RUSSELL LEFT Weeks’s Ford Popular behind the station as there was a spare police Wolseley. He returned to his home and collected his French friend along with Aggie.
‘So do you think we will be finding this Jack Mills in his pub?’ Bruissement asked, as they drove along the Military Road.
‘I do hope so. I want to question him about the death of Stern. Somehow, I don’t think he was involved but I need to talk to him.’
‘’Ave you any idée who did kill him?’
‘None at all – it’s a mystery. And I’m still puzzling over that caravan.’
‘Ah, the one that was seen by the funny old man with the broken gatepost. Tell me again what ’appened.’
Russell steered the car round one of the jinks in the road that followed the route of the canal. ‘Okay. First the neighbour saw the truck and caravan going like a bat out of hell along the track away from the beach. That, presumably, was when the tyre was damaged. Then, Ben Gunn…’
‘Pardon ? Who is this man you speak of?
‘He was a character in a book by Robert Louis Stevenson. Marooned on a desert island for several years.’
Bruissement laughed. ‘I see why you are calling him that – he was very, ’ow you say, scruffy.’
‘He was a character. Just a shame he wasn’t able to give a better description of the man.’
‘Could ’e not tell you anything about him?’
‘Not really. Just said he was large.’
‘Pff. That’s not much ’elp, is it?’
‘None at all. Could be anyone.’
They passed the pillbox where the body of Ivy Rose Lee was found – where it all started. Russell turned off the Military Road, drove up the High Street and parked outside the Red Lion. ‘You stay in the car, my friend. This shouldn’t take long.’ As he had hoped the landlord was there, standing behind the bar, polishing a glass with a checked tea towel. He looked up as the DI crossed the room – a welcoming smile quickly replaced by an expression that was a cross between a frown and look of disbelief as he recognised Russell. He quickly regained his composure.
‘What can I get for you?’ His voice was oily with charm.
‘Nothing to drink, thank you. But I’d like some answers,’ Russell said brusquely.
‘Oh?’
‘You have a friend over at Dungeness - Albert Stern.’
‘You know I ’ave.’
‘And I know that you’ve been over there recently.’
Mills’s eyes narrowed. ‘Oh yeah?’
‘Yes, I saw your pickup there a couple of days ago.’
‘Did you?’ he said, his face a picture of innocence.
‘Yes. And it was full of cartons of cigarettes and cases of brandy.’
Mills shook his head, incomprehension clouding his face. ‘Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.’
‘I’m talking about goods you’ve smuggled from France. Goods that duty hasn’t been paid on.’
‘I’ve really no idea what you’re on about,’ he said mildly.
‘Oh yes you have,’ Russell hissed. ‘And I expect it was you who thumped me over the head.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
The DI struggled to keep his voice level. ‘I was there. I saw you bring the goods ashore and load them into your truck.’
‘And you ’ave proof?’ Mills asked.
Russell regained his composure. He knew that he couldn’t prove that it was Mills who had hit him, and the man knew it too. He decided to go for the jugular.
‘I should say, you had a friend.’
A cloud crossed the landlord’s face. ‘What do you mean?’
Russell rested his hands on the bar top and leaned forwards. ‘Your friend is dead – but I expect you already knew that.’
‘What? No! He can’t be! How would I know?’
‘I’m afraid that he is. And I suppose you’re going to tell me that you had nothing to do with it?’
‘Of course I didn’t!’
‘Hmm. We’ll see about that. I’m sure some evidence to implicate you will turn up.’
The panic returned. ‘What do you mean – evidence?’
‘Evidence that you did for him.’
‘I don’t believe what I’m hearing.’
‘Try this for size: you went over to Dungeness to see him – discuss what you were going to do with the stuff you smuggled across the Channel. The discussion got heated – turned into an argument – perhaps he didn’t want to participate any more. You struggled; he fell and bashed his head. Maybe you didn’t mean to hurt him but he ended up dead. How’s that for a scenario?’
Mills face turned as white as a sheet. ‘You are joking,’ he said, his eyes wide.
‘No, I’m deadly serious.’
