Blood on the Shrine

by Chris O'Donoghue

  Weeks was sitting on the top step with the blanket wrapped round his shoulders. ‘Hello. Who are you? Are you coming to take me away?’ His speech was slow, but clear.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Oh, all right, thank you.’

  ‘How’s the bump on the head?’

  He reached up with his hand. ‘Oh that. Don’t know how I did it. Do you?’

  ‘I think you fell.’

  ‘Oh… Where is this place, anyway?’ he looked puzzled.

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘No idea. I just know that it’s a bit damp.’ He started to get up. ‘Can I come in there?’

  ‘Not now. Someone will be along to get you later. Are you hungry?’

  ‘Not really. But I could do with a drink.’ He held out the mug.

  ‘Wait there. I’ll be back in a moment.’ She took the mug and shut the door. ‘Quick, fill this up.’ Baker took the mug to the sink, filled it with water and handed it back to Helen. ‘Keep out of sight.’ She opened the door again.

  Weeks was just standing there. He meekly took the mug. ‘Have you come to get me?’

  ‘No, not yet. It won’t be long. Will you be okay?’

  ‘Oh I’m fine,’ he said weakly, ‘now I’ve got a drink.’ He smiled and took a gulp.’ Helen gently closed the door and turned the key.

  ‘I see what you mean,’ Bates said. ‘Away with the fairies.’

  ‘Saved us the trouble of silencing ’im anyway. Shame, I was looking forward to fixin’ ’im. Led us a right merry dance,’ Atkins growled.

  ‘Not us, Tommy, you. We told you he was a wrong’un, but you wouldn’t listen,’ Baker said.

  ‘Now listen ’ere…’ Atkins said, angrily.

  ‘Boys, boys.’ Helen stepped between them, quickly defusing the situation. ‘Falling out now isn’t going to help anyone.’ Turning to Baker, she said: ‘Why don’t you help me carry my stuff to the car while the others get the van ready?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I’ll say goodbye then.’ She shook hands formally with each of them. ‘I won’t see you around, but be lucky. Oh, and I’ll make that phone call about our guest. Right, Laurie, off we go.’

  They made their way out of the front door while the others went through the back. She was carrying the mailbag with her share of the raid in it while Baker carried her suitcase. ‘Blimey!’ he said, as they walked up the drive. ‘What have you got in here? Weighs a ton!’

  ‘Oh you know. A girl always likes to have plenty of everything,’ she said coyly. Baker worked his magic with the padlock and swung the gate open, wide enough for them to get through. Standing in the lane was a sports car resplendent in British Racing Green. The roof was up so Baker could only just make out a figure sitting in the driver’s seat. Helen spoke. ‘Thanks for everything. I’ll put these in here.’ Turning the handle she opened the lid of the boot and swung the bag in. Baker put the suitcase in, too. It was a tight squeeze. Helen closed the lid and leaning forward, gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘Take care,’ she said, then opened the passenger door and climbed in. As soon as she’d slammed the door shut, the car roared off, leaving Baker standing in the lane feeling somewhat fazed. He shook his head slowly and went to join the rest.

  Bates had driven the van out of the small barn and the others were bringing the mail bags through the back door. Baker could see they were carrying far more than the four, not just the one each containing their share of the loot they had labelled. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘We’re takin’ all the bags,’ Atkins said.

  ‘But Helen said to leave the other ones.’

  ‘Tough. She’s not here anymore so it don’t matter. Anyway. Who picked ’er up?’

  ‘I don’t know. I couldn’t see. Nice car though, nearly new Triumph TR2.’

  Atkins whistled. ‘Blimey, that’s a bit flash.’

  ‘Yeah, and we’re going off in a van.’

  ‘Quit moaning. You’ll be able to buy a brand new TR3 if you want.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Baker still wasn’t happy about the additional mail bags so he pressed on. ‘Helen said the contents of those bags could be traceable.’

  Atkins would not to be dissuaded. He put his face close to Baker’s. ‘’Ow does she know? ’Til we open them we won’t know what’s in them, will we?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Let’s get them loaded an’ then we can push off.’

  -0-

  ‘What’s the plan, Sonny?’ Salt was kneeling on the floor of the wheelhouse of the launch, dressing Beaumont’s wound and making him comfortable.

