-0-
Further along the coast, at Nottery Quay, Ted Stump and Nipper Crabbe were deep in conversation. Sitting close to the inglenook fireplace in the bar of the Seahorse Inn, they knew they would be out of earshot of the handful of locals propping up the bar.
‘So, you reckon this mate of your’n will be able to fence the goods?’ Stump’s nut-brown forehead was creased with anxiety.
‘I said so, didn’t I? An’ ’is name is Duncan Fountain,’ Crabbe said sharply.
‘All right, all right, I only asked.’
‘’E said ’e’d give us a good price.’
‘’Ow much?’
‘For Christ’s sake! You wanner know everything!’ Crabbe’s fuse was very short, when lit.
Stump tapped him lightly on the arm. ‘Calm down, Nipper. I only wondered. Not much to ask, is it?’
‘I s’pose not,’ Crabbe answered grudgingly, his anger subsiding as quickly as it had risen. ‘All ’e said was that the pieces might be difficult to place but ’e’d make sure we wasn’t out of pocket.’
‘D’you think those sacks we put the swag in will be safe in the net shop?’
‘Bloody ’ell. You’re bein’ a right old woman tonight!’
‘An’ you’re bein’ a right ol’ crab tonight!’ Stump bang down his tankard, beer cascading out of the top and flooding the scrubbed table top.
Crabbe gave a bashful grin. ‘S’pose you’re right. ‘Got a lot on me mind.’
‘You’re worried about Fountain, ain’t yer?’
‘I s’pose I am – a bit.’
‘Don’t you trust ’im?’
‘I do,’ he said slowly. ‘But I ’ardly know ’im.’
‘Bit of a poncey name, ain’t it?’
The street door opened and Crabbe looked round. ‘Shh!’ he hissed. ‘That’s ’im.’
The man who entered was nothing like his poncey name. His corduroy trousers were faded and threadbare; his tweed jacket was of indeterminate colour, even the leather elbow patches had holes in them. Although he was a small, slim man his head was large with a bulging forehead and a lantern jaw. He sported an overlarge pair of spectacles that magnified his eyes. He swivelled his head, scanning the room and spotted the two fishermen. His wide grin matched the broad jaw. He made his way across to where they were sitting. ‘Same again?’ he asked, nodding towards the tankards.
‘That’s very kind,’ Crabbe said, graciously. Fountain turned and made his way to the bar. Crabbe lowered his voice and put his head close to Stump’s. ‘Listen, shipmate. Let me do the talking, okay?’
‘Of course. ’E’s your friend, after all.’
‘’E ain’t no friend o’ mine,’ Crabbe growled. Stump was just about to speak when the other man grabbed his wrist. ‘Quiet! ’E’s comin’ back.’
Fountain returned with three pints, the tankards wobbling on a battered tin tray. Carefully placing the tray on the table, he sat on a vacant chair. ‘Hello Nipper,’ he drawled, the voice deep and cultured. ‘Is this fine fellow your pal that you mentioned?’
‘Yes, that’s right. This is Ted.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Ted.’ He held out his hand which was soft and smooth. Stump grasped it in his much larger, calloused hand and the other man winced, but said nothing. Withdrawing it as soon as he could he said, ‘I’ve got some good news for you gentlemen.’
Crabbe cocked his head to one side and narrowed his eyes. ‘Oh yes?’
‘Yes. I found someone who will take some of the stuff off our hands.’
Crabbe looked round, checking that no one was eavesdropping on their conversation. ‘What sort of price is he going to give?’
‘It’s not a he, it’s a she…’
Stump sat up straight. ‘A woman? Can you trust her?’
Fountain laughed, a deep throaty chuckle. ‘Why shouldn’t I be able to? Just because she’s female…’
‘I s’pose so,’ Stump mumbled.
‘She is very trustworthy – I’ve used her before.’
‘What sort of price is she going to offer?’ Crabbe asked.
‘I can’t tell you that either, but I’m sure it will be fair.’
