Blood on the Strand

by Chris O'Donoghue

  Weeks peered out, his mop of curly hair even more tousled than usual. He was wearing a brown dressing gown over striped pyjamas. ‘What the…?’ he began. Then seeing who it was his eyes widened. ‘Christopher? Sandy? What an earth are you doing here? Do you know want time it is?’

  ‘Johnny! We’ve got to talk to you – it’s urgent!’

  Yawning, he opened the door fully. ‘You’d better come in and tell me then.’

  -0-

  The two boys sat side by side on Weeks’s battered leather sofa, each with his hands cupped round a steaming mug of cocoa. ‘So you heard them say there’s going to be some sort of meeting at 7.30 tomorrow, sorry, today?’

  ‘Yes, and that antiques fellow sounded very worried about someone called Isobel.’

  ‘I can guess who that is – Isobel Bailey, She’s a jeweller... has a very nice shop in Collinghurst. She and Fountain, the antiques chap, are friends.’

  ‘What about the gold and silver and jewellery?’ Sandy asked.

  ‘That must be part of the case we’re investigating at the moment.’

  ‘Do you think they’re going to do some sort of deal – like a hostage exchange?’ said Christopher.

  ‘Hmm. Possibly.’

  The three of them sat quietly for a while. Suddenly, Sandy sat bolt upright, cocoa slopping over the rim of his mug. ‘The Frenchman!’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘They said something about a Froggy – that must mean a Frenchman.’

  ‘Salle.’ Weeks said quietly. ‘We thought he was mixed up in it. Whatever it is, I need to let the boss know as soon as possible.’

  ‘Uncle Sonny?’ Weeks nodded. ‘Where is he? We went to his home first but he wasn’t there.’

  ‘Ah, he’s gone up to London to meet an old friend.’ The boys look worried but he held up his hand. ‘No need to fret. He’s coming back on the early train. Meanwhile, I think you’d better get a bit of shut-eye. It’s too late to go back to your camp now; you can sleep in the spare room, if you don’t mind sharing.’

  Sandy gave a great yawn and Christopher drained his mug. ‘Thanks. Johnny, we don’t mind.’

  -0-

  Russell hadn’t slept well. He liked his own bed and was never totally relaxed when he was away from home. It was good to see his old friend from the army and to catch up but...

  The DI had, as they say, had a good war. He had quite enjoyed the discipline of army life and got on with most of his fellow squaddies but realised, early on, that he was a loner at heart and didn’t really fit in. But he knew that it was better to keep his council and not rock the boat. In that way his time in the army had been without major incident and had passed quickly.

  The best part was towards the end when he’d spent time in Asia, where his interest in eastern philosophy had begun. He’d met Buddhist monks and discussed their ideals and was intrigued by their lifestyle. He’d been invited into their community, had shared their food and been taught how to meditate. Their simple ways and outlook on life had so impressed him that he decided to become a vegetarian when he returned home – an unusual decision at the time.

  His friend, Dicky Merriman, had also joined the police after he had left the army. But whereas Russell was happy to stay and serve in a rural backwater, Merriman had been drawn to the bright lights and had joined the Metropolitan police. They had spoken on the phone occasionally, but hadn’t met for a long time. Russell was surprised, and quite pleased, when Merriman suggested that they get together and was happy to travel up to London to meet him. They’d had a good evening, dined well and talked over old times.

  ‘So how are you finding it – living and working in London?’ he asked his friend.

  ‘It’s a pretty good life,’ Merriman answered. ‘But it has its moments. There are some nasty pieces of work in the city – the Crays and the Richardsons, for example – but also an awful lot of law-abiding citizens. And they deserve protection.’ He smiled. ‘How about you? Do you still enjoy being a country policeman?’

  Russell grinned back. ‘Mostly, although it too has its moments. And we have some bad lads too. Mind you, I do get fed up with the bureaucracy; some of my colleagues and superiors leave a lot to be desired.’

  ‘Same here.’ Merriman paused and took a drink from his cup. ‘I thought you would have gone for promotion by now.’

  Russell chuckled. ‘You’re not the first to suggest that.’