Somehow the landlord recovered his bravado and folded his arms across his chest. Despite Russell’s best efforts he wasn’t going to be drawn. ‘So come up with the so-called evidence.’
‘Leave it to me to find it.’ Russell turned on his heel. As he reached the door he looked over his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be back.’
Almost before the door had closed Mills grabbed a glass off the shelf and helped himself to a brandy – a very large one. In one swallow it was gone and he refilled the glass. He lifted the counter flap, took the drink round to the other side of the bar and sat down heavily on a stool. Sweat beaded on his forehead. This was a real blow. He wasn’t overly fond of Stern – he just found him, and his boat, useful. But he wouldn’t have wished him dead. What the hell had happened? He wasn’t aware that Stern had any friends, let alone enemies. Who an earth would want to kill him? Maybe it was an accident. He took a smaller sip from his glass.
And that bloody policeman. He had it in for him – would probably say anything to rile him. So if it had been an accident, how had it happened, and where? Hell’s teeth! How could he find out? As he was pondering this dilemma another thought barged its way into his head. He gulped down the last of the brandy. If the police were investigating around Stern’s house they could easily discover his secret hoard in the wrecked shed. Oh God! He wasn’t worried about losing the goods – it was too late for that. He was more concerned that the rozzers would trace them to him. Then his whole world would come tumbling down. That bloody copper, Russell, would know he was right and probably be able to prove who had thumped him. There was nothing for it. He would have to risk going over to Dungeness and clear the stuff out. The trouble was he knew he should wait until after dark and could only hope and pray that his hoard hadn’t already been discovered.
-0-
The Waltzer was already well on the way to be being fully constructed. A couple of men were manhandling one of the gaudily decorated cars into place. Sideshows were erected and there was the thump-thump-thump of diesel generators. The chairoplanes were being hung from their chains; dodgem cars were pushed on to the steel deck, their metal poles thrusting upwards to connect electrically with the overhead metal grid. Weeks and Nettie walked across the fresh green grass towards it.
‘We’re looking for one of the men we talked to in Nottery Quay,’ the DC said.
‘So are we,’ one of the workers muttered.
‘He’s a big man – wears a battledress jacket,’ Nettie added.
‘You mean Pint-sized Charlie,’ the other man said as he heaved a roll of canvas on to the roof timbers.
‘Pint-sized? But he’s huge.’
‘That’s the joke,’ the first man guffawed.
‘It’s because ’e’s ’uge,’ the second one said. ‘A gentle giant.’
‘Is he around?’
‘No ’e bloody ain’t. The bleeder ’asn’t turned up.’
‘Do you know where he is?’ Weeks asked.
‘Not a bloody clue. ’E left a day before us and ’e ain’t been seen since.’
‘Why did he go off early?’
‘He said he weren’t feeling too good. Must’ve picked up a bug or something,’ the first man said.
‘Left us
in a right mess,’ the second one added.
‘Why’s that?’
‘’E’s got our billet.’
‘Your billet?’
‘Bloody great caravan. Where we all kip down. Tows it with an old army lorry. ’Ad to sleep under a truck last night. Dunno where we’re gonna sleep tonight if ’e don’t turn up soon.’
‘Thanks for your help,’ Weeks said. He gripped the WPC by the elbow and quickly steered her away from the men. When they were out of earshot he said. ‘Did you hear that? “A bloody great caravan”. It’s got to be the same one that was seen in Dungeness. The funny old chap said it was a big man driving the truck. It’s got to be him – Pint-sized Charlie.’
‘So where is he now?’
‘Who knows? I’d better radio it in. Put out an alert out for him. He’s obviously dangerous.’
Chapter 16
The Lucky Strike brand was introduced in 1871 by the company R.A. Patterson, the brand's founder, who was inspired by the era's rush for gold searching. Very few of the gold diggers were fortunate enough to find gold and if they were, this was often referred to as a ‘lucky strike’.
RUSSELL STOMPED back to the Wolseley, a frown on his face. He got into the car and sat in the driver’s seat, staring out through the windscreen. He felt rattled. Mills had got under his skin – the man was smug but there was nothing Russell could prove.
