Gently Where the Roads Go Read online

  Another bloke taking a spell: that was what Robert Goodings thought. He got down stiffly out of his cab, found a gap in the hedge, relieved himself. Then he stretched his arms, did a knees bend, did some feeble running-on-the-spot; spit a couple of times into the hedge, and climbed back into the cab. He carried a snap-tin and a Thermos. They had both been filled at a caff in Middlesbrough. Tea – the caff made coffee that tasted of mud – and corned beef sandwiches, larded with mustard. He ate drowsily, thinking of nothing, staring at the back of the green van: glad only to have got to a quiet pull-in after shoving the Bedford all night. But he was noticing, though he wasn’t thinking. He was noticing a stain on the concrete by the van. What was the geezer carrying – meat? It looked as though the stuff had begun to drip. He went on eating. He stopped noticing the stain. He noticed the paintwork of the van instead. It had taken a beating, that paintwork had, and there were holes in the panels, too. Holes? His jaw came to a stop. Yes, it was like a blinking sieve. A lot of little round holes punched through it, the paint all cracked away round them. Robert Goodings didn’t move for some moments. A car went heedlessly by on the Road.

  Report by Detective-Sergeant Felling, CID, Offingham Constabulary. As a result of a telephone call at 5.12 a.m. on Tuesday August 13th, I proceeded with Detective-Constables Rice and Freeman to the lay-by on the A1 road half a mile north of The Raven roadhouse. I was met there by Robert Arthur Goodings, a truck-driver, who had made the call. I saw there a green Commer 10-cwt. van, Registration Number 525 UAX, the property of Timoshenko Teodowicz, a registered alien residing at 3 Shorters Lane, Offingham, parked in the lay-by. The van was damaged, apparently by extensive fire from an automatic weapon. In the driving seat of the van was the body of a man with multiple bullet wounds. He was aged about fifty, about six feet in height, dark brown hair, pale grey eyes (apparently), and of powerful build. He was wearing a stained khaki jacket without shirt or vest and stained khaki drill trousers. From my personal knowledge I can identify him as Timoshenko Teodowicz, the owner of the van. I have recorded the dead man’s fingerprints for comparison with those in the registered alien file (attached).

  Statement by Ove Madsen, truck-driver, 39, of 3a Shorters Lane, Offingham, witnessed by Detective-Sergeant Felling, CID, Offingham Constabulary. I am a Naturalized Englishman of Norwegian parentage. I am part owner of the transport business which was conducted by the dead man, Timoshenko Teodowicz, whose body I have seen and which I can identify. On Sunday August 11th I left Offingham at 10.45 p.m. with a consignment of electrical parts for John Mackenzie, Clydeside Quay, Glasgow, and I spent the night August 12th–13th at a lodging house at 57 Lockerbie Street, Clydebank (confirmed by Clydebank Cons., D.-S. Felling). I loaded a quantity of strip steel at Govan Mills, Govan and proceeded back to Offingham, arriving at 1 p.m. on Wednesday August 14th. I do not own a firearm. I do not and have never owned an automatic weapon. I do not and have never owned a Sten gun. I do not know of anybody owning a Sten gun. I do not know who would wish to kill Teodowicz. I do not know that I can benefit in any way by his death. I have to report that Teodowicz was visited on Saturday August 10th, at about 3.30 p.m., at our garage in Shorters Lane, by a man who spoke to him in Polish, and whom he took upstairs into his rooms, and who remained there about 30 minutes. I do not know this man. I did not pay much attention to him, only to him speaking to Teodowicz in Polish. He was about middle height, he was dressed neatly, I think he was wearing sunglasses. Teodowicz said nothing about him. I think he may have had a limp. I was working at the bench, which is why I did not notice him. He had a quiet, cultivated voice. He was about five feet nine or ten. He may have worn a felt hat. His complexion was pale. I do not think his ears stuck out. I did not notice the cheekbones. My impression was that he had a cultivated face. My impression was that he was in good circumstances. I did not notice his manner. That is all I know about him.

