Blood on the Strand

by Chris O'Donoghue

  ‘That’s right, sir. How can I help?’

  With his free hand he straightened his tie. ‘This is Alf Jameson, from the Shipwrights Arms…’

  ‘Hello Alf, it’s Sergeant Wickstead here. You still serving that excellent best bitter?’

  Alf smiled. ‘Yes, that’s right. Time you dropped by for a pint.’

  ‘If I ever get away from this place.’

  ‘Anyway, I’ve got something to say that may be of interest to you.’

  ‘Oh really?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve got a couple of customers in here at the moment that you might want to know about.’

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘Two fishermen. I think I recognise them as Tedham and Drake.’

  Wickstead raised his eyebrows. ‘Sailor Tedham and Frankie Drake?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘What are they doing there?’

  ‘They’ve just come in. Sailor looks the worse for wear – might have been in a fight – keeps rubbing his neck.’

  ‘Mmm. Wonder what they’ve been up to. Do you think you can keep them there?’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Good. They’re wanted for questioning. I’ll try to get someone over as quickly as I can. Do your best, Alf.’

  As Wickstead put the phone down, Weeks walked into the station, a murderous look on his face. ‘That bloody man!’

  ‘Who, lad?’

  Weeks banged his fist on the counter. ‘Bonnie bloody Parker!’

  ‘Why, what’s he done?’

  ‘Kept me waiting in the car outside the golf club while he hobnobbed with the Super and his cronies then came out after an hour, stinking of cigars and whiskey. Then made me drive him home because he’d had too much to drink. Grr!’

  ‘I can imagine how you feel but calm down lad. I’ve just heard something that might interest you.’

  ‘Go on,’ Weeks said, intrigue replacing anger.

  ‘Alf Jameson rang from the Shipwrights Arms. He thinks he’s got Sailor Tedham and Frankie Drake in the bar.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said…’

  ‘I heard you, Sarge. I just can’t believe it. Why didn’t you say straight away?’

  ‘I couldn’t get a word in edgeways; you were so fired up about Inspector Parker.

  Weeks looked abashed. ‘Sorry, Sarge.’

  ‘Don’t worry, son. I quite understand. Anyway, hadn’t you better get over to Compass Point?’

  ‘Yes – right.’ Confusion clouded his face. ‘I don’t suppose DI Russell is back?’

  ‘Afraid not.’ He paused, then looked up brightly. ‘Oh. I spoke to him on the phone earlier – after you’d gone off with Parker.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He’s had a bit of an accident.’

  ‘What? Where?’

  ‘He didn’t say what had happened but he was ringing from London.’

  ‘Is he still there?’ Weeks asked, alarmed.

  ‘I would imagine so. He didn’t sound too good.’

  ‘That’s all I need. I suppose Nettie hasn’t been in touch.’

  ‘Afraid not, lad. WPC Sharpe left just after you went off. Took Russell’s dog with her. Presume she went home.’

  Weeks rubbed his hand through his mop of curly hair. ‘I don’t know what to do. Should I check she has gone home?’

  I wouldn’t worry, son. She’s a big girl. Why don’t you get off to Compass Point?’ He looked at his watch. ‘I think Beaumont and Lee should still be in the station – they’re just about to go off duty. Take them with you. If they make a fuss tell them I said so.’

  ‘Thanks, Sarge.’ Decision made, he went off to find the two constables.

  At first PCs Beaumont and Lee were far from enthusiastic. They’d both had a hard day with the Super away and DI Parker in charge and were keen get off to the pub before returning to their digs. Nevertheless, when Weeks told them why they were going to Compass Point they warmed to the idea. Then when he said he’d stand them a round in the Shipwrights Arms they perked up considerably. Even when he told them he wanted to pop round to WPC Sharpe’s place first, to check that she was at home, they agreed willingly. Beaumont even offered to drive the Ford Pilot. He was obviously trying to make up for letting Crabbe abscond from the hospital. They piled into the car and set off for Nettie’s lodgings.

