Blood on the Shrine

by Chris O'Donoghue

  ‘Weeks…’

  The DC smiled. ‘Sorry, Sir, Parker or Barrow…’

  ‘I don’t think so. Not only would it be an uphill struggle to persuade them of its importance but I doubt they’d handle it with the necessary sensitivity.’

  ‘What can we do?’

  ‘There’s no other way but for me to go.’

  ‘But Sir, surely she’ll recognise you?’

  ‘I guess that’s a risk I’ll have to take. I’ll need to think up a convincing disguise.’

  -0-

  Sammy, Bates and Baker leaned in as Atkins smoothed the creases out of the map laid out on the table. He pointed and said: ‘Here’s the level crossing where Johnny will park the lorry.’

  Bates, normally taciturn, spoke up, speaking quietly. ‘Are you sure about him, Tommy?’

  It was out of character for the man to question anything and Atkins bristled. ‘Of course I am! D’you think I’d use someone I wasn’t sure of?’

  But the big man pressed on. ‘You say that, Tommy, but how do we know we can trust him? None of us has come across him before, after all.’

  Atkins didn’t like his authority being challenged but the fact it was the usually reserved Bates who had questioned him gave him cause for doubt. But he quickly dismissed this and thumped the table. ‘If I say we can trust him then you’d better believe me. Right?’

  Bates looked a little shame-faced. ‘Sure, boss. If you say so.’

  ‘I do, so let’s ’ear no more about it.’

  -0-

  After an agonising half hour, when Helen had made two pots of tea and drunk both of them, the phone finally rang. She dashed into the hall almost falling over the cat again and picked up the handset. ‘Hello? Dennis. Thanks for getting back to me. What did you find out? What? There’s no such firm? Are you sure? No, I’m not doubting you, it’s just that… Oh never mind. Thanks anyway, I owe you.’ She laughed. ‘Okay, next time I come up to town. Bye.’ She slowly put the down the receiver, a frown on her face. So if the company didn’t exist, Johnny was shooting Atkins a line. Johnny? She thought back to her last conversation with Laurie Baker. How had he described him? “Like an overgrown schoolboy with a mop of dark curly hair.” Hmm. Detective Constable J. Weeks. What if it was…? Atkins was due to ring her later. She’d put it to him then.

  -0-

  On their return to the station Russell and Weeks had been summoned to Superintendent Vic Stout’s office. They were sitting expectantly opposite his vacant chair, on the other side of the imposing, highly polished desk. The room was spacious, with a large window overlooking the park, next to the Collinghurst police headquarters. Even though he was absent, the distinctive odour of Stout’s habitual cheroots hung, like a pall, over the room. They had to wait for several minutes until he finally bustled in. As they rose from their seats he said: ‘Sit down – sit down. No need to stand on ceremony,’ and lowered his bulk, the chair groaning as it took his weight.

  ‘Right, now, I want a progress report. And it had better be good. I’ve got the Chief Constable on my back. He’s on the warpath, for some reason, and is demanding answers.’

  ‘Well, Sir,’ began Russell, as his superior lit up a cigar, ‘it sounds like the job is definitely on for next Tuesday. And…’ he paused. ‘There’s been something of a turn of events.’

  Stout blew out a column of smoke. ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Yes. Weeks,’ Russell looked towards to his companion, ‘has been asked to get hold of a lorry.’

  ‘I see. And how do you plan to do that, Constable?’

  ‘Um,’ he mumbled, ‘Captain Valiant is going to lend me one.’

  ‘Who? Oh yes, that wallah from the barracks. The bomb disposal chappy.’

  ‘That’s him,’ Russell said.

  ‘How is he going to lend you a lorry?’

  ‘We’ve yet to work out the details, but he was happy to help. He does owe us after all.’

  ‘Quite. But I don’t think I want to hear any more. This is your show and the less I know about it the better.... especially if it all goes badly wrong.’ He took the cigar out of his mouth and stared pointedly at the DI.

  Russell sat up and coughed, holding his hand over his mouth. ‘I’ll make sure it doesn’t, Sir,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Hmm, it had better not. Anyway, what else has happened?’

