The Mother's Day Mystery

by Peter Bartram

  Fox reached into the Bentley and collected a case with a long strap. It was a kind of satchel. He looped the strap over his shoulder, locked the Bentley, and headed for the churchyard lychgate. I climbed out of the MGB and scooted up the road after him.

  He was halfway up the path to the church door by the time I raced through the lychgate. The satchel bounced on his back as he strode along.

  I puffed up behind him and called: "Mr Fox."

  He glanced over his shoulder and snapped: "I'm not giving another penny to your charity whatever it is."

  I said: "It's good news. I've left my collecting box for the Home for Broken-down Journalists at home."

  Fox turned and faced me. "Just as well. I wouldn't even give that one the time of day. All journalists are liars."

  "And all bankers are crooks."

  Fox's pale cheeks reddened and his eyes turned as hard as chips of granite. "I hope you're not implying…"

  "Merely demonstrating the dangers of generalisation. By the way, I'm Colin Crampton from the Evening Chronicle. And seeker after truth."

  Fox harrumphed. "Yes, well perhaps I spoke a little hastily."

  "As it happens, I'd like to ask you a couple of questions about Spencer Hooke."

  "Hardly knew the fellow."

  "But you met him at the church?"

  "That doesn't make me his bosom pal. He was a schoolboy, damn it. We rang bells together. We didn't play conkers."

  "What did you make of him?"

  "Bright lad, clever, perhaps too clever. But mustn't speak ill of the dead."

  "Did you ever meet him away from bell-ringing?"

  "What would I have in common with a schoolboy? Now if you'll excuse me, I'm late."

  Fox turned away and stalked into the church.

  I shuffled back down the path, scuffed at the gravel, and wondered whether I'd learnt anything from that encounter.

  I glanced around. I'd seen no sign of Tom Hobson, the fisherman bell-ringer, or Mr Burton the butcher stand-in Clothilde had mentioned.

  But then the church clock struck seven. And within seconds, the bells sounded as the ringers moved into their first peal. So Hobson and Burton must be in the bell tower. Perhaps they'd come in through another door. Or perhaps they'd already been in the church before I arrived.

  I walked back to the MGB wondering what to do next. I decided I'd wait until the bell-ringers left and see if I could waylay Hobson then.

  Ho-hum. It was a tedious wait. I sat in the car as the twilight turned to night and the grey mass of the church became black.

  I made a mental note never to live in a house close to a church with a bell tower. After an hour, I felt the bells were ringing inside my head.

  At then, suddenly, in a descending peal they fell silent. There was a light in the lychgate at the entrance to the churchyard. I'd be able to see whether Hobson was among the leavers. Fox was first, striding down the path, swinging his arms like he’d just lifted a steamroller. He headed for his Bentley. Then a burly figure I didn't recognise wheeled a butcher's bike out of the church porch and cycled away. Mr Burton heading back to his lamb chops. He was followed by Owen Griffiths, Georgina Staples and Clothilde Tench-Hardie in a group. They strolled to the gate and paused to exchange a few words. Clothilde bustled off to the left. Griffiths and Georgina strolled the other way, arm-in-arm.

  The street was deserted. There was no sign of Hobson. He must have come out of another door and disappeared into the night. I decided that I'd have to track him down at Shoreham Harbour if I wanted to speak to him. But I doubted whether it would yield any useful information.

  Damn Figgis and his arbitrary deadlines. I was going to miss a scoop because Figgis wouldn't give me enough time.

  One thing was for certain. My visit to Steyning had been a waste of time. I'd picked up no new information on Hooke's killing. Tomorrow I'd have to admit as much to Figgis. I only hoped he wouldn't make me eat a slice of humble pie as large as Clothilde's fruit cake.

  I started to wind up the car window, when I heard another vehicle's ignition fire. The sound came from a road off to the right about a hundred yards ahead of me. The vehicle's engine failed to catch at first firing, then backfired twice.

  Just like the van I'd seen on the night Griffiths had given an envelope to the driver.

  I wound the window open again. The vehicle ignition sparked again with the same double backfire as the van. The engine caught and turned over with a rough throaty roar. And then the vehicle appeared. It paused under a street lamp while the driver checked the junction for other traffic.

