The Wolseley rocked and rolled along the cobbled streets in the citadel. As they drew level with the first house Russell said: ‘Pull up here. Someone’s bound to know where she lives.’ He got out of the car and walked up to the house. Like its medieval neighbours it was half-timbered, with blackened beams framing whitewashed panels – some with simple pargeting. It was said that a number of the oak beams that formed the frames had come from sailing ships, wrecked along the coast. They certainly had an aged, weather-beaten look to them. The windows were small, with leaded diamond panes. Most houses had a substantial oak front door, stout defence against marauding Frenchmen, smugglers, and the revenue men looking for them. But these threats belonged to a past, now long gone.
For some time, the dwellings had been considered as little more than hovels, allowed to decay and occupied by the poor and destitute. But lately, those with taste – and sufficient funds – had moved in, restoring the historic buildings back to their former glory. After Russell had knocked, using the brass dolphin-shaped knocker, the door was opened by one of these parvenus. The woman was elegantly dressed in a pale green twinset, her blonde hair swept back in a stylish chignon. She looked quizzically at the man standing at her threshold. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked. Her thin lips barley moved.
‘I hope so, madam.’ He held out his warrant card. ‘I’m looking for a Miss Bailey – Isobel Bailey.’
The woman sniffed. ‘Oh, her.’
Russell cocked his head to one side. ‘madam?’
‘She’s in trade.’
He bristled and said sharply, ‘She’s a high-class jeweller.’
‘Possibly. Anyway. She lives down there.’ The woman pointed to an alleyway between two of the houses. ‘Through the arch, on the right – you can’t miss it. Goodbye.’ With that she shut the door with a bang.
Russell and Weeks made their way down the dark alley, a low ceiling overhead. When they emerged into the light there was indeed a cottage on the right. Russell knocked on the door and waited. Nothing, just the distant cry of gulls at the harbour and the clopping of a horse’s hooves as it pulled a cart across the cobbles. He knocked again, louder this time but it appeared no one was at home.
‘Looks like we’re out of luck, sir’
‘I think you’re right, lad. Come on. Let’s see if she’s gone back to the shop.’
They bumped back over the cobbles, Russell holding onto the grab handle above the door, to stop himself being thrown about. When they regained the relative smoothness of the Tarmac Weeks spoke, staring ahead through the windscreen. ‘Sir…’
‘Yes, lad?’
This Miss Bailey…’
‘Ye-es?’ Russell said, stretching the word out.
‘Do you like her?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I had a feeling you might be keen on her.’
Russell chuckled. ‘Not much gets past you, does it? Yes, I think she’s rather attractive.’
Still looking forward, Weeks grinned. ‘Thought so. I hope you have better luck than you did with the last one, sir.’
‘The last one?’ Russell was baffled.
‘Helen McDermott. The mastermind behind that train robbery near Uckfield.’
‘Blimey! You’ve got a long memory.’ Russell was spared any further questions as they had arrived outside the jewellers.
The shop was firmly shut with the window blind pulled right down. Weeks tried the door handle but it was locked. ‘What now, sir?’ he asked.
Russell frowned. ‘I’m not sure. She’s clearly not here.’ He paused and looked around. ‘Hold on. I believe her friend runs the teashop next door. Let’s go and ask in there.’
The two detectives waited while the waitress disappeared out the back. In a few minutes she returned, followed by her boss. In contrast to the waitress, dressed in stark black and white, Miss Smollett was clothed in grey: grey skirt, grey lambswool jumper, low-heeled grey suede shoes with a strap across the ankle, and grey lisle stockings. Her iron-grey hair was pulled back into a severe bun. This all created the impression of a woman in her late forties or early fifties but she had the unlined face of a much younger woman.
She gave them a cool smile. ‘How can I help you, gentlemen?’
‘We’re looking for Miss Bailey,’ Russell said.
‘Izzie? Is she not in the shop?’
‘No, it’s locked up, with the blinds down. Have you any idea where she might be?’
