Blood on the Shrine

by Chris O'Donoghue

  As soon as Helen had started moving back towards the station entrance, Russell followed, at a suitable distance. She had made straight for a red telephone box, pulled the door open and let it close behind her. Russell knew that it was so well built that he wouldn’t be able to hear anything and just hoped that Weeks would be able to fill him in when he got back.

  -0-

  The DC had been sitting in the Queen’s Head since it opened and was nervously sipping from his drink. The landlord had shown little surprise at seeing him standing on the doorstep when he opened at seven o’clock and was happy to pull him a pint. Weeks kept checking his watch, concerned that he’d missed the phone call. Now that the day of the job was getting closer he was starting to wonder if he’d made a massive mistake, getting in so deep. He knew he was a good copper but didn’t think he was a particularly brave man. His run-in with Wolfgang Müller the previous year, when he had come close to dying, had shaken him more than he cared to admit and he didn’t relish getting into a similar situation with Atkins and his gang.

  However carefully the robbery had been planned, there was always room for error with so many unknowns. What if there were security guards on the train or the locomotive crew proved stubborn? He didn’t think that Atkins planned any violence but Weeks was well aware of how quickly his mood could change. What the consequences would be if he grew really angry just didn’t bear thinking about…

  At 7.15 the phone rang. Weeks was just was rising to his feet when the door was flung open and Atkins marched in. Weeks stood rooted to the spot – stunned. ‘T-Tommy!’ he stammered.

  Atkins flung his arm out, his finger pointing at Weeks. ‘You just sit there and don’t move,’ he snapped. Weeks slumped back into his seat, his mouth gaping while Atkins took the telephone from the barman. ‘Helen,’ he said, smiling, ‘good to ’ear from you. How did the meetin’ go?’

  A pause.

  ‘Did he give you the details?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘So it’s still on for this week?’

  Another pause.

  Then, loudly:,‘What?! Why’s that then?’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  He was silent for a few moments, listening. Then he laughed, not a cheerful, musical laugh but an unpleasant one, the sort a pantomime villain would adopt to frighten children in the audience.

  ‘No, that’s not a problem. Everything’s in place and that will act in our favour. Can’t say more at the mo,’ he looked across at Weeks, who was still dumb-founded, ‘our driver is sittin’ just over there.’

  Atkins listened again, then:

  ‘Great. What time you gettin’ in? Okay, see you in a couple of hours. Ta-ta for now. Bye.’ He handed the phone back to the barman and nodded at the beer pump. ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘And one for your friend?’ he said, hopefully.

  ‘Nah. Not for ’im. ’E’s driving.’ He paid the barman, picked up his drink and walked across to where Weeks was sitting. ‘ ’Ello me old cocker. ’Ow’s it going?’ He punched the young constable on the arm, non too gently and took a deep draught of his drink.

  Weeks had gained a modicum of composure. ‘But Tommy, you were supposed to ring me. What are you doing here?’

  Atkins pulled a face, half-way between a grin and a gurn. ‘I thought you’d like some company.’

  ‘Yes, of course, but wasn’t I going to meet you…’ he looked round but the barman was nowhere to be seen, ‘down in Uckfield?’

  ‘Change of plan, mate.’

  ‘But I thought you’d worked it all out meticulously – you said once the job was planned you had to stick to it.’

  Atkins grabbed his lapel and leaned in close to Weeks’s face. ‘Are you questionin’ my judgement?’

  ‘No, of course not, Tommy. It’s just that…’

  ‘Listen. You’re only the driver, and don’t you forget it.’ He pushed Weeks back against his seat and pointed his thumb at his own chest. ‘I’m the mastermind behind this job.’ His face was like thunder as he took another drink. Then he relaxed a little. ‘Now, finish your pint and let’s go and get the lorry.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘No buts. As I said, change of plan. We’re takin’ it down tonight. Is that a problem? I presume you’ve got the lorry?’

  Weeks was panicking. He needed to let his boss know what was going on. ‘Of course, Tommy. It’s just…’

  ‘Listen, I ain’t going to say it again. Drink your pint – or leave it. Whichever. We’re off – now.’

