Blood on the Shrine

by Chris O'Donoghue

‘You know the bombed-out warehouses, behind the old hospital?’ Captain Valiant had telephoned Russell in his office.

  Russell was leaning back in his chair, Weeks across from him, Aggie snoozing under the desk. ‘I think so,’ he said slowly, ‘just a moment…’ He held his hand over the mouthpiece and sat up. ‘D’you know the derelict warehouses, lad?’

  ‘The ones in Stone Street, Sir?’ the DC answered.

  Russell nodded and took his hand away. ‘Yes, we know them, in Stone Street.’

  ‘That’s the place. I’ll drop the three-tonner off at the crack of dawn on Sunday morning.’

  ‘How long before its absence will be noticed?’

  ‘She’s one of our older lorries – not much used; so two days - three at the outside, I should think.’

  ‘Hopefully we’ll return her before then.’

  ‘That’s fine. I should be able to cover for that long.’

  Weeks coughed and said quietly, ‘What about the key?’

  Russell held up his finger. ‘Good point. Valiant?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector?’

  ‘Weeks has just asked about the key.’

  The Captain chuckled. ‘No problem. Old army trick. The key will be on top of the nearside front tyre, tucked towards the back. You’ll have to feel for it.’

  ‘That’s fine. We’re very grateful to you. We’ll let you know how we get on.’ He put the phone down and turned to Weeks. ‘Right, lad, that’s arranged. Now what about my disguise?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that, Sir.’

  Russell placed his elbow on the desk, rested his chin in his hand and cocked his head to one side. ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Although Helen knows what you look like, she probably won’t notice you if you blend in with your surroundings.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Who are the most numerous, but also inconspicuous people on a station platform?’

  ‘Passengers?’

  ‘True, but I was thinking of station staff…’

  Russell frowned, and then his face lit up. ‘Porters - of course!’

  ‘That’s right. Everyone knows they are there, but no one takes any notice of them…’

  ‘Unless they want them to carry their bags.’

  ‘Exactly! All you need is a waistcoat and a peaked cap. Dressed like that, you’ll be able to get close without being noticed.’

  ‘Brilliant! Just one thing – where can I get the cap and waistcoat?’

  ‘Easy, Sir. I’m sure they’ll have a spare set at Collinghurst station you could borrow.’

  ‘Of course. Could you pop over and see?’

  ‘I could…’ Weeks said hesitantly. ‘But it might be better if you went, Sir. Make sure you get a good fit, if you know what I mean…’

  Russell chuckled. ‘Fair point, lad. I’ll go over now. See if they’ve got something in my size.’

  -0-

  Bates, Sammy and Baker were sitting round the table in the farmhouse. The mood was sombre and little had been said for some time. Empty mugs, beer bottles, a couple of candle stubs and an overflowing ashtray littered the surface. They heard a noise from the road, Sammy looked round nervously and Baker got up and crossed to the window. Cautiously lifting the corner of the ragged sacking he peered out. ‘Thank Christ for that!’ he said. ‘It’s just Tommy coming back.’ He dropped the cloth again and slumped in his seat.

  The front door eventually opened and Tommy walked in. He didn’t look too happy. ‘I’ve got some bad news for you, lads.’

  ‘What is it, Tommy?’ Bates asked, concern on his pudgy face.

  ‘It’s Johnny – or should I say, Detective Constable Weeks. I hold my hands up – you were right and I was wrong.’

  ‘What?!’ Baker roared, jumping to his feet. His chair crashed to the floor.

  ‘ ’E’s a copper,’ Atkins stated simply.

  ‘But how?’ Sammy said, fear in his eyes. ‘You said he was “sound as a pound”.’

  ‘Yes I did. And I was wrong. I was proper shafted by the bastard.’ Atkins shook his head dazedly and kicked the leg of a chair before sagging on to it. ‘Gimme a drink.’ Bates leant over and took a bottle of Courage beer out of the crate on the floor. He rested the cap on the edge of the table and thumped down on it with his fist. The cap flew in the air and he handed the bottle, creamy foam running down its neck, to Atkins who tipped the bottle to his mouth, his Adam’s apple bobbing furiously as he guzzled the contents. When he’d drained the last drop he banged the bottle down on the table, belched and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

  ‘We’ve been ’ad, good and proper. Stitched up like a bleedin’ kipper.’

