Blood on the Tide

by Chris O'Donoghue

  Pushing through the undergrowth behind the kiln Ludwig felt his way into the room that had been concealed. He reached out blindly and found the edge of the table and, to his relief, his hand closed round a matchbox. A shake of the box revealed it still contained matches. He took one out and struck it - the resultant flare showed the room in a state of chaos. He guessed the police had been through it and removed everything of interest but, amazingly, he saw that a pile of crumpled clothes had been left in the corner. Just before the match burnt his fingers he spied a stub of candle which he lit with a second match. As the flame spread up the wick it cast a friendly light into the room. Quickly, he shrugged off his still-wet clothes and gratefully pulled on a dry set, not bothered by their grubby state. Once dressed, he found an unopened tin of sardines and, peeling back the lid with the key, greedily ate them with his fingers. The food temporarily satisfied his hunger and the dry clothes comforted his skin. He stood and considered his predicament – and his options.

  Saturday

  Citroën DS – a front-engine, front-wheel-drive executive car with aerodynamic and futuristic styling and innovative technology, designed by Flaminio Bertoni and Andre Lefebre and launched in 1955.

  EARLY THE following morning Russell pulled shirts, underwear and pyjamas out of the opened drawers in his compact bedroom. It had been formed from one of the compartments of the Victorian carriage and there was just enough room for his bed, a slim wardrobe and a small chest of drawers. An overnight case lay open on the bed and he put the clothes in along with his shaving kit, hairbrush and Brylcreem. Weeks had dropped by first thing to pick up Aggie and to bring his boss up to date with the investigation.

  ‘Amazingly,’ the DC said, a grin spreading across his boyish face, ‘Stout has put me back on the case. I think he realised that it would be quicker for me to brief the new chaps than for them to work it out for themselves.’

  ‘Who are the “new chaps”?’ Russell asked.

  ‘Believe it or not, he’s put Parker and Barrow on it.’

  ‘What?’ Russell looked incredulous. ‘Bonnie and Clyde? Those two old timers? Blimey, they should have been pensioned off years ago.’ His eyebrows were raised to his hairline and his large jaw hung open.

  ‘He feels the case’ll be in safe hands,’ Weeks said, in an attempt to placate the DI.

  ‘Oh for goodness sake! If they were only a fraction as dynamic as their namesakes, I could understand it but those two…’ he shook his head sadly, ‘…They give real meaning to the word plod.’ Weeks looked down and remained silent. ‘So what have they come up with so far?’ Russell demanded.

  ‘Well,’ Weeks began, ‘they’ve ordered a watch on all ports in the county in case Ludwig tries to skip the country.’

  Russell exhaled noisily. ‘That’s no bloody good. If he does try to get away, it’ll be at dead of night on a deserted beach, not on some ferry to the continent. What else have the dynamic duo done?’

  ‘Oh, they’re organising a thorough search of the derelict warehouses.’

  ‘Well that’s a waste of time. The German will be long gone.’ Russell furrowed his brow and thought for a moment. ‘I’ll tell you what I’d do if I was him...’

  ‘Weeks looked up. ‘What, Sir?’

  ‘I’d get as far away from the coast as possible for the time being - until the hoo-ha dies down at least.’ He paused. ‘Do you know what I think he might have done?’ Weeks cocked an eyebrow. ‘Did that little hidey-hole at the brickworks get cleared out?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Just the important things: the paperwork and so on, the things we found in the bag.’

  ‘So all the stuff the brothers left behind is still there.’

  ‘Yes,’ the DC said slowly. ‘I guess it is. No one’s got round to clearing it out thoroughly.’

  ‘That’s where you’ll find him then.’ Russell clapped his hands together. ‘You’d better tell them to look there. Subtly of course. Make them think it’s their idea. Now let me finish packing, then you can drop me at the station on your way back to break the news to them - gently. I assume they’ll be at work today?’

  ‘Oh yes. The Super has cancelled all leave for the foreseeable future and rubber stamped overtime for anyone who wants it. At least until the case is solved.’

  A little while later Weeks stopped the car outside the railway station in Collinghurst and Russell climbed out, carrying his case. ‘Now you stay there and be a good girl for Johnny,’ he said to Aggie - she was sitting on the back seat and looking intently at her master. The DC beamed. It wasn’t often that his boss used his Christian name.

