Gently with the Ladies (Inspector George Gently 13)

 
     
    CHAPTER ONE
     
    ‘W HAT ’ S YOUR NAME ?’
    ‘Fazakerly.’
    ‘John Sigismund Fazakerly?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Gently looked curiously at this man, for whom the police had been searching three days. In a penthouse flat in Chelsea his wife, Clytie Fazakerly, had been found battered to death, and the divisional C.I.D. had little doubt who had done it. And now here he’d walked into Gently’s office, after waiting three hours down below: a shabby, tired, unkempt man, looking close to the end of his tether. ‘Nobody we know,’ desk had said on the phone. ‘Won’t give his name or his business. Do you want us to move him on, Chief?’ And Gently had nearly grunted: ‘Yes!’
    Instead . . .
    ‘You knew we were looking for you, Fazakerly?’
    ‘Yes – at least, I do now.’
    ‘What does that mean?’
    ‘I didn’t know till I saw a paper this morning.’
    ‘Where have you been then?’
    ‘Off-shore, mostly.’ He made a weak motion with his hand. ‘In a yacht I hired at Rochester. You can check with the owners. Bossoms.’
    And in fact he was dressed in dirty slacks and an old sweater, over which he was wearing a reefer jacket on which the stains of salt showed. He had a two-day growth of beard on his fine-boned, sallow face, and a nasty abrasion across the forehead which he’d come by recently. A tall man. He kept shifting his weight from foot to foot as he stood. You had the feeling that if you nudged him he’d just fall down and lie where he fell.
    ‘Take a seat.’
    Fazakerly slumped into one. He sat resting his arms on his knees.
    ‘Right,’ Gently said. ‘You’ve read the papers. You’ll know pretty well where you stand.’
    Fazakerly nodded. ‘I know.’
    ‘Then you won’t be surprised at what I’m telling you. You’re under arrest, and anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence.’
    ‘Yes, I know about that.’
    ‘As long as you do,’ Gently said. ‘Perhaps now you’ll tell me why you’re here. This case is nothing to do with me.’
    Fazakerly closed his eyes. ‘Because you’re my only chance,’ he said. ‘Because I know you’ll listen to me and maybe know I’m not lying.’
    ‘We’ll listen, don’t worry,’ Gently said. ‘You’ll have every chance to tell your story.’
    ‘That’s not enough. I can’t prove enough.’
    ‘Then how does it help coming to me?’
    Fazakerly didn’t reply at once, sat, eyes closed, leaning forward. He was all in, that was no act: around each eye was a bruise-like halo. And there was something familiar about him, something Gently couldn’t directly place. Had he met him before? He remembered no Fazakerly, and the name was not one easily forgotten.
    ‘You see . . . I know how you work. You’re not just hell-bent to make a case. Oh, you can put on the heavy policeman stuff, but that isn’t why you’re at the top. No . . . you care about what happens, you want the truth, all the truth.’
    ‘Thanks for the compliment, but it won’t help you.’
    ‘It will, it must. It’s my only chance.’
    ‘Then you’d best forget about it, Fazakerly. The case belongs to Q Division.’
    ‘No, listen to me – please listen!’
    ‘You’re wasting my time. I’m a busy man.’
    ‘If you just hand me over I’m a dead duck. For God’s sake, give me this one chance!’
    Gently hesitated, phone in hand. This wasn’t the usual approach by any means. The quiver of entreaty in Fazakerly’s voice had to be genuine. He stared at Fazakerly uncertainly.
    ‘Look,’ he said. ‘You’ll get a fair crack of the whip.’
    ‘That isn’t enough.’
    ‘It is if you’re innocent.’
    ‘Please put that phone down. For five minutes.’
    Gently looked at the phone. ‘All right,’ he said. He banged the phone back on its rest. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Five minutes. But after that, you’re in a cell.’
     
    Fazakerly lit a cigarette with hands that trembled. They were blistered and dirty hands and several of the nails were broken. He took a long drag into his lungs and it seemed to perk him up at little. He looked Gently in the eye. He had light brown eyes with golden flecks in them.
    ‘You nearly remember me, don’t you?’ he said.
    If Gently felt a stab of surprise, it didn’t show in his face.
    ‘I’m not trying to make anything of it, but you’ll understand better for knowing. I’m a distant relative of Geoffrey Kelling’s. I was a guest at the wedding.’
    So that was it! No wonder if Gently’s memory had let him