Blood on the Cards

by Chris O'Donoghue

  ‘That shocked you, didn’t it?’

  ‘It is something of a surprise, I must admit.’

  ‘Not as surprising as the man himself.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t actually see him until he was near his end. But he still had something about him – some strange power.’

  ‘Tell me about it. How did you come to meet him?’

  Pike put his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepled his fingers, carefully resting his whiskery chin on the upturned talons. ‘Well, I do a bit of house clearance, from time to time. This is how I got a lot of this stuff.’ He nodded to the room in general. ‘It was towards the end of ’47. A lady came into the shop – I don’t know why she chose me – must have been my magnetic personality.’ He chuckled, a deep phlegmy sound. ‘And she really was a lady. Have a look inside the cover.’

  Russell opened the book again. On the frontispiece he read, “Illustrated by Lady Frieda Harris”. ‘Golly’ was that her? A real lady.’

  ‘She certainly was. We got chatting and she confided in me. She’d been friends with Crowley for years, apparently. As far as I could make out she was some sort of disciple and had followed his teachings on something called, I think, Thelema. Some mumbo jumbo, anyway. He had come to live in Hastings – she’d heard he was ill and had travelled down from London to check on him. Apparently he was dirty and neglected so she arranged for a nurse to look after him. Anyway, she asked if I was interested in old books. I wasn’t going to turn down a chance to meet him so I said yes. He was in lodgings at Netherwood House on The Ridge in Hastings and I visited him there.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘He was an old man by then. Early seventies, I think. He wasn’t well, coughed a lot and looked pale and drawn. I understood he was addicted to heroin. But there was something in his eyes. I don’t know, a darkness or something. His room was number 13…’

  ‘Of course.’

  Pike nodded. ‘Despite being near the end he still had a huge presence.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘Nothing of consequence, as I recall. Chess – he was member of the local club; hadn’t ever been beaten, apparently. The weather – he found the climate in the South good for his bronchitis. Lady Frieda showed me some books that he wanted to sell. They were old but there was nothing particularly special so I offered a few shillings, which she seemed happy to accept.’

  ‘Is that how you came by this?’ Russell tapped the book.

  ‘Oh no.’ Pike leaned forward, his eyes sparkling. ‘He gave it to me.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Before I left, I went over to say goodbye – he was sitting in a large wing chair. He grabbed hold of my hand – almost pulled me on top of him. I was amazed at his strength – he looked so feeble. He stared into my eyes. I can’t tell you how it felt. Creepy I suppose. Strangely compelling. Then he relaxed his grip and said: “You must have this,” and gave me the book. I heard that he died not long after.’

  ‘Is he buried somewhere nearby?’

  ‘No, no. The people of Hastings thought he was evil so he was cremated in Brighton.’

  ‘I see.’ Russell sat up in his chair. ‘Are you going to sell me this book then?’

  Pike let out a gasp which sounded like the cry of a mythical bird. ‘Not likely, my friend!’ He scooped up the volume and clutched it to his chest. ‘This is precious to me.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Russell said, feigning indifference although he rather fancied owning it. He started to rise from the chair.

  Pike shot out a hand and gripped the DI’s wrist. ‘Not so fast. You can’t have this one but I have another you can buy.’ That is how Russell came to be in possession of a less valuable and more battered book on the Tarot that he was now perusing.

  -0-

  The landlord of the Red Lion, Jack Mills, was in a foul mood, even though the journey had only taken 20 minutes, as that bloody policeman had relished in pointing out it would. Why the hell someone had to dump a woman’s body in the pillbox up the road from the pub he just couldn’t imagine. He could well do without nosey coppers making their bloody enquiries around Appledore. Thank God they’d found out that she hadn’t been done in there but over at Nottery Quay and buggered off. He gripped the steering wheel of his Standard Vanguard pickup tightly and stared angrily out through the dusty windscreen as he travelled along the straight road approaching Dungeness. He forked right, crossed over the little Romney Hythe and Dymchurch Railway level crossing and was soon pulling up outside Stern’s house. He switched off the ignition, the engine tinkling as the metal cooled.

