hand. ‘There’s something really does puzzle me, and that’s how the killer got away with it. The appearances are that he ambushed Teodowicz, that is to say, he was waiting hidden in the bushes. Now if he was in the bushes he couldn’t see the road, apart from that segment immediately in front of him, yet he seems to have let fly with a prolonged burst as though he were certain there was no other traffic in earshot. This was between one and three a.m. when there is still a trickle of traffic. He couldn’t have reckoned on being lucky to such an unlikely extent.’
‘Yy-es,’ Whitaker said. ‘That does seem peculiar. But he certainly used the gun there, we picked up God knows how many shells and bullets. What do you make of it?’
‘Hmn,’ Gently said. ‘He could have had an assistant to watch the traffic.’
‘You think he did?’
‘No. It would have been too difficult. They could watch the traffic, but they couldn’t forecast Teodowicz’s arrival. I think it was something else… I think we may have underestimated the cunning of this chummie.’
‘In what way?’
Gently said: ‘Information. Would you know Baddesley pretty well?’
‘I was born and brought up there,’ Whitaker said. ‘How does Baddesley come into it?’
‘Is the station in the middle of the town?’
‘No, about half a mile outside it. Baddesley is only a town by courtesy title — not important enough to bend the main line for.’
‘Where is the car park with reference to the station?’
‘It’s round at the back. You go under a bridge.’
‘Any lights there? Any attendant?’
Whitaker shook his head. ‘It’s just the corner of a field.’
‘Yes,’ Gently said. ‘That fits in. Sawney’s van was found there, remember. And the service police elicited that some airmen were catching early trains, though they couldn’t get Sawney identified — there are several RAF stations in the district. But his van was there, that’s hard fact. Sawney went there that night.’
He frowned at Whitaker. Whitaker watched him.
‘Let’s try it this way,’ he said. ‘Sawney drives to Baddesley Station. He has a way to make Teodowicz meet him there — proof that he was in the racket with him, perhaps: anyway, he gets him there. And when he arrives Sawney contrives to attack him and either kills him or knocks him out, then he puts the body in the back of Teodowicz’s van and drives it along to the lay-by. Now the problem is much simpler. Sawney can bide his time for a break in the traffic. Then he fires his burst into Teodowicz, part of it from the bushes to suggest an ambush, and escapes over the fields, leaving a trail of misdirection behind him. Very roughly, that fits the facts.’
‘Yes,’ Whitaker said. ‘Nothing overlooks the car park. But if it’s as you say, why did Sawney bother to use the Sten gun — if Teodowicz was dead, where was the point?’
‘He might not have been dead,’ Gently said. ‘Sawney wouldn’t have risked a shot near the station. And then when he did open up, all his lust for vengeance went into it.’ He grinned at Whitaker. ‘Or something,’ he said. ‘I was never much good at spinning a theory. I’m just trying to get a shape that fits the facts where it touches.’
‘Oh yes, it fits,’ Whitaker said.
‘If one could only believe in it. But it calls for a surprising amount of calculation from a man whose first object is to kill. He learns he’s betrayed, he grabs a gun, he rushes off to exact vengeance, and then he embarks on a curious plan of cool-headed misdirection. And yet it worked something like that, because the facts require it. The facts we know, that is. It could be we’re lacking a key part.’
‘Such as Kasimir,’ Whitaker said.
Gently nodded. ‘He could be that factor. Until we know where he fits, there’s a blur in the focus.’
‘You’re thinking he maybe took a hand in it.’
‘I think he’s still playing his cards. But what his game is I can’t fathom. And maybe Empton can tell us that.’
‘Empton,’ Whitaker said. ‘I can’t get over him. I didn’t know blokes like him existed.’
‘Complete with Jaguar,’ Gently said.
The Town Hall clock struck another quarter.
He walked down the High to the Coroner’s Court, which was situated across a small public garden at the back of the Town Hall. The public garden was enclosed by the high walls of surrounding buildings and had a mean, sunless look, with moss growing in the lozenges of thin grass. The Coroner’s Court filled one side of it, a single- storey building of damp brick. A mortuary was attached to it on the left and both bore the date: 1887. People stood about the garden. One or two were wearing mourning. A spruce, plump man moved among them with a subdued, wistful smile. He had a supply of cards which he was discreetly offering. At the door of the court stood two uniformed constables. They touched their helmets as Gently approached. One of them said:
‘I think you’re a bit late, sir.’
Gently checked. ‘How do you mean?’
‘The inquest, sir. It’ll be about over. It’s been going on for half an hour.’
‘Isn’t it at eleven?’
‘Half-past ten, sir.’ The constable looked mildly wondering.
‘I was told eleven.’
‘No sir. Half-past ten. They naturally put it at the top of the list.’
As he was speaking a door near them opened and a number of the pressmen began to push out. They were not in a hurry, began lighting cigarettes, seemed only to wake up when they spotted Gently.
‘Any statement for us yet?’
‘No statement.’
‘Is Sawney in this?’
‘Who’s Sawney?’
‘The bloke whose picture we’re running.’
‘You’ll get a statement from HQ.’
He shoved in at the door against the current of people who were trying to get out. He found himself at the public end of the court, which was long, low and badly lit. Only the local man remained at the press tables and the public gallery was on its feet. Madsen, wearing a cheap but neat blue suit, stood at the bench saying something to the coroner. Felling stood not far behind him, looking sullen. The coroner was scribbling on a piece of paper. He nodded twice and handed the paper to Madsen, Madsen glanced fearfully at Felling, left the court. Felling saw Gently, came down to meet him.
‘There’s been some funny business, sir,’ he muttered. ‘It’s lucky I came down here early. The inquest wasn’t at eleven at all.’
‘What made you think it was at eleven?’
‘That’s where the funny business comes in, sir. Somebody rang my flat during breakfast this morning to say the inquest had been put back till eleven. Said he was calling from the Coroner’s office.’
‘Did he identify himself?’
‘Yes sir. Said he was the Coroner’s clerk. And his voice didn’t sound unlike Mr Jimpson’s.’
‘Which is Mr Jimpson?’
‘That gentleman there, sir.’
‘Have you asked him about it?’
‘I was just going to tackle him, sir.’
Gently went up to Jimpson, who was now going over a typewritten sheet with the Coroner; a small-featured man with aggressive eyes and close-cropped silver grey hair. He turned sharply at Gently’s approach.
‘Mr Jimpson?’
‘That’s me, sir.’
‘Did you ring Sergeant Felling’s flat this morning to tell him that the inquest had been put back till eleven?’
Jimpson stared frostily at Gently.
‘No sir. I did not.’
‘Would any of your staff have done that?’
‘They would not. Why should they?’
‘Has the time set for the inquest been changed at any point?’
