‘Oh? What was that?’
‘A caravan.’
‘A caravan?’
‘Yeah. Big bugger – twin-wheeled job. Had one of them ex-Canadian army trucks towin’ it.’ The man’s eyes glazed over as he relived the memory.
‘Where was this, Sir? On the road?’ Weeks prompted.
‘Well that was the odd thing. It came bumpin’ along the track – away from the beach. Goin’ like the clappers – much too fast – rockin’ all over the place. Wonder it didn’t turn over. Dunno what it was doin’ there anyway.’
Russell had a sudden flashback. He felt he’d also seen something like that recently but the exact time and place eluded him. He shook his head. ‘When was this, Sir?’
The man sucked on his pipe again. ‘Must ’ave been yesterday. He paused. ‘Yeah, yesterday – late afternoon I think.’
‘Did you see which way it went?’
‘It was odd. I thought whoever was drivin’ it would ’ead back off the estate.’
‘And he didn’t?’
No. ’Eaded towards the light’ouse. Obviously didn’t know it’s a dead end.’
‘And that was the last you saw of it – it didn’t come back?’
‘Dunno. I went indoors to make me tea. Didn’t see nothing else.’
Russell looked at Weeks. ‘We’d better go and have a look.’
They returned to the Ford Pilot, settled inside and Weeks drove out towards the end of the road. As they approached the impressive structure of the old lighthouse a figure ran out into the road and waved them down. Weeks stood on the brake and the car skidded to a halt. Russell wound the window down as the figure stumbled up to them.
‘’Ere! You the police?’ The man wore a ragged jacket and trousers held up with a length of rope. His thin, straggly hair flew around his head in the breeze and his cheeks were speckled with grey stubble.
‘Yes. Is there a problem?’
‘There was – but you’re too late – as usual!’
Weeks switched off the engine and the two detectives got out of the car. ‘What are we too late for, Sir?’ Weeks asked.
‘Come and look. I’ll show you.’
They followed him as he led them along a track and towards another converted railway carriage. His shambling gait and ragged appearance reminded Russell of Ben Gunn in Treasure Island, a book he’d loved as a boy. He half expected the man to ask for a piece of cheese. When they reached the dwelling he was surprised to see that it was in a much better state than the one they’d seen earlier. The paintwork looked fresh, the windows sparkled and the bronze door handles gleamed. It even had a neat picket fence around the garden.
The man noticed the policeman’s admiring glances. He beamed. ‘Proud of me home, I am. Looks after it proper-like. I used to work on the railways. Bought it when I retired. Lived here ever since.’ His face darkened. ‘Hate it when anyone disturbs me peace.’
‘Who disturbed your peace, Sir?’ Russell asked gently.
‘Bloody idiot with a caravan – ’scuse my French.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Yes. Came roaring up here – towing it with an old army lorry – bashed into me gatepost. Look.’ He pointed to one of the timbers, leaning at a drunken angle. ‘And he left this behind.’ They followed him along the fence to a large clump of Euphorbia, the mat of glaucous leaves topped with acid-yellow florets. Tangled up in the plant was a wheel. The tyre had very little tread and when Weeks lifted it upright and rolled it they could see that part was shredded. ‘Had the cheek to change it here and leave his rubbish behind.’
‘When was this?’
‘Yesterday. Getting on for six before he went off.’ The man chuckled – Ben Gunn again. ‘Drove off a lot slower than when he arrived.’
‘Did you speak to him?’
‘Me? Not likely! Stayed indoors. Don’t like strangers.’
‘How come you flagged us down then, Sir?’ Weeks asked.
‘Ah, that’s different. You was driving careful like – knew you was respectable.’
‘Did you see the man clearly?’
‘See him?’ The chuckle became a cackle. ‘Couldn’t miss him. Built like a Bulleid Pacific.’
‘I’m sorry, Sir – a what?’
The man stared at them as if they were gormless. ‘A Spam Can.’
The two detectives looked at each other.