Stump took a drink from his tankard and spoke again. ‘You said some of the stuff. What ain’t she taking?’
Fountain held up his hand. Ah. She’ll take the jewellery and other small pieces but isn’t interested in the candlesticks and other large items.’
‘So what do we do with those?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve a couple of other contacts, and if it comes to it, they can always be melted down. Gold is fetching a good price at present.’ He drank some ale and after he had put the tankard down, pulled a large Paisley patterned handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and dabbed his lips. ‘Whatever I do, you won’t be out of pocket.’
‘We’ve got to trust you, Duncan. We can’t get rid of the stuff on our own.’
‘Quite. And you can trust me, never fear.’
‘ ’Ow long’s it gonna take?’ Stump asked.
‘That I cannot say.’
‘Roughly?’ Crabbe added.
‘Assuming it all goes smoothly, I should think a couple of weeks.’
‘As long as that?’ Crabbe snapped.
Fountain held up both hands. ‘Easy! I’m doing my best! The goods aren’t your usual items, as I’m sure you know, so it’s bound to take a while. And you want a good price, don’t you?’
Crabbe tutted. ‘I s’pose so.’
Yes, well, I thought I’d let you know the state of play. Shall we meet here again in, say, a week’s time?’
-0-
‘Look Duncan, it may be tricky to place these pieces of jewellery. From what you say they’re not your average rings and necklaces and they definitely have a continental feel about them. I doubt they’ll have British hallmarks, if this one is anything to go by.’
Fountain was sitting in a little teashop in Seahorse Passage with Isobel Bailey. It wasn’t far in distance from the inn where he had met the two fishermen a few days before, but a million miles away in style and atmosphere. They were drinking Earl Grey tea from delicate bone china cups, A three-tiered cake stand holding crustless sandwiches and iced fancies stood on the cloth-covered table. Isobel looked every inch the country lady. She was wearing a well-cut tweed suit and a cream silk blouse; a double row of real pearls hung round her neck. Her flame-red hair was stylishly coiffed; her make-up subtle. She was turning a little gold and diamond brooch over in her hands, the tea and cakes forgotten for the moment.
‘It’s certainly an exquisite little piece. Are the rest of this quality?’
‘I would say so, yes,’ Fountain answered.
‘And you have no knowledge of where they came from?’
‘No, I don’t, although I do have my suspicions.’
‘…And they are?’ She looked at him quizzically, her startling green eyes penetrating.
‘As you said, they have a continental feel about them so I’m wondering if they were acquired illegally.’
‘Really?’
‘The two men, Stump and Crabbe, have been particularly cagey about how they came to be in possession of the goods.’
‘Not surprising, really.’
‘Quite. But even if they did, and the provenance was shown to be dubious, would you still be interested?’
Isobel gave a very unladylike throaty chuckle and took a sip from her cup. ‘You know me, Duncan. I do like a challenge.’
He smiled back at her. ‘I rather hoped you would say that.’
‘When can I see the rest?’
‘You’d better come round to the warehouse. Tomorrow evening okay?
‘I look forward to it.’
‘Excellent. Now, let’s see if these cakes taste as good as they appear to.’
Chapter 3
Alfred Cortot, a Franco-Swiss pianist and conductor, was one of the most renowned classical musicians of the 20th century. He was admired for his poetic insight into Romantic piano works, es
pecially Chopin, Saint-Saens and Schumann.
Weeks was sitting in Russell’s living room. It was actually a compartment of his converted Victorian railway carriage home. A couple of old but comfy armchairs and a friendly looking coal stove pumping out heat made it cosy. Russell was in the adjoining kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil so he could make tea to go with the fruit cake that Weeks had brought. ‘So you’ve been over to Compass Point today?’ Russell called out.
‘Yes,’ Weeks replied. ‘I got the cake from Jack Spratt’s wife, Joan. You know, she runs the fresh fish stall.’
‘I knew that but didn’t realise she baked as well.’
Weeks chuckled. ‘A woman of many talents, and she puts up with Jack!’
