Blood on the Strand

by Chris O'Donoghue

  ‘Thanks, chum. I’ll be out in a mo.’ Wickstead nodded and Russell watched him depart. He then turned to the WPC. ‘You mentioned Miss Bailey – said she was very nice.’ He looked expectantly at her.

  ‘Um – yes. I had a good chat with her. Seems she’s not a close friend of Mr Fountain but has known him for quite a while. As a fellow antique dealer she felt it only fair to help clear up the mess. But… she’s worried about him.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘She seems to think that he might be in danger – suggested that his warehouse being wrecked was some sort of warning.’

  ‘Did she say anything more specific?’

  ‘No. Just that really. Oh, and she said she didn’t mind if I told you.’ The WPC smiled sweetly. Russell returned the smile. Nettie couldn’t help noticing a blush rising up from his collar.

  He sat still for a few moments then, rising from his chair he said grimacing: ‘Right. ‘I’ve got an appointment to keep – and I’m sure you’ve got work to get on with, Nettie. Thanks for telling me – you did the right thing.’

  -0-

  Russell had been sitting in the Superintendent’s office for some minutes. Apart from waving him to a chair when he had arrived, Stout had ignored him, concentrating on the papers on his desk. Finally he looked up, but still he didn’t speak. Instead he reached for his cheroots and took his time choosing one from the tin, rolling it between his fingers and thumb while sniffing appreciatively, all the time staring at the DI. Once the cigar was lit, he drew on it hard, held the smoke in his mouth, and then blew it out in a long plume. His head was wreathed in a blue vapour when finally he spoke.

  ‘Well, Detective Inspector, what have you got to say for yourself.’

  ‘Sir?’ Russell asked, his face a picture of innocence.

  ‘Come now. Don’t be shy. I’m sure you’ve got some vital information to impart.’

  ‘We-ll…’ Russell said slowly, but before he could continue Stout interrupted.

  ‘Hold on. Let me tell you what I think you’re about to say. You’ve solved the case of the missing treasure, you’ve found out who killed the fisherman and you’ve arrested that smarmy Froggy. Am I right?’ Stout sat back, a clown’s grin on his lips, an assassin’s look in his eyes.

  Russell wasn’t sure how to respond. ‘Not exactly, sir.’

  ‘Well what exactly have you found out? Do tell.’ Stout slumped back in his chair and puffed out his chest, the cheroot hanging between his lips.

  ‘I’m pretty sure those two fishermen, Tedham and Drake, are up to their necks in it. I also think that they hid three bags of valuables in the mud at Compass Point.’

  ‘Three bags?’ Stout’s eyebrows rose towards his thinning hairline, in two perfect arcs. ‘I thought the dredger only brought up one.’

  ‘Yes, it did. But we found three ropes tied to the bottom of a ladder near where it was found.’

  ‘You found three ropes. I see.’ Stout nodded slowly. ‘Tell me. Does this happen to be near the boatyard at Compass Point?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where the main occupation involves boats?’

  ‘Yes.’ Russell could see where this was going so explained quickly: ‘One of the ropes was torn – presumably by the dredger – the other two were cut.’

  The eyebrows came down to be replaced by a puzzled frown. ‘What makes you think these ropes relate, in any way whatsoever, to the alleged sacks?’

  ‘Jack Spratt said he thinks he saw two men carrying them away.’

  ‘You mean Jack Spratt the ferryman?’ Russell nodded – Stout guffawed. ‘You cannot be serious. He’s a notorious old drunk – probably dreamt the whole thing up, just to please you.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Russell said mildly.

  The Superintendent leaned forward and stubbed his cigar out violently in the ashtray. ‘You don’t think so?’ The words came out as a growl. ‘A few more facts and a bit less thinking wouldn’t go amiss.’

  ‘But it would make sense that there was more than one sack.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘The crate.’

  ‘The empty one that was washed up?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  Stout snorted. ‘Come now, Inspector. What proof do you have that it is in any way connected with the supposed stolen goods?’

  ‘The sheet of German newspaper that was wedged inside.’