  Weeks spoke up. ‘We got the correct address of that woman who was at the Buddhist retreat. The one who went off early with Baker.’

  ‘He’s part of Atkins’s gang, isn’t he?’

  ‘That’s right. Also we’re pretty sure he had something to do with the man, Elsdale, who was badly injured.’

  ‘He’s still alive then?’

  ‘Yes. He’s off the critical list but it will be some time before he’s out of hospital.’

  ‘Did you go and see this woman?’

  ‘We did.’

  ‘And?’

  Weeks took the lead again. ‘She claims she doesn’t know Baker – he just gave her a lift to the station. Nor does she know anything about what happened to Elsdale.’

  ‘But I did find something that might link her to them.’ Russell said, then explained about the note he had found on the blotter.

  The Superintendent violently stubbed out his cigar. ‘But that could mean anything!’ he said, angrily. ‘Who the hell is SH? Could be anybody!’

  ‘I’m aware of that, Sir. I just have a feeling that it’s critical to this case.’

  ‘You’ve got a feeling!’ Stout thundered. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ He put his head in his hands and groaned. Then after a moment he looked up and spoke quietly. ‘I don’t really care about your feelings. What I want is some solid evidence. This whole case is turning into a right old mare’s nest. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Perfectly, Sir.’

  ‘Right. Then come back with some answers, not just feelings.’

  The two detectives left the room and walked down the corridor to Russell’s office. ‘That went well,’ he said, a sardonic smile playing around his lips.

  They sat down and Weeks spoke, ‘Sir.’

  ‘Yes, lad?’

  ‘We didn’t mention seeing Baker when we went to Uckfield.’

  Russell settled in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. ‘I think that was just as well. The Super may well have made us bring him in for questioning over the Elsdale business. That would be bound to put Atkins and co on their guard and they be would more than likely to call the job off. Which is not what we want.’

  ‘So what now, Sir?’

  ‘Let’s see.’ He held up his hand and starting ticking items off on his fingers. ‘One: I’m going to have to put together a plan for Tuesday. We’ll need quite a few bodies to stake out that level crossing and I’ve got to persuade the Super that it’s worthwhile. Two: We have to arrange with Valiant where he’s going to leave the lorry so you can borrow it. Three: You need to be ready for instructions from Atkins when he rings the Queen’s Head and four: I’ve got to work out how I can observe Helen’s meeting with SH, without being noticed.’

  Chapter 13

  The previous year

  The Lee-Enfield is a bolt action, magazine-fed, repeating rifle that was the main firearm used by the British Army during the first half of the 20th century.

  Wolfgang took a taxi from the station to the boatyard after his visit to Harley Street. He paid off the cab and started making his way back to the boat. He was feeling particularly weary after his trip and was looking forward to having a lie-down and taking the weight off his leg. After the manipulation by Doctor Baxter and the extra distance he had walked he knew he had overdone it and just had to rest. So he made slow progress, being careful not to trip on ropes, chains and lengths of wood that littered the untidy yard. He had to stop several times and, about halfway to his berth, he perched on a convenient barrel while he regained enough strength to carry on. He had been sitting for several minutes when he became aware of noises coming from one of Dickens’s t
umbledown sheds. This particular structure was especially rickety and looked as if a moderately strong gust of wind would flatten it. How it remained standing was one of life’s mysteries.

  The sounds he heard were the scraping and screeching of heavy objects being moved, along with an occasional human oath. After catching his breath he was curious enough to lever himself off the barrel and move slowly towards the partly open door. Cautiously, he peered inside. Dickens, with his back to him, was just sliding the lid back on to a long, flat, rectangular crate, placed on a stack of similar wooden ones. Just before the lid was fully home, Wolfgang glimpsed the dull sheen of oiled metal. Dickens picked up a hammer, banged half a dozen nails in and pulled a ragged tarpaulin over the stack. Wolfgang had just enough time to turn and start back along the path towards his boat before Dickens came out and, with a grunt he forced the door shut, its uneven bottom scraping on the weeds growing round the shed. He turned and saw Wolfgang.