  Mills could see Albert’s van parked in the drive, so presumably the man was home. He walked up the path and knocked on the door. He waited a few minutes but no one came. Cursing, he rapped again. Still nothing. Making his way along the side of the house he walked into the back yard. At the far end, on a patch of hardstanding, Stern was kneeling down, bent over a BSA motorcycle. It had seen better days, showing the ravages inflicted by the salt-laden, seaside air. The tank and metalwork were pocked with rust and there was a dribble of black oil on the concrete beneath it. Stern was so intent on some intricate operation that he didn’t hear Mills come up behind him.

  ‘What are you up to then?’ the landlord asked.

  Stern shot in the air as if fired from a canon and turned as he did to face Mills. ‘What the bloody ’ell did you do that for?’

  ‘Jumpy, ain’t we?’ said Mills, grinning.’

  ‘You could’ve given me an ’eart attack, comin’ up behind me like that.’ Stern was breathing heavily, his heart beating fast in his beanpole-thin frame.

  ‘You got a guilty conscience then?’ Mills’s grin had turned into a deep-throated laugh. He was enjoying the other man’s discomfort.

  ‘You can put a sock in it. It’s your fault I’m jumpy.’

  ‘Why’s that then?’

  ‘Bloody coppers ’ave been nosin’ round.’

  Mills grew serious. ‘They didn’t find nothing, did they?’

  ‘Course they bloody didn’t. Ain’t nothin’ ’ere for them to find. Last lot went over to your place, remember?’

  ‘Don’t remind me. I been sweating buckets since they discovered that woman’s body. Swarmin’ all over the village they were. Luckily they didn’t stay long.’

  ‘They found out who she was yet?’

  ‘Some gyppo fortune teller, apparently.’

  ‘Where was she done in then?’

  ‘Funfair on the Salts at Nottery. Mate of mine’s been ’elpin’ out on the dodgems. Said her caravan was drippin’ with blood.’

  ‘Charmin’.’

  ‘Right mess it was.’

  ‘Do they know who done it?’

  ‘Got some bloke banged up in the local cop shop. My mate said ’e was the strongman – Charles Atlas.’

  Stern snorted.

  ‘Funny thing is, apparently ’e’s built like a brick shit’ouse but ’e’s a pooftah – a fairy – bats for the other side.’

  ‘Takes all sorts.’ Stern paused and wiped his hands on a greasy rag. ‘Is ’e guilty then?’

  ‘Who knows? Suppose ’e must be. Anyway, what did the coppers ’ave to say?’ Mills asked.

  ‘Oh, it was only one of them – the local bobby. I know ’im a bit. Well, when I say I know ’im, we nod to each other in passing.’

  ‘All right, I don’t need the ins an’ outs of your relationship.’ Mills gave an exasperated sigh. ‘For Christ’s sake, What did ’e say?’

  ‘What? Oh yeah. ’E just wanted to confirm that you’d spent the evenin’ over ’ere.’

  ‘An’ did you tell ’im?’

  ‘Course I bloody did. What d’you take me for?’ Stern asked tetchily.

  ‘Keep yer ’air on. I was only askin’.’

  ‘You should know me well enough, by now.’

  ‘Suppose I should.’ They stood in silence looking down at the motorbike for a while – each lost i
n thought.

  Stern looked up. He cleared his throat. ‘I’m glad you came over. I’ve got somethin’ I’ve been meanin’ to say for a while.’

  Mills tipped his head to one side and frowned. ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘There’s no easy way to say this – I want out.’

  Mills’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t wanna do no more trips.’

  ‘You’re jokin’, ain’t yer?’

  ‘No. I’m deadly serious. I’ve ’ad enough. It’s too risky.’

  ‘Bloody ’ell man! How am I supposed to get my cheap booze and fags?’

  ‘That’s up to you. I just know I don’t want nothin’ more to do with it.’

  ‘Thanks a bunch. What do I do now?’ Mills scratched his head, a miserable look on his face.

  Stern took pity on him. He sighed. ‘All right, just one more trip.’

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ Mills said, his smile returning. ‘When can we go?’

  ‘Let me think. The moon’s nearly full and there’s not gonna be much cloud – plus the tide’s right.’

