Blood on the Tide

by Chris O'Donoghue

  -0-

  Rankin was sitting opposite Russell in the small office, Weeks was standing to one side of the desk. The soldier appeared quite calm, his face blank and impassive. The DI sat staring at him for some minutes. As the time passed he could see a minute tic begin by the sapper’s right eye and a slight bloom of sweat appear on his forehead. Then, almost imperceptibly, Rankin rubbed his fingers along the seam of his baggy khaki trousers. He spoke. ‘Are we going to sit here all day without speaking?’ Then added: ‘Sir?’

  Russell leant forward. ‘I’m not sure you’ve told us the truth, have you?’ he asked quietly.

  The soldier folded his arms defensively across his chest. ‘Don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘You said,’ he consulted the notebook open on his desk, ‘that… “I was surprised that the needle on the fuel gauge showed that the tank wasn’t quite full as I tend to keep it topped up so it’s ready when we need it. Also, I always leave it in gear, don’t trust the handbrake, but when I got in it was in neutral”.’

  ‘Yes, I think that’s what I said.’

  ‘I can assure you it was. My constable is very accurate when it comes to taking notes.’ He nodded to Weeks.

  ‘Well then, I did.’

  ‘Mmm, it might be what you said, but we don’t think it’s what actually happened, do we constable?’

  ‘No we don’t,’ Weeks confirmed.

  Russell continued: ‘The chances of an outsider getting into the barracks, unnoticed, taking your lorry from the compound and driving it out unchallenged are virtually nil.’ Rankin made to speak but Russell held his hand up and continued. ‘And also I don’t think any other soldier would be likely to take your Bedford. Your officer said,’ - he looked down at the notebook again - ‘and I quote: “Not only is it a bit old and ropey, but it has to be ready at a moment’s notice in case we have an emergency”.’

  ‘That’s right’ Rankin said.

  ‘So no-one is going to take it, just in case you need it in a hurry, are they?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Of course they wouldn’t. Knowing your Captain Valiant he would make sure that all hell broke loose if it wasn’t there when you needed it.’ Russell had leant right forward and almost spat out the last words. The soldier was visibly shaken.

  ‘No, Sir,’ he said quietly.

  The DI sat back and he too lowered his voice ‘I suggest that it was you who used the lorry that night.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘And that you were paid to.’

  ‘You’re joking!’ Rankin blustered.

  ‘What if I said you were seen by a witness?’

  ‘I’d say they were lying.’

  ‘A very reliable witness.’

  ‘Who? Tell me who?’ Rankin gripped the sides of the seat.

  ‘And they saw you with two other men in the lorry.’

  ‘You’ve got to be joking!’

  ‘Am I?’ Russell said mildly and leant back.

  The soldier thought for a moment. Russell could see that the sweat was starting to trickle into his eyes. He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. He coughed. He looked ready to confess. Russell sat quietly waiting to hear how he would respond. The silence stretched. Then Rankin suddenly stood up and took control of himself, and when he spoke, it was with confidence. ‘I don’t believe anyone saw me as I wasn’t there. As Captain Valiant said, I was tucked up in bed. You can tell your reliable witness that they were mistaken. Now, if there’s nothing else, I need to get back to barracks, I’ve got work to do.’ With that he turned on his heel and left.

  Weeks and Russell looked at each other. The DI spoke: ‘Now if that wasn’t the action of a guilty man, I don’t know what is.’

  ‘One thing puzzles me, Sir. Who was the witness who saw him? You didn’t mention it before.

  Russell gave a snort. ‘There wasn’t one. I was just calling his bluff, and it almost worked. Sadly he failed to rise to the bait so we’re back to square one. Now if you’ve got that list of building sites I think we’d better go and have a look.’

  -0-

  The first project they came to consisted of a handful of completed dwellings, half a dozen plots where bases had been poured and the same number where the ground was prepared ready for the concrete footings. Standing next to them were prefabricated wall panels, with openings for doors and windows. Nearby a large cement mixer was steadily turning, its single-cylinder petrol engine thumping out a regular beat as concrete slopped around inside.

