‘Bloody ’ell!’ Drake said. ‘I ain’t ’alf got a thick ’ead.’
‘Not surprised, the amount you put away,’ Tedham growled.
‘Me? You ’ad the lion’s share.’
‘Pack it in, you two. Drink your tea,’ Lou said, handing them their mugs. ‘We’ve got to come up with a plan, if we’re to rescue this lass of our mate ’ere.’ He nodded towards Fountain.
‘Listen,’ Drake said. ‘I bin thinkin’.’
‘Makes a change.’
‘Shut up, Sailor. Now’s not the time for sarky remarks. As I was sayin’, I bin thinkin’. It’s all very well rescuing the girl, but that won’t stop Monsewer Albert comin’ after us, will it?’
‘I s’pose not,’ Tedham replied sulkily.
‘So we think of some way to fix ’im – permanent like. And ’anging on to the loot, if we can.’’
‘’Ow do you propose to do that?’
‘I ain’t got that far. I thought we could talk about it – someone’s bound to come up with a suggestion – ain’t they?’
‘Maybe.’
They were quiet while they sipped their tea. Then Fountain spoke. ‘I’m still not happy about this. My main concern is that we get Isobel back unharmed. I’m not bothered about the gold and silver – he’s welcome to it.’
‘Hmm! You might not be but we’ve got a lot invested in it, ain’t we, Sailor?’ Drake said.
‘I suppose so.’
‘So, like I said at the beginning, we need to come up with a plan.’
‘Yeah, well.’ Tedham rasped his calloused hand across the stubble on his chin. ‘I ain’t ’alf ’ungry. Got any of them vittles left, Lou?’
‘Trust you to think of your belly. There might be some ’ardtack in that there tin.’ He pointed to a battered biscuit tin, the original printing on the lid long ago worn to a dull, silvery finish.
Tedham grabbed the tin and shook it. It rattled. He prised the lid off and sniffed the contents. ‘I s’pose that’ll ’ave to do,’ he grumbled.
‘Suit yerself; there ain’t nothin’ else. You ate it all last night.’
Tedham took a biscuit out and bit into it, crumbs spilling down his grubby jersey.
‘Anyway, who’s got any ideas ’ow we can fix the Froggy?’
This time the pause lasted a lot longer. Drake and Lou kept their eyes averted; Tedham munched on his biscuit and Fountain sat quietly on the step, sipping his tea. The sun had come out from behind the clouds. It was going to be a warm day. Seabirds could be heard along the river: the rising, bubbling note of a curlew; the insistent piping of oystercatchers overlaid with the raucous bickering of black-headed gulls. In the distance a halliard clattered rhythmically against a mast.
‘I think we should lie low, for the time bein’ anyways,’ Drake said.
‘But we need some more grub. Them ’ard tack biscuits ain’t very fillin’.’
‘I could go and get some supplies,’ Fountain offered. ‘I wouldn’t mind going back to my warehouse to get a change of clothes, too.’
Drake swallowed nervously, his bobbing Adams apple making his red neckerchief rise and fall like an out of control elevator. ‘But won’t the law be lookin’ out for you?’
‘I don’t see why. I haven’t done anything.’ Fountain held his hands out.
‘But what about the note?’ Lou asked.
‘The police don’t know about it. So there’s no reason for them to be interested in me.’
‘Hmm. Maybe not. But I think you need to be careful.’
‘Why don’t you go with ’im, Lou? Tedham asked.
‘Yeah,’ Drake added. ‘There’s no reason for the rozzers to be interested in you either, is there?’
‘I suppose not,’ Vicary said, his tentative reply lacking conviction.
Tedham took out his pipe and began filling it with his foul-smelling tobacco. When Fountain saw this he spoke quickly. ‘Yes, that’s a good idea. I’d rather have someone with me. Shall we go now? I expect these gentlemen could do with some vittles.’
-0-
‘Um, are you busy, Nettie?’ Weeks had sidled up to WPC Sharpe and stood apprehensively at the side of her desk.
She smiled up at him, her clear grey eyes twinkling. ‘Nothing I can’t put off for now. Why, what have you got in mind?’
‘Do you fancy doing a bit of surveillance?’
‘Have you got permission?’
‘Er, for me, yes.’
‘So you want me to help you on the quiet?’
‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you.’ Weeks started to turn away.
