Blood on the Tide

by Chris O'Donoghue

  First published in 2017 by Boghopper Books

  Copyright © Chris O’Donoghue 2017

  The right of Chris O’Donoghue to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by

  him in accordance with the Copyright Design and Patents Act 1998

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored

  in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the

  publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or over other than that in which it

  is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Typesetting in Minion Pro by

  Edward Sturgeon

  Cover Illustration © Paul Harwood

  A catalogue record of this book is available from

  The British Library

  ISBN 978-1-910693-98-8

  DEDICATION

  Blood on the Tide is dedicated to my late uncle who was a lovely man who I wish I had known better.

  Also to my late friend John Weeks, who manfully battled MS for many years and never lost his sense of humour.

  My thanks go to my wife and soulmate, Greer, for her continuing support and expertise in editing my manuscript and to Paul Harwood for the great job he has done in designing the cover of the book.

  ________________________________________

  BLOOD ON THE TIDE

  By Chris O’Donoghue

  A DI Sonny Russell mystery

  Wednesday

  Marline spike - a tool used in marine rope work. Shaped in the form of a polished metal cone, tapered to a rounded or flattened point, it aids in such tasks as untying knots.

  THE TYRES of a small Bedford lorry crunched across the shingle, the sidelights barely cutting through the dark; the engine, at low revs, making little noise. The vehicle coasted to a standstill, the engine was cut and the passenger door opened. Two shadowy figures crept quietly out and went to the back of the truck, one tall and broad, the other, short and slight, limping as he walked. Still maintaining silence, they carefully dropped the tailgate and started to manoeuvre a bulky object, wrapped in rough cloth, out on to the ground. With a low grunt from one of the figures, they lifted the dead weight, carried it to the edge of the quay and rolled it over the side. There was a gentle splash as it hit the water, the high tide near the top of the quay muffling the sound. The figures retraced their steps, climbed back into the Bedford, the engine was started and it drove off.

  The cloth-wrapped bundle bobbed, just level with the surface of the water, and slowly began to drift out to sea. The low moon lit a glittering path across the rippled surface, the pale pattern breaking and remaking as the motion of the tide gently rocked the waves.

  The three men were quiet as the lorry retraced its route, travelling away from Compass Point. Then the driver spoke, raising his voice above the noise of the engine: ‘Won’t the body be found?’

  The small man in the middle seat replied: ‘That’s the idea. I’ve calculated the tide and it will bring it back up the estuary sometime tomorrow.’ His voice high, almost shrill, carried the trace of an accent - barely noticeable. ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘you have nothing to worry about. No one knows you have any connection with this, so you can have a clear conscience. Meanwhile, please take us back to the brickworks so we can get some sleep.’ The large man on the other side of him grunted his agreement. ‘Then you can go back to the barracks before you’re missed.’

  -0-

  Captain Salt, RN retired, stood on the quayside at Compass Point, dressed smartly in double-breasted blue blazer, with brass buttons gleaming, and grey slacks with knife-edge creases. Sporting a peaked cap above bushy eyebrows and a neat iron-grey beard, he puffed on his pipe and surveyed the damp mud and sand left by the outgoing tide, shimmering in the weak morning sun. Boats lay at rakish angles, mooring ropes festooned with weed, leading from bow or stern to buoy or bank. Below, ferryman Jack Spratt’s pale blue boat was tied up at the bottom of the uneven passenger steps. He knew where Jack would be now and that he wouldn’t appear until there was enough water to row across the river.