‘Blimey, don’t you know anything? It’s a 4-6-2 Southern engine – streamlined. You must have seen them.’
Realisation dawned. Russell chuckled. ‘Oh, I see what you mean – a big fellow. I don’t suppose you could describe him?’
The man screwed up his eyes and scratched the stubble on his cheek. ‘Can’t say I took much notice. Just glad when he went away. Wouldn’t want to meet the likes of him in a narrow alley on a dark night though.’
‘Are you sure you can’t remember anything about him?’
The frown deepened and he paused for thought, rubbing his chin. ‘He might have had a moustache. Can’t be sure.’ Suddenly he looked up. ‘Anyway. What are you going to do about it?’
‘About what, Sir?’
‘About me gatepost, of course!’ The look he gave suggested they were the idiots not to understand.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Russell improvised. ‘If there’s nothing else you can tell us, we’ll be on our way and leave you in peace.’
As they drove back along the road Russell sat slumped in his seat, deep in thought.
‘Penny for them,’ Weeks said, as he steered round a pothole.
The DI took a while to respond. ‘What? Oh, I was just thinking. Something’s bugging me.’
‘What’s that, Sir?’
‘That caravan – the one that both he and the fisherman saw. Something’s nagging at the back of my brain about it and I just can’t bring it to the front. I’ve got a vague notion that it might be important.’
Before long they’d arrived at the beach. Weeks parked the car next to the familiar shape of Lewis’s Morris J-type van. Crooks had apparently suffered the indignity of travelling with him again as he stood next to the boat, fists on hips with his ample stomach bulging.
‘Morning, John. Found anything of interest?’
‘Apart from a dead body?’ He shook his head. ‘Afraid not.’
‘Do you know how he died?’
‘As I suspected – it was the anchor what did for him.’
‘And did he fall or was he pushed?’
‘Difficult to be certain but I would think the latter.’
‘So deliberate or accidental?’
‘That I can’t say. You find whoever did it and you might discover the truth. Now, if no one minds, I’d like to get back.’ He turned to the forensics man. ‘Are you ready to go Lewis?’
‘I’d quite like to hang around. I still haven’t made a thorough search of the area.’
‘And I’d quite like to have a better look here,’ Russell said. ‘Weeks, why don’t you take John back? I’ll hitch a ride with Lewis later. Then you can find out what’s been going on in our absence.’
‘Oh good!’ Crooks said, rubbing his hands together. ‘A ride in a proper car.’
-0-
Jack Mills could feel panic rising when he saw a policeman standing guard outside Prospect Cottage. Instead of slowing, he drove on past it, keeping his speed steady and his eyes straight ahead. He carried on to the end of the road and brought the pickup to a standstill by the lighthouse. With the engine ticking over he sat in his seat, sweat dripping off his forehead and a trickle rolling down between his shoulder blades. What the hell was going on? Why was there a rozzer at Stern’s place? Had they found the goods already? ‘Think logically,’ he said to himself. ‘If they’ve found it, wouldn’t they be on the other side of the road, near the derelict shed? Of course they would.’ So why was there a policeman outside the cottage? Fear gripped him.
Had Stern ratted on him – told them about the operation to bring fags and booze into the country witho
ut paying duty? He couldn’t believe Albert would do that – he’d have to implicate himself too and the man wasn’t fool enough to do something so stupid – he hoped. So why was the copper there? The trickle of sweat on his back turned to ice. Had something happened to him? He daren’t go and enquire – it would look too suspicious. There was nothing for it but to turn round and return to Appledore – hoping no one would spot him.
-0-
Back in Collinghurst DI Parker’s mood had quickly gone from pleasure to anger. Initially he’d been cheered by the reappearance of his loyal sidekick, Clyde Barrow. ‘Welcome back, son. Are you feeling better now?’
‘Much better thank you, Sir.’
‘Good. Now I won’t have to put up with that waste of space, Weeks.’ This pleasure was short lived when the Barrow challenged his motives for charging Vado Boswell with the double murders.