  It was the same van I'd seen the previous night.

  It had the same rust under the door, the same blotchy marks on the paintwork, the same dent in the rear wheel arch.

  And I was willing to bet the driver was salty fisherman Tom Hobson.

  Suddenly, I wasn't feeling so tired. I felt good. Fired up. Figgis's midnight deadline was fast approaching. But now I thought I would make it with a story after all. I grinned at myself in the rear-view mirror. I breathed in deeply, let the air out slowly. Gripped the steering wheel with renewed determination.

  Then I fired the MGB's ignition and took off in pursuit.

  Chapter 14

  I followed the tail-lights on Hobson's van humming the theme tune from Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries.

  Dum-di-di-dum-dum. Dum-di-di-dum-dum. DUM-DI-DI-DUM-DUM.

  In case you've never come across the Valkyries before, they're the Norse girls who decide who'll die in battle. So it's good to keep on their right side. I had a feeling I might need them before the night was out.

  Hobson backfired his way out of Steyning and took the main road to Shoreham-by-sea. I gave him a ten-second start and then turned the corner after him.

  I didn't think he'd suspect he was being followed. After all, he'd just attended an innocent bell-ringing practice. Ding-dong merrily on high. And not a naughty thought in anyone's mind.

  Not like the previous night, when he was messenger boy for Owen Griffiths. If I was right, Hobson would have been taking the results of Griffiths's tests to the drug ring's Mr Big. He'd be the man who handed over the money to pay for the new consignment.

  If Hooke had discovered Griffiths's role, the top man would have had to be told. And top drug smugglers are ruthless. I'd bet it was he who arranged Hooke's execution. So if I could nail the humble Hobson, the police could force him to reveal who the man at the top was. They'd collar a drug smuggler and a murderer in one swoop.

  But, perhaps, Hobson's role in the operation wasn't so humble. If, as I suspected, Griffiths was the tame chemist, Hobson could be more than a message carrier.

  I remembered what the Reverend Purslowe had told me. Hobson ran a fishing boat out of Shoreham harbour. The gang would need a way to smuggle their drugs into the country. A fishing boat loaded with rank smelling mackerel could be the safest way. Police and customs officers used trained dogs to sniff out drugs. What better to put the doggies off the scent than a hold full of stinking fish?

  If I was right, the transfer - money for drugs - took place at sea outside the three-mile limit. That would make it safe from police and customs officers. Nobody would question a fishing boat sailing out into the English Channel in search of a catch.

  Hobson had driven off with the message from Griffiths about seventeen hours ago - in the early hours of the morning. It would take time for the buyer to assimilate the news. If Griffiths's tests had been a success, the buyer would then assemble the money. Drug deals, I assumed, were done in cash.

  No cheques. No building society passbooks. And definitely no IOUs.

  All this would take a little time. In any event, I assumed - as I accelerated and closed the distance with Hobson's van - there was no hurry. Dirty deeds are done at night. Under cover of darkness. So, perhaps, there would be action tonight. If Hobson were more than a messenger boy, perhaps he'd organise the hand-over.

  Money for drugs. Far out at sea on his fishing boat.

&
nbsp; But I was speculating. Perhaps Hobson was heading home for a quiet evening by the fire watching Z-Cars on TV.

  Up ahead, Hobson's van passed the Red Lion pub on the outskirts of Shoreham. He didn't stop for a quick one. He looked like a man with business to do. But what business?

  Z-Cars or a drug deal? I would soon find out.

  ***

  Hobson drove into the harbour and disappeared behind a large warehouse.

  I was a hundred yards back and I was certain he'd had no idea he'd been followed. I slowed the MGB and turned into the same entrance Hobson had used. I stopped in the lee of the warehouse. Even if Hobson was just around the corner, he'd not know I was there.

  I opened the car door, stepped out and listened. Further along the wharf, I heard the gunshot sounds of Hobson's van backfire as he brought it to a halt. For a man on clandestine business, he certainly made enough noise about it.

