Blood on the Cards

by Chris O'Donoghue

  ‘About as far as someone could reasonably throw it.’

  ‘Fair enough. Leave it to us.’ While the diver spoke to Russell his colleague was unloading equipment from the back of the van – rubber suits, masks, flippers.

  ‘I’ve got to go over to Nottery Quay so Sergeant Wickstead will be in charge.’ Russell pointed towards the slow moving line of policemen.

  ‘Okey doke. We’ll let him know if we find anything.’

  It was a bit of a squeeze in the van the flash and dab boys used. Lewis in the driving seat, Russell on the other side of the engine cover that protruded into the cab – Aggie happily sitting on his lap, watching the world go by. Lewis’s poor assistant had drawn the short straw and was bundled up in the back with all the equipment. With the engine so close between the front seats and the limited range afforded by the three-speed gearbox, conversation was difficult so most of the journey to Nottery Quay took place with little being said. Russell took advantage of sitting in the passenger seat with nothing to do but look out at the scenery. On the left, trees dotted the raised bank separating the road from the canal. Every mile or so, a salient on the canal caused it to kink, creating an S bend in the road that made the occupants of the van sway one way and then the other.

  Peering through the windscreen to the right he could see gently undulating fields full of lush grass, dotted with grazing Romney Marsh sheep. Some half a mile or so beyond the meadows the land rose to form what was once a cliff. This had been the barrier to the sea before the great storm of 1287 and the reclamation and draining of the marsh in the 14th century moved the coast some miles away. The squat tower of St Mary’s church in Stone passed by in the distance – then steep Knock Hill, climbing up to the top of the landlocked cliff. Soon the sloping ground faded away, leaving a wide, flat swathe of arable land and the van jinked again as they crossed the bridge over the River Rother, the limit of the canal, at this point. As they approached the outskirts of Nottery Quay, Lewis slowed the vehicle, considerably reducing the engine noise.

  ‘I understand you met the deceased a few days ago, Sonny,’ he said, turning briefly towards his passenger.

  ‘Crikey! News travels fast. How did you find out?’ Lewis was about to reply but Russell stopped him with a raised hand. ‘No, let me guess: Crooks.’

  Lewis gave an affirmative nod.

  ‘Thought so.’

  ‘Sorry, Sonny.’

  Russell snorted. ‘It’s all right. It was bound to come out sooner or later.’

  ‘It’s not like you – to visit a fortune teller.’

  ‘She was a bit more than that…’

  Lewis cocked his head to one side. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. It’s difficult to explain.’ Russell was quiet for a moment. ‘She seemed to have, I don’t know, presence, I suppose you’d call it.’

  Lewis turned his head towards him again, a puzzled look on his face. ‘What made you go to see her?’

  ‘Ah, now, that’s something I’m not prepared to discuss. Not at the moment anyway. It’s not relevant to this investigation.’ Russell’s lips formed a thin line and he stared ahead, through the windscreen.

  ‘Fair enough, Sonny.’ Lewis knew his friend well enough and wasn’t inclined to push him. He changed the subject: ‘Anyway, we’ll reach the Salts soon. Let’s hope that Weeks has turned something up.’

  -0-

  Nettie pushed the door open and immediately gasped, putting her hand to her mouth.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Weeks exclaimed, following close behind. Then quickly: ‘Sorry about my language.’

  ‘That’s okay. It is a bit of a shock.’

  The interior of the caravan was a shambles. The table and stools were upturned, bedding was strewn across the floor; broken glass crunched underfoot. On the walls, on the curtains and on the woodwork were dark smears. Blood – everywhere. It looked like a massacre had taken place.

  ‘This must have been where she was killed,’ Weeks said, unnecessarily.

  ‘What do you think we should do?’ Nettie asked, her grey eyes clouded with worry; uncertainty in her voice. ‘What would Inspector Russell want us to do?’

  ‘I think he’d want us to leave well alone until forensics have been over the place.’

  ‘I agree.’ The two colleagues backed carefully out of the caravan.

  As Weeks pulled the door closed he said: ‘Do you think you can work your magic with that tool of yours – lock the door again?’