  A few minutes later a police car from the Metropolitan force pulled up outside the station. DCI Dicky Merriman had been so concerned about his friend that he tried to insist that he returned to the hospital. But Russell was adamant that he needed to get back to Collinghurst. In the end, Merriman agreed, reluctantly, but only on the condition that one of his men drove him there. Russell was more than happy to agree, as long as he could go back and find out what had befallen Isobel Bailey. Merriman even provided his own transport – a luxurious Jaguar MkI saloon. Russell had sunk into the soft leather upholstery and slept most of the way on the journey south. He awoke as they approached the outskirts of Collinghurst feeling rested, the thumping in his head more bearable. He thanked the driver but refused help to get out of the car and told him: ‘I’m sure someone will find you a cuppa and a biscuit before you return to the smoke.’

  ‘That’s all right, sir. I think I’ll make my way back now.’

  ‘If you’re sure…’ He nodded his appreciation again and walked confidently into the police station.

  ‘Sonny!’ Wickstead said. ‘I thought you were in London.’

  Russell gave a wan smile. ‘I was, but a kind man has just given me a lift.’

  ‘But how are you? I thought you’d had an accident.’

  ‘I’m okay but I need to get hold of DC Weeks. Do you know where he is?’

  ‘You’ve just missed him. He’s gone off to Compass Point.’

  Alarm filled Russell’s features. ‘What? Why?’

  Wickstead explained about the phone call from Alf.

  ‘So the two fishermen are in the pub?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘I just knew that something was going on. I need to get down there – now.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re up to it?’

  Russell pulled himself up to his full height – still a couple of inches short of Wickstead. ‘Of course I am, sergeant.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. I was only concerned because you do look a little pale.’

  ‘I’m fine’ Russell said firmly. ‘Will you please find me a car?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They’re all out, sir.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not sure if you should be driving anyway – sir.’

  ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.’

  Wickstead appealed to him. ‘Sonny, you don’t look well. I don’t think you’re up to getting behind the wheel – even if there was a spare car.’ Russell was about to remonstrate. The sergeant came out quickly from behind his desk, putting on his helmet. ‘I’ll drive you there myself. My Morris is round the back.’

  ‘That’s better. Now let’s get going.’

  -0-

  ‘Why have I got to wear this blindfold? Why won’t you let me see you?’ Isobel was agitated. It was bad enough having her hands tied but the cloth wrapped round her eyes had pushed her close to the edge of insanity. Salle said nothing, just pulled her roughly towards the Citroën. Holding her arm he pulled the rear passenger door open, shoved her inside, and then slammed it closed. Settling in the driver’s seat, he started the car, waited a few seconds while it rose on its suspension then set off for the rendezvous. Just short of Compass Point his headlights illuminated Big Paul’s Ford Thames van.

  ‘Mon Dieu!’ he muttered.

  Isobel started and sat up in her seat – the voice had a familiar ring. ‘What did you say?’

  Salle remained silent.

  ‘Do I know you?’

  Salle grunted, ‘No,’ his voice a low growl.

  She sat back, uncertain now if she had recognised the voic
e. Her brain was addled; she was hungry and grubby; her body ached from the rough treatment that had been meted out and she was dead tired. She had found it impossible to grab more than a few minutes of sleep at a time. A combination of fear and anticipation of what was coming and the discomfort of being tied to a hard wooden chair had made rest virtually impossible. This was the first time in more than 24 hours that she’d felt anything like comfortable. She lay back against the soft upholstery and felt herself drifting off.

  Salle continued over the railway level-crossing then drove past the boatyard and along the quay. When he reached the end of the hard standing, he turned the car so it was facing the way they had come. He switched off the engine but left the headlights on. There was no sign of his henchman. Salle struggled to keep his anger under control. Where had the stupid oaf got to? He promised he would be there. Now he was going to have to handle the exchange on his own. He would make sure that Paul would pay the price for letting him down – let him know he would not tolerate being taken for a fool. As he sat, waiting, he could hear light snoring coming from the back of the car. He smiled grimly. He would soon be rid of her. Against his better judgment he still found her attractive. It had been a struggle not to give away his identity but he was glad he’d managed to keep his silence.

