‘Well if you’re sure…’
‘Perfectly.’ Parker tapped the side of his nose with a nicotine-stained finger; his eyes narrowed. ‘Listen. Keep this to yourself, will you? I don’t want to upset our flash and dab man if I find anything he’s missed.’
-0-
He made his way to the basement, where evidence-filled boxes were stored. It was a narrow room, made narrower by floor-to-ceiling wooden racking down each side. A single 60 watt lightbulb hung from the ceiling, casting deep shadows. A selection of cardboard cartons, in a variety of shapes and sizes filled the shelves. Some remained intact while others were crumpled and split, their contents spilling out. Looking at them he wished he’d got Wickstead to show him where the box he wanted was. He considered going back to ask him but decided against it – he certainly didn’t want to raise the man’s suspicions. He sighed. He’d have to find it himself. After 10 minutes of looking he was on the verge of giving up. His jacket, already spotted with cigarette ash, was now covered in a fine dust from the coating on boxes that had lain untouched for years. He sneezed several times. ‘Bugger this for a game of soldiers,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t know why I bloody bothered.’
Deciding it was a stupid idea after all, he was just turning to leave when his eyes alighted on a new-looking box. It was on a high shelf, out of reach. He looked around for something to stand on. Crouching he searched the lower shelves in the gloom in case there was a wooden box but there was none – only cardboard. Standing upright and groaning at the effort, he cursed. There was nothing for it. He would have to trying climbing. Grasping a wooden upright he placed his left foot on the bottom shelf. He pulled himself up and put all his weight on the shelf. There was a creaking sound but it held. With an effort he lifted the other leg and put his right foot on the next shelf.
As he hauled himself upright the edge of the shelf splintered and a piece of the wood came away. His foot slipped but his toe just held. Bracing himself he managed to grip the corner of the box. He pulled; it slid over the edge and crashed to the floor. More of the shelf he was standing on broke away; he lost his grip and fell heavily with a resounding thump.
He lay on his side on the floor for some minutes. Panting he raised himself on his hands and knees. Nothing appeared broken but he was badly shaken. He stayed in that position, listening, expecting someone to appear at any moment. But all remained quiet; dust motes spiralling round the dim lightbulb. He stood upright and got his breath back. After a few moments he bent and lifted the lid off the box. Inside were Boswell’s clothes: a collarless shirt, a pair of corduroy trousers, a thick belt and, what he was looking for – a red spotted neckerchief. Smiling gleefully he thrust it into his pocket. Bundling the rest of the clothes into the box, he shoved it on to a shelf. He made a half-hearted attempt at brushing the dust off his jacket, but it made little difference. As he re-emerged back in the reception area Wickstead looked up from reading the racing results in the paper.
‘Find what you wanted?’ he asked.
Parker quickly pushed his hand into his pocket, making sure the scarf was out of sight. ‘Yeah, I found Boswell’s stuff okay. But you were right. Lewis is far too canny to miss anything.’ He nodded. ‘I’m going out for a bit. I’ll be back later, if anyone wants me.’ With that he left the station.
-0-
He set off on the road to Nottery Quay but took the fork by the Peace and Plenty and headed through the village of Iden, just as Russell had done a couple of days before. He wound through the bends, down the hill and, just over the river, turned right. He bumped along the track, past the rusting vehicles and pulled up in front of Petulengro’s caravan. Knowing the van would be locked he’d taken the precaution of picking up a key before he left the station and it was an easy job to unlock the padlock on the chain securing the entrance.
Once inside he shut the door and stood looking round. Little had changed since he’d last been in there. There was a light coating of white dust on some of the surfaces where Lewis and his men had been looking for fingerprints, but that was about all. The blood that had soaked into the sofa and rug had dried to a rusty brown. He cursed. He was hoping to find some that was still damp. Lifting the corner of seat cushion he peered beneath. The wood had been varnished to a high gloss; blood had run under the fabric on to the surface and formed a film. He smiled. This would suit his purpose admirably.