  ‘Ah, Monsieur Meunier. Back from your trip I see. Did you have a good time?’ Dickens was small and wizened, of indeterminate age, wearing old grubby clothes and a ragged beret. His skin too looked grubby, his face was lined, his small, dark eyes deep set. He had a wispy pepper and salt beard, which he stroked continually as he spoke.

  Wolfgang stopped and faced him. ‘Yes, Mr Dickens. Very satisfactory, thank you.’

  ‘Oh, please call me Paddy.’ His voice had the gentle lilt of an Irish brogue. He pushed his beret up with a stained hand and scratched his forehead. He grinned, showing broken stumps with large gaps between. ‘I feel like we’re old mates now.’

  Wolfgang inwardly shuddered, keen to get away from this creepy little man. ‘Thank you… Paddy.’

  Dickens moved closer and Wolfgang could smell the mixed odours of pitch and paint, alcohol and sweat. ‘And what about you, Monsieur Meunier? Do you have a first name?’

  Er, oui, it is Marcel,’ he said, the name of the man who helped him paint the boat the first thing to come into his head.

  ‘That’s nice, Marcel.’ He held out his hand and Wolfgang was forced to grasp and shake it. ‘Anything I can do for you, just ask.’ With that, he gave a small bow, turned and walked towards the entrance to the yard where another ramshackle building contained his home and his office.

  -0-

  Back in the relative security of his boat, Wolfgang sat on the bunk in the cabin cradling a generous measure of brandy against his chest, trying to stop the glass from shaking in his hands. It wasn’t so much the boatyard owner’s supercilious attempt to be friendly, more, what he had seen in the shed. He was pretty sure what the crates contained but curiosity made him want to have a closer look to check. He determined to wait until after dark and go back. Trembling, he lifted the glass to his lips and drank until it was empty. Then he lay down on the bunk and drifted into an exhausted sleep.

  -0-

  When he woke it was dark outside. Slowly, as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he could distinguish the regular flashing of the red and green navigation lights marking the channel in the estuary and the steady soft glow of gas lamps on the opposite bank. He sat up shakily; the brandy had left his brain a little fuddled and his mouth dry. Holding on to the edge of the bunk to steady himself, he stepped into the small galley where he knew there was a bottle of clean water. He drank deeply, slaking his thirst and clearing his head. Feeling a little better, he struck a match and lit the oil lamp, fixed by a bracket to the bulkhead. The lamp cast a warm light over the cabin.

  Cormorant, or rather, Moonshine, was a 30-foot, former fishing boat. When Wolfgang and his brother had bought it, they needed none of the trawling gear that came with it, just wanting a reasonably fast, comfortable craft that could cross the Channel with ease. And she had proved perfect for their needs. Forward was a small wheelhouse with good visibility on three sides. Aft of this was a raised coach-house roof. A companionway led down to a cosy cabin with a bunk-cum-settee either side of a mahogany table with a brass fiddle rail round the edge. A doorway in the forrard bulkhead led to a compact galley. Above and below the bunks were shelves and storage lockers and Wolfgang liked to keep everything neat and tidy. He took a slim torch off one of the shelves and clicked the switch on to ensure the batteries were good. The torch sent out a narrow, bright beam and he switched it off again. Bending, he opened a locker beneath the starboard bunk and took out a claw hammer. He made his way up on to the deck and could see from the light reflected on the water that the tide was full. This made disembarking easier as the rough wooden jetty was almost level with the deck of the boat. He slipped the shaft of the hammer into the side pocket of his jacket and climbed ashore. Switching on the torch he shielded the beam with his hand, providing just enough illumination to see his way.

