Dickens was in expansive mood. ‘Right, shipmate,’ he said. ‘This is the plan. Tomorrow morning at nine we get a train from Newhaven to Lewes, and then change for London Victoria. There will probably be a train that leaves Brighton at about nine-thirty. We should be able to catch that. When we get to London we get on the tube to the Blackfriars. After that it’s a short walk to the Central Criminal Courts at the Old Bailey. That’s where we’ll start the search for your brother. What do you think?’
-0-
‘Right,’ Atkins said, ‘what are we going to do with ’im now? We all need a decent sleep and I, for one, don’t wanna stay up all night watchin’ ’im.’
Baker spoke. ‘I’ve got an idea.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Yeah. When I first came here, I had a look behind that door.’ He pointed to the side of the range. ‘It might look like a cupboard, but it actually leads to a cellar.’
‘’An ’ave you been down there?’ Atkins asked.
‘Not likely! I took one look and decided I wasn’t interested – then. But now…’
Atkins walked across to the door. ‘Time to ’ave a look then.’ He turned the key and pulled the door open. A flight of stone steps ended in a pool of darkness. ‘’Ere, give us a torch, someone.’ Bates handed him one and he shone it down into the opening. While Helen stayed in the kitchen, keeping a watchful eye on the policeman, Atkins gingerly began descending, closely followed by the others. They reached the bottom of the steep steps and stood in the damp room. The floor was wet, the walls weeping, with puddles in places. There was a pile of mouldy sacks in the corner and some broken pieces of furniture; other bits of junk lay in a heap. Atkins shone the torch around but the beam picked up nothing else. ‘Perfect. Our driver can spend the night ’ere. Helen can have a room of her own, and we’ll take the other two bedrooms. Should manage to get a decent kip – if Butcher’s snoring don’t keep us awake.’
Once they had climbed back up the steps and returned to the kitchen Atkins said: ‘Right, Johnny, we’ve found you a nice cosy billet for the night. I’m sure you’ll be comfortable. ‘’Ere, Laurie. Give ’im a mug of water an’ a chunk off that loaf. Don’t want the poor lad starvin’ to death, now do we?’ Atkins gave Weeks a rough shove. ‘Get down there, you.’ Clutching his bread and water the DC reluctantly went down into the cellar and the door was slammed shut and locked behind him, the darkness complete. He waited while his eyes adjusted and he could just make out a small window, high up in the wall. Despite it being grimy and festooned with ancient cobwebs, the full moon dimly illuminated his cell. He saw the pile of sacks and sat down on them. Water immediately soaked through his trousers. It was going to be an uncomfortable night.
-0-
Morning came all too soon. Russell had slept badly; half-remembered dreams had morphed into long periods of restless wakefulness. Despite his fatigue, he was glad to rise from his tangled bedsheets, wash and dress. A grey dawn was only just breaking when he set off in the cold morning air, a delighted Aggie bounding on ahead. They crossed the scrubby meadow, pock-marked with the burrows of rabbits, and climbed up on to the shingle ridge. The cool breeze was fresh on his neck as Russell strode eastward. Below, on the beach, the waves gently rose and fell rhythmically, like a giant breathing. Gulls circled and cried overhead. A trio of cormorants flew in straight line, low above the sea, seemingly intent on some distant destination. He strode on, his fuddled mind gradually clearing. The little terrier trotted and circled him, sniffing at clumps of newly emerging seakale and valerian, delighted to be outside.
Russell marched on, his swinging arms keeping rhythm with his stride. As he progressed further along the beach, he came close to the shell of the Mary Stamford lifeboat house in the distance. He felt sad when he remembered reading about the day in 1928 when the crew set off in a howling gale to attend a ship in distress. The rowed lifeboat capsized and all 17 crew were lost. What made the tragedy even more appalling was that those on the ship that the brave men had set out to save had already been rescued. He sighed, said a silent prayer for the men and turned back for home, his mind a little clearer.
