‘He called himself Petulengro, Gypsy Petulengro.’ His blank expression distorted into a grimace. ‘Though I doubt that was his real name.’
‘It sounds as if you didn’t like him.’
Boswell shrugged. ‘He was okay – did his job well enough – brought the punters in and told them what they wanted to hear…’
‘But?’ Nettie asked.
‘If you must know, he was as queer as a coot.’
‘Sir?’
‘A homosexual,’ he snarled.
‘You don’t approve?’
Boswell looked uncomfortable for the first time. ‘I don’t care either way. Long as they keep themselves to themselves.’
‘And he didn’t?’ Weeks asked.
‘I’m not saying that…’
‘What are you saying, Sir?’
‘I’m not saying anything. I was just glad when he upped sticks and left.’
-0-
Russell had left Lewis and his team to their work. There was little room in the pillbox and he didn’t want to get in their way. So he’d set of for the Red Lion, hoping the landlord would have returned. As he left the site he looked round and was pleased to see that the Bobbies were back in line, walking slowly and prodding the ground. He was hoping that they would be lucky in finding something significant, but doubts were creeping in.
The Inspector walked the quarter of a mile to the village, passing elegant Georgian brick cottages and the medieval church – the little terrier happy to trot at his heel – before arriving at the pub. Pausing he looked up at the sign above the door.
JACK MILLS
LICENSED TO SELL WINES, SPIRITS, BEERS AND TOBACCO
ON AND OFF THE PREMISES
He tried the door but it was locked. He rapped on the panelling. ‘We’re closed!’ a gruff voice came from inside.
Russell put his face close to the door. ‘I don’t want a drink, I just want to talk.’
‘Go away! Come back when we’re open.’
Russell snorted. He could feel irritation bubbling to the surface. ‘Mr Mills. It’s the police. I suggest you let me in.’ He only had to wait a few moments before he heard bolts being slid back and a key turning in the lock. When the door opened he did a double take. The man was the spitting image of his boss, Superintendent Vic Stout, the same overweight frame; the same florid complexion. The man even had a small cigar clamped in the corner of his mouth. His mode of dress was different – a singlet stretched over his ample belly and a pair of slim braces holding up a pair of grey flannel trousers – but everything else about him seemed the same. Until he opened his mouth. Then all similarities ceased. Stout’s accent had a local ring to it. This man’s voice was less Romney Marsh – more Hackney Marshes.
The landlord looked suspiciously at the dog who sat at Russell’s heel, but didn’t comment. ‘Waddyer want?’
‘Could I come in, please, Sir? I’d prefer to speak to you inside but if you insist on conducting the conversation on the doorstep…’
Mills just took the cigar out of his mouth, grunted and headed towards the bar. He picked up a steaming mug and took a swig. Turning, he regarded Russell with piggy eyes. ‘Well?’
Russell decided that a direct approach was called for. ‘We’re conducting a murder enquiry.’
Mills’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped, as if the muscles had failed. After a moment he regained enough to composure to utter: ‘What? Murder? Who?’
‘The body of a woman was found in the pillbox by the canal. Can you tell me where you were yesterday?’
‘I, er – ’ad to go away on business,’ the man blustered.
‘Can you tell me where, Sir?’
‘I don’t see ’ow my whereabouts is relevant.’
‘It would help us to eliminate you from our enquiries.’ Russell said, evenly.
Mills put the mug down. ‘I’m not ’appy about it.’
‘Perhaps not, Sir.’ Russell paused. ‘But if you’d prefer we could continue this conversation down at the station.’ The DI set his mouth in a determined line.
Mills seemed to consider, then appeared to make a decision. ‘Fair enough. I ’ad to go and see an old mate.’
‘Where does this old mate live?’
‘Where? Er, over Dungeness way.’
‘According to Edna, you went off in a hurry. What was the reason for your visit?’
‘Oh, er… my mate wasn’t very well.’
Russell frowned. ‘Strange. You said just now that you had to go away on business.’
‘Did I? Oh yeah. I meant family business.’
