Blood on the Tide

by Chris O'Donoghue

  ‘Tell me about Jack.’

  Mitch looked surprised at the policeman’s sudden change of tack. ‘What do you want to know?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, apparently he didn’t come out this morning when they found the bomb and he didn’t seem bothered, once the body had been lifted on to the shore. He took himself off to his hut and hasn’t been seen since. It doesn’t seem to add up.’

  ‘That’s not unusual. He spends a lot of time in there. Even sleeps there when he’s had a row with his wife, and that happens more often than not.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said the detective. ‘I think it’s time I had a chat with him. Could you send him in please?’

  -0-

  ‘I understand you spend a lot of time in your shed, Jack?’

  ‘When I’m not in ’ere or out on the boat, that’s right,’ he replied, looking suspicious.

  ‘I also understand you even sleep there?’

  Jack looked down and picked at his thumbnail. ‘Sometimes,’ he mumbled.

  ‘I don’t suppose you were in there last night?’ Russell stared at Jack who looked up, then quickly looked down again at his hands.

  ‘Might ’ave been.’

  The DI reached across the table and grasped the other man’s wrist. ‘Well were you or weren’t you?’ he asked, his usual easy-going tone replaced by an uncharacteristic menacing growl. Aggie looked up, her ears twitching in surprise at the unusual sound.

  Jack snatched his hand back. ‘All right, I was. What’s it to you?’ He stared at the detective with a look that was both sheepish and defiant. With a deep sigh the dog settled down in front of the fire again, her chin resting on her paws.

  Russell sat back. ‘That’s better. Now did you see or hear anything suspicious?’

  ‘Like what?’ Jack was still being belligerent.

  ‘That’s what I’m asking you, ‘Russell said patiently, as if talking to a child. ‘Now, can I have a straight answer?’

  ‘Oh I don’t know. I’d ’ad a few pints so I went out like a light.’ Russell still didn’t think he was telling the whole truth.

  ‘If you drank so much you must have had to get up for a pee.’

  ‘Fair enough, I did,’ Jack said resignedly.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘Look, I’m getting fed up with this. You saw or heard something and I want to know what it is. Now tell me or I’ll have you up for obstructing the police!’

  ‘Oh, all right. There weren’t no moon, so it were pretty dark. I’d gone out to relieve meself when a lorry turned up at the far end of the quay.’ He waved vaguely towards the window.

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘As I said, it were dark but I think I saw two figures carryin’ sommat an’ chuckin’ it in the water.’

  ‘Why on earth didn’t you tell me this before?’ Russell was quite angry now.

  ‘I dunno.’ His voice tailed off.

  ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘No, that really is all I can tell you. Except…’ he paused.

  ‘Yes, go on.’ Russell encouraged

  ‘Well, it sounded like that Bedford that came for the bomb.’

  Thursday

  Sheepshank – a type of knot used to shorten a rope or take up slack.

  JUST OUTSIDE Collinghurst, inside a high security fence topped with nasty looking coils of barbed wire, was the barracks of the local Royal Engineers unit. It consisted of a group of plain buildings in regimented rows, surrounded by lawns of neatly cut grass. A Union flag flew from a tall flagstaff. A red-and-white-striped barrier blocked an opening in the fence that led to a Tarmac road which wound between the buildings. A small cabin provided shelter for the guards.

  Early the following morning Weeks drove the Wolseley up to the barrier and a corporal with a rifle slung over his shoulder walked round to the side of the car. The DC wound down the window. ‘Yes Sir, can I help you?’ the soldier asked.

  Russell leant across so he could peer out of the open window. ‘Er… yes: DI Russell to see Captain Valiant.’

  ‘Right you are, Sir, he’s expecting you. Drive to the end of this road and his office is on your right.’ The corporal walked back and raised the barrier.

  Weeks parked the car outside a single-story, brick building. ‘Stay,’ Russell commanded Aggie. She let out a long, loud sigh and slumped resignedly on the back seat. Getting out of the car Weeks mounted the single step and knocked on the plain green door. ‘Enter,’ a voice rapped from within. He and Russell went in.

