Blood on the Shrine

by Chris O'Donoghue

  ‘Oh really?’ Wolfgang was impressed by the speed at which the other man had worked.

  ‘Yes, I spoke to a colleague of mine and he says it shouldn’t be a problem. It will cost, of course, but I’m sure we can come to some sort of accommodation.’ Dickens winked. ‘Now, I think we should prepare for our little adventure, don’t you?’

  -0-

  The next day was spent readying the boat for the trip. In spite of his slovenly appearance and the state of the yard, Dickens could be very good at organising when he wanted to and although he was only slightly built he seemed to be as strong as an ox. Single-handed he manhandled a couple of 45- gallon oil drums on to the after-deck and lashed them securely in place. Next he wheeled a filled drum along the rickety jetty, which, amazingly, held its weight. Then, using a manual pump and a length of hose, he transferred the contents into one drum. Next he wheeled another over and filled the second drum. Once that was completed he examined the rest of the boat, considering how best to stow the cargo. Ludwig looked on, unsettled by the way he seemed to have lost control of his own vessel. To compound his bafflement Dickens suddenly turned round and said: ‘Come on, we’ve got an appointment to keep.’

  ‘What? Where?’

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough. Follow me.’ Wolfgang went down into the cabin and returned, wearing his dark glasses and wide-brimmed hat and leaning on his stick. Dickens led the way through the debris of the boatyard and out into the adjacent lane. After they had walked a hundred yards or so, he stopped and rapped on the door of a terraced cottage. The door creaked open and a wizened little man greeted them. Following him down a narrow, dark passageway they were led into a small, white-painted room, the only furniture a wooden chair that had seen better days. The man picked up an impressive camera from the floor. Attached to it was a flash gun sporting a large dished reflector that did its best to dwarf him.

  ‘Et voila! Time to have your image immortalised.’ Now Wolfgang understood why he had been brought here. ‘Off with these,’ Dickens said, as he flipped off the German’s hat and whipped off his glasses. ‘Sit down and watch the birdy.’ Obediently, Wolfgang sat on the chair.

  The other man stood a few feet away and held the camera to his chest. He peered down into the viewfinder. ‘Look straight in ze lens, pleeze.’ Wolfgang was so shocked his jaw dropped – the accent was pure German. ‘Close ze mouth, pleeze.’ Still stunned, Wolfgang did as he was told and almost immediately was blinded by the magnesium flash which left a dark image burned on his retina for some moments after.

  Regaining his composure he was just about to address the little German when Dickens bustled up to him, handed him back his hat and glasses, grasped his elbow and started propelling him out of the house. ‘Thanks Otto,’ he said, over his shoulder, ‘let me know when they’re ready.’

  ‘Right you are, Herr Dickens,’ was the last thing the astonished Wolfgang heard before the door closed behind them.

  -0-

  Back in the yard they made their way towards the boat. ‘Now you just go down into the cabin of your lovely craft and make yourself a nice cuppa and have a little rest,’ Dickens said. As if on autopilot Wolfgang did as he was told. He just didn’t have the will to resist. ‘And don’t you take any notice if you hear noises from the deck. All right, shipmate?’ Dickens guided him along the jetty.

  When he was sure that Wolfgang had indeed gone down into the cabin, Dickens made his way to the dilapidated shed and scraped the door open. In the corner was a similarly decrepit barrow and, one by one, he wheeled the wooden crates on to the jetty then manoeuvred them on to the foredeck of the boat. Methodically he started stowing the crates in the fish hold, interlocking them like a puzzle and, when he had finished, the neat pile was only just above deck level. He wondered if it might make the craft a little nose heavy but didn’t think that it would cause too much of a problem. Besides, the oil drums aft would counteract the weight, to some extent. He had checked the forecast for the next few days and it looked as if the weather was going to stay fair, so the journey should be pretty straightforward. Using an almost new square of tarpaulin, he covered the crates and tied it down securely. When he was satisfied with his handiwork he made his way aft and peered into the cabin. Wolfgang was curled up, fast asleep. A cup of cold tea stood on the table. Dickens smiled. He was tempted to sneak down and help himself to the Courvoisier but decided to leave the man in peace. He was going to need to rely on him over the next couple of days, so best to let him get as much rest as could, while he could.

