Russell looked again at the body. ‘Do you really believe that’s what happened to this chap, John?’
‘Well not quite as severe, as that’s not what killed him, but something like that.’
Russell thought for a moment. ‘Could he have been dragged under the hull of a smaller vessel, say a fishing boat?’
‘That’s what I thought. Enough to frighten the life out of him, but not to finish him off.’
Weeks had regained his composure. ‘What did finish him off, Sir? You said when you first saw him on the quayside that he didn’t drown.’
‘That’s right, there was no trace of water in his lungs so he was dead before he went in the drink. Have a look at this though.’ He bent down towards the man’s chest and pointed to a spot, a couple of inches below his left nipple. ‘We missed it at first, what with all the scratches.’ The two detectives peered at the place he indicated. There was a line, more pronounced and deeper than the scratches, of a darker hue, more purple than red.
‘Looks like someone stuck a knife in him,’ Russell said.
‘That’s it, that’s what did for him. Up between the ribs and into the heart.’ Crooks stood back and placed his hands on his hips. ‘So, keelhauled as a frightener, then stabbed with a thin, narrow-bladed knife. Trussed up like a chicken and dumped in the drink. What a way to go. Any idea who he is yet?’
‘None at all. I was hoping you’d be able to help,’ Russell said. ‘We looked through the missing persons files for the past couple of months but nothing turned up so we went back even farther, to the middle of last year. Still nothing. Either no one reported him missing or…’ he thought for a moment, ‘…he’s not from round here. Perhaps he’s from another country.’
‘Sadly I can’t help you with that.’
‘That’s okay. What you’ve given us so far is very useful … thanks.’ Crooks proceeded to cover the body again. The policemen were just about to leave when he called out: ‘By the way, would you like to know what he had for his last meal?’
‘Go on,’ said Russell
‘Shellfish. Most likely whelks and cockles.’
-0-
‘Captain Valiant. I think we need another talk.’ Weeks had driven Russell back to the barracks and they were in the officer’s room again.
‘Oh really?’ the officer drawled. ‘I thought your boys had done their work with the lorry.’
‘Yes they have, but, there are still one or two unanswered questions. I need to speak to you, and also to Private Rankin.’
‘What more can he tell you?’ Valiant sounded a little terse.
‘That’s what I’m hoping to find out. Would you mind getting him for me please?’
‘Very well, although I don’t see what help he can be.’ The captain lifted the telephone handset and dialled a number. ‘Yes, can you put me through to the mess?’ There was a pause. ‘Hello, Valiant here. Is Rankin there?’ another pause. ‘He is? Good. Can you ask him to come to my office?’ Pause. ‘Now please.’ He replaced the handset. ‘He’s on his way. Now what did you want to ask?’
‘I think we’ll wait until he’s arrived, if it’s all the same to you.’ It clearly wasn’t and Valiant made his feelings known without speaking. He linked his fingers and rested his hands on the desk, his mouth a thin grim line and his brow furrowed with suppressed anger. The two policemen stood quietly and they waited in uncomfortable silence until the door opened and Rankin appeared.
‘Sir?’ he said to Valiant, and nodded to the policemen.
‘They want to ask us some more questions – apparently,’ the captain said, sarcasm clear in his voice.
Russell ignored his manner and said pleasantly: ‘It’s about the lorry.’
‘We guessed as much.’ The captain was doing little to disguise his annoyance.
‘Ahem,’ Russell said, carrying on, ‘You said you were surprised that someone may have used the Bedford.’ He said this directly to Rankin.
‘Yes, Sir, that’s right.’
‘Would any of the other personnel here have used it?’
‘That’s very unlikely,’ the Captain interrupted, ‘Not only is it a bit old and ropey, but it has to be ready at a moment’s notice in case we have an emergency.’
‘I see.’ Russell looked thoughtful. ‘And you said it’s kept here, in this secure area all the time?’
The soldiers exchanged a quick glance. ‘That’s right, Sir,’ the private said.
‘Then how could it have been taken?’
