As Gold pedalled he thought about the places where a caravan might be concealed. He enjoyed being in the countryside, one of the reasons why he had applied for the post. During his spare time he liked to explore the surroundings and in the short while he had been there he’d got to know it well. He had a pretty good mental map in his head and was thinking about where he would look first. There was little point in going along the Military Road. The canal, on the left of the road, made concealment impossible. There weren’t any turnings on the other side for a couple of miles until Knock Hill so he’d leave it to the PCs coming from Compass Point. He could go down the road towards the station but didn’t think it was a likely choice as it was dotted with houses, sparse, but close enough to make things tricky. Instead, he decided to cross over the canal and turn sharp right along the lonely lane that made its way eventually to Brookland, following the meandering New Watering Sewer.
The sewer was one of the many drainage dykes that criss-crossed the Marsh. The road was narrow and twisting with, he recalled, several farm tracks leading off it. After the first tree-lined right-angled, bend to the left, the countryside opened up to the flat landscape, so typical of the Marsh. Fertile fields, reclaimed after the great storm of 1287, spread evenly on both sides as far as the eye could see. Overhead a huge dome of sky made the scene appear like a giant snow-globe. PC Gold felt slightly intimidated and not a little anxious, the regular creak of a chain that needed oiling the only sound as he pedalled steadfastly on. Within a few minutes he had reached the first farmstead. A grain-store stood elevated, like a featureless cathedral, with a smaller farm building to one side. Nowhere to hide a caravan here, and besides, Farmer Ashby would soon chase an interloper off his land.
Without pausing he pressed on, the lane now crossing Five Watering Sewer. A few scrubby bushes lined the route but none was large enough for concealment. In a short time he came to the railway level crossing and paused to look both ways – north towards Ashford – south towards Nottery Quay. He stopped, one foot on the polished railhead, and consulted his watch. The trains ran only once an hour, none was due for some time. He knew that a little farther along the road was the delightful St Thomas à Becket church. A tiny gem, it sat alone on a slight hummock in a large meadow, surrounded by sheep, the one-time village of Fairfield long confined to the mists of time. When the land flooded in winter the water came right up to the church door. The officer was pretty sure there wouldn’t be anywhere for the man to hole up anywhere near it because the site was so exposed. With a sigh, he decided there was little point in continuing. His hunch that this remote area was where he was most likely to come across the caravan had been proved wrong. Turning his bicycle round he set off back towards Appledore.
-0-
PCs Beaumont and Lee were having no luck either, even though they were able to cover the ground more swiftly in the police Wolseley. They had driven up a number of rutted farm tracks that petered out in ploughed fields. Lee, who was driving, had had to reverse to extricate the car, something he was not very good at, causing great merriment in his companion.
After another manoeuvre where he’d backed into the hedge several times he asked: ‘Why don’t you drive, if you can do any better?’ The words were spoken through gritted teeth.
‘No mate,’ Beaumont said, chuckling. ‘I’m enjoying this.’
When, once again, they were back on the Military Road, Lee said: ‘This is bloody hopeless – a complete waste of time. Why would anyone want to hide a caravan in this godforsaken place? If it was me, I’d be miles away from here by now?’
‘Orders is orders, mate. We’re just going to have to keep going until we meet up with the others coming from Tenterden. Then we’ll know for sure that he’s not here.’
The others – Weeks and Nettie – were doing no better. After the first dead-end track they’d driven up Weeks had got in such a muddle with the Ford Pilot that he decided they’d explore any others on foot. Nettie had found it hard not to laugh when she’d had to stand at the side of the car and guide him in reversing. That was after he’d wedged it securely against the hedge for the umpteenth time. So they’d walked up a few more winding rutted paths and, apart from a rusting plough and an empty tumbledown barn, they’d seen nothing of note.
