Blood on the Strand

by Chris O'Donoghue

  -0-

  For the second time, Russell emerged from a deep sleep and vaguely wondered where he was. The combination of the bump on the head and strong painkillers was making him feel dreamy. He knew something had happened to him – something traumatic – but for the life of him he couldn’t think what it was. An accident? Surely not. He’d remember that, wouldn’t he? He ached all over – had someone hit him? He really couldn’t recall. So what had happened? He looked down at the crisp white linen. He appeared to be in a strange bed. So where was he? He looked up to see a tall confident looking man with grey flecked hair, swept back in an elaborate quiff and wearing a beautifully cut suit. He was approaching the bed, closely followed by half a dozen younger men wearing white coats, stethoscopes slung round their necks. The man stopped and lifted the chart hooked on the end of the bed. He glanced at the figures then turned to his acolytes. ‘What we have here is a classic case of concussion brought on by a blow to the head.’ He turned to Russell, his lips forming a vulpine smile. ‘And how are we feeling today?’

  ‘Pardon?’ Russell answered, his voice groggy.

  The man shrugged and turned back. ‘What treatment should we be giving this patient?’

  ‘Er, observation and bed rest, sir?’ one of the younger men volunteered.

  ‘Quite so. And for how long?’

  ‘Several days – a week?’

  Russell blinked. ‘A week! I’ve got to get back to work.’

  The senior man turned to him, the smile gone, his face stern. ‘You’re not going anywhere, sir. You’ve had a nasty bump on the head and we need to keep an eye on you.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘No buts. You’ll stay here until we discharge you.’ With that he swept off to the next patient, the students following like the tail of a comet.

  They were replaced by the Irish matron. ‘There you are. A week’s bed rest.’

  ‘But I have to get back to work,’ he pleaded.

  She folded her arms, her face set. ‘You heard what the consultant said – we need to keep an eye on you – make sure nothing is amiss.’

  ‘But I feel fine. I have to get back.’

  ‘Listen. I’ll do something for you. Let me have a number and I’ll speak to your police station – tell them what’s happened and say they’ll have to manage without you for a few days.’

  Russell took a deep breath and exhaled noisily. ‘I suppose that’s better than nothing.’

  ‘It’s all you’re going to get, I’m afraid. Now, let me have that number.’

  -0-

  Wickstead, who was the duty desk sergeant, answered the telephone. ‘Collinghurst police station, how can I help you?’

  ‘Good morning, this is St Thomas’s hospital.’

  ‘In London?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. We’ve got a patient here called Mr Russell – he says he’s a policeman at your station.’

  ‘Detective Inspector Sonny Russell?’

  There was a shuffling sound. ‘You’re right. I’ve got his warrant card here.’

  ‘What’s happened to him?’

  The matron went on to explain about Russell’s accident.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. It’s dreadful. Is he badly hurt?’ Wickstead asked.

  ‘We don’t think so: just shaken, with a few cuts and bruises. The doctor is more concerned that he’s suffering from concussion.’

  ‘I see. How long will he need to stay with you?’

  ‘The doctor said a few days – maybe a week.’

  ‘Oh dear… he’s involved in an important case.’

  ‘So he said. But we can’t help that. He needs rest. Will you pass the message on to his superiors?’

  ‘Certainly, madam. Please give Inspector Russell my best wishes.’ After the sergeant had replaced the receiver he went immediately to Superintendent Stout’s office and knocked on the door.

  ‘Come.’ Wickstead pushed the door open and entered. ‘Ah, Sergeant. What can I do for you?’

  ‘It’s seems that we’re going to have to do without the company of DI Russell for a while, sir.’

  Stout’s forehead creased like the furrows in a freshly ploughed field. ‘Is he sick?’

  ‘Not exactly, sir. He’s in hospital – been knocked down.’

  The Super’s eyebrows rose to meet the furrows and he sat up in his chair. ‘Is he badly hurt?’

  ‘No. Got concussion apparently.’

  ‘Not too serious then.’ The furrows flattened out and he sat back. ‘How long will we be without him?’

  ‘A few days, maybe a week.’

  ‘I suppose we’ll just have to manage without him then. Good job that DI Parker is on top of things.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Wickstead decided it was time to leave and turned towards the door. Then Stout spoke again.

  ‘Can you send his DC, Weeks, in to see me please?’

  Wickstead turned back. ‘I could, sir, if he was here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Er, you said he could go off after the Fountain fellow.’

  Stout snorted. ‘Hmm. So I did. Well, when he gets back…’

  -0-

  ‘Tell me again what you heard. Only slowly this time.’

  After Weeks had returned to the car he had wrenched the door open and tumbled into the driver’s seat. He grabbed an old towel and gave Aggie a firm rub, while trying to explain what he had heard. He was so keen to get the information out that he rushed his words and what he did say made no sense to the Nettie.