Rankin shrugged.
‘You can see the dilemma I’m in,’ Russell said, now looking at the captain.
The captain was still starchy but his mood softened a fraction. ‘Yes, I see what you mean.’
‘Perhaps we could have a word with the guards at the gate on the night it was used. Maybe they can shed some light.’
‘Yes, of course.’ The captain, although still not over-eager to assist, seemed to realise that the sooner he helped Russell the sooner he would leave them alone. ‘I’ll find out who it was and let you know. Meanwhile, is it okay if Rankin goes back to his duties?’
‘Yes, that’s fine. We’ve finished with him… for the time being. However, I’d like to see those two other men now, if possible,’ Russell said firmly, not prepared to wait. Valiant got on the phone and asked for the guards’ roster.
-0-
Two soldiers entered the office. With Valiant and the policemen, it was becoming uncomfortably crowded. Russell stood up, pushing back his chair, preferring to meet the two men at eye level. Weeks stood up next to him. Valiant, still seated, spoke. ‘These are privates Don Dunne and ‘Swing’ Lowe. Ask them any questions you wish.’
Russell nodded to the captain. ‘Thanks.’ He turned to face the men, standing just a few feet away. ‘I understand you were on guard duty the night before last.’
‘That’s right, Sir.’ Lowe, the rounder and elder of the two, spoke. His speech was clipped, more like an officer from Sandhurst. ‘We were on duty from 10pm until six in the morning.’
‘Can you tell me if there was any traffic, in or out, that night?’
‘Very little, Sir.’ He turned to the taller man next to him. ‘Can you remember who we saw, Don?’
Dunne furrowed his brow. When he spoke his voice was guttural, almost rasping.
‘Them officers came back from some do in the Landy. That was about midnight. Apart from that, I fink it was quiet all night.’ Dunne’s speech was far less eloquent.
‘Are you sure?’ Russell asked. The two men pondered.
Valiant cut in: ‘Haven’t you got a log for the vehicle movements?’
Lowe looked sheepish and cast his eyes down. ‘Er, not exactly, Sir,’ he mumbled.
‘What!’ the captain exclaimed.
‘Well, we didn’t fill it in then, Sir. We was goin’ to do it later today. Sorry, Sir.’ Dunne looked crestfallen.
‘But you’re supposed to do it as it happens!’ Valiant said, almost shouting. ‘You do realise this is a chargeable offence?’
‘Yes, Sir,’ the two men said in unison.
Russell broke in: ‘Anyway, this isn’t getting us anywhere. Please try to remember what other traffic went through the gate. It was only two nights ago, after all.’
Dunne appeared to have a thought, his dull face lighting up. ‘Oh yeah,’ he said. ‘That lorry come through about midnight – remember, Swing?’
Lowe looked baffled for a moment, then realisation dawned. He looked directly at Valiant. ‘But it was your truck, Sir.’
‘Yes we know that. But who was driving?’
‘Dunno, Sir,’ Dunne said. ‘Wasn’t it Rankin, who’s usually with you?’
‘I was tucked up in bed and I assume Corporal Rankin was too,’ Valiant said defensively.
‘Well someone wiv a uniform on was drivin’. We didn’t take much notice cos we’re used to you rushin’ out at all times of day and night.’
‘So it was a soldier then?’ Russell asked.
Lowe turned towards him. ‘I’m pretty sure it was Sir. Although it was dark, the area by the barrier is pretty well lit.’
‘And presumably you were still on duty when it came back?’
‘Oh yes, Sir.’ Lowe was eager to help now. ‘I remember that because I said to Don - Dunne that is, Sir - that I was surprised to see them back so soon. They could have only been gone for an hour or so.’
‘If you’d kept the log up to date you could have been more precise about the time, couldn’t you?’ Valiant said sternly.
‘Yes, Sir.’ Again the men spoke in unison.
‘We’ll discuss this later. If you’ve nothing else to add, you’re dismissed. For now…’ the captain added. The two soldiers saluted and left the room.