  ‘First of all, how’s the patient? Should we turn back and get him to hospital?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I agree with him that it’s just a flesh wound. I think he passed out with shock but he’s come round and is quite coherent.’

  ‘As long as you’re sure.’

  ‘Yes, I am. What’s more important is to catch those two. What are you going to do?’

  ‘The trouble is, they’re armed; well, at least one of them must be.’

  ‘And we’re not…’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘So even though they’re now stuck on that sandbank, we can’t get any closer?’

  ‘Look!’ said Stan, pointing. ‘She’s moving!’

  Salt sat up and peered over the gunwale. ‘It’s the tide! It’s lifted her off the bottom. She’s drifting towards the shore.’

  ‘If they get into shallow water they’ll be able to wade to the shore, then we’ll lose them in the dunes,’ Russell said. ‘We’ve got to get nearer to them.’

  ‘Hang on,’ Stan said, ‘they’re stuck again.’

  ‘So they are. If only we had a weapon. If we get any closer they’ll fire on us again.’

  Salt looked thoughtful, rubbing his chin. Then he said: ‘Hold on, I’ve got an idea. Stan, haven’t we got a Very pistol on board?’

  ‘We have, Captain. Hang about.’ He went to the back of wheelhouse, opened a locker and took out what looked like a small, stubby handgun.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Russell asked, frowning.

  ‘It’s used for firing flares so not very accurate but I’ve heard it can be used as a weapon at close range. Shall we try to get nearer? Who’s the best shot?’ Salt said.

  ‘Beaumont, actually, but he’s obviously not up to it. How about you?’ Russell asked.’

  ‘Used to be good, but my sight’s not what it was.’

  ‘I wasn’t bad in the Army, but I haven’t fired a gun for a long time. Stan?’

  ‘I reckon I could have a go. Who’s going to take the boat in?’

  ‘I can manage that,’ Russell said.

  ‘Better get a move on,’ Salt broke in. ‘Looks like they may be about to launch the dinghy.

  The two men in Moonshine had indeed made their way to the dinghy, which was lashed on the deck, and seemed to be untying the ropes holding her down. Russell was steering the launch slowly towards her and, when they got within 50 or 60 yards, there was a loud bang! then a ping, and a whine, as a bullet ricocheted off the corner of the wheelhouse. Russell was safe inside; Salt was kneeling next to Beaumont but Stan, standing, ducked automatically. He crept forward and crouched behind the gunwale. By raising his head he could peer forward through the bow fairlead. The sky was darkening and it was growing gloomy but he could clearly see the silhouettes of the two men frantically trying to free the dinghy. When they were within 20 yards, another shot ricocheted off the hull, just below his position. The flash from the muzzle showed him where the gunman was standing and, in one swift movement, he stood, aimed and fired the Very pistol.

  Suddenly, Moonshine was lit up as if by a spotlight and there was a scream from the deck. The flare bounced off and sizzled in the water, still glowing bright white. Russell opened the throttle and the launch bore down on her. He slammed the engine into reverse at the last moment but even so there was a sickening crunch as they hit Moonshine and the launch jerked to a standstill. Stan
was over the bow in a trice and pinning one of the figures to the deck. The other was still screaming. Russell followed quickly and saw that it was Wolfgang, smoke coming from the centre of his jacket. Russell grabbed a bucket with a length of rope tied to the handle, swung it over the side, half filling it with water and threw it over the prone man. He screamed even louder for several seconds, then went quiet.

  ‘He may be a wanted man but we’ve got to get him to hospital,’ Russell said. ‘He’s in a bad way.’

  ‘And we need to get this one seen to as well,’ Stan added, still straddling Dickens.

  ‘Yes, quite right. I’ll get Salt to throw over the handcuffs so we can secure him. I presume there’s a VHF radio on the launch?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Russell called to the other vessel. ‘Salt.’

  ‘Yes, Sonny?

  ‘First of all, Beaumont should have a pair of cuffs on him. Pass them over can you, please? Then radio the station and get them to send an ambulance and a police car to the Point.’