  ‘Why not then? It would mean a pay rise. You could afford to move into a proper house.’

  ‘You’re joking! I love my railway carriage.’

  Merriman smiled at his friend. ‘Each to his own.’

  ‘And besides, if I did get promotion it would mean spending more time behind a desk, and I prefer to be out and about.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ They sat quietly for a while, sipping their coffee. Merriman looked up. ‘Can I ask about your love life? Or is that taboo?’

  ‘You can ask, but there’s not much to tell.’

  ‘You never did get over Lottie, did you?’ Merriman said softly.

  A shadow passed across Russell’s face. His usual cheerful expression was briefly replaced by one of melancholy. That had been a long time ago. He hadn’t thought about her for ages. His lips formed a thin smile. ‘Oh, I think I’m over that now. The opportunity for romance just doesn’t come up often – what with work and everything…’ Merriman let the subject drop and the conversation turned to more general topics.

  As Russell walked back to his hotel after they’d said their farewells and promised to keep in touch, he reflected on the evening. London had a certain attraction and he’d enjoyed meeting his old friend but already, he was missing the routine and familiarity of home. So he was keen to get back to Collinghurst – and the case which, he had a feeling, was drawing to a conclusion.

  In the morning he hadn’t bothered with breakfast. He just washed, shaved and dressed then hurried from his room to catch an early train. He was dismayed, as he stepped out through the hotel entrance, to find that the capital was cloaked in a thick fog. Not the smog that had caused such disruption and taken so many lives a few years earlier – legislation and the Clean Air act had helped to clean up the air in London – but thick enough to reduce visibility to a few yards. Even so it was tinged with the stench of rotting eggs. Russell looked at his watch. If he hurried he could just catch the 6.30am train and be in the office by eight. He moved quickly along the pavement, heading towards Waterloo station, trying not to bump into the surprising number of people who were out early. Making his way along Royal Street he stepped into the road to avoid a pretty uniformed nanny. She was pushing a Silver Cross pram with a little boy holding on to the handle, taking up the whole narrow pavement. She thanked him and he touched the brim of his hat and smiled. He turned to watch her pass, his eyes drawn to her slender ankles and the black seam of her stockings. Momentarily distracted he stepped farther into the road. He didn’t notice the telegram boy on his red BSA Bantam come hurtling out of the fog until it was too late.

  -0-

  At 7.30am Christopher and Sandy were sitting at the table in Weeks’s little dining room tucking in with relish to bacon and eggs. Despite having only slept for a few hours they were bright eyed and bushy tailed and raring to go. Weeks smiled at their youthful enthusiasm. ‘Are you ready to go back to your camp?’

  ‘Can’t we go with you?’ Christopher asked, through a mouthful of egg and toast.

  ‘I don’t think that would be wise,’ Weeks said, chuckling. ‘But don’t worry, I know that your Uncle Sonny will be delighted with the information you’ve given me. I’m sure he’ll thank you in person, later. Meanwhile, eat up and I’ll drive you back.

  After Weeks had dropped the boys as near to their camp as he could, and promised to keep them informed, he headed for the police station in Collinghurst. He was surprised to find Russell’s office empty. Aggie ran into the room and snuffled about, also appearing bewildered at her owner’s absence. Weeks went back out to the front
desk. ‘No lad. I haven’t seen him,’ Wickstead said. ‘Anything I can help with?’

  Weeks sighed. ‘I don’t think so. I’ve had some important information that needs acting on quickly.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d better speak to Superintendent Stout then.’

  ‘Is he in already?’

  ‘Surprisingly, yes. He’s got DI Parker in the office with him.’

  Weeks’s heart sank. Bonnie Parker was the last person he wanted to involve. He decided to wait a little longer and returned to his desk.

  After half an hour all he had done was shuffle some papers and scribble a few notes about what the boys had told him. He looked at his watch for the umpteenth time but Russell had still not shown up. Though reluctant to share what he had heard with anyone else he decided he couldn’t keep it to himself any longer. So he decided there was nothing for it but to tell the Super. Walking up to the senior policeman’s office he knocked on the door. ‘Come,’ was the gruff response. Entering the room he was confronted by a thick pall of blue smoke and the stench of Stout’s customary cheroots. The Superintendent looked up. ‘Yes, constable? What is it?’