  After a few minutes of waiting he heard the engine of a car approaching. As it came round the corner of the boat shed he recognised the bulbous nose and the jelly mould shape of a Morris Minor. It pulled up 10 yards away and stopped. He got out of his seat, opened the back door and pulled Isobel roughly to her feet. ‘Here she is,’ he shouted. ‘Where is my property?’ There was no immediate movement from the other car. The dim headlights stayed on, temporarily blinding him, so he was unable to see inside. ‘Come on! Let us get this done.’ The passenger door opened and a figure got out. Salle could see that the person was empty-handed but not who it was. The figure began walking quickly towards him. When he was within a few feet, the Citroën’s headlights picked out the details and Salle could see who it was – the dammed interfering policeman, Russell.

  ‘C’est pas vrai!’

  Russell smiled grimly. ‘Expecting someone else?’ He took a step forward. ‘Now hand over the woman.’

  Salle thrust his free hand into his jacket and pulled out the gun and held it to Isobel’s head. ‘Stay where you are.’ The Frenchman’s voice was low with menace.

  ‘Or what? Russell clenched his fists; his expression turned to one of anger.

  ‘Or your lady friend gets a bullet.’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare…’

  ‘Try me.’

  Salle’s grip had loosened on Isobel’s arm. She tried to wrench herself free. ‘It’s you! You bastard!’ she cried.

  He grabbed her tighter. ‘Pas si vite! Don’t struggle.’ Russell moved a step closer. ‘Non! Stay where you are. Why have you come in Fountain’s car?’

  While they had been talking another figure had come up and stood beside Russell. ‘It’s my car.’ Sergeant Wickstead glowered at Salle.

  ‘But…’ Salle was confused. Paul had said the antique dealer would arrive in a Morris Minor. What had gone wrong? He wanted rid of the woman but expected his goods in return. He didn’t want to shoot her, but how was he to get away?

  Walking nearby Nettie Sharpe had heard raised voices and hurried to see what was going on. As she rounded the corner, Aggie saw Russell, jerked the improvised lead out of Nettie’s hand and tore towards the group of figures.

  Salle just saw a flash of white as Aggie dashed towards her master, tail wagging furiously. He was momentarily distracted. Russell leapt forward and made a grab for the gun. In the confusion there was a shot – then a scream and Isobel fell to the ground. Wickstead ran forward, flooring Salle and knocking the weapon out of his hand. It skittered across the rough ground and disappeared over the edge of the quay. Russell knelt down by Isobel. He could see a bloody stain flowering on her shoulder. He pulled out his handkerchief and pressed it tightly against the wound. With his other hand he loosened the blindfold. Isobel’s eyes were closed and her breathing shallow. The terrier licked her face. Nettie ran across and joined him. Wickstead had forced Salle’s arms behind his back and clamped handcuffs on his wrists.

  ‘Now don’t move,’ he growled at Salle. ‘Sonny, keep an eye on him. I’m going to the Shipwrights to call for an ambulance.’ He jogged through the boatyard and was just about to cross the railway line when a blue Morris traveller came hurtling towards him. He leapt to the side, narrowly avoiding being hit and was just about to set off again when another car came towards him, in hot pursuit. It skittered to a halt behind the Morris – two men in uniform jumped out and wrenched its doors open, dragging Fountain and Vicary out on to the track. DC Weeks was soon at their side.

  Seeing the officers Wickstead called out: ‘Beaumont, Lee, cuff those men then follow me. Johnny, you’d better see if you can help Sonny. He’s over on the quay.’ He then carried on towards the pub. When he reached it he flung the door open so violently it nearly came off its hinges and rattled the glasses on the shelf. Tedham and Drake, still sitting at the tin-topped table looked up, startled. ‘You two – stay where you are!’ There was such menacing authority in his voice that neither moved for several seconds. Then it was too late as Beaumont and Lee followed in quick succession. ‘Alf, phone.’ Sensing the urgency the landlord pushed open the door to his quarters and gestured for the sergeant to enter.