  Once Dickens was cuffed, they gently manhandled Wolfgang on to the launch. He groaned but did not regain consciousness. ‘We don’t have time to tow Moonshine back. You’ll have to collect her later, Stan.’

  ‘Okay Inspector. I’ll make her secure for now.’ He threw the anchor over the bow, so that the craft would not drift out to sea. Picking up the revolver that was lying in the scuppers, Russell directed Dickens across to the launch. The journey back would be quicker because, although the tide was not running so swiftly, they were travelling in the same direction as the flood.

  As they motored back up the river, Salt used the radio to contact the station. ‘Yes, two injured, one with a gunshot wound, the other’s got a nasty burn,’ he said. ‘How long?’ A pause. ‘We should be back in about 10 minutes. What’s that?’ another pause, longer this time. ‘Right. I’ll tell him.’

  ‘What was that?’ Russell asked.

  ‘Apparently there’s been an anonymous message about Weeks…’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You’re to ring the station as soon as you get back to your car.’

  -0-

  ‘Right, is that all the bags stowed now?’ Atkins asked.

  ‘I think so, boss,’ Sammy said.

  ‘I’m still not happy about this,’ Baker’s face looked like a smacked arse.

  ‘Tough. Listen… You can either stay ’ere and whinge ’til the law comes callin’ or go with us. Which is it to be?’

  Baker sighed and thought for a moment. ‘I suppose I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Get in the van with Sammy then.’ Baker climbed into the back, making himself as comfortable as possible, amongst all the mail sacks. Atkins slammed the door and turned the handle. Walking round to the front he got in the passenger side and shut the door. ‘Right, Butch. Let’s get out of here.’

  -0-

  The launch came alongside the jetty just as the ambulance arrived, bells clanging. Russell stopped briefly to speak to the crew, then dashed to the car and radioed the station. ‘So, what’s the news about Weeks?’ he asked.

  Wickstead was manning the phone. ‘A woman rang – cultured sounding - and said we’d find him in the cellar of a farmhouse in Etchingwood Lane, just outside of Framfield.’

  ‘But Parker and Barrow are supposed to have searched that area.’

  ‘That’s right, but you know them…’

  ‘Ye gods and little fishes! Can’t they be trusted to do anything right?’

  ‘What do you expect of Bonnie and Clyde, Sonny?’

  ‘Quite. Any idea where they are now?’

  ‘They haven’t come back here yet. Shall I ring the Uckfield nick and find out if they’ve seen them?’

  ‘Yes, that’s a good idea, Sarge. Call me straight back can you? I’m a bit worried about Weeks but it’ll take me the best part of an hour to get over to Framfield. It’d be easier if someone from there could go.’

  Russell sat in the car, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He was loath to set off until he had heard back from Wickstead but was frustrated by the delay. After a few minutes the car radio crackled into life. ‘Sonny?’

  ‘Yes, Sarge? Any news?’

  Wickstead chuckled. ‘They were still there. Eating a fish supper - and probably sinking a beer or two.’

  ‘Typical! Can you ask them to get over to that farmhouse?’

  ‘Already done, Sonny. They’re on their way with a couple of PCs from the station. I spoke to the desk Sergeant there and apparently, their Super gave Bonnie a right flea in the ear for missing it.’

  ‘I should think he did. They should have pensioned that pair off years ago. I just hope they get to Weeks quickly. I’m really worried about him.’

  -0-

  Bates put the van into gear, and was just driving towards the gate when he stopped. ‘Hang on, there’s something wrong.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ There was panic in Atkins’s voice.

  ‘I think we’ve got a flat tyre.’

  ‘Bloody hell! Is that all? Christ! I thought something terrible had happened. Come on, let’s have a look.’ Sure enough the nearside rear wheel was down on its rim.

  Sammy and Baker had to get out of the back again and the mailbags needed to be heaped to one side so they could get at the spare wheel. Bates got the jack and cursed as it would not fit under the sill because of the extra weight. So they had to take the mailbags out and pile them on the drive. Then, when the van was jacked up, he found the nuts were corroded on to the wheel and he couldn’t shift them. ‘For crying out loud!’ Atkins exclaimed. ‘Are we ever going to get away?’