  Stifling a cough Weeks said: ‘I wonder if I could have a word, sir – in private.’

  Stout looked across the desk towards Parker, who had a smug look on his face. ‘I’m sure whatever you’ve got to say can be shared by my colleague here.’ When Weeks hesitated he said, ‘Come on man. Spit it out.’

  Weeks cleared his throat. He hadn’t been asked to sit so he stood just inside the doorway. ‘Well, sir,’ he began. ‘Russell’s nephew and his friend came to see me in the early hours of this morning with some important information.’

  ‘Huh. Those two,’ Parker said abruptly. The cigar clamped between his teeth shook, flicking ash down his already grey-flecked tie.

  Stout gave him a dark look then returned his gaze to Weeks. ‘So tell me what this “important information” is.’

  Weeks went on to outline what the boys had told him, occasionally glancing at his notes. The two senior officers sat quietly listening and smoking.

  When Weeks had finished Stout leant forward and stubbed out his cheroot in the glass ashtray. ‘So, constable, in a nutshell, you think that this Fountain fellow – with these fishermen – is going to effect some sort of hand-over in exchange for – what was her name?’

  ‘Bailey, sir. Isobel Bailey.’

  ‘Who is being held hostage.’

  ‘I believe so.’

  Parker coughed and sat slightly more upright. ‘Could I make a point, sir?’

  ‘Of course. Go ahead.’

  ‘This bloke, Fountain. He’s the one I told you about. Faked a break-in at his warehouse to get the insurance.’

  ‘But I thought nothing had been taken?’

  ‘That’s what he said, but I’m not so sure.’

  ‘Hmm. And what about the Frenchman?’

  ‘Salle, sir,’ Weeks said.

  Parker guffawed. ‘Huh! Another of Russell’s flights of fancy. He hasn’t found any evidence to link him with any of this.’

  ‘Is that right, constable?’

  Yes, sir,’ he said in a small voice. Then more boldly, ‘But DI Russell is pretty sure that he’s up to his neck in it.’

  ‘Pretty sure isn’t evidence, now is it?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Weeks could see he wasn’t getting anywhere but wasn’t ready to give up. ‘I wondered if we ought to set up a surveillance at Compass Point.’

  ‘What, on the say-so of a couple of kids?’

  ‘But they’ve been right in the past. Remember when they heard the meeting between the German, Wolfgang, and Jack Spratt?’

  Stout snorted. ‘Yes, and look at that trouble that got you into. You nearly died, as I recall. Sorry. I just don’t think it’s worth using the man power. Now, if there’s nothing else…’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He was just turning to go when he decide to try one last shot. ‘Could we at least put a tail on Fountain’s Morris Traveller?’

  Stout looked at the DI. ‘What do you think?’

  Parker shrugged. ‘Not sure what it’ll achieve. S’pose it can’t do any harm.’

  The Superintendent looked back at Weeks. ‘Very well. You can follow the car. But for God’s sake, don’t spend any more time on it than you have to.’

  -0-

  Isobel Bailey had spent her second night in the dingy lock-up. She’d had no food and had only been given a drink or two of water. Her hands were still tied so the chipped mug was held to her lips, as much water running down her front as went into her thirsty mouth. This added to the wetness where she’d soiled herself, but she was so miserable and frightened that she was past caring. Thankfully the big man hadn’t hit her again but she wondered what was coming next. From where she was sitting she could just make out the sacks containing the goods that had been brought back from her shop. She cursed Duncan Fountain. If she hadn’t felt sorry for him, she wouldn’t be in this mess. She wondered if he would go to the police if he knew she’d been abducted. But did he? The last she’d seen of him was when she left his warehouse to return to her shop – a journey she never completed. That brute of a man had been so quick. And the blow he’d struck her had been far from gentle. She wondered if her jaw was fractured – it certainly felt like it. She hated to think what else they had in store for her. She knew there was another man – although she hadn’t seen him. Would they let her go as she knew what the big man looked like? He had made no attempt to disguise himself so she would be able to give a good description of him. She shuddered. What a bloody mess. She hadn’t felt this desperate since her handsome Frenchman had ditched her and gone off in a huff. But that seemed so long ago and – with the benefit of hindsight – nothing like as distressing as the situation she now found herself in.