  I peered around the edge of the warehouse. Two hundred yards down the wharf, the lights on Hobson's van switched off. The wharf was dimly lit so I could just see Hobson open his van door and climb out. He had something in his hand, but I couldn't see what it was. He slammed the van door and waved to someone out of sight. He walked towards the unseen person with a limp which favoured his right leg.

  I was thinking hard. My brain was ticking over like a Formula One racing car. I ought to report my suspicions to the cops straight away. But then I'd miss the action - and my story. Besides, Holdsworth would probably think I was wasting his time. He'd told me nothing happened in Shoreham harbour that he didn't know about. Well, he didn't know about this.

  I climbed back into the MGB, pressed the starter button, and put the car in gear. I had no intention of driving away. I was turning the car round. Ready for a quick getaway, if necessary. I tucked the MGB up against the wall of the warehouse, where it would be in shadow and not easy to see.

  Then I climbed out and crept on to the wharf. I wasn't too worried about being noticed. Hobson didn't know who I was. And because the comings and goings at harbours are governed by the tides, it's not unusual to have sailors, dockers and fishermen walking around at hours when most people are snoring in their beds.

  A Russian timber ship had moored alongside the wharf. The Joseph Stalin. A red flag with the hammer and sickle fluttered from the stern. If I was challenged I'd pretend to be a Russian sailor.

  Dobryy vecher, tovarishch.

  Good evening, comrade.

  That should stop any English passers-by pursuing the conversation. And if they happened to be Russian, they'd just think I was some eccentric Brit trying to be friendly.

  With this bold thought in mind, I stopped creeping and strode boldly along the wharf to where Hobson had parked his van. When I reached it, I had a quick look in the driver's window, but it was too dark to see much. Besides, if Hobson was a key go-between for a drug smuggling outfit, he wouldn't be so stupid as to leave incriminating evidence in view.

  I looked around but could see no sign of Hobson. But at the far end of the wharf, there was a dockers' hut. Lights blazed inside. Through a small window I could see figures moving around. I counted five of them including Hobson.

  I strained my eyes to see what they were doing. But then, unexpectedly, the door opened and Hobson limped outside.

  I moved like a jackrabbit surprised by a hunter and dodged down behind Hobson's van. Dumb move. If Hobson drove away I'd be as exposed as a Windmill Theatre stripper without her G-string.

  But Hobson didn't drive away.

  Instead he waited while a second man emerged from the hut. The second was more than six feet tall. He had long black hair which fell in tangles to his shoulders. He had dark eyes, a large nose and thick lips. He had a bushy Zapata moustache which drooped on both sides of his mouth. He wore blue jeans with bell-bottoms and a leather jacket. He had the stub of a smouldering cigar between his thick lips.

  He was carrying a conical basket arrangement. I used my deep knowledge of maritime matters to identify it as a lobster pot. There was something inside the pot. Not a lobster. It was a package tightly wrapped in oilskin.

  He handed the lobster pot to Hobson.

  He said in an American accent: "You take good care of that little baby, Tom."

  Hobson hefted the pot towards his shoulder. "Yes, Zach," he said. "I’ve netted the money from the big fish on the way. Now it's going to sea for the first time. Bet you never had so much fun in New York."

  Zach gave him a flinty look.

  He said: "You talk too much, Tom."

  He gave Hobson a dismissive nod, and strode away. I watched as he tossed his cigar butt aside and disappeared around the side of the hut.

  Hobson turned to move off down the wharf.

  As he did so, three more men came out of the hut.

  One of the men shouted after Hobson: "Tom, you'll need a boy."

  Hobson turned: "I've got one, Steve."

  Steve looked like the gaffer among the three. He was about forty and overweight. He wore a jacket and tie, and had a clipboard under his arm.

  "They'll need to see the boy at night." Steve said.

  "Leave that to me," Hobson said. "They'll see the boy a league away. I've scraped its bottom."

  Ah, they were talking about a buoy. Not a boy.

  Steve pushed the other two men forward and said: "Jock and Toby could give you a hand to load up."

