Blood on the Shrine

by Chris O'Donoghue

  -0-

  A man, wearing a dirty, faded denim jacket and trousers and with a knotted handkerchief on his head, climbed down from the locomotive, wondering what was going on. Suddenly, the masked figures of Atkins and Baker appeared from where they had been hiding at the side of the track, each brandishing a shotgun. The man immediately put his hands in the air. Baker kept his gun trained on him while Atkins climbed up into the cab. The driver, also dressed in faded, coal-smudged denims and wearing a greasy black cap, was standing at the controls, a defiant look on his face. Atkins waved the shotgun. ’Come on, out of the cab,’ he snarled. The man stood his ground. Atkins pulled the trigger and fired one of the barrels through the cab opening. The lead shot whistled past the driver’s ear.

  ‘Bloody hell! You could’ve hit me!’

  ‘Don’t worry, next time I will. Now get a move on!’ The man didn’t need a second reminder and scuttled across the footplate and down the loco steps, followed by Atkins. ‘Right you two, make your way to the brake van – and no funny business.’ The four of them started walking along the side of the carriage, coupled behind the engine.

  Just as they drew level with the last compartment Baker suddenly said: ‘What the…?!’ and pointed upwards. Just at that moment Dickens had raised the blind to see why the train had stopped. For a second his eyes locked with Atkins’s who immediately climbed up on the step, turned the handle and yanked the door open. Seeing the shotgun Wolfgang and Dickens cowered. ‘What the hell are you doing here? Can’t you read? This carriage is reserved!’

  ‘I… we…’ Dickens stammered.

  ‘Just get out!’ Dickens climbed onto the step and jumped down on to the track but Wolfgang just stood in the doorway, quaking. ‘For Christ’s sake man! Get down here!’

  Wolfgang rubbed his leg. ‘I can’t. It’s too far.’

  Seeing his distress Baker handed his gun to Atkins and climbed on to the step, held on to the grab handle with one hand and with the other, reached out to Wolfgang. ‘Come on, I’ll help you.’ With Dickens reaching up they managed to get him down beside the train. Taking his gun back Baker and Atkins marched the prisoners past Sammy, who was dealing with the lock, and on to the brake van. Meanwhile, Bates had communicated with the guard, who was quite happy to stay quietly where he was. They manhandled Wolfgang up beside him, followed by Dickens and the loco crew. Slamming the door behind them, Bates took a large padlock out of his overalls’ pocket and snapped it shut.

  ‘Now they’re secure, let’s see how Sammy’s getting on.’ Atkins led the way back along the train. Sammy wasn’t getting on too well. The lock was proving trickier than expected. Atkins telling him to, ‘get a bleedin’ move on!’ didn’t help and his eyes, the only part of his face visible under the balaclava, started darting wildly.

  ‘Okay, Tommy,’ he said nervously, ‘give me a couple more minutes and I’ll have it done.’

  ‘You’d better,’ Atkins growled. ‘It won’t be long before someone raises the alarm.’

  Suddenly with a shout of ‘Done it!’ the door swung open. The four men climbed inside. There were 40 or 50 mail sacks, neatly stacked.

  ‘How do we know which ones have got the money in?’ Bates asked.

  ‘I dunno,’ Atkins said, flustered.

  ‘Why don’t we take them all?’ Baker suggested.

  ‘Good idea. Let’s get cracking. They’ll soon be wondering why the train hasn’t arrived at Buxted so we need to get a move on. Sammy, you stay here and throw the sacks down. The rest of us’ll take them up to the lorry.’ Atkins and Baker each carried two sacks and the stronger Bates carried three. For the last trip, Sammy helped and they were all shifted within five minutes. Helen had had the presence of mind to get Weeks to drive the lorry forward on the level crossing so they could dump the sacks behind it. Then, it was only a case of throwing them into the back of the truck and, when it was done, climbing up after them. Once all four were inside, jammed up against the sacks, Atkins banged on the tailgate and shouted: ‘Go Go Go!’ Weeks banged the stick into first gear and with a roar from the engine they were off. Encouraged by Helen, and her pistol, he drove much faster back up the rutted track than the stately pace at which they had come down and the men in the back had to hang on for dear life. In a few minutes they had reached the gate, Atkins jumped down and swung it open so Weeks could drive through, stopping only to let him climb in again. In no time at all, they had reached the farmhouse. Again the gate was opened, Weeks drove the Bedford into the barn and everyone piled out. Reaching up into the back of the lorry Sammy started to haul one of the sacks out.

