Blood on the Cards

by Chris O'Donoghue

  ‘Ah, I see.’ The boss smiled. ‘And might this English friend be the esteemed Inspector Russell?’

  Bruissement looked thoroughly miserable. ‘Yes,’ he answered quietly.

  ‘And this friendship has caused you to end up here…’ He swept his arm out in a gesture encompassing the hospital ward. ‘…with your arm in a sling and on an enforced leave.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘And all for the sake of a few bottles of booze and a few packs of cigarettes?’ The boss’s face darkened. Bruissement recognised the signs and remained silent. ‘You’re an idiot! There’s real crime going on here. You know we’re short staffed and you go and put yourself out of action as a favour for a friend.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sir.’

  ‘Sorry’s not good enough. How long will that be on?’ he gestured towards the plaster.

  ‘Maybe a week or two.’

  ‘And that’s the hand you write with?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Mon Dieu!’ The boss stood up and rammed his hat on his head. ‘You’d better learn how to use your left arm – and quick. You’ve got two weeks to sort yourself out.’ After one final angry glance he turned on his heel and stormed out.

  -0-

  Russell pulled up outside the Red Lion just as the bolts were being drawn on the front door. He sat in the car for a few minutes, the thumping in his head slowly diminishing. He didn’t think he’d been hurt badly. He hadn’t felt quite right ever since he’d received a blow that had caused concussion some months before. He was prone to the occasional painful headache; he didn’t always sleep well at night and occasionally felt himself nodding off during the day. He knew he should visit the doctor to get it checked but hadn’t got round to it. He sighed and climbed out of the car, Aggie following happily in his wake. On entering the pub he was unsurprised to see not the landlord but Edna at the bar. She smiled shyly in recognition.

  ‘What can I get you, Sir?’

  ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a cuppa?’

  ‘You’re in luck,’ she beamed. ‘I’ve just made a pot.’ She disappeared through a door behind the bar and reappeared a few moments later with a steaming mug. Russell took it gratefully and cupped it in his hands as he settled on the bar stool.

  After taking a sip, he spoke. ‘How come you’re here this morning? I thought Jack would open up.’

  She blushed prettily, something, he realised to she was prone to do. ‘Oh, er, he had to go away, sudden like. I got a message asking me to do the morning shift.’

  ‘Any idea where he went?’ Russell asked innocently.

  The blush deepened. ‘Something about moving some stuff to a safe place.’ She looked down, busying herself with wiping the bar top. Russell thought that was all he was going to get out of her. Then she looked up and spoke again. ‘This is difficult.’

  Russell smiled gently. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I shouldn’t really say anything – it doesn’t seem right.’ She looked miserable and her hands twisted the cloth she was holding into a knot.

  ‘It can be between you and me,’ Russell said encouragingly.

  ‘Well as long as it doesn’t go any farther…’

  ‘You can trust me.’

  ‘Okay, then.’ She seemed to make up her mind. When she spoke this time it was with more confidence. ‘I was down in the cellar, getting some bottles, and I saw a big pile of boxes in the corner, covered over with a cloth. I had a quick look. It was crates of spirit and cartons of cigarettes. When I asked Jack about them he got quite angry – told me to mind my own business.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’m worried that he might be doing something that’s not right – not legal.’

  ‘Are they still there?’

  ‘No. I had a look and they’re gone.’

  ‘Do you think that’s the stuff he talked about moving?’

  Her face fell. ‘I suppose so. I feel bad about snitching on him now.’

  Russell reached forward and patted her hand. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll be our little secret.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She smiled, reminding Russell how pretty she was.

  He took a drink of tea then carefully put his mug down on a beer mat. ‘Do you think you could show me where you saw the boxes?’

  Confusion clouded her face. ‘I-I don’t know. Jack might not like it.’

  ‘He doesn’t have to know though, does he?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Let’s have a quick look then.’ Before she could object, Russell had lifted the wooden flap and joined Edna behind the bar. ‘Is this it?’ he asked, pointing to the trap set in the floor. Edna nodded. Russell reached down, grasped the brass ring and lifted the door, revealing a set of stone steps leading into darkness.