  The snort developed into a belly laugh. ‘You are joking, aren’t you?’

  ‘No, sir. I’m perfectly serious.’ Russell’s expression betrayed no emotion but inside he was seething. How dare Stout treat his suggestions so flippantly?

  Stout shook his head, mock sadness clouding his face. ‘Sorry, but I just don’t see it – too much of a coincidence.’ Russell remained tight lipped. ‘And as for this French car…’

  ‘The Citroën?’

  ‘If you say so. Does it actually exist? And if it does, do you really think it’s got anything to do with the mysterious Frenchman?’

  ‘I’m sure it has, sir.’ Russell spoke through gritted teeth, knowing he wouldn’t be believed. ‘Nettie – WPC Sharpe – saw it come out of a warehouse at Nottery Quay, and Alf, the landlord of the Shipwrights Arms, is sure he saw it at Compass Point.’

  Stout sighed. ‘With the best will in the world, Inspector, I’m not sure I’d set much store by the word of a naïve girl and a publican who probably drinks as much as the ferryman.’

  ‘Sir…’ Russell was having trouble keeping his voice even. ‘Alf is teetotal and WPC Sharpe is a bright girl.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, but even if they had seen it, is it really relevant to the case?’

  ‘Yes, I think it is, sir.’

  ‘Well I don’t,’ Stout said emphatically. ‘And as for that antique dealer…’

  ‘Fountain, sir?’

  ‘That’s the cove.’

  ‘I’m pretty certain he’s mixed up in it too. When Weeks and Sharpe went round…’

  ‘Let me stop you there. DI Parker has already sorted that one out.’

  ‘He has?’ Russell looked at the Super with amazement.

  ‘Yes, I’m rather pleased with him.’ Stout drawled. ‘He worked out, very quickly, that it’s an inside job.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I’m just waiting to see the list of fictitious things he claims were stolen.’

  Russell spoke quietly. ‘It’ll be a long wait.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘There won’t be a list.’

  ‘How can you say that?’

  ‘I spoke to WPC Sharpe, who interviewed the antique dealer. She said he wasn’t going to make a claim.’

  Stout frowned, looking baffled. ‘That cannot be right. Parker assured me that Fountain did it to claim on the insurance.’

  ‘I’m afraid the DI is wrong.’

  ‘And I think you’re jealous.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘DI Parker deals in facts. Perhaps if you followed his lead and relied less on guesswork and assumptions you might get some better results.’

  ‘But sir…’

  ‘No buts, Inspector. If you don’t start coming up with more than vague ideas, I’ll have to take you off the case. Understood?’

  ‘Sir.’ Russell’s teeth were clamped tightly closed as he rose from his chair and exited the room.

  ‘Door!’ the Superintendent called after him. But Russell carried on walking and ignored him. If he had shut the door he would have slammed it so hard it would have come off its hinges.

  -0-

  Big Paul drove steadily around Compass Point, ending up along the road behind the hospital. He stopped a short way from Duncan Fountain’s premises, switched off the engine and settled down to wait. He had a road map which he unfolded and laid over the steering wheel. It wasn’t long before the door to the warehouse opened and a striking red-headed woman came out. She was followed by Fountain. They held hands and Paul could see concern on the man’s face
as they exchanged a few words. The woman leaned forward and pecked her companion on the cheek. Letting go of his hand she turned, waved over her shoulder and walked down the road. Paul waited for a few moments and then started the engine and drove the van slowly in the same direction. At the end of the street, the woman turned right. Paul followed, gradually closing the gap between them. As he drew level, she stopped as he brought the van to a halt. He opened the door and got out on to the pavement, holding the map. The woman was not concerned; she just assumed that the man was going to ask for directions.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, an apologetic look on his face, ‘I wonder if you can help.’

  The woman leant towards him, looking at the map. Then, with a speed at odds with his bulk, Big Paul dropped the map and wrenched her arm up behind her back. Before she could react, he had opened the back door of the van and forced her inside. It all happened so fast she was speechless at first then, realising what was happening, she began to cry out. Big Paul calmly reached in and hit her round the face – hard. She went quiet. He slammed the door shut, walked round to the front of the vehicle, got into the driver’s seat, started the engine and drove off.