-0-
Weeks, too, woke from a fitful sleep. He had spent most of the night trying and failing to get comfortable. The damp from the sacks had soaked all the way through his clothes and he was now frozen and shivering. It came as a relief when he finally heard the key turn in the lock and the door opened. ‘Come on sleepy ’ead. Time to get up,’ Atkins bawled. Weeks mounted the steps to be greeted by the sight of the gang sitting round the table having breakfast. The smell of cooked bacon assailed his nostrils and he realised how hungry he was. ‘Give ’im a bacon butty for Christ’s sake, before ’e passes out on us.’ The sandwich was passed to Weeks, along with a steaming mug of tea that he accepted with gratitude. ‘Right,’ Atkins said, ‘do you all know what you’ve got to do? Or shall I go through it one more time?’
Heads were shaken and there was the odd mutter of ‘we’re all right Tommy’.
‘In that case, let’s get going. You,’ pointing at Weeks, ‘go with Helen and get the truck out of the barn. Butcher, you make sure the doors are closed behind them. Laurie and Sammy, go and check the road is clear and when you have, get the gate open. We’re gonna take these.’ Unwrapping a large canvas package that had been lying on the floor he handed them sawn-off shotguns that had been concealed within.
Helen stepped forward. ‘But they are only to be used as a threat. You are not, I repeat, not to fire them, under any circumstances.’ The men looked uneasily at each other but took the weapons.
Weeks made his way outside and squeezed along the inside of the barn. He climbed up into the lorry, with Helen close behind him. Like the others, they were both wearing shapeless blue boiler suits; Helen’s easily concealing her femininity. ‘And don’t forget I’ve got this,’ she said, showing him the pistol. The DC started the engine and backed slowly out of the barn. When he steered the vehicle round to the front of the farmhouse he could see the gate was open and Bates was beckoning him forward. For a mad moment he thought about putting his foot down and going for help. But glancing sideways he saw the dull glint of the morning light on the barrel of the Beretta and thoughts of escape fled – for the time being. He stopped the Bedford in the lane, facing towards Framfield. Atkins climbed up beside Helen and the others clambered over the tailboard and into the back.
Atkins pulled back the sleeve of his boiler suit and looked at his watch. ‘Nine-thirty. There’s no rush. The train from Buxted will have gone by now so we can get down there and take up our positions. Drive on – but take it steady.’ He directed Weeks along Etchingwood Lane, then into Spurlings Lane. After a few hundred yards, where the road turned sharp left he said: ‘’Ere, turn right and stop by that gate.’ Weeks recognised it from his previous visit with Russell and now knew exactly where he was. Bates clambered down from the back of the lorry and opened the gate. Weeks drove through, and then waited while the gate was closed behind the lorry and Bates climbed back inside. They bumped down the track, Weeks keeping the lorry in low gear.
When they reached the crossing, Atkins turned to him and spoke again. ‘Now listen. The lads are going to take up their positions. I want you to drive to the other side, turn the truck around and wait for my signal – a short blast on a whistle. Understand?’
‘Yes,’ Weeks said in a low voice.
‘ ’Cause if you don’t…’ he looked towards Helen, who nodded sagely, ‘…well, I don’t need to remind you. Oh, and by the way, you won’t need to run down the railway track wavin’ a lantern now.’ Weeks looked surprised. ‘We’ve got ’old of some detonators and the lads’ll fix three of them on the rails. When they go off the driver’ll slow the train down, see the lorry on the crossing, and stop – without you doin’ anything. Get it?’ Weeks nodded. ‘You stay put in the cab ’til we come back with the loot.’
While this exchange was taking place, the others had left the lorry, the gates were opened and they we
re making their way to their positions, pulling on woollen balaclavas and leather gloves as they went. Atkins too got out, but before he left, he gave Helen a thumbs-up and Weeks a grimace, then pulled on his mask. Weeks drove forward, over the crossing. He continued down the lane until they reached a gateway so he could turn the Bedford round.
-0-
Russell was in a much better mood as he drove Weeks’s car into Collinghurst. The sea air had cleared his head and blown away the tiredness he had felt earlier. He was much more positive about the events unfolding and felt sure that Weeks would be in touch with an update before too long. Maybe there was even a message waiting for him at the station. What was waiting, it turned out, was a nasty shock that was most unwelcome.