  ‘You’ll have to slow down, Johnny. I can’t understand what you’re saying.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Sorry, Nettie. I’ll start again. I can’t be sure, but I think I heard four distinct voices. One certainly belonged to our friend Duncan Fountain.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘His voice was more refined – the others dropped their aitches – he didn’t.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘He sounded rather concerned about the others going to the quay this evening. He told them that he was the only one that should turn up. He was emphatic that they – the abductors – said no one else was to go. One of the others corrected him saying the note didn’t say just anyone, it said “no police”.’

  ‘What about the others? Any idea who they were?’

  ‘Two of them sounded like they could be Tedham and Drake, but I can’t be certain as I’ve never met them.’

  ‘What about the mystery man?’ Nettie had taken the towel and was gently wiping the terrier’s face.

  ‘Still a mystery man, I’m afraid. It was difficult to tell him from the other two.’

  ‘And it’s definitely going to take place at seven-thirty?’

  ‘That’s what I heard.’

  ‘What was that about Jack Spratt?’

  ‘Oh yes. They’re going to hide in his shed, apparently.’

  ‘And do what?’ Nettie stopped wiping Aggie’s head and stared at Weeks.

  ‘No idea – they didn’t say. I don’t think they’d thought that far ahead.’

  ‘Presumably concoct some sort of rescue plan – get back the goods that they reckon are theirs.’

  ‘What about Isobel Bailey?’

  Weeks snorted. ‘Ha! I doubt if they’d be overly worried about her – a posh bird.’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh.’

  He held his hands up. ‘Hey, that’s not me speaking. I’m just imaging how they would see it.’

  Nettie punched him playfully on the arm. ‘I’m only joking. Anyway, what are they going to do until then?’

  ‘It sounded like they were preparing a meal – presumably that was what was in the box that they got from the shop.’

  ‘That won’t take all afternoon.’

  ‘No. There was talk of having a snooze. One of them said they needed to be “bright eyed and bushy tailed” before the evening.’

  The WPC pulled back the sleeve of her uniform jacket and peered at her wristwatch. ‘It’s getting
on for three. What should we do now?’

  The expression on Weeks’s face was serious. ‘I’m not sure you should be involved. It could be dangerous.’

  ‘What?’ Nettie’s grey eyes widened with surprise. You’ve let me come this far and you don’t want me to be in at the kill?’

  ‘Don’t joke. It could turn nasty.’

  ‘Okay. Fair enough. So what are you planning to do now?’

  ‘I’m going to have one more shot at persuading the Super to take it seriously. Then we’ll see.’

  ‘I understand.’ They sat quietly for a while, as the last of the raindrops rolled down the windscreen.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ Weeks asked.

  Nettie smiled. ‘I am, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘We haven’t had lunch, so why don’t we go and have something to eat?’

  ‘Good idea. Where do you suggest?’

  ‘What about that nice little teashop – next to Isobel Bailey’s place?’

  -0-

  Lunch was over when they arrived at Miss Smollett’s. But the proprietor herself, dressed in her customary grey, informed them: ‘Tea will be served in a few minutes – if you’d like to take a seat?’ She looked quizzically at Weeks but said nothing more.

  The place was virtually empty so they had the pick of the tables. They chose one by the window. Together, but away from the familiar surroundings of the office, Nettie and Weeks were tongue-tied. They sat quietly looking out into the street, each not wanting to be the first to speak. Then the waitress turned up with menus which she handed to them. With something to do they relaxed and the atmosphere palpably softened. The waitress stood, pen poised over her pad.

  ‘What are you going to…?’ They said simultaneously. Both laughed, breaking the tension.

  ‘I thought tea and a selection of sandwiches, then maybe a cake,’ Nettie said.

  ‘Yes, that’s fine,’ Weeks added and handed the menu back to the waitress.

  She wrote down their order. As she made her way towards the kitchen, Miss Smollett passed her and came up to them. ‘Do you mind if I join you? I’d like to have a chat.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Weeks said. He stood and fetched a chair from a nearby table.

  When she was settled, Miss Smollett leant forward, conspiratorially. ‘You’re one of the policemen who came round the other day, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Weeks replied cautiously.

  ‘And you borrowed the key to Izzie’s shop?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m concerned about her. I wonder if something terrible has happened.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘I haven’t seen her for a couple of days and I’m starting to get worried. It’s not like her.’

  ‘Hasn’t she been in touch?’ Nettie asked.

  ‘No. that’s the strange thing. I’ve tried ringing her home number but there’s no answer.’

  ‘Perhaps she’s gone away for a few days.’

  ‘Maybe…’ The woman sounded doubtful. ‘It’s just there was that business about the two men and the key.’ The constables exchanged a glance. ‘You would tell me if you knew anything, wouldn’t you?’ She sat, one hand massaging the other, worry clouding her pretty features.

  Nettie reached out and placed her own hand on the woman’s wrist. ‘Of course we would. As soon as we hear anything we’ll let you know.’

  Just then the waitress arrived with their tea. Miss Smollett got up from her chair. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.’

  ‘That’s quite all right, madam. We’ll be in touch as soon as we can.’