  The room was quite small. One wall was dominated by a large-scale map of the area, marked with coloured flags. A single window looked out on to a neat lawn and the fence beyond. Valiant sat behind a wooden desk, bare but for a telephone and a pristine blotting pad with a fountain pen lying perfectly parallel with the top edge. Sapper Rankin stood stiffly at ease to one side, his rumpled uniform at odds with his rigid stance. There were two chairs in front of the desk and Valiant gestured for the policemen to sit.

  ‘Hello gentlemen, how can I help you?’ he asked smoothly. ‘I presume you’ve come about that bomb at Compass Point?’ The two men sat down.

  ‘Not exactly,’ Russell said. ‘Although it does involve the Point. ‘What I’m more interested is your Bedford lorry.’ The captain looked at him quizzically. ‘Did you hear that a body was found in the river yesterday?’ He noticed a slight movement from the private, almost imperceptible, but definitely there.

  ‘Yes, I heard something about that. Wasn’t it near where we collected the bomb?’

  ‘That’s right. The thing is, it looks like the body was taken to the Point the night before and dumped in the water at high tide.’

  ‘I don’t see how this affects us.’ Valiant leant back in his chair placing his hands in his lap.

  Russell leant forward and put his elbows on the desk. ‘Well I’ll tell you. We have reason to believe your lorry was involved.’

  ‘How come?’ Valiant sat up, interested now.

  ‘We found tyre tracks that match those of your truck. Also a witness heard the noise of an engine that night and recognised it as being the same as your lorry. Apparently it’s quite distinctive.’

  Valiant looked at the private. ‘Rankin,’ he said, ‘do you know anything about this?’ The sapper appeared perplexed.

  ‘I’m not sure, Sir, although, come to think of it, there was something that’s been puzzling me.’

  ‘Would you care to elaborate?’

  ‘Um… well, Sir, when we set off yesterday I was surprised that the needle on the fuel gauge showed that the tank wasn’t quite full. I tend to keep it topped up so it’s ready when we need it. And I always leave it in gear. I don’t trust the handbrake. But when I got in it was in neutral. We haven’t had a shout for a few days, so the lorry’s just been sitting there.’ The private’s voice was coarse and his speech stilted, almost as if he was reading from a report or prepared script.

  ‘Mmm,’ Valiant murmured. ‘Do you think someone else could have used it?’

  ‘I don’t see how, Sir. This is a secure area after all.’

  ‘How do you account for the used fuel and gearstick then?’

  Rankin shrugged. ‘Dunno, Sir.’

  Russell, who had been quietly observing the discourse between the two soldiers, spoke softly: ‘I think we’d better take a look at this lorry, Captain. Is that okay?’

  He and Weeks were led out of the building and round to the back where a number of military vehicles were parked. Valiant stopped by a truck with distinctive red mudguards.

  ‘I’m afraid we haven’t had a chance to clean it up gents,’ he said. ‘All we’ve done is taken the bomb out and put it in the sandpit.’

  Russell was pleased. ‘That’s good news. There may still be some evidence. Mind if we take a look?’

  ‘Be my guests,’ Valiant said. ‘Give me a shout if you need any help.’ He turned and Rankin followed him back to the office.

  ‘Gloves on, Weeks - and try not to d
isturb anything. Let’s see if we can preserve any evidence there might be left inside.’

  They undid the catches and gently let down the tailgate. The back of the lorry was a jumble of filled and empty sandbags, coiled ropes of various thickness and length, chains, canvas bags and baulks of timber. It didn’t seem as if Rankin was as conscientious about keeping the truck tidy as he was about making sure the fuel was topped up. Cautiously the officers climbed into the back, carefully stepping over the contents. Standing and slowly scanning the interior, Russell took in the details. ‘Not sure what we can find, it’s all bit of a muddle. I think we’d better get the team from the station to have a look.’ He was just about to get out again when he stopped. ‘Hang on a mo. What’s this?’ He reached down to where the tailgate hinge was exposed. There was a sharp edge and a piece of grey fabric was caught on the metal. ‘A-ha!’ he exclaimed, holding it up for Weeks to see. ‘Looks like the same stuff the body was wrapped in.’

