‘No sir. At no point.’
‘Thank you, Mr Jimpson,’ Gently said.
Jimpson said nothing, turned back to the Coroner.
Felling shook his head, looked stupid. ‘I just don’t get this at all, sir,’ he said.
‘Neither do I,’ Gently said. ‘There doesn’t seem to have been any object in it. Where would you have been, if you hadn’t arrived here?’
‘Up at Headquarters, sir, preparing to come.’
‘Which would have meant a delay of five minutes when you were inquired for, and nothing more.’ Gently shrugged. ‘Could it have been a joke?’
Felling looked ugly. ‘It better hadn’t have been, sir.’
‘Was there anything familiar about the voice?’
‘Not that I remember, sir. I took it for Mr Jimpson’s.’
‘No foreign intonation.’
‘No sir,’ Felling said. ‘Just short and sharp, just the way he always speaks.’
Gently nodded slowly. ‘Well… you were here on time, whatever the object might have been. Everything went smoothly, did it — nothing unexpected turned up?’
‘Nothing at all, sir,’ Felling said. ‘It was just identification and a postponement.’
‘What was Madsen saying to the Coroner?’
‘Madsen…?’
‘Just now. As I came in.’
‘Oh that — it was about the burial certificate,’ Felling said. ‘Madsen wants to bury him out of town. He’s getting worried, sir, about the publicity. The reporters have been giving him a rough passage. He asked if he could have the funeral at the Westlow Chapel, which is a couple of miles out of Offingham. I didn’t think we had any objection.’
‘He won’t fool anybody,’ Gently said. ‘When is this funeral?’
‘I think it’s later today, sir, if Madsen can put the arrangements through.’
‘It’ll be his best chance,’ Gently said. Suddenly he turned to look down the court. From the dimness of the public gallery at the other end something had faintly, briefly flashed. There was a small commotion in the gallery. A man was squeezing his way towards the door. He wore a dark suit and carried a black trilby and moved sideways, with his back to the court. Gently grabbed Felling’s arm.
‘Come on! I want that man detained.’
‘Who… which…?’ Felling gabbled.
The man reached the door. He had begun to run.
Outside the bright sun put Gently at fault for a moment. He stood blinking, looking about the garden, while Felling rushed up behind him.
‘Who is it sir?’
‘Bring those constables!’
Felling shouted instructions to the two men.
Gently caught a quick movement across the garden and set off running towards one of the gates. The street outside was Bullock Street, leading from the Market Place towards the river; a narrow street of slovenly houses with many lane-turnings and yards. The man had gone towards the river. He had disappeared from the street when Gently reached it. There were parked cars in the street, but in that direction, few people. Gently ran on to the first turning. It was a long, empty service lane. He ran to the second. It was a cul-de-sac. An errand boy was cycling slowly down it.
‘Has a man come this way?’ Gently bawled.
‘There’s a bloke ran across the road.’
‘Which way?’
‘Down Boulting Lane.’
A plate over a turning opposite read: Boulting Lane.
Gently crossed over, ran into the lane. Felling and the constables followed after him. The lane slanted downhill between irregular tarred walls of old house-ends, warehouses, scrapyards. Halfway down it a turn revealed a parked truck on to which two men were loading baled waste paper. They stared at Gently, stopped loading the truck.
‘Has a man come by here?’ Gently panted.
‘What sort of a man?’
‘Any sort of a man!’
‘Not in the last ten minutes,’ said the speaker. ‘We haven’t seen nobody, have we, Ted?’
‘No,’ Ted said. ‘We haven’t seen nobody.’
Gently rounded on Felling and the constables. ‘One of you run back to the top of the lane. Stop anybody entering or going out. We’re looking for a man of medium build, about forty, darkish colouring, dark grey lounge suit, black trilby, probably speaks with a slight accent. Detain him by force if necessary.’
The younger constable sprinted back up the lane.
‘You stay here,’ Gently said to the other man. ‘Same instructions. Stop anyone coming or going.’
He paused a moment to get his wind, watched while the younger constable reached his station. Then he said to Felling: ‘You take that side. We’ll work up the lane and flush him out.’
‘Is it this Kasimir bloke?’ Felling breathed.
‘We’ll see when we get him,’ Gently said. ‘Take your time and search thoroughly, and don’t use kid gloves if you tangle with him.’
‘I don’t own kid gloves,’ Felling said. ‘A chummie comes quiet or a chummie is carried.’
They began to search. There were seven entries off the lane. They served a metal scrapyard, a wholesale fruit warehouse, a cardboard-box manufacturer’s warehouse, a paint store, a tyre store, a signwriter’s and a building contractor’s. In six of these seven premises men were working. They gladly left off working to answer questions and watch. They had not seen a man running, had not admitted any stranger. They pointed out places where he might have hid. He was in none of those places. At the top and bottom of the stretch of lane the two constables rocked slowly on their heels. There remained the metal scrapyard with its wire-mesh gates, which were ten feet high. Felling frowned at the gates.
‘It’s here or nowhere, sir,’ he said. ‘But chummie was a bit of a spring-heeled Jack if he sailed over those gates.’
‘Who has the keys to these?’ Gently asked.
‘They’ll be in Cambridge,’ said one of the watchers. ‘Dukey and Son, that’s who owns it. They’ve got a big place in Cambridge.’
‘A big help,’ Felling said. ‘A big help.’
Gently went to the gates, began examining the mesh. The mesh was galvanized but was beginning to rust and at one place the rust had been chafed and showed orange. He examined the mesh a little higher. He found another chafed spot. It was two-and-a-half inch mesh into which a toe could not be effectively inserted. He stood back, ran an eye over the watchers.
‘You,’ he said to a slim youth in a boiler suit. The youth edged forward. ‘Could you climb those gates?’
‘Reckon I could,’ the youth said. ‘Give me time.’
‘You haven’t got time,’ Gently said. ‘You’re in a hurry. You’re belting down the lane with the cops behind you and you see these gates and you want to get over them.’
The youth looked at the gates, narrowing his eyes. ‘Reckon I could,’ he said.
‘Right,’ Gently said. ‘Show me. Go up the lane and take a run at them.’
The youth stared a little, then spit on his hands and stalked some paces up the lane. He came flying back, threw himself at the gates, scrabbled desperately at the mesh and hauled himself up. He waved some bleeding fingers at Gently.
‘Nothing to it,’ he said.
‘The saucy young devil!’ Felling said. ‘Those gates are supposed to be prowler-proof.’
‘Thanks,’ Gently said. ‘You did that nicely. You’d better come down and have the cuts seen to. And perhaps some of you will find us a couple of ladders so we don’t have to tackle the gates the hard way.’