-0-
Back at the police station, Russell sat in his office and pondered the new information. Unless Rankin was lying - and he hadn’t ruled that possibility out - another soldier, or someone impersonating a soldier, had driven the Bedford out of the camp, returning an hour or so later. This meant that either there was a rogue or corrupt squaddie in the camp or, somehow, someone from outside had got into the camp undetected and taken the lorry. The more he thought about it the more that seemed unlikely. So, most probably, it had to be an inside job. Russell knew enough about the Army to know that they were very likely to close ranks and protect their own so finding out who it was could be tricky. He started whistling Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White. After a few bars he stopped and returned to his pondering.
The other puzzle was the lump of clay. The fingerprint team had searched the underside of the lorry’s mudguards and chassis but could find no trace of it, just loose soil and sand. However, they had found some dry smears in the passenger footwell. He was still sitting thinking about this when the phone rang. He picked up the receiver. ‘DI Russell.’
‘Russell, John Crooks here. How’s the investigation going?’
‘Not great, I have to say. Things keep cropping up to muddy the water. We know the how but as to the why and by whom … your guess is as good as mine.’
‘I’m afraid I might be about to muddy the water even farther…’ He paused for a moment, then added: ‘Or perhaps not.’
‘Go on,’ Russell said, giving him his full attention.
‘You remember when you came to look at the body and I showed you the wound where a knife had gone in?’
‘Yes.’
‘Something was bothering me. I’d found the scraps of barnacle, which explained the scratches, but I decided to have another look at the wound and guess what I found?’ Crooks said, enigmatically.
‘Go on.’
‘Fish scales.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, only fragments, and pushed into the wound, but definitely fish scales, although don’t ask me what type of fish. Does that help?’
An idea was forming in Russell’s mind. ‘Mmm, that’s sounds very interesting. Thanks, John.’
‘You’re welcome. Glad to be of help.’ The pathologist rang off.
-0-
It was just starting to get dark and Russell decided to call it a day. Aggie was sitting expectantly at the side of the desk. ‘Yes, you’re right, time to go home.’ He picked up his jacket from the back of his chair and headed out into the main office. He stopped to speak to Weeks, whose desk was still piled high with files. A single Anglepoise lamp formed a circle of soft light on the page he was reading.
‘You still here, son?’ Russell asked. Weeks leant back, stretched his arms and yawned.
‘Just about to pack up and go home, Sir.’
‘Can you give me a lift then?’
‘Sure.’ Weeks switched off the lamp, shrugged his arms into his coat and followed his boss out of the police station.
-0-
The Wolseley bumped slowly along the stony track and the DC brought it to a stop outside Russell’s home, the headlamps picking out a swirl of dust rising into the air.
‘Thanks, lad,’ the DI said. ‘Can you come and get me at eight in the morning? We’re going to have a look at the fishing boats at Compass Point before the tide comes in. And make sure you bring your wellingtons, it could be a bit sticky underfoot.’ He climbed out of the car and opened the gate.
Picking his way in the evening gloom up the stepping stones between the clumps of seakale and Red Valerian, the dog trotting ahead, Russell walked through the shingle garden to the front door of a converted railway carriage. This was one of several redundant Victorian coaches along the track, originally placed there as holiday homes although he had chosen to live in his permanently. A farther carriage had been placed close behind the first with a flat-roofed extension beyond that, making a perfectly adequate home for him and Aggie. Once inside he opened the front of the coal stove in the living room, raked the embers until they glowed then threw on a handful of sticks. Once these were blazing merrily he added a shovelful of coal and shut the door.
Next he filled the kettle, lit the gas with a match and set it to boil. Then he opened a tin of food for Aggie which he tipped in a bowl and placed on the floor. The small dog set to with gusto. Looking in the larder, he found a slice of cheese and onion pie. He bent, sniffed, and deciding it was still okay, placed it on a plate. He added a spoonful of chutney from a jar and took it over to the armchair and switched on the standard lamp. Before eating he slid a disc of the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra’s live version of Mahler’s 5th out of its sleeve. Carefully he put it on the radiogram knowing that the soaring strings would calm his nerves and bring a sense of tranquillity. Then he settled down with his notes.
