Through the tattered garments protruded a stuffed linen bag, expertly moulded into shape and attached with tapes.
‘And this is where he got the ten years!’
Gently pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed the corner of Thatcher’s eye. A browny-red stain of greasepaint appeared on the white fabric…
‘And if you still aren’t satisfied-’
He spun savagely on his heel.
‘-ask his daughter there, who was prepared to be an accessory for him! Ask his son, who despised his lack of spirit! Or ask his wife, who in effect destroyed him! They’ll tell you who he is — or one of them will!’
He paused, his eye fixed on Mrs Lammas. The hate that flared at him was like a glimpse of hell-fire. But she didn’t say anything. Neither did Paul say anything. It was Pauline who ran sobbing to throw herself into her father’s arms.
‘Daddy — oh daddy! I did my best!’
Somehow, in spite of the handcuffs, he managed to stroke her short, fair hair.
‘I guessed what had happened… I wouldn’t tell them!’
‘Don’t cry, little girl.’
‘Daddy… I did my best!’
‘You’ve always done your best…’
It was Lammas speaking now. They had heard the last of Thatcher. His voice was inexpressibly soft and kindly, but his eyes were staring vacantly and he didn’t look down at his daughter.
‘Oh daddy — oh daddy!’
‘Little girl… you mustn’t cry.’
Gently bit his lip painfully and touched her on the shoulder. She broke away directly, as if acknowledging her powerlessness to resist. He hesitated by the pinioned man.
‘But why did you have to do it?’
Lammas shook his head bewilderedly.
‘Christ knows… Christ only knows.’
‘You’re a decent sort of chap…’
‘I got the idea… it fascinated me. Christ knows! I had to do it.’
‘All right then — we know where we are!’
The super’s bark was unnecessarily biting.
‘You admit you’re Lammas — you’ve heard the chief inspector charge you. If you’ve anything to say, just remember that it’s evidence. I’m not paying any attention to that last remark of yours.’
Lammas nodded without looking at him.
‘I intend to make a statement.’
‘You can do that back at headquarters, though if you’ll take my advice-’
He pulled himself up. Policemen didn’t give that sort of advice!
‘We’ve got the cars back on the road. Hansom, get this man away!’
What the super wanted to do was to regularize the situation, but the official note, once lost, seemed strangely unwilling to resume itself. He stood almost to attention as he watched them file away. First there was Lammas, conducted by Dutt and Hansom. Then followed Pauline, her head bent in sobs. Finally came Mrs Lammas and Paul, the latter still looking like a madman. Mrs Lammas walked in frozen state. She was there by constraint… this scene was unutterably beneath her!
As they disappeared behind the mill the super slowly relaxed from his pose.
‘I’ve seen some jobs in my time… I’ve seen one or two!’
He turned on Gently with a sudden fierceness.
‘You’ve made his coffin and screwed him down in it. You swine, Gently… you bloody swine!’
Gently nodded to the flowing stream. It wasn’t ever much fun, being a policeman.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
‘Now we know why he killed Annie Packer.’ Lammas had made a long, long statement. In the super’s office it was stuffy and warm in spite of two open windows and the obstinate issue from Gently’s sand-blast didn’t improve matters a bit. Down below the evening traffic was still busy in the street. A moment ago they’d been turning out of the theatre. In the pub across the way, no doubt, the cloth had gone up ten minutes ago.
‘What else could he do?’
Gently looked tired and bored, standing by the window. There was a nasty taste in his mouth. He had never been involved in a case he liked less, or been so sickened by his triumph. Yet Lammas had tried to kill him, too. And at the mill there’d been another bullet with his number on it.
‘When she caught him with his clothes off there was only one answer. And that’s why I couldn’t find any blood — he shot her in the cabin.’
‘We’ll find some blood — now we know where to look for it. And the bullet too, I daresay.’
The super hadn’t much kick in him either. He was sitting hunched up, his hands dug into his pockets. It wasn’t the way a super ought to sit, but for once in a while he was looking as though he couldn’t care less.
‘D’you think he told the truth about pulling the gun this afternoon?’
‘Yes… he couldn’t have gunned the lot of us. I was afraid of what he might do.’
‘It’d have saved a lot of money.’
‘I couldn’t take the risk.’
‘Would you have let him if you could?’
Gently made a meaningless gesture.
‘We don’t play God at our level… it’s higher up you meet the divinities.’
He pulled on his pipe. It was obvious that he didn’t want to talk. He’d done his job… he’d got to write his report. Apart from that, he’d have liked to have forgotten the whole thing.
But of course… he would have to tell his tale!
That’s why the four of them were hanging on there, instead of going off to supper and bed. And in a way, he did want to talk. Just as Lammas had wanted to confess. When you talked you involved other people… you crept back out of the unbearable loneliness of experience.
‘How about some coffee?’
The super pressed a button.
‘Let’s have some sandwiches too — come to think of it, I haven’t eaten since lunch-time.’
Down there, they wouldn’t know anything about Lammas’ arrest until they got the morning papers.
The sandwiches were tongue and the coffee the brand of coffee that only superintendents get out of police canteens. Gently felt better after the snack. There was a sort of humanity in food and drink…
‘Now — getting back to the beginning of this affair.’
He was sitting in his favourite way with the chair back to front. Dutt was stuck away in a corner, Hansom near the desk, his long legs sprawling. They hadn’t put the light on — it wasn’t really necessary.
‘What stuck out like a sore thumb was that week on the yacht. It couldn’t be explained — there was no adequate reason for it. Lammas had carefully planned things so that he had a week of grace before inquiries began, yet here he was, openly hanging about, almost making certain that someone took notice of him. You can argue that not many people on the Broads knew him and that he kept well clear of Wrackstead — but against that you’ve got to remember that he hired a Wrackstead boat and gave his own name and address to the boat-yard. Then, at the end of the trip, he phones for his chauffeur! What sort of madness was that, from a long-sighted man like Lammas?
‘That’s where I started going wrong. He had me fooled with the telephone call. Instead of accepting it and drawing an inference, I began looking for an accomplice in the family, somebody who could have traced Lammas to Ollby and then tipped off Hicks.
