Russell relaxed. ‘Fair enough, but where are we going?’
‘Ah. We are going to a little village called Wissant. There is a restaurant there that is a favourite of mine called Le Vivier. The speciality of the ’ouse is seafood.’ He held up his hand before Russell could speak. ‘Don’t worry mon ami, the chef knows you are coming and is making something very special for you.’
The car all but floated over the rough roads through the town and they were soon out in the countryside. They passed through Wimereux, which showed signs of rebuilding after operation Wellhit in WW2. Then the villages of Ambleteuse, Audresselles and Audinghen before arriving twenty minutes later in the village square of Wissant. To one side was the squat bulk of the 15th-century church of Saint Nicholas, next to it the WW1 memorial. Nearby was the half-timbered Hotel Normandy and on the other side of the road, a low stone building, with a tractor and substantial wooden fishing boat on a trailer standing outside. ‘That is a flobart, a fishing boat particular to this region,’ Bruissement explained, as he got out of the car. ‘The tractor takes the boat down to the beach and launches it into the sea. They catch some wonderful fish that are served fresh here in Le Vivier!’ Russell, getting out of the car to stand beside him, smiled. ‘Ah, I am sorry my friend, you don’t eat fish. I ’ope you don’t mind if I do?’
‘Of course not,’ Russell replied. ‘Just as long as I don’t have to.’ His eyes twinkled.
‘No, no. I said there would be something special for you.’ The Frenchman was as good as his word. Once seated at a table in the cosy restaurant Russell was presented with a plate of slim asparagus spears, topped with a perfectly poached egg. He was a little baffled by the scattering of dark crumbs on the dish. ‘A-ha!’ said the Frenchman. ‘That is the surprise. Do you know what it is?’ Russell shook his head. ‘Truffles!’ Bruissement announced triumphantly. ‘The patron was out early in the woods and brought them back, just for you. Taste,’ he said, gesturing with his knife.
Russell lifted a forkful of the egg and truffle to his mouth, chewed, then swallowed. ‘Mmm. Slightly earthy, a little like mushrooms,’ he said reflectively.
‘Exactement!’ Bruissement declared. ‘Bon appetit!’ The two men ate in companionable silence. Russell with his delicious truffles and asparagus and the Frenchman with a huge platter piled high with seafood, which he demolished manfully, the discarded shells piling up on his side-plate. They drank from the glasses of Sancerre that the waiter had poured, the bottle cooling in an ice bucket. When their plates were wiped clean with chunks of crusty bread, they were cleared away and replaced with heaped bowls of strawberries. The empty wine bottle and glasses were taken away and replaced with golden Beaumes de Venise. Russell, unused to drinking wine at lunchtime, was feeling quite light-headed. When they had finished, Bruissement clapped him on the shoulder and said: ‘Come on, mon ami, let us get some air. We will take a stroll to la plage.’
‘But what about the train?’ Russell asked, rising from his seat.
‘Ah, plenty of time. Come on.’ It took only a few minutes to walk the short distance from the square to the beach and soon they were looking out across the flat sand. ‘What do you think?’ the Frenchman asked.
Russell was astonished. ‘It looks just like the beach at Shell Bay!’
‘Well that is just over there,’ Bruissement said, pointing out to sea. ‘Maybe 40 kilometres. On a clear day you can see the coast of England. Today, it is a little misty, non?’ They stayed, for a few more minutes, taking in the view, then Bruissement said: ‘Okay, now we must go, or you may miss your train.’
A little later they were back in Boulogne. Bruissement was standing on the platform of the Boulogne-ville station, Russell, leaning out through the open carriage window. ‘Don’t forget to ring me when you arrive.’ A deep, throaty chuff-chuff came from the Chapelon Pacific locomotive at the head of the train and it began moving out of the station. Russell repeated his thanks for the splendid lunch and car trip, waved, then leant back into the carriage and closed the window.
-0-
Weeks stood by the roadside anxiously scanning both ways for any sign of traffic. DC Barrow was soon standing beside him, shortly joined by his wheezing boss. ‘Where the bloody hell are the cars?’ he demanded, between gasps for breath. They stood, a sorry group, for a few more minutes until the sound of an engine caused them to stare along the road. Then, of all things, a police car came into view, travelling at speed and slewing into the brickworks entrance, narrowly missing the three men. The nearside wing and bumper of the car were crumpled. The uniformed passenger wound down the window and leant out: before he could speak Parker gestured towards the damaged car and snarled, ‘What the bloody hell happened to you? Beaumont, isn’t it?’