  Drawing his eyes back from the misty horizon and looking closer towards the quay wall he could see Mitch’s two men, Stan and Wally, busy digging in the shingle which was gradually silting up the estuary, making ready to lay new moorings. Farther over was a line of fishing boats but Mitch hoped to attract some of the yachtsmen who were starting to see this stretch of coast as a suitable cruising ground. As the owner of the land that Mitch’s boatyard stood on, Captain Salt was keen to promote more leisure activities at Compass Point. It was true that trippers were starting to come down, usually on the train, occasionally by car, but with the war several years behind them and rationing gradually fading, he felt tourism was just about to start in earnest.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slender leather pouch. Deftly flicking the flap open he pulled out a plug of Players Navy Cut tobacco and pushed it into his pipe, tamping it down with a thumb. He replaced the pouch, clamped the pipe between his lips and took out a box of matches. Opening the box he took a match out, struck it on the side, applied it to the bowl of the pipe and sucked greedily. Soon the tobacco was glowing and gouts of smoke came from the corner of his mouth. With a contented sigh, he turned and made his way back through the yard. He picked a path between upturned boats and piles of timber then crossed the railway line and walked along the track to the Shipwrights Arms. Pushing the door open he nodded a greeting to Jack, who, as expected, was propped against the bar, and took his place on the stool reserved for him.

  ‘Mornin’, Skip,’ Jack growled, his blue eyes bright spots in his weathered face, ruddy under a battered flat cap. His dark blue jersey was ragged round the cuffs and elbows and his grubby, baggy grey flannels were tucked into rubber boots, the tops turned over. Despite the fact that Alf, the landlord, had opened the bar only a few minutes earlier, Jack was already halfway down his first pint. No wonder the ferry often ran late, or not all. Salt made a mental note to do something about it, if the hoped for tourists started coming but, for now, he was content to leave things as they were.

  ‘Morning, Jack, you’re looking cheerful. Have you come into some money?’

  Jack looked startled. ‘Why!’ he exclaimed. ‘What ’ave you ’eard?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’ Salt was surprised at the reaction. ‘Just an observation.’ He grinned and raised his bushy eyebrows then faced the bar as Alf put a steaming mug of tea before him. He turned to pour a tot of rum from a bottle on the shelf into a short glass, then placed it on the worn but well-polished bar. Salt nodded his thanks, poured it into his mug, raised it to his lips and took a deep draught. He looked quizzically at the ferryman. ‘Have you come into some money?’

  Spratt shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, shrugged and muttered. ‘No,’ he replied, belligerently. ‘Wouldn’t tell you if I ’ad.’ He turned away and buried his nose in his beer. Salt winked at Alf and raised his mug again.

  -0-

  The Shipwrights Arms was a modest building, with stone walls, tiny recessed windows and a pantiled roof. It sat right at the end of the quay, next to the station, hunkered down against the weather. It had withstood any number of gales and powerful storms and had survived, battered but unbowed. Inside was a small, low-ceilinged room, the once white paintwork now the colour of nicotine, stained dark from years of coal fires and the smoke of a lifetime of tobacco pipes. The woodwork was an even deeper colour, with a tar-like quality. Indeed, tar may well have been used as a ready substitute for paint. The room served as the solitary bar and a door marked PRIVATE led to Alf’s compact accommodation. The landlord was far fro
m being the archetypal mine host. Rangy and thin, he barely spoke more than a sentence at a time, always wore a suit and tie and had bookshelves crammed with classics in his living room. He stood, impassive, in front of a brace of barrels of ale sitting on a rack behind the wooden counter. There was a foxed mirror on the wall above a shelf, reflecting a line of brown bottles. Below the barrels, shelves held clean, upturned glasses; pints and halves. The floor was bare floorboards, with a dusting of sawdust and sand and apart from a couple of stools, the only other seating was comprised of three chairs that had seen better days, arranged around a battered tin-topped table, next to the unlit fire.

  The morning sun slanted through the small windows, dust motes dancing in the rays. An old clock ticked on the wall, and apart from the occasional squeak as Alf polished glasses, all was tranquil. But, suddenly, the peace was shattered as the door flew open and Stan burst in, closely followed by Wally, both breathing heavily after the exertion of running.

  ‘Skip! Skip!’ Stan panted, ‘You’ve got to come! Come and see what we’ve uncovered!’

  ‘And come quick!’ Wally added, ‘It might go off any minute!’

  Unflustered, Salt turned towards the men. ‘Now calm down. What have you found and why’s it going to go off?’

  ‘It’s a b-b-b-bomb!’ Stan gabbled.

  ‘A what?!’

  ‘A bomb! It must have been there since the war,’ Wally said. ‘We was digging to lay the new moorings and hit something hard.’

