Gently with the Ladies (Inspector George Gently 13)

said. ‘He was certainly under some stress. But either way, what would have happened after he’d sailed out of Rochester?’
    ‘Just a minute, I’ll do some homework.’
    There was a rustling and squeaking at the other end. Then Ellis said:
    ‘He couldn’t have left Rochester much before half past six. By then it was blowing Force 6 from the sou’west, and soon it was gusting Force 8, and by midnight it was blowing a full gale, and it didn’t ease for the next twenty hours.’
    ‘What would he have done?’
    ‘He might have put out a sea-anchor, and perhaps set a jib to keep him heading. He’d be just running before it, if that’s what you mean, there’d be no chance of him steering a course.’
    ‘Where would that take him?’
    ‘Oh . . . the Hook. Perhaps higher up, Ijmuiden way.’
    ‘Then, if he set a course back when the wind eased . . .’
    ‘With a bit of luck he’d lay Harwich.’
    Gently hung up and sat frowning. So Fazakerly was perhaps telling the truth about his sea-trip. But that proved nothing, as he admitted himself: he had no reason to lie about that. All the same . . .
    He grabbed up the phone again.
    ‘Get me Q Division, Inspector Reynolds.’
    While he waited he snatched up a ball-pen and began sketching a belaying-pin on his blotter.
    ‘Reynolds? Gently here. About Fazakerly.’
    But first he had to endure Reynolds’ congratulations. An earnest, moustached man from Battersea, he never missed a chance of paying Gently homage.
    ‘Yes . . . well, I want to ask you a favour. It turns out he’s connected with my in-laws. No, I think he’s guilty too, but I feel I ought to make the motions . . . What I want is you don’t charge him for the next twenty-four hours, right?’
    Reynolds hesitated, and Gently could picture the consternation on his solemn, Saxon face.
    ‘But if I don’t charge him, Chief . . .’
    ‘You’ll be able to hold him. You’ll need some time to check his story.’
    ‘Are you taking over, then?’
    ‘No, nothing of that sort. I’m just clearing my slate with the family. Please understand I’m not interfering, I’m only concerned with getting the facts.’
    ‘Yes, of course, Chief. I’ll do what you say.’
    ‘Thanks. I’ll drop round after lunch.’
    Under the belaying-pin he printed in capitals:
    WITH REMISSION, SAY NINE YEARS .

 
     
    CHAPTER TWO
     
    A T DIVISIONAL HEADQUARTERS in Chelsea Reynolds greeted Gently with anxious eyes. He shook hands respectfully, but his first words were:
    ‘Chief, I’m afraid he’s for the high jump.’
    ‘Of course he is,’ Gently shrugged.
    He pushed into the C.I.D. man’s office. Lying on Reynolds’ desk, with a label tied to it, was the silver-plated belaying-pin. Gently hefted it curiously. It was probably an antique which had been prettied-up to make a trophy, and it was inscribed: ‘Rochester Sail Cruising Club’, with a list of names, ending: ‘J. S. Fazakerly.’
    ‘Which end would he have held?’ Gently asked.
    ‘Well, there was blood and some hair on the sharp end. It was kept in a bracket on the wall, so if you snatched it down you’d be holding the knob.’
    ‘Would he have got some blood on himself?’
    ‘Perhaps, but she was wearing a turban hair-style. He says the clothes he was wearing are in a locker at Rochester. I’ve sent down to fetch them and pick up his car.’
    ‘His prints check?’
    ‘Oh yes. They’re identical with those we had from his gear. His right index finger matches the print on the weapon. I’ve some photographs here.’
    He handed Gently a bunch of glossies which were still cockled and smelling of developer. Gently leafed through them quickly, pausing to stare only at one. He handed them back.
    ‘Just one clear print – and the others partial and erased.’
    ‘Do you think he tried to wipe them off?’
    ‘He made a curious job of it if he did.’
    ‘What do you think, then?’
    Gently grunted. ‘I know what his counsel will suggest we think – that someone wearing gloves handled the pin. Do you have any answer to that?’
    Reynolds gazed at the photographs. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘Yes – the housekeeper was wearing gloves. She was the one who found the body. She still had her gloves on when we got there.’
    ‘And she’d handled the pin?’
    ‘I’ll bet she had.’
    ‘But do you know it for a fact?’
    Reynolds shook his head impatiently. ‘I soon will do. I’ll send Buttifant round to ask her.’
    ‘Still,’ Gently said, ‘if