Gently to a Sleep by Hunter Alan

Author:Hunter, Alan [Hunter, Alan]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
ISBN: 9781472117007
Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group
Published: 2015-03-04T16:00:00+00:00

EIGHT

GENTLY’S ROOM AT The Steampacket faced the river, and he was wakened at last by the rumble of trains; passing at intervals of a few minutes, they were doubtless carrying commuter traffic.

Last night’s mist had been a true prognostic, for sun was brightening the marshes. Black-and-white bullocks trailed along the river-wall, as velvetly-brilliant as a Paul Potter painting. Then, more distant, one saw a Land Rover, bobbing slowly along some track. Also men walking, one behind the other, each carrying rod and gear.

It was nearly nine.

Gently rang, but no message had come in. He made his toilet and went down to the breakfast-room, which he had on his own.

Ives, joining him half-an-hour later, was equally devoid of news; he had rung the pathology lab before setting out, to be told only that tests were still in progress. He accepted a cup of coffee.

‘I can’t help thinking, sir, that by now . . .’

Gently grunted and stoked his pipe; it was around seven hours since the corpse had been delivered!

Was it really such a tricky problem, or had Gently for once put his foot in it . . . ?

Outside an early cruiser was catching the ebb, intent on a quick passage to Starmouth. There was no wind; the sun gave the impression or having only just burned off the mist.

A peaceful, uneventful-seeming morning! One felt it was a day on which nothing could happen. The bullocks, come to a stand among thistles and willow-herb, stood swishing their tails and gazing dully.

‘What happened last night with Noel Raynes, sir?’

Like the bullocks, Gently felt disinclined to give attention. Because after all, in Noel Raynes’s case . . . All one had there were lies and suppositions – nothing, in fact, until the telephone rang! At the moment, it wasn’t worth putting into words.

‘Have you finished your coffee?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Let’s pay another visit to Raynes-Marine.’

‘I asked the lab to phone here, sir . . .’

‘Never mind that – we shall hear soon enough!’

Today Ives was wearing a smart tan-linen jacket, so new that threads were still hanging from it.

Where they parked a big extractor-unit was roaring and puffing air, while from the sheds behind it came a racket of machine tools and occasional echoey shouting.

Through open doors another shell was being urged by a fussing tractor; over at the gantry, two finished craft were waiting their turn to be loaded.

The yard was a controlled pandemonium; workers hurried between sheds; trucks, trolleys jostled and manoeuvred; the jib of the crane stooped and swung.

A controlled pandemonium . . . yet such a short distance from the peace of the village! While, peering from its beeches on the knoll behind, Walter Raynes’s house looked down on it all . . .

‘They aren’t letting it interfere with business, sir!’

The slam of car-doors was drowned by the extractor. What the yard resembled was a self-intent machine in which the workers played the part of robot attendants.

A machine with a will of its own, noisy, violent and absolute . . .

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