Gently with the Ladies (Inspector George Gently 13)

tears. He’d know how to use them.’
    ‘But you’d have no need for crocodile tears. Tears from you would be genuine.’
    Her eyes flashed at him across the flames.
    ‘What do you know of grief?’ she snapped. ‘Some maudlin hypocrisy in a witness-box would be the extent of your comprehension. Did I offer to exhibit my grief to you?’
    Gently shook his head. ‘Does one exhibit grief . . . ?’
    ‘Oh, I could exhibit it if I wanted to, if I wasn’t too numbed to put on a show!’ She let her arms fall. ‘But of course,’ she said, ‘I was forgetting I was suspect too. So sorry. I should have squeezed out a few tears. This would have been such an appropriate moment.’
    The flames burned low in the chafing-dish, became searching blue glow-worms, went out. A few browned scraps of paper remained unconsumed in the rustling ash.
    ‘Get out of here,’ Mrs Bannister said.
    She turned her back on the dish and Gently.
    Gently took his leave. He surprised Albertine, who had her ear to the door.

 
     
    CHAPTER FOUR
     
    T HE DIVISIONAL H.Q. was newly-built in a style of sixth-decade New Town, and inside had an air of hearty brightness and aggressive anti-traditionalism. The C.I.D. was on the first floor. It was reached by a sweep of riser-less steps. Flanking the foot of the steps, in strip-work holders, were two potted rubber-plants with dusty leaves. The steps projected from raw brickwork which extended from the hall to the first-floor ceiling, but which was met at the level of the landing by a plastered wall painted dark blue. Reynolds’ office was at the end of the landing. It was shaped like a shoe-box and had one end of glass.
    Gently went in without knocking. He found Reynolds in conference with Buttifant. They were seated on opposite sides of a formica-topped table on which lay a pair of shoes and some pieces of clothing. Buttifant was peering at these with a magnifier, but Reynolds was smoking and staring out of the window. He threw a sharp glance as the door opened, then ducked his head and rose.
    ‘Well,’ Gently said, ‘are we any forwarder?’
    ‘We’re filling in the story, Chief,’ Reynolds said. ‘Seems there’s no doubt about Fazakerly’s sea-trip, though nobody knows why he wasn’t drowned.’
    ‘He probably lacks a drowning mark,’ Gently said. ‘He has a different sort of complexion. Have we found his yacht?’
    ‘At Harwich, where he said. And the owners at Rochester recognized his photograph.’
    Gently pointed to the clothing. ‘What about those?’
    ‘We’re sending them down to the lab now.’
    ‘But there are no obvious stains?’
    Reynolds shrugged. ‘I did mention her turban hair-style, Chief.’
    Gently stared at him, grunting. ‘Did her hair-style cushion the blow?’ he asked.
    ‘No, but . . .’
    ‘It wouldn’t have stopped the blood spurting either – there’d be blood on those clothes, if he struck the blow. I suppose you did find spattered blood?’
    ‘Well, yes . . . on her dress, on the settee . . .’
    ‘Her turban hair-style didn’t stop that.’
    ‘In the lab, perhaps.’
    ‘I wouldn’t bank on that.’
    Buttifant looked up to say: ‘I think you’re right sir. There’s no sign of blood on any of these . . .’
    Then he caught a look from Reynolds and took cover again behind his magnifier.
    ‘So, if no blood,’ Gently said, ‘we’ll need to skate lightly around that one. We’d best advise ignoring it altogether and letting defence counsel make the running. Then it’ll sound less important, more like a defensive finesse. It’s a pity though . . . the prosecutor’s office won’t be so happy without its blood.’
    ‘But it’s not conclusive, Chief—!’ Reynolds burst out.
    ‘Oh no,’ Gently said. ‘Just one of those things. Provided we don’t come up with too many, the prosecutor’s office will soldier along with them.’
    He ignored Reynolds’ goaded look and went over to the C.I.D. man’s desk, where he could see a manilla folder of prints with
Fazakerly Case
scribbled across it. He turned them over. The divisional men had done a comprehensive job. The sprawled, nod-headed corpse of Clytie Fazakerly had been photographed from a score of angles. Not more than a yard from her slippered feet lay the gleaming belaying-pin, and dark stains covered the shoulders of the dress and peppered the settee-back adjacent. He turned to Reynolds, who had joined him at the desk.
    ‘Let’s face it: she was killed where she sat on the