  ‘No! Leave it!’ Helen said. ‘Let’s get in the farmhouse and lie low. There’s bound to be a hue and cry when they find the train, so let’s leave the loot until nightfall.’ Obediently Sammy pushed the sack back; they closed the tailgate on the truck then shut the barn doors.

  ‘Hang on,’ Baker said, ‘shouldn’t we do something about the tyre tracks in the yard. Just in case someone comes snooping?’

  ‘Good idea,’ Helen agreed. ‘See what you can find in one of the outbuildings. There must be a rake or broom or something.’ After a quick search a hay rake and a worn bass broom were found. Baker and Bates set to and soon the dusty yard was track free.

  Once inside the farmhouse the mood was euphoric. ‘We’ve done it!’ Atkins exclaimed, upending a bottle of whisky straight into his mouth.

  Helen grabbed the bottle. ‘That’s enough Tommy. There’ll be plenty of time to celebrate later – when the heat’s died down. Let’s just act nice and civilised for now. Here, have this.’ She handed him a bottle of Courage Light Ale.

  Atkins took it and said, sheepishly: ‘Sorry, Helen. Of course you’re right. I just got a bit carried away.’

  ‘That’s okay. Just remember, we’re not out of the woods yet. Hopefully, they’ll assume that we’ve hightailed it as far away as possible and won’t think that we’ve stayed so close to the site of the job. But you never know, they may well go over this area with a fine-toothed comb and we want this place to look derelict and unoccupied so they won’t poke their noses in. In the meantime, what are we going to do with him?’ She pointed her thumb towards Weeks. ‘Our tame copper. We don’t want him giving the game away, now do we?’

  ‘Only one thing for it, I suppose.’ Baker nodded towards the cellar.

  ‘Afraid you’re right,’ she said. ‘Off you go. We’ll bring you a mug of tea when the kettle’s boiled.’ Baker opened the cellar door and Weeks, shoulders drooping miserably, reluctantly descended the damp, stone steps.

  -0-

  Weak sunlight filtered through the high, grimy window giving Weeks just enough illumination to see the extent of his cell. Apart from the musty sacks, where he had spent an uncomfortable night, there was just the mound of broken furniture. He picked up a chair leg and poked around in the heap, hoping there was some unbroken or usable piece so he could get up to the window, but he was out of luck. Whoever had lived here before wasn’t in the habit of throwing anything of value away; it really was all just a pile of sticks. Dejected, he slumped down wearily on the sacks, oblivious to the damp. How the hell had it ended like this? He couldn’t see how Atkins – or rather, Helen – could let him go now he knew so much. Atkins had hinted that he had no room for any baggage. Weeks remembered that he’d said: “I tend to dispose of me bags when they’re no use to me anymore.” He shuddered at the thought of his possible fate. He looked up toward the window, willing it to be closer than it was.

  The cellar was surprisingly spacious, with the ceiling a good 10 feet above the floor. He sighed and idly looked round again. Then he noticed a deeper shadow on the farther wall and got up to investigate. The shadow turned out to be a recess in the wall, about two feet wide, the back sloping up at an angle. As he stepped towards it, something crunched under his feet. He bent and picked it up. Coal. It was a coal chute! This meant that there must be a hatch at the top. He began to feel quite excited at the prospect of possible escape but, jus
t then, he heard the key turn in the lock of the cellar door and he scuttled back to the sacks.

  ‘Grub up,’ Bates said, as his ample form filled the doorway.

  He put a mug and tin plate down on the top step and was just about to close the door when Weeks asked: ‘Any chance of a light?’