  Medical Report by Police-Surgeon A. S. J. Kermode MD, M.Ch., Offingham Constabulary. Subject: male deceased delivered to me on the authority of Superintendent Whitaker. Subject aged c. 50, 6′1″ in height, in good health, limited adipose tissue. Contents of stomach suggest a meal (eggs, chips, prepared starch, coffee) 4–5 hours before death. Time of death (per r.m.) between 01.00 hrs & 03.00 hrs Tues. Aug. 13th. Cause of death: multiple shot wounds. Extensive wounding of entire system above & including pelvic area on right side. Skull collapsed. Cage of thorax partly collapsed. Extensive damage to bony structure throughout area of wounding, too widespread to detail. Right arm severed above elbow. Left forearm variously penetrated. Vital organs, stomach, bowels, extensively damaged. I recovered 67 bullets & counted 92 individual wounds. Should estimate upward of 200 rounds were fired at close range (some signs of powder tattooing, facial tissue recovered & delivered with deceased). Per r.m. deceased was killed where found, or placed there shortly after death. Comment: In 30 years experience, including war service, I have never seen gunshot injuries such as these. Suggest revenge was clearly the motive, possibly related to some war crime committed by T. in his own country.

  Report by Chief Inspector Hallam, Ballistics Dept., New Scotland Yard. Subject: 86 recovered bullets & 193 detonated shells submitted by Offingham Constabulary. Identification: 9 mm. rimless Parabellum pistol cartridge ammunition mfg. by B.S.A. 1944 & 5. Comparison of rifling & breech block marks indicate ammunition fired from Mk. 2 Sten automatic carbine. Ammunition & weapon from service sources, but quantities of these weapons lost, stolen or misappropriated during war.

  Interim Report by Detective-Sergeant Felling, CID, Offingham Constabulary. As a result of investigation to date by myself & Detective-Constables Rice & Freeman I have to report that we have obtained no information which might lead to the identification of the murderer of Timoshenko Teodowicz. The search of the premises in Shorters Lane undertaken by us brought to light nothing of significance. We have been unable to find witnesses to testify to seeing anything suspicious in the neighbourhood where the crime was committed, or to hearing shots fired at the relevant time on Aug. 13th. According to Sheila Packman, waitress employed at The Blue Bowl Café, High Street, Offingham, the deceased called there, alone, at about 9.30 p.m., on Aug. 12th, and left when the café closed at 10 p.m., having ordered coffee, driving off in his van in the direction of the A1. We have been unable to find any witness who saw him later than this. We have been unable to trace the man said by Madsen to have visited Teodowicz. We have been unable to trace any connection between Teodowicz and two other men of Polish origin living in this area. We have been unable to trace any friends or intimate acquaintances of Teodowicz who (according to Madsen) lived very much to himself. We have questioned the three women indicated by Madsen as occasionally associating with Teodowicz (Frieda Hixon, Dolly Catchpole, Sybil Wright), but none of them admit having seen him later than Aug. 9th (Dolly Catchpole). We have obtained no information relating to the possession of Sten guns or ammunition. Our investigations show that Teodowicz’s transport business, employing two trucks and the van, was legitimate. He ran a current account with the High Street branch of Martin’s Bank, average level 3–400 pounds, containing 322 pounds 14 shillings and 7 pence at the time of his death.

  Statement by Wanda Christine Lane, Proprietress of The Raven roadhouse, nr. Broadford Turn, Everham, witnessed by Detective-Constable Rice, CID, Offingham Constabulary. The deceased was a customer of mine from time to time. I did not know him except as a customer. I did not see him on the night of Monday August 12th. I think I last saw him on Thursday August 8th at about six p.m. when he pulled in his truck and stopped for a meal. I did not hear any shots fired on the night of August 12th–13th. I had nobody staying overnight on that night. I know the deceased’s partner, who is also a customer, but I do not know their friends. They are only customers.

  Memo from Sir Clifford Batley, KBE, etc., Chief Constable of Offingham, to Superintendent Whitaker. I have read Felling’s Interim Report & quite agree that there is no point in holding on, especially with these political implicat
ions. I am quite satisfied that we have done the best we can with our resources. Hand it on to the Yard & the Special Branch.