  Nettie reached into her bag. ‘I think so. I’ll give it a go, anyway.’ Crouching down she pushed the little metal gadget into the keyhole. She twisted it gently for a minute or two until there was a satisfying click. Standing again she gave a thin smile. ‘There, that should keep it secure.’

  Weeks frowned. ‘Maybe, but I don’t think we should take any chances. You stay here while I go back to the car and ring the station.’

  Nettie stood at the bottom of the steps. The fairground people had started moving about, beginning the preparation of their stalls and sideshows for the entertainment later in the day. Although they glanced curiously in the direction of the policewoman they kept their distance. Perhaps they shared the strongman’s dislike of the gypsy Lee – or the police uniform.

  After a few minutes Weeks returned. ‘Lewis is on his way. He’s finished at the pillbox and is coming straight here.’

  ‘Good. I could do with a strong cup of tea. It was really creepy in there.’ Nettie shuddered.

  ‘Not a pretty sight, I’ll admit. Wonder what happened?’

  ‘Judging by the state of the caravan I reckon there must have been a fight.’

  A shadow passed across Weeks’s face. ‘Unless someone turned the place over and she came back and surprised them.’

  ‘I suppose that’s a possibility,’ Nettie said slowly. ‘But why move the body?’

  ‘I don’t know. Hopefully we’ll find out more later.’ They stood, talking quietly, while the fairground people went about their business, still pointedly ignoring them. Vado Boswell’s son came tearing round the corner and skidded to a halt, a few feet from the constables.

  ‘Oh. You’re still ’ere, then?’ he said, then slunk away without a backward glance.

  -0-

  It was something of a relief when Lewis’s green Morris J-type van appeared between a showman’s wagon and the shooting gallery. Even though the van was narrow it was a squeeze but by careful manoeuvring it arrived unscathed in front of the bowtop. Weeks was even more relieved when the door slid open and his boss, Sonny Russell, clambered out of the passenger seat, grinning.

  ‘Good to see you, Sir, but I’m afraid it’s not very pleasant in there.’

  Russell’s smile faded and his eyebrows flickered upwards. ‘You’ve been inside?’ he asked. ‘Wasn’t it locked?’

  Nettie stepped forward, a bashful look on her face. ‘I’m afraid I’m guilty, Sir. It was me who opened it.’

  ‘And is it still open?’

  ‘No, Sir, I locked it again.’

  ‘Good girl. But perhaps you’d do the honours and unlock it again? I’d prefer that we didn’t have to force it.’

  ‘Sir.’ Nettie took out her cuticle pusher again and within a couple of minutes, Russell and Lewis were making their cautious way up the steps.

  ‘Johnny was right,’ Lewis said quietly. ‘It appears that there’s been a bloodbath.’

  ‘And you were right,’ Russell agreed. ‘Looks like this is where she was killed.’

  ‘I take no pleasure in that. I find the whole thing particularly saddening. Why would anyone want to kill a fortune teller?’

  ‘Hopefully we’ll find out. My question is: why would they go to the trouble of taking the body from here, all the way over to Appledore, then dumping it in that pillbox?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, Sonny. Perhaps John Crooks will turn up something.’

  Russell stepped back from the doorway. ‘There’s so little room I’ll let you get on with your work. Give me a shout when you’ve finis
hed and I’ll have a look round then.’ He made his way back down the steps to the waiting constables. ‘I want to know what you’ve found out. But first, I could do with a cuppa.’ He smiled grimly. ‘And looks like you could do with one too. I don’t suppose there’s anywhere around here we can get one?’

  ‘There’s Terry’s teas. He’s got a van parked in the lay-by.’

  ‘That’ll do. At least it’ll be wet and warm.’

  Chapter 3

  A wild goose chase is any senseless pursuit of something non-existent or unobtainable – a hopeless enterprise.

  THE SMELL of frying came from within the van as Terry prepared bacon butties for a couple of dustmen who’d parked their cart in the lay-by and stood waiting for their food. Next to the griddle where he was busy cooking, a shiny tea urn bubbled and belched steam and a stack of white sliced bread and a block of paper-wrapped marge waited to be made into sandwiches. The three police officers stood at the counter with steaming white china mugs of tea. Aggie sat at their feet, sniffing the air appreciatively. Russell and the others made small talk until Terry had finished and the two men collected their order and went back to the cart, one of them casting furtive glances at Nettie. He apparently wasn’t used to seeing a policewoman in uniform drinking tea at a roadside caff. Terry busied himself in the back of the van.