  A small crane was lowering one of the panels on to a base, with three or four men, all wearing flat caps, manoeuvring it into position. Russell waited until they had completed the task then went over to speak to them. ‘Hello,’ he said, ‘is the foreman around?’

  The nearest man was wearing a suit jacket that had seen better days. He took an unlit roll-up out of his mouth and said: ‘Over there,’ pointing to one of the completed prefabs. ‘They’re finishing off the inside of that one.’ He put the cigarette back between his lips and turned away.

  ‘Thanks,’ Russell said to the man’s back. He and Weeks picked their way over the uneven ground to the building.

  As they walked in they could see that the prefab had a fitted kitchen and through a door was a bathroom with man-sized bath and flushing toilet, a luxury for those used to outside conveniences and tin baths. Two men were touching up the magnolia paintwork on the interior wall. ‘Can I help you?’ one of them asked, turning towards them, paintbrush in hand.

  ‘We’re looking for the foreman. I’m Detective Inspector Russell and this is Detective Constable Weeks.’

  The man spoke. ‘I’m George, the foreman. If it’s about the materials that were nicked from the site last week I’ve already spoken to your lot.’

  ‘Er, no,’ Russell said, ‘it’s not.’

  The foreman looked puzzled. ‘Then why are you here? I’m afraid we’ve got a lot to get done today.’

  ‘I was wondering if you’d be able to help with something else.’

  ‘I’ll try.’ The man was anxious to get on.

  ‘Can you tell me what sort of soil there is here?’

  ‘That’s a strange sort of question. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Oh, it’s just a routine enquiry.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ the man sighed. ‘You’d better come and take a look. He put down his paintbrush and led the two detectives out of the building and over to the nearest freshly dug plot. ‘There you are, see for yourself,’ he said.

  Russell crouched down and looked in the excavated hole. ‘Looks like very sandy soil and some sort of rock. Am I right?’

  ‘You certainly are. It’s sandstone and it’s a bugger. The holes either collapse when you’re digging them or you have to use a pickaxe to get through the rock. It means we have to use a lot more concrete than usual.’

  ‘So there’s no clay then?’

  ‘If only. You can see what we’ve dug out there.’ He pointed to a pile of spoil. Russell stood up and walked over to examine the heap. It consisted of lumps of soft rock and loose sand. ‘See?’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. Sorry to have bothered you.’ They were just making to leave when Russell suddenly stopped and spoke again. ‘Do you know of any other sites round here where they’re digging in clay?’

  George thought for a moment. He reached up with his hand and scratched the back of his head, pushing his cap up at the same time. ‘I can’t think of any. The soil is pretty much the same from here to Collinghurst. You could try up at Kilnhurst. There’s quite a bit of building been going on there but I think they’ve almost finished.’ Russell thanked the man who grunted an acknowledgment and made his way back to the prefab, still scratching his head.

  -0-

  The site at Kilnhurst consisted of a street of solid-looking, two-storey, semi-detached houses. They appeared to be nearing completion and fresh Tarmac was being laid to provide a road for them. A tipper lorry had dumped a load of the black stuff and a group of men
with rakes and shovels were spreading it on a prepared base. A steam roller was trundling slowly along the new road, vapour rising from the hot Tarmac and a strong smell of tar filling the air. Weeks parked the car and as they got out he smiled, tilted his head back and breathed deeply. ‘You like that smell, lad?’ Russell asked, joining him.

  ‘Love it, Sir,’ he grinned.

  Russell shook his head and grinned back. ‘Takes all sorts.’ They made their way to the nearest house, which had curtains in the windows. The door stood open so they walked into the hall and entered the first room they came to. It was fully furnished, complete with wallpaper and pictures. There was even a trio of plaster ducks flying in formation up the wall. A plush sofa and two armchairs were arranged around the tiled fireplace. Surprisingly the floor was bare boards. Seated in one of the chairs was a man smoking a cigar. He wore a dark suit with a broad chalk-stripe, the jacket open but with the waistcoat buttons straining over his stomach. His thinning hair was swept back from his forehead and he had a small, neatly trimmed moustache, almost lost in his jowly face. As he rose to greet them he removed the cigar and beamed.