  Bates was flustered and breathing heavily. ‘I need a lever. A bit of pipe would do.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake! Go and find something.’ Bates went off with a torch while the others stood around, smoking. Finally, he came back with a length of galvanised gas pipe that he had found in the barn. He fitted it over the end of the wheel brace and using his considerable weight on lever, the first nut suddenly came free, and he tumbled to the ground.

  Atkins could not supress a laugh. ‘Come on Butch. Quit clowning around. We’ve got to get off.’

  Bates stood up, a hurt look on his fleshy face. ‘I ain’t clowning around,’ he said indignantly.’

  ‘Sorry, mate. It was just funny, that’s all.’

  Bates harrumphed and finished undoing the other nuts. The wheel came off easily and the spare was soon in place. Bates retightened the nuts then lowered the jack. ‘Oh, no,’ he said miserably.

  ‘What’s the matter now?’ Atkins snapped.

  ‘You won’t believe it - the spare’s flat.’

  ‘Jesus! I thought this was your pride and joy. Don’t you look after it?’

  ‘Course I do. It’s just one of them things.’

  ‘What do we do now?’ Sammy asked.

  ‘We’ll have to pump it up – see if it holds air,’ Bates said.

  ‘I suppose you have got a foot pump?’ Atkins asked.

  ‘I think so. Give me the torch and I’ll have a look.’ Bates rummaged around in the back of the van for what seemed like an age but was actually only a couple of minutes and finally emerged triumphant. Even so, it was not a great pump and even with them taking it in turns, it was nearly 10 minutes before the tyre had enough air in it.

  ‘Hoo-ray,’ Atkins exclaimed. ‘Right. Let’s get the van repacked and get this bloody show on the road. I’m starting to get nervous now.’

  -0-

  Parker’s ears were still stinging from the dressing down he had received from the Uckfield superintendent as they drove away from the police station. ‘Worse than bloody Stout,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Thought he was bad enough.’

  ‘Sorry, Sir?’ the PC enquired, wrestling with the steering as the car screeched round a tight corner.

  ‘Nothing,’ Parker grumbled. ‘You just concentrate on the road. Get us there in one piece.’

  They were approaching Framfield when the PC, who knew t
he area well, took a sharp left, throwing Parker sideways. Barrow and the other PC slid one way across the back seat then almost immediately slid the other way as he took a right. Parker was about to speak but kept quiet. Soon they were rocketing along Etchingwood Lane when Barrow recognised where they were and yelled: ‘Stop! We’ve just passed it!’ The PC stood on the brakes and Parker all but broke the screen with his forehead. As soon as the car had stopped they all jumped out and shining torches ahead of them the two PCs and Barrow dashed back, Parker trailing behind. They reached the farmhouse and stopped in amazement. Inside the open gateway, illuminated by their torchlight, was a Morris van with four men hastily stowing mailbags in the back. The men were equally surprised and for some moments there was a Mexican standoff. Nobody moved for several seconds then all hell broke loose.

  Bates wrenched the driver’s door open, clambered behind the wheel, started the engine and attempted to drive off, but in his hurry it stalled and the van just shuddered; Atkins tried to grab a shotgun from out of the back of the van but it became tangled with a bag and, as he struggled, a PC was on him. Sammy stood, petrified, his eyes all over the place, submitting meekly as the other PC clamped handcuffs on his wrists. Baker made a run for the gate, dodged Barrow but collided with Parker, who ended up flat on his back in the dirt. Baker would have got away, but just as he turned along the lane a second police car came tearing round the corner, two PCs leapt out before it had stopped and pinned him to the ground. In no time, all four robbers were rounded up and stood, handcuffed and resigned, waiting for the police van to arrive.

  Meanwhile, Parker had picked himself up and, grumbling, did his best to brush the mud off his suit and raincoat. It didn’t make a lot of difference. ‘Come on,’ he said to Barrow, ‘let’s find this cellar.’ The front door was locked so they made their way round to the back. The kitchen was littered with empty beer bottles, dirty plates, saucepans and mugs. Saucers overflowed with cigarette butts. They found the cellar door and Parker unlocked it. Weeks was sitting on the top step, bewildered, a faraway look on his face. He still had the blanket wrapped round him. Parker took pity. ‘Hello, lad, how are you?’