‘But I thought he was just a mate.’
‘Yeah, well, I’ve known ’im a long time. We’re more like brothers.’
Russell’s puzzlement increased. ‘So you dashed off to see this mate, who’s more like a brother. And Dungeness is what, about 15 miles away. Journey that would take no more than half an hour, tops. Why couldn’t you have come back last night?’
‘He’s sick. I didn’t want to leave ’im.’
‘I see. And does this brother have a name?’
‘Name? Oh yeah… Albert.’
‘And does Albert have a surname?’
‘Albert Stern.’
‘And would he be able to corroborate your story?’
‘Corry –what?’ It was Mills’s turn to frown.
Russell sighed. The expression – like pulling teeth – came to mind. ‘Would Mr Stern be in a position to confirm your story?’
Oh, right. Yeah, I’m sure ’e would.’
‘Then perhaps you could furnish me with an address?’ Russell reached into his overcoat pocket, produced a notebook and pen and peered expectantly at the landlord.
‘Oh yeah, well. I’d ’ave to check.’ He flailed his arms, ash flying from the cigar gripped between thumb and forefinger. Russell had rarely seen anyone so flustered.
‘But I thought he was such a good mate?’
‘Well ’e’s moved recent like.’
Russell decided it was time to stop playing games. ‘Look, Mr Mills. Either you know his address or you don’t. I suggest you think of it quickly or I’ll have you for obstruction.’
This had the desired effect. The man’s memory seemed to improve, suddenly. ‘I just remembered. It’s Prospect Cottage on the Dungeness road.’
‘Right. Thank you.’ Russell took his time to write down the details.
The man picked up his mug and took a deep draught. Then immediately spat it back. ‘Eugh! Cold!’
Russell tried hard not to smile. Instead he wrote down his telephone number on the notepad. He tore the sheet off and handed it to the landlord. ‘That’s it for now, Sir. If you think of anything else that might help, perhaps you’d be good enough to give me a ring.’
‘Doubt if I can ’elp,’ the man said, a sour look on his face.
‘Just in case,’ Russell replied, smiling politely. He put the notebook away and clicked his fingers. ‘Come on Aggie.’
-0-
As soon as the door had closed behind the policeman, Mills lifted the counter flap and slid behind the bar. ‘Bloody interfering rozzer and his mangy mutt,’ he said, under his breath. He reached out and lifted the telephone handset. Holding it against his ear he dialled four digits with the other hand then waited.
The dialling tone continued for what seemed an age until finally, ‘Hallo?’ a gruff voice asked. ‘Who is it?’
‘Albert? It’s Jack.’
‘Ah. What are you ringing for? I only saw you a couple of hours ago.’
‘Listen Albert. We might have a problem.’
Stern sensed the urgency in his friend’s voice. ‘What’s up?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘I’ve had a copper round here. He’s just gone.’
‘What’s he found out?’ Stern spoke quickly.
‘Nothing about us, don’t worry. Some woman was found dead near here.’
‘Oh God. Did you know her?’
Mills realised he hadn’t asked who she was. ‘Shouldn’t think
so. The copper didn’t tell me.’
‘What’s it got to do with me?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘I told him I visited you last night, because you were poorly.’
‘Why the hell did you tell him that?’
‘I wasn’t going to tell him the real reason, was I?’ Mills sounded tetchy.
‘I suppose not.’
Mills took a breath. ‘Anyhow, be prepared for the boys in blue turning up on your doorstep before long.’
‘What shall I say when they do?’ His voice was pleading.
‘Nothing!’ Mills snapped. ‘Tell them you’ve been ill and I came over to see that you were okay. Got it?’
