‘I reckon it might have been a Leyland, sir. I didn’t pay a lot of attention to that.’
‘A Leyland,’ Gently said. ‘Could the dark colour have been green?’
‘Yessir, could have been,’ Timmins said.
‘Thank you,’ Gently said. ‘That’ll be all for now, Corporal.’
Timmins dragged his feet together, threw up an uncertain salute.
‘Hook it,’ Campling said tersely. ‘I might forget you’ve been given immunity.’
Timmins slunk to the door, but there halted, partly turning again.
‘What’s worrying you, Timmins?’ Withers asked.
‘I was wondering,’ Timmins mumbled, ‘if we could go to tea, sir?’
Withers chuckled. ‘Go on. Clear off. But don’t show your nose out of camp.’
‘No sir,’ Timmins said. ‘Thank you, sir.’ He went through the door, closing it meticulously.
Campling lit a fresh cigarette, blew fierce smoke at the ceiling. ‘Can we tie Sawney in any tighter?’ he asked. ‘Or won’t a simple hanging do for you?’
Gently gave a little shrug. ‘It’s pretty tight,’ he admitted.
‘Teodowicz’s truck was a Leyland, painted green?’
‘Yes,’ Gently said. ‘But there are two Leylands. Two Leylands, two big men, and possibly two khaki jackets.’ He struck another light for his pipe. ‘Will Jonesie have gone to tea?’ he asked Withers.
‘Not till I get back,’ Withers said.
‘Get him on the phone,’ Gently said.
Withers rose from his toolbox, went over to the desk, phoned the Orderly Room.
‘What do you want to know?’ he asked.
‘More about past personnel,’ Gently said. ‘I seem to remember airmen with Norwegian flags on their shoulders. I’d like you to ask Jonesie if he remembers any being here.’
‘Roger,’ Withers said. He put the question to the phone. ‘Yes,’ he said, after a pause. ‘Oddly enough, there were some here.’
‘Does he remember any names?’
Withers asked. ‘No, no names. Apparently there were only one or two, and they were soon remustered somewhere else.’
‘Can you get me their names?’ Gently asked Campling.
‘I’ll try,’ Campling said. ‘Is it important?’
Gently also blew smoke at the ceiling. ‘It’s an angle,’ he said. ‘It had better be covered.’
CHAPTER SIX
Thursday, in the evening. The August twilight beginning. The sun melted away indefinitely into a haze of red, orange and umber. The bleached sky becoming dusty. A single large and very yellow star. The air thick and sodden with heat and with the humidity that would be a dew. Beetles flying. A bat disporting itself like a butterfly, in a quiet corner. A flush of young starlings going to roost. A partridge scolding from the stubble. Aircraft, black, swathed, huge, standing silent around the deserted perimeter, breathing, to a little distance, oil and glycol and a certain sourness. Number three hangar, closed, but with a draped Magister standing outside it. A Nissen hut with bikes stood about it, a couple of starting trolleys, some gantries, covers. An airman in shirtsleeves appearing at the door, watching incuriously, vanishing again.
And on the Road the vehicles had sidelights for the light which was neither one thing nor the other, bating no speed although the drivers were squinting and reacting less surely to their problems in velocity. Two had died in the past ten minutes, having failed in some calculation of differential. Other mathematics allowed for further mortality at a predictable rate per minute. Some of these condemned had read of Teodowicz. They had been deaf to more distant bells. And they would die with little stir, though perhaps more fearfully and no less bloodily. But nobody would hang because of that. Their deaths were too numerous and commonplace. A vehicle is a clumsy blunt instrument which can scarcely be wielded more than once. A small fine, a brief imprisonment, that would be society’s limit. Death itself is unimportant. Only the weapon has significance.
And the stars began to define themselves above the statistics of the Road, dusting the greyish dim hemisphere with a thousand million of computations, clarifying the terrestrial egotism with an index of mild infinity, but unseen: infinitesimally, North and South went its way.
Gently came to The Raven.
It was a one-storey timber building and was shaped like an L, with the gable-end of the short stroke nearest to the road. It stood alone. It was two miles from Everham, a mile and a half from Huxford village. Behind the building lay a garden with some fruit trees, but beyond that the fields, and the fields were dark. The interior of the L formed a vehicle park. At the front of the park were three derelict petrol pumps. Near the pumps stood a post carrying a rusted sign. The sign represented an heraldic raven and bore the name beneath in Gothic letters. At the foot of the post was a painted board which read: Transport Cafe; Meals; Bed and Breakfast. The windows of the short stroke were dimly lighted. The windows of the long stroke were not. A door, set in the short stroke near the angle, had a naked bulb over it and a sign: Open. In the park were two trucks, an articulated, a removal van, a black Mini-Minor and a moped. From the building came the distorted sound of a jukebox playing.
Gently slid the 105 into the park, locked it, stood for some seconds looking at the vehicles. Then he went in. He entered a long room with a service counter opposite the door. Behind the counter stood a woman, and on the counter leaned an airman, talking to her. They both stopped talking to look at him. He went up to the counter.
‘Yes?’ she said, her face a blank.
‘A cup of tea,’ Gently said. ‘What are you serving?’
‘Well, I can do you egg and chips. Or a pie. Or some cold meat and salad.’
‘Egg and chips,’ Gently said.
‘Bread and butter?’
‘No, just egg and chips.’
She hadn’t taken her eyes off him, and now, suddenly, the eyes smiled. Not the mouth, which was small and tight, but the eyes: they unexpectedly flowered.
‘You’d like your tea now, I suppose.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll have it to go on with.’
She felt under the counter for cup, saucer and spoon without letting her eyes wander away. The airman, a sergeant, looked down into the glass which rested half-empty in his hand. The jukebox hammered to a stop, gritted, clicked and was not restarted. She poured the tea, pushed a sugar bowl towards him.
‘You haven’t been here before, have you?’ she asked.
Still the eyes and not the face. The face was flattish but with a delicate chin.
‘No,’ he said. ‘This is my first visit.’
‘I just thought your face seemed familiar,’ she said. ‘I’ll bring your egg and chips if you’ll sit down. It shouldn’t take five minutes.’
He sat down. He felt hot. He sipped the tea, looked at the room. It held about twenty small square tables, each with four chairs to it. The walls were lined with plasterboard which had been at some time distempered cream and on them were hung a few cockled advertisement cards featuring soft drinks and potato crisps. There were seven other customers, crews of the vehicles parked outside. Four of them sat at one table, eating and talking, one was reading a paper, one had his feet up, snoring. The other one had been playing the jukebox, but now sat solemnly drinking tea. The one with the paper sat at the end of the room and wore a ring that flashed when he turned a page. The room smelt of fried chips, coffee, tobacco-smoke. It was lit by two bulbs and there was one behind the counter.
He kept sipping the tea. The woman had gone through a curtained doorway. From behind it came the hiss of an egg broken into hot fat. The four drivers together were talking about breakdowns which always occurred on a Saturday or a Sunday. The sergeant, a young man with a flushed complexion, remained leaning on the counter and paying attention to nobody. Beyond where the egg was cooking a door opened and closed: softly. Then somebody attended to the egg.
