Blood on the Strand

by Chris O'Donoghue

‘I found some identifying marks.’

  ‘Don’t keep me in suspense.’

  It was Lewis’s turn to chuckle. ‘Sorry, Sonny. There were some marks carved on the side - CP22.’

  ‘A Compass Point registered vessel!’ Russell said excitedly.

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you know where it’s based?’

  ‘I thought you’d ask that.’ Lewis paused and gave a cheeky grin.

  ‘Come on. You’ve found out, haven’t you?’

  ‘Indeed I have. It’s called Our Jake and is part of the Hastings fishing fleet.’

  ‘And have you’ve found out who owns it?’

  ‘You know I have.’ Lewis’s smile broadened. ‘It’s a fisherman called Frankie Drake - d’you know him?’

  Russell furrowed his brow. ‘The name doesn’t ring any bells.’

  ‘What about Sailor Tedham?’

  ‘Ah, now that does sound familiar.’ Russell paused for a moment. Then he clicked his fingers. ‘Of course! We pulled him a couple of years ago. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Apparently they’re as thick as thieves - do everything together.’

  ‘Thieving’s what Tedham’s known for. We caught him stealing a load of lead off a church roof. Wasn’t very good at it though. The ladder he used was so ropey he fell and broke his ankle – that’s how we got him.’

  ‘Did he go to prison?’

  ‘No. As he didn’t actually get away with anything the judge took pity on him - just gave him a fine.’ He paused. ‘But what would they be doing, on the beach in a howling gale, miles from where they keep their boat?

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Anyway. I think we should pay Messrs Drake and Tedham a little visit.’

  ‘But Sonny, you’re on leave.’

  ‘Blast! So I am - I keep forgetting.’

  ‘You could get Bonnie and Clyde to take a look.’

  ‘Oh no! They’d be bound to cock it up.’

  ‘What about that WPC, Nettie Sharpe. You said she was very keen.’

  ‘Good idea. Trouble is, Stout would never condone it.’

  ‘He might if I ask – I’m not on leave, after all.’ Russell could see the forensics man chuckling.

  ‘Worth a try. Let me know how you get on. Dammit! Things would start happening when I’m not there.’

  ‘Calm down, Sonny. Take yourself off for a nice long walk.’

  That’s what everyone keeps telling me to do, thought Russell with a sigh. He looked out of the window. There was no moon; it was pitch black.

  ‘Too late now. I’ll just have to settle down with my book – if I can,’ he said, out loud.

  -0-

  A weak sun was slanting between the sheds, lighting up the clutter of nets, ropes and other fishing paraphernalia. Nettie Sharpe made her way across the shingle to a group of half-a-dozen fishermen, standing around, chatting and smoking.

  Earlier, she had been surprised to have been summoned to Superintendent Stout’s office. As a lowly WPC she knew he was hardly aware of her existence; any orders from on high were usually relayed to her by Sergeant Wickstead. She was understandably nervous as she stood in front of his desk, hands clasped behind her back. She waited while the Superintendent took his time lighting a cheroot with his Zippo lighter. Sucking hard he got the end glowing cherry red then, after blowing a cloud of blue smoke towards the ceiling, he carefully placed the slim cigar in the glass ashtray. Now, WPC…?’

  ‘Sharpe, sir,’ she said, helping him out.

  ‘Yes, of course, WPC Sharpe. How long have you been in the force?’

  ‘Three years, sir.’

  ‘Mmm, yes. Have you ever been out interviewing, let’s call them, slightly unsavoury characters, on your own?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good, well, I’ve heard that you’re rather keen and Lewis, the forensics chappie, has suggested that you’re the right man – sorry – woman for the job. I would have sent DI Parker and DC Barrow but they’re tied up with another investigation. Do you think you can cope?’

  ‘I would imagine so, sir. But perhaps you should tell me what you want me to do.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Stout spluttered. He picked up his cigar and took a long drag. ‘Lewis informs me that he’s found evidence to link a couple of fishermen to the alleged misappropriation of a fishing boat.’ He sucked on his cigar again. ‘Have you heard of Moonshine?’