‘What is it, mon ami?’ Bruissement asked.
‘That blasted man really gets to me. I know he’s been smuggling stuff from France and I’m pretty certain it was him who thumped me. I just can’t prove any of it, and he knows that. It’s so galling.’
The Frenchman nodded sagely. ‘Oui, I can see that. So what can be done? There must be some way we can, ’ow you say, trip ’im up.’
Russell sat quietly, pondering. After a few moments he slowly shook his head. ‘No, I just can’t think of anything.’
‘Listen. I ’ave an idea.’
Russell turned to his companion. ‘Go on. I’m listening.’
‘Perhaps we should go over to Dungeness – talk again to the people there.’
‘But Weeks and I have already spoken to a number of them. And the local bobby, PC Fishwick, and a couple of other constables have been knocking on doors and talking to the rest.’
‘Ah yes, but what is the question they ’ave been asking?’
‘I suppose they’ve been enquiring about the mysterious caravan and whether anyone saw anything else suspicious.’
‘That is just as I thought. Perhaps they should be asking about the landlord Mills. Whether ’im or ’is pickup truck ’ave been seen around.’
‘That’s an idea. Good thinking. Yes, we should go over there now.’ Russell started the engine and turned the car.
As they approached the other Red Lion at Snargate, Russell had a sudden flashback. ‘The caravan! This is where we saw it!’
‘Mais bien sûr! It was leading a convoy along the road.’
‘And heading towards Dungeness. If only we’d seen who was driving.’
‘Too late now, I fear.’
They’d travelled only a few hundred yards when a battered Landrover came barrelling out of a gateway, veered across the wrong side of the road before heading off in the opposite direction. Russell had to swerve to avoid it, mounting the verge. ‘What the…?’ he said, wrestling the car back on to the road.
‘Sonny! Did you not see who was driving?’
‘No. Who was it?’
‘I ’ave a conviction it was that farmer – Angus Goodyear.’
‘Really?’
‘I think so.’
Russell drew to a halt. ‘I have an idea.’ He put the car in reverse and looking over his shoulder, backed it up the road to the gateway. Stopping, he said: ‘If he’s gone we can have a look in that barn.’
This time they reached the building without being challenged by an angry, shotgun-wielding farmer. And this time, the pair of large doors to the barn were open. The hinges were obviously shot as each hung at a crazy angle. There was enough light streaming in through the doorway and the holes in the corrugated cladding to see the interior clearly.
Bruissement let out a sigh. ‘Pff. It is as the man said – just full of matériel agricole.’
‘More like junk,’ Russell said.
The barn contained a tangle of old broken boxes and hessian sacks, so decayed they would hold nothing; unidentifiable worm-eaten tools and pieces of rusted metal that might once have belonged to farm machinery. But no sign of duty-free goods. Russell took a few steps inside and kicked unenthusiastically at a stack of old newspapers, secured with baler twine. The string was so rotten that it gave way, the stack toppled and the papers cascaded on to the dirt floor.
The Frenchman crouched down. ‘Un moment, what is this?’
Russell’s action had revealed a piece of card. Bruissement turned it over. The black capital letters LU above STR were visible on a red background. ‘Yes! he cried. It’s our old friend Lucky Strike! The box must have disintegrated. I knew I was right.’
The Frenchman was kneeling and pushing the papers aside – the pages disintegrating into flakes. Suddenly he stood, moving with surprising speed, considering his bulk. ‘Regardez!’ With eyes gleaming and a huge grin breaking beneath his moustache he held aloft an intact carton of Lucky Strike cigarettes.
Smiling, Russell congratulated him. ‘Well done! That proves the stuff was here.’ Then his face fell. ‘But where is it now?’
Bruissement leaned forward and brushed the dirt from the knees of his trousers. ‘That, I do not know.’ He frowned. ‘I am wondering if that is the reason the farmer was driving away in such an ’urry.’
‘I suppose that’s possible,’ Russell said slowly. ‘So where was he going?’
‘Back to the pub of Mills?’