  ‘Cor blimey, you’ll be wanting a feather mattress next. Hang on, I’ll see what I can find.’ Weeks waited patiently and was delighted to see the big man return with a stub of candle. He lit it, dripped some wax on the plate and stuck it down, dropped a box of matches next to it then the door was closed. Eagerly Weeks climbed the steps, picked up the mug and plate and carried them carefully back down. He took a quick sip of the tea, which was satisfyingly hot, then took the plate and candle over to the coal chute. However, his heart gradually sank as he held the flickering light high above his head. It looked as if there was a hatch at the top of the chute, but no light showed round the edges - that probably meant it was stuck fast, he realised. To add to that, the recess sloped back for only about five feet, before going up straight. Without a ladder, there was no way of reaching the hatch to see if it was moveable. Gloomily, he made his way back to the sacks and pinched out the wick of the candle, to conserve the candle. He chewed on the Spam sandwich and sipped at the tea. With his hopes of escape dashed, he struggled to keep what fate probably had in store for him out of his mind.

  Chapter 22

  A Charcoal burner is someone whose occupation is to manufacture charcoal. Traditionally this is achieved by carbonising wood in a ‘ pile’ or kiln. It is one of the oldest human crafts.

  Russell looked at his watch. His two hours were nearly up and there was still no word from Weeks. Briefly he drummed his fingers on the desk, then sat back and started whistling the Dream Weavers’ It’s Almost Tomorrow. He’d just reached the second chorus when the door burst open, Aggie barked in surprise and Sergeant Wickstead’s head appeared, his moustache bristling. ‘Sonny! There’s been a train robbery!’

  The DI shot out of his seat. ‘Where?’

  ‘Over Uckfield way.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A mail train apparently. It was carrying cash up to London.’

  Russell put his hands over his face. ‘Oh God! That’s why Johnny went off early.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Wickstead looked baffled.

  ‘Nothing. I’d better go and see Stout.’

  ‘Yes, I think you had. I saw him just now – face like thunder.’

  -0-

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ The voice matched the face. ‘You said the raid was happening on Tuesday, and today is Monday. How come you got that so wrong?

  ‘I’ve no idea, Sir. As far as I knew it was planned for tomorrow.’

  ‘So now we’ve not only got a murderer on the run but a gang of train robbers on the loose, too. The Chief Constable is going to go spare when he finds out.’

  ‘At least they’re connected…’ Russell said, lamely.

  ‘What?!’ The Superintendent looked about to explode.

  Russell ploughed on: ‘Baker, who is possibly involved with the death of Elsdale is part of the gang that was planning the train robbery.’ Stout’s eyes actually bulged, but his teeth were clenched so tight no sound came out so Russell continued: ‘I’ve a feeling that Weeks may have been coerced into going off early. Otherwise, I can’t understand why he hasn’t been in touch. It’s not like him at all.’

  Stout regained the power of speech. ‘I don’t care what’s like or not like him – at all. I just want this mess sorted out,’ he thundered.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  There was a tin of cheroots on the desk; the Superintendent opened it and took one out. He placed it between his lips, produced the Zippo from his pocket, and lit the end, sucking greedily. He inhaled deeply then blew out a column of blue smoke. This seemed to have a calming effect and he went on in a more moderate tone. ‘You’d better get Parker and Barrow to go with you over to Uckfield. Tell Lewis to get over there with his boys, there may be some fingerprints or other evidence – though I doubt it. And take a constable. The mid-Sussex police are already there and they’ve set up road blocks around the area. I had to sweet-talk their Superintendent and explain that you were already involved with the case. Luckily – for you – they’re in the middle of a major incident at Lingfield, over at the racecourse, so they’re stretched already. He was reasonably happy for us to take over. You’d be advised to get there as quickly as you can - and grovel.’

  -0-

  Reluctantly, Russell was sitting in the visitor’s chair in Detective Inspector ‘Bonnie’ Parker’s fusty office. ‘So your DC has gone AWOL then?’ Parker gave a Cheshire cat smile, the Capstan Full Strength held loosely between his lips sending a shower of ash down his grubby, crumpled jacket. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and rested it in the overflowing ashtray, a curl of acrid smoke rising towards the ceiling.

  ‘I’m not sure that’s strictly true,’ Russell countered.

  ‘Well, whatever’s happened to him, it’s left you in the shit, hasn’t it? And you need us to help dig you out.’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Stout said that you’d cocked up with the day of the robbery.’