  Bates coughed, softly. ‘’Er, we did warn you Tommy.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘But what’s done is done. How’re we gonna get out of this one? I ain’t gonna let this job go; it’s too good to lose.’ He had a wild look in his eyes.

  ‘C’mon, calm down Tommy. First of all, tell us how you found out,’ Baker said.

  -0-

  Atkins went on to explain his conversation with Helen and how she’d discovered who Weeks really was.

  ‘What did she suggest we do?’ Baker asked. ‘She usually comes up with a good idea.’

  ‘It all depends on whether ’e’ll manage to get ’old of the lorry by Sunday.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. Assumin’ ’e ’as, she reckons I shouldn’t wait to speak to ’im on Sunday evenin’.’

  ‘What should you do?’ Sammy asked, his eyes slightly less panic-stricken.

  ‘She reckons I should show up at the Queen’s an’ face ’im.’

  We should all go up and sort him out!’ Baker said angrily, his fists clenching.

  ‘No, no.’ Atkins held his hands up. ‘The last thing we want is a fuss. Helen reckons, if we’re careful, we can carry on as planned.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘This is the way she sees it. Gimme another beer an’ I’ll tell you what she said.’ Bates popped the cap on a bottle and handed it to Atkins. He took a deep draught, and then spoke. ‘Now what she reckons is that, as long as ’e ’as got the transport, we can still use ’im as a driver.’

  ‘I don’t see how that’s going to work,’ Bates said.

  ‘Now ’ang on, I ain’t finished. What she’s suggested is that I sit all peaceful like with ‘im in the pub until she rings from Victoria station - and we ’ave the final details we need from ’er contact. She’s got a feeling that the day may be changed, but we won’t know ’til then. After she’s rung, me and Johnny - Weeks - quietly leave the pub and go an’ get the lorry. That means ’e won’t ’ave time to tell nobody about exactly what’s ’appenin’. ’Specially that bloody Russell bloke. Together, we drive down ’ere, but stop at Buxted and wait for Helen who’s comin’ down by train.’

  ‘That sounds all well and good, Tommy, but what’s going to happen on the actual day of the job? Johnny - Weeks that is - is more than likely going to skedaddle in the lorry.’

  Tommy tapped the side of his nose. ‘Ah, well that’s where Helen comes into her own.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘She’s gonna be in the Bedford with ’im – make sure ’e don’t’ do anythin’ stupid.’

  ‘That’s fine, as far as it goes Tommy,’ Bates said thoughtfully, ‘but what happens after? You’re not going to give him his cut, pat him on the head and send him on his merry way, are you?’

  ‘Of course I bloody ain’t!’ Atkins said forcefully.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ The big man looked puzzled.

  ‘Don’t you worry. I’ve already warned ’im I ain’t got room for baggage – and you know ’ow I deal with any unwanted bags.’ Atkins accompanied this statement with a wink which was more of a leer.

  ‘Here. You don’t mean what I think you mean?’ said Sammy, alarmed.

  ‘Just wait and see. I don’t take kindly to bein’ duped so he’s deserves what ‘es got comin. Right. No
w ‘oo’s turn is it to get the grub ready?’

  -0-

  ‘Right, Sonny. Let’s see what we’ve got.’ The dapper form of Captain Salt, retired, rummaged around in a cupboard in his office at the Collinghurst terminus of the 3-ft gauge railway to Compass Point. Russell had decided not to enquire about a uniform at the mainline railway station reckoning that, as Salt was an old friend, he would have what was needed and that possible gossip would not be spread. ‘Ah, this looks promising.’ He held out a dark blue serge waistcoat, with brass buttons. ‘I don’t think this will be too much different from what they’re wearing nowadays at Victoria.’

  Russell shrugged his arms out of his jacket and laid it over the back of a chair. He sported a crisp white shirt, the sleeves shortened with expanding metal armbands, and a dark navy tie. Salt helped him on with the waistcoat then passed him a peaked cap.

  Russell put it on his head then fastened the buttons on the waistcoat. He stood back. ‘How do I look?’

  Salt smiled, his blue eyes twinkling. ‘Excellent. You’ll blend in perfectly.’ He cocked his head to one side and squinted. ‘Just a minute,’ he said. ‘Give me the cap.’