‘Sir,’ he’d said. ‘What if the gypsy didn’t do it? What if it was someone else – someone with a grudge?’ His period of rest while he convalesced had obviously emboldened him.
‘Are you questioning my judgment?’ Parker’s eyes narrowed and the words came out as a growl.
Barrow back-pedalled. ‘Er, no. It’s just that…
‘Just what exactly.’
The DC stood wringing his hands, fearing that he’d gone too far, but decided to press on anyway. ‘The evidence is a bit flimsy,’ he said, then added, ‘Sir.’ When the DI didn’t respond he continued: ‘Just a bit of blood on a scarf and some burnt cards. It’s not much, is it?’
There was a pause while Parker took a Capstan Full Strength out of a battered pack. His hands were shaking. ‘Now listen, constable. If I say there’s enough evidence, then there’s enough evidence. Savvy?’ He rammed the cigarette into his mouth, lit it with a Swan Vesta and sucked hard, making the end glow cherry red.
Defeated, Barrow gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head.
‘So. I want you to go over the case and write up a report, making sure everything points to Boswell being the murderer. I want to see that pikey at the end of a rope. I hate the bastard and all his kind. Now get on with it!’
Unused to this level of vehemence being directed at him, Barrow was only too happy to leave the room. Perhaps he should have stayed longer on sick leave.
-0-
The body of Albert Stern had been taken away to Collinghurst for a post mortem examination. Lewis was carefully going over the boat where the fisherman had been found. Russell walked round the site, being mindful not to get in the forensic man’s way. Normally Aggie would be scampering at his feet but, on this occasion, he had left the little terrier with Guillaume. The Frenchman had been happy to remain in Russell’s railway-carriage home. The previous evening he had enjoyed a very pleasant time at Isobel’s house and when both men had got back he had regaled Russell with details of the dinner that he’d missed. The DI had felt an unexpected pang of jealousy. Bruissement was an attractive man – and French to boot. Plus he was charming. But, Russell rationalised, he was a good friend and he knew there was really nothing to be jealous of. Even so…
‘Sonny!’ An excited shout from Lewis broke into his reverie. Russell joined him peering into the boat. ‘I think I’ve found something – look!’ He pointed to where two bottom boards met. Wedged in the gap was a piece of card. It appeared to have a blue and white pattern on it. With a gloved hand Lewis eased it out and carefully unfolded it.
‘It’s another Tarot card!’ Russell exclaimed.
‘Justice. Another of the absent cards.’
‘Sorry? Have I missed something?’
‘Didn’t you know?’
‘Know what?’
‘There were four cards missing from the pack that was in the stove.’
‘Oh, I didn’t realise that. I thought there were only two.’
‘Of course, you hadn’t been told. Two matching ones were found in the mouths of the fortune tellers but there were two further cards.’
‘So you think this is one of them?’
‘I can’t be certain, but it certainly looks like it.’
Russell stood upright and rubbed his back with his knuckles. ‘You know what this means?’
‘What’s that, Sonny?’
‘That this death can’t be attributed to Vado Boswell. And… it’s got to throw doubt on his guilt over the other deaths.’
Lewis stood up and stared at Russell, a serious look on his face. ‘And… I need to have a talk with Sergeant Wickstead.’
Chapter 14
Don Francisco Fonseca founded his brand in the 1890s. Made using a delicate blend of filler and binder tobaccos from the Vuelta Abajo zone his cigars are dressed in silky tissue paper.
‘I JUST don’t understand.’ The desk sergeant shook his head slowly from side to side, a perplexed look clouding his features. ‘I always make a list of the contents before the boxes go down to the cellar.’
‘Is there a chance it’s in another book?’ Lewis was equally baffled.
‘No, this is the current one. See? We’re only halfway through it.’
‘Let me have a closer look.’
Wickstead passed him the ledger. Lewis laid it on the counter-top, open between the date before the day Boswell’s effects were put into store and the date after. He smoothed the pages flat and leant down, peering closely at the book. He moved even closer and ran his finger down the centre. ‘Hold on. Something’s not as it should be. I think there’s a page missing.’