  When he reached the shed, Wolfgang had to put the torch down so he could force the door open. It seemed to make a horrendous amount of noise as it scraped along the ground and when there was a big enough gap for him to get through he stood still, holding his breath and listening. All was quiet. He picked up the torch, slipped inside and played the beam over the interior. After pulling back the tarpaulin he managed to wedge the torch so the beam shone on the crate. He took the hammer out of his pocket and, using the claw, started levering the lid up. As the nails were pulled they made a screeching sound that he was sure would be heard but, after a pause to listen, it was still silent outside. Finally, the cover was free and he slid it to one side. His hand shaking, he shone the torch on the contents. It was as he had suspected. Rifles! British Army-issue Lee-Enfields…

  Wolfgang looked at the number of similar crates and took a sharp inward breath. This looked like gun-running on quite a scale. He pushed the lid back into place on the box he had opened and, deciding that hammering the nails back in would be just too noisy, he levered them out, one by one, with the claw. As he slipped the canvas sheet back over the pile he hoped that Dickens would have forgotten that he’d nailed it down and blame it on the booze.

  Chapter 14

  The crown cork, or cap, patented in 1892, had 24 teeth and a cork seal with a paper backing to prevent contact between the contents and the metal cap.

  Helen couldn’t face any more tea; instead she had poured herself a large glass of dry sherry. Tommy had been due to ring at 6.30 but he was late. It was nearly seven o’clock. She didn’t like being kept waiting at the best of times and was growing agitated. On top of that she had become more convinced that Atkins’s new mate, Johnny was, in actual fact, DC Weeks. If this was the case it would jeopardise the whole project. She knew she would have an uphill struggle trying to convince him - he had become very protective of his new pal but she had to find out if he was the policeman and get Atkins to deal with it. At long last the phone rang. She snatched up the receiver before it could ring a second time. ‘Hello? Tommy?’

  She heard the coins drop into the box. ‘’Ello darlin’,’ came the smooth reply, ‘’ow are you?’

  ‘I’m fine Tommy,’ she gushed. ‘Just pleased to hear your voice. I thought you weren’t going to ring.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ he went on, ‘course I was gonna ring. Wouldn’t let yer down, now would I?’

  ‘I should hope not,’ she laughed. ‘Anyway, a lot’s been happening here.’ She went on to explain about coming home and finding the policemen in her house.

  ‘Strewth! That must have been a bloody shock!’

  ‘You can say that again.’ She was about to continue when the pips went.

  ‘’Ere darlin’, can you ring me back? I ain’t got many coins left.’

  ‘Quick, give me your number.’ He recited it off the front of the receiver in the call box and she scribbled it down, just before the line went dead. She dialled the number and waited until she heard him pick up the handset. ‘Tommy?’

  ‘Yeah, me again. Now carry on wiv what you were sayin’.’

  She decided to plunge straight in. ‘’It’s about Johnny…’

  ‘Not you as well?’ he said gruffly. ‘I’ve been
gettin’ grief from all quarters. First of all Laurie ’avin’ a go then Butcher bangin’ on about ’im. I’ll tell you the same as I told them. Johnny’s as sound as a pound, straight as a die, one ’undred percent copper-bottomed. ’E’s a good lad an’ I won’t ’ave nuffink said against ’im. All right?’

  ‘No Tommy. It is not all right. Your friend Johnny has been shooting you a line.’ Before Atkins could interrupt she continued. ‘That supposed family firm he was meant to have embezzled money from doesn’t exist’.

  ‘What?’ Atkins was incredulous.

  ‘I spoke to an old friend who works on the Stock Exchange. He checked quite a way back through the records and there never has been a Holloway and Son.’

  ‘Well I’ll be…’

  ‘And there’s something else.’

  ‘There can’t be.’

  ‘There is.’

  ‘Go on. What is it?’

  ‘You’re not going to believe it.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘I think your precious getaway driver is a copper.’

  ‘What? You’re bloody ’avin’ me on!’

  Atkins had yelled so loudly, Helen had to hold the phone away from her ear. ‘I’m afraid he may well be, Tommy,’ she said, her quiet voice contrasting with his. ‘Tell me again what he looks like.’

  Atkins sighed. ‘About my height – 5’ 8”; a load of dark curly hair. Keeps flopping over his eyes.’

  ‘Looks a bit like an overgrown schoolboy?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said resignedly at last. ‘You think I’ve been ’ad?’

  ‘Afraid so, Tommy. I guess he must have been convincing.’

  ‘’E certainly was. What am I gonna do Helen? Help me out here.’

  -0-