  ‘The boat owned by the Müller brothers?’ she said, her curiosity roused.

  ‘That’s the one.’

  The one they used in the abduction of Nazi war criminals?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘And it’s been used illegally?’

  ‘Allegedly.’

  ‘Who do I have to interview?’

  Stout looked down at his notes. ‘Ahem. They’re two fishermen called Frankie Drake and Sailor Tedham.’

  ‘Oh yes, Tedham was arrested a couple of years ago.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ The Superintendent’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

  ‘I was part of the team that staked out the church he was trying to steal lead from.’

  ‘Oh really?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then you’ll recognise him?’

  ‘I would imagine so, sir, although I haven’t come across the other one.’

  ‘Right – well, Lewis seems to think that they may have something to do with the empty crate that was found washed up on the beach…’

  ‘The one that DI Russell found, sir?’

  ‘Yes, that one. But why he should be involving himself when he’s supposed to be on leave, I don’t understand.’ Then he added in an undertone: ‘Typical of the man.’

  ‘Sir?’

  Stout harrumphed and cleared his throat. ‘Anyway. Whether they’re involved or not is a moot point, but Lewis reckons it’s an avenue of enquiry worth pursuing. I’m not so sure, so I don’t want you to waste any more time on it than necessary. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So get yourself off to his office and he’ll brief you with the details.’

  ‘Do you want me to report back to you when I’ve seen them, sir?’

  ‘Ahem. That won’t be necessary. You report back to Lewis – he’ll fill me in on anything I should know. As I said, I don’t put much store by it. Just do your best.’

  -0-

  So, a little later, Nettie found herself at Rock-a-Nore. She was apprehensive as she approached the fishermen but tried to keep calm. As she drew closer, her solid lace-up shoes crunching on the shingle, the men turned as one to watch her. There was silence until she was within a few feet of the group then one, with a clay pipe clamped in the corner of his mouth, spoke. ‘Hello, missie. What are you doin’ ’ere without a chaperone?’ The others guffawed at this.

  She coughed politely. ‘I’m looking for Mr Drake and Mr Tedham.’

  The man laughed out loud. ‘Mr Drake and Mr Tedham! You mean Frankie and Sailor?’

  ‘I-I suppose I do,’ she stammered.

  ‘You won’t find ’em ’ere.’

  ‘Really?’ The man shook his head slowly. ‘So do you know where they are?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Ah. It seems like I’ve had a wasted journey then.’ She looked crestfallen.

  ‘Afraid it looks like it my love.’

  She started turning away, and then looked round. ‘I don’t suppose you know when they’re likely to be back?’

  ‘Any time now.’

  ‘Sorry? I don’t understand.’

  One of the other men spoke. ‘Stop winding her up Ben.’

  ‘What me?’ he said, with mock indignation.

  The other man turned to the WPC. ‘What he hasn’t told you is that they have been out fishing on Frankie’s boat.’

  ‘Our Jake?’

  The man’s eyes widened. ‘You know the name of their boat?’

  ‘Of course.’ His reaction emboldened her. ‘I do my research,
you know.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  ‘When will they be back?’

  ‘Right now.’ The voice was from another in the group. He was pointing towards the sea. She followed the line of his arm and could see a fishing boat approaching the beach.

  The second man spoke again. ‘Come on love, I’ll introduce you as soon as they land.’

  She smiled her gratitude. ‘Thanks. I’d appreciate that.’

  She stood with the men on the ridge above the sloping shingle of the beach as the boat came in through the surf. It was a substantial, well-rounded craft, maybe 30 feet in length with a nine-foot beam; a varnished clinker built- hull and a snug wheelhouse towards the stern. A stubby mast rose from the foredeck and a small forest of pot markers leaned against the gunwale aft, black flags on their tops whipping in the breeze. The registration, CP22, was clearly painted in white, either side of the bow. One man detached himself from the group and trotted down the beach. He picked up a twisted wire cable and, when the boat was close enough, shackled it to the bow. He turned shorewards, held up one arm and made a circling motion with his hand. There was the distant sound of a winch engine revving, the slack was taken up, the cable tightened and the boat started moving slowly up the beach. As it progressed, he and another man placed trows under the keel, necessary to smooth the boat’s passage up the shingle. As soon as it was clear of the water, a figure appeared at the bow, swung his leg over the gunwale and clambered down a set of shallow steps, mounted on the stem post.