  -0-

  On arriving back at the station, they had to cross the entrance foyer. Wickstead, behind the counter, said nothing, just winked. Nettie went back to her desk; Weeks to sit behind the pile of teetering files that never seemed to decrease in number. He sat, chewing his lip, idly flicking through the paperwork. On the outside he looked calm but inside he was quaking. After what he’d found out he was beginning to grasp the gravity of what could happen. Somehow he needed to persuade the Superintendent of its seriousness and get him to act on it. He decided to leave it for a while – get his thoughts in order – and made a start on the paperwork.

  After half an hour he could stand it no longer. He straightened his tie and smoothed his jacket. He tried brushing his hair back with his hand but it refused to stay put, and flopped back over his brow. Clearing his throat he walked confidently up to the Superintendent’s door and knocked.

  ‘Come in!’

  Weeks entered. He was taken aback to see DI Parker sitting in Stout’s chair, his head wreathed in blue smoke.

  ‘Oh, it’s you. What do you want?’

  ‘Er, I was looking for the Super.’

  ‘He’s out. I’m looking after the shop while he’s away.’

  Weeks was rattled, but tried not to show it. ‘Do you know when he’ll return?’

  ‘He won’t be back today – he’s playing golf with his pals. Not that it’s any of your business. What do you want?’

  Weeks was blowed if he was going to share what he knew with Bonnie Parker. Even if he did tell him, the DI would be bound to dismiss it out of hand – probably in spite. Keeping his voice steady he said, ‘Nothing important, sir. It can keep until tomorrow.’ Without waiting for a reaction, he turned on his heel and left the roof, closing the door quietly behind him. Parker took a drag on the cigar and rolled his eyes.

  A little later Nettie found Weeks sitting in his chair, staring into space. ‘Johnny?’

  He blinked and shook his head. He took a few moments to come back into the room. ‘Sorry?’ he said. And looking up, ‘Nettie?’

  She chuckled. ‘You were miles away.’

  He grinned back bashfully. ‘Yes I was. Trying to work out what to do for the best.’

  Aggie, who had been dozing under the desk, rushed up to greet her. Nettie pulled a chair across, lifted Aggie on to her lap and, while deftly dodging the small dog’s enthusiastic licks, asked: ‘What did the Super say?’

  Weeks explained what had happened when he went into Stout’s office. ‘I didn’t think there was any point in telling Bonnie what we’d found out. He wouldn’t care and if he did, he’s too bloody lazy to do anything about it.’

  ‘What shall we do then?’

  Weeks huffed. I told you Nettie, I don’t think you should be involved. I’m not even sure I want to be either…’

  ‘But we’ve got to do something. What about poor Isobel Bailey?’

  ‘Maybe they’ll just hand her over and take the loot.’

  ‘Do you really believe it will be that simple?’

  Weeks thought for a moment. ‘No. I don’t. It’s just I’m not sure I can do anything – without help.’

  She leant forward, pushed a pile of files aside and placed her forearms on the desk. ‘Look. I might only be a humble WPC but I’m a big girl, you know. I’m not suggesting we do anything heroic, but I think I should go there with you tonight, if only to observe.’

  ‘Maybe…’ Weeks said slowly.

  ‘What if we turn up early, park your car out of sight and just wait?’

  ‘Won’t it look a bit suspicious, two people sitting in a parked car?’

  Nettie sat back and folded her arms. ‘If one is a man and one is a woman?’ She smiled.

  Weeks had the good manners to blush. ‘Oh, I see,’ he stammered.

  ‘So, why don’t you pick me up at, say, seven o’clock? Then we’ll head off to Compass Point.’ She stood up and pushed her chair back. ‘I’m going to finish what I’m doing, then go home and change. Why don’t you make some sort of progress with these?’ She pushed the files back that she’d moved earlier. After the WPC had turned and left, Weeks sat for several minutes, wondering what he’d been talked into doing. What neither of them realised was that they had been overheard. Wickstead had been in the process of crossing the office with a message when he saw them talking. Not wanting to interrupt, he had stood, ju
st outside the doorway, and listened to the last part of their conversation. When Nettie had returned to her own desk, he smiled and continued on his errand.

  Weeks pulled the first file towards him and started reading. However, his eyes just skimmed across the typed pages and he took nothing in. His mind was whirling with other thoughts. He couldn’t get the idea that Isobel Bailey was in serious danger out of his head. He was pretty sure that his boss, DI Russell, was quite keen on her and he felt he owed it to him to make sure she came to no harm. The stakes appeared to be high, judging by what Russell believed had been in the empty crate they had found. Plus what was in the sack, dragged up by the dredger.

  -0-

  When Russell woke again there were longer shadows across the room. He blinked. He was not quite as groggy as he had been earlier. The effects of the painkillers had worn off, leaving his mind clearer but his headache worse, the thumping in his head more insistent. His eyes slowly focussed and, as he took in his surroundings, he noticed that his wristwatch was on the chest next to the bed. It was nearly five pm. He needed to get back. A week’s bedrest? Not likely. He doubted Bonnie Parker would do anything about Fountain or Tedham and Drake, let alone the enigmatic Frenchman, Salle. And Isobel Bailey. Hell! If she had been abducted she could be in real danger. Yes, he had to get back.