As they trudged back over tussocks and puddles after another fruitless search Weeks confessed: ‘I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve got this all wrong. If he is the man who killed Stern then maybe he won’t bother to join the fair and his colleagues – just disappear.’
Nettie stopped and stared across the scrubby hedge towards the sheep that were munching the short, dry grass. ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘But then again, he may not know that we’re looking for him and might reason that returning to the funfair will provide an alibi for him.’
‘Possibly. You could be right. But… If he was at Dungeness, he might be holed up somewhere on the Brookland Road.’
‘True.’ Nettie pulled up a piece of long grass and chewed thoughtfully on the end.
‘I reckon we’re going to have to widen the search. I’ll call in again when I get back to the car.’
‘Ah, Johnny,’ Wickstead said, his voice crackly down the line. ‘Inspector Parker would like a word with you. Just a moment.’
The DC’s heart sank. He feared the worst.
‘Weeks?’
‘Sir.’
‘I’m not sure what’s going on but I suspect you’ve been wasting your time, as well as that of several PCs.’
‘If I could explain…’
‘No, let me explain. Do you have any evidence that this, what’s he called…?’
‘Pint-sized Charlie.’
‘That this “Pint-sized Charlie” was actually involved in the death of the fisherman at Dungeness?’
‘Well no, but the caravan…’
‘Yes, the caravan. Has it not occurred to you that all these bloody gyppos live in caravans of one sort or another?’
‘I suppose so.’ Weeks could feel a wretched sensation of doom deflating his earlier enthusiasm.
‘So is it not possible that it could be any caravan with any greasy gyppo towing it?’
‘But the distinctive lorry…’
‘Hang on. There are any number of distinctive lorries – mainly ex-army – out on the roads. All you’ve got is the word of some deranged loony who doesn’t even live in a proper house, just some shitty old railway carriage on a beach. Remind you of anyone?’
Weeks refused to take the bait and kept silent, the radio crackling with static.
‘I suggest you pack up now and get back here. There’s proper police work to be done.’ With that the connection was cut.
‘Bloody Bonnie Parker. Bang goes my chance of widening the search.’
Nettie touched him lightly on the arm. ‘Don’t worry Johnny, he doesn’t know where we are so there’s no need to rush back. I’m sure we can explore one or two other lanes.’
Chapter 17
The half crown was a denomination of British money, equivalent to two shillings and sixpence, or one-eighth of a pound. It was first issued in 1549, in the reign of Edward VI.
BY THE time Edna was due to turn up for the evening shift the brandy bottle was down to a couple of inches and Mills’s mood was as sour as the taste in his mouth. He sat at the bar, the fingers of one hand massaging his brow, those of the other wrapped tightly round his glass. There was a tap at the door. He heaved himself off his seat and walked across the room. Drawing the bolt he pulled the door open.
‘Afternoon Jack…’ Edna began cheerily, but stopped when she took in the lowered brow and scowling mouth. She knew that the landlord had developed a temper lately and had upset a number of the locals. But she hadn’t been on the receiving end of it – until now.
He grabbed her wrist. ‘Get in ’ere!’ he growled and pulled hard.
‘Let go, Jack. You’re hurting me!’ she pleaded, trying to twist away from him.
But his grip was vice-like and he dragged her
across the room. ‘Waddyer mean, talking to that bloody copper?’
‘Who?’ Her voice was breaking; big fat tears welling in her eyes.
‘Russell. That interfering DI with the mangy dog.’
‘No, I didn’t…’
‘Liar! It was you. ’Ow else would ’e know about the stuff in the cellar?’
‘Oh, Jack. I’m sorry.’
‘Too late for that. Thanks to you I’m up shit creek an’ my mate is dead.’
Edna brought her free hand up to her mouth and her eyes widened. ‘Dead? Who?’
‘Albert Stern.’ His grip slackened and Edna wrenched her hand away. She backed off, massaging her wrist.
‘What happened?’ Her voice was hushed.