  The landlord came back behind the bar in time to see the street door swinging closed. He looked across towards the table where an empty glass stood next to one that was half-full.

  -0-

  Outside the pub Atkins had his hand gripped tightly round Weeks’s elbow. ‘Right, where’s this bleeding three-tonner?’

  Weeks couldn’t understand what was happening. Atkins had never acted quite like this, and for such a long period. Normally his mood lightened quickly. ‘It’s over by those bombed-out warehouses - in Stone Street.’

  Atkins grip lessened, but he didn’t let go. ‘Ah, bombed-out buildings.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘I used to love ’em as a kid. Amazing what you could find. Doubt there’s anythin’ worth ’aving there now – except our transport, of course.’

  While they were walking Weeks had been wondering if he could make a run for it, but the grip on his arm was still tight, so he just carried on, thinking furiously but making no sense of the situation. What was Tommy up to? He didn’t mind going down to the location of the job early but he just couldn’t understand why. Plus, how was he going to let DI Russell know about the change of plans?

  ‘’Penny for your thoughts mate?... Mate?’

  Weeks realised that Atkins was talking to him. ‘Sorry? What?’

  Atkins grinned. ‘You was miles away. Somethin’ important?

  ‘No, no. Nothing in particular.’ He shrugged though he was starting to feel uncomfortably out of his depth.

  ‘That’s all right then. C’mon, we’re nearly there.’

  They turned the corner into Stone Street and approached the derelict warehouses. Half-way along the tumbledown row, a pair of wooden doors stood slightly ajar. Weeks peered through the gap. ‘Here it is.’

  Finally Atkins let go of the other man’s arm. ‘You grab that side. Let’s get these doors open.’

  -0-

  Russell retrieved his valise from the left-luggage locker. He was in too much of a hurry to change so he just stuffed the cap in the top of the bag and may his way to the Underground station. It was just three stops on the Circle and District line to Embankment. He bought a ticket, made his way to the platform and stood near the edge, waiting impatiently. After a few minutes, the air began to stir, there was a murmur in the distance that quickly became louder, turned into a roar and the familiar shape of the aluminium Tube rushed along the line and shuddered to a halt at the platform edge. The doors opened and Russell hurried inside.

  As it was Sunday, there was no crush of bodies, just a few people, well-dressed couples mainly; on their way out to dinner perhaps, Russell thought. Although agitated he took a seat, but only perched on the edge of it, staring up at the network diagram while willing the train to get a move on. Taking a deep, calming breath he looked down. The gaps between the hardwood slats that made up the floor were packed with cigarette ends, discarded tickets and other scraps of rubbish.

  St. James’s Park followed by Westminster were quickly passed until finally the train was braking as it approached Embankment station. Once the door had opened Russell hurried out and made his way up the escalator, taking the moving stairs at a run. He handed his ticket over to the collector at the barrier and virtually trotted along Villiers Street, up the steps and into Charing Cross Station. Panting, he stared up at the board, as the lettered panels clattered and revolved. He saw that his train was leaving in two minutes so he dashed to the platform, presented his ticket and got on board, slamming the door behind him. As he sl
umped into a seat, he heard the guard blow his whistle, the locomotive respond with an echoing toot! and the train pulled away. It was now too dark to see anything but lights that flashed past the window, diminishing as the train left the capital, and he wished he’d brought something to read.

  -0-

  Weeks felt across the nearside front tyre of the lorry and, as Valiant had promised, there was the key. Taking it, he walked round to the driver’s door, opened the lock and climbed into the cab. He reached across, unlocked the passenger door and Atkins climbed in. Weeks pressed the starter: the engine turned over, coughed, and burst into life. Just as he was putting it into gear, Atkins leaned across and said, pointedly: ‘And no funny business please, Johnny. You just drive. I’ll tell you where to go.’

