The fisherman stood his ground. ‘Now listen. I don’t want no trouble. I suggest you turn that thing around and go back where you came from.’
The stranger gave a sharp laugh. He was more than twice the size of the other man. Putting his hands on his hips he spoke. ‘As I said, what are you going to do about it?’
The fisherman took a pace backwards. ‘I’m not alone,’ he said.
The stranger made a show of looking round again. ‘Ha! You’re bluffing. I don’t see anyone coming to your rescue. I suggest you toddle off and leave me in peace. I’m parking here.’
Emboldened the skinny man stepped forward, reached out and prodded the stranger in the chest. ‘Don’t come it. I want you gone.’
‘Oh you do, do you?’ the stranger returned the prod, but he was much so much bigger and stronger that it knocked the fisherman off balance. He stumbled, his heel caught on a piece of chain lying on the ground and he fell backwards. His head hit the upturned rusty fluke of an anchor with a sickening crunch.
-0-
Back at the station Wickstead was troubled. Bonnie Parker’s unnaturally friendly manner had put him on edge. It just wasn’t like the man to be so pleasant. He was so used to the DI being sour and bad tempered that the cheerful demeanour just didn’t sit right.
The sergeant had known him for many years, seen him rise up through the ranks from humble PC and remembered that, even then, he wasn’t a very good copper. He’d cultivated a knack of doing very little and making it look like a lot. He had been good at passing the buck and getting other, more able beat bobbies into trouble when they didn’t deserve it. But somehow he’d wormed his way into the CID, first as a detective constable then rising far too swiftly to his present status as a detective inspector.
His nickname, Bonnie Parker, after the infamous American gangster, had stuck. Wickstead knew he was secretly proud of it, although he pretended to be annoyed if anyone used it in his hearing. The sergeant smiled to himself. Parker obviously didn’t realise that the real Bonnie was the female half of the notorious pair and it was his sidekick, DC Clyde Barrow, who was the male half. Also that the US pair were highly successful in an unpleasant way whereas the British Parker and Barrow were, at best, inept.
Wickstead knew very little about Parker’s life outside the station. He knew he was married and rumour had it the wife was as sour as the husband. He’d visited their house once to deliver a message when Parker was sick. The front garden of the semi in a backstreet in Collinghurst was weedy and overgrown; the front-room window was streaked with grime; the curtains looked like they could do with a wash. He’d knocked on the door and, after a while, it had been opened by Mrs Parker. She was wearing a grimy wrap-over housecoat. Obviously a heavy smoker like her husband, a part-smoked cigarette dangled from her mouth. When she spoke the inch of ash fell, peppering the grubby fabric. The sergeant had relayed the message as quickly as possible, eager to get away from the unpleasant smell that wafted out of the gloomy hallway of the house. It was no wonder that Parker spent so much time at the station.
-0-
Lewis the fingerprint man had not long returned. Normally he would have stopped for a few minutes, exchanging pleasantries, but today he’d stalked in, barely acknowledging the sergeant. He’d gone straight down the corridor and into Parker’s office. Wickstead wondered what was going on. The DI’s demeanour was so out of character he couldn’t help being suspicious. All was quiet in the station so, lifting the flap on the counter, he headed out of the room and down to the cellar. Knowing how gloomy it would be he had taken the precaution of taking a torch. Switching it on, he swept the powerful beam around the cramped room. Almost immediately it picked up the shard of broken wood on the floor. He crouched down and he picked it up. One edge was dull with age, the other creamy white from a recent break. As he stood he ran the beam along the shelves immediately above where he had found it and saw the splintered edge. He held the piece of wood up to it. It matched. Playing the beam higher he could see a space. He was sure that was where the box containing Vado Boswell’s clothes had been. He spent a few more minutes searching the other shelves until he found the new-looking carton, wedge between two older boxes. He slid it out. Boswell’s clothes were there as he remembered. It had been his job to log what went in the box. He was puzzled. Something seemed to be missing. He went through the garments again. He would have to check them against the inventory.