  ‘Yeah, and I was scrapin’ it with me shovel when we realised what it was,’ Stan added. His eyes were wide and he was shaking, and not just from the effort of running.

  Salt’s naval service on the Atlantic conveys ensured he was quick to assess the situation and make swift decisions.

  ‘Right then you two,’ he said. ‘Let’s find Mitch and we’ll take a shuftee.’ He drained his mug and followed them out through the door, leaving Alf to his polishing and Jack to his pint. Those two weren’t going to get worked up about some ancient piece of ordnance.

  -0-

  Salt had to walk fast to keep up with the others as they retraced their steps across the railway level-crossing and into the yard. Cries of ‘Mitch! Mitch!’ brought the men’s boss out from the boatshed, asking what all the racket was about. He quickly picked up on their urgency and the four of them made their way to the edge of the quay. They peered down at a blackened and rusty metal object that had been revealed by the digging. A couple of hastily discarded spades and an overturned wheelbarrow lay close by. It was clear from the bulbous shape and fins that it was indeed a bomb, probably dropped by a returning German plane, and would have lain there for upwards of ten years.

  Salt immediately took charge.

  ‘Right men, stay well away.’

  ‘We aint got no intention of goin’ anywhere near it again,’ Stan said.

  ‘Mitch, phone the police at Collinghurst and get them to send a bomb disposal crew,’ Salt said. ‘You two,’ he barked, pointing at the ashen faces of Stan and Wally, ‘put up a barrier, this side of the level crossing, and don’t let anyone come past until the army arrives. The next train from Collinghurst is due soon and I don’t want people wandering down here. Got it?’ They nodded, and rushed off to collect timber and trestles.

  Despite his outwardly calm appearance, Salt was disturbed. If this was a live bomb, and it did go off, it could affect his plans for developing tourism at Compass Point very badly. He hoped the military would get a move on…

  -0-

  ‘Right, Sir.’ Salt was pleased to note that the Army captain had the correct amount of deference. ‘If you’d like to keep all personnel well back, we’ll make our way to the UXB. How long before the tide turns?’

  Salt removed a large fob watch from his breast pocket and consulted the dial. ‘Hmm. I’d say you’ve got about an hour and a half before the water starts lapping round your ankles.’

  Captain Valiant turned to the soldier who’d driven the truck: ‘Come on Rankin, we’d better get a move on.’

  The lorry they had arrived in was painted olive green with distinctive red mudguards. Removing canvas rucksacks from the back, they made their way to the edge of the quayside and clambered down the rusty iron ladder. Salt watched as they walked across the damp sand to the spot where, not long before, Wally and Stan had hurriedly abandoned their digging.

  The two soldiers peered at the bomb. ‘Could be a tricky one, Sir,’ Sapper Rankin said, ‘especially as those blokes might have disturbed it.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Valiant replied. ‘We’ve had worse.’ The captain had the build of a sprinter, his well-cut uniform fitting neatly on his light but muscular frame. ‘Looks like an SC fifty, so only a baby.’

  He knelt down and, opening the rucksack, removed a stethoscope. He pushed back his cap, clipped on the earpieces and placed the diaphragm on the metal casing. Rankin, coarsely dressed in ill-fitting khaki, stood by with an extinguisher, ready to douse the fuse if necessary. After a few moments, Valiant sat back on his heels and smiled. ‘Silent as a grave. I think this one is going to be okay. Let’s see if we can get the cover off.’

  Working skilfully, he scraped away carefully at the accumulated mud and grime revealing a raised metal plate. The screws were so corroded there was no chance of undoing them. ‘Rankin, chisel and toffee hammer, if you please.’ The sapper reached into his pack and passed his superior a slim cold chisel and lightweight hammer. Tapping gently, the captain drifted the remains of the screw heads off the plate, then, using the chisel as a lever, prised it away from the metal casing.

  He and Rankin had been a team for several months, usually working alone, only with a larger group when necessary. Despite their differing backgrounds they worked well together, rarely needing more than the minimum of words to communicate what required doing. This was somewhat surprising as Rankin was not popular with the other men at the barracks. It was suggested that he wasn’t trustworthy and not completely honest. However, Valiant was prepared to make allowances as he was a good right hand man although he had found it necessary to defend him on more than one occasion.