  He extended a pudgy hand towards Russell. The handshake was limp and warmly damp. ‘Hello, gentlemen. Have you come to buy one of our fine houses?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ Russell said, and explained who they were. The man’s smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

  ‘I’m sorry we haven’t come to buy one of your houses….’ Russell said, sweeping his arm in an arc to encompass the room, ‘….Lovely as they are. I just wanted to ask a question about the soil.’

  For a moment the man looked baffled, then smiled. ‘Oh, for the flower beds. We’re going to bring in some quality topsoil…’Russell held up his hand.

  ‘No, I’m sorry. You misunderstand Mr…?’

  ‘Soffit.’

  ‘Mr Soffit. We’re police officers. We need to know what the soil is that the houses are built on. Is there any clay?’

  ‘No there bloody isn’t. It’s all sand and rock, that’s why we’re having to pay a fortune to bring in decent soil.’ He looked dejected. ‘These blasted houses have cost far more than I’d budgeted. Nobody’ll want to buy them at the price I’ll have to ask…’ Russell almost felt sorry for him….Almost.

  ‘They were just about to leave when Soffit said: ‘I thought you’d come about the break-in.’

  ‘Break in?’ Russell echoed.

  ‘Yes, someone broke in here a few days ago and stole a roll of carpet. We hadn’t even had time to lay it, that’s why we’ve got bare boards.’

  Russell looked interested. ‘Why didn’t you report it?’

  ‘Didn’t think it was worth it; the house was unlocked and that’s all they took. Oh, that and some underlay.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any of it left?’ the DI asked.

  ‘I think there’s a bit under the stairs. Why?’

  ‘It could be linked to an investigation we’re carrying out. Can we see it?’

  Soffit opened the understairs cupboard and pulled out a roll of grey felted underlay. Weeks and Russell exchanged a glance. It was the same as the material the body had been wrapped in.

  ‘Could I take a piece?’

  ‘Help yourself. We’ll have to get a new roll anyway.’ The man walked away and sat back in his chair and clamped the now extinguished cigar between his little pointed teeth, a picture of dejection. Weeks tugged a small corner off the roll and put it in his pocket.

  -0-

  ‘At least we know where the carpet came from.’ Weeks turned to his superior. He was slumped in the passenger seat of the Wolseley, a look of frustration on his face. ‘What’s the matter, Sir?’

  Russell took a deep breath then exhaled noisily through his pursed lips. ‘It still doesn’t get us any farther with clay and I’m sure that’s important in solving this case. How many more building sites are there on the route?’

  ‘Two, Sir.’

  ‘Doesn’t seem much point though, does there lad?’

  ‘I guess not, Sir.’

  ‘Amazing, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Who’s that, Sir?’

  ‘Our “friend” Mr Soffit. Fancy building houses so well that he can’t sell them. Much better to put up those cheaper prefabs instead of building with brick.’ The DI had slumped even lower into his seat as he spoke. He pulled back his cuff and looked at his wristwatch. ‘Time’s getting on. Better head back to the station.’

  Weeks switched on the ignition and pressed the starter button. The engine coughed into life. He depressed the clutch and put the car in gear. He was just about to pull away when Russell suddenly sat up. ‘Bricks!’ he said. Weeks put the gearstick back in neutral.

  ‘Bricks?’

  ‘Yes, bricks. Where did he get them from, lad?

  ‘A brickworks, I presume, Sir,’ the DC said flatly.

  ‘Exactly!’ he exclaimed. Weeks looked perplexed. ‘And what are bricks made from lad?’

  ‘Clay?’ Weeks said hesitantly. Then more forcefully, ‘Clay! From clay, Sir!’ He looked jubilant.

  ‘So where is the nearest brickworks?’

  Now Weeks slumped back into his seat. ‘I don’t know, Sir.’ He looked deflated. ‘Can’t think of any brickworks around here.’

  ‘Well, let’s go and ask the man.’

  -0-

  ‘Oh, it’s you again. What do you want now?’ Soffit didn’t even bother to get out of his chair this time. Russell ignored his rudeness and knowing the developer probably wouldn’t have the answer, asked for the site manager. ‘Harris? He’ll be down there somewhere.’ He waved vaguely in the direction of the other houses. ‘Can’t miss him - little bloke wearing a brown overall and a trilby.’

