‘Of course I will. Go on.’
Weeks knew she could be impetuous. ‘You won’t do anything daft – anything heroic, will you?’
‘Of course not. I’ll just stay here and observe.’
Weeks set off at a trot and Nettie watched him until he was out of sight. She really had intended to just observe, but something inside, some little voice, made her want to know more and, after only a moment’s reflection, she started walking slowly towards the caravan. When she reached it, she hesitated. Perhaps she should just wait for the others to turn up. The man was supposed to be highly dangerous – and probably armed.
When she was little she was always getting into scrapes. Her parents said she was a tomboy, and probably she was: climbing trees, scrumping apples and scraping her knees. She’d devoured Enid Blyton’s Famous Five stories and Arthur Ransome’s Swallows and Amazons was her bible. Despite being brought up in a vicarage, where church on Sunday was mandatory, she was allowed free rein the rest of the time. She was also a loner.
She remembered growing up during the war. Her father had gone off to Portsmouth as part of his ministry, to comfort people that had been bombed out of their homes and to give the last rites to the dying. Mother had stayed at home busily immersing herself in village life, making friends so that they were never short of fresh vegetable and eggs. Her brother was a good deal younger so there were no older boys around when she was growing up to go on adventures with. But it didn’t matter. She was quite happy in her own company and would set off exploring, with just sandwiches and a bottle of pop in a knapsack, not returning until the light was starting to drain from the sky.
So the independent child had grown strong and fearless and, after she finished school, had been drawn to the police force. Nettie loved being a WPC but really wanted to be a detective. She knew this just wasn’t possible, although there was talk of women joining the CID – sometime. But, until it happened, she would have to be content with her lot.
She was grateful that DI Russell could see potential in her even though those dinosaurs, Superintendent Stout and DI Bonnie Parker, thought she was fit only to make tea. Pah! She’d show them. With that thought she tried the door handle on the caravan. It was unlocked. Cautiously she pulled the door open. The curtains were drawn and it was dark inside. The air was heavy with the stench of sweat and unwashed male bodies, stale cooking smells and damp. She gagged then held her breath. Suddenly there was a great snort which made her jump, but she kept her nerve. Then a sharp exhalation followed by loud snoring. Whoever was in there was asleep. Emboldened she stepped inside. In the gloom she could just make out a figure, sprawled on the sofa. He was so large that he was pressed right up against the wall with one arm dangling over the side. Nettie took another step forward. Her foot caught on the corner of a rug and she stumbled. Reaching out to stop herself from falling, her hand bumped the man’s shoulder and he woke with a start.
‘What? Who?’ he exclaimed. Suddenly he half sat up, twisted and stared at Nettie. The effort was obviously far too much and he slumped back. ‘Go away! Leave me alone!’
‘Are you Pint-sized Charlie?’ Nettie asked.
‘What if I am?’ came the groggy reply.
‘We’ve been looking for you.’
He struggled to sit up again. ‘Who has?’
‘The police.’
‘The police? Why?’ He was puzzled rather than angry.
Nettie was taken aback by his apparent calmness. She had assumed that he would react violently. ‘It’s with regard to the death of a fisherman in Dungeness.’
‘What?’ he snorted.
‘The death of a fisherman…’
‘I haven’t heard of bleedin’ Dungeness,’ he broke in. ‘Nor ever been to the hellhole.’ He let out a bark of a laugh which transformed into a hacking cough. He doubled over convulsed, the cough coming at regular intervals like the spluttering of a recalcitrant engine, reluctant to start. When it finally subsided he looked up, his eyes streaming and spittle dribbling down his chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. ‘Well if you’ve quite finished, Missy,’ he croaked, ‘I ain’t well and I need to sleep.’ With that the conversation was finished. He lay back down and turned to face the wall.