  ‘She’ll be fine with me, Sir. We’ll have fun together.’ He turned and ruffled the dog’s soft ears. ‘And I’ll make sure to keep you up to date with what’s happening.’

  ‘Thanks, lad. I’ll let you know as soon as I’m back.’ He turned and went through the entrance to the station. With a toot on the horn, Weeks drove off.

  -0-

  DI Parker and DC Barrow had taken up temporary residence in Russell’s office. Parker had a lugubrious face, a drooping pepper-and-salt moustache, tinged with nicotine yellow, and bloodhound eyes. His dark suit was crumpled and the front was pock-marked with white flecks of cigarette ash. He sat back in Russell’s chair with his feet on the desk, his scuffed brown brogues crossed one over the other. His constable, sitting on the opposite side of the desk, was quite different in appearance: he had a narrow, weasel face, clean shaven but with red spots where the razor had nicked his skin. His suit was double-breasted, grey and shiny and, despite his slight build, was stretched tight across his meagre frame. It might have looked elegant if it wasn’t a couple of sizes too small.

  Much mirth had been caused by the fact that the two men’s surnames were the same as the notorious American outlaws and robbers, Bonnie and Clyde, especially as their namesakes had achieved some sort of glamour, despite their crimes, whereas the two policemen were the total opposite, uninspired and unexciting. They had been sitting in silence for some time when there was a knock at the door. ‘Come,’ Parker barked importantly. The door opened and Weeks stepped into the room. In comparison to the other two officers he was normally full of life and enthusiasm but, warned by Russell, now he was deferential and quiet. ‘Well?’ the DI asked. ‘Any news?’

  Weeks kept his gaze lowered, his hands clasped in front of him. ‘Not as such, Sir. But I’ve been thinking about Ludwig.’

  Barrow turned to look at the other constable, not bothering to hide the contempt he felt for him. ‘Us too,’ he sneered. His voice was a nasal whine, affected with a slight lisp.

  ‘And?’ Parker demanded.

  ‘Umm,’ Weeks stammered. ‘Just a thought, but I wondered if he might try to get some dry clothes – or food.’

  ‘And who do you think is going to give him those things?’ Parker sniffed, reached into his pocket and brought out a battered pack of Capstan Full Strength. Weeks waited while he tapped out a cigarette, placed it beneath his drooping moustache and lit the end with a Swan Vesta. The DI took a deep drag, blew smoke out of his nostrils and coughed noisily.

  ‘I don’t think anyone is going to give them to him but I wondered if he might have left some somewhere…’ Weeks let his voice trail off. There was silence for a while then Barrow turned his back on him and spoke to his boss. You don’t s’pose he’ll have gone back to the brickworks, do you, Sir?’ he whined.

  Parker frowned, the cigarette gripped between his thumb and forefinger. Then he swung his feet off the desk and leant forward. ‘D’you know, you might have something there, constable.’ And turning to Weeks: ‘Why didn’t you think of that?’ Weeks just shrugged, smiling inwardly. The DI took another long drag on his cigarette, coughed again then rose. ‘Come on Barrow. Let’s see if we can catch him red handed.’ As he moved from behind the desk he looked at Weeks and said: ‘Hmm, I suppose you’d better come too. And you can drive.’

  The three of them walked out of the police station and piled into the Wolseley
that was standing outside. Weeks got into the driving seat with Parker next to him. Barrow was just getting into the back set when he let out a yelp: ‘What the…?!’

  The DI looked round to see Aggie staring innocently back at him. ‘That’s Russell’s bloody mutt, isn’t it?’ he spat. ‘What the hell are you doing with it?’

  ‘Sorry, Sir, I’m looking after it for DI Russell. He’s gone away for a few days and I haven’t had time to drop the dog at home.’

  ‘Well just make sure it doesn’t get in the way.’ Barrow sat as far away from the terrier as he could.

  It didn’t take much time to get to the turning off the main road and along the track to the brickworks. They bumped down the rutted path, Parker cursing as he was jolted about, until they drew up in front of the gates. Weeks, leaving the engine running, climbed out and walked up to the gates. He saw the chain hanging loose and turned and called back: ‘The padlock’s been broken, Sir.’