  -0-

  The following morning Wolfgang was in better shape. The long sleep had refreshed him, his leg seemed much less troublesome than of late and he felt reasonably perky. It was early; there was no sound from outside so he decided to examine what Dickens had been doing the day before.

  He checked the lashings on the oil drums and was surprised to see that the knots were nearly as good as his own - nearly, but not quite. But they would do. He made his way forward and was again impressed by the neatness with which the tarpaulin had been lashed down. It looked like it would cope with any water that was likely to come over the bow. His heart sank, though, when he thought about what was concealed beneath the covering. But - it was a fait accompli. The sooner they made the delivery, the sooner he could return to his quest – and with new papers. He made his way back aft and down into the cabin and prepared breakfast. He was just biting into a crust of bread when there was a familiar step on the deck. This time he was prepared, and, although not exactly welcoming Dickens with open arms, he accepted his presence.

  ‘Ahoy there! Any chance of a bit of grub for your shipmate?’ Dickens was carrying a cardboard box of groceries, so large he had to peer round the side of it to see where he was going. He put it down on the spare bunk and let out a heartfelt sigh. ‘That’s the vittles for our voyage,’ he announced, then plonked himself down next to it and reached into the box. He took out a brown envelope and threw it down on the desk. ‘And this is something just for you.’

  Wolfgang, initially suspicious, leaned forward and drew the envelope towards him. He toyed with it at first and, finding the outside blank, lifted the flap and withdrew the contents. His eyes lit up when he saw the buff cover of a French passport, slightly dog-eared, with the legend, République Française and the surname Meunier with his adopted Christian name, Marcel, and place of birth, Strasburg. ‘But how? Why Strasburg?

  Dickens chuckled. ‘It just struck me that although your French is good, placing you near the German border would explain your accent – if you are ever challenged.’

  ‘That’s uncanny. It’s just where I would have chosen – somewhere large and anonymous.’ Wolfgang gave a rare smile.

  ‘I said I’d help you out - now it’s your turn.’ Leaning forward, he took some bread while Wolfgang poured coffee into a spare cup.

  ‘When exactly are we off?’ The German asked, pushing the cup across the table.

  ‘Tomorrow morning. On the tide.’

  ‘So soon?’

  ‘No time like the present. The glass is holding steady so we should have fair weather all the way.’

  ‘What about navigation? Have you studied the charts?’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘How is that possible?’ Being meticulous, Wolfgang was used to plotting his course carefully, allowing for tides and wind.

  Dickens beamed. ‘We’ll follow the coast, heading not quite due west but roughly west-by-south. We know what speed this fine vessel is capable of so, by dead-reckoning, we should be able to work out the progress we’re making. Plus at night, we’ll have lights to guide us – I’ve seen the set of fancy charts you’ve got – so with my confidence and your accuracy…’ he guffawed, spraying breadcrumbs across the table. ‘… we shouldn’t go far wrong.’

  -0-

  There was enough water at six o’clock the following morning to lift Moonshine free of the mud in her berth. Dickens was soon on board, tending to the mooring lines, while Wolfgang was in t
he wheelhouse, starting the engine. The Gardiner diesel burst into life then settled down to a regular thump-thump-thump. Dickens cast off, Wolfgang put the engine into reverse and, with a swirl of churned-up silt, they were off. After the ropes were neatly stowed Dickens made his way to the wheelhouse, resting his hand lightly on the doorframe while Wolfgang manoeuvred the vessel out of the creek then into the main River Ouse. Once beyond the harbour arm he headed out to sea for about half a mile, gradually turning to starboard until they were heading west-by-south. While he was doing that, Dickens busied himself below and came up with steaming mugs of tea. Since Ludwig had been captured, Wolfgang had become used to doing everything for himself and it came as some surprise that he and Dickens were already working as a team.

  As predicted, the weather was fair, the sea, though a little choppy, was not troublesome and they made steady, if monotonous progress. Wolfgang had been used to fairly lengthy trips across the channel from France to England and back, but this was more of a challenge. However they soon fell into a steady routine. Dickens turned out to be a competent seaman and the German was happy to leave him in charge of the helm so he could go below. Before long they passed south of the Isle of Wight, crossing the wake of a Cherbourg-bound ferry, a column of grey smoke issuing from its funnel and blowing astern. By teatime they were off Weymouth and, as darkness fell, Wolfgang studied the chart while Dickens pointed out the navigation lights. They steamed on through the night, each alternating between steering and grabbing some sleep below and at first light they were off the Lizard. Wolfgang hove to, keeping Moonshine steady, heading into the swell, while Dickens transferred fuel into the boat’s tank.