  ‘Right, now you can tell me about your findings,’ Russell said, taking a slurp from his mug.

  Weeks flipped open his notebook. ‘We first spoke to Vado Boswell – he runs the fairground.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Handsome. If you like that sort of thing,’ Nettie said. ‘Not my type though.’

  ‘I meant, what’s his manner?’

  Colour spread from the policewoman’s collar and her cheeks turned pink. ‘S-sorry, Sir,’ she stammered.

  Russell grinned. ‘That’s okay. He’s obviously a charmer.’

  ‘He thinks he is. But I reckon he has a cruel streak.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘It wasn’t so much what he said, more his attitude.’

  ‘Can you be more specific?’

  Nettie thought for a moment. ‘When he was talking about Petulengro…’

  ‘Petulengro?’ Russell interrupted.

  ‘Yes, Pilgrim Petulengro. He was the fortune teller in the fairground before Ivy Rose Lee.’

  Russell gave a slight nod. ‘I see.’

  ‘When Boswell talked about him there was real venom in his voice. I got the feeling that he would be capable of killing someone if provoked.’

  ‘Do you think he killed the gypsy, then?’

  Nettie shook her head vigorously. ‘I don’t think so. His anger was aimed at Petulengro because he was queer.’

  ‘I see. So he didn’t feel strongly about Lee?’

  ‘No,’ Nettie said.

  ‘He actually sounded genuinely shocked that she’d been killed,’ Weeks added.

  ‘Wasn’t he concerned by her absence?’

  ‘Apparently not. Said he’d only have noticed if she hadn’t shown for a few days.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Russell’s chin sank on to his chest. He appeared deep in thought. Weeks and Nettie waited. Finally he looked up and spoke. ‘What happened to Petulengro?’

  ‘He left.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Boswell said he didn’t know. He thought he might have joined another fair.’

  ‘We need to find out where he’s gone.’ Russell took a sip of his tea. ‘I think he may be an important element in this investigation.’ Weeks made a note on his pad. ‘Did you speak to anyone else?’ Russell asked.

  ‘Ah, yes, Sir. We spoke to the strongman,’ Weeks said, looking up from his notebook.

  ‘And?’

  ‘It was rather interesting, Sir,’ Nettie continued.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Despite looking like you’d expect a strongman to look he was, er, not what we expected.’

  ‘Can you explain?’

  ‘You’d expect the voice to match the physique.’

  ‘And it didn’t?’ Russell suggested.

  ‘N-no.’ Nettie stammered. She seemed lost for words.

  Weeks took over. ‘Instead of a deep voice, it was light – almost feminine.’

  ‘I can see that would be a surprise.’

  Nettie seemed to regain her composure. ‘It wasn’t just that. He obviously had definite affection for Petulengro – seemed heartbroken that he’d upped sticks and gone, without saying where. Asked if we’d let him know if we find him.’

  ‘But why did he go?’ Russell’s normally smooth brow was furrowed.

  ‘Atlas said that Lee had driven him away,’ Weeks said.

  ‘Strange.’

  ‘Why do you say that, Sir?’

  ‘Well, it seems odd that a woman would have driven a man away – especially as he was obviously a fixture at the funfair. I think we need to look into this more carefully. Talk to the people here again.’

  Weeks wrote in his notebook again.

  ‘And we need to find Petulengro.’ Russell drained his mug. ‘Right, I think we’ll see if Lewis has finished in the caravan. Then we can have a look around.’

  -0-

  But Russell didn’t make it as far as the caravan. Weeks had dashed to the Wolseley to use the phone to report in. Just as the DI and Nettie were strolling into the fairground he rushed back.

  ‘Sir! You’re wanted at the station.’

  Russell stopped suddenly. ‘Why?’

  Weeks was flustered. ‘Superintendent Stout wants to see you – urgently.’