‘I’m afraid not. I haven’t seen her for a couple of days. It’s odd, as she is usually in the shop most of the time at the moment. She told me she was very busy with jewellery repairs and so on.’
‘So you don’t know when she’s likely to be back?’
‘I don’t. The last time I saw her she didn’t mention anything about not coming in.’
‘Well, thank you for your time. If you do see her, can you ask her to get in touch?’ Weeks handed her a card.
‘Of course.’ They were just walking out when the woman spoke again. ‘Strange. You’re not the first to mention her.’
Russell turned. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. There were two gentlemen here yesterday. I just happened to be outside and saw them go up to Izzie’s door. I asked if I could help.’
‘What did they want?’
‘They said they were friends. One of them was definitely foreign – probably French. He said they had been asked to come and collect some goods. They went into the shop, closed the door and were in there for a good while. When they came out they went off with three large, heavy looking sacks – the big man carrying two, the Frenchman, one.’
‘How did they get into the shop?’
‘They had a key – I presumed they must have got it from Izzie.’
‘Can you describe the men?’
‘Certainly. I’ve got a good memory for people. I love watching them when they come in here – try to work out where they come from, what they do, that sort of thing.’
‘That’s very interesting, but could you tell us what these men looked like?’ Russell struggled not to sound impatient.
The woman gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘Of course. One was very large, well over six foot and broad as well. Had the face of a boxer, if you know what I mean.’ Russell nodded. ‘He didn’t say anything – but I didn’t like the look of him; the other was suave and quite charming – as I said, obviously French.’
Weeks looked up from his notebook. ‘What makes you say that, madam?
‘By the way he was dressed, naturally. You don’t get Englishmen wearing stylish clothes like that.’ Weeks felt uncomfortable as she eyed his crumpled suit. ‘Also, although he spoke good English, it was almost too perfect.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He just said he was a friend of Izzie’s and she had asked to him to collect some things for her.’
‘Weren’t you suspicious?’
‘At first, yes. But when he showed me the key, I assumed he was telling the truth.’ A cloud passed across her face and she began rubbing one hand over the other, nervously. ‘Now I’m not so sure.’
‘You say they went off with three heavy looking sacks. Which way did they go?’
Oh they didn’t go far, just put them in the back of the van.’
‘The van?’
‘Yes, didn’t I say?’
‘No, you haven’t mentioned it before.’
‘Sorry. Must have slipped my mind.’
‘I’m sure you’ll be able to describe it though,’ Russell said, recalling her memory for people.
‘I’m afraid I can’t. I’m not good with cars and things like that.’
‘Can you remember the colour, at least?’
She frowned, looking down, and rubbed neatly manicured fingers across her chin. ‘Let me think.’ Russell waited patiently for an answer, not wanting to prompt her. Then she looked up, a smile, warm this time, lighting her face. ‘It was grey – my favourite colour.’ The policemen exchanged a glance.
�
�I don’t suppose you have a key to the shop?’ Weeks asked, perceptive as ever.
‘Yes I have. Izzie leaves one with me, just in case…’
‘I think this is one of those cases, madam. Could we have it please?’ Russell held out his hand.
‘Just a moment.’ The two men stood waiting while she went out into the back room, returning in few moments and handed Russell the key. ‘Should I come with you?’ she asked, hesitantly.
‘I don’t think that will be necessary, madam.’ Russell had a bad feeling and thought it best if the woman stayed where she was.
The key fitted easily in the lock and turned without effort. Russell pushed the door open, letting a shaft of sunlight cross the threshold. But, with the window blind down, all was dark within. He fumbled around the door frame, found a switch and flooded the room with light.
‘Oh bloody hell.’
‘Quite, lad.’ The chaos was reminiscent of the mess in Fountain’s warehouse a few days before, although nowhere near as bad. Cupboard doors lay open, contents spilling across the floor; drawers had been pulled out and upended. ‘Someone has been looking for something, I reckon.’
‘And took whatever it was away in those sacks,’ Weeks added. ‘Do you reckon it was Albert Salle?’
‘I’m certain it was, whatever the Super thinks. No idea who his chum is though. He’s a new character on the scene.’