  Russell handed it over. ‘Why? What’s wrong?’

  ‘This is,’ said Salt, unpinning the badge. ‘Bit of a giveaway.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  Salt chuckled. ‘It says ‘WVR’ - Wichmere Valley Railway. That won’t do if you’re supposed to work for British Railways! You’ll just have to wear it without a badge – nobody will notice.’ He handed the cap back. ‘I suppose you can’t tell me why you need the uniform?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Best if I don’t say any more for now. I’m sure you’ll hear about it in the fullness of time.’

  Chapter 15

  The previous year

  Courvoisier launched the Josephine bottle in 1951, to honour Napoleon’s first wife. The shape of the bottle, with a thin neck and wide base, may mimic Josephine’s love of corsets.

  Sometime after his discovery of the gun shipment Wolfgang was lying on his bunk, reading. There was a step on the deck, the boat swayed slightly, then a rap on the roof. The little German started. He never had visitors. He peered out of the window in the side of the coachhouse and could see a pair of legs encased in grubby trousers. Dickens. What on earth did he want? He never came to the boat. The only time Wolfgang normally saw him was when he visited his office to pay his mooring dues. He slipped off the bunk, stepped on to the companionway and pushed open the doors. Dickens’s sideways face appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Can I come aboard, shipmate?’ he asked, jovially.

  ‘I suppose so.’ Wolfgang stepped back while the Irishman descended into the cabin.

  ‘Well, this is very nice,’ he said, looking round. ‘You’ve made yourself very cosy I see. Mind if I sit down?’ Wolfgang shrugged. Dickens sat on the bunk, smiling and stroking his beard.

  Wolfgang resented the intrusion but was determined to be polite. ‘Would you like coffee – or something stronger?’

  ‘Ooh, thanks a million. A drop of grog would go down a treat.’

  Wolfgang made his way into the galley and came back with a bottle of Courvoisier and two glasses. Dickens smacked his lips. This was a rare treat. When the drink had been poured and he had taken a good mouthful he stared pointedly at Wolfgang. ‘I’m wondering if you can do me a bit of a favour.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘Dickens scanned the cabin. ‘You’ve got a very nice craft here. I bet it’s a good sea boat.’

  ‘Yes, it is actually.’

  ‘Perfect for making a long passage.’

  ‘Yes it is.’

  ‘So I’m wondering if you’d be prepared to do a little delivery for me.’

  Wolfgang felt a cold chill run through his body. ‘I am not sure.’

  ‘You haven’t got anything to keep you here, have you?’

  ‘I have actually,’ Wolfgang said, remembering the appointment in Harley Street. ‘I’m waiting for an important letter.’

  ‘Oh yes? And when you are expecting this letter?’

  ‘Anytime soon, I expect.’

  ‘Well the trip I have planned for you shouldn’t take too long – a week at the most, I would think. Surely you can spare that for an old mate?’ He held out his glass for a refill.

  ‘Hmm. I really am not sure. Why exactly are you asking me? Are there no other old mates you could ask?’

  ‘To be sure, but I think this is something you’d be glad to do for me.’ His raisin-brown eyes twinkled.

  Wolfgang was baffled. ‘And why would I be glad to do it for you?’

  ‘Ah, well, perhaps it’s because you’d like me to keep a little secret.’ He winked.

  Despite the warmth of the brandy, Wolfgang felt unnaturally cold and the cabin had lost its cosiness. ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘Let me put it this way.’ Dickens settled back on the bunk, wriggling until he was comfortable. ‘A little bird has told me that you’re not all you seem, Monsieur Meunier.’

  Wolfgang’s blood had turned to ice. He had trouble speaking but just managed to blurt out: ‘I-I do not know what you mean.’

  ‘What if I tell you that I’m aware that your rather fine craft,’ he threw his arm out, encompassing the cabin, ‘is actually called Moonshine.’ Wolfgang was stunned, and it showed. ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘B-but how do you know?’