  ‘Oh Lord. What have I done now?’ His eyes rolled heavenwards. ‘Can you drive me?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Nettie, you stay here. Keep any rubberneckers at bay. I’ll send someone out to relieve you.’

  -0-

  ‘What is it you’re not telling me, lad?’ Russell was slumped in the passenger seat of the police car.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sir. I had to tell him.’

  ‘Tell who what?’

  ‘Superintendent Stout. He answered the phone.’

  ‘He answered the phone? Where was Wickstead?’

  ‘He’s out at Appledore,’ Weeks said quietly.

  Russell took a deep breath and let it out noisily. ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘I had to tell him about the state of the caravan.’ Weeks paused while Russell considered. ‘And he knew about the frogmen, too.’

  ‘Ye gods and little fishes.’

  ‘Sorry, Sir.’

  ‘Not your fault lad. I should have run it past him first.’ He sighed. ‘Too late now – I’ll just have to face the music.’

  The rest of the journey passed in silence, Russell brooding and Weeks appearing to concentrate on the road – although he was actually giving his boss some thinking time. He felt bad about spilling the beans to Stout, but he knew her really had no option but to tell him what was happening. He was well aware of the Super’s short fuse but knew that Russell was up to the challenge of defending himself – he hoped.

  -0-

  Russell walked into the station. As he passed the unattended front desk and went along the corridor his way was barred by a smirking DI Bonnie Parker. ‘You’re for the high jump, matey. You won’t get away with it this time.’ He took a drag on his Capstan Full Strength, let the smoke circulate fully around his lungs then blew out a long stream of blue smoke, into Russell’s face. ‘You’ve really done it now.’

  Russell tried hard not to choke. ‘Of course, you’ve never got it wrong.’

  ‘Not on this scale, mate. If they gave awards for cock-ups you’d get first prize,’ Parker added. He guffawed, then broke into a fit of coughing.

  As he doubled over Russell gave a sly grin. ‘I’m sure you’ll manage it one day. Anyway, I’ve an appointment. Mustn’t keep the Super waiting.’ He pushed passed, still chuckling, and walked up to Stout’s door. He knocked lightly.

  ‘Come.’ The growled summons was far from inviting �
�� Russell couldn’t have felt less welcome. His smile dissolved and his heart plummeted. He entered the room with its familiar aircraft-carrier sized desk and pleasant views across the park. Stout, as usual, was wreathed in a blue haze from the cheroot he was smoking. And, as usual, he made a point of ignoring the inspector, instead concentrating on his paperwork, until he was good and ready to begin the roasting. There was no invitation to sit down so Russell remained standing. After several long minutes Stout looked up, piggy eyes glittering above florid cheeks.

  ‘Inspector Russell…’ There was a resigned weariness in his voice.

  The DI feigned innocence. ‘Sir?’

  Stout shook his head, slowly from side to side. ‘This time you’ve gone too far.’

  Russell frowned but didn’t respond.

  ‘I can’t believe you would do this to me.’ The Super’s voice was low and venomous.

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean, Sir.’

  Stout brought his fist down so hard on the desk that the heavy glass ashtray jumped in the air, scattering cigar butts across the polished wood.

  ‘You had the sheer, bared-faced cheek to organise a fingertip search – taking a large number of my uniformed constables – and the desk sergeant – away from more important work…’

  ‘But…’

  ‘SILENCE! Don’t interrupt me when I’m speaking! Not only that but you requested a team of divers…’

  ‘Only two…’

  ‘I haven’t finished! You decided to organise all this manpower to pursue a wild goose chase – without consulting me. What was the point of it when the victim was actually killed several miles away?’ He violently stubbed out his cigar and waited for a reply. ‘Well?’

  Russell kept his voice low and level although inside he was churning. ‘I didn’t know at the time that she hadn’t been killed where she was found.’

  ‘Well you should have bloody well found out, before wasting police resources on a pointless exercise!’

  ‘Possibly, Sir.’

  ‘Possibly?’ Stour thundered. His colour had risen as his temper had exploded. He was now a livid red from his collar to his hairline. ‘Definitely! You should have consulted me before leaving an empty police station! I want those men back here now.’