  -0-

  Up the river, in the beached hulk, the food had all gone and the water in the butt had turned brackish. ‘We gotta do somethin’,’ Drake said.

  ‘What do you suggest?’ Tedham growled. He was running low on his foul-smelling tobacco and the lack of nicotine was making him grouchy.

  ‘I dunno. We need some grub and sommat to drink. Also, I reckon we ought to get shot of the stuff in them sacks.’

  ‘You are joking…’ Tedham said, a look of astonishment lighting his ruddy features.

  ‘No, I aint.’

  ‘But there’s a fortune there. Enough to buy a boat, probably.’

  ‘I’ve got a boat!’ Drake retorted, his voice rising. ‘I don’t need another one.’

  Tedham grunted. ‘Mmm. Maybe not, but the money would come in ’andy.’

  ‘An’ ’ow do you propose to turn all that loot into cash?’

  ‘Take it to that bloke, Duncan whatsiname.’

  ‘Fountain.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s ’im. The one Nipper put us on to.’

  ‘What? After we saw what ’appened to Nipper?’ He exhaled noisily. ‘The state ’e was in when we found ’im in that Martello Tower?’

  ‘Could’ve been some sort of accident.’

  ‘I doubt that very much. I reckon ’e was roughed up by someone trying to find out where the stuff was.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘An’ don’t forget about Ted Stump. ’E’s disappeared completely. Someone’s done ’im in, I reckon.’

  ‘You don’t know that…’

  ‘Maybe not – for certain, but you ’ave to admit, it is suspicious. You’d ’ave thought ’e’d ’ave been in touch by now – find out what’s ’appened to ’is loot.’

  But it ain’t ’is. ’E nicked it from that Froggy.

  Drake was quiet for a moment, staring down at the stained wood of the cabin floor. He looked up, his brown eyes wide. ‘’Ere,’ he said, a quaver in his voice, ‘What if that Frenchman, Monsewer Albert’s behind all this?’

  ‘All what?’

  ‘Ted disappearing – Crabbe bein’ roughed up.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right.’ Tedham pondered this, the enormity of the suggestion slowly dawning on him. ‘Bloody ’ell! What if ’e comes after us?’

  Drake tutted and rolled his eyes heavenwards. ‘That’s why I said we should get rid of the stuff.’

  ‘’Appen you’re right. Do we wait ’til dark or go now?’

  ‘Probably wait until dark – just ’ave to be careful.’

  -0-

  Russell sat at his desk, fingers linked behind his head. He was so cross that he couldn’t even muster the enthusiasm to whistle a tune. Although he wasn’t prone to self-pity he felt that Stout had been far too dismissive, as well as far too full of praise for Bonnie Parker. Undeserved praise, in his opinion. Everyone knew that Parker was a bumbling incompetent but, for some unknown reason, the Superintendent chose to ignore it. If he ever achieved success it was usually only because of some fluke.

  Russell recalled a case the previous year. Parker had been in at the kill when a gang of train robbers had been arrested. He had happily taken the praise Stout had heaped on his head, even though it had been Russell who had done most of the leg work. He didn’t resent the man’s moment of glory – he had the satisfaction of knowing that he had finally captured the second of two Germans who had murdered several former Nazis around the same time. None the less, he couldn’t help being annoyed with Stout – and Parker.

  He had been sitting, turning it over in his mind when there was a light tap on the door. ‘Mmm? Hello?’ DC Weeks put his tousled head round the door. ‘Come in, lad. Sit down. I hope you’ve got some good news.’

  Weeks sat opposite his boss and peered at him from under his fringe. ‘I doubt it, sir. Probably not.’

  ‘Okay. Tell me the worst.’

  ‘I’ve just taken a phone call from Duncan Fountain, the antique dealer. He’s concerned about his friend, Miss Bailey.’

  Russell sat up and placed his hands flat on the desk. ‘Isobel? Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘Apparently she left his warehouse to go to her shop.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He said he was concerned – something had made him uneasy.’