The constable in the car was visibly shaken. ‘We were out on patrol and just coming round that nasty bend up the road when this madman in a Wolseley came tearing round on the wrong side. Joe, Constable Bruce that is, only just managed to swerve out of the way before we had a head-on. The blighter just caught our wing. We were about to turn round here and give chase.’
‘That’s our bloody car!’ Parker shouted, his face turning puce and his hands clenching into fists. He wrenched the car door open. ‘Out!’ he said, grabbing Beaumont by the sleeve and pulling hard. The constable tumbled from his seat, the DI slumped in and snapped: ‘Get in the back, quick!’ The PC and the two detectives piled into the rear of the car, Weeks grabbing the dog, then slamming the door shut as Bruce, driving, swung round in a tight arc, scattering stones and dust, and drove back up the road.
‘What do you mean, Sir, your car?’ Beaumont ventured timidly.
‘It’s that bloody German. The bugger stole it.’ Parker thought for a moment. ‘That’s why he was on the wrong side of the road. Forgot he was in England. He turned to Bruce: ‘Can’t you make this crate go any faster?’
‘I’ve got my foot flat on the floor, Sir, but there are five of us in here…’
The DI groaned. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, there’s always something.’ They had travelled a couple of miles and were just rounding a bend in an area of woodland when the constable slammed his foot on the brake and wrenched the steering wheel over. ‘What the..!’ The passengers were thrown to one side and Parker ended up almost on top of the driver. The car, its tyres screaming, slewed sideways and stopped, just short of the Wolseley, its bonnet buried in the front of an ex-army Bedford QL lorry.
The driver of the lorry was standing in the road, looking at the damage, his flat cap pushed back while he scratched the front of his head. On seeing the policeman clambering out of the car he said: ‘Bastard came out of nowhere, on my side of the road.’
The door of the Wolseley hung open, the car empty. Steam rose lazily from beneath the bonnet. Parker, marching up to the man, stood inches from his face and bellowed: ‘Where is he?’
The man, apparently suffering from shock, didn’t answer quickly enough and the DI held his arm and shook it. ‘Well? Well?’
The lorry driver then seemed to notice him and looking sideways and gesturing vaguely with his free arm said: ‘Ran off…into woods…that way.’
‘Wasn’t he hurt?’
‘Surprised he weren’t killed, the speed he hit the front of me truck.’ The man looked again at the damage. ‘What am I going to tell my guvnor?’ He held his hands up to the sides of his face. He looked a sorry sight, his shoulders hunched under a leather jerkin, his threadbare corduroys bagging round his heavy boots.
‘Never mind that. Which way exactly did he go?’
While this exchange was taking place Weeks had walked over to the edge of the woods. He turned and spoke. ‘This way I think, Sir. The undergrowth has been flattened.’
‘Well get after him…’ Parker spat. ‘…AND you three!’ he said, gesturing at the other policemen.
-0-
Ludwig ran panting through the trees, his left arm across his chest, cradling his other, bloodied, arm. He suspected it was broken, but for now, the
adrenaline of the chase was keeping the pain at bay. His drab clothes were torn and streaked with blood. He had a weeping wound where his head had connected with the windscreen on impact and blood was carving red runnels down his dirt-caked face. Regardless of his injuries he stumbled on, not knowing where he was going but determined to put distance between himself and any pursuit.
The woods were quite dense, with a canopy of mature deciduous trees which inclued oaks, chestnut and birch, dotted with tall pines. Underneath was a tangle of saplings, scrubby holly and elder complicated by snaking lengths of briar. The German stumbled and fell several times, his legs wrong-footed by the muddle of roots and brambles. Once he landed on his injured arm, which caused him to gasp in pain, although he managed to suppress an outright cry, fearful that his pursuers would hear him. Pushing himself to his knees, with his good arm, he took a few seconds to listen. A crashing of footsteps told him that they were hot on his trail, and not that far behind. Rising to his feet, he ran blindly on.