Nettie was nonplussed. She expected aggression and confrontation, not a poorly man who wanted to do nothing but sleep. What should she do? Her initial bravado was replaced by a sensation of doubt. Perhaps Parker was right when he had spoken to Johnny. Travelling folk did indeed tend to live in caravans. Maybe this wasn’t the one that had been seen at Dungeness. The man was certainly large, but somehow Nettie didn’t think he was dangerous. He started snoring again. Baffled she turned and left the caravan and stood outside, waiting for reinforcements.
-0-
PC Andrew Gold came to with a thumping headache. Wincing, he opened his eyes and discovered he was lying on the floor of the caravan. He tried to move but his hands and feet were tied. In a panic he looked around. There was no sign of the other man. He was alone – for now. What the hell had he got himself into? Sergeant Wickstead had told him the man was dangerous - that he should be careful – but did he listen? And here he was, trussed up like a chicken with a head that felt as if it was about to split open. He tried to wriggle free but the bonds were too tight. By shuffling across the floor he managed to sit upright, his back against the edge of the sofa. The effort caused the pain in his head to escalate to such a high level that he just sat, panting, his eyes squeezed tight shut. After a few minutes it had reduced just enough to enable him to start thinking again. He had no idea how long he’d been there. There was a chink in the curtains and he could see that although it was still daytime the light was starting to drain from the sky. Also, he had no idea how long he’d be alone. He shuddered. When the man came back he wondered what he would be in for. He didn’t have long to wait.
The door burst open and the man mountain strode in. He grinned, his eyes shining with menace. ‘Ah! Good to see that you’re awake then.’
-0-
Nettie didn’t have long to wait until relief arrived. Russell had been en route from the visit to Jack Mills in Appledore when he’d received the ‘all cars’ alert. He’d decided to head back in the direction of Tenterden and was travelling towards Reading Street when Weeks’s call for reinforcements had come in. As he was only a couple of miles from the location he was the first on the scene.
‘Right lad. What have we got?’ he asked as he stepped out of the car.
‘We’ve found the caravan!’
Russell looked along the track. ‘Where is it?’
Weeks pointed. ‘It’s about half a mile up there.’
‘So why is your car here?’
‘Ah.’ Weeks coloured.
Russell chuckled. ‘You don’t like that Ford Pilot, do you?’
Weeks shook his head.
Then alarm crossed the DI’s face. ‘Hey, where’s WPC Sharpe?’
‘Don’t worry, Sir,’ Weeks said reassuringly. ‘She’s keeping watch – from a distance.’
‘Are you sure?’ The alarm had spread to his voice.
‘Well, she said she would just observe…’
‘Mmm. That young lady is brave. She’s got an adventurous streak. Come on, get in the car. Let’s see what’s happening.’
Russell drove fast along the tarmacked section of the road and didn’t slow when it degenerated into a track. The Wolseley bucked and rolled and poor Bruissement had to hang on for dear life so his arm didn’t get jolted. They reached the bend and could see Nettie standing calmly, her arms folded, the caravan just beyond. The car came to a halt and they piled out.
‘Hello lass. Well done for waiting.’
Her colour rose just as Weeks’s had. ‘I, er…’
Russell let out a huge sigh and shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been up to the caravan?’
‘Afraid so, Sir.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Um – and I had a
look inside.’
‘You were told not to approach – the man is dangerous.’
‘I know, Sir. I just thought I’d take a peek.’
‘And?’ Russell stood with his fists on his hips.
‘He’s in there all right. But I don’t think he poses a threat. Plus… I don’t know whether I should say this.’
‘Say what?’
‘I’ve got a feeling he’s not our killer. He was genuinely surprised when I said we were looking for him. Also I think he’s got some sort fever and was sleeping when I left him.’
Russell knew about instincts. He’d been castigated enough times by Superintendent Stout when he’d expressed feelings - feelings that had proved right on more than one occasion. Often he would sense that something wasn’t quite as it should be, when everyone else was convinced of the opposite. He was aware that he might not have the monopoly when it came to some sort of sixth sense and was prepared to overlook the WPC’s rash behaviour and trust that she might be right.
While they were talking there was the sound of an engine. Another Wolseley came along the track and skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust. PCs Lee and Beaumont tumbled out and stood waiting for instructions.
