He sighed. ‘That’s it then.’
‘Are you sure, shipmate? Haven’t we got any spare diesel oil?
‘I told you the tank was low but you insisted on leaving,’ the German replied angrily.
‘We had to go when we did,’ Dickens insisted. ‘Otto said the police were just round the corner and would have caught us, if we’d stayed.’
‘That’s all very well. But what are we going to do now?’
‘I don’t suppose we could launch the dinghy and tow Moonshine?’
Wolfgang snorted. ‘You do realise how much she weighs?’
‘Yes, but I’m a powerful rower.’
‘Perhaps you are, but I think you will find that the tide is making us drift faster than you can row.’ Indeed, while they had been arguing, they had drifted further along the coast.
Neither said anything for some time then Dickens put his hand to his ear. ‘Listen!’ The thud of an engine was unmistakable. ‘Look!’ he pointed astern. The blurred shape of a boat was just visible, the engine note growing louder and the hull larger as it drew nearer. When it was closer they could see it was the harbourmaster’s launch.
As it came within hailing distance a figure stepped out of the wheelhouse. ‘Ahoy there. Are you in trouble?’
‘Do not say anything,’ Wolfgang said quietly.
‘Don’t be silly, shipmate. We need help. You make yourself scarce. I’ll do the talking.’ As soon as Wolfgang had gone below Dickens cupped his hands round his mouth and shouted: ‘Any chance of a tow? Bit of engine trouble.’
In a few moments, the launch came alongside and the man threw a rope across. ‘I’m going into Compass Point; will that do?’
‘That’s perfect. That’s where I was heading anyway.’
‘Are you on your own?’
‘That’s right, shipmate. Just me, on me tod, feeling a bit embarrassed.’
The man laughed. ‘Happens to all of us at some time. Have you got that line secure?’
Dickens tied the rope off on the Samson post on the foredeck and threaded it through the fairlead on the bow. ‘Right you are. All done.’ The man went back into his wheelhouse, motored forward slowly until the slack was taken up then opened the throttle so that they were moving at a respectable speed.
They reached the entrance to Compass Point, just as the tide was gathering and there was sufficient water to cross the bar at the mouth of the river. When they reached the quay, the man, who was not the harbourmaster, but a mechanic testing the engine, jumped ashore, secured his craft then helped Dickens do the same with Moonshine. ‘You best talk to Jack Spratt, the ferryman. He should be able to help you out with fuel.’
‘Thanks, I’ll do that.’
‘Anything else, give me a shout. I’ll be over there.’ He pointed to a sign that read MITCHELL’S BOATYARD.
Once he had checked that the mooring lines were secure Dickens went down into the cabin where Wolfgang was sitting on one of the bunks. ‘I am really not happy about this,’ he said miserably. ‘If we had come in at night it might have been different. But in broad daylight….’
‘To be sure you’re worrying too much, shipmate. You know that the boat looks quite different, painted black, and as long as you keep your head down, and let me do the talking, we’ll be fine. Now let’s have a brew, and then I’ll go and find this ferryman chappie.’
-0-
Captain Salt wandered across to the quay and looked out, surveying the view. As the tide rose, it lifted the fishing boats and pleasure craft off the muddy bottom; those out in the estuary swung to their moorings. Herring gulls and black-headed gulls sat bobbing on the water and he could hear the distant mournful bubbling cry of a curlew and the urgent piping of oystercatchers. He looked down and saw that a new boat was moored below the ferry steps. Then he looked more closely and wondered if it was a new boat – something about the lines looked familiar. Just then, a figure came out of the cabin, stepped across the gunwale and started climbing the ferry steps. ‘Good afternoon,’ the man said. ‘And a fine one it is, too.’ The accent was Irish, Salt noted. ‘D’you know where I can find a fella by the name of Jack Spratt?’
Salt took the pipe out of his mouth. ‘Why, of course. That’s his shed there.’ He pointed to a black, tar-painted hut, raised on timbers, with lengths of wood, oars and rope lying around it. ‘You could try knocking but I’m not sure what sort of reception you’ll get. He’s probably having a kip; doesn’t tend to get up until there’s enough water to row across to the other side. That’s his ferry there.’ He pointed to a neat, pale-blue dinghy moored forward of Moonshine. ‘Anyhow, what brings you here?’