  ‘Let me go first,’ she said. ‘I know where the light is.’ She descended the steps, flicked a switch and the cellar was illuminated with a pale glow. Russell followed her down, the terrier close behind. The room was bigger than he had expected. Along one wall were barrels on racks, with pipes leading back up to the bar. Next to them were wooden crates containing an assortment of bottles and on a shelf stood various cardboard boxes. Beneath the shelf was a space with just a tarpaulin, lying in an untidy heap.

  ‘That’s where they were,’ Edna said, pointing.

  Russell hitched up the knees of his trousers and crouched down. Aggie stood beside him, tail wagging, sure there was a game afoot. Russell gently elbowed her out of the way. He carefully unfolded the green fabric but, as he’d been told, the boxes had gone. He let out a long exasperated breath and started straightening up. He was just about to turn and head back up the stairs when the small dog let out an excited yelp. She pushed her muzzle into a fold in the canvas and wagged her tail even more furiously.

  ‘What is it, girl?’ Russell crouched again and bent back the tarpaulin to reveal a piece of card stuck to the material. Carefully, he peeled it off. Some of the surface came away but there was enough left to see the legend LUCKY STRIKE lettered in white on a circular red target.

  ‘American cigarettes?’ Edna sounded puzzled. ‘But we don’t sell those.’

  ‘I don’t think they were meant for sale here,’ Russell answered quietly. ‘Let’s go back up.’

  They ascended the steps, the trap door was closed and they took up their respected places either side of the bar.

  ‘What does it mean?’ Edna asked.

  ‘I’m not entirely sure, but I think your boss may not be quite all he seems.’

  Edna was thoughtful while Russell sipped at his tea. Suddenly she burst out: ‘I shouldn’t really be saying this but I’ve been suspicious about him for a while.’

  Russell tipped his head to one side. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. Calling me in at short notice – going off and coming back without warning. That sort of thing. I only put up with it because I need the money.’

  Russell drained his mug. ‘You said he was moving stuff to a safe place…’

  The girl’s blush returned. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve any idea where he meant?’

  ‘I’m really not happy about this…’

  He reached out and patted her hand again. ‘I said it would be our little secret.’

  She was quiet for a while, then seemed to come to a decision. ‘He mustn’t know that this came from me.’ Russell nodded his assent. ‘He sometimes goes over to Snargate. There’s an old church there – St Dunstan’s, I think it’s called. Legend has it that smugglers used to hide their contraband there, but that could be an old wives’ tale. Anyway. So few people live there that they only have services in the church a couple of times a year. I don’t know for sure, but he may store things there, from time to time. There, I’ve said more than I meant. He’ll kill me if he finds out.’

  ‘Don’t worry – he won’t. I shan’t say a thing. Thank you, Edna, you’ve been very helpful. He stood up. What do I owe you for the tea?’

  Her beaming smile returned. ‘Nothing. It’s on
the house.’

  -0-

  When Russell got back into the Ford he suddenly felt weary. It had been a long night and he could do with a rest. Investigating the church at Snargate could wait. Deciding he needed a wash and a change of clothes he set off for home. There was little traffic on the road and less than half an hour later he was bumping along his stony track. He was just walking down the garden path, stepping over clumps of self-seeded Centranthus ruber when he heard the telephone ringing inside the house. He fumbled for his key and got the door open just in time to snatch up the receiver.

  ‘Hello?’

  The line crackled then a voice he recognised boomed out of the earpiece. ‘Sonny! I’ve been trying to make contact with you all morning. They said at the station that you were en vacances.’

  ‘Guillaume. How good to hear your voice. Yes, I am on holiday but not of my choosing.’

  Bruissement chuckled. ‘That is what I thought, when I looked between the lines.’

  ‘Anyway, my friend. How can I help you?’

  ‘I wanted to ask a favour. I am en vacance but for a different reason. I want to come over to Angleterre and I would like to ask if you can suggest a nice place where I could stay for a few days.’

