road and enter by the turnstiles or by the stand. The surface of the park was cinder-dirt, worn rather thin — dry now, but with plenty of clayey depressions where puddles had been not so long since. Gently came out and went into the ground through the main stand entrance. Nobody enquired his business. Two groundsmen were working in one of the goal-mouths, a third was driving a motor-roller, while three or four City players in tracksuits jog-trotted round the running track. Gently strolled out on to the pitch to where the groundsmen were working. ‘Do you know where I can find the car park attendants?’ he asked.
One of the groundsmen straightened up and surveyed him coolly. ‘Who wants to know?’ he countered.
‘Police.’
‘Why — what’s wrong now?’
Gently shook his head sadly. ‘I just want some information… that’s all.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Are you one of the attendants?’
The groundsman twisted his mouth and spat. ‘I could be,’ he said.
‘Were you on the park last Saturday?’
‘Suppose I was?’
Gently held out his hand in a gesture of non-aggression. ‘I’m not trying to pinch anyone… I just want to know something. Do you remember a red Pashley sports with an aeroplane mascot being parked there?’
‘You mean Mr Leaming’s car?’
‘That’s right — do you know him?’
‘I should do. He’s there often enough.’
‘And his car was there?’
‘Yep.’
Gently paused, comfortably. ‘Whenabouts did it check in?’ he proceeded.
‘I dunno… just before the match.’
‘Did Mr Leaming say or do anything that he didn’t usually say or do?’
‘Well…’ The groundsman looked puzzledly at Gently, trying to decide what was behind it all. ‘He talked to me about the team changes and such-like. He don’t do that as a rule, I suppose, and then again, it was just on kick- off.’
‘Did you see him enter the ground?’
‘I’d got other things to do besides watch him.’
‘Were you there when he collected his car?’
‘Yep.’
‘About when was that?’
‘Same time as all the others.’
‘He wasn’t there a little early, by any chance?’
‘Not so’s you’d notice it… he may’ve been ahead of the rush.’
‘Thank you,’ said Gently, ‘that seems to be everything.’
Outside in Railway Road he stood looking back at the ground. There lay the secret, the missing link… if only he could get his hands on it. Someone in there, or someone who had been in there on Saturday, could supply it. Someone who knew Leaming. Someone who could testify that he hadn’t been at the match… even someone who had seen him double back over Railway Bridge. But how did one separate that someone from the other twenty-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine?
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