‘Someone killed ’im – over at Dungeness. That’s where the stuff is now.’ The last sentence was spoken so quietly Edna had to strain to hear him.
‘Who killed him? Why did they do it?’
Mills stalked back to the bar and slumped down on the stool. ‘I don’t know – but it weren’t me.’ He drained his glass. ‘Anyway, that’s not my problem. But bringin’ the stuff back ’ere is.’
Edna approached cautiously. ‘Why don’t you share it with me?’
Under normal circumstances he would never have shared anything with her but the effects of the brandy and the news of his friend’s death made him less careful. He cast caution to the wind and said: ‘Listen, I don’t want this to go no further –and I certainly don’t want that nosey copper to know about it.’
She put her hand lightly on his arm. ‘You can trust me, Jack. I won’t say anything.’
‘You’d better not.’ The words came out as a snarl but she stood her ground. He let out a huge sigh. ‘The pub’s been struggling for some time.’
‘I thought it had been quiet.’
‘Well, that’s ’ow things are at the moment. I dunno know why but the punters seem to prefer to go into the Railway ’otel when they get off the train. Or drink in The Swan, up the road.’
‘Maybe you’ve upset some people,’ she ventured.
‘What?’ Another growl. Then his voice softened. ‘I suppose you could be right. Whatever, it means that the pub’s been losin’ money. If I ’adn’t done something, the brewery would ’ave taken it away from me.’
‘So what have you done?’
‘What ’ave I done?’ Mills looked up, his eyes bloodshot. ‘I’ve broken the law, that’s all.’
‘Oh, Jack.’
‘It was the only way to keep the business afloat.’
Edna had slipped on to the stool beside him. ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ she asked gently.
‘Hmm? I suppose so.’ He held his glass out. ‘Get me another drink, would you?’
‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough?’
‘What?’ His mood changed instantly – a bull cornered. He stood up and hurled the glass at the fireplace where it shattered into a thousand pieces. ‘Why the hell am I talking to you? You sold me down the river. Get out! You’re sacked!’ When she hesitated he pushed her hard. ‘Go on – get out! Go!’ Edna stumbled across the room, the tears flowing now, and ran out.
Mills went back behind the bar and rummaged around under the counter until he found a piece of card and a pencil. He scrawled PUB CLOSED and underlined it twice. He weaved unsteadily across the floor, went out though the door and slammed it hard behind him. On the second attempt he got the key in the lock and turned it closed then pushed the card under the knocker. It was still light but he was beyond caring as he got into the pickup, started the engine and drove off.
-0-
PC Gold pedalled back along the New Watering Sewer road, wondering where to look next - or even whether it was worth continuing to look. The man was bound to be long gone. He felt he’d done his bit and if, by any chance, the suspect was still around, someone would have come across him by now. He pushed on, reached the last sharp right-hand bend before the end of the road and realised there was a lane that ran off the corner, along the canal. How had he missed it on the way out? His pulse quickened. Some sixth sense told him to be careful. Dismounting he pushed his bicycle along the track. This was one of the few areas on the edge of the marsh that was fairly heavily wooded with scrubby alders, self-sown sycamore and ash. On the right was the canal. The water was still; a willow, its roots barely anchored in the bank, hung over it, the tips of the branches trailing in the surface. Swallows, newly arrived from Africa, skimmed the surface, catching insects on the wing. Gold could see a heron on the farther bank, standing sentinel, alert for the movement of fish in the shallows. There was a splash as a minnow broke the surface. The heron’s head shot forward into the water and came back up with a silver, wriggling body in its beak. Gold shuddered and carried on.