  -0-

  At the side of Jack Spratt’s shed Big Paul stirred, slowly regaining consciousness. With an effort, he dragged himself up so he was kneeling, with his hands on the ground. He looked, and sounded, like a dog, as he remained there, panting with the effort. He licked his lips and tasted blood that had run down from the deep gash on the back of his head. Grunting, he pushed himself up so he was erect but still on his knees. He swayed and put his hand to his head. It came away sticky with blood. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. He felt he should be somewhere else. He opened his eyes and looked around. In the near distance there were the headlights of two cars, shining at each other. He frowned. Were they something to do with him – something he should be involved in? Slowly, memory returned. ‘Salle,’ he whispered. ‘The Nazi plunder. We’ve got to hand it over.’ He paused, digesting this thought. ‘In exchange for..?’ Here his memory failed him. With an almighty effort he reached out, grasped the rough wood of the shed and pulled himself up to a standing position. Seeing the group huddled between the light beams he made his way across to them.

  On the quay, Russell was still by Isobel’s side. With the help of Nettie and Weeks help he had managed to move her into a sitting position. She had come round but was barely conscious and moaned gently. The blood flow had almost stopped and Russell hoped it was just a flesh wound. Weeks was keeping an eye on Salle but the fight seemed to have gone out of the Frenchman. He lay passively on his front, his head turned to one side. The two detectives were so intent on attending to Isobel that they didn’t hear Paul coming up behind them. Aggie did though and growled – a surprisingly menacing sound from one so small. Nettie turned to see the big man come staggering out of the dark. She sprang from the ground and rushed at him. Despite her slight build she hit him with such force that he staggered a few paces then crashed to the ground without uttering a sound. His head connected with the keel of an upturned dinghy and he passed out cold.

  Floodlit by the car’s headlights, the group appeared like some macabre tableau posing for a painting. Perhaps one by Joseph Wright of Derby or even Hieronymus Bosch.

  Postscript

  ‘You’re not to worry Sonny, it is just a flesh wound. They’re discharging me tomorrow. But what about you?’ Isobel’s forehead was creased with concern. She sat at the side of Russell’s hospital bed. Leaning forward she held his hand.

  ‘I’m okay. They’ve stuck me in here because of that bang on the head I received when I was in London.’ His smile was thin but warm. ‘They just want to keep me in for obser
vation. The x-ray was clear. I’ve got a pretty thick skull you know.’

  She chuckled. ‘Just as well.’ Then the smile faded and her frown returned.

  ‘What is it?’ Russell squeezed her hand.

  ‘I don’t like to ask – with you in this state.’

  ‘That’s all right. Ask away.’

  ‘Will I be prosecuted?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I don’t know – receiving stolen goods – hiding vital evidence?’

  It was Russell’s turn to chuckle. ‘I shouldn’t think so.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I doubt it. Nothing was found in your shop, the goods were all recovered and besides, Bonnie Parker is in charge now.’ He winked and the grin widened.

  ‘That’s a relief.’ They sat in companionable silence for a while. Isobel spoke. ‘By the way, that little dog of yours is pining for you.’

  ‘Oh. Is she all right?’

  ‘Don’t worry about her – she’s being thoroughly spoiled by Nettie and your DC.’

  Almost on cue the door to Russell’s room opened and Weeks walked in, carrying a canvas kitbag. He turned and looked furtively out into the corridor then carefully closed the door shut. He crossed to the bed, pulled the strings of the bag open and a small bundle of fur leapt out. In a bound the terrier was on Russell’s lap and licking his face.

  THE END

  Coming soon...

  BLOOD ON THE CARDS

  A DI Sonny Russell mystery

  Chris O’Donoghue

  Detective Inspector Sonny Russell climbed the short flight of steps up to the brightly painted gypsy caravan. It was a bowtop wagon with intricately carved and decorated woodwork. Reaching the platform he pushed the beaded curtain to one side, the glass spheres rattling against one another. After the bright sunshine outside, the interior was dark, but as his eyes acclimatised to the gloom he could see a figure seated at a small cloth covered table.