The policemen followed the trail of crushed undergrowth and bruised foliage, Weeks leading, Aggie at his heels, with Barrow and the constables close behind and a struggling Parker bringing up the rear, alternately puffing and shouting imprecations. Suddenly Weeks pointed ahead and shouted: ‘There he is!’
Following the line of the detective’s arm, Barrow seemed to gain second wind and surged forward, passing the other DC and gaining on their quarry. The German fell again, heavily this time, causing him to stay down for longer. Just as he got awkwardly to his knees, Barrow was upon him, crying: ‘Got you, you bastard!’ With an animal roar Ludwig tried to throw him off, but the pain in his arm had kicked in and weakened him and the DC was just able to keep him on the ground. In a few seconds he was joined by the other three policemen. Between them, they forced handcuffs round the man’s thick wrists and gradually his struggles ceased. Aggie danced round, barking excitedly until a wheezing Parker caught up and aimed a kick at the dog, who easily dodged out the way, but quietened.
-0-
Russell sat back in his seat, watching the flat landscape of northern France pass by the window. The arable farmland was dotted with poplars, with groups of willow indicating streams and ponds. He thought the railway here seemed in better condition than the one on which he had travelled to Dover. The seats felt more comfortable and the ride smoother. That was his perception, anyway, or perhaps it was because he was travelling in a different country and feeling just a little excited. Bruissement had chosen a fast train for his journey to Paris and, after a brief pause in Etaples, it passed swiftly through several small stations, only stopping when they reached Amiens.
Russell knew the whole area had been devastated during the First World War and heavily bombed again in 1944. While the train waited in the station he had time to examine the crisp white lines of the new station buildings, designed by Auguste Perret and, like much of the town, constructed in concrete. To his eye, this was as modern as the Citroën DS, his friend had so proudly shown him. The unforgiving utilitarian material should have been cold and hard but somehow the sweeping lines of the platform canopies were refined and elegant. Before long a blast on the engine’s whistle and a jerk of the couplings, announced they were on their way again.
In just over two hours after leaving Boulogne, the train was pulling into the Gare du Nord. As Russell alighted from the train, he couldn’t help but look upwards at the soaring roof. The station had been built in the mid-19th century in the Beaux-Arts style and its grandeur rivalled any of the London termini. Outside he found a cab and showed the driver a page in his notebook with the name of a hotel that his friend had given him. The driver nodded briefly and pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. Russell climbed into the back of the cab and after a few minutes it slowed to a stop and he was getting out on to the pavement outside Passage Jouffrey, just south of Montmartre. He leant into the car’s window but the driver spoke so quickly he was unable to understand how much he was asking for. Taking his notebook out he got him to write down the figure, which he did, with a grunt. Russell counted out the coins which the driver took with a nod, then set off for his next fare.
-0-
With the constables supporting him on either side, and Barrow and Weeks close behind, Ludwig stumbled back through the wood towards the road. DI Parker walked on ahead, a grin spreading across his face as he anticipated the praise he was sure would be heaped on him for capturing the elusive German. When they reached the road another police car had arrived at the accident and the lorry driver, still dazed, was being questioned by two constables. Parker strode between the policemen and spoke. ‘Right, I want this man taken back to the station…’ he gestured towards Ludwig, ‘and locked in a cell.’
Weeks, more concerned about the German’s broken arm than the wrath of the DI, spoke up: ‘Don’t you think he should go to hospital first, Sir?’
Parker turned and scowled. He grunted. ‘Hmm, I suppose so.’ Turning back to the constables he said: ‘Yes, the hospital then. And don’t let him out of your sight. Once he’s patched up, then throw him in the cell.’ He turned and got into the passenger seat of the damaged Wolseley, gesturing for the two detectives to get in the back. PC Bruce joined them, climbing into the driver’s seat but before he could drive off the DI held his hand and called to the other policeman: ‘Remember, once he’s fixed up, bring him back to the station. And don’t let him get away again!’
-0-
‘Well done! I wish I’d put you on the case from the beginning.’ Parker and Barrow sat facing Stout in his office. Each was holding a glass tumbler with a generous measure of the Superintendent’s Laphroaig single malt. Weeks stood quietly behind, barely tolerated and definitely not invited to the party. ‘Is he in the cells yet?’ Stout asked.