  The timing device was exposed, in surprisingly good condition, considering the length of time it had been buried. Probably, both men agreed, silt and mud covering it had preserved it from the ravages of seawater. Valiant took the proffered wire-cutters that Rankin had anticipated he would need. With a muttered thanks, he reached into the exposed cavity, snipped twice then exhaled noisily.

  ‘Phew, that’s it then.’ Leaning back he looked out towards the horizon. He could see a thin line as the sea started to return. ‘Come on mate, we’d better get a move on. We need the A-frame and tackle so we can lift this blighter out before we get wet.’

  Rankin jogged across the firm sand, scrambled up the ladder and walked to the lorry. He swung himself deftly over the tailgate and, in a few moments, was hurrying back with timber, rope and blocks. Throwing them down on the sand, he quickly followed and a wooden frame was soon set up over the bomb. A loop of stout rope was wrapped round the fins of the missile and connected to the gun tackle, suspended from the frame.

  ‘Right-ho!’ Valiant said. ‘Let’s get this blighter out of the putty.’ Together they threw their weight on to the tail-end of the rope and heaved. Nothing happened. ‘Again!’ he commanded. They heaved and again… nothing. ‘Damn. We’re going to have to dig the bloody thing out. Where are those two men? We could do with a hand.’ ‘Captain Salt!’ he yelled towards the quay.

  The landowner’s bearded figure peered over the edge. He’d been watching their efforts and instinctively knew what they needed.

  ‘Okay, I’ll get the boys. Wally! Stan!’ he called, cupping his hands round his mouth. ‘Over here, at the double!’ The two had been skulking behind the boatshed but knew better than to delay. They walked quickly over to Salt. ‘Right lads, they need you to help digging.’ Seeing the dubious looks on their faces he added: ‘Don’t worry, it’s safe now, but if you don’t get a
move on we’ll have to wait for the next tide.’

  Working quickly, the four had soon dug out enough sand and shingle to expose more than half of the metal casing of the bomb. Then, with all of them heaving on the rope, it came out of the ground with a sucking noise, like a very wet cork being pulled from a bottle. They managed to manhandle the deadweight across the sand to the bottom of the quay. Rankin backed the lorry up to the edge and they used the hoist to lift the bomb up and over the quay wall and into the back of the truck. It wasn’t a moment too soon as the incoming tide was already starting to fill the hole where the bomb had lain.

  Salt watched as it was made secure in the back of the truck. ‘What sort is it?’ he asked the army captain.

  ‘Jerry designated it an SC fifty. A Heinkel HE one-eleven could carry 40 of these 50 kilogram jobs and each one contained 25 kilos of TNT. Despite their relative small size they could cause quite a blast. Not only that, but the exploding case would send lethal pieces of shrapnel, flying off in all directions - at about 7000 miles an hour.’

  Salt screwed up his face and winced. ‘Nasty.’

  ‘Quite,’ Valiant said. ‘Luckily this one didn’t go off. Possibly the pilot ditched it on the way back from a raid. It happened a lot. Once they’d dumped their bombs on London they high-tailed it back across the channel as quickly as they could, usually pursued by Spits and Hurricanes. Then they’d get rid of as much weight as possible. This one’s been sitting in the mud and silt, covered up, ever since.’

  After apparently enjoying this lengthy explanation, the captain’s manner became brusque and military. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘better get on. Lots to do.’ With that, he turned on his heel and climbed up into the truck.

  Stan and Wally dismantled the barrier so the lorry could leave.

  ‘Blimey, Mitch, that could have been nasty,’ Wally said. ‘Bloomin’ good job it wasn’t live.’ Mitch could only nod his head in agreement.

  After all the excitement, the day gradually returned to its normal, steady routine. Salt headed off on his rounds, Mitch found work for his men and Jack sauntered out of the Shipwrights Arms, ready to ply his trade as ferryman, despite having already sunk a couple of pints.