  They headed west, and apart from the noise of the engine and occasional directions from Atkins, travelled in silence. As they approached Buxted, he said: ‘Take the next right. The train’s not due for half an hour. We need to hole up for a while.’ As Weeks turned the heavy steering wheel he saw a sign - Spotted Cow Lane. After a few hundred yards Atkins said: ‘This’ll do. Pull over.’ Weeks slowed and they bumped off the road and on to a patch of rough ground. He switched the engine off. After the noise of travelling the silence was almost deafening, leavened with the metallic pinking of the engine as it cooled.

  Weeks turned to his companion. ‘What train are we waiting for?’

  Atkins tapped his nose. ‘Just you wait and see. I’m gonna ‘ave a snooze. Wake me up in 20 minutes.’

  -0-

  Russell’s train pulled into Collinghurst. He hurried quickly to the police station. The desk Sergeant, Wickstead, looked up from the paper he was reading. ‘Evening, Sonny. Didn’t expect to see you here today.’

  ‘No,’ he laughed. ‘I wasn’t planning on coming in. Have you seen Johnny Weeks?’

  ‘Funny you should say that…’ He folded his arms and frowned. ‘He was in here…let me see… about half past six, then went off. Hasn’t been back since.’

  ‘Do you know where he went?’

  ‘He didn’t say. Left his car though. It’s out the back.’ He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb.’

  ‘Mmm. Strange. I suppose he didn’t mention the Queen’s Head?’

  ‘Do you think he might have gone there to drown his sorrows?’ Wickstead’s moustache bristled as he grinned.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘We-ell. He wasn’t exactly miserable, but he seemed agitated. Sort of… wound up.’

  ‘I see. I don’t suppose he left his keys?’

  Wickstead reached under the counter. ‘He did. Do you want to take them?’

  ‘Thanks,’ Russell said, ‘I will. If he comes back, tell him I’ve got the car.’

  First he drove towards the Queen’s Head but parked a couple of streets away. Locking the car, he walked to the pub and entered the bar. Sundays were usually quiet and there were just the customary two old chaps, playing yet another game of dominoes; a middle-aged couple sitting in silence at one of the tables, he staring into his beer and she, tight-lipped, clutching her capacious handbag to her ample bosom, an almost untouched gin and bitter lemon on the table in front of her; he in a flat cap and she in a black felt hat, a faded flower in the brim - not the cheeriest of sights. Russell made his way to the bar.

  ‘Yes, Sir, what can I get you?’ the barman asked.

  ‘I’ll have a Jameson’s please.’

  ‘A double?’

  ‘No, just a single, thanks.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ The man turned, took a glass off the shelf and pushed it up under an optic. The measure of amber liquid tumbled into the glass. Turning back he asked: ‘Anything else, Sir?’

  ‘That’s all thanks. How much do I owe you?’ He counted out the coins. ‘I don’t suppose a friend of mine was in here earlier?’ he then asked.

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘My sort of height, younger, with a shock of black curly hair.’

  ‘Oh, Johnny. Yes he was here. Went off in hurry – left half his pint behind.’

  ‘I see. Did he leave a message?’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  Russell was baffled. He would have thought that Weeks would at least have left a note for him. ‘Oh… thanks anyway.’ He drained his glass, nodded a farewell and walked out.

  ‘He wasn’t on his own,’ the barman called after him, but the door slammed on his words.

  It took only a few minutes to walk to Stone Street and along to the bombed-out warehouses. Russell saw the doors gaping open and quickened his step. When he reached it the building was empty. He knelt and, taking a box of Swan Vestas out of his pocket, he struck one of the matches on the side and held it close to the ground. He could make out the distinctive tyre tracks of the Bedford lorry in the damp soil.

  Back in the car he set off for the stony track where his railway carriage home was. Weeks’s own cottage lay not far it. It was a single-story dwelling, built in the 1920s with whitewashed pebbled-dashed walls and a red, diamond patterned roof. Russell drew up outside but the windows were dark. He hammered on the door but there was just a hollow echo from within. ‘Drat!’ he said and stomped back to the car. He sat in the driving seat, gripping the steering wheel and thinking hard. Where could Weeks be? He was sure that he would have left a message. Russell knew, or rather he inferred, that the job Atkins had planned was going ahead as scheduled on the Tuesday, two days hence. So why would Weeks go now? He could only assume that the phone call he had been waiting for in the Queen’s Head had prompted him to set off early. The trouble was, Russell couldn’t go looking for him without causing suspicion and probably jeopardise the gang’s plans, something he was unable to risk. He could only hope that his constable was safe and would get a message to him as soon as he could.