  ‘Sailor!’ the WPC’s companion called out. ‘Someone wants to talk to you.’

  The man jumped the last couple of feet on to the beach. His sea boots crunched as he landed on the shingle and strode up towards them. He was stocky, dressed in a heavy blue jersey and waterproof waders, rolled down to just above the knee. On his head he wore a battered Breton cap, set at a rakish angle; greying stubble peppered his cheeks and chin. When he reached them he grinned and spoke. ‘Didn’t expect a reception committee. Who’s this young lady then?’

  Nettie could feel heat rising up her throat. She hoped she wouldn’t blush. ‘It’s WPC Sharpe, to you,’ she said firmly.

  Tedham grinned, his open mouth showing a distinct deficiency in the tooth department. ‘Right, WPC Sharpe. What can I do for you?’

  She began taking a notebook and pencil out of the bag slung over her shoulder. ‘I’ve got a few questions for you and Mr Drake. Is he around?’

  Tedham gave a bark of a laugh. ‘I should hope so! He brought the boat in.’ He waved and called out. ‘Frankie!’ Sharpe looked up and could see another figure, clambering down the bow of the fishing boat.

  Although dressed in a similar fashion, Drake was quite different from his companion. Tall and pencil thin, he looked around nervously as he climbed up the pebble ridge. What marked him out too was the red neckerchief, neatly knotted below his pointed chin. When he reached the others he spoke, his voice soft and reedy, like a nervous seabird. ‘What can I do for you, miss?’

  Sharpe gave a little cough. ‘I’ve got some questions for you both.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Drake quickly looked round at the boat then back again. ‘Can they wait? We’ve got a catch to unload.’

  ‘This won’t take long, and then I’ll leave you in peace.’

  ‘Fair enough. Fire away.’

  ‘Do you recognise this?’ She had taken a photograph out of her bag and held it out to them. They both stared at it.

  Tedham laughed. ‘I know what it is…’ Sharpe looked at him expectantly. ‘…It’s a piece of wood!’

  ‘Very funny. Look more closely.’

  ‘It’s a trow,’ Tedham said. ‘Like them down there.’ He pointed to the slabs of wood under the keel of the boat.

  ‘I know that,’ she said flatly, ‘but look at the edge.’

  Tedham held the picture close to his face, nodded, and then passed it to his companion. ‘CP22! Where did you find it?’ Drake asked.

  ‘About five miles east of here, on the beach.’

  ‘Must have washed up there,’ Tedham said confidently. ‘Longshore drift, you know.’

  ‘I don’t think so. It was well above the high water mark – almost on the top of the ridge.’

  Drake looked about nervously. ‘Some kids must have been playing with it.’ His voice was almost a whisper.

  ‘Possibly,’ she said. ‘So you weren’t there, a few days ago - during that storm?’

  ‘Us? Nah. We’d’ve been tucked up safe inside.’ Tedham said. ‘Fair weather sailors, us.’ He winked.

  Sharpe put the photograph back in her bag and took out another. ‘What about this?’ she asked.

  Drake took it from her and they peered at it. ‘Looks suspiciously like a fishing boat to me,’ Tedham said, a twinkle in his eye.’ Sharpe looked up sternly and he grinned, bashfully, then cast a furtive glance towards his companion. ‘Sorry, love. Couldn’t resist. Tell us what’s so special about it.’

  ‘It is a fishing boat,’ she said. ‘But rather a particular one.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Drake asked cautiously.

  ‘It was impounded at Nottery Quay.’

  The two men appeared to look closely at the photo then at each other. Tedham spoke. ‘It’s that one them Germans used last year – when they murdered them Nazis, weren’t it?’

  ‘That’s correct. When the police finally captured Wolfgang Müller they took it there, but…’ The fishermen looked expectantly at her. ‘…But, someone borrowed it. We wondered if you knew anything about it?’

  ‘Us?’ Tedham said, incredulously, placing his hand on his chest.

