Free Gently Where the Roads Go by Alan Hunter Page A

the runways, scarcely lifting the flaps of engine covers or moving the vane above flying-control. Around the perimeter, cycling figures in oil-stained working-dress uniform, soiled webbing side-packs slung over their shoulders, dope-painted mugs clinking on their lamp-brackets; cycling wearily round the great circumference, all proceeding in one direction; converging into groups and a steady stream past the guardroom, towards the domestic sites. Two NCOs stepping briskly. An officer, keeping his eyes to himself. A clay-daubed Works & Bricks truck with navvies sitting on a plank in the back. The tea-time exodous at Huxford, draining personnel from A to B, leaving here a clerk, there a duty man, whose chits had been honoured by the mess earlier. And in the guardroom four SPs. And in the stores, two other men.

    The stores was a long, wide Nissen building with khaki-washed plastered ends; having in each end green-painted double doors and at one end a yard enclosed with steel mesh netting. There were notices pinned to one of the doors announcing a clothing parade and details of boot repairs, signed: A. L. W. Sawney, WO, i/c Stores, and incorporating a warning about sabotaged garments. The name appeared again painted on the door opposite, and once more, on a board, on the office door inside. The store interior smelled of concrete dust and leather. Apart from the slab-walled office it was open down its length. Facing the door was a wide counter, beyond it tall ranges of metal rack-shelves, against each wall steel lockers, open crates and bins. The smell of leather came from piles of boots which lay strewn on the floor, a ticket tied to each pair.
    Withers led in, and into the office. It was a small room cluttered with metal filing cabinets. At a desk sat a bold-faced man in rank uniform noting details from some forms on to a sheet of paper. Beside him, on his knees at a filing cabinet drawer, a flight-sergeant was staring at some forms out of a file.
    ‘Squadron-Leader Campling,’ Withers said. ‘This is Superintendent Gently of Scotland Yard. He’s making inquiries about the death of that Pole, and it seems likely that they may coincide with your inquiries.’
    Campling looked at both of them without saying anything for a moment. He had brown eyes under thick brows, a straight thick nose, a dimpled chin. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ He rose and stuck out his hand. ‘I heard you were down here on the Teodowicz case. I didn’t think I was going to meet you.’
    Gently shrugged. ‘Teodowicz was killed with a Sten gun,’ he said. ‘We naturally want to know where it came from, and Huxford is nearest and handiest.’
    ‘Yes, it is,’ Campling said. ‘Are you having any luck?’
    ‘Not as yet. But I’ve a feeling that I’m getting quite warm.’
    Campling said: ‘Hah,’ and exchanged looks with the flight-sergeant. ‘I think you’re more than warm,’ he said. ‘I think you’re smack on the target. Brennan,’ he said to the flight-sergeant, ‘show the Superintendent what we found. It did flit through my mind that there might be a connection.’
    Brennan got up off his knees. ‘Out in the store, sir,’ he said. He opened the counter-flap, turned right, went down the aisle next to the outer wall. A bored-looking corporal lounged in the aisle, a cigarette concealed under his hand. He winced slightly and vanished among the rack-shelves, leaving the smell of cigarette smoke behind him. From across the store came the gulping sound of someone pouring liquid from a Thermos.
    ‘This is it, sir,’ Brennan said, stopping at a gap between two lockers. ‘You’ll notice how the curve of the Nissen wall leaves a space behind these fixtures. There was a dump of obsolete gas equipment in this gap, stuff that ought to have been returned to Central Stores, and we just happened to move it, out of curiosity, and this is what we spotted behind a locker.’
    He pointed to a small, stout wooden case which stood on