  Once they had rounded Land’s End Wolfgang altered course so the heading read north-north-east and they were out of sight of land for the rest of the day. By nightfall Wolfgang was beginning to feel concerned but it wasn’t long before they made out the light on St David’s Head. ‘Change course to due west,’ Dickens instructed. Before day broke they started seeing lights on the starboard bow, which meant they were off the south-east tip of Ireland, not far from Wexford. ‘Right,’ Dickens said, ‘we need to head west-south-west, but reduce speed. We’ve made good progress; I don’t want to arrive before nightfall.’

  Wolfgang slowed the engine until it was just above tick-over and the boat was rolling in the swell of the Irish Sea, barely doing two knots. It was an uncomfortable motion but, after nearly three days at sea, both men had their sea legs and rode it out. By nightfall, when Wolfgang was steering, they picked up the beam from the lighthouse at Roches Point and Dickens said, with a smile: ‘I’ll take over now. I’m a little more familiar with these waters than you are.’ The German was quite happy to relinquish the helm. His companion had shown his ability on the trip and he was sure that the boat was in safe hands.

  Dickens obviously knew the area well as he piloted the boat expertly, entering the river at Butlerstown North, passing the beach at Fountainstown, around the Point and into a little creek, where Moonshine ran aground on the sandy bottom. ‘She’ll be fine here. The tide’ll lift her before too long. Now, you stay on board, I’m off to find my cousin.’ With that he lowered himself over the gunwale and splashed through the shallows to the shore.

  -0-

  Wolfgang sat on the helmsman’s seat in the wheelhouse, waiting nervously. Nothing happened for 20 minutes. Then he heard splashing and saw a weak light playing on the shallow water. He could just make out a group of figures pulling something behind them. As they drew closer he could see there were four of them and they had a kind of flat cart, with large pneumatic tyres. ‘Right shipmate,’ he heard Dickens say, in a hoarse whisper, ‘let’s have that ladder over the side.’ Wolfgang deftly untied the lashings holding the short ladder in place and lowered it over the bow. As soon as it touched the sandy bottom, there was a step on the rung and Dickens’s grinning face appeared above the gunwale. He hauled himself on to the deck and was swiftly followed by an almost identical individual, right down to the beret with the ragged edge and the wispy beard. ‘Meet my cousin Seán. Right shipmate, hold this,’ he said, handing a torch to Wolfgang.

  The two men untied the tarpaulin and peeled it back, revealing the neat arrangement of wooden boxes. Wolfgang kept out of the way; he wanted no part in this, reluctantly shining the torch for them. The pair lifted each crate in turn and lowered it over the side to unseen waiting hands. The whole operation took surprisingly little time and they had only two crates left when Seán stumbled over a piece of rope, fell on his back and dropped the case. It landed on its corner with a crash and split open, spilling the contents. ‘Holy Mother of God!’ Paddy exclaimed. ‘You bloody idiot!’

  ‘Sorry, cousin.’

  ‘No matter, let’s get these over the side and hope nobody heard us.’ He started handing the Lee-Enfields down to the other two, swiftly followed by the remaining intact case. ‘Right,’ he said, taking the torch from Wolfgang, ‘the tide’s on the turn. It won’t be long before there’s enough water to lift your fine craft off the bottom and we can be on our way. I’ll be back in a jiffy.’ With that, he followed Seán over the side and with a splash, the men were gone, the weak torchlight bobbing as the dragged the cart to the shore.

  Again, Wolfgang waited nervously. The shallow water lapped quietly at Moonshine’s hull, the only other sounds the distant braying of a donkey and the nearer call of a barn owl. The wait seemed interminable. He started fretting. What if Dickens failed to return? He had no doubt that he would be able to find his way back, but without someone to take a trick at the wheel it would be a hard journey. And was there enough fuel? They’d had to broach the second oil drum before they’d reached shore and he wasn’t sure if there was sufficient left for a return trip. Just then, he felt movement beneath him. The tide was starting to lift the boat. Panic now set in. What should he do? Throw an anchor over the side and wait? Or set off on his own?