‘What?’
‘Look’
Wickstead put on a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. ‘You’re right. There’s a very faint ridge!’
‘Someone’s cut it out. And so carefully you can hardly see it. Must have used a razor. Who on earth would do that?’ It was Lewis’s turn to shake his head.
Wickstead took time to remove his spectacles. ‘I think you’d better sit down. I’ve got a horrible feeling I know what’s happened.’ When they were seated he explained about DI Parker’s interest in Boswell’s effects. ‘I thought it strange at the time. Why would he be so concerned about some clothes?’ He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled noisily. ‘But that’s not the worst of it. I know that Boswell was wearing the spotted scarf when he came in. I remember it quite distinctly.’
‘You realise what you’re saying is extremely serious?’
‘Yes, I do.’ The sergeant’s voice was low, with a quaver in it. ‘I know that Parker was determined to find the gypsy guilty – and maybe he is – but I don’t hold with twisting the truth to get a result.’
‘I agree. What on earth was the man thinking of?’
‘He’s desperate to get a result. He’s made no bones about the fact that he loathes the gypsy and his kind, especially since Boswell has tried to assault him on several occasions while in custody. Plus, his success rate has been pretty low of late…’
‘Not that it was ever wonderful,’ Lewis said wryly.
‘Quite.’ Wickstead stroked his moustache. ‘What do you think we ought to do?’
‘We could take it straight to Superintendent Stout.’
‘Trouble is, I think he’s of the same opinion as Bonnie Parker.’
‘What’s that?’ Lewis asked.
‘That all gypsies are guilty of something and they need putting in prison.’ Wickstead’s tone made it clear that he didn’t agree.
‘Hmm. That certainly makes it tricky.’
‘What do we do then?’
Lewis looked thoughtful. ‘Does Sonny Russell know about this?’
‘No. you’re the only person I’ve told.’
‘Perhaps we should tell him.’
‘That’s a thought.’
‘Then he could approach the Super.’
‘Trouble is he’s not Stout’s favourite person at the moment.’
‘But he can be quite persuasive – more than you or I could.’
-0-
For once Russell had been invited to sit – and had been sitting for some time before the Super s
poke. He’d had to wait while his boss carefully selected a cheroot from the tin on his desk and rolled it by his ear, as if it was a Fonseco Churchill cigar. He then took his time to light it with his Zippo lighter, suck the smoke deep into his lungs and hold it for a surprisingly long time before blowing out a blue cloud. ‘Let me get this straight,’ Stout said finally. ‘You’re suggesting that DI Parker falsified evidence?’
‘I’m afraid so, Sir.’
‘You do realise that this is a very serious allegation.’ It was a statement, not a question. ‘If there is any truth in this, I will have to take action. Do you actually have any hard evidence?’
‘There’s the log.’
Stout flicked through the pages of the ledger. ‘Wickstead could just have forgotten to enter the details.’
‘You know how conscientious he is, Sir.’
‘Yes, yes,’ the Super said, waving his arm, scattering ash from the cheroot he was holding.
‘And you can see where the page has been cut out.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t agree. It just looks like part of the book binding.’
‘But what about the neckerchief?’
‘Again, it’s just Wickstead’s word against the DI’s.’
‘But why should he lie?’ Russell could feel his temper rising.
‘Calm down, Inspector. I’m not suggesting he lied, just that he was mistaken.’
Russell realised he wouldn’t get anywhere if he continued in this vein so he changed tack. ‘What about the card we found in the boat?’
‘The Tarot card?’
‘That’s right.’
Stout took one last drag of his cigar and stubbed it out in the heavy glass ashtray. ‘Coincidence.’
‘But it matches the others – the ones found in the fortune tellers’ mouths and in the pack that was discovered in the stove in Boswell’s van.’
Stout tipped his chair back and linked his fingers across his chest. ‘Tell me. Is it a particularly special deck of cards?’
Blood on the Cards Page 18