  Dickens pursed his lips. ‘Let me just say that I have my sources.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘A little bird told me,’ he said again and tapped his nose. ‘I also heard that you might have had a bit of a run-in with the not so local constabulary of late,’ Dickens smirked. ‘To be more precise, there’s something of a price on your head, isn’t there… Herr Müller?’ Wolfgang was speechless. Dickens leaned forward and placed a non-too clean hand on the German’s knee and leered up into his face. ‘Not to put too finer a point on it, you’re wanted for murder.’ He leaned back against the side of the boat and folded his arms across his chest.

  They sat in silence for some minutes while Wolfgang gathered his thoughts. Finally he spoke, his voice croaky. ‘So, tell me what you know.’

  ‘Well, Herr Müller, it seems you’re on the run, not only from the British police but also the French gendarmes, and probably Interpol too, I wouldn’t be surprised. It seems that you’ve been party to the death of three Nazis and almost bumped off a fourth. You’re something of celebrity - a rather infamous one, but a celebrity, none the less.’ He paused. ‘You look like you need a drink. Here.’ He reached across, picked up the brandy bottle and poured a good measure into Wolfgang’s glass.

  ‘Is that all?’ Wolfgang said, then took a swig.

  ‘Holy Mother of God! Isn’t that enough?’

  He put the glass down carefully. ‘Well…’

  ‘What I don’t understand, is why you fetched up here, rather than going to ground on the Continent.’ He rested his chin on his upturned finger and frowned. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘Ludwig.’

  ‘How dare you!’ the German hissed.

  Dickens was unruffled. ‘Oh, I dare all right.’ He leaned forward and grasped Wolfgang’s wrist. ‘I think I’m holding all the trump cards – don’t you?’ He let go of the man’s wrist and pushed it aside, as if it was diseased. ‘You’re only here because your brother is banged up in prison and you can’t cope without him. Am I right?’

  Wolfgang looked deflated. His beloved brother, Ludwig, was his Achilles heel. Ever since the arrest he had struggled to cope without his reassuring presence. He was close to breaking down.

  Dickens sensed his distress. ‘You help me and I may be able to help you. Now, can we talk about this little job you’re happily going to do for me?’

  The two men sat quietly for some time, sipping their drinks and eyeing each other over the rims of their glasses. Then Wolfgang spoke. ‘You want me to smuggle your guns.’

  It was Dickens’s turn to look surprised. ‘What? How?’ Then
he chuckled. ‘I knew I’d nailed that lid down.’ He held his glass up in salute. ‘Very clever.’

  Wolfgang, feeling he had scored a minor point, went on, ‘Where I am supposed to be going?’

  ‘Ireland. Cork to be exact.’

  ‘Ireland? But that’s miles!’ He’d just lost his point.

  ‘About 500, give or take.’

  ‘But that will take weeks!’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Dickens mused. ‘In this fine craft, I reckon you’ll be able to average about 10 knots, so it shouldn’t take longer than a couple of days, three at the most. Then about the same for the return journey - if you decide to come back.’

  Wolfgang was desperate to regain some control. ‘Are you not forgetting something?’

  ‘Oh yes? And what could that be?’

  ‘Fuel.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Moonshine might be a fine craft, but she does not run on air...’

  Realisation dawned. ‘Ah, I see what you’re getting at. You think we’ll have to stop and refuel.’ He grinned. ‘And, maybe you’d be able jump ship?’ The grin spread and he waggled his index finger from side to side. ‘Naughty…’ Wolfgang thought he’d scored another point but the next statement took the wind out of his sails. We’ll take it with us. I’ve got plenty of oil drums. We can lash a couple of them on the deck.’

  Wolfgang tried one more gambit. ‘You’ve forgotten something else. I’ll need to sleep.’

  Dickens was still grinning, his mouth a dark maw. ‘Ah, well, I’ve got a solution for that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You won’t be on your own.’ The grin grew wider, the shadows in his mouth, deeper. ‘I’m coming with you!’

  Chapter 16

  Little Ben is a cast-iron miniature clock tower, situated at the intersection of Vauxhall Bridge Road and Victoria Street, in Westminster, close to the approach to Victoria station. Its design mimics Big Ben, at the other end of Victoria Street.

  Sunday was a busy day for travelling. Helen, dressed for a day out, and Russell, with his disguise carried in a valise, both headed for London, albeit on different trains. Bates took Atkins to the station at Buxted in his Morris van, dropping him off and skedaddling back to the farm where the others helped him reverse it back into the secrecy of the barn.