-0-
‘I’m surprised at you, Lewis. You must be losing your touch,’ Parker chuckled. The spotted neckerchief was on the desk between them where the forensics man had laid it.
‘I really don’t understand,’ Lewis said. ‘I could have sworn we searched everywhere.’
Parker’s lips formed a smile that wouldn’t have disgraced a cat that had got the cream. ‘Tut tut – first the cards and then this.’ He pointed at the scarf with a stubby forefinger. ‘Now we have proof.’
‘We-ell,’ Lewis said slowly. ‘I’m not so sure.’
‘What do you mean?’ The smile had vanished, replaced by a snarl. ‘I thought you said the blood was a match for the nancyboy Petulengro?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘And it was on the pikey Boswell’s scarf?’
‘It would seem so.’
‘What’s the problem then?’
Lewis was quiet for a moment.
‘Well?’
‘It just seems strange that the scarf turned up in Petulengro’s caravan.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘I’m pretty sure he was wearing it when he was arrested.’
‘No, he couldn’t have been,’ Parker said quickly. ‘All his stuff was put in a box in the basement. Wickstead should have the inventory – you can check.’
‘Yes, I will.’
‘You do that.’ Parker started shuffling papers on his desk, being careful not to touch the scarf. After a few moments he looked up, his face a picture of innocence. ‘Aren’t you going to check then?’
‘I suppose so.’ Lewis was far from happy.
Parker pointed at the neckerchief. ‘And take this please. I don’t want anyone accusing me of tampering with evidence.’
-0-
Russell parked the Ford Popular at the bottom of Seahorse Street and they got out of the car. Bruissement stood, one hand on his hip, the other across his chest in the sling, looking up the road. ‘Mon Dieu! That is une rue magnifique!’
‘It is pretty, isn’t it?’
The street rose steeply, its surface paved with rounded cobbles. As they climbed they passed black and white, half-timbered houses, some cloaked with hanging peg tiles or faced with Tudor brick. Towards the top, on the left, they stopped in front of the handsome façade of the Seahorse Inn. On the wall next to the steps leading up to the front door was written:
The Seahorse
Rebuilt 1420
‘Rebuilt?’ Bruissement said, puffing after the effort of climbing the hill.
‘Yes, your lot kept coming over and burning it down.’ Russell chuckled.
His companion looked baffled.
‘In the days when our countries were at war with each other, they took it in turns. One year our men would go over and sack Boulogne, burning and pillaging – the following one the French would come over and do the same here. Thankfully that’s a thing of the past. You’ll get a warm welcome now.’
‘Shall we have an aperitif then?’ Bruissement’s eyes twinkled. ‘’Opefully they keep a good cellar.’
The two men entered the inn and walked along the narrow, beamed corridor and down into the bar. They took their drinks and sat down in a pair of plush armchairs next to the Giant’s fireplace. This deep inglenook was lined with Tudor brickwork and stretched the whole width of the room. A couple of large logs smouldered on top of a pile of ash in the centre; an elaborate iron crane hung over the fire with a soot-blackened pot suspended on a chain.
Bruissement sipped at his glass of claret. ‘Yes, the landlord does keep a good cellar,’ he said. �
��À votre santé.’ He clinked glasses with Russell.
‘Cheers,’ Russell returned. ‘How long do you think you’ll be able to stay?’
‘Pourqoi? ’Ave you ’ad enough of me?’
The DI laughed. ‘Of course not, my friend. You are welcome to stay as long as you like. I was just thinking about what else you might like to do.’
It was the Frenchman’s turn to laugh. ‘I do not think I need to do anything very much. I am just enjoying ’aving the company of you and making a visit to your delightful part of Angleterre.’
‘As long as you’re not bored.’
‘Pff! Never!’
‘Good. Then drink up. We should make our way to Isobel’s.’
They drained their glasses, left the inn and carried on up to the top of Seahorse Street and turned right into another cobbled road. A turn to the left and St Mary’s church came into view. The medieval structure stood in the centre of the citadel at the highest point, surrounded by equally old houses – a sturdy stone mother hen with her half-timbered chicks gathered round her.