‘Within the next half hour, Sir,’ Parker said. ‘Turns out it was only a fracture - his arm wasn’t as badly broken as at first thought. We got a call from one of the constables a short time ago saying he’d been strapped up and they were discharging him.’
‘Good. When he gets here I want you to interview him straight away; don’t give him the chance to relax.’
Barrow coughed and looked a little embarrassed. ‘Um, I don’t think he speaks English.’
Stout put his hands to his head. ‘Oh for heaven’s sake! Is there nothing simple in this case?’
Then a voice came from the back of the room. ‘I believe that Lewis, the forensics man, speaks German, Sir.’
‘Weeks?’ the Superintendent said, furrowing his brow, ‘I thought you were off the case?’
‘Er no, Sir. You said I could help DI Parker and DC Barrow and I, er, seem to have become involved again.’
‘Are you all right with this Parker?’
The DI sighed. ‘I suppose so. As long as he doesn’t get in the way.’
‘Fair enough.’ And looking towards Weeks: ‘Just don’t cock up again.’ The DC nodded. Stout went on: ‘So what’s this about Lewis?’
‘Apparently he speaks fluent German. He spent some time in a prisoner of war camp where he picked it up.’
‘Right. Go and find him and tell him to be ready when the German arrives.’
‘Sir.’ Weeks turned and left the room. He closed the door behind him, leant against it and let out a long breath. Shaking his head he set off down the corridor in search of Lewis.
Sunday
Aerial tramway or cable car - a type of lift using one or two stationary ropes for support while a third moving rope provides propulsion.
THE HOTEL booked by Bruissement was very comfortable and Russell had slept surprisingly well. The previous evening, with nothing better to do, he had strolled around the streets of the 9th arrondissement, soaking up the Parisian atmosphere and finding his way to Montmartre. Although not a religious man, he could admire the beauty and grandeur of the Basilica of Sacré-Coeur. There was an English translation outside the church and he read that construction was started in the latter part of the 19th century in the wake of the Fran
co-Prussian war and it was built as a symbol of the struggles between the Catholic old guard and the secular republican ideals. Surprisingly it had not been consecrated until the end of the First World War. But what he found more interesting was that it was built of travertine stone quarried at Seine-et-Marne. The material exuded calcite when wet so, when it rained, the church was literally washed clean and thus remained sparkling white.
After an early breakfast he had time, before catching his train to Germany, to stock up on some provisions for the journey as he knew that in France non-meat eaters were virtually unknown, and probably frowned upon. A baguette, some cheese, apples and tomatoes as well as a couple of delicious smelling pastries would sustain him. It was a bright, sunny day, and, with the knowledge that he had several hours ahead seated in a railway carriage, he walked the mile or so to the Gare de l’Est. Once in the station he made his way to the ticket office and, using his pigeon French, negotiated the purchase of a ticket to Stuttgart. He was directed to the correct platform where the train was already waiting. He found a seat and settled down in anticipation of the journey.
-0-
In the Channel, out of sight of land, Wolfgang sat disconsolately on the helmsman’s seat in the wheelhouse, as Moonshine bobbed up and down on the oily surface of the sea. It was one of those days when it seemed that just below the rolling waves there was a giant monster in restless mood, tossing and turning, trying to get comfortable.
For as long as Wolfgang could remember, he had been in control of his and Ludwig’s lives but now he had no idea of his brother’s whereabouts or any clue as how to contact him. His last sight of him was a glimpse of him being pinned down on the jetty at Nottery Quay. Wolfgang was so intent on getting away from the police he had momentarily forgotten his brother’s plight. When he was a few hundred yards from the quay he had realised the jeopardy he had left him in and momentarily considered heading straight back. But the thought of them both being in police custody had stayed his hand and he pressed on out to sea. Better one brother free than both incarcerated. Now however, he felt lost. Ludwig had always been there. Wolfgang might have the brains, but without the physical strength of his brother he felt powerless. He had to do something… something positive. But what could he do? He needed to think clearly. He stepped out of the wheelhouse and on to the deck. Walking carefully forrard, holding on with one hand to steady himself against the bucking of the simmering sea, he made his way to the short mast on the foredeck. He gripped it tightly and he stared towards the distant horizon. The day was warm but a fresh breeze helped clear his mind.
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