‘What about the van Miss Smollett saw? Is it the same one Fountain described that followed Miss Bailey?’
‘Bound to be. Too much of a coincidence not to. We need to find out who owns it. I can’t believe Isobel would have given up her key willingly. We need to find Salle, and his friend, and find them fast.’
-0-
‘I don’t believe you!’ Big Paul spat.
Isobel Bailey’s usual ladylike sheen was long gone. Her flame-red hair hung wetly around her face in rat tails; there were dark smudges under her eyes; dried blood streaked her bruised and swollen face. Tears of pain and frustration had made runnels down her cheeks. The next lot of tears were not far away as the big man grabbed her chin and shook her head violently from side to side.
‘All we recovered from your shop is just half of what was stolen. Where is the rest?’
‘I told you, I don’t know.’ Isobel’s voice was husky from lack of sleep. ‘Can I have a drink now?’
Big Paul thrust his head forward until his face was inches from hers. ‘You can have a drink when you tell me where the goods are!’ She tried turning her head away but grabbed her jaw again. ‘Tell me where they are!’ he yelled, flecks of spittle splattering her face.
‘I – don’t – know.’ Her voice, just short of a whisper. She knew she couldn’t take much more. She hated the idea of ratting on her friend but she didn’t want any further pain. She heaved a sigh and said: ‘If you want to know, ask Duncan.’
He stepped back. ‘Duncan Fountain? That little weed?’
‘Call him what you like. If anyone knows, he does.’
Paul gave her one more slap for good measure, switched out the light and left her alone in the lock-up.
Up in the flat Salle sat slumped in the armchair, a glass in his hand. ‘Well? Did you find out where the rest of my goods are?’
‘I’m afraid not – she insists she doesn’t know. Perhaps you should go down and have a try.’
Sale looked down, apparently intent on the grubby carpet. ‘I don’t think so. If you cannot get her to talk then nobody can.’
‘If I may be so bold, it seems you don’t want to see the lady. Is there a reason?’
Salle stood up suddenly, the brandy slopping over the rim of his glass. He narrowed his eyes, a murderous look on his face. ‘The reason is, I choose not to. And why? It is none of your bloody business. Now go back down there and get the truth out of her. That is what I am paying you for!’
Big Paul was taken aback. He knew that the Frenchman had a temper but he had never spoken to him like that before. ‘Okay, okay! Keep your hair on.’ There was an awkward silence, then Big Paul ventured: ‘Listen, boss. There’s no point in continuing, I believe that she’s telling the truth – she really doesn’t know.’ Salle was about to remonstrate but Paul held his hands up and continued. ‘But what she did say was: “Ask Fountain, he knows”.’
‘Mon dieu! That scruffy little rat with the airs and graces?’
‘So it seems. Perhaps he holds the key to the problem?’
‘Perhaps.’ Salle stroked his chin, concentrating. ‘Tell me. Does this Fountain fellow have a relationship with her?’ He pointed downwards, towards the lock-up.
‘I should say so – almost certainly.’
Salle grinned, his features vulpine. ‘Then I think we can use that to our advantage. Find me paper and a pencil. I want you to deliver a note to our friend.’
-0-
‘Right. What have we got?’ Russell had called Weeks and Sharpe into his office. He wanted to gather as much information as possible before the inevitable summons from Stout. He knew that the Superintendent would be after an update as soon as he arrived at the station in the morning and Russell was determined to be prepared. ‘Let’s talk about the vehicles first. What have we got on the Citroën, Nettie?’
‘I’ve been on to the ferry companies and it seems that very few Citroëns have come across from Boulogne in the past month and only three of them were DS’s. Two can be ruled out as one of them was red, the other green, which leaves a blue one that came over on the SS Lord Warden. I’ve made some enquiries and guess what?’ Russell looked at her expectantly. ‘It’s registered to a Monsieur Albert Salle.’