Russell came in carrying a tray which he put down on the small table. ‘Too true. Anyway, I’m looking forward to sampling her wares. I presume there’s no fish in it?’
‘Sir?’
Russell grinned. ‘Just pulling your leg, lad.’ He poured the tea into two mugs and topped them up with milk.
Weeks added two spoonfuls of sugar and stirred his tea. ‘But it wasn’t just cake that I picked up…’
‘Really? Tell me more.’
‘I was just about to set off when I saw Jack, sitting on the bench at the side of his shed. I wandered over to say hello and was surprised to find he was in an unusually chatty mood.’
Russell cut two slices of fruit cake and put them on the plates he had brought from the kitchen. ‘You obviously found something out - judging by the smirk on your face.’ He took a bite of cake. ‘Mmm, this is good. Go on.’
‘As I said, he was very talkative. Made a great joke of your showdown with Wolfgang Müller and Paddy Dickens…’
‘…When we managed to overpower them and capture Moonshine.’ Russell paused. ‘Of course, you weren’t around...’
‘No, I was locked in a cellar…’
‘…And had lost your memory.’
Weeks gave a wry grin. ‘Luckily I was rescued by Bonnie and Clyde.’
‘Detective Inspector Parker and Detective Constable Barrow to you.’
‘Yes, sir. Amazingly they actually did a good job in catching the train robbers too.’
‘That surprised me too - they’re not known for their success rate.’
‘A brace of bumbling bobbies.’
Russell wagged his finger. ‘Now, now. That’s enough. Tell me what you found out from Spratt.’
Weeks swallowed a piece of cake and took a breath. ‘Well…as I said, he was keen to fill me in on your exploits, but he told me something which may, or may not, be of interest.’
Russell took a drink from his mug. ‘Do tell.’
‘As you know, after you’d taken Müller and Dickens back to the Point, the lads from the boatyard went to get Moonshine.’
‘That’s right. I couldn’t go as I had to return to the station.’
‘And they took it to the wharf at Nottery Quay, where the harbourmaster impounded it.’
‘Clive Bagwall.’
‘That’s him. Well, according to Jack, it remained tied up there until a couple of nights ago.’
‘But it still is, surely?’
‘It’s back there now. But… he claims it went missing.’
‘How does he know?’
‘Apparently he was having a drink with an old mate in a pub on the quay. He’d gone over on his combination – motorbike and sidecar – and at chucking-out time he left the pub to go home. He noticed two figures on the deck of Moonshine. At first he assumed it was Bagwall and a colleague although he thought it strange that they’d be on board so late.’
‘Did he challenge them?’
‘He said “Not likely!”. With his suspicions raised he decided to keep his distance. Anyway, whoever was on board started the engine, cast off the mooring lines and headed quietly down the river.’
‘Did he tell Bagwall?’
‘No. After they’d gone, he assumed he’d been mistaken and it was just being moved to another berth. But, he said, he was at Nottery Quay yesterday and it was back there, moored in the same spot.’
‘Curious. Did he speak to the harbourmaster then?’
‘He was going to, but apparently Bagwall’s been on leave this week.’
‘I see.’ Russell drained his cup. ‘More tea, lad?’
‘Yes please.’ Weeks held his mug out. ‘I wonder if it might be a good idea to get Lewis and his team to have a look at the boat.’
‘Look for fingerprints and other clues you mean?’
‘You never know what they might find. If whoever took it thinks they hadn’t been spotted, they may have been careless.’
‘True - good idea, I’ll give him a call.’
-0-
After Weeks had gone home, Russell stoked up the stove and made himself another pot of tea. He was just settling down to carry on with Rogue Male when the telephone rang. With a sigh he got up from his armchair to answer it.
‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’ Superintendent Stout’s voice was so loud Russell had to hold the receiver away from his ear. He could image the dyspeptic rosy glow spreading across his boss’s cheeks and forehead.
Moving the receiver close again he said: ‘Sir?’
‘You’re supposed to be on leave! What are you doing ringing Lewis up and sending him on a wild goose chase?’