  ‘Better than that. You would be welcome to stay in my little home.’

  The chuckle became a belly laugh. ‘I was ’oping you would say that.’

  ‘When are you thinking of coming?’

  ‘Ah, well. I ’ave already bought my ticket and booked the ferry. I will be arriving early ce soir.’

  ‘Are you bringing your car?’

  Again the familiar laugh. ‘Mais non. I am - ’ow do you say – hors de combat?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I am unable to drive at present. I can explain when I see you. I will catch a train at Dover. Perhaps you would like to recontre moi at the station in Collinghurst?’

  ‘It would be my pleasure. Just let me know what time your train gets in.’

  With thoughts of his friend’s imminent arrival Russell’s fatigue fell away. He washed, shaved and put on fresh clothes then set about tidying the carriage and getting the guest room ready. His spare bedroom was in another carriage, set behind his main home. It also contained a compact bathroom and a store room. Beyond that was a lean-to extension he used as a conservatory. Although the rooms were small, each man would have his own space. Russell worked steadily, happy to have the Frenchman’s company for a while. He would introduce him to Isobel – he was sure they would get on.

  It was growing dark when Bruissement’s train pulled into Collinghurst. He had eaten on the ferry so was happy for Russell to drive him straight to Shinglesea. On the way he explained about the plaster on his arm.

  Russell was concerned. ‘I shouldn’t have asked you to go to Wissant.’

  ‘Nonsense, mon ami. It was my own fault. I should have taken more care. Anyway it is, ’ow you say, a disguised blessing, because ’ere I am!’

  Chapter 10

  A coffee percolator is a type of pot used for the brewing of coffee by continually cycling boiling, or nearly boiling, water through the grounds using gravity until the required strength is reached.

  ‘LET ME get this straight. You claim you didn’t kill the gyppo Lee – just dumped her body in the pillbox.’

  Vado Boswell again sat at the battered table in the interview room. He’d spent a restless night in a cell, he had dark rings under his eyes and his shoulders drooped. ‘I’ve told you a dozen times already that I didn’t kill her.’

  Parker continued walking slowly round the room. ‘Right, for the sake of argument, let’s say that I believe you.’ He stopped circling and sat down heavily in the chair next to Weeks. He folded his arms and rested them on the table. ‘I can see that a big lad like you could manage to get the woman’s body out of her caravan and into that smart pickup of yours.’ He took a breath then exhaled noisily. ‘But I’m puzzled at how you managed to carry her from the road, across the rough ground by the canal, and into the pillbox.’ When Boswell didn’t respond he leaned forward and gripped his arm. ‘You had help, didn’t you?’

  Boswell slowly lifted his head and made eye contact with the DI. ‘I might as well tell you. I did… It was Petulengro.’

  Parker’s eyebrows shot up and his jaw dropped. ‘But you didn’t like him…’

  ‘That’s what I said at the time – to put you off the scent. He was a good mate.’

  The DI sat back, temporarily stunned into silence. Automatically he reached into a pocket, pulled out a crumpled packet and shook a cigarette into his mouth. He sat for long moments, with it dangling from his lower lip while staring at Boswell. Finally he said: ‘Say that again.’

  ‘We were friends. And now he’s dead.’ The fairground owner looked thoroughly miserable. If his sadness wasn’t genuine he was a very good actor.

  Parker struck a match and lit the cigarette. He inhaled deeply then coughed as he breathed out. ‘Right. So now you’re saying you and Petulengro loaded the gyppo’s body into your pickup and drove her over to Appledore?’

  Boswell nodded.

  ‘And you hoped she wouldn’t be found…’

  ‘For some time, anyway.’

  ‘Why the hell didn’t you come to us when you found she’d been done in?’

  ‘I wish I had.’ Boswell’s voice was hardly above a whisper.

  ‘So do I. It would have saved us all a load of trouble.’

  -0-

  Russell and Bruissement sat on the little bench in front of the railway carriage. They had gone outside on the Frenchman’s insistence so he could smoke a Gauloises. Russell had received a phone call early that morning from Weeks, bringing him up to date with what had gone on and he had told Bruissement how things stood.