Sharpe grabbed his sleeve. ‘Don’t be daft. I’m not going to turn down a bit of excitement.’
Weeks grinned, his dark fringe flopping over his eyes. ‘I can’t promise excitement.’
‘Doesn’t matter. It’ll make a change from paperwork and helping old ladies across the road. I’ll tell the Sarge I’m going out.’
‘Will he be okay about it?’
‘Wickstead? Yes, he’s a sweetie. Give me a couple of minutes.’
-0-
Rather than take the police Wolseley Weeks chose to drive his own Ford Popular. It wouldn’t be as fast in a chase, but Fountain’s Morris Traveller wasn’t exactly a racehorse. Plus it would be a lot less conspicuous. Aggie was happy to jump in the car and settled down on the back seat. The boys had told Weeks where the track turned off the main road so he headed in that direction. When they reached the junction he pulled the car off the road beyond the phone box.
‘I’ve got an idea,’ Nettie said.
‘Oh? What’s that?’
‘If I pretend to be making a call I could keep a better look-out along the track.’
‘But won’t it be obvious you’re a policewoman – the uniform and everything?’
‘Watch.’ She took off her peaked cap, pulled out a couple of pins and shook her head. Her blond hair cascaded over her shoulders, falling in waves. She smiled at Weeks who coloured slightly. ‘See?’
‘Wow! I d-didn’t realise…’
‘That I had long hair?’
‘Well…’
She chuckled. ‘Police regulations mean I have to wear it up at work, but that doesn’t mean I can’t keep it long.’ She started to open the door. ‘You sit here and as soon as I see anything I’ll dash back and let you know. Okay?’
Nettie made her way to the red phone box, pulled the door open and settled inside, making herself as comfortable as she could for what might be a long wait. She could clearly see several hundred yards down the track. After a number of settled days with warm sunshine the weather was changing. The sky was now leaden and threatening; the wind was fickle, alternating between gentle breaths and gusty blasts, shaking the scrubby trees and almost flattening the Marram grass either side of the track. It looked as if rain wasn’t far off. Nettie hoped she wasn’t going to get soaked.
However, after 20 minutes, she heard the sound of an engine: a plume of dust rose, and was then blown sideways by the wind. She watched eagerly, just as fat blobs of rain hit the windows of the phone box. As more raindrops fell, washing the dust off the glass, she could see the blue Morris bumping slowly along the track. The rain was starting to fall more forcefully now, the gusty wind blowing it at 45 degrees. She took a chance and made a dash for the Ford. Pulling the door open she jumped inside and pulled it closed behind her.
‘The car’s coming!’
With that the Morris came out of the track and turned in the direction of Collinghurst. Unfortunately Weeks’s car was facing the opposite direction. He started the engine and tried to execute a neat three point turn but the road was narrow at that point and it took him several attempts to turn the Ford. By then, the rain was falling steadily, the pathetic wipers were doing little to clear the windscreen and with only three gears progress was painfully slow. There was no sign of the Morris.
‘Damn!’ Weeks exclaimed. ‘We’ve lost it!’
‘Don’t worry. There aren’t any turnings for a mile
or two. Hopefully we’ll catch up with it soon.
Weeks had his foot hard to the floor, the side-valve engine struggling manfully. The initial downpour had eased to a more gentle drizzle, with an occasional squally blast. There was no traffic in front of them but there was still no sign of the Morris. Weeks was leaning forward in his seat, willing the car on. ‘Come on, come on,’ he muttered under his breath. The tyres swished on the wet Tarmac and crashed through the puddles, spraying water out sideways.
Nettie picked up on Weeks’s anxiety. She lightly touched his arm. ‘It’s okay, Johnny. We’ll soon catch up with it.’
But they didn’t. The Ford was approaching the outskirts of Collinghurst when a heavily laden lorry turned out from a factory entrance, right into their path. Weeks stamped on the brake, simultaneously pressing hard on the horn in the centre of the steering wheel. ‘Bloody idiot!’ he said. The lorry driver seemed determined to crawl along at no more than 20 miles an hour. Weeks tried swinging round to pass but the previously empty road was suddenly heavy with oncoming traffic. ‘Ye gods and little fishes! Grr! Now we’ll never find him.’
‘Listen,’ Nettie said. ‘Where’s he most likely to go?’
Weeks was uncharacteristically frazzled. ‘How should I know?’