  -0-

  Russell had requested that uniform send some men to have a look around Compass Point for more clues. Two PCs were despatched along the railway embankment. They could have stayed on the level and no one would have been any the wiser but, to their credit, they stumbled and slithered down the uneven causeway to look under the bridge. There they found the branch, wedged against the bridge abutment and still clinging to it was a scrap of grey felt. However, all this proved was that the body had floated as far as the bridge before it started heading back out to sea. Despite their thoroughness, nothing else was turned up.

  -0-

  Russell was back in the police station, sitting behind his desk. His arms were folded across his chest. His eyes were half closed and his lips were pursed, whistling quietly. He sat like this for some time before speaking. ‘What have we got, Weeks?’ he asked the constable, seated across from him.

  ‘Well Sir, a washed-up body, wrapped in carpet and underlay; an army Bedford apparently used to move the body; some scraps of fabric found on the quay, in the back of the truck and under the bridge… but not a lot else.’

  ‘Not bad, constable,’ Russell smiled, unfolding his arms and leaning forward. He put his elbow on the desk and rested his chin on his closed fist. ‘But what about those expertly tied knots, the odd footprints and the lump of clay?’

  ‘Oh yes, of course,’ Weeks replied bashfully.

  The DI continued: ‘The knots suggest a seaman, or at least someone connected with boats or the water.’

  ‘And what about those strange footprints, Sir?’

  ‘Hmm, they were pretty small. A child?’ He shook his head. ‘No I don’t think so. And the fact that although the same size they were so different in pattern. Why would one be smooth and the other more defined?’ Russell leant back in his chair and folded his arms once more.

  ‘Sounds like a built-up shoe,’ Weeks said quietly.

  Russell sat up. ‘What was that?’ His sudden movement alerted the dog under the desk and she pricked up her ears.

  ‘Could be a built-up shoe, Sir.’

  ‘That’s it! Well done.’

  ‘Really, Sir?’ The constable was puzzled. The dog settled again.

  ‘Listen Weeks, let’s say someone had polio and one leg developed more than the other. He’d have to wear a built-up shoe, wouldn’t he?’ Weeks nodded. ‘And possibly, he never grew fully so he stayed small, hence the shoe size. So we’re looking for a little man.’

  ‘Or woman, Sir.’

  ‘True, or a woman. With an orthopaedic shoe. Mmm… now, where we do start?’ He settled back into his chair again, deep in thought.

  After a while Weeks spoke: ‘And what about the lump of clay, Sir?’

  Russell came out of his reverie. ‘Presumably it had been caught in the wheel arch of the Bedford and when it stopped, the lump fell out. I wonder if our boys are still at the barracks.’

  The telephone was picked up on the third ring. ‘Russell here, can you tell me if the fingerprint team is still with you?’

  ‘Hang on a mo…’ Valiant said,’ I’ll just take a dekko.’ Russell heard the phone clatter on the desk and waited. In a few moments Valiant was back on the line.

  ‘Yes, they’re still out there, it looks like they’re packing up.’

  ‘Oh good. In that case, could you ask them to look under the wheel arches for traces of clay, please?’

  ‘Sure thing,’ the captain said. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No, that’s all. Thanks for your help.’

  Friday

  Keelhauling – a form of punishment meted out to sailors at sea.

  THE NEXT day Russell was sitting alone in his office, trying to make sense of what he knew already, which, he admitted, didn’t amount to much. The way the body had been carefully wrapped and tied and the fact it hadn’t been weighted didn’t make sense. If it had been it surely would have sunk without trace. As it was, by ensuring that it stayed afloat it made it look as if it was meant to be found. What did that mean? Perhaps a warning of some kind? Was it meant to set an example? It was certainly puzzling.

  There was something else bothering him. Rankin had said that the lorry was kept in a secure area, so how did someone from outside gain access to it? … if it was someone from outside. He was just deciding that he needed to have another chat with the soldiers when the phone rang. It was the pathologist. ‘Crooks here. Wondered if you wanted to come over to the mortuary to see what we’ve found?’

  ‘Anything interesting?’ Russell asked.

  ‘I think you’d better come over and take a look for yourself.’

  ‘Okay, I’m on my way.’ He got up from his chair, left his room and as he entered the outer office he called out: ‘Anyone seen Weeks?’

  ‘Here, Sir.’ Weeks’s tousled head popped up from behind a teetering pile of files.