  The day was warm, with a slight haze over the rough meadow that separated them from the beach. Inside the chestnut fence that surrounded the dwelling the garden was coming to life. Sea kale, that had self-seeded, was starting to flower; the distinct scent of honey rising from the blooms. A Cistus purpureus ‘Alan Fradd’, that Russell had planted, was showing the first of a succession of delicate papery blossoms – white with a yellow centre surrounded by five magenta dots. The architectural glaucous leaves of a Cardoon, each over three feet long, filled a corner of a garden. Soon the thistle-like artichoke flowers would emerge. Alchemilla mollis and scented thyme grew in clumps around the wooden stepping-stone path.

  After discussing the murders the two men sat in companionable silence, each wrapped up in his own thoughts, the terrier dozing on Russell’s lap. They had breakfasted on boiled eggs and toast. Afterwards, Russell had made coffee in a percolator. More accustomed to drinking tea he’d dug it out from the back of a cupboard and used ground coffee he’d bought some time before, hoping it would still be drinkable. Bruissement had been delighted at the gesture.

  ‘So, my friend,’ he said. ‘What plans do you ’ave for us today?’

  ‘We-ell,’ Russell said slowly. ‘We could go over to Snargate – have a look at that church. Or, I could take you into Collinghurst – introduce you to Isobel…’

  Bruissement chuckled. ‘Pleasure in front of business I think, mon ami. I know you are wanting for me to meet ’er.’

  As they were not in a hurry they decided to take the train so walked the short distance to Shinglesea Halt. It was a simple affair: a rough, sleeper-built platform and a rustic, wooden waiting shelter. Bruissement smoked another Gauloises while they waited. A skylark was above them, valiantly piping its twittering song as it rose on fast-moving wings. The sound of the surf, gently falling on the shingle, could be heard on the distant beach. A rabbit popped its head out of a burrow 20 yards away but, although Aggie stiffened and pricked up her ears, she stayed at their feet. After a few minutes a thin column of smoke appeared in the distance and a reedy whistle sounded. The rumble of wheels on the metal track grew louder and soon a small steam locomotive came into sight, resplendent in gleaming scarlet livery.

&nbs
p; ‘Ah, I see Captain Salt has brought Cardinal into service early.’ As the train grew closer Russell explained the workings of the little three-foot gauge railway. ‘The Captain tends to use the railbus set in the off-season as it’s cheaper to run. This splendid engine generally only comes out when the tourist season gets underway.’ The train came to a halt and the men climbed into one of the two chocolate and cream-coloured carriages. It was the first train up from Compass Point and they were the only passengers. They settled on the wooden seats, there was a toot from the whistle, the carriage jerked as the couplings took up the slack and they were off. The train rattled along, never exceeding 15 miles an hour.

  Bruissement was happy to look out of the window so little was said on the journey. The scenery appeared unspectacular, but was deceptively subtle. Apparently flat, the patchwork of fields and meadows had gentle undulations, sewn together with reedy, water-filled dykes. Fat Romney Marsh sheep grazed on the lush grass, their new lambs dancing and gambolling. Every now and again they dipped their heads under their mother’s thick woollen coats and sucked greedily. A green woodpecker flew by, overtaking the train, its flight swooping and dipping like the needle of a seamstress. A grey and white heron stood sentinel, with the stance of old warrior, at the edge of a dyke, patiently watching for suitable prey; a kestrel hovered low over a clump of reeds.

  In less than 20 minutes the train was slowing to a halt at the terminus. It would have been easy to leave without paying but, before exiting the station, Russell went up to the little ticket window and handed over the money for their fares. Bruissement admired the Englishman’s honesty.

  ‘You are a man most honourable, Sonny,’ he smiled. ‘But then I am expecting nothing less.’ He stood for a few moments, his free hand on his hip, looking round. ‘So this is the famous metropolis, Collinghurst?’

  Russell chuckled. ‘Hardly a metropolis although it does have a certain something.’

  ‘And does that something go by the name of Isobel?’