‘You do know.’
‘I do?’ He turned and looked his companion.
She smiled back at him. ‘Yes. His warehouse.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course. Why else would he come back to Collinghurst?’
Weeks frowned. ‘I suppose you could be right,’ he said slowly.
‘So let’s go and see if he’s there.’
-0-
‘What do you mean, I can’t leave?’ Sonny Russell had woken to find he was undressed and lying in bed wearing hospital pyjamas. He didn’t know how he had got there, just had a vague recollection of being hit by something and passing out.
‘The doctor wants to make sure you haven’t got concussion.’ Behind the steel of her voice the matron had a musical lilt that spoke of the west coast of Ireland.
‘But I feel fine.’ He struggled to sit up but the sheets had been tucked in securely and he was still feeling weak. ‘I need to get back. I’m working on an important case.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Yes, I’m a policeman – a detective inspector.’
‘Is that so?’ Her mouth formed a slight smile. ‘I suppose you think they can’t cope without you?’
‘Not exactly…’
‘Well they will just have to manage for the time being.’
‘But they need me,’ he pleaded weakly.
‘I’m afraid you’re not going anywhere. Not until the doctor has signed you off.’
‘When will he see me?’ There was desperation in his voice.
The matron tipped up the watch that was pinned to her uniform. ‘He’ll be starting his rounds in an hour or so.’
‘I can’t wait that long.’
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to. Now, be a good man, lie back and make the most of being here.’ Russell realised there was no point in arguing with such a formidable woman. Besides, he did feel weary – his ribs ached and his shoulder was sore. He thought he would just close his eyes for a moment…
-0-
‘It’s not here. I knew it!’ Weeks had turned the Ford Prefect into the street where Fountain had his warehouse. Apart from a horse-drawn cart his was the only vehicle. The rag-and-bone man was absent, and his horse stood patiently, the bottom half of his face buried in a sacking nose bag which moved as the animal chewed rhythmically. A neat pile of manure steamed on the road behind the horse. Nettie had been sure that the Morris would be there and felt bad about giving Weeks false hope. But at first she said nothing.
Weeks spoke. ‘What shall we do?’ Uncharacteristically he looked clueless. His hands gripped the steering wheel and he stared straight ahead through the raindrops running down the windscreen; his face was a picture of misery. He felt that he’d gone out on a limb – assuring the Super that Fountain was deeply involved with the stolen Nazi plunder. ‘I was certain I was on to something,’ he said. ‘Those boys – Christopher and Sandy – were convinced they’d heard some important information and they convinced me, too. Now I’m not so sure… might just as well go back to the station.’
‘Johnny,’ Nettie said gently. ‘I’m sure you’re on to something. Let’s just wait a little longer. He may have gone somewhere else first.’
‘Okay.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We’ll give it another 10 minutes. If he hasn’t turned up by then we’ll call it off.’
As it turned out they didn’t have to wait that long. In a couple of minutes the blue Traveller appeared and drew to a halt outside the warehouse. The driver’s door opened and they saw Fountain emerge. Then the passenger door opened.
‘Who’s that?’ Weeks was astonished.
The man who got out was dressed in the clothes of a fisherman but sported a tartan tam-o’-shanter.
‘No idea. Look, they’re both going into the warehouse.’
Fountain had peered round furtively then produced a key and unlocked the door. The two men were soon inside and the door closed behind them. It wasn’t long before they reappeared and got back into their car.
‘Fountain has changed his clothes.’ Weeks observed. ‘I wonder why?’
‘Presumably he slept in them last night.’
‘You could be right.’ The Morris pulled away from the kerb. Weeks waited for a moment then started the engine and followed. It was still raining intermittently so he was able to follow quite closely, with only a slim chance of being spotted. Fountain drove carefully for a few minutes then pulled up outside a general store. Weeks stopped the Ford a little way up the street. The passenger door of the Morris opened and the other man got out and went into the shop. After a while he re-emerged carrying a medium-sized cardboard box and climbed back into the car and they set off again.
‘I bet they’re going back to the boat,’ Nettie said.
‘I think you might be right.’ Indeed, the car was retracing the route they had taken earlier. The rain had now turned to a steady drizzle. The wipers were keeping pace and they could see the Morris clearly ahead. When it reached the telephone box it turned down the track. ‘Damn!’ Weeks said, through gritted teeth. ‘Now what do we do?’