-0-
Sometime later he was sitting in his office with the door open so he could see who passed by. As luck would have it, it wasn’t long before the suave figure of the fingerprint man appeared.
‘Ah, Lewis,’ he called out. ‘Could I have a word?’
Lewis’s heart sank but he had no alternative but to enter the fusty room. ‘Is it about the search of Boswell’s caravan?’ he asked. ‘We still haven’t turned anything else up, I’m afraid.’
Parker smiled. ‘No, don’t worry. I’m sure you’ve done your best. Please, sit down.’ He gestured to the vacant chair. Lewis sat, wondering what was coming. Parker lit a cigarette and by way of concession, blew a cloud of smoke out of the side of his mouth. ‘Listen, my friend,’ he began. ‘I know how thorough you, and your lads, are. Missing the cards was an easy mistake,’ he said magnanimously. ‘Anyone could have done it.’
Lewis was becoming increasingly suspicious. Parker was never this friendly.
‘Let’s forget about Boswell’s caravan. Instead, I think we should concentrate on the other one.’
‘What, Ivy Rose Lee’s?’ Lewis was baffled. That had been thoroughly searched some time before.
‘No, the other fortune teller – Pilgrim what’sisname.’
‘Petulengro?’
‘That’s the kiddy.’
‘But we’ve already done that one. We went over it as soon as it was found.’
Parker nodded knowingly. ‘Yes, I’m sure you did. But… I don’t like to bring it up again. You did miss the cards, didn’t you?’ He folded his arms, the cigarette dangling from his lip.
Lewis couldn’t argue that one, although he was still baffled as to how it had been missed. So, to placate the man he said: ‘Of course, I’ll take another look.’
‘There’s a good chap. Let me know if you turn anything else up.’
-0-
Pint-sized Charlie was not well. One minute he was shivering with cold, the next he was sweating like a pig. He felt constricted by his clothes and just couldn’t get comfortable. In fact he felt like death warmed up. He reckoned one of the punters at the fair had passed on something to him. Normally he prided himself on having the constitution of an ox – a creature he closely resembled – but whatever it was that he’d picked up made him feel terrible. He’d been sneezing so much that his eyes constantly streamed, blurring his vision, and he’d had trouble concentrating on driving. It was starting to grow dark and he didn’t know the way to Tenterden very well.
To compound his misery he’d taken a wrong turning, driving the truck and caravan up a lane that was far too narrow for them. The lane became a track with grass growing along the centre; thick bushes either side restricted the width even more. Finally the headlights of the lorry showed that it ended in an open gateway, leading into a fallow field. Cursing, he tried turning the vehicles, making numerous manoeuvres, but a combination of the narrow lane and his weakened state meant he ended up with the caravan solidly wedged against a tree. Normally he would have persevered until he’d freed it but he was feeling so rough he just gave up. Switching off the engine he sat for several minutes with his head on the steering wheel. He realised he was drifting into a feverish sleep, but couldn’t help himself.
He woke several hours later. It was pitch black, his body was stiff and he was shivering with fever. With an almost superhuman effort he hauled himself out of the cab, stumbling and nearly falling as he stepped on to the ground. Purely by luck it was the back of caravan that was jammed against the oak tree and he was relieved as he felt his way along the body and his hand found the door handle. He knew the
interior so well that was able to locate a drawer and take out a box of Swan Vestas. As he slid the tray of the box open his hands were shaking so badly that most of the contents scattered across the floor. He was just able to save one, and with difficulty, struck it. By its light he could see a stub of candle stuck on a worktop and managed to light the wick before the match burned right down to his fingers. Just the effort of doing this was too much and he slumped down on the sofa. He had just enough strength left to swing his legs up before he slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.
-0-
Lewis had arrived in the Morris J-type van. When the engine was switched off there was just the sound of nature: the bubbling chatter of a reed warbler; the cooing of wood pigeons. He made his way to the caravan and mounted the steps.
