became louder as they advanced.
‘What road would that be?’ Gently asked.
‘The Bedford road,’ Whitaker said.
‘Does this lane join it?’
‘Don’t know,’ Whitaker said. ‘Would we join the road, Felling?’
‘Yes sir,’ Felling said. ‘We join it. About four or five miles above Baddesley.’
Whitaker didn’t comment, continued to frown, walked a little closer to the dogs.
They came up with the trees, which were a belt of poplars. They made on the left a small grove. An opening, flanked by old posts, gave access to the grove, and through the opening could be seen a hut. The hut was old and had felt peeling from its roof. It had double doors, not quite closed. Through the roof a rusty chimney projected and upturned over this was an empty tin. The printing on the tin was fresh printing. The dogs turned in here. They pointed to the hut.
‘Hold them back!’ Whitaker commanded. ‘Nobody to approach that hut without orders. Felling, you take Freeman and Anderson, cover the hut from the rear.’
‘Are we to shoot?’ Felling said.
‘If he bolts,’ Whitaker said. ‘But at the legs, Felling, at the legs. Unless he’s blasting with the gun.’
Felling searched the hedge, found a gap to force, went through it followed by Freeman and Anderson. The dogs were hauling and struggling, but silent, their red eyes glowing at the hut. Whitaker turned to one of the handlers.
‘Give your gun to the Superintendent. When Felling’s set you’re to take your dog up while the Super and I give you cover. I’ll give the fellow a chance to come out. If he doesn’t, pull a door open and let the dog in. Palmer, you’ll let the other dog go. Keep on the ground, Jackson, when you get to the hut. You’ve got the idea?’
‘Yes sir,’ Jackson said.
‘I’m putting you in because you’re single,’ Whitaker said. ‘Sorry, man. It’s a blasted job.’
‘I don’t mind, sir,’ Jackson said.
Thirty seconds passed. They saw Felling. He was to the left of the hut, behind a tree. He looked at them, raised his, hand warningly, looked behind the hut, kept it raised. Ten seconds later he lowered it.
‘Right, Jackson,’ Whitaker said.
Jackson went forward, his dog galloping, got to the hut, threw himself flat. Nothing stirred in the hut. Jackson had hold of the dog by its collar.
Whitaker shouted: ‘You in there! We are the police, and we’ve got you surrounded. We are armed and we have dogs. I’m giving you ten seconds to come out. Come out with your hands above your head. I’m beginning to count now.’
Whitaker counted: One bloody second, two bloody seconds, up to ten. Nobody came out of the hut. Whitaker flashed his hand downwards. Jackson ripped open one of the doors, slipped the dog, rolled sideways. The dog crashed in through the door, snarling, clashing its white teeth. The other dog shot forward simultaneously. It went through the door. Both dogs were barking. Jackson scrambled up, ran into the hut. Palmer ran forward too. Whitaker ran. Gently walked.
‘Oh, the bastard!’ Whitaker said, staring.
The hut was empty except for two petrol cans. On the earthen floor were a number of oil stains and also the clear marks of car tyres. The dogs barked. They ran about excitedly. They wagged their tails. They whined at their handlers.
Gently said to Freeman: ‘Get this message through directly. The wanted man has escaped in a car by way of the Bedford-Baddesley Road. Make and registration number unknown. The existing cordons to be called in. Set up road checks outside towns within a fifty mile radius and particularly on the London approaches. The man is armed and dangerous.’
‘Roger, sir,’ Freeman said, and began to speak into his microphone.
Whitaker was flushed, his eyes were angry. ‘I’m a stupid so-and-so,’ he said. ‘You’re right, this bloke isn’t a rabbit, he’d got his escape route ready waiting. What else can we do?’
‘We can try to find out the make and number of the car,’ Gently said. ‘The car has been garaged here for over a week. Somebody ought to know something about it.’
‘Anderson!’ Whitaker called, looking round. Anderson came up, still carrying his gun. ‘Put that away,’ Whitaker said. ‘Anderson, who does this hut belong to?’
‘It belongs to the farm, sir,’ Anderson said. ‘Holly Tree Farm, a Mr Lemmon.’
‘How far away?’
‘About half a mile, sir.’
‘We’ll get over there,’ Whitaker said. ‘Palmer, Jackson, you take the dogs back. That was a nice piece of work, Jackson. Felling, you’d better come with us. And Freeman too, we may need the jukebox.’
They continued along the lane to its junction with the Bedford-Baddesley road, turned right, followed the road to a second junction, beside which stood milk churns. A rutted drive led to a farmhouse with a straw thatched roof. A woman wearing an apron answered the door. They were shown into a kitchen where two men sat eating. The elder of the two rose.
‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘Hullo.’
‘Mr Lemmon?’ Whitaker said.
‘Farmer Lemmon,’ the man said. ‘Joe Anderson here can tell you that.’
‘We’re trying to apprehend a man,’ Whitaker said. ‘We’ve tracked him into your hut in the poplar plantation. He appears to have had a car there. We’d like some information about that car.’
‘About the car, eh?’ Lemmon said. He was a broad-framed man with a thick-featured face. ‘Well, I don’t know a damn sight about that car. I never saw it. Did you, Phil?’
‘No, I never saw it,’ the younger man said. ‘Been too busy cutting to nose around.’
‘But I can tell you who owns it,’ Lemmon said. ‘And I reckon you can get your information from him. It’s a foreign bloke what comes from Offingham — Madling, Madson, that’s what his name is.’
‘Ove Madsen?’ Gently said.
‘Ah, that’d be it,’ Lemmon said. ‘Comes from Offingham, runs a truck. He shifted some stuff for me at one time.’
‘Madsen,’ Whitaker said. ‘Madsen. Madsen!’
‘How long had the car been there?’ Gently said.
‘Last Saturday, wasn’t it?’ Lemmon said to Phil. ‘Ah, last Saturday. He dropped by after tea. He’d bought this car, he said, and he hadn’t space for it, would I mind him sticking it in the old hut. I said no, it wouldn’t eat any grass, he could stick it there till he got rid of it. Come up here driving a green van… wait a minute. Wasn’t he the partner of that bloke what got murdered?’
‘Madsen,’ Whitaker said. ‘Can we use your phone, sir?’
‘Help yourself,’ Lemmon said. ‘It’s in the hall.’
‘He’ll be at the crematorium,’ Felling said, looking at his watch. ‘He got the funeral fixed up for four- thirty.’
‘He’ll be at the what?’ Gently said, catching Felling’s wrist.
‘At the crematorium, sir.’ Felling looked at Gently, looked away.
‘You didn’t tell me it was to be a cremation,’ Gently said.
‘The Westlow Chapel, sir,’ Felling said. ‘I didn’t think to mention it was a crematorium.’
Gently released Felling’s wrist, brushed by Whitaker into the hall. He picked up the phone book, flipped through it, picked up the phone, dialled.
‘Westlow Chapel?’ Gently said. ‘Superintendent Gently, CID. You have a cremation service in progress, subject Timoshenko Teodowicz. Stop the service immediately. The cremation must not proceed. If possible, detain the chief mourner, Ove Madsen. We’ll have men out there directly.’
He broke the connection, dialled again.
‘Superintendent Gently,’ he said. ‘I want a car sent out to Westlow Chapel to bring in Ove Madsen for questioning. Also make arrangements to collect the body of Teodowicz from Westlow Chapel. Yes
… Teodowicz’s body. Please attend to it directly.’
He broke the connection. Whitaker was staring at him.