‘’Tis a bit embarrassing really. We…’ he quickly corrected himself, ‘…I mean I, ran out of fuel and the man in the harbourmaster’s launch kindly towed me in.’
‘Oh, that’ll be Stan, he works for Mitch Mitchell. I’m the harbourmaster – he’s been doing a bit of maintenance on my boat. Jolly good mechanic, if you need one. Which you might, if the injectors on the engine need bleeding.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind, if I have a problem.’
‘Where are you bound?’ Salt asked.
‘Er, Dover.’
‘Today?’
‘That’s the plan. Anyway, thanks for your help. I think I’ll see what sort of mood Mr Spratt is in.’ He walked across to the ferryman’s hut and knocked on the door.
Salt stood looking down at the boat. He tapped his pipe out on the top of a wooden bollard then brought out a soft leather pouch from an inside pocket. Putting the pipe in the pouch he pushed some tobacco into the bowl and thumbed it down firmly. He produced a box of matches, took one out, struck it on the side of the box and held the flame to the bowl of his pipe. He sucked greedily until a gout of grey smoke issued from the side of his mouth.
Dickens knocked again, more loudly this time. An angry muffled voice came from inside. ‘Bugger off! Can’t you read? Ferry’s closed!’
‘I don’t want the ferry.’
‘Why are you knockin’ on my door then?’ There was the sound of shuffling and more grumbling from within, then the door opened and Spratt appeared. He was wearing a threadbare jersey and baggy grey flannels tucked into a pair of well-darned woollen socks. Startling blue eyes peered bleary from a weather-beaten face. ‘What be you wantin’?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘Sorry to trouble you but I need some fuel,’ Dickens said, in his most placatory voice.
‘S’pose I can help. ’Ow much d’yer want?’
‘I don’t rightly know. Say 10 gallons?’
‘Got any cans?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Grr. Don’t want much, do you?’
‘I’ll pay for your trouble.’
‘Too right you will. Wait here.’ He went back inside and Dickens could just see, in the gloom, Spratt sitting down and pulling on a pair of wellingtons, the tops rolled over. After much grunting, he stood, pushed past Dickens, stomped down the steps and disappeared into another shed. In a few moments he came out bearing two battered jerry cans. He handed them over. ‘That’ll be three quid – and I want them cans back!’ Dickens reached into his pocket and produced three, one pound notes and gave them to Spratt, who held each one up to the light. He looked at Dickens from under his flat cap. ‘Ain’t seen you afore. Not from round ‘ere, are you?’
‘No, just passing through.’
‘Hmm. Don’t forget to bring the cans back. Leave ’em on the step.’ With that he went back inside his hut and slammed the door.
Dickens made his way carefully down the ferry steps – the lower ones slippery with seaweed. Back on board Moonshine he undid the engine hatch, unscrewed the fuel filler cap and, putting a metal funnel into the opening, carefully poured in the contents of the two cans. When he’d finished, he returned the two empty cans and went back to the boat. ‘Come on,’ Wolfgang said, as Dickens entered the cabin and carefully closed the companionway doors behind him, ‘Let us get out of here.’
; Dickens held up his hand. ‘Not so fast. If we hightail it out of here straight away it’ll look suspicious. Let’s just sit here for a little while, then we’ll go.’
Captain Salt had been unobtrusively watching all the exchanges and as soon as Dickens had dropped out of sight he examined the boat more closely. He looked at the transom, but there was no name, although it looked like one had been hastily painted out. He walked along the quay and looked at the boat from the bow. He was sure she looked familiar, but he didn’t remember her being painted black. He frowned, concentration furrowing his brow. Then he had it. ‘Well I’ll be damned!’ he said quietly to himself. ‘I’d better ring Sonny. He’ll want to know about this.’
-0-
Russell had just walked into the police station when Wickstead called out: ‘Phone call for you, Sonny.’
