Gently with the Ladies (Inspector George Gently 13)

down. It was twenty-five years since his sister’s wedding: Bridget had married the year war broke out.
    ‘You’re Geoffrey’s relative?’
    ‘A second cousin. I shook hands with you at the reception. I’m telling you this so you understand – I really do know how you work. I mean, you’re famous, we’re proud of the connexion, we read up your cases and trials. I didn’t come here by accident. I knew only you could help me.’
    Gently grunted. ‘I’d sooner you’d come on a social visit,’ he said.
    ‘I’m sorry. I promise not to spread it around.’
    ‘It wouldn’t do you any good if you did.’
    But it would, as Gently knew well: points were stretched for policemen’s relatives. Where they were concerned you double-checked and bent over backwards to give fair play. What was more, Inspector Reynolds of Q Division was an admirer of Gently’s, and the mere fact that Fazakerly had been to the great man would be a mark in his favour. Had Fazakerly guessed it, coming to Gently? No . . . that was too far-fetched.
    ‘Could you stand a coffee?’ he asked gruffly.
    ‘My God, yes. I’ve had nothing since yesterday.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘I planned on having breakfast ashore. Then I saw the paper and grabbed the first train.’
    ‘Where was this?’
    ‘Harwich. I dropped my hook there at six this morning. You may not have noticed, but there’s been a blow on. I’ve been damned near over to Holland and back.’
    Gently rang down for coffee and sandwiches. His five-minute limit had already gone west. Fazakerly, sure now of Gently’s attention, inhaled cigarette smoke for some moments. Then he said quietly:
    ‘But of course, that’s no alibi. I could have killed her before I left. That’s the trouble: I’m wide open. Opportunity, motive, I’ve got everything. So I must have someone who believes in me, who can look at it from my point of view. Who’ll take my word, that’s about it. On the pure facts, I’m sunk.’
    Gently hunched his shoulders glumly. ‘So what are these pure facts,’ he said. ‘You quarrelled with your wife about another woman, you ran away, and she’s found dead.’
    ‘Yes.’ Fazakerly closed his eyes. ‘And don’t forget Clytie’s money. I’m a bum, a social parasite. I needed her money. That’s the clincher.’
    ‘Have you none of your own?’
    ‘Not a sou. Except what I pick up round the studios. I’m a photographer, you know, or I was once, and sometimes they put a job in my way. And Clytie, of course . . . she made me an allowance. Oh, my character won’t save me.’
    ‘But you didn’t kill her.’
    ‘No. Everything else I admit. Yes, she’d found out about Sarah Johnson, yes, there was a row, yes, I ran. Straight to Sarah, straight to Rochester. I wanted Sarah to say, let her divorce you.’
    ‘And Sarah didn’t.’
    Fazakerly nodded. ‘Perhaps it was a bit too much to ask. Sarah doesn’t have any money, and I’m just one big bloody liability. I stink, you know. I really do. I ought to have gone out there and got drowned.’
    The messenger arrived with a tray, which he placed on the desk nearest to Fazakerly. He stared interestedly at Fazakerly while Gently initialled the receipt-book. After he’d gone Fazakerly said dully:
    ‘I’ll have to get used to that, won’t I?’
    ‘Eat your sandwiches!’ Gently grunted.
    Fazakerly shrugged and began to eat.
    Gently smoked. It was only slowly that the implications of this business were becoming clear to him. Till a moment ago he was still seeing it as something he could toss straight back to the proper department. But was it so easy? From an official view, nothing else was required of him, in fact he’d be treading on people’s toes if he stepped outside procedure. But there was Geoffrey and Bridget too: sometime he’d have to tell them what happened, and a plea of procedure would sound pretty thin when they learned that Fazakerly had come to him for help. Oh, they’d be understanding and nice about it, but still, they wouldn’t be able to help wondering . . .
    He watched resentfully while Fazakerly bolted the sandwiches and drank great gulps of steaming coffee. So he’d made a mess of things, this idle waster! But why did he have to drag Gently in too?
    ‘Right,’ he snapped. ‘If you didn’t kill her, perhaps you can tell me who did.’
    Fazakerly shook his head, chewing on a sandwich. ‘Not the faintest,’ he mumbled, ‘unless it was Sybil.’
    ‘Who’s Sybil?’
    ‘Sybil