  ‘Is that all he said?’

  ‘No. What started his anxiety was seeing a van, parked across from his premises.’

  ‘A van? That’s not so suspicious. It is a working area, after all.’

  ‘Yes, but there was a man – a big man – sitting at the wheel, just staring out through the windscreen.’

  ‘Obviously waiting for a load, I would have thought.’

  ‘Maybe. But as soon as Miss Bailey began walking along the street, he started the engine and appeared to follow, at a walking pace. Fountain carried on watching, the lady turned the corner, and so did the van.’

  ‘Coincidence, surely?’

  ‘Possibly, but after a few moments, he heard a door slam and the van went off at speed.’

  ‘I can’t see why that would cause him to worry.’

  He said that it happened yesterday. He’s rung her several times since, but hasn’t heard from her.’

  ‘I see. I understand his concern now. I think we should pay him a visit.’

  -0-

  Duncan Fountain, at his most nervous, was not an encouraging sight. He’d run his hand through his hair so many times that it stood up in greasy spikes. His already baggy clothes hung shapelessly off his spare frame. There was a visible tick at the side of his left eye, the affliction magnified by his large spectacles. In contrast, his warehouse had been cleaned and tidied. To a great extent, it was back to how it had been.

  ‘So tell me again what happened, sir.’

  Fountain scratched his chin nervously. ‘We’d just finished tidying this place – Isobel was wonderful, I’d never have done it on my own. Then she went off and I haven’t heard from her since.’

  ‘What time was this, sir?’

  ‘It would have been about five o’clock, I think.’

  ‘You said you were suspicious of a van that was parked nearby.’

  ‘Yes, I’d looked out of the window earlier in the afternoon and saw it parked, a little further up the road, on the other side. I didn’t take much notice at the time as we were busy clearing up. But a while before Isobel left, I looked out and it was still there. Then, when she left, I stayed in the doorway, watching her go. I saw it start up and follow her along the road and round the corner.’

  ‘Could it not have been a coincidence?’

  ‘Possibly, but I had a bad feeling. When I heard the door slam and the engine race I feared the worst.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I ran up the road and looked round the corner. There was no sign of Isobel or the van, just an
old road map lying in the road. I told myself that there was no connection between them and came back here. But I still couldn’t shake off the feeling of dread.’

  ‘I see,’ Russell said. ‘Can you describe the vehicle?’

  ‘I can do better than that; I can tell you what it was. It was a Ford Thames van.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  Fountain managed a small grin. ‘The greengrocer I use has a brand new one. It’s his pride and joy.’

  ‘What about the colour?’

  ‘Grey.’ The colour matched Fountain’s complexion.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Positive.’

  DC Weeks was jotting down the details in his notebook. He looked up. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance you noted the registration?’

  ‘I did. Wait a moment.’ Fountain opened a drawer in his desk and produced a piece of paper. ‘GDM 325.’

  The two policemen looked at each other. Russell spoke. Get on to the station, lad. Find out who the registered keeper is.’ He addressed Fountain. ‘All right if he uses your telephone, sir?’

  Fountain held his hand out. ‘Be my guest.’

  While the DC was busy with his call, Russell carried on talking to the antique dealer. ‘You say you’ve tried ringing her at her shop?’

  ‘Yes, several times.’

  ‘And you’ve had no reply?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Perhaps she’s taken the day off.’

  Fountain shook his head. ‘I should say that’s unlikely. She only closes one day a week.’

  Weeks had finished his call and put down the receiver. ‘They’re checking the number and will get back to us, sir.’

  ‘Okay, thanks. That’s all for now, Mr Fountain. We’ll be in touch if we find out anything further.’ They were just leaving when Russell stopped and turned back to the dealer. ‘I don’t suppose you know where Miss Bailey lives?’

  ‘Not exactly. I know she has a cottage in Church Square, but I don’t know which one it is.’

  ‘That’s okay. I’m sure we’ll find it. Meanwhile, do let us know if you hear from her. Right lad, let’s bump our way up to the Square.’