As they approached, Bruissement stopped in his tracks. ‘Merveilleuse!’
‘It is rather splendid, isn’t it?’ Russell agreed.
‘So is this where the délicieuse Isobel lives?’
‘Over there,’ Russell said, pointing to the row of black and white houses, just beyond the wall round the graveyard. They made their way past the church and along the path between the ancient moss-covered tombstones. A few more paces and they reached a row of half-timbered buildings. Each one had blackened beams framing whitewashed panels decorated with simple pargeting. Tradition had it that many of the oak beams had come from sailing ships, wrecked along the coast. They certainly looked as if they had weathered many storms. Between the beams the windows were small, with lead strips framing diamond panes of glass. Each house had a substantial oak front door, once a defence against marauding Frenchmen and smugglers, as well as the revenue men seeking them out. But these threats belonged to a past long gone; the doors now concealed homely interiors. Russell led Bruissement down an alleyway between two of these dwellings. The passage was narrow with a low ceiling but they soon came out into a more open space. On the right was another cottage. Russell lifted the brass anchor-shaped knocker and sounded a rat-a-tat-tat. No sooner had the last knock faded than the door opened and Isobel stood there, smiling at the men. She looked stunning. Her flame red hair was swept back and twisted into a sophisticated chignon at the nape of her neck. She was wearing an emerald green silk dress with a dropped waist – more 1920s than 1950s – but it suited her colouring perfectly. Her makeup was light and subtle and Russell could smell a waft of floral perfume.
He leaned forward and, taking her hands in his, kissed her lightly on the lips. ‘You look marvellous.’
‘Thank you, kind Sir.’ Letting go of his hands she turned to Bruissement. ‘Lovely to see you again, Guillaume.’
The Frenchman put his good arm lightly round her waist and kissed her on both cheeks. He stood back and beamed. ‘Sonny is a very lucky man.’
A blush rose up her neck. ‘Enough of your Gallic nonsense. Come into my humble abode.’ She turned and led them into the cottage.
They had just sat down at the table and Isobel had placed bowls of soup in front of them when there was a hammering on the door. ‘Who on earth could that be?’ she said. ‘Excuse me for a moment; I’ll get rid of whoever is disturbing us.’
A few seconds later DC Weeks burst into the room, his mop of curly hair looking more dishevelled than ever. ‘There’s been another death!’ he stammered.
‘Easy lad. Slow down – take your time.’
‘Sorry, Sir. I didn’t mean to burst in on you. It’s just I can’t get hold of Bonnie Parker and I didn’t know what else to do.’
‘What’s happened? Can’t be another fortune teller, can it?’
Weeks couldn’t resist a smile – then was serious. ‘No, it’s a fisherman.’
‘Oh? Where?’
‘Dungeness. Found dead in a boat.’
‘What, drowned?’ Russell asked.
‘No, the boat was on the shore. Seems he’s got a head wound.’
‘Any idea who he is?’
‘No, the local bobby just rang it in. That’s all I know.’
‘I suppose you want me to come with you and see what’s happened?’
Weeks looked sheepish. ‘I hate to intrude on your party…’
‘Don’t worry. I’m sure Isobel will enjoy Guillaume’s company.’ He looked at her.
Isobel gave a wry smile. ‘I suppose this is something I’ve got to get used to – my chap going off at all hours.’
‘I’m afraid so – but not too often, I hope.’
-0-
In less than half an hour they were approaching Dungeness. Weeks had finally got the hang of the gears in the Ford Pilot so the journey had been relatively smooth. While they were travelling he had brought his boss up to date with what had been happening.
‘After we had left you at the Salts we had to drive straight back to Collinghurst.’
‘Didn’t you get a chance to interview that chap on the Waltzer again?’ Russell asked.
‘No, we didn’t. Bonnie Parker insisted we go back immediately.’
‘Then he didn’t think there might be another possible suspect?’
‘Far from it. He’s convinced that Boswell committed both the murders.’
‘What happened when you returned to the station?’