-0-
After leaving Boswell the first vehicle Weeks and Nettie came to was a fairly plain looking cream-coloured, twin-wheeled caravan. To one side was what looked like an ex-army, Canadian built CMP truck with a canvas cover over the rear body. On the other was a large khaki tent. But what caught their notice was an elaborately decorated board leaning against it. In glowing colours it depicted a larger than life-size portrait of a man wearing a leopard-skin leotard. His raven hair was parted in the centre and greased down to a glossy shine. The ends of his equally dark luxuriant moustache were twisted into curlicues above gleaming white teeth set in a fixed grin. He held a bar across his chest with a large black ball on either end, his bulging biceps and forearms suggesting its great weight. Across the bottom of the board, in elaborate lettering was the legend,
CHARLES ATLAS – THE WORLD’S STRONGEST MAN
Weeks stepped up to the door of the caravan and rapped with his knuckles, then stood back and waited. After a few moments it opened and a cartoon version of the portrait on the board filled the doorway. To begin with, the man who stood there wasn’t wearing a leotard, but a grubby string vest and baggy corduroy trousers. His hair had flecks of grey in it, the curls standing out like broken bedsprings and his moustache drooped, more Foo Manchu than Charles Atlas and curiously, he was wearing a pair of black silk gloves. But, he was impressive, nonetheless. He was tall but almost as broad as he was high; muscles bulged beneath the vest and his arms were more than equal to those on the painted image. He glanced down at Nettie then looked back at Weeks, his gaze flicking down to his feet, up to his tousled hair then locking his small, dark eyes on the detective’s face.
‘Yes, can I help you?’ His voice was as light as his body was heavy, seasoned with a delicate lisp.
Initially taken aback, Weeks quickly regained his composure. ‘Is that your real name, Sir?’ he gestured towards the board.
‘Yes, it is. I had it changed by deed poll,’ he lisped.
‘We’d like to talk to you about Ivy Rose Lee.’
The man stiffened. ‘Oh yes?’
‘I’m afraid she’s been found dead.’ The man’s eyebrows rose a fraction but there was no other sign of emotion.
‘You don’t appear to be surprised, Sir,’ Nettie said.
He shrugged. ‘No. Can’t say I am.’
‘Why’s that, Sir?’
‘She was poison.’
‘Sir?’ Week’s cocked his head to one side and stared at the man. ‘That’s rather strong.’
Atlas sniffed. ‘You didn’t know her. She drove my best friend away.’
‘Your best friend?’
The man looked close to tears. ‘Yes.’ His voice was almost a whisper.
‘And who might that be?’
‘Pilgrim. Pilgrim Petulengro.’
‘The fortune teller?’
Atlas’s voice took on a harder tone, the lisp all but gone. ‘He was more than that. He was a gifted genius!’
‘You say he was driven away.’
‘Yes, by that bitch!’
‘Have you any idea where he is? Mr Boswell said he went off to join another fair.’
Atlas gave a dismissive shake of his head. ‘He would say that. He was glad to see the back of him.’
‘But you weren’t,’ Nettie said gently.
‘No, I wasn’t. Worst day of my life when I found he’d gone.’
‘You don’t know where?’ Weeks asked.
Atlas shook his head, a single tear rolling down his cheek. ‘No. But if you find him, can you let me know?’
The two constables spoke to several other members of the fair: the man on the dodgems, the lady who ran the hoopla stall, the two brothers in charge of the helter-skelter, but none could add anything to what they’d already heard.
As they walked back through the stalls and sideshows Weeks asked, ‘What did you make of Mr Atlas?’
‘I thought he was sweet?’
‘Sweet!’ Weeks exclaimed. ‘He’s built like a brick outhouse!’
‘Ah, but inside that body of a he-man is the gentle soul of a poet.’
‘Really?’ He stopped walking and stared at his companion.
Nettie giggled. ‘Well, perhaps not a poet, but he’s certainly sensitive.’
‘You can say that again.’
‘Now, now.’
‘He obviously had a thing for Petulengro.’
‘I don’t think it was returned though…’
‘No?’ Weeks had started walking again.
‘No. I think it’s what’s known as unrequited love.’
‘Is that what you call it?’
‘Something like that. Must be difficult – if you’re that way inclined.’
‘Anyway, about this caravan,’ Weeks said, quickly changing the subject.
‘Which one?’
‘Ivy Rose Lee’s. We need to get inside. I suppose we’ll have to force the door. Or get a locksmith.’