‘But…’
‘No buts! There have been a series of break-ins on expensive properties owned by influential people and he’s supposed to be working on those – exclusively. Then you tell him to go and look for clues on some boat…’
‘But it’s Moonshine, sir.’
‘I don’t care if it’s Moonshine or Sunshine or Fanny by Gaslight, you are NOT to ask Lewis to do anything for you, without my permission. And then only when you’re officially back at work. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Russell said quietly.
‘Now get on with your leave – relax, for God’s sake man.’
Russell put the phone down gently, feeling a little chastened.
When he had rung the forensics man, Lewis had been enthusiastic about giving the fishing boat a thorough going over and was happy to put down what he was doing and head straight to Nottery Quay. After Stout’s tirade Russell could assume only that Lewis had been hauled back before he’d had the chance to investigate the boat. He poured some tea and started settling down in his chair again. Stout had told him to relax so that’s what he supposed he should do. Then the phone rang again. Gingerly he picked it up, expecting another broadside from the Superintendent. Instead, he was pleasantly surprised to hear Lewis’s gentler tones. ‘Sonny. I think I’ve got some news for you.’
‘But I thought Stout had dragged you back?’
Lewis chuckled. ‘He hasn’t found me - yet. Officially, I’m on the way back to the station, but, between you and me, I’m still here, at Nottery Quay. I’ve just popped over to the telephone box to call you, but I’m returning to the boat. When I’ve done, I’ll drive over and tell you what I’ve found.’
‘You’re a champ,’ Russell said, smiling.
‘Not sure about that… Anyway, I’d better get back. See you later.’
-0-
It was getting dark; Russell had switched on the standard lamp and was settling down with his book again. Cortot’s rendition of the Chopin preludes was playing softly on the radiogram. He heard a car draw up outside his home; the engine was switched off. He rose from his chair, turned on the outside light and opened the door. Lewis was making his way down the stepping-stone path between the clumps of newly emerging Centranthus and Erigeron.
‘Hello Sonny!’
‘Come in. I’ll put the kettle on.’
Lewis had never visited Russell at home before. He stood in the living room, looking round. ‘This really is nice. Who’d have thought a redundant Victorian railway carriage could be so cosy?’
Glad you like it,’ Russell said, as he carried the tea things in. ‘By the s
mile on your face I take it that you’ve got good news. Here, have some of the cake that Weeks brought earlier.’
‘I think it’s good news. But I’ll let you be the judge of that.’ He settled in the armchair and took a bite of the cake he’d been given. He held out a large gold ring, set with an impressive ruby. ‘I found this on the boat and should have taken this straight back to the station, but I thought you might like to see it first.’ Russell whistled. ‘My! That’s impressive. Not the sort of thing your average fisherman wears.’
‘Just what I thought.’
‘Where did you find it?’
‘It had fallen down in a crack between the boards on the deck of Moonshine.’
‘You really think it is the Müller boat?’
‘No doubt about it. It might be painted black now but everything about it says Moonshine.’
‘Do you reckon this ring is significant?’
‘Until I get it back to the lab, I won’t know for sure, but my feeling is it has more than a little to do with the crate you found.’
‘Might be part of the missing German plunder?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Could we trace it?’
‘I think that’s where our friend, Greg Judd, might come into his own. I’m pretty certain that he’ll have records of the goods that the Nazis stole in Ludwigsburg.’
‘Could you contact him? I don’t think the Super would be very pleased if I did.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry, perhaps I shouldn’t have come here. You are on leave, after all.’
Russell grinned. ‘Don’t be daft. Even without such fascinating information I’m delighted that you’ve visited me. Have some more cake.’
Thanks. I will – it’s quite delicious.’ He paused while Russell put a slice on his plate. ‘There is something else.’
‘Oh yes?’ Russell was intrigued.
‘Yes. You remember that piece of greasy wood you found on the beach?’
‘The trow?’
‘That’s right.
‘I‘ve examined it closely.’
‘And.’
Blood on the Strand Page 4