  ‘Not exactly…’

  ‘Really? It sounds to me that you thought it was going to happen tomorrow, when actually it happened today,’ he chuckled.

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t know that until this morning.’

  ‘Because, as I said, your DC has gone AWOL,’ he said triumphantly. Russell decided not to respond. ‘I’ll tell you what though…’ Parker continued.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘If we’re going over to Uckfield, I don’t want that mutt in my car.’ He picked up the cigarette and pointed it towards Aggie, who was sitting obediently at her master’s side.

  ‘That’s fine,’ Russell said, sniffily. ‘I’ll go with Constable Beaumont so you and DC Barrow can enjoy each other’s company. I’ll see you there.’ Standing, he turned and left the office.

  -0-

  ‘So, do you think they’ve got Weeks, Sir?’ PC Beaumont asked. He was driving the Wolseley.

  ‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ Russell replied. ‘He’s always so reliable; I can’t believe he’d go off without letting me know what was happening. I can only assume he didn’t get the chance to communicate before he went off – probably under duress.’

  ‘How much do we know about what’s happened in Uckfield, Sir?’

  ‘The information is a bit sketchy at the moment but it appears that the gang managed to stop the train on the line between Uckfield and Buxted. They’d parked a lorry – presumably the one “loaned” by Captain Valiant – on the level crossing, and the train had to stop. They got the crew off the locomotive and locked them, and the guard, in his brake van. Oh, and there were two passengers as well.’

  ‘Really? I heard it was just a goods train.’

  ‘It was supposed to be but because of overcrowding, or scheduling or something, they’d attached a carriage.’ He frowned. ‘The funny thing is, the first officer on the scene said there were reserved stickers in the windows so no one was supposed to have been on it.’

  ‘Who raised the alarm?’

  ‘It was the stationmaster at Buxted. He was suspicious when the train didn’t arrive. He left it five minutes or so, in case it had been legitimately delayed, before ringing his counterpart at Uckfield. He then sent one of his staff up the line where he discovered the train, and then found the crew locked in the brake-van. He ran back to the station; they stopped the next down train and rang the local police. Apparently they arrived quite quickly but had to radio for someone to bring a pair of bolt-cutters so they could get the padlock off.’

  ‘What about the lorry?’

  ‘That was long gone. Once they got the van open they released the crew and the two passengers who were shaken but unharmed. They should be waiting for us to interview them.’

  -0-

  Weeks decid
ed to have another root around in the pile of broken furniture. Moving several pieces of wood he uncovered a coil of thin rope. Looking more carefully he found several, fairly straight, lengths of timber between three and four feet long. He wondered if he might be able to fashion a ladder of some sort but before he did he thought he would see if the hatch at the top of the coal chute would move. Using a piece of broken glass he cut a length of mouldy rope off the coil and lashed the ends of two pieces of wood together, making a rod which almost doubled their length. Going back to the recess in the wall, the DC pushed the rod upwards until it pressed against the bottom of the hatch. Nothing happened so he shoved harder. After a few moments of straining, when he feared the rope would break, there was a slight movement then suddenly a clatter; the rod shot upwards and daylight appeared at the top of the chute. He stood still, holding his breath, certain that the noise would have been heard but after waiting a few minutes, all remained quiet. Now he felt as if he was getting somewhere…

  He lashed another couple of three-foot lengths of wood together then started tying shorter pieces across to make rungs. He had just enough useable rope, the last few feet being so mouldy that it snapped easily. Weeks stood back to admire his handiwork. He now had a crude, but serviceable ladder, six feet long. By standing on the topmost rung, he reckoned that he would be tall enough to get up to and through the hatchway. Elated he carried it across to the recess and propped it against the sloping back wall. Carefully he climbed the ladder and near the top, found he was close enough to reach up and slide the hatch fully open. Climbing higher, he was delighted to find that he could put his head out through the opening and look round the yard. But, his hopes were dashed, when he tried to force his shoulders through the narrow gap. He wasn’t a big chap but the hatch was just too narrow, even for his slender body. He pushed and strained but just couldn’t get through. Then, with the last almighty heave, the lashings on his makeshift ladder just couldn’t take the strain, several broke and the structure collapsed, dumping him on the floor. He cracked his head, saw stars and passed out.