He parked the car and climbed out. He thought about Weeks, smiled and began whistling Me and My Shadow. Aggie trotted along beside him, tail up. She’d had a good walk and been given breakfast and was content with the world. Russell walked into the outer office and wished the desk Sergeant a cheery ‘Good morning!’
He was just making his way to his own office when Wickstead called out: ‘Sorry, Sonny. Bad news I’m afraid. The Super wants to see you – straight away.’
Russell was surprised. Stout was rarely at the station before nine in the morning. ‘Any idea what it’s about?’
‘Afraid not. But it sounded serious.’
His cheerful mood rapidly evaporated and a feeling of doom settled around him.
-0-
‘I’m afraid I’ve just received some information that is going to upset your plans,’ Stout announced.
‘Oh yes? What’s that, Sir?’ Russell wasn’t prepared for what he was about to hear.
‘That chap…’ Stout looked down at a note in front of him. ‘…Elsdale, died in the early hours of this morning.’
‘What! I thought he was off the critical list; on the road to recovery.’ Russell shook his head in disbelief.
‘That’s what the hospital assumed. It seems he took a turn for the worse last night. There’ll be a post mortem of course, but at the moment they think he suffered from septic shock, as a result of his injuries. Anyway, whatever it was, he’s dead. And you know what that means.’
‘Sir?’
‘We’ve got a murder enquiry on our hands now. I’m afraid you’ll have to cancel the stake-out over in Uckfield. This is much more serious.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘And you’ll have to let Weeks know, too.’
Russell linked his hands in front of him and took a deep breath. ‘’Er, there’s a bit of a problem there, Sir.’
‘Oh no, what are you going to tell me now?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t get hold of my DC.’
‘Do you mean he hasn’t he come in to work yet?’
‘Well no, he hasn’t, but there’s more to it than that.’ Russell explained about the meeting in the Queen’s Head and the phone call that Weeks had been expecting and how he had left without leaving a message.
‘Where do you think he is now?’ The Super’s blood pressure was beginning to rise, judging by the reddish tinge that was starting to suffuse his face.
‘The lorry that Valiant lent him has gone so I can only assume that he went down early to the site of the robbery.’
‘So why the hell didn’t he leave a message?’ Stout’s colour was turning from pink to angry red.
‘I don’t know, Sir. It’s unlike him to go off without saying where he was headed.’
‘Bloody hell! What do we do now?’
‘If we could leave it for an hour or so, Sir, I’m sure we’ll know something by then.’
‘Right. You’ve got exactly two hours. If he hasn’t ben in touch we’ll have to get the manhunt under way. I want the bastard who killed Elsdale.’
-0-
Wolfgang and Dickens caught the train from Newhaven. In less than 20 minutes they were getting off at Lewes station and made their way to the London platform to wait for the connection from Brighton. They were the only passengers waiting and had been standing there for just a few minutes when a train pulled in. ‘This must be it,’ Dickens said, ‘right on time. Hello, what’s this?’ Behind the engine was a single carriage, with a handful of closed vans and a brake-van bringing up the rear. The carriage had stopped right in front of them and in the windows they could see paper stickers reading RESERVED.
‘That’s strange. Hang on a mo. Look at that compartment.’ Wolfgang followed the line of Dickens’s finger. In the last window there was no sign. ‘Come on, let’s get in.’ They climbed up into the carriage, Wolfgang receiving a helping hand from his companion. The door was slammed and they flopped down on their seats. ‘Look!’ Dickens bent down and picked up a RESERVED sign that had fallen on the floor. He licked the gummed ends of the sheet and stuck it back on the window. ‘There. Now we’ve got the compartment to ourselves,’ he said gleefully. With a ‘toot’ from the whistle the train set off. Just before 10 they were approaching Uckfield. ‘Better take precautions,’ Dickens said, pulling down the window blind, ‘just in case anybody peers into the carriage and sees us.’
-0-
Weeks sat nervously in the lorry, the six-cylinder engine ticking over rhythmically. On the other side of the cab Helen had put on a black pillbox hat with a veil that concealed her features – no balaclava for her. The pistol lay in her lap. Weeks had been concerned about Atkins and his sudden changes of mood from early on but now that firearms were involved he was really scared. What if one of the train crew refused to co-operate? Knowing Atkins, at best he would be likely to receive a clout round the head with the butt of a shotgun, or at worst… he shuddered.