‘Blast!’ he exclaimed out loud. ‘I’ve forgotten the bloody key. Now I’ll have to go back.’ In his annoyance he shook the chain. Unexpectedly the padlock fell open. ‘Strange. I thought I’d locked it securely when we left. Ah well, Parker’s right, I must be losing my touch.’ He entered the caravan and stood, hands on hips, looking round. He knew they’d been thorough before but after the gaffe with the pack of cards he was starting to doubt himself. So, with a sigh, he began another meticulous search.
After half an hour and finding nothing he was about to give up. Then he realised he hadn’t looked inside the stove – again. He knelt in front of the range. Several days of neglect, and the damp riverside atmosphere, had dulled the metal surface and spots of orange rust were beginning to show. The door opened with a creak. Inside, the grate was covered with a thick layer of cold, grey ash. He looked about for a poker so he could prod around inside. He could just see a brass handle sticking out from under the stove. As he pulled, it disturbed a piece of fabric lodged in the narrow space. Carefully, he pulled it free.
‘What the…?’ It was a red spotted scarf. He unfolded it and saw it had rusty marks on it, faint but clear on the white spots. He sniffed. A faint but distinctive metallic smell of blood. A shiver ran down his spine. He was baffled. How the hell had they missed that? There was nothing for it but to go back and test for the blood group. Then, he supposed, he would have to grovel to Bonnie Parker. He wasn’t looking forward to another humiliation.
-0-
After they left the Salts Russell drove Bruissement back to his railway-carriage home at Shinglesea. Sitting on the little bench in the shingle garden, drinking tea and enjoying a slice of Joan Spratt’s renowned fruit cake, they discussed what they’d heard.
‘I wonder if there’s any truth in what Nettie said?’
‘About the man working on that piece of equipment – what was its name?’ Bruissement asked.
‘The Waltzer. It’s a kind of carousel with moving cars.’
‘I see. It does not sound like the sort of thing that would make me ’appy.’
Russell gave a little chuckle. ‘No, I doubt if it would. I don’t see you on any fairground ride.’
The Frenchman took a sip from his cup. ‘Well, perhaps the carousel ordinaire.’
The chuckle turned into a laugh. ‘Maybe we should visit the fair in Tenterden and we can both go on it.’
‘Perhaps…’
They sat in companionable quiet, drinking tea and eating cake. Wisps of white drifted lazily across the azure sky; a pair of common blue butterflies performed an intricate whirling dance over the newly emerged creamy-white flowers of the sea kale. The mournful, rising note of a curlew’s call came floating across from the beach; a wren perched on the chestnut fence, tail bobbing.
‘Anyway, what do you make of her idea?’
Bruissement dabbed his moustache with a handkerchief. ‘It is perhaps possible, I suppose. Is there not another person – as you say – inside the frame?’
‘I don’t think so – no one comes to mind.’
‘What about the man Bonnie Parker has in custody?’
‘Boswell? Pah! I don’t think so.’
‘Mais pourqoi pas?’
Russell frowned and thought for a moment. ‘I’ve never actually met the man – only seen him at a distance. But, from what I’ve heard, I don’t think he’s got it in him. He might seem tough, but I would imagine the fair, and running it, is his life. And he wouldn’t want to jeopardise that. Plus I get the feeling that he and Petulengro were good friends.’
‘But I thought ’e told Weeks and Nettie that ’e did not like the man so much.’
‘He did, but I don’t think that he was telling the truth – maybe covering up.’
‘Pourquoi?’
‘I don’t know but I reckon they were actually mates.’
‘Well, if you are right, the man who is from the Waltzer seems to be a suspect most likely.’
Russell nodded. ‘That’s right.’
‘But Bonnie Parker does not think so.’
‘No, he doesn’t.’
‘Is there not something that can be done about it by you?’
‘I don’t think so. I’m off the case and if I interfere, the Super won’t be pleased.’ Russell collected the tea things and put them on the tray. As he picked it up to take it inside he said: ‘We’ve got a couple of hours before we need to leave for Isobel’s. Do you fancy a walk to the beach?’
‘But of course. It would be a pleasure.’ Bruissement leaned forward and stroked the terrier’s head. ‘I expect Aggie will be delighted to ’ave a run.’