  -0-

  ‘Tommy? Tommy. Wake up,’ Weeks said, shaking Atkins’s shoulder.

  ‘What?’ Atkins shook his head and blinked his eyes open.

  ‘You told me to wake you in 20 minutes.’

  ‘Did I? Oh yeah.’ He gave a huge yawn and stretched his arms out. ‘Right, cocker. Get this truck turned round and head for the railway station.’

  With some difficulty Weeks turned the Bedford. A combination of the heavy steering, limited lock and narrowness of the lane made it a strenuous task. When the lorry was finally facing the way they had come he was visibly sweating. ‘You all right, mate?’ Atkins asked, with a sarky grin.

  ‘Fine thanks, Tommy,’ Weeks replied, breathing heavily. ‘Where to now?’

  ‘Back on the main road then down to the station. Just park in the forecourt.’ Weeks did as he was bid. Atkins’s mood seemed to have lightened after his nap. Perhaps it was going to work out all right after all.

  They stopped in front of the station and sat waiting, the engine quietly ticking over. It wasn’t long before they heard the sound of a train pulling in to the platform. It was late in the evening so only a handful of passengers came out through the station entrance. The last one caused Weeks to gasp in astonishment. It was Helen McDermott!

  Atkins looked across at him and gave a mirthless laugh. ‘That’s right mate, Helen. Didn’t expect her, did yer?’

  She walked across to the lorry; Atkins pushed the passenger door open then shuffled across the seat towards Weeks. Helen climbed up into the cab. ‘Hello Tommy.’ She leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek, then smiled at Weeks. ‘And hello, Detective Constable.’

  Chapter 19

  The previous year

  A flash is a device used in photography producing a burst of artificial light to help illuminate a scene.

  Wolfgang felt much better. He had been to the shop and the simple act of breakfasting on fresh bread and butter, plus having milk for his coffee, had lightened his mood considerably. He certainly did not feel so despondent and the suicidal thoughts of the day before were starting to fade.

  After studying the letter in detail and considering what Dickens had said
he was coming to the conclusion that Doctor Nathaniel Baxter was nothing short of a charlatan. If he had been able to access the funds he might have been inclined to pursue the matter further. The fact that Baxter had told him, when he visited the clinic, he did not have any personal experience of the procedure he was proposing, only suggesting that he believed that others had achieved successful results, did not fill him with confidence. It really did not sound very positive and was less than encouraging. And now that it seemed probable that Dickens would be able to furnish him with a new identity it lightened his load even further. Hopefully, this would mean he would be able to move about without less caution and the quest to free Ludwig could gather pace. But… he still had to jump the hurdle of delivering Dickens’s illicit cargo. And the thought of spending any length of time in the objectionable man’s company made him shudder. ‘But be positive, Wolfgang,’ he told himself, ‘It will soon be over.’

  Almost on cue, there was a step on the deck, the companionway doors opened and Dickens descended into the cabin. ‘Ah, shipmate, just what I fancy, a bit of breakfast,’ he said, helping himself to the bread and butter. Wolfgang gave a wan smile and waited while the other man spread the butter thickly on the chunk of bread he had torn off the loaf and bit into it with obvious relish. ‘Have you made up your mind?’ he mumbled, through a mouthful of food.

  Wolfgang fetched another cup and poured the man a coffee. ‘I think so,’ he said. ‘You’re probably right in your assessment of Doctor Baxter. I have not given up the idea entirely, just put it on hold.’

  ‘Good man. I think you’ve made the right decision.’

  ‘But,’ Wolfgang said, holding up a finger, ‘I really do need a new set of documents.’

  Dickens finished his bread, sat back and drained his cup. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘You’ll be pleased to hear it’s already in hand.’