  And so it was noticed for a little while, that spot which was otherwise quite anonymous; shown in sketch maps in newspapers, stared at and stopped at by ten thousand drivers; though it was only one such spot out of the broad centuries of the Road, where death had visited every milestone with its sharp but brief focus. For one dies, but many live, and to live is to forget; who remembers the bludgeoned Celt, the plundered Roman, the stabbed Saxon? Who can show where Rouse murdered or where the masked figure pistolled a farmer? Other days, other deaths, other forgettings; but this the Road. Today a truth concealed in a headline, tomorrow but North and South again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  RIGHT,’ SUPERINTENDENT EMPTON said. ‘Tell me how you know it was Teodowicz. I’m sorry to be bloody-minded, old fellow, but our line of customers tend to be slippery.’

  Thursday, August 15th. Four of them sitting in Whitaker’s office. Three of them heavyweights, Superintendents, and Sergeant Felling, who’d done the field work. Whitaker, the local man, was nervous of the metropolitan talent he’d been sent. He was a large faced, bronzed and tidy man, mildly paternal, perhaps a little vain. He’d taken to Gently, who sat beside him, and who so far had said very little; but Empton was strictly a foreign type, and obviously made Whitaker feel uneasy. Empton was lean, athletic-looking, vulturine, with eyes like cold blue lamps; in spite of his near-Guards manner he had a predatory air about him. Felling was a hard-eyed CID man. He was perspiring, but he was not abashed.

  ‘You mean how we knew in the first place, sir – or how we identified the remains?’

  ‘Both, old fellow,’ Empton said. ‘The one isn’t much good without the other.’

  Felling opened the file on his knees. ‘Here’s the Home Office advice note, sir. They informed us that Teodowicz had applied to reside here, March twenty-fifth, fifty-six. We didn’t know of any objections and he took up residence, April seventeenth.’

  ‘Let me have it.’

  Empton took the buff sheet and held it up to the light from the window. Then he scrutinized the printed heading, the typing, the signature and the rubber stamp. Finally he dropped it on the desk.

  ‘Probably genuine,’ he said.

  ‘We sent a reply which was acknowledged, sir.’

  ‘No doubt it was.’ Empton sounded bored. ‘But that hardly means anything. Carry on, Sergeant.’

  ‘Well, sir, he registered with us on April seventeenth, and all his docs checked with the advice. We made up a card for our RA file – this is it, sir. I took his dabs myself. And since then he’s reported regularly and never been in any trouble.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Empton said. ‘I’ll have the card too, please.’ He examined it coldly but perfunctorily, let it drop on the Home Office note. ‘And now we come to the interesting part. I’ve been reading the medical report, old fellow. I notice that the deceased’s skull was collapsed and that his right arm was severed. Any comment you care to make?’

  Felling was scowling under his sweat. ‘The head – that was certainly in a mess, sir – but there was a bit of his face left, on the one side. I’ve got the photographs here.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Empton spread them on the desk. ‘Yes . . . you have a good photographer. He brings the point out well.’

  ‘It’s the bones, sir,’ Felling said thickly. ‘The big jawbone and the cheekbone. If you’d seen the chummie you’d know what I mean. Then there’s that skin. Porous and lined.’

  ‘Hmn,’ Empton said. ‘I see. And this small matter of the arm?’

  ‘It’s his all right,’ Felling said. ‘It matches the other, same all round. Then there’s the dabs.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ Empton said. He shuffled the photographs together. ‘They never lie, do they, old fellow? But we’ll just look into them, if you don’t mind.’

  Felling dived into the file again and produced the card bearing the dead man’s prints. Empton tossed it on the pile in front of him, then reached for the briefcase he had stood beside him. It was a beautiful case in natural pigskin. It had a combination lock which he flickered carelessly. From it he took a file marked SECURITY XX and a morocco-covered box containing a nest of magnifiers. From the file he drew another print record-card, and this he placed by the other two; then, having focused Whitaker’s desk-lamp on them, he proceeded with the magnifiers to make a comparison. Felling used the interval to wipe his face, Whitaker watched Empton with concern. Gently was looking mournfully out of the window, where lay the peaceful High Street of Offingham.

  ‘Ah,’ said Empton at last, folding the magnifiers. ‘I think we’re dealing with the one person. You take clear prints, old fellow, both sets are a credit to you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Felling said.

  ‘He’s my best man,’ Whitaker put in.

  ‘Yes,’ Empton said absently. ‘I think we can proceed from here.’

  He sat back and looked round at them with narrowed, deprecating eyes. Gently turned his gaze from the window. Felling got rid of his handkerchief.