  He felt an occasional bump as the boat lifted briefly, then dropped down on the sand again. There still wasn’t enough water beneath the keel to float the vessel, but it wouldn’t be long before he would have to make a decision: stay or go. He was just deciding what to do when suddenly all hell broke loose on the shore. There were figures running towards him shouting, torches waving and a number of gunshots rent the air. In a panic Wolfgang dashed to the wheelhouse and turned the key to start the engine. Nothing… just a dull clunk. He tried again, the dread rising as the voices came closer. Once more and still the engine refused to turn. He grabbed the starting handle from its position, hanging on the back wall of the wheelhouse, but just as he was going aft, a peaked cap, followed by an angry face and the burly body of an officer of the Garda, appeared over the gunwale.

  -0-

  ‘Well, Monsieur Meunier, what have you got to say for yourself?’ Inspector Conway asked. Wolfgang shrugged. They were sitting in a small room in Anglesea Street Garda station, central Cork. The walls were painted institution sludgy green; a single bulb hanging in the centre of the room gave little light. The room was permeated with an unpleasant odour – a combination of stale tobacco smoke and sweat and a strangely human scent – fear. Wolfgang had been brought to this room a number of times since he had been taken to the police station, several days before. In between he had been locked in a cell, the monotony of solitary confinement only broken when meals were brought to him. Various members of the Gardaí had taken turns to interview him. It hadn’t amounted to interrogation - yet, but Wolfgang sensed they were starting to become impatient. He had gleaned, from what he had been told, that Paddy, Seán and the other two had got away, with the rifles. The only apparent evidence was the remains of the broken crate they had found on the deck of Moonshine. He supposed he could have thrown the pieces overboard before they had arrived but with tide making, they would surely have found them anyway.

  ‘Now listen.’ Inspector Conway put his elbows on the table, clasped one hand over the other and rested his broad chin on his knuckles. ‘If you’re not going to tell
us anything else, you’re going to be detained under the Prevention of Violence Act, 1939. This could mean an indefinite stay in prison, while we look for more evidence. Are you sure you want that?’ Wolfgang said nothing. Conway tried a different tack. ‘If you help us, I might be able to help you. If we can prove that you’re the innocent party and you were coerced into allowing your vessel to be used for illegal purposes, then it might go well for you. Why don’t you tell me who the others were? We know there were several of them. We just need some names.’

  Wolfgang folded his arms resignedly over his chest. He could have said a lot, about Paddy Dickens and his cousin Seán. About how he had been coerced into carrying the cargo, but… that would mean admitting the reason for the coercion. Which would undoubtedly open up a whole can of worms about his past and he knew he would be in even deeper trouble than he was at present. So, he decided the wisest course of action was to keep his counsel. ‘I am afraid I have nothing to say.’

  ‘In that case, it’s back to the cells for you.’

  And so he remained, incarcerated in Cork prison. He had been allocated a lawyer, who visited him from time to time, but despite the Gardaí launching a countrywide manhunt it seemed no further evidence had come to light. Dickens and the guns had disappeared without trace. So, finally, early the following year, he was set free.

  Chapter 20

  The Old Bailey, or Central Criminal Court, deals with major criminal cases from within Greater London and, in exceptional cases, from other parts of England and Wales.

  After Wolfgang’s capture, Moonshine had been impounded. When he was released a kindly junior member of the Gardaí took him on a long journey to Minane Bridge then along the other side of the creek from where he had last seen her. The boat had been moved across the water and was high and dry and in a pitiful state; the topside was green with mould and the hull was caked in mud. The officer handed him a box of basic groceries. Wolfgang thanked him and the man drove off, leaving him on his own. The Gardaí had put padlocks on the wheelhouse and cabin and given him keys for both. He knew the Irish were said to be trustworthy but he was still amazed that the locks were intact. He tried the key in the padlock on the cabin and, although stiff at first, it gave and unlocked with a dull click. He pulled the door open and wasn’t surprised at the musty smell inside. Nothing smelled rotten – just damp and fusty. It appeared that the Irish police, when turning the cabin over, had cleared out anything perishable. There was a little coke stove forward and amazingly, next to it, a bucket still contained coal. In a short space of time he had a fire going and the kettle singing on the hotplate.