  ‘For God’s sake, open the gates and let’s get down there. We need to catch the bugger.’ Weeks pushed the gates wide, jogged back to the car, climbed in and, shutting the door, drove down to the buildings.

  -0-

  Ludwig was curled up fast asleep on one of the straw mattresses in the little room, his expression serene and his breathing steady, when his acute hearing picked up the rattle of the gates and he immediately snapped into wakefulness. Rising swiftly, he grabbed the bag he had prepared the night before, swung the door open, left the room and pushed his way through the undergrowth. Moving more quickly than a man only just awake had any right to, he made his way along the length of the warehouse behind the kiln and disappeared into the scrubby trees beyond, just as the Wolseley skidded to a halt in front of his hideout. Barrow was the first out of the car, the little terrier hot on his heels. He pushed through the bushes but after a few seconds he came dashing out again. ‘He’s gone!’ he yelled, his voice well into the upper register.

  Parker was just emerging from the car, looking even more crumpled. ‘What?’

  ‘Legged it, Sir. No sign of him.’

  ‘Let me see!’ the DI snapped, pushing past his constable, almost tripping over Aggie as she came bounding through the undergrowth. He stumbled and just stopped himself from falling. ‘Bloody dog!’ he said, aiming a kick at the terrier, who easily side-stepped, avoiding his foot. ‘Grrr!’ Parker mumbled, and disappeared into the hideout. Weeks was close behind, eager to see inside. ‘Well he’s been here,’ Parker said. He reached down and put the palm of his hand flat on the straw-filled sack. ‘Warm. He can’t have left long ago.’ He turned, almost colliding with Weeks, who moved quickly to one side but still received a scowl from the other man. They had emerged into the weak sunlight before Parker spoke again. ‘Come on, spread out - let’s catch the bugger.’

  -0-

  Ludwig crouched motionless behind a multi-stemmed elder tree, the ragged canopy and his drab clothes rendering him virtually invisible. He watched as the dishevelled figure of Parker came blundering along the side of the building towards him. The German readied himself to leap into action but before the policeman was within 20 feet of the hiding place, he veered to the side and followed the rear wall of the warehouse. Lumbering round the back, he turned the farther corner and disappeared out of sight. Ludwig took his chance and broke cover. Crouching low and keeping close to the wall, he headed back towards the front of the complex. Peering cautiously round the kiln, he could see no sign of the other policemen.

  The Wolseley stood, doors wide open, and when he approached the driver’s side he noticed the key, still in the ignition. He instantly threw his bag into the car, swung his bulk into the driver’s seat and started the engine which immediately roared into life. Slamming the door, he put the car into reverse, swung the wheel hard over and, with showers of gravel and dirt thrown up by the spinning tyres, turned the vehicle to face the way it had come. He banged the gear into forward, dropped the clutch and rammed his foot hard on to the accelerator. The car shot forward, the force causing the two nearside doors to slam shut, and bumped, at speed, towards the entrance, a great plume of dust rising from the rough track. Weeks and Barrow came running out from the far side of the buildings, shouting, but it was too late, the German had got away. They were soon joined by a panting Parker. He bent forward, his hands resting on his thighs, just above the knee, struggling for breath. After a few moments, when he could breathe again, he let out a long stream of invective, initially directed towards the disappearing German but latterly towards Weeks. ‘Why the hell did you let him get away?!’ How the bloody hell did he start the car so easily?!’ He paused and stood upright. His face darkened and he said slowly: ‘Nooo…’ The word came out as a low growl. ‘You left the keys in the ignition – didn’t you?’

  Weeks had never looked more crestfallen. ‘Well,’ he began quietly, ‘we got out in such a hurry…’ The DI’s eyes began to bulge and, if he’d been a cartoon character, steam would have issued from his ears and nostrils. As it was, he looked fit to explode. ‘Sorry, Sir.’ the DC said miserably.

  A low groan, starting from deep in Parker’s stomach, worked its way up to his throat and came out as: ‘SORRY? I’ll give you bloody SORRY!’ Now get up to the road and flag down a car, any car. We need to get back to the station, pronto. And hurry, I’m right behind you!’ Weeks turned on his heel and fled up the track, almost disappearing into the cloud of dust thrown up by the Wolseley.