  -0-

  Russell and the telegram boy lay in the road, the motorcycle on its side between them. The engine had stalled and the only sound came from the spinning front wheel. The nanny turned, let go of the little boy’s hand and went over to Russell. As she bent down towards him two nurses, wearing blue capes with red ribbons crossing their chests, came round the corner and, seeing what had happened, quickly came to help. By now, the motorcyclist had managed to sit up and was rubbing his arm, appearing dazed but apparently uninjured. The little boy began to cry so the nanny went back to comfort him. Russell wasn’t moving. There was a little trickle of blood on the road beneath his head.

  ‘Is he okay?’ the younger nurse asked.

  The older one carefully lifted Russell’s head and gently turned it to one side. ‘Look,’ she said. There was a small abrasion on the back, where the blood was coming from.

  Russell groaned and his eyes flickered and half-opened. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘You’ve had an accident,’ the older nurse said. ‘Where does it hurt?’

  ‘All over.’

  ‘Does it feel like anything is broken?’ the other nurse asked.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Russell struggled to sit up.

  ‘No, stay there. I think you need to be examined.’ She turned to her colleague. ‘I’ll stay with him. You go over to St Thomas’s and get them to send an ambulance.

  Russell tried to sit up again. ‘I don’t need an ambulance.’

  The older nurse pushed him gently but firmly on the chest. ‘Oh yes you do. Just be patient.’ He lay back and closed his eyes, glad of the rest.

  Chapter 15

  Hardtack is a simple type of biscuit or cracker, made from flour, water and salt. It is inexpensive and long-lasting. In the absence of perishable foods, it was commonly used during long sea voyages, land migrations, and military campaigns.

  The fishermen had carried on talking and drinking into the early hours until there was not a drop left in the two bottles. Fountain had tried to keep pace but at some time had slipped into a deep sleep, slumped in the corner of the cabin. He woke to see daylight coming in through the grimy portholes. The room was stuffy – fetid with the stink of stale
tobacco and unwashed bodies. The paraffin lamp had burnt out, overlaying the atmosphere with an odour of burnt wick. He felt stiff and cold and someone was banging a hammer on the inside of his skull. He looked around. Next to him, Lou was curled up at the end of his seat, snoring gently. Across from him, the other two were dead to the world. Tedham was sprawled across the table, his head resting on folded arms. Drake sat upright, wedged in the corner, his head tipped back, eyes closed, mouth open, breathing noisily. Fountain started to unfold his limbs. The hammering in his head increased in intensity. He felt sick. Clutching the table for support he carefully raised himself into a stooped, but standing position.

  Gingerly he made his way to the companionway steps, slid open the hatch and climbed out. The fresh morning air made him gag and he swallowed hard, his head swimming. He sat on the top step, half in and half out of the boat, gradually increasing the depth of his breathing until the nausea passed and the hammering lessened. He stayed like this for some minutes until he heard a sound from below. Peering down into the gloom he saw Lou moving into the little galley area.

  The fisherman emptied one of the bottles of water into the kettle, struck a match on the side of the stove and lit the gas. He shook some loose tea out of one of the greaseproof-wrapped packages he had unearthed from the bilges into a cracked brown teapot and arranged four mugs on the table. Soon steam began issuing from the spout and the kettle boiled, with a tuneless whistle. Picking up the kettle he poured the steaming water over the leaves in the pot. He stood patiently for a few minutes, and then divided the tea between the mugs. He looked up and saw Fountain staring at him.

  ‘Tea up, shipmate. Afraid there’s no milk,’ he said, handing him a mug.

  Fountain smiled thinly. ‘That’s all right. As long as it’s wet and warm.’ He cradled the mug, warming his hands, as he watched the other two fishermen stir.