  ‘So tonight?’

  Stern sighed again. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Thanks mate. I’ll make sure it’s worth your while.’

  ‘You’d better. An’ don’t forget – this is the last time.’

  -0-

  ‘Sonny, I’d recognise your voice anywhere,’ Wickstead chuckled.

  ‘But will you do it?’

  ‘Of course I will. You can rely on me.’

  ‘Thanks. I appreciate that.’

  ‘You can show your appreciation in the pub when you’re back.’

  Russell put the phone down and smiled to himself. Hopefully Crooks’s idea would work out.

  True to his word, Wickstead sought out DI Parker, He found him in his office, his feet up on the desk. The room was wreathed in smoke and a customary cigarette smouldered in the overflowing ashtray.

  ‘Sergeant. What can I do for you?’

  Wickstead held his hand up to his mouth and coughed. ‘I’ve just had a phone call from a member of the public, Sir.’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ Parker said indifferently.

  ‘Apparently they spotted the caravan belonging to the other fortune teller, - the one that disappeared from the funfair.’ Parker looked blankly at him. ‘The gypsy, Petulengro, Sir.’

  ‘I do know who he is. What of it?’

  ‘Er, I thought you might like to talk to him, see if he can help with the enquiry.’

  A sickly smile crossed Parker’s face. ‘Well that’s very nice of you, but I think I’ve got the case wrapped up.’

  Wickstead was afraid the deception had backfired. ‘Oh, right,’ he said and turned to leave. He was just going out the door when Parker spoke.

  ‘Just a minute, sergeant. Weeks has been moping around with a face like a wet weekend. It would be good to get him out from under my feet.’ He scowled. ‘I’ll be glad when DC Barrow is back at work.’

  Wickstead sneaked a crafty smile. ‘Right, Sir.’

  ‘Tell him to take a look – although I doubt it will turn anything up.’

  ‘Yes Sir. Thank you.’

  -0-

  Russell was in the little kitchen in his railway-carriage home. Though small in proportions it had everything he needed. One compartment housed his living room, with an efficient coal stove, another, his bedroom. The kitchen was equipped sufficiently so he could produce meat-free meals. Towards the end of the war when he’d been stationed out in the East he’d spent time with Buddhist monks. He had been so impressed by them and their philosophies that he became a vegetarian on his return to England, quite unusual for the time. It caused a few raised eyebrows and made eating out tricky but he’d stuck to it and felt better for the change.

  He filled the kettle and put it on the stove. Striking a match he turned the switch and lit the gas underneath it. He took a tin off the shelf, removed the lid and took out a slab of fruit cake. Aggie stood in the doorway, wagging her tail and looking up expectantly. Russell grinned. ‘Not for doggies!’ He reached for another tin and took out a Bonio. He crouched and held it out. The terrier sat and lifted a paw, which Russell shook, then she gently took the treat in her jaws. Standing, Russell smiled and continued with the preparation of his tea. When it was done, he went through to the living room and sat in his armchair. He put the tray on a little side table and waited for the tea to brew. His mind wandered to his new situation.

  A woman had come unexpectedly into his life. It was a surprise as he thought he was settled into the life of a bachelor, wedded to the job. But Isobel Bailey had turned his head. He’d met her earlier in the year during a case involving stolen Nazi plunder that a shady Frenchman was trying to sell. She was an antique dealer and craftswoman, specialising in jewellery and small items, and had become embroiled in the case. At the denouement she had been injured and Russell had ended up with suspected concussion.

  There had been a possibility that she would have been convicted of handling stolen goods or obstructing the course of justice but Russell managed to keep her out of it. Since then they had grown close and had spent time together. She had visited his unconventional home and had seemed to approve of it but he wondered if she would rather that he lived somewhere more conventional. He sighed. He loved his railway carriage but he was starting to wonder if it was time to move on. He was just about to pour himself a cup of tea when there was a knock on the door. Aggie started rushing round excitedly then began bouncing up and down like a ball by the door.

  ‘Afternoon, Sir,’ Weeks said, standing in the doorway, grinning.

  ‘What are you doing here, lad? Good to see you. Come in, I’ve just made tea.’

