‘I believe the drivers find it so,’ Withers said.
Campling snapped the ball pen twice. Withers puffed, glanced at his wristwatch.
Gently said: ‘Getting back to the site here — who is on duty here at nights?’
‘It depends on whether there’s night flying,’ Withers said. ‘But we don’t see much of that these days. There’ll be flying-control up in the tower, and the duty orderly room clerk, and the duty driver, and the SPs, and the duty electrician in the charging room. That’s the lot.’
‘Anyone near the stores?’
‘Nobody nearer than the charging room.’
‘Do the SPs do any roaming about?’
‘Not unless they’re called out to something.’
‘So it’s pretty quiet here in the small hours?’
‘Very quiet,’ Withers said.
‘You could bring a truck in by the back way, and spend an hour loading it up?’
Withers nodded. ‘You could do that. If you knew a man. Who had a truck.’
‘Yes,’ Gently said. ‘A man with a truck. But who, one day, might quarrel with you.’
Campling finally dropped the ball pen. He took a cigarette case out of his pocket. He opened the case, took a cigarette himself, threw one to Brennan, who stood in the doorway. Gently had meanwhile brought out his sand- blast, and now all four men were smoking. The bicycles and footsteps outside had ceased. A motor horn sounded far away, near the gates.
Campling said to his cigarette: ‘It’s a case. I don’t think Sawney’s going to be court-martialled. If you want those boxes and cartons dusted, we can do it. Brennan’s got his equipment in the guardroom.’
‘Have you got Sawney’s dabs?’ Gently asked.
‘Naturally. We took a set off his shaving mirror. And I’ve got his photograph and full description and all the particulars you’ll want.’
‘I’d like the stuff printed,’ Gently said.
Campling nodded to Brennan. Brennan left. Campling drew in heavily on the cigarette, let the smoke trickle out of his nostrils.
‘The bloody fool,’ he said. ‘Why did he have to do a thing like that? We’d got him for certain on the flogging charge, but that’s a technicality in the services.’
‘You don’t know Sawney,’ Withers said. ‘Sawney was the type to blow his top.’
‘But with a Sten gun?’ Campling said. ‘Hell and all, man, he must have been bonkers.’
‘He was the type,’ Withers said. ‘Sawney had a nasty bit of a temper. I can imagine him getting the tip-off he was going to be shopped and then taking off with that gun. It’s just too bad he had access to one. He could have clobbered the Pole with his bare fists.’
‘He must have been insane,’ Campling said. ‘It was savage what he did. He’ll have to plead insanity.’
‘Are any murderers sane?’ Withers asked, puffing.
‘This one isn’t,’ Campling said. ‘I’ll stake my discharge on it.’ He looked at Gently. ‘What are your views?’ he said. ‘Or is it against protocol for me to inquire?’
Gently stared at the smoke from his pipe. ‘I haven’t got any views,’ he said. ‘I’m simply fact-finding.’
Campling laughed. ‘If you want it that way,’ he said. ‘Perhaps the whole discussion is sub judice and incompetent. But it’s a clear case, I’m afraid. Sawney is for the high jump. And I’m sorry for it. I got the impression he was more of a knave than a criminal.’
‘Thank you,’ Gently said. ‘The reaction of the man on the job is also a fact. And I’m puzzled, that’s another fact.’ He puffed once or twice. ‘Because there’s another case against another man which another investigator finds logical. And there seems no connection between the two. Except the shooting of Teodowicz.’
Both of them stared at him.
‘This is getting too devious for me,’ Campling said. ‘What do you want us to do?’
‘Just carry on,’ Gently said. ‘You’re better placed than we are to handle this end of the business. Go on clarifying the picture of Sawney’s racket and its connections. We’ll put out an all-stations for him, and give you a hand tracing his outlets.’
‘You mean you’re not convinced that Sawney’s the man?’
‘I’m not convinced or unconvinced.’
Campling shook his head. ‘You’re a queer lot, up at the Yard,’ he said. ‘I’d go to court with half this case. But you know your own business best. We’ll do what you say, of course. We’d continue to clear up this mess in any case.’
‘Have you those particulars for me?’
Campling stared at him for a second. Then he reached up a briefcase, opened it, took out some documents.
‘These are from Records and consequently sacred.’
‘I’ll see they’re returned in due course.’
‘Do,’ Campling said. ‘Or they’ll serve up my head on crossed prop blades.’
The first document was an identity card. It bore a photograph of Sawney. It showed a large-faced man with a slightly squashed nose and a wide-lipped mouth and small eyes. The eyes were not looking straight at the camera and appeared glazed and absent. The mouth was tilted between a grin and a smile. The flesh under the eyes was puffy. Beneath the photograph was a printed form with typed-out details. Date of Birth: 15.3.19. Height: 6 ft. 0? ins. Weight: 13 st. 10 lbs. Colouring: brown hair, blue eyes. Scars: 2? scar, left knee. Distinguishing Marks: broken nose. Married or Single: married. The card was headed, Full Name: Sawney, Albert Leonard Wilfred. Subsequent forms recorded that he was born at Fulham, had an elementary education, entered the service as an apprentice in 1934, was a service heavyweight boxing champion in 1940, 1941, rose progressively to the rank of Warrant Officer (Stores), had been stationed at Tern Hill, Leuchars, Hornchurch, Compton Bassett, Padgate, Matlaske and Huxford, was married in 1947, was presently in receipt of allowances for three children, had been punished for several petty offences including AWOL and being drunk and disorderly, and was regarded by a succession of commanding officers as Efficient, Conscientious, Skilled in his Trade, Unstable but Conscientious, Conscientious, Conscientious and Efficient, and Conscientious. He had been on several ground defence courses. He was graded as a marksman.
‘Ground defence?’ Gently queried.
‘But of course,’ Withers said. ‘As though you hadn’t enough against him anyway, he’s an expert at handling weapons. Rifle, revolver, automatic weapons, and a dab hand with a grenade. I know. I’m a shooting man myself. He was a regular at the range.’
‘What else does ground defence consist of?’
‘Oh, gas lectures. Field tactics. Crawling for miles on one’s stomach. Anything strenuous and unpleasant.’
‘And he was good at these things?’
‘Yes. He was that sort of bloke.’
‘Handy,’ Campling said. ‘Very handy. And now he’s on the run with a Sten.’
Gently nodded at nothing. ‘You had Poles stationed here,’ he said. ‘We don’t think Teodowicz was in England during the war, but it’s an angle we can’t overlook. Could you have the record checked — for a Timoshenko Teodowicz?’
‘I’ll get on the blower.’ Campling made a note.
‘Also for a Jan Kasimir. Spelt with a K.’ He felt in his pocket. ‘Then there’s this.’ He took out the envelope with its wisp of wool. He went to the desk, shook the wool on to a sheet of paper, put the sheet in front of Campling. ‘What would you say it was?’
Campling poked at the wisp. ‘It’s been snagged off an Air Force uniform,’ he said. He was silent a moment. ‘That’s important,’ he said, ‘isn’t it? It’s something that’s going to hang Sawney.’
‘It’s a piece of evidence,’ Gently said. ‘I want its identification made steam-proof.’
‘We can do that for you,’ Campling said. He sighed. ‘The bloody fool,’ he said.
‘Now I’d like to talk to that Corporal out there.’
‘The bloody fool,’ Campling repeated.
The Corporal came in. He was a thin, pale-faced man. He had nicotine-stained fingers. His hands trembled all the time. He was about thirty-five years old. His name was Corporal Timmins. He had to stand up because there