Russell nodded towards them. ‘Okay. Let’s go and take a look. There are enough of us here in case he cuts up rough.’ He started leading them toward the caravan, then stopped, holding his hand up. ‘Is he armed?’
‘I didn’t see a weapon, Sir,’ Nettie answered. ‘And besides, I don’t think he is in any state to put up a fight. I reckon he really is quite poorly.’
They continued walking and on reaching the caravan Russell held his hand up again. ‘Stay here while I take a look. I’ll yell if I need you.’ He opened the door and stepped inside. After a few seconds he reappeared. ‘Weeks, Beaumont and Lee. Come here with the cuffs and read him his rights. I don’t think he’s going to cause us any trouble but best be on your guard.’
As Nettie had intimated he put up little resistance and they were able to get him into the PCs Wolseley – with difficulty. This wasn’t caused by his reluctance to get in the car but purely because of his bulk. PC Beaumont was staying behind to guard the lorry and caravan until a breakdown truck turned up to retrieve them. Once the prisoner was settled, Lee, who was driving, reversed a few dozen yards back along the track until he was able to turn the car in a farm gateway. Russell repeated the manoeuvre with his car. When they got to the end of the lane, Weeks and Nettie transferred to the Ford Pilot and the cars travelled in convoy back to Collinghurst. On arrival, Russell, who should have been jubilant at the arrest, was troubled by misgivings. Nettie had sown the seed with her comments and Pint-sized Charlie’s demeanour was not that of a guilty man. Either that or he was a very good actor – and Russell doubted that. But the caravan – and the ex-army lorry – were they the ones that had been seen at Dungeness – after Albert Stern died? Weeks had told him what Bonnie Parker had said about gypsies and caravans. He hated to admit it but the blasted man could well be right.
Pint-sized Charlie was led to reception, flanked by Lee and Beaumont, although he didn’t look like he was going to cause trouble. In fact he looked cowed. His head was bowed, his handcuffs hands linked together in front of him, making him look like he was in prayer. Sergeant Wickstead asked his name. The reply was so mumbled to be incoherent and he asked him to repeat it.
He lifted his head a fraction and said: ‘Charles Atcost.’
‘Do you understand why you’re here?’
‘Not really.’
‘You’re accused of being involved with the death of a man in Dungeness.’
His head came up a little further. ‘I’ve already said – I’ve never been to the blasted place.’
‘That’s something we’ll have to confirm. Meanwhile, you’ll be held in custody while further investigations are carried out.’
His voice was low – washed out. ‘Look, I don’t care about your investigations. I just need to lie down.’ Almost in slow motion his legs started to buckle beneath him and it was only the two constables, either side, who stopped him from crumpling to the floor.
‘Take him down to the cells,’ Wickstead said. ‘He’s making the place look untidy.’
Russell was just about to go into his office when the Superintendent’s door burst open and he yelled down the corridor: ‘Inspector! Get your arse in here – and bring Weeks with you!’
Wickstead rolled his eyes. ‘Sorry, Sonny. I was going to tell you that he was on the warpath.’
Russell gave a wry smile. ‘Ah well. I’m used to him by now.’ He turned to Bruissement. ‘Guillaume. You’d better stay here. The sergeant will look after you.’
‘Do not ’ave concern for me. I will enjoy the company of this gentleman. You go and see your boss.’
‘Right.’ Russell was business-like. ‘Come on Johnny, let’s go and face the music.’ Before they entered Stout’s office he stopped and put his hand lightly on Weeks’s arm. ‘Listen. You’re not to blame for any of this. I’m your boss so I’ll carry the can. Leave me to do the talking.’
The Superintendent’s room was wreathed in more smoke than Russell had ever seen before. The cut-glass ashtray was overflowing with cigar butts and there was a dusting of ash and two empty cheroot cartons on the normally pristine desk. As was customary, they were not invited to sit but treated to a wall of silence, while Stout appeared intent on some papers he was reading. After a considerable time, when more cigar smoke was added, he looked up – piggy eyes under a lowered brow.