He read through the details he and Weeks had managed to amass about the dead man and the manner of his death. It didn’t amount to much. It seemed likely that it involved sailors or fishermen. The barnacle scraps and weed; keelhauling (he shuddered); the fish scales in the knife wound, and the knife - a thin blade perhaps. They all pointed in that direction. At first he assumed a stiletto but the more he thought about he wondered if it was, perhaps, a fish filleting knife. And then the expertly tied knots… He hoped the morning would offer up some more substantial clues as to the why and by whom. After a while the soothing heat from the crackling stove took effect. He put the papers aside on a small table next to his chair, the dog jumped on to his lap and they both dozed in the warming room.
Saturday
Clay - a fine-grained natural rock or soil material that combines one or more clay minerals, with traces of metal oxides and organic matter.
‘I HOPE you remembered your wellies, constable,’ Russell said.
It was just after 8am and they were driving along the track to Compass Point. Weeks slowed the car and it bumped over the railway level crossing and came to a halt in Mitchell’s boatyard. All was quiet. No one had yet arrived to start work. Boats of differing sizes and colours stood about the yard, some resting upturned on blocks of wood or trestles, others sitting on the stony ground shrouded in green canvas. Lengths of timber leant against the boatshed, coils of rope and piles of chain cluttered the ground, creating hazards for the unwary. A thin haze hung over the estuary, obscuring the horizon. Unseen oystercatchers called as they searched for food and the mournful cry of a curlew came from some distance away.
They climbed out and after changing from their shoes and into wellingtons, crossed the yard and started to descend the iron ladder to the sand and shingle bed of the estuary, damp from the outgoing tide. Aggie looked down on them from the quayside and whined, upset at being left behind.
‘What exactly are we looking for, Sir?’ Weeks asked.
‘Well…’ Russell mused, as they walked towards the first of a line of fishing boats, ‘one of these,’ - he pointed at a boat - ‘with plenty of growth on the bottom.’ When they drew close, they circled the hull. ‘Not this one. The bottom’s too clean. Barely any weed - must have been out of the water recently. Let’s look at the next.’
There were a dozen boats in all, small inshore fishing craft, 20 to 30 feet long, some wi
th trawling gear, others festooned with marker poles topped with cotton flags that were flapping lazily in the gentle breeze. Each had a line or chain running from the bow to a stake in the bank and another from the stern. All had the local registration letter CP, followed by a number on the bow. The two men worked their way along them. Each one had surprisingly little growth on the hull.
‘Looks like we’ve drawn a blank, Sir,’ said the DS, disappointed that they hadn’t found what they’d hoped to find.
‘It’s very odd,’ Russell said, scratching his head. ‘I felt sure the likely candidate would be here.’ He put his hands on his hips and looked slowly from one side of the estuary to the other and frowned, then he looked again and his face brightened. ‘Ah ha! Look over there,’ he said, nodding towards the farther bank. ‘There’s a mooring buoy but no boat. I can’t read the letters on it from here, can you?’
Weeks shook his head. It was not possible to cross over directly to the spot as a rivulet, a good 15-feet wide, and probably deep too, ran out from under the bridge to join the sea. There was nothing for it but to climb back up the slimy ladder and make their way through the yard, along the railway track and over the bridge to the other side, the terrier now jumping delightedly along in front of the two men. They clambered down the overgrown embankment and on to the sand. The imprint of where the boat normally sat at its mooring was quite clear in the shingle and sand of the estuary bed. A spherical metal buoy attached to a length of anchored chain, with crudely painted numbers and letters on its side, rested next to the indentation.
‘CP13,’ Weeks said triumphantly.
‘That’s the number,’ Russell nodded. ‘Let’s go and see if Mitch knows whose boat it is.’
Blood on the Tide Page 4