Another track curved to the left and as he rounded a clump of bushes he was brought up short. There, tucked away among trees was a large, cream caravan hitched to the distinctive shape of a CMP truck. His heart was in his mouth as he carefully lay the bicycle down on the grass. He knew he should return and call for backup but something pushed him on. He was by nature a fairly timid man but uncharacteristically he just couldn’t help himself. Slipping his truncheon out of his pocket he tiptoed up to the caravan. Automatically he put his hand on the handle of the door and was just about to press it down when it flew open, knocking him off balance. He staggered backwards, his arms flailing, the truncheon dropped, until his heel caught in a tree root and he landed on his back with a thump that knocked the breath out of his body.
‘What do you want?’ His light voice was at odds with his appearance.
Gold looked up. A huge man, almost as broad as he was tall, towered over his prone figure. ‘I’m looking for you,’ he said. He had no idea where the words came from but something inside said ‘don’t let him slip away’.
The next instant the man had reached down, grabbed him by the front of his tunic and hauled him to his feet. Gold was by no means small but the man handled him as if he were a rag doll. He pulled the policeman close until their faces were only a few inches apart. ‘You’ve found me. Now what are you planning to do?’
The acrid smell of the man’s breath filled Gold’s nostrils. He tried to struggle but was held too firmly. ‘Let me go,’ he said, through gritted teeth.
The man laughed in his face. His voice was high-pitched; he sounded like the villain in a theatrical melodrama. ‘And then what? You’ll get on your bike and cycle off for reinforcements? Not likely! You’re staying here with me.’ The PC tried again to struggle free but the man was far stronger. Before he knew what was happening the huge man let go of his tunic and swung his fist round hard, connecting with Gold’s jaw and sending him flying. He crashed to the ground in a heap. He tried getting up, raising himself on his hands and knees. He was just about to push himself upright when the big man kicked out with a booted foot. It caught the policeman on the side of the head and he saw stars – then blackness. He was unaware of the man dragging him into the caravan.
-0-
Nettie and Weeks trudged along another lane – much longer than the others they’d checked. Little was said as they walked and the WPC thought about her companion. They got on well – made a good team – but there was no chemistry between them. Nettie wondered at this. The DC was an attractive man – his mop of dark hair and his boyish good looks made him appear younger and more innocent than he was. She knew that his parents lived somewhere in the north of the county and that he had his own house, near DI Russell’s railway-carriage home. She knew that he liked puzzles – regularly completed cryptic crosswords – and that he had an eidetic memory. She’d known him recall whole conversations – word for word although he always made comprehensive notes for the sake of clarification. Perhaps he would become one of those confirmed bachelors like a favourite uncle of hers. She sighed. He noticed.
‘Something up?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘No, nothing important.’ Then: ‘How long is this lane?’
> ‘It’s got to end soon – somewhere.’
What had begun as a tarmacked road – easily wide enough for a car or even a truck – was turning into a rutted track, with bushes encroaching on both sides and grass growing up along the centre. Weeks noted the broken twigs and scattering of leaves along the lane. ‘Looks like something big has been down here recently.’
‘Yes, I think you’re right,’ Nettie agreed. A bend in the lane ahead had obscured their view forward but as they turned the corner she let out a little gasp. There, 100 yards ahead, was the distinctive form of a large, cream-coloured caravan and the dull khaki of an ex-army truck.
‘It’s him!’ Weeks said in a whisper. ‘What do we do now?’
‘We’re supposed to call for reinforcements.’
‘I know. But the car’s a good half a mile back. What happens if he decides to move while we’re gone?’
‘I’m not sure he’s going anywhere in a hurry. Look, the caravan is wedged tight against that tree.’
‘True. But we don’t want to lose him now we’ve found him.’
Nettie gripped his arm. ‘Why doesn’t one of us stay while the other goes back to the car and radios base?’
‘That’s an idea – but which one?’
‘We’ll toss for it.’ The WPC reached into her tunic pocket and brought out a half crown. ‘Heads you stay, tails, it’s me.’ She flipped the coin, caught it and placed it on the back of her hand. ‘Tails!’ she said, triumphantly.
‘Will you be okay?’
Blood on the Cards Page 21