with Adrian Stoll.
Metfield’s prize exhibit, the blue Volkswagen Dormobile, was locked away in an M/T garage. Its engine started first bang, and Metfield backed it into the yard. Predictably it was newish, immaculate and impersonal: another tool of Stoll’s trade. It differed from standard in only one particular, being fitted with a second, heavy-duty battery, with an exterior take-off. This was apparently to power the floodlight, which was still packed in the vehicle, along with a camera-stand, portable flash and several cans of unused film. For the rest, one more Dormobile, smelling of soft fabric and curtaining, with a single sleeping-bag and pillow, and the makings of a mug of powdered coffee.
Metfield unbuttoned the roof and raised it until spring pegs locked the supports. Then he opened one of two, large, orange-perspex ventilators, showing how they gapped downwards when the roof was erected. Next he made up the bed, by drawing out hinged seat-cushions and sliding them laterally over the fitted cool-box; and finally fetched the gas bottle, with the hose attached, and fed the hose into the open ventilator. It dangled within eighteen inches of the head of the bed.
‘Turn it on!’ Gently called.
Metfield operated the valve. From the hose came a faint, serpent-like hiss and a garlic smell that seemed to scratch at the brain.
Metfield turned it off and came round to the side-door.
‘Is that the original bottle?’ Gently asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ Metfield said. ‘It still had some gas in it. Larling turned it off when he found the van.’
‘What can the suppliers tell us about that?’
‘Well, not very much, sir,’ Metfield admitted. ‘We don’t know if the bottle started full or if the valve was turned full on.’
‘But if it was full, and full on?’
‘They reckoned five hours, which would put the time it was turned on at two-thirty a.m. And that’s about what you’d expect, sir. Chummie would have had to let Stoll settle down.’
Metfield next proceeded to demonstrate the gas stove, which popped up from behind the front passenger-seat; it had been found folded, but could not be folded unless a safety-tap was first turned off. A complete irrelevancy. All that signified was that green pipe dangling from the ventilator. Cheap, easy, non-violent: and with a little care, untraceable. A method for an amateur, for a squeamish operator; for a woman. Or a womanish man.
‘Just thought I’d show you, sir,’ Metfield said. ‘You wouldn’t need to go further, if you were planning suicide.’
‘Put it away,’ Gently shrugged. ‘What I want to see now is where it was done.’
He left his Lotus in the yard and they drove out in a police Wolseley. Metfield was a careful, methodical driver who followed precisely the drill in the manual. They left Latchford by the Cross road and stole ahead at a steady fifty. Very soon they were clear of the houses and entering the fenceless stretches of the brecks.
‘Would this have been Stoll’s route?’ Gently asked.
Metfield nodded. ‘Coming in from London. I haven’t found anyone yet who saw him, but any other way would put on miles.’
‘He would have been going through Latchford at around ten.’
‘That’s when a lot of traffic would have been leaving. But not so much of it going this way. He could have slipped by without anyone noticing.’
‘What’s over to the left?’
‘That’s the Battle Area, on the far side of those trees.’
‘Was anything going on there at the weekend?’
Metfield shook his head. ‘The Camp is closed for repairs.’
And if the military were absent there would be nobody else on those wide, wasted acres, where cottage and farmhouse rotted and collapsed, and the roads were vanishing again, into the brecks.
They passed a straggle of native pines, their flaky boles purplish-red, and headed for the long palisade of the forest, lying trim and alert under the sun. The mass of the trees were evergreen conifers, Scots,
Metfield’s prize exhibit, the blue Volkswagen Dormobile, was locked away in an M/T garage. Its engine started first bang, and Metfield backed it into the yard. Predictably it was newish, immaculate and impersonal: another tool of Stoll’s trade. It differed from standard in only one particular, being fitted with a second, heavy-duty battery, with an exterior take-off. This was apparently to power the floodlight, which was still packed in the vehicle, along with a camera-stand, portable flash and several cans of unused film. For the rest, one more Dormobile, smelling of soft fabric and curtaining, with a single sleeping-bag and pillow, and the makings of a mug of powdered coffee.
Metfield unbuttoned the roof and raised it until spring pegs locked the supports. Then he opened one of two, large, orange-perspex ventilators, showing how they gapped downwards when the roof was erected. Next he made up the bed, by drawing out hinged seat-cushions and sliding them laterally over the fitted cool-box; and finally fetched the gas bottle, with the hose attached, and fed the hose into the open ventilator. It dangled within eighteen inches of the head of the bed.
‘Turn it on!’ Gently called.
Metfield operated the valve. From the hose came a faint, serpent-like hiss and a garlic smell that seemed to scratch at the brain.
Metfield turned it off and came round to the side-door.
‘Is that the original bottle?’ Gently asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ Metfield said. ‘It still had some gas in it. Larling turned it off when he found the van.’
‘What can the suppliers tell us about that?’
‘Well, not very much, sir,’ Metfield admitted. ‘We don’t know if the bottle started full or if the valve was turned full on.’
‘But if it was full, and full on?’
‘They reckoned five hours, which would put the time it was turned on at two-thirty a.m. And that’s about what you’d expect, sir. Chummie would have had to let Stoll settle down.’
Metfield next proceeded to demonstrate the gas stove, which popped up from behind the front passenger-seat; it had been found folded, but could not be folded unless a safety-tap was first turned off. A complete irrelevancy. All that signified was that green pipe dangling from the ventilator. Cheap, easy, non-violent: and with a little care, untraceable. A method for an amateur, for a squeamish operator; for a woman. Or a womanish man.
‘Just thought I’d show you, sir,’ Metfield said. ‘You wouldn’t need to go further, if you were planning suicide.’
‘Put it away,’ Gently shrugged. ‘What I want to see now is where it was done.’
He left his Lotus in the yard and they drove out in a police Wolseley. Metfield was a careful, methodical driver who followed precisely the drill in the manual. They left Latchford by the Cross road and stole ahead at a steady fifty. Very soon they were clear of the houses and entering the fenceless stretches of the brecks.
‘Would this have been Stoll’s route?’ Gently asked.
Metfield nodded. ‘Coming in from London. I haven’t found anyone yet who saw him, but any other way would put on miles.’
‘He would have been going through Latchford at around ten.’
‘That’s when a lot of traffic would have been leaving. But not so much of it going this way. He could have slipped by without anyone noticing.’
‘What’s over to the left?’
‘That’s the Battle Area, on the far side of those trees.’
‘Was anything going on there at the weekend?’
Metfield shook his head. ‘The Camp is closed for repairs.’
And if the military were absent there would be nobody else on those wide, wasted acres, where cottage and farmhouse rotted and collapsed, and the roads were vanishing again, into the brecks.
They passed a straggle of native pines, their flaky boles purplish-red, and headed for the long palisade of the forest, lying trim and alert under the sun. The mass of the trees were evergreen conifers, Scots,
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