Russell walked up to the counter and took the handset that the desk Sergeant was holding out. ‘Hello? Oh, Captain Salt. Really? Are you sure? Right. I’ll come straight over.’ He handed the phone back to Wickstead, a big grin spreading across his face. ‘Best news I’ve had for a long time! He turned to PC Beaumont, who was standing waiting patiently. ‘Come on, lad. Back in the car. We need to get down to Compass Point – pronto!’
-0-
Salt returned to the quayside just in time to see Dickens climbing up on to the quay. ‘Off already?’ he asked.
‘No time like the present. As I said, I’m headed for Dover.’
‘Sounds like the engine started okay.’ The Gardiner had settled down to a steady beat.
‘Yes. Just had to prime the injectors then she roared into life.’ He started untying the mooring lines.
Salt was doing his best to delay Moonshine’s departure but was struggling to slow it down. ‘Why in such a hurry? The tide’s only just making and there’ll be plenty of water when you get there.’
Dickens continued loosening the ropes. ‘Aye. Just feel it’s best to get under way. Want to take it easy, just to make sure.’
Salt tried one more tack. ‘Might it not be wise to leave it, until you’ve had enough time to check the engine is running all right?’
Dickens paused and listened. ‘Sounds all right to me. I think I’d know if anything was up, don’t you?’ Anxious to start the journey he was beginning to suspect that Salt might be deliberately delaying him. He finished untying the warps, threw the stern line untidily down on to the afterdeck and looped the bowline round the bollard. He jumped down on to the deck, pulled the line in behind him and, with a wave to Salt, began turning the boat. The tide was coming in swiftly and the boat slewed sideways, travelling back up the river, before Dickens got the bow pointing seaward. Even at half throttle Moonshine barely made headway against the current so he gave the engine more revs and she began moving slowly down the estuary, a large bow wave breaking either side of the vessel.
She hadn’t gone more than a couple of hundred yards when Salt heard a car approaching at speed. The Wolseley rocketed over the level crossing, the front bouncing high on its springs, and into the yard, screeching to halt surrounded by a plume of dust. Russell and Beaumont tumbled out and ran to where Salt was standing. ‘Where is she?’
Salt pointed down the channel. ‘There! They’re getting away!’
‘Not if I have anything to do with it! Quick, get Stan. We need to get after them!’ Salt ran to the boatshed while the two policemen climbed down the ladder and into the launch. By the time Stan had joined them, the engine was running and the warps were untied. Moonshine was some distance away and Dickens had obviously opened the throttle fully as she was now creating an even larger bow wave. ‘Can you catch her?’ Russell asked.
‘I’ll give it my best shot,’ Stan said.
‘If Wolfgang’s aboard, I don’t want to lose him again!’
Chapter 24
A flare gun, or Very pistol, is named after an American naval officer, Edward Wilson Very. It is a single shot, snub nosed pistol that fires flares.
Salt’s launch had a good turn of speed and was highly manoeuvrable but was as much subject to the fierce flood tide as the other craft. Consequently, they started nearly a quarter of a mile behind Moonshine. Stan had taken the helm, with Beaumont next to him while Russell and Salt stood braced, either side of the wheelhouse.
‘I knew I’d seen that boat somewhere before.’ Salt had to shout to make his voice heard above the sound of the engine and the water, rushing along the hull. ‘Stan did too, but didn’t realise it was Moonshine at first – I guess he was too busy making sure he towed her in safely.’
‘What on earth do you think it’s doing back here?’ Russell asked.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Salt replied. It’s very odd that the Irishman is aboard - on his own.’
‘But are you sure that he’s alone?’
‘That’s a point, I don’t know. I just assumed…’
‘Müller could be skulking below. He knows that someone would be bound to have recognised him at the Point if he had shown his face.’
‘True. But what’s that Irishman doing with his boat?’
Russell laughed. ‘Oh, I can help you with that. We’re pretty sure he owns a rundown boatyard in Newhaven and calls himself Paddy Dickens although I suspect that’s not his real name. Also our friend Müller has been travelling in his company using the alias of a Frenchman, Monsieur Marcel Meunier.’