‘I’ve got an idea. Neither of them has seen you before, have they?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘So they wouldn’t be suspicious of a man taking a dog for a walk, would they?’
‘Aggie! Of course!’ At the mention of her name the terrier, who had been dozing on the back seat, pricked up her ears and sat up expectantly. Weeks pulled over just beyond the phone box, grabbed his raincoat from the back and jammed a tweed cap on his head. He smiled at Nettie before getting out of the car. ‘You stay here. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
He set off down the track; the terrier darting from side to side, following scents that only she knew were there. The rain was light, Weeks was striding out and in a few minutes he caught a glimpse of the Morris, some way ahead, bumping over the ruts and potholes. He slowed as he appeared to be gaining on the vehicle; he didn’t want to catch up with it, just keep it in his sight. After five minutes or so he saw the car stop and, looking up, he could see a dark shape looming on the horizon. He carried on, at a slower pace, and saw the two men get out of the car and make their way towards what appeared to be a beached hulk. In turn, each climbed the ladder set against its side, clambered over the gunwale and disappeared into the cabin. Weeks continued striding towards the boat, the terrier still dancing round his feet. ‘Aggie,’ he said, holding his finger to his lips. ‘Shh!’ The dog looked up, alert. She wagged her tail then sat, expectantly. ‘Good girl.’ Weeks leant towards the hull, pressing his ear to the paint-flecked wooden side where a plank had sprung, leaving a gaping hole. He heard the hatch slide shut then,
‘Good. You’ve brought us some vittles.’
‘I told you we would.’
‘Yeah, well…’
There was a pause, then, ‘We’ve been ’avin’ a chat, while you were gone.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. We’ve got some suggestions about tonight.’
‘I told you, I’m not happy about you coming along. The people who are holding Isobel said they didn’t want anyone else.’
‘No, they didn’t,’ a voice said emphatically. ‘The note said No Police and we ain’t the police.’
‘I suppose not.’ The reply was so faint, Weeks could hardly make it out.
‘Anyway, as I said, we’ve been thinkin’, and this is what we’ve decided.’
There was some shuffling and the noise of packages being opened. The hum of conversation was so low Weeks couldn’t make out what was being said, just occasional words. Next, a new voice spoke: ‘What time are they gonna be there?’
‘The note said 7.30 on the quay at Compass Point.’
‘Right. Jack Spratt will be long gone by then so we can ’ide in ’is shed.’
‘Good plan. ’E’s got winders on both side of ’is ’ut, so we can keep a look out.’
‘But what are we lookin’ for?’
There was a lengthy pause.
‘I don’t actually know. Someone turning up in a car I suppose.’
‘They ain’t gonna walk there are they? Not if they’ve got that lassie.’
‘I suppose not.’
‘An’ what are we going to do when they do turn up.’
‘I ain’t thought that far ahead.’
‘We’ll need to ’ave some sorta plan.’
‘Yeah, well…’
‘That’s enough chat for now. We can think about what we’re going to do, later. Anyway, let’s get some grub inside us, then we can ’ave a snooze. Need to be bright eyed and bushy tailed before tonight’s fun an’ games.’
Weeks had heard enough and didn’t want to push his luck so he turned away, his head reeling. He stumbled back to the car in a daze; all manner of thoughts tumbling round his brain. With what the boys had told him and what he had just heard, it seemed certain that some sort of exchange – contraband for a person – Isobel Bailey – was planned for that evening on the quay at Compass Point. It was so frustrating. What he’d heard was little different from what Christopher and Sandy had told him. He had been unable to convince the Super earlier in the day so there was little chance anything would change – especially as Bonnie Parker seemed to be the golden boy at the moment. And he certainly didn’t believe it. If only DI Russell was about. He’d believe the story. But where was he? It was so unlike his boss. Even if something had happened to delay Russell, Weeks found it hard to believe that he wouldn’t at least have got a message to his DC. It was baffling. He wasn’t used to being in this position, without the wiser DI to reassure and support him. He sighed deeply, making the terrier, who was trotting along beside him, look up with concern in her brown eyes. Weeks face softened and he reached down, ruffling the dog’s shaggy head. ‘Don’t worry, Aggie, he’ll be back soon. Meanwhile, we’ll just have to sort it out ourselves – with the help of Nettie, of course.’
Blood on the Strand Page 24