‘Soles… plaice… I don’t know.’
Another, a little boy, was trying his best to fly a kite.
They came up with the boats, still a centre of interest. The reporter and his colleague were in conversation with the fishermen. One of the latter was showing the photographer where the body had lain; another, a freckled- faced youngster, was sweating over an engine.
‘Any statement for us yet?’
‘It was probably a man who did it.’
‘You told us that before.’
‘It could have been a woman.’
The reporter touched his photographer’s shoulder. It wasn’t often that one got a present like this! Gently, apparently unconscious of his picturesque qualities, continued his unhurried survey of the group of boats.
Of the seven, six were gaily painted and one alone was white. This was the boat in which the freckled youth was working at the engine. They were bluff-bowed, deep-bodied, powerfully built little craft, not more than seventeen feet long but big and burly for their size. Each had an ‘S.H.’ registration board bolted to its gunwale and its name, with suitable flourishes, carved in its transom. There was the Girl Betty, the Boy Cyril, the We’re Here, and the Willing Boys. The white boat had a varnished name board and was called the Keep Going.
Gently paused beside the latter, so utterly different was it from the others. Quite apart from the paint and the name board, it stood out as a separate species. It had a finish like a yacht. All the fittings were chromium plated. The paintwork had been built up until the surface resembled velvet, while the gunwale and the transom were of varnished teak that shone like glass.
‘Is this one a pleasure boat?’
The youngster wiped his brow with a hand which left a greasy mark.
‘There isn’t a lot of pleasure in her!’
‘No… but does she go fishing?’
‘W’yes, that’s what she’s for.’
‘Then what was the idea of getting her up like this?’
‘You’d better ask Mr Dawes — it just happen he take a pride in his boat.’
A wave of a spanner indicated the net store on the hill. Beside it was standing a tall fisherman with a white beard. He was leaning against one of the tarred posts from which the drying nets were slung; his eyes, staring out to sea, had the peculiar vacancy of seafaring men ashore.
‘He like to show off his money!’
One of the fishermen spat contemptuously — the same man who had been showing the site of the tragedy to the photographer. He was a lean but powerfully built fellow of sixty or so. His face had a vindictive cast and his dark eyes looked angry.
‘Boats like mine aren’t good enough for Esau Dawes — did you ever see such truck on a longshore fishing boat? Next thing you know it’ll be gold-plated ringbolts!’
‘Shut you up, Bob!’ came from several of his mates.
‘Why should I shut up? I don’t owe nobody no money!’
Gently hunched his shoulders and wandered over towards the gap. The Keep Going’s owner paid him no attention as he passed by. Fifty yards further on sat the young artist with his easel; he held a brush between his teeth while he stroked vigorously with another. An old umbrella tied to a broom handle was keeping the glare of the sun from his work.
‘That’s Simmonds… you remember?’
If he did, Gently made no reply. Like any other curious stroller he went up to see what was happening to the canvas. Simmonds, a taut-faced young man with reddish-gold hair, charged his brush nervously as he felt himself being overlooked. He was painting a beach-scape in rather sombre colours; he had perhaps noticed it and was now darkening his sky.
‘Do you sell any of your pictures?’
Simmonds looked round quickly, flushing. He possessed wide hazel eyes which had an oddly vulnerable appearance. His lips made a perfect Cupid’s bow and the lower one trembled.
‘As a matter of fact I do!’
He was forcing a hardness into his voice.
‘I’ve sold several pictures — I’m not entirely an amateur! Now, if you don’t mind, I prefer not to talk while I’m working.’
‘I thought I might buy one.’
Simmonds seemed more upset than ever. He attacked his sky with an awkwardness that threatened to ruin everything. In the background his tent looked snug with its flaps neatly rolled and tied. One of the tracks which intersected the marrams passed close beside it on the way from the village.
‘What do you know about him?’
Dyson was eager to supply information. It was the first time since they had left the guest house that Gently had shown the slightest curiosity.
‘His age is twenty-two. He comes from Cheapham but he’s living in Norchester. His mother is dead and he had a row with his father, who keeps a butcher’s shop in Cheapham. He works for an insurance firm in Norchester, but his head is full of this artistic nonsense.’
‘Who saw him with Rachel Campion?’
‘A girl from the guest house, name of Longman.’
‘What did she say they were doing?’
‘Just walking on the beach. Simmonds was carrying his painting gear.’
‘He’s got good looks, of course.’
‘Do you think — shall we pull him in?’
Gently smiled through his sweat.
‘Let him finish his picture! We’ll go back to the Bel-Air and have a long iced shandy.’
As Dyson said later, Gently had a genius for getting backs up.
CHAPTER THREE
The Bel-Air had an unsuspected merit: it really did seem cooler inside it than out. This may have been due to the trees, which were the only ones in Hiverton — they were wind-sculptured oaks and threw little enough shade, but their dark leaves tempered the all-pervading glare.
In the bar Maurice was serving milkshakes to a group of noisy teenagers. He seemed very popular with them and they all addressed him by his Christian name.
‘Some of that pineapple, Maurice.’
‘Maurice, make mine with maple syrup!’
A slim girl with a gamine cut had plugged in an electrical recorder. In a moment half of them were clapping and tapping to a recording of ‘Jailhouse Rock’.
‘How’s our crime coming along, Maurice?’
‘Jimmy looks like a killer, and he had a pash on her!’
‘Is it right that there’s a couple of Yard men down here?’
‘Dig that boss of hers — he’s got something on his conscience!’
Dyson had gone off to catch a bus into Norchester. He had got fed up with trying to help Gently. The manager of the Bel-Air, who wore a lounge suit despite the weather, had taken Gently aside for no conceivable reason. In his office he had produced a file of testimonials. One was signed by a former minister and another by a well-known comedian.
‘This has always been a place with a reputation. I don’t know how-’
‘Nobody remembers what they read in the papers.’
‘I only hope we shan’t have a rush of cancelled bookings.’
He treated Gently to a drink and seemed to want to hang on to him. Eventually he was called away to