  ‘Yes, you.’

  ‘But I don’t see why you think we’d be interested. We’ve got our own boat.’ Tedham pointed towards Our Jake. We’d hardly want the bother of another boat, would we?’

  Sharpe sighed. ‘I suppose not. Do you know anyone else who might have used her?’

  A glance was exchanged and they shook their heads in unison. ‘’Fraid not,’ Tedham said.

  ‘Ah well, I thought I’d ask.’ The WPC took the photo back from Drake, carefully holding it by the corner, and put it in her bag. She started turning away then stopped and looked back at them. ‘Where do you store your fishing gear?’

  They looked puzzled. ‘Our gear?’ Drake asked. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  She shook her head. ‘Just idle curiosity.’

  Tedham spoke. ‘In that case, might as well tell you. In our net shop.’ When he pointed up the beach, towards the tall structures, Drake looked alarmed but Tedham ploughed on. ‘You can’t miss it. Got a big number 22 painted on the door.’

  ‘D’you mind if I take a look?’ she asked.

  Tedham spread his arms expansively. ‘Be our guest.’ Drake tried to silence him with a look, but he went on. ‘We ain’t got nothin’ to hide.’

  She thanked the men and set off up the beach before they could change their minds.

  Once she was out of earshot Drake turned to his companion. ‘Why did you let her do that?’ he hissed.

  ‘Calm down. She won’t find nothin’.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’ I don’t want any copper poking their nose into my affairs - however pretty they might be.’

  Tedham looked seriously at Drake. ‘Now look. If we’d said she couldn’t then she would’ve been suspicious, wouldn’t she?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘There, then.’

  -0-

  Nettie crunched her way up the beach, trying to retain some sense of dignity while the leather soles of her sensible lace-up shoes slithered and slid on the shingle. The fishermen who had been gathered when she had arrived had gone about their business and, apart from a dozen or so herring gulls, looking for scraps, she was alone. The net sheds towered over the beach – most three storeys high, although only eight feet across. Each was clad in weatherboard and was painted black with two or three wooden doors, one above the other, and small shuttered window openings. After searching for a fe
w minutes she found the one with a large number 22 crudely painted in faded white. She pulled the door open, the hinges squealing in complaint, the bottom scraping on the stones, to reveal the dark interior. Reaching into her bag she took out a slim electric torch. She switched it on. The narrow beam lit up the tangle of fishing equipment within. Stepping inside, her eyes slowly adjusting to the dark, she could make out the shapes of ropes and chains, nets and fishing floats. The not unpleasant smell of hemp and tar was heavy in the air. Wooden boxes and wicker baskets were piled up all around, but she noticed that in one corner there was a clear space. Crouching and playing the torch on the rough wooden floor she could see that something heavy had been moved. Judging by the scuffs in the dirt and sand, it had been dragged across the floor – and quite recently. She stood up, brushed down her skirt and was just turning to leave when something caught her eye. She went back to the corner of the room and crouched again. Reaching out she pulled a scrap of newspaper from a crevice between two planks. There was a noise from outside the door as she stood up. She quickly shoved the paper in her bag.

  ‘Found anything interesting missie?’ Tedham stood in the doorway, smiling a toothless grin.

  She smiled back, her teeth even, pearly white. ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘Didn’t think you would.’

  ‘You were right then.’ She tried to walk out of the shed but he leant against the doorframe and put his arm across the opening, barring her way. She frowned. ‘Can I pass please?’

  Tedham’s grin became a grimace. ‘What’s in it for me, if I do, love?’

  Nettie’s lips formed a narrow line. ‘I do hope you’re not suggesting anything improper?’

  ‘Why, what would you do if I was?’ he leered.

  She pulled herself up to her full height. Her voice dropped half an octave. ‘I would like to remind you that I am an officer of the law.’

  ‘Oh, are you now?’

  ‘Yes – I – am!’ she said through gritted teeth.

  Her tone had the desired effect and he lowered his arms. ‘Perhaps next time? We could go for a drink together.’

  She pushed past him, her nose wrinkling at the stench of tobacco and stale sweat. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. He just grinned.