Salt’s bushy eyebrows rose and his blue eyes sparkled. ‘So if we catch them, it’ll be two birds with one stone…’
‘No, not if we catch them, but when we catch them!’ Russell leaned into the wheelhouse. ‘Can’t you make this thing go any faster Stan?’
‘I’m doing my best, Inspector. We are closing on them, look.’ He pointed forward. The gap was nearer to 300 yards now. However, Moonshine was approaching the mouth of the river and once in the bay would be free of the tidal surge. Plus, the sky was just beginning to darken. It was frustrating for those on the launch but although they were slowly gaining on the other craft there was nothing more they could do.
‘Look! They’re turning!’ Russell shouted. Sure enough Moonshine, just clear of the harbour mouth, had turned sharply to port, angling across the troubled water covering the sands and sunken forest of Shell Bay.
‘Bloody hell!’ Salt exclaimed. ‘They’ll hit the bottom if they’re not careful. It’s really shallow in places at the best of times, let alone this soon before high tide.’ By now, the launch too had reached the entrance and those on board could quite clearly see the other boat heading diagonally across the bay. Suddenly, it juddered to a halt. ‘She’s aground!’ exclaimed Salt. Dickens appeared from the wheelhouse and was joined by another figure that had come up from the cabin.
‘It’s Müller!’ Russell shouted. ‘I’d know that little runt anywhere!’ Both figures bustled back into the wheelhouse and they could hear the engine roaring; the propeller sending up a spray of mud and seawater, but the boat didn’t budge. Although the launch was of much shallower draught, Stan had taken the precaution of reducing the speed to a walking pace but they were still closing on the other vessel. When they were within 150 yards, Moonshine, the engine still racing, juddered, then slowly began to edge backwards. The launch was now close enough for those on board to see the rope that Dickens had earlier carelessly thrown on to the afterdeck. It was actually hanging over the transom and into the water. Suddenly, with a jerk, the craft’s rearward progressed ceased, there was a loud bang, the engine roared even more, then suddenly stopped and a puff of smoke came from astern.
‘Hah! The rope’s caught round the prop!’ Salt exclaimed. ‘Now they’re done for!’
PC Beaumont came out of the wheelhouse and stood on the foredeck, legs wide, rolling with the motion of the boat. ‘Do you want me to get ready to board her, Sir?’
‘I think we’d better be cautious, lad. Now they’re cornered we don’t know how dangerous they’re likely to be.’ Almost immediately, lighting the gloom, there was a bright flash and a crack from Moonshine. Beaumo
nt let out a cry and grasped his shoulder, tumbling to the deck. ‘Quick! Get down! They’re firing on us!’ Salt and Russell ducked below the gunwale and Stan, swiftly closing the throttle, crouched down in the wheelhouse.
‘What now?’ Salt asked.
‘Let’s get Beaumont in the wheelhouse. Find out how bad it is.’
‘I’m all right, Sir,’ the PC said feebly. ‘It’s just a flesh wou…’ and he passed out. Salt had taken a large white handkerchief out of his pocket and was holding it to Beaumont’s shoulder where it slowly turned crimson.
‘They can’t go anywhere,’ Russell said. ‘Let’s get him sorted out before we do anything else.’
‘I’ve got a first aid kit here, Inspector,’ Stan said, and produced a large wooden box with a red cross painted on it.
Salt grabbed it. ‘Leave him to me,’ he said. ‘You plan what you’re going to do next.’
-0-
‘Can we set off now?’ Sammy asked.
Helen cautiously lifted the corner of the window covering. ‘Better give it another half hour.’ Just then there was the sound of a car stopping, then a ‘toot’ from the road. She raised the sacking again. ‘Ah, my lift has arrived.’
‘But I thought you said “give it half an hour”?’ Baker said.
‘’Well…’ she said slowly. ‘Maybe it’s dark enough now. Can you give me a torch?’ Baker handed her one. She switched it on and flashed it briefly through the window. ‘There, now he knows I’ve seen him.’ Atkins was about to speak but she held her hand up. ‘Don’t ask who he is. The less we know about each other from now on, the better. Right, let’s check on Mr Policeman. You lot stay back, just in case.’ She unlocked and opened the cellar door and shone the torch inside.
Blood on the Shrine Page 23