  -0-

  Russell’s train journey to Dover was uneventful. He was able to sit in a seat by the window and watch the Kent countryside slide by. Hop gardens, the bines twining ever upwards, were interspersed with apple orchards, the blossom fading as fruit buds formed. Distinctive oast houses, their conical kilns topped with sparkling white wooden cowls, and peg-tiled farmhouses nestled in the soft folds of the gentle landscape. ‘Perfect composition for a Rowland Hilder watercolour,’ he thought.

  The carriage Russell sat in was old and worn, the velour fabric on the seats threadbare and faded. It beat out a regular rhythm as it rattled over the joins in the rails, swaying drunkenly on uneven stretches of track. There had been talk of extending the electrification across the Southern network of railways but, for now, the trains were still steam hauled, witnessed by the smut-specked glass and the curls of smoke drifting lazily past the window. Although relaxed the DI felt a little apprehensive about the journey he was undertaking even though his friend, Bruissement, had assured him he had made all the arrangements and it would run smoothly. Part way through the journey he got up to go to the lavatory. When he returned through the swaying carriage he noticed a newspaper that someone had left behind. As he still had a while before his arrival he picked it up. It was one of the more sensational tabloids but he took it with him so he could have a flick through its pages when he got back to his seat. The paper had been folded over across the back page but when he opened it out the banner headline gave him a shock.

  MURDER VICTIM NUMBER THREE

  The story went on to outline what the reporter had managed to glean - which wasn’t a lot - but it didn’t paint the police in a very good light. At least his dismissal wasn’t mentioned. He shrugged and sighed, glad to be getting away from it all - for a while at least.

  By mid-morning he was boarding the ferry to France. Unlike the Cote d’Azur, he had travelled on a few days before, it was a much older and battle- weary vessel. It had obviously been used as a troop ship during the war, judging by its battered and dog-eared appearance, and Russell was glad when the French coast came into sight. Standing by the rail as the ship slowly nosed into its berth, he easily identified the smiling face of his friend, standing behind the barrier on the quayside. He waved and received a cheery acknowledgement. ‘Welcome back to France.’ Bruissement’s voice came drifting over the closing gap between ship and shore. Russell made his way down the gangplank with the other disembarking passengers. As he neared the quay the Frenchman pushed his way past the barrier and, striding towards him, opened his arms a
nd clasped him to his ample frame in a warm Gallic embrace. Russell, taken by surprise, responded with typical English reserve but was secretly pleased with the reception. ‘It’s good to see you, Sonny,’ Bruissement beamed. ‘Come with me, I have a surprise for you.’ Grasping his friend’s elbow he led him through the customs hall, waved on by the uniformed officials. When they exited on to the street he threw his arm wide and nodded towards a shiny new car standing at the kerb. ‘Voila! What do you think?’

  Russell stood transfixed. The car was like nothing he’d seen before. It sat low, its lines more reminiscent of a futuristic space craft than a humble motor car. He couldn’t help showing his enthusiasm. ‘Wow! Is it a Citroën?’

  ‘Mais oui. It is the new DS, just launched. I ’ave this one on trial for a day or two. Come on, I’m taking you for a spin.’ He held the passenger door open, while taking Russell’s case and ushering him into the car. After shutting the door Bruissement walked round to the other side and settled into the driver’s seat. He turned the key in the ignition and the engine purred into life. Russell, settling back into the soft leather upholstery, was mildly surprised when the whole car started rising.

  ‘What?’ he exclaimed.

  Bruissement chuckled. ‘It ’as hydraulic self-levelling suspension. You wait. It is like riding on a magic carpet!’ He pushed the column-mounted gear lever forward and the car moved smoothly away, travelling over the cobbled street as though it was smooth Tarmac.

  Russell was bemused. ‘Where are we going? I thought I had a train to catch?’ The Frenchman let out a laugh that started somewhere deep inside him and came out as a throaty roar. ‘Gauloises,’ Russell thought, but didn’t say anything.

  Through the laughter Bruissement said: ‘Don’t worry, you ’ave plenty of time. Just sit back and enjoy the ride.’