Free Body of a Girl by Michael Gilbert Page B

and Mercer waited for him to say it.
    â€œDid you get anything out of the old coot?”
    â€œIt depends what you mean by anything. Information, no. One fact, yes. He does know something, and he’s frightened to talk.”
    â€œFrightened of who?”
    â€œIf we knew that, son,” said Mercer, “we’d be a long way on.”

Chapter Six
    The notice, in sun-blistered white letters on a black board, read: ‘Brattle’s Boat House. Punts Dinghies Skiffs Canoes. By Hour Day Week or Month.’
    Mr. Brattle was at work on the sloping plank-way in front of his boat-house. He had a punt upside down on two wooden trestles, and was replacing a cracked bottom plank.
    â€œHow did that happen?” said Mercer.
    â€œSome silly kids, skylarking,” said Mr. Brattle. “Ran her onto the footing of the bridge.” He didn’t sound upset about it. He didn’t look the sort of man who would upset easily. His thick bare forearms were almost as brown as the teak he was shaping. Mercer had been watching him with pleasure for some minutes before he spoke to him. He thought that he had rarely seen a more relaxed character.
    â€œYou were asking about Mr. Prior,” said Mr. Brattle. He held the plank up, decided that it could do with a fraction more off the left-hand side, and walked over with it to his workbench to position it in the vice. Mercer followed him.
    â€œThere’s two different ways you could get to his place. One is, you could go right back into the town, cross the bridge, take the turning to the left – not the first one, the second – go as far as the cemetery, and turn down the small road opposite the cemetery gate. That’d bring you back, you see—to there.”
    Mr. Brattle pointed with his spokeshave across the river.
    â€œYou mean, that’s his bungalow I can see.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œAnd I’m on the wrong bank.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œDamn,” said Mercer.
    Mr. Brattle removed a sliver of wood from the plank, and said, “The second way is, I could run you across in the boat.”
    â€œWell,” said Mercer. “If it isn’t taking up too much of your time.”
    â€œTime,” said Mr. Brattle, “is meant to be took up.”
    He led the way down to the landing stage, unhitched the chain with one large hand, picked up the pole with the other, motioned Mercer aboard, and drove the punt out into the river, performing every action with an economy of movement and effort that was poetry in action.
    It was very peaceful on the river. The weir lay downstream, hidden by a bend, and they could hear it grumbling to itself. The water slapped against the bow of the punt. A moorhen scuttled out of one patch of reeds and disappeared into another.
    â€œThere you are, Inspector. If you’re not going to be too long I’ll wait for you.”
    â€œMight be ten minutes.”
    â€œTime for a pipe,” said Mr. Brattle.
    Mercer walked up the path between two gardens. The bungalow on the left belonged to the Priors. The one on the right looked empty. There was no other building in sight. The service road seemed to have been built for them alone.
    Henry Prior answered the door bell. He was a thin man with a lot of untidy grey hair and glasses. He seemed surprised. He said, “I didn’t hear anyone drive up.”
    â€œThat’s because I didn’t drive,” said Mercer. “I was ferried.” He showed him his card.
    â€œPolice?” said Mr. Prior. “Not Mabel—”
    â€œYour wife?”
    â€œShe’s in town, shopping. She hasn’t—”
    â€œNothing to do with your wife, sir.”
    â€œSilly of me. Every time she takes the car out I think something’s going to happen to her. Actually she’s a much better driver than I am. Come in.”
    A room with French windows opening onto a strip of lawn which dipped down to