‘Cold, my dear? Or frightened?’ Weeks realised that Helen had spoken to him.
‘No, I’m fine,’ he managed.
‘That’s good. We don’t want you panicking on us.’
He decided to push his luck. ‘There’s something I don’t understand. How come you’re involved with Atkins and his gang? You have a lovely house, in an exclusive part of Nottery Quay and, to put it frankly, it doesn’t look as if you’re short of a bob or two. It’s quite a risk, doing this job and it doesn’t look as if you need the money. Why are you doing it?’
Helen lifted her veil so Weeks could see face her clearly. She looked directly at him, a huge smile lighting up her face. ‘You really don’t understand, do you? Atkins and his gang? They’re my gang!’ She let out a peal of laughter, deep and throaty. ‘Poor Johnny. What have you got yourself mixed up in, eh?’ Weeks sat, stunned. He hadn’t expected that. He was more confused than ever.
‘So you thought young Tommy Atkins was the mastermind behind this operation? That couldn’t be further from the truth.’ Again, the laughter. ‘What did he say to you?’ Weeks was about to speak when she held up her finger. ‘No, wait. Let me tell you what I think he said: He told you that he’d been the lookout on the Eastcastle Street robbery and that he admired the way Billy Hill had meticulously planned the job. Am I right so far?’ Weeks nodded. ‘And he told you that he was planning this robbery just as carefully and he’s got a mate who works for the railway who gave him the information about the train?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I bet he told you that when he planned the job there were three things to remember: keep it simple, keep it small, and above all else, keep it quiet.’ The laugh this time was more of a chuckle. ‘Who do you think taught him that?’
‘Billy Hill, I assume.’
‘Ha! Not likely. Billy called him “that snotty-nosed kid”. He was never the lookout on the Eastcastle Street job, he just knew someone who was. But do you know who was involved with it?’ Weeks shook his head, totally baffled now. ‘Me!’ she said, gleefully. ‘I’m sure you’ve read up on the case. You seem the sort to do your homework, so you’ll have heard of George ‘’Taters’’ Chatham?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well he’s a man I admire. He treated both the aristocracy and the police with the same amount of contempt; had no co
mpunction when it came to stealing from one and running rings round the other. He was already well-known – and respected - before that robbery.’
‘By you?’
‘Not only bright but insightful, aren’t we? I can see why Tommy was drawn to you. Shame you’re a copper. You could be a real asset in my organisation.’ She saw Weeks’s look of astonishment. ‘Yes, my organisation. Let’s just say that George and I were close friends for a while. We were both regulars at the Star Tavern in Belgravia, along with a lot of celebrities and, er, friends from the underworld. He was a good teacher and I’m a quick learner.’
‘How come Atkins is involved?’
She chuckled again. ‘That “snotty-nosed kid” turned out to be brighter than he looked – a bit like you. He did a couple of jobs for me – carried them out to the letter – and proved his worth so I decided to take him on. He’d started to gain a reputation, and respect – amongst the right sort of people: Sammy, Butcher and Laurie among them and I knew I could trust him.’
‘Really?’
Helen’s face darkened. ‘What are you suggesting?’
‘Just that his mood can change suddenly.’
She waved her hand. ‘I’m well aware of that. He just needs keeping on a tight rein.’
‘And do you think you’ve got that?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Weeks realised he’d overstepped the mark and back-pedalled. ‘Sorry! Nothing to do with me.’
‘I should hope not,’ Helen sighed. ‘To think I was just starting to like you.’ A blast on a whistle stopped further conversation and she lowered her veil again. ‘Right. Time to drive on to the crossing.’ Just as Weeks was putting the lorry into gear there was a distant explosion, causing him to nearly jump out of his seat. ‘Don’t worry, that’s the first detonator. Come on, the train will be here soon.’ As he drove forward there was another, louder bang, followed shortly by a third, and the train came into sight, a thick column of smoke rising from the engine’s chimney. Even over the sound of the lorry’s engine, the screech of the brakes on the rails was quite audible. The train slowed to a halt 30 yards from the crossing.
Blood on the Shrine Page 18