‘What on earth is going on?’ he enunciated slowly and with precision.
‘Well,’ Russell began but faltered when Stout held his hand up.
‘I was talking to Weeks.’
‘Sir, with due respect, the DC was acting on my instructions. He’s not to be blamed for this.’
‘Is that so? In that case, I’ll ask you. What is going on?’ Russell opened his mouth but before he could speak Stout continued: ‘No, let me tell you what’s going on.’ Maybe it was the quantity of nicotine he’d breathed in or maybe just his mood but the words came out as a low growl. ‘Once again you taken all the staff away from the police station, without a word to me, and sent them off on a wild goose chase. I thought you would have learnt your lesson after last time.’
‘But, Sir…’ Russell protested.
‘Quiet!’ the growl became a bark. ‘I’m amazed you bothered to leave Sergeant Wickstead to man the phones.’ There was a pause while he lit another cheroot. Once it was going and he’d blown out the first blue cloud he continued. ‘I’m trying to run an investigation into two murders here. They may only have been gyppos that were bumped off but we still have to be seen to following the letter of the law. I told you to investigate the death of a fisherman in Dungeness which, I might add, may have been an unfortunate accident. And what do you two do? Turn it into a full-scale man hunt.’
‘But we think he may be responsible for all the deaths.’
‘You think? You think? On what evidence?’
‘The caravan.’
‘Oh give me strength. How many more times do you have to be told, most travellers live in caravans. I said evidence.’
‘The man who was seen in Dungeness was very large…’
Stout gave out a bark of a laugh. ‘Is that it? You decided to go looking for a large man? Even for you that’s a bit vague.’
Russell decided to press on. ‘A large man, Pint-sized Charlie, disappeared somewhere between Nottery Quay and Tenterden, where the rest of the fair had gone.’
‘You are kidding?’
‘No, I’m not, Sir. He should have been there yesterday but didn’t turn up. It’s my belief he diverted to Dungeness, where Albert Stern was killed.’
‘I’ve heard it all now. I suppose you’re going to tell me that he killed those two fortune tellers, also.’
‘Well, there’s a good chance he was responsible – everything points to it.’
‘Inspector. Nothing points to i
t. The real killer is already under lock and key. DI Parker has incontrovertible evidence against him.’
‘Oh? I thought there was just a burnt deck of cards and a neckerchief.’
Stout put his hand to his mouth and harrumphed. ‘So far, yes. But he said he’s going to make a detailed investigation of Petulengro’s caravan.’
Russell frowned. ‘Strange. I thought Lewis had already done that.’
‘Ha! He’s supposed to have done, but he missed a vital piece of evidence.’
‘That evidence was a bit fishy,’ Russell muttered.
‘What was that?’ Stout said sharply.
‘I said more evidence needs fishing out.’
‘Hmm – maybe. Anyway, now I’ve got my officers back where they should be I suggest you charge this large man with the death of the fisherman in Dungeness. And don’t you dare send anyone off on a wild goose chase again without consulting me first. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Good. Now bugger off and do the job you’re paid for.’ Russell was just leaving when the Super called out: ‘And tell DI Parker I want to see him.’
Chapter 18
In Romany Tradition possessions such as clothes, bedding and the vehicle or trailer, if a traveller passed away in it, are traditionally burnt. This is done as a sign of respect to the person, so the possessions go with them to the afterlife and to aid the spirit to leave this world for the next.
‘I’M A bit concerned about the lack of concrete evidence implicating Boswell in this case.’ Stout was leaning back in his chair, doubt clouding his face.
‘I’m expecting to find plenty more later today, Sir.’ Parker tried to sound more confident that he felt.
‘You’re going out to the caravan yourself then?’
‘Yes. Me and DC Barrow are going with Lewis. I’m sure the man’s usually thorough but I don’t think he did a very good job last time he went. I want to make sure we find what I know is there. We’re going to pull the van apart.’
Blood on the Cards Page 22