‘He told Nettie to go off and do some paperwork – he’s such a dinosaur – and wanted me to sit in while he carried on interviewing Boswell.’
‘How did that go?’
Weeks gave a little laugh. ‘As I’m sure you suspect – not well. Boswell kept insisting that he’s innocent. He even accused Bonnie of trying to frame him.’
‘I bet that went down like a concrete glider.’
‘Funnily enough, Parker hardly reacted. Just sat there with that knowing smile on his face – the one he does so well.’
‘Is he any further forward?’
‘Not really. The evidence is pretty thin – just the burnt pack of cards and the spotted scarf with bloodstains.’
Russell sat in silence for a while as the Ford hummed along. Then: ‘I’m not so sure. If they both link to Boswell, there could be a case to answer.’
‘That’s what Parker reckons, but I don’t think so.’
‘Why’s that, lad?’
Weeks took a large gulp of air. ‘If there were fingerprints on either the cards or the scarf then I’d agree – it would be pretty conclusive. Parker hasn’t let on to Boswell that there aren’t any but I’ve spoken to Lewis.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘Well, although he’d conducted some pretty exhaustive tests on the cards, the only prints were smudged and even the partials weren’t a match for Boswell.’
‘What about the scarf?’
‘Nothing. And he’s convinced it wasn’t there when he searched Petulengro’s caravan the first time.’
‘Then how did it get there?’
‘That’s a mystery.’
Russell paused in thought again. ‘Someone planted it?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘But who?’
‘That’s another mystery.’
‘This case is full of mysteries. But then that’s not surprising, considering it revolves around fortune tellers.’
‘Anyway, that’s why I came looking for you.’
By now they were on the Dungeness estate and Weeks had turned off the road. It had grown dark as they had journeyed from Nottery Quay and the headlights flashed up and down and from side to side like wartime searchlights as the car bumped along the rough track. Shortly they pulled up beside an open fishing boat on the shingle ridge.
The local PC was standing there, the lights picking out his bike propped against the hull. He saluted. ‘Evening Inspector.’
‘Evening…constable?’
‘Fishwick, Sir. PC Fishwick.’
‘Right. Who found the body?’ Russell asked.
‘A local fisherman, Georgie Oiler. He’d come down to check his boat and found the dead man in it.’
‘Let’s have a look then.’ All three men had powerful torches and the combined beams lit up a body, lying on the bottom boards of the boat. Russell reached in and lifted a piece of canvas that was partially concealing the man’s head. His hair was matted and dark with dried blood. Carefully the DI turned the head to reveal a deep gash in the skull. ‘It appears to be the cause of death, but I’d rather John Crooks confirmed that before we jump to any conclusions.’
‘Oh, I took the precaution of ringing him before I left the station, Sir,’ Weeks said.
‘I bet that didn’t please him. Being called out in the evening.’
‘Funnily enough he didn’t seem bothered.’
‘Strange. He usually doesn’t like being disturbed when he’s gone home.’
Russell was carefully lowering the man’s head when he said: ‘Hang on! I know who this is.’
‘Sir?’
‘If I’m not mistaken he’s a friend of the landlord of the Red Lion in Appledore. Let me think.’ He paused. ‘Yes I’m sure. It’s Albert Stern. Lives over there.’ He pointed back towards the land. ‘In Prospect Cottage.’ Russell winced at the painful memory of waking after having been bashed on his head. Luckily the injury he had sustained wasn’t so serious.
‘The one involved in smuggling duty-free goods?’
‘The same – which is strange.’
‘Why’s that, Sir?’
‘It doesn’t make sense that this has happened – unless he and Mills fell out…’
The sound of an engine could be heard coming closer, headlights growing brighter. In a few moments a Morris J-type van pulled up beside the Ford Pilot. The elegant figure of Lewis unfolded itself from the driver’s side, closely followed by the more rotund shape of the pathologist from the passenger side.
Crooks arched his backed and groaned. ‘Not my favourite form of transport but it saved me driving, I suppose.’ He walked across to the boat. ‘What have we got here then?’ he boomed.
Blood on the Cards Page 16