  Jock was a six-foot stevedore type with biceps like basketballs. He had a square chin and cow eyes that reminded me of Desperate Dan in The Dandy. Toby was shorter by six inches and looked like he'd been made out of wire and rubber. He had a whippy frame and a face with a disappointed mouth. He had a pointy nose which made him look like a frustrated ferret.

  Hobson waved them away. "I've loaded all the gear," he said. "I'll head out on the high tide."

  He turned and limped off down the wharf towards wherever his boat was moored.

  Jock turned to Steve and said: "What do we do now?"

  "Just what Zach has told us," Steve said.

  "Tom keeps Captain Morgan in the back of his van," Toby said.

  "Who?" Steve said.

  "Captain Morgan rum," Jock said.

  "Yeah! We deserve a drink," Toby said. "Let's have a knockout shot."

  Steve shrugged. "Bring the bottle but let's make this quick."

  I crushed myself smaller behind the van. This wasn't going to end well.

  There was no way Toby could grab a bottle from the van without spotting me crouching behind it.

  I looked behind me. Nowhere to hide.

  To the right. Nothing.

  To the left. Zilch.

  Perhaps I should make a run for it.

  But that would be an admission of guilt.

  Perhaps if I stood up and strode towards them, I could play my Russian sailor act. Perhaps they wouldn’t realise I'd been hiding behind the van. Perhaps they wouldn't think I'd earwigged their conversation.

  There were too many perhapses.

  Toby was walking towards the van. He was the whippy one. The one I wouldn't want chasing me if I ran.

  I wasn't bothered about Jock. He was a lumbering giant. It would be like being chased by a steamroller in first gear.

  Steve was an unknown quantity. But he was a man with a big belly and a clipboard. Not a pair of running shoes. I'd take my chances with Steve.

  Toby approached the rear doors of the van. He stretched out his arm to open them.

  I stepped around the side of the van. His eyes widened in shock.

  I said: "Captain Morgan at your service. Try this for a knockout shot."

  Then I hit him on the nose. Not hard enough to break bones. But hard enough to put him on his back. Hard enough to discourage pursuit.

  I felt the soft tissue give way under my blow. Toby's eyes popped. Blood spurted from his nose. And he tumbled backwards.

  I didn't wait to watch him hit the cobbles.

  I turned and took off.

  Behind me, I heard something clatt
er as Steve dropped his clipboard.

  Then Steve yelled at Jock: "After him, you ape. I'll cut him off."

  Jock aka Desperate Dan had moved closer to the van than I'd expected. He swerved inwards to block my escape route.

  I slipped on the cobbles as I changed direction. I felt a rush of air as a hand the size of a bunch of bananas tried to grab my jacket collar.

  Dan grunted in frustration. I forced my legs to move faster.

  Behind me a rough engine growled into life. But not Hobson's van. It didn't backfire. I didn't waste time looking back. If they were trying to run me down, the further along the wharf I could run, the safer I would be.

  Hobson had disappeared. Perhaps he'd already stowed his lobster pot with the oilskin. Perhaps he was already putting to sea.

  So Hobson was out of the picture. Desperate Dan only yards behind me was very much in it.

  I felt hot air burning in my lungs as I increased my speed. The dull clump of Desperate Dan's footsteps receded behind me as I put distance between us.

  I listened for the engine noise that had started up behind me. If I heard it coming closer, I'd take evasive action. But the engine growl had faded.

  If I could reach the MGB, I could get myself out of this. After all, I'd turned the car round just so I could make a rapid getaway.

  Crampton, man of foresight.

  I pounded on towards the warehouse. Behind me Desperate Dan shouted like he wanted to break my bones. I ignored that and raced on.

  I was ten yards from the corner of the warehouse. I risked a glance back. Dan was more than twenty yards behind. I'd have time to jump into the car, fire the ignition, and race away.

  I swerved round the corner of the warehouse as I reached for the car keys in my pocket. I grabbed them, hustled to the driver's door, and thrust the key in the lock.

  I unlocked the door, but before I could climb in, the rough engine growl I'd heard back at the hut grew louder. Steve swung around the far corner of the warehouse to block my getaway. He was driving a forklift truck like he was Stirling Moss at Silverstone. And he was aiming it at me like a guided missile.