Russell rubbed his chin. ‘Perhaps, but somehow I don’t think so. Mills must have told him that the police had been keeping an eye on him and I would have thought that our friend Goodyear would keep his distance. No, I reckon him rushing off like that was just a coincidence – and a bit of luck for us to have a nose round here. I think we should carry on to Dungeness. Hopefully that will be more productive. Plus, I’d rather he didn’t find us here – I suspect he’s quite handy with that shotgun.’
The two men hadn’t travelled more than a mile when the radio crackled into life. ‘Calling all cars, calling all cars. Keep a lookout for a large, cream-coloured caravan being towed by an ex-army lorry – possibly a CMP truck. Location: somewhere between Rye and Tenterden. Driver is a large man and believed to be dangerous. Approach with caution. If discovered, radio for reinforcements.’ The broadcast ended and Russell glanced at his companion.
Bruissement’s eyes were sparkling with excitement. ‘It is our killer, non?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Oh, come on, mon ami. It ’as to be.’
‘Well if it is, we have to find him first.’
-0-
Weeks had spread an Ordnance Survey map of the area across the bonnet of the Ford Pilot. He and Nettie leaned over it, studying the possible routes Pint-sized Charlie may have taken.
‘Bearing in mind the fact that he was towing a large caravan, the most straightforward way would be to travel along the Military Road and up through Appledore,’ the DC said. ‘That way the only hill would be after Ebony church, going up Reading Street.’
Nettie stood up. ‘Let’s follow that route then. Perhaps he’s broken down.’
‘Or hiding.’
She gave a sharp laugh. ‘You’d struggle to find anywhere to hide anything as big as that caravan.’
‘I don’t know. There must be any number of narrow lanes where it could be concealed.’
‘Let’s see.’ The WPC bent over the map again and traced her finger along the route. ‘If he is hiding it’s unlikely that it would be anywhere close to Rye, or Tenterden. Too many people and too many houses around. It has to be deeper in the countryside – away from habitat
ion.’
‘Yes, you’re probably right. I’ll radio through to the station and tell them that we’ll start from here and get them to send a car from the Rye end.’
-0-
‘Hello, It’s Wickstead here.’
PC Andrew Gold, holding the phone to his ear, was gripping the handset tightly. He didn’t like using the telephone – found it an unnatural instrument – much preferred face-to-face communication. He was a big lad, tall and broad, young and newly married. As well as Appledore being his first solo posting he was still getting used to the job and was worried about being out of his depth. The excitement of finding the body of Gypsy Ivy Lee in the pillbox had proved almost too much and he’d been hoping that things would settle down into the steady routine he preferred. ‘Hello Sergeant. What can I do for you?’ he said.
‘You probably won’t have heard but there’s a shout out for a wanted man.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘You know that fisherman who was found dead over at Dungeness?’
‘Albert Stern?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Yes, PC Fishwick told me about it.’
‘DC Weeks called it in. Apparently they think the man who did it is driving an ex-army truck, towing a big caravan. He set off from Nottery Quay yesterday and should have arrived in Tenterden. But he hasn’t shown up. Weeks and WPC Sharpe are starting the search from the Tenterden end and PCs Beaumont and Lee are setting out from this end. As you’re about halfway it might be an idea if you keep an eye out.’
‘Okay,’ Gold said slowly. He could feel himself starting to shake. Sweat prickled on his skin.
‘There’s a warning that he’s dangerous so, if you see him, be careful.’
The PC gripped the handset even tighter and pressed it hard against his ear. ‘Right Sarge, I will.’
He put the phone down gingerly, as if it might explode, and let out a huge breath that he’d been holding. This was all he needed. He knew he could just have a cursory look round the village and no one would be any the wiser, but he wasn’t like that. He was an officer of the law and he took it seriously. He felt duty bound to get on his bike and cycle round the lanes. After carefully securing his trouser cuffs with bicycle clips he put on his helmet, checking the strap was tight under his chin. Once satisfied he mounted his trusty Rudge, swinging his leg over the crossbar. He settled into the saddle and headed down The Street.
Blood on the Cards Page 20