  ‘Perhaps it will help,’ Empton continued, ‘if I laid some of our cards on the table. Most of this is Top Security, naturally, but I think a run-over can do no harm. If I give you the background it will help you to distinguish some of the nuances you may have overlooked. But I must make it crystal clear that none of this is to go any further.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ Whitaker said.

  ‘Yes,’ Empton said. ‘Then here are some facts. Timoshenko Teodowicz is a political refugee who arrived in this country in 1947. He was born in Grodz, in eastern Poland, in or about 1910. During the last war he was a petty black marketeer and kept on the windy side of the Germans. He was denominated a war criminal by the Russians and was obliged to disappear, and he eventually turned up in the British Zone of Germany in January 1947. His case was investigated and appeared genuine, as far as the particulars went. He was probably a rogue, but not a war criminal within our meaning of the term. So he was admitted as an RA in November 1947, and to the best of our knowledge he has not abused the privilege. He resided in Leeds, Birmingham and Leicester before he applied to live here. He was a builder’s labourer for two years, drove a truck for Great Universal for three years. This would appear to be what we know about Timoshenko Teodowicz.’

  Whitaker shuffled. ‘Appears to be?’

  ‘I wouldn’t’, said Empton, ‘put it higher.’

  ‘But didn’t you say his case was investigated?’

  ‘I did say that,’ Empton said. ‘It was investigated, it bore out his story. Teodowicz of Grodz was a real person. But I’m afraid it means very little, old man – we take these things with a grain of salt.’

  ‘Then who do you think he was?’

  Empton’s teeth showed briefly. ‘Almost anyone. One of theirs, a freelance, perhaps the veritable Teodowicz. The refugee traffic is much favoured for the planting of agents. When we find one we buy him or use him – only an occasional amateur makes the headlines.’

  ‘But what use would an agent be in Offingham?’

  ‘None at all, I should imagine. But Teodowicz wasn’t tied to Offingham. His trucking took him wherever he chose.’

  A pause. Gently had taken out his pipe and was sucking it, cold and empty. The sound appeared to irritate Empton, who threw him a quick, chill glance. Whitaker’s expression was unconvinced; his eyes wandered about the documents on the desk. Empton dipped into his file again and came out with a quarter-plate photograph.

  ‘Now. We come to the aspect which to us is the key factor. You have evidence to show that Teodowicz was visited a short time before his death. This is a classic pattern with us, one which occurs in case after case. A man is visited by a foreign-spoken stranger, and shortly afterwards, he dies. The newspaper gentry, of course, jump to certain conclusions, but between you and me they are usually wide of the mark. Refugees are certainly pressured to return to their own country, but we kno
w of no clear instance of assassination following a refusal. What the pattern usually indicates is a flagrant double-cross. The victim is an agent who is playing double and who refuses to toe the line. His visitor brings him an ultimatum – the terms are naturally a little harsh – and the agent is reluctant; it may then be necessary to liquidate him.’

  Whitaker screwed up his eyes. ‘You mean it really goes on, this sort of thing?’

  Empton showed his teeth again. ‘But of course it does, old man. Jungle law and all that. You can’t have intelligence without it. If a man is a threat to security and you can’t buy him or coerce him, you have to kill him: that’s logic. We live in a split world, you know. Now if this is what has happened to your man, and I’m presuming that it is, then I’m afraid we’ll never get a conviction in the case. I can probably trace the killer and cause him to return from where he came, but that’s as far as it will go. A trial may not be expedient.’

  Whitaker turned to Gently, as though seeking support. Gently kept sucking his pipe and staring glumly at nothing.

  ‘But, look here—’ Whitaker began.

  ‘I know, I know,’ Empton interrupted. ‘British justice and all that – mustn’t give the myth a knock.’

  ‘But it amounts to condoning a murder.’

  ‘Exactly that,’ Empton said. ‘I’m sorry. We’re doing it every day. I’m sure the novelty will soon wear off with you.’

  He tapped the photograph he had brought.

  ‘This’, he said, ‘could be our man. Jan Kasimir, thirty-nine, late of Krackow, Poland. Another refugee, naturally – he’s been in England for two years – getting acclimatized, you might say, and establishing the innocence of his character. He resides in Hampstead where he works for an instrument-maker and behaves like a model alien. We’ve kept our usual discreet eye on him. He was about ripe for a commission.’