  ‘Come on, lad, we’re wanted in the mortuary.’ Weeks grabbed his coat and followed Russell out to the car park.

  -0-

  The Wolseley slowed to a halt in front of a large, austere, red-brick building on the edge of Collinghurst. The façade had the scale and proportions of a stately home but not the gravitas. Something about its bulk rendered it utilitarian and everyday, not special. The mortuary was part of this forbidding looking Victorian complex that had once housed an asylum but was now an annexe of the town’s hospital. The two detectives got out and walked up the steps to the front door. Passing the receptionist, who was engaged in an involved telephone conversation, they turned left and walked down a long corridor. It was painted two-tone, in colours far from jolly - dull institutional green below the dado rail and bilious beige above. They hurried along the uninviting length, pushed through the swing doors at the end then in through a door marked PATH LAB – ONLY AUTHORISED PERSONNEL TO ENTER.

  There was a small, plain anteroom containing just a row of filing cabinets and a pair of straight-backed chairs - cold comfort for those unfortunate enough to be waiting to identify a body. At the opposite end from where they had entered was another door marked PRIVATE. Russell knocked then pushed the door open.

  ‘Ah Sonny,’ Crooks said, walking towards them, a green, ankle-length gown stretched tautly across his generously padded frame. A face mask, the chords looped over his large ears, hung under his jaw but failed to conceal his multiple chins. ‘I think you’ll find this most interesting.’ He led the two police officers across the room to a metal table where a body was stretched out, covered by a light sheet. He walked up to the head of the table and pulled it back. The man’s pale face looked calm and serene. Russell was always surprised at how the faces of those in death rarely reflected the trauma they had suffered in life. Crooks pulled the sheet back farther and the naked man’s body came into view. It was criss-crossed from chest to toe with small scratches, some short and some long - none very deep.

  ‘Ouch!’ Russell exclaimed. Weeks looked away and swallowed noisily. ‘You okay, son? Russell asked, concerned. The DC swallowed again.

  ‘I think so, Sir. Just a bit of a
shock.’

  ‘You’re right. It’s not a pretty sight.’ He turned to the pathologist. ‘How on earth did that happen, John?’

  ‘It puzzled me initially. I expect you remember that the clothes were ripped too?’ Russell nodded. ‘The scratches are so random I thought at first he’d been dragged through the proverbial hedge backwards. But on closer examination I could find no traces of thorns or other plant material, which I would have expected, had that been the case. But, what I did find....’ He walked over to a side table and picked up a kidney-shaped, stainless-steel dish. ‘…was this.’ He held it out for the policeman to look at.

  It contained a number of small grey flakes and some short strands of greenish, almost translucent, material. Russell frowned.

  ‘Yes, it had me vexed at first, too,’ said Crooks. ‘So we had a closer look at his clothes and we found more of the same. ‘Do you know what it is yet? He cocked his head to one side waiting for a reply. Both the detectives shook their heads. ‘It’s barnacles!’ he said, triumphantly, ‘Barnacles and seaweed!’

  ‘Well I’ll be jiggered! How on earth did that happen?’ Russell was incredulous.

  ‘Ah, well, this is very interesting…’ In common with others in his profession Crooks took an almost morbid delight in his work. Like his colleagues he’d seen so many strange things during the course of his working life that little shocked or surprised him. However, this latest revelation had obviously awakened his curiosity and he was determined to make the most of it. ‘Have you heard of keelhauling?’ he said.

  ‘Keelhauling?’ Russell’s brow furrowed even deeper. ‘I thought that was stopped centuries ago.’

  ‘Well not so long ago,’ the pathologist explained. ‘And for the benefit of those who don’t know…’ - he paused and looked at Weeks - ‘keelhauling was a practice used as a punishment in the 17th and 18th centuries, meted out to sailors at sea, although officially only the Dutch navy used it. It involved tying ropes round a man and dragging him under the ship, from one side to the other. If the ship hadn’t been out of the water for some time, the bottom would be covered with barnacles, so the man could be ripped to bits, or, if kept under water for too long, he’d drown. Either way it was a pretty horrific punishment, I think you’ll agree. Surprisingly the Dutch only banned it in 1853, a mere one hundred years ago.’