‘Bingo!’ Russell clapped his hands. ‘Well done, Nettie.’ The WPC smiled shyly. ‘What about the van we found behind the Martello tower?’ Before either of the others could reply, he remembered. ‘Oh yes, it belongs to Frankie Drake – I’ll ask about him in minute. Now, the grey Ford Thames van.’
Weeks looked up from his notebook. ‘We’ve drawn a bit of a blank there, sir. It was registered to a delivery firm in Lewisham, South London, but was stolen six months ago.’
‘How come it’s still running around with the same number plate? Usually, when vehicles are stolen, that’s the first thing that gets changed.’
‘That’s a bit of a mystery. It was virtually brand new and the local force was under pressure from their Superintendent who played golf with the MD of the firm.’
Russell chuckled. ‘Same as here then.’
‘But they couldn’t find it, however hard they looked – and I’m assured they really tried. It just disappeared.’
‘Until now.’
‘That’s right.’
‘So we don’t know who’s been driving it around here.’
‘No, I’m afraid not, sir.’
‘Or where it’s being kept.’
‘Nor that.’
‘Presumably Salle’s henchman must have a place somewhere around here – where he, and possibly the Frenchman, are hiding out.’
‘It would seem so.’
‘I think that finding it – and the mystery man – should be a priority. While we’re talking vehicles, I don’t suppose we know what Duncan Fountain, the antique dealer, drives?’
‘I do, sir.’ Nettie’s face lit up. ‘With the help of my brother, and his love of cars, I can tell you that he has a blue Morris Minor Traveller.’
‘Thanks, Nettie. Good work.’ Russell sat back in his chair and absently linked his fingers behind his head. Closing his eyes, he began quietly whistling. Weeks recognised it as Guy Mitchell’s Singing the Blues. He turned to Sharpe and held a finger up to his lips. He knew from experience that when the boss started whistling, it was best not to disturb him. After a couple of minutes Russell’s eyes slowly opened, he finished the chorus and smiled at the two constables. ‘Where was I? Oh yes, Fountain’s Morris Minor.’ He sat up, the refrain forgotten, alert to the situation.
‘The jeweller, Isobel Bailey, is missing – under suspicious circumstances,’ Russell s
aid. ‘And, as far as we are aware, Duncan Fountain was the last person to see her. There was no sign of her at her house in Church Square and judging by the mess we found her shop in, she hasn’t been there recently either. Going on what Fountain witnessed when she left his warehouse, I think it’s possible that Salle’s henchman abducted her.’ He stood, pushing his chair back. Aggie pricked up her ears and raised an eyebrow. Russell paced the short distance towards the filing cabinet – hands clasped behind his back – turned, and slowly paced back. ‘If they have got her, I’m pretty sure it must be something to do with the missing contraband. So, it doesn’t take a genius to work out that there may be some sort of ransom demand, don’t you think?’ He looked pointedly at Weeks.
‘That’s very likely, sir. But what about the fishermen, Tedham and Drake? You said you’d get on to them. If Spratt was right, and saw them leaving Compass Point with the two sacks, aren’t they involved, too?’
‘Yes, that’s quite possible, although I somehow don’t think they’d be part of a ransom plan.’
‘No, sir?
‘No, I don’t think so. But I’m pretty certain that they’re definitely embroiled in the whole business. After all, Nettie, you found evidence of a crate that had been stored in their net shop.’
‘That’s right, sir…’ She paused. ‘Well, possibly. Something large had been dragged across the floor, so it could have been the crate.’
‘Let’s assume it was. Where did it go from there?’ He looked at the two constables. They looked back blankly. Neither had an answer. Russell returned to his chair and settled himself. He leaned forward, steepling his fingers and resting his chin on the tips. ‘Okay. Let’s assume that Salle, and his accomplice, collected it. Where would they hide it?’
Weeks frowned. ‘They must have a garage or lock-up somewhere.’
‘And the sacks that Nettie saw in the other net shop. Where have they gone?’
Same place, sir?’ she suggested.
‘Most likely. But where is it?’ Russell frowned. We can’t ask Crabbe, he’s out of action, Tedham and Drake are still missing. So who does that leave?’
Blood on the Strand Page 20