  There was a twinkle in Weeks’s eyes as he sat down. ‘We received an anonymous tip-off about a caravan. I thought you might know something about it.’

  Russell laughed. ‘The ruse worked then. Crooks said it would.’

  ‘Yes, it did. Bonnie Parker was only too keen to get rid of me. That man…’

  ‘Has he made any progress with the case?’ Russell asked, passing the DC a cup.

  ‘I don’t think so. He’s convinced that Atlas did it.’

  ‘But where’s the evidence?’

  ‘He hasn’t got any. Lewis told him the blood test and so on came back negative but Parker told him to look again.’

  ‘I doubt he’ll find anything.’

  ‘That’s what I thought but he’s made his mind up.’

  Russell nodded. ‘Well it’s down to us – I mean you – to prove him wrong. Come on, drink up and I’ll show you where the caravan is.’

  Weeks glanced at his boss’s slice of cake.

  ‘Oh all right then, Russell laughed. ‘But you’d better bring it with you.’

  Russell led the way in Weeks’s Ford and the DC followed in a police Wolseley. They bumped down the track, passed the car dump and pulled up in the clearing by the caravan. All was quiet, just a tethered piebald grazing on the scrubby grass. Even the birds were silent. Russell had a bad feeling as he approached the steps to the van. He recalled the last time he had seen Petulengro when Boswell had been to visit him. He tried to remember his impressions of the man – whether he had appeared disturbed by the visit. It had been hard to tell – the gypsy fortune teller had seemed unaffected. But something told him, some sixth sense, that now all was not well. Climbing up he went to tap on the door but it swung open. As his eyes adjusted to gloom within he felt a creeping sense of déjà vu.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Weeks, following close behind.

  ‘I’m afraid so. Don’t touch anything.’ The interior of the van wasn’t as much of a shambles as Rose Lee’s had been; there weren’t any obvious signs of a struggle, but blood had soaked into the fabric of the sofa and the rag rug on the floor. There was no sign of Petulengro. ‘Better radio for Lewis and his team.’ They returned to the Wolseley and sat, waiting for the forensics man to arrive.

  ‘What do you make of it, Sir?’

/>   ‘I don’t know, lad. I had Petulengro down for Ivy Rose’s murder but now I’m not so sure.’

  ‘Could it have been Vado Boswell who did for both of them?’ Weeks asked.

  ‘Possibly. Although I’m not so sure about that either.’

  ‘Why’s that, Sir?’

  Well, I can understand that he may have killed Lee, but I’m struggling to accept that he killed Petulengro as well. Despite what he’d said earlier, from the conversation I overheard between them, it sounded like they were on friendly terms. Boswell left saying he was going to return with some food. He’d hardly say that if he was going to come back and do him in.’

  ‘I suppose not. Then who did it?’

  Russell heaved a huge sigh. ‘That I don’t know. Someone who doesn’t like fortune tellers, perhaps?’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘That’s a puzzle we’ll have to try to unravel – sorry – you’ll have to try to unravel. I’m off the case, don’t forget.’ He smiled wryly.

  ‘Then why are you here, Sir?’

  ‘I had to show you the way, didn’t I?’ Russell’s eyes twinkled.

  ‘But you’re still here…’

  ‘I just thought I’d wait around to see Lewis – if that’s okay with you?’

  It was the DC’s turn to smile. ‘I doubt I could stop you if I wanted to.’

  It wasn’t long before they heard the rumble of an engine and the forensic department’s Morris J-type van appeared. The driver’s door slid open and Lewis got out, smiling, as dapper as always. Russell and Weeks stepped out of the Wolseley, ready to greet him. The passenger seemed to be struggling with his door. Lewis walked round to assist. When the door finally opened, the detectives expected to see a forensic assistant. They were more than surprised to see the crumpled form of DI Bonnie Parker emerge, start coughing and immediately begin complaining.

  ‘Christ, Lewis. I wish I’d not bothered to come. I’m beginning to wonder if there is any point in me being here.’ He’d been bent over coughing for the first few seconds and as he slowly stood upright his eyes lighted on Russell. ‘You! What on earth are you doing here?’