  Nodding his thanks, Russell left the house and he and Weeks picked their way round the piles of rubble, carefully avoiding the freshly laid Tarmac. Harris was at the end of the road, holding a clipboard and talking to a workman. As they drew near the man nodded then walked into the nearest house and the site manager turned to face them. ‘Can I help you, gentlemen?’ His voice was high pitched and nasal.

  ‘I’m DI Russell and this is DC Weeks.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can you tell me where your bricks come from?’

  ‘What a strange question.’ The man frowned. ‘Oh, well, if you must know…’ he appeared reluctant to help, ‘They come from The London Brick Company in Bedford.’ He paused, puzzled. ‘You don’t look very pleased.’

  ‘Sorry,’ a dejected Russell said, ‘I was rather hoping you’d tell me they came from closer to hand.’

  ‘No.’ The man’s voice became even more nasal. ‘There’s nowhere round here anymore. Used to be a brickworks up the road towards Collinghurst but that’s long gone. The clay was worked out and it closed before the war.’

  ‘What’s happened to the site?’ Weeks asked.

  ‘Nothing as far as I know. I expect it’ll be developed at some time; it was quite big, even had its own railway siding.’ Then, suspicion creeping into his voice: ‘Why do you want to know?’ Harris realised that he had been more helpful than he’d intended.

  ‘Oh, just a case we’re working on. Can you tell us how to get there?’

  -0-

  Weeks pulled the Wolseley off the road and bumped down a rutted track. After 200 yards he stopped the car in front of a pair of tall, iron-framed gates, covered in battered, chain-link fencing. A high rusty fence continued for some distance in both directions, weeds growing waist deep along the bottom. They climbed out of the car and walked up to the gates. Beyond was a group of low industrial buildings surrounded by more undergrowth. The gates appeared to be chained and locked. Russell took hold of the padlock and gave it a vigorous shake. He was surprised when the chain flew apart in his hands. ‘That’s a stroke of luck, Weeks.’

  ‘Or someone’s been here already?’

  ‘I think that goes without saying.’ They pushed one gate open, the bottom scraping on the ground, and squeezed throug
h the gap.

  ‘Hang on a minute.’ Russell grabbed Weeks’ arm and stopped his progress. ‘Look down there.’ He pointed to the ground a few feet in front of them. ‘They’re the same tracks we found at Compass Point.’ The marks the tyres had left led downhill towards the first building. They walked carefully along the side of the track until they reached it.

  The building was single storey with low brick walls and a long, shallow, pitched, tiled roof. Many of the tiles had slipped or were missing, the north-facing slope covered in moss. They walked up to a weathered wooden door, being careful not to scuff any possible foot prints. The door was not locked, but creaked eerily when Russell pushed it open. They sidled into the building, shafts of light from the holes in the roof spotlighting broken wooden benches and derelict machinery, strangely lit as if part of a giant stage set. ‘Look!’ said Weeks, pointing. There was a roll of grey carpet underlay leaning against the nearest bench.

  ‘Bingo!’ the DI said. ‘We’d better get the fingerprint boys here before we disturb anything. Go back to the car, ring the station and get them to send the team over. I’ll stay here and have a look around.’

  ‘Right-ho, Sir.’ Weeks carefully retraced his steps.

  Russell stood still for some time, slowly observing and taking in his surroundings. He whistled a snatch from Love Letters in the Sand. Then he crouched and examined the floor where he detected footprints in the dust. He was pretty sure he could make out a very small pair, one smooth and the other with a defined sole and heel. Also, he was pleased to see lumps of buff-coloured clay dotted about, some softened by the rain that must have come through the rents in the roof.

  The fingerprint team arrived at the entrance to the brickworks in their green Morris J-type van. After photographing the tyre marks along the track they opened the gates fully and drove down to the buildings. Flash photographs were taken, surfaces dusted for fingerprints and plaster casts of footprints made. They looked round the other buildings in the complex but these were untouched, the dust of a dozen years remaining undisturbed.