-0-
The tide was out a little way, leaving a strip of sand below the shingle bank where Aggie could dash about. The two men sat on a tree trunk that had been washed up by the winter storms. They took it in turns to throw a stick which the terrier delighted in retrieving, bringing it back to drop at their feet and wait expectantly for the next throw, tail wagging. The wind was from the land, causing waves to heap up, several dozen yards offshore. Gulls sat on the water, rising and falling with the swell. Every now and again a wave crest broke just behind them and they rose lazily in the air, then just as easily settled back on the smoothed surface until the next wave.
After he had thrown the stick again Russell said: ‘So your boss did not think you should have confronted the smugglers?’
Bruissement snorted. ‘That is, as you say, an understatement! He does not think that men who try to make a little extra money by avoiding taxes are particulièrement illegal.’
‘But what about the injury to your arm?’
‘Pff! That was my fault. I should not have challenged the man. Then ’e would not ’ave pushed me and I would not ’ave fallen.’ He lifted his arm in the sling. ‘It is not so bad. And anyway, it ’as given me the chance to spend time with mon bon ami.’ His face formed a huge grin, the moustache lifting at the corners.
‘Are you not going to do anything about it?’
The Frenchman shrugged. ‘What can I do?’
‘Don’t you know who they are – the men you saw on the beach?’
‘Perhaps. Wissant is a small town. Ce ne serait pas difficile to find out who it was.’
‘Why don’t you then, my friend?’
Another shrug. ‘Even if I did, my boss would not be willing to prosecute. ’E would not think it to be worth the while.’
‘That’s a shame. Mind you, I suspect my boss, Superintendent Stout, would probably feel the same.’
‘So why are you pursuing Jack Mills?’
Russell shrugged and gave a wry smile. ‘I’m not sure. I suppose I like to be busy. And as I’m off the murder case it gives me something to do.’
The Frenchman put his free hand on Russell’s arm. ‘You should learn to be relaxed, mon ami.’
‘’I am, really,’ Russell laughed. ‘Especially in your company.’
‘You are too kind.’ Bruissement bowed his head.
They sat for a while, watching Aggie try unsuccessfully to chase gulls, dabbling at the water’s edge. The birds took off before she got anywhere near them; the terrier unworried, happy just to run.
Russell pulled back the cuff of his ja
cket and looked at his watch. The face was still cracked but it was going again. ‘It’s still a bit early to go to Isobel’s. Shall we have a look round Nottery Quay?’
‘I would like that very much. I understand it is a very nice town.’
He smiled. ‘Well, I think it is, but then I would.’
-0-
An ex-army truck towing a twin-wheeled, cream-coloured caravan turned on to the Dungeness estate. The purposeful vehicle was still painted in its wartime khaki livery; the canvas back had faded but still looked to be in good condition. After half a mile the driver changed down to a low gear, took a sharp left and bumped off the metalled road and on to a rough, stony track. The truck took the surface in its stride but the caravan rolled precariously from side to side, like a yacht running before the wind. The track ended on a shingle ridge above the beach and the truck came to a halt. The driver switched off the engine, climbed down from the cab and stood looking out to sea. The only sounds were of the waves rolling in, the insistent piping of an oystercatcher and the slap, slap, slap of a halliard as it flapped against the stubby mast of a fishing boat, pulled up on the beach. The man held his arms out, stretched and sighed deeply. This would do nicely.
‘’Ere! What are you doin’? A figure had appeared from behind the boat. He was wearing the tan smock of a fisherman. ‘You can’t park that ’ere. This is a private beach.’ He folded his arms across his stick-thin body.
‘I don’t see a notice anywhere,’ the man answered. He looked around, swivelling his head in an exaggerated manner.
‘Maybe you don’t, but it’s still private, reserved for us legitimate fishermen.’
‘And what if I was to park here? What would you do about it?’ The man had taken a few paces forward and was face to face with the fisherman, a couple of feet between them.
Blood on the Cards Page 15