Gently with the Ladies (Inspector George Gently 13)

staff magazine, and they’re going to search their files for us.’
    So Beryl Rogers was in the running; in the flesh, not merely as a ghost. Unless she had taken herself off again to some other distant part of the Commonwealth. She had returned, the necklace had been stolen and Clytie Fazakerly had died: if it were coincidence it was coincidence that needed a meticulous examination. And until then, in any event, Johnny Fazakerly was safe from a charge.
    ‘Keep with it, Sergeant.’
    Buttifant nodded dully and began rolling a fresh cigarette. Gently went out again, flicking a rubber plant, and sending a dry tab-end rattling to the parquet.
    He drove to Vincent Street and parked the Sceptre as near as he could get to the Coq d’Or. The Coq d’Or was an opulent hotel with a ‘family’ tag and was popular with a certain class of visiting American. A commissionaire smiled at him in the foyer and a young waiter smiled at him in the reception hall and behind the desk were two other young men who smiled attentively when he approached.
    ‘You have a John Fazakerly staying here?’
    Yes; they didn’t need to consult the register.
    ‘Is he expecting you, sir?’
    ‘I should think it likely.’
    They smiled at Gently and at each other.
    ‘If you’ll follow me sir, please.’
    One of them came out, beating the other to it by a head, and led Gently into a large, plush but empty lounge and set a leather-upholstered chair for him.
    ‘What was the name sir? I’ll find Mr Fazakerly for you.’
    He darted out again, still smiling. Five minutes later he returned beaming to usher Fazakerly across the carpet. Fazakerly himself was not beaming. He stood looking at Gently till the young man left. Then he shrugged, threw himself into a chair and slowly held out his wrists.
    ‘So it’s a fair cop,’ he said. ‘I should have put Smith in the register.’
    ‘Did you think we wouldn’t keep tabs on you?’ Gently said.
    ‘I didn’t think. That’s my trouble. You wanted to see what I’d do, was that it?’
    ‘No. Your being released was quite genuine.’
    ‘Then why are you pinching me again the next moment?’
    ‘This isn’t a pinch. Just a morning visit.’
    Fazakerly let his wrists fall again. He was perhaps still a little behind on his sleep. Some shadow remained about his eyes and his face was drained and colourless.
    ‘Just a morning visit,’ he said. ‘Like that you still don’t have me fixed up. I’m nearly inside but not quite, I’m dangling around on a piece of string. Oh, it’s great to be alive. I love a visit from the Chief Inquisitor.’
    ‘This is better than a cell,’ Gently said.
    ‘You mean the smiling faces,’ Fazakerly said. ‘And how would you know about a cell anyway, when you’re always on the outside looking in? No, it isn’t better than a cell. I slept in that cell. I really slept. I didn’t have to worry, I could relax, it was all over, I could sleep. Then you let me out and it started again, everything crowding in on me. You didn’t free me. You set me adrift. I’m not even the bum I started out as.’
    ‘Perhaps you never were that bum,’ Gently said.
    ‘Maybe I was, maybe not. But one thing’s certain. In that cell I knew who I was, where I was. And since I came out my mind’s been spinning. It’s like a crazy machine I can’t stop. It thinks and thinks, and I have to go with it. And I hate it. I hate what it keeps turning over.’
    ‘What does it keep turning over?’
    ‘It keeps turning over who killed her. Who must have killed her, if I didn’t. And I’m pretty certain it wasn’t me.’
    ‘Only pretty certain?’
    ‘That’s my state. Facts aren’t facts with me any more. It’s like the world has gone back into the melting pot and facts are just what people believe. Maybe that’s always the way with facts and we’re kidding ourselves when we think they’re different. I don’t know. I don’t think I killed her. I was certain yesterday. Not today.’
    ‘Then who must have killed her?’
    ‘It’ll sound too silly. You have to start out knowing it wasn’t me. That’s to say you have to believe it, you have to worship it, make a fact of it, inspire the world to believe it with you. So that it’s true for five minutes.’
    ‘And when you’ve settled the metaphysic?’
    ‘Then it all turns ugly. You’ve got a vacuum that sucks in belief and creates a fact you don’t want.’
    ‘Connected with your sister-in-law?’
    Fazakerly nodded. ‘Brenda