As they approached the van a cheeky grin lit up Nettie’s face. ‘We might not have to resort to either.’ Climbing the steps she reached into her bag and brought out a fabric pouch. From it she produced a slim metal tool. She saw Weeks looking quizzically at her. ‘It’s a cuticle pusher,’ she explained, ‘but it does have other uses.’ Crouching, she pushed the tool into the keyhole and started gently manipulating it, her tongue sticking out between her lips as she concentrated. After a few moments there was a click and she stood, smoothing down her skirt. ‘There,’ she said, a triumphant look on her face.
‘Where on earth did you learn to do that?’
She tapped the side of her nose. ‘Never you mind. I’ll tell you someday. Now, let’s see what’s inside.’
-0-
When he left the Red Lion, Russell walked back to the canal, Aggie at his heel. He could see the line of uniforms, heads bent, moving slowly forward. Pushing through the gate by the bridge he started along the path between nettles and brambles. He guessed they obviously hadn’t combed this part yet. When he reached the pillbox, Lewis came out through the doorway. As usual his dress was casual but smart: a blue woollen pullover and moleskin trousers, tucked into new looking wellingtons.
‘Ah, Sonny,’ he said, slipping off a glove and holding out a hand. Russell took it and received a firm handshake.
‘What have you found? Anything interesting?’
‘Apart from the earring and ticket you uncovered earlier?’ There was a twinkle in his eye.
‘Hope I didn’t disturb anything.’
‘I don’t think there was anything to disturb.’
‘Why do you say that?
I’m pretty sure she wasn’t killed here.’ Lewis pointed over his shoulder with his thumb.
‘Really?’ Russell’s fears were beginning to come true.
‘I can’t be definite, we’ll have to wait until Crooks has done his stuff. But I’m fairly certain.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘For a start, there was very little blood on the floor. I would have expected her to be sitting in a pool of it.’
‘True.’
‘And if she had been killed in the pillbox there would have been blood spatters – but there’s nothing.’ He tapped the concrete wall.
‘Curious.’ Russell said.
‘Quite. I can only think that whoever did t
he deed, slit her throat then brought her here. Probably hoping that the body wouldn’t be found for some time.’
Russell nodded. ‘Obviously not making allowances for a couple of curious schoolboys.’
‘That’s right. Anyway, I’m about done here so I’ll head back to the station.’ His assistant came out of the pillbox weighed down with a camera sporting a large flash gun and various other pieces of equipment. Lewis took some of it from him and the assistant nodded his thanks. ‘By the way, do you know if Weeks has had a chance to look at our gypsy’s caravan yet?’
‘He’s over there now.’
‘Right, I’ll head that way instead and see what he’s found.’
Russell held up his hand. ‘I’ve just had a thought. Do you mind if I tag along?’
‘Not at all. But shouldn’t you stay here – in case they find anything?’
‘No, I’m sure Wickstead can cope for the time being. He’ll let me know if anything turns up. Just give me a moment and I’ll have a word with him.’ He turned and walked toward the line of uniforms. When he reached them he spoke to the Sergeant.
‘No problem, Sonny. I’m not hopeful we’ll turn anything up – but you never know. If we do I’ll radio from the car.’
Russell nodded and started making his way back. Just as he arrived a Morris Commercial PV van pulled up behind the forensics vehicle. As it rocked to a halt the doors slid open and two burly figures tumbled out. ‘I’m looking for Russell,’ the taller one said.
‘I’m Inspector Russell. What can I do for you?’
‘We’re the divers you requested.’
‘Oh – right.’ The DI realised that the search would probably be fruitless. He had to make a decision and as they were there he thought he had better let them do their job – until it was confirmed that the death had taken place elsewhere.
‘What are we looking for?’ the diver asked.
‘A knife. Afraid I can’t tell you what sort.’
‘That’s okay. Where do you want us to search?’
Russell pointed towards the pillbox. ‘If you start in the canal near there and work your way out.’
‘How far do you want us to go?’
Blood on the Cards Page 3