‘Who…? Nobody!’
‘Who was in the yard when you got back?’
‘I tell you-!’
‘You didn’t go straight into the bakehouse, did you?’
‘Yes, I did!’
‘What’s the quarrel between Mr Blythely and Mr Fuller?’
‘There isn’t no quarrel — they get on all right together!’
Gently shrugged and drank off the rest of his coffee. He was giving poor Jimpson a rough sort of a passage, but then he shouldn’t have been such a silly young…
‘What else haven’t you told the police?’
‘Nothing, I tell you!’
‘Why did you come to me just now?’
‘Jessie and me… she thought I ought to!’
‘What have you got against Mr Blythely?’
‘Nothing I haven’t! He’s all right to me…’
‘You’d better think carefully if there’s anything else you want to tell me.’
The cafe now was practically empty; Gently’s waitress stood at a distance by a sideboard, pretending not to be interested. A sunny West Indian voice from the radio was unfortunately spoiling her chances of eavesdropping.
‘Cricket, lovely cricket…
At Lord’s where I saw it!’
Only one customer was left, but he, as it happened, was sitting at the table immediately behind Gently.
‘You can add nothing, Miss Mason?’
‘Only that Ted’s telling you the God’s truth.’
‘You must have passed the junction of Cosford Street with Fenway Road — did you notice anyone making use of the back passage to the drying-ground?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Or anyone about there?’
‘No.’
‘A parked car, perhaps?’
She shook her head and then stopped herself. ‘There was a car there, come to think of it. I noticed one standing off the road just down Cosford Street.’
‘What sort of car, Miss Mason?’
‘I don’t know — I just saw it. It hadn’t got no lights on.’
‘A saloon car, was it?’
‘I suppose so. I just saw it standing there.’
Gently sighed to himself. If only women paid more attention to cars…! But there it was, another tiny fact, to fit, it might be, a final pattern.
‘Righto… that’s all for just now, though I shall probably need a statement from both of you later.’
A bit shakily they rose from the table — it had been a good deal worse than either of them had expected! Jessie stuck her hand defiantly into Ted’s, and wordlessly they passed out through the doorway.
Young love…
Wouldn’t she make him a very good wife?
‘Waitress — I think I’ll have some tea this time!’
Gently turned about and tapped the shoulder of the customer behind him.
‘Don’t be shy, Mr Blacker… come and sit at my table. I feel we could profitably discuss the situation.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Why had Gently’s mood changed, out of all proportion to the progress he was making? He couldn’t have given the answer himself, certainly not in the cold terms of an official report.
Nothing else had changed in the small cafe or the street outside. Over in his office Fuller was still peering across his screen, further along Mrs Blythely had lifted the latch of the shop door and now leant, elbows asprawl, scanning a lunchtime paper at her counter. From the loudspeaker above the serving-hatch the calypso singer continued to celebrate the deeds of ‘those little pals of mine’:
‘Cricket she makes so much fun…
The second Test and the West In’ies won!’
Yet his mood had changed radically. He had a tingling feeling of suppressed excitement. Something, surely, was on the move… he was beginning to get hold of the end of the stick in his hand!
‘Never mind your cup — the waitress won’t mind seeing to it.’
Blacker had somehow overturned the cup containing the dregs of his coffee, and was now trying to mop them up with a paper serviette.
‘You might have given us a warning…’
‘I didn’t know you were sensitive.’
‘Anyway, I got to get back.’
‘I feel certain that Mr Fuller can spare you for a bit.’
The foreman, recovered from his violent start, didn’t seem unduly discomposed. He lounged untidily into the chair beside Gently and lit a cigarette taken from an old tobacco tin.
‘So what do you want to know, then?’
If anything, his tone sounded complacent.
‘Whatever you can tell me.’
‘P’raps you think I could tell you a lot, eh?’
‘Perhaps.’
Blacker puffed deliberately at the cigarette, holding it between his finger and thumb with an air of clumsy affectation. Then he gestured with it towards the window.
‘See who’s watching us over there?’
Gently nodded.
‘Don’t think he likes seeing us two together — what are you going to make out of that?’
The green-grey eyes met Gently’s cunningly and a smirk twisted the weak mouth. There was nothing prepossessing about Blacker — even his ears seemed stuck on as an afterthought.
‘How long have you worked at the mill?’
‘Six years I reckon — six years too long.’
‘There must have been others who’ve worked there longer.’
‘Ah, but then I’ve got influence, you see!’
Gently nodded again, but made no further comment. If Blacker wanted to be clever, he was prepared to give him scope. Meanwhile there was Fuller, frozen behind his screen; at the distance one couldn’t read the expression, but one could see the unnatural pallor…
‘The boss and me, we’re like two brothers — in each other’s pockets, as you might say. When it happened he wanted a foreman, why, there I was. “Sam,” he said, “you’d better take over.” Just you ask him if that wasn’t the way of it.’
‘And that was on Good Friday?’
‘W’yes, why shouldn’t it be?’
‘I understood that Mr Fuller was without a foreman before that date.’
‘Ah, but he couldn’t carry on like that — it was too much for him, he had to give in.’
Blacker was quite happy now, puffing away at his cigarette. His whole clumsy attitude was one of complacency — of patronage, almost. He was conferring favours on Gently.
As he smoked he tilted back his chair with his heels. His big-boned frame, all knobs, showed up through the
