Gently Down the Stream by Alan Hunter Page B

from another planet. Was it barely possible he had come through that week unscathed?
    ‘Well, sir, it’s been a nice little houting!’ observed Dutt as they throbbed back upstream through the white smoke-mist. ‘I never did get round to one of those holidays afloat before, but I reckon I’ve seen it all now, sir.’
    Gently bit on the end of a dead pipe and reached automatically for a match.
    ‘I’ve got an odd feeling, Dutt.’
    ‘Yessir. That sun was bleeding fierce, sir.’
    Gently grinned. ‘I don’t mean sunstroke! The feeling I’ve got is that I’ve learned something about this trip of Lammas’, and I don’t know what the blazes that something is.’
    ‘You mean as how you can’t see the wood, sir.’
    ‘Exactly, Dutt – I can’t see the wood.’
    He scratched the match, which lit cheerily in the dank vapour curling past them.
    ‘The further we go, the more it grows on me … but it’s no use harping on it. What’s this place we’re just coming to?’
    ‘Halford Quay, sir, ’cording to the map.’
    ‘It isn’t on the list, but we’d better give it a whirl.’
    ‘You’ll have covered the lot then, sir,’ returned Dutt, with the merest tinge of bitterness.
    Halford Quay was a popular spot. There were yachts and cruisers moored two deep all along its not-very-great expanse. At one end it was blocked by the gardens of a brightly-lit hotel, at the other chopped off by the cut-in of a boat-yard. Into this Dutt directed the launch. As they came alongside the staithe an elderly, bearded man in navy cap and sweater ambled across to them.
    ‘Now don’t yew know this is private properta … or dew yew think yew can buy petrol at this time of night?’
    Gently shrugged and tossed him the painter.
    ‘We shan’t worry you long … and maybe you can tell us what we want to know.’
    ‘Ah … maybe I can an’ maybe I can’t.’
    He weighed up the launch with a professional eye, then cast a shrewd glance at the occupants.
    ‘Tha’s old Slola’s boat, now, i’nt’t? And I reckon I can guess who yew are without strainin m’self.’
    Gently nodded briefly and climbed out on to the staithe.
    ‘I was wonderin how long yew’d be gettin round here … thought that’d be a rummun dew yew missed me out!’
    ‘You know why we’re here then?’
    ‘Blast yes – I can read the paper.’
    ‘And you’ve something to tell us?’
    ‘W’either I dew, or else yew don’t hear it.’
    Gently considered this ambiguous reply for a moment.
    ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
    ‘Me! I’m Ole Sid Crow – Ole Sid’ll dew round here.’
    ‘You work at the yard here?’
    ‘I dew, when I aren’t idle.’
    ‘Go on then – what’ve you got to tell us?’
    Sid Crow came a little closer, as though afraid that a precious word might go astray.
    ‘ He dropped her here – tha’s what I’ve got to tell yew. Now say I’m a blodda liar an’ don’t know what I’m talkin’ about!’
    He did know what he was talking about. He proved that up to the hilt. Of all the interviewees they had tackled on that trip, Sid Crow was the single one who knew Lammas by sight – he had worked at the Yacht Club on Wrackstead Broad and seen Lammas pull in there on his half-decker. And he could describe the clothes Lammas was wearing. And also Linda Brent.
    The Harrier , it appeared, had moored at Halford Quay at tea-time on the Friday. The quay had been crowded then as it was now and she had tied up on the public side of the cut-in, right under Sid’s nose. The two occupants had then proceeded to get tea. They had had it in the well, without any attempt at concealment. After tea they had smoked a leisurely cigarette, washed and put away the dishes, and a little later had gone ashore, Lammas carrying two suitcases and Linda Brent her handbag and plastic raincoat. They went in the direction of the bus stop. About ten minutes later Lammas returned alone. Without any hurry he made the yacht ship-shape, checked his petrol and