Blood on the Tide

by Chris O'Donoghue

  -0-

  Russell was back in his home. The coal stove in his living room had been stoked up and was blazing merrily. Aggie was stretched out on the rug, blissfully happy, soaking up the heat. Her owner was far from blissful. Even the sound of Rubinstein’s Chopin preludes in the background couldn’t lift his mood. He walked over to the radiogram and lifted the needle off the record and switched off the power, the warm glow of the lights on the dial slowly fading. He needed silence. He was disturbed and dejected. It had been three days since the body was discovered and there were very few leads. And as to why the murder had been committed…he just didn’t have a clue. Revenge? Punishment? The result of some sort of turf war? And how did the two odd brothers fit into it? Wolfgang and Ludwig. Were they their real names even? Perhaps their mother had a liking for German composers, he thought. No, stop being flippant.

  Then the manner of the death, well, the torture leading up to it, was something he had never come across before. It seemed certain that they had stolen the carpet and underlay from Soffit’s show house and that they had been at the brickworks where they had finished off the poor sod who had been keelhauled. And why dump the body in a way that made it almost certain it would be discovered? A mystery he just couldn’t begin to fathom. Not yet, anyway.

  He thought back to another case, at the end of the war, nothing like this one, but just as puzzling. A man had been found dead in a derelict warehouse. He was tied to a heavy chair, bound and gagged. Russell was still haunted by his first sight of the man. His eyes were open and staring and when they untied the gag, his lips were curled back in a rictus of terror. The ropes had cut deeply into his wrist and ankles, as if he’d been trying to force them off by sheer pressure and his fingernails had bitten deeply into his palms, which were caked with old dried blood. The autopsy revealed that a very unpleasant and extremely toxic dose of poison had been administered and he had died a particularly horrific death, all of which explained the state of his body and terrified expression but not why. At first they were unable to find a reason for the killing, let alone track down the perpetrators and it looked like it was going to remain in the unsolved crimes file. Then they had a breakthrough.

  The warehouse stood on a disused part of the dockside at Nottery Quay, not far from Kilnhurst, on the coast. In fact, most of the dockside was derelict after being a regular target for German bombers during the war. There were moves to reinvigorate and rebuild it, but the necessary government funds were slow in being approved so it lay in a state of decay for many months. But the lucky break came when an off-duty policeman, taking his dog for a late walk along the quayside, was surprised to see a boat motoring slowly up the estuary, in the dark. His suspicions were aroused as the boat showed no lights, and apart from the soft putt-putt of the engine and the gentle swish as the bow cleaved the water, all was quiet. He slipped into the shadows, holding up a warning finger to quieten the dog and watched as the boat came up to an old stone staircase and stopped. A group of shadowy figures then proceeded to carry an assortment of bundles and packages up the steps, across the quay and into one of the ruined buildings. After a few minutes, they returned and repeated the exercise. In all, he reckoned they made half a dozen journeys. Then, just as quietly as they’d arrived, they departed. Needless to say, the officer hot-footed it back to the station and reported what he had witnessed.

  The next day the warehouse was searched and a pile of black market contraband was discovered, tucked away in a dingy corner, under a pile of ragged tarpaulins and broken timber. This nondescript heap looked like a natural part of the collapsing building so would have been easily overlooked under normal circumstances. It was decided to leave the pile undisturbed, as they found it, but to mount a surveillance. So, every night, two officers hid in the shadows, keeping watch. After a week, there was much muttering as, although they were being paid overtime, it was a cold miserable existence. The senior officer in charge was on the verge of giving up when, on the eighth night, a lorry came bumping slowly along the quayside and backed up to the doorway of the warehouse.

  Undecided what to do, the constables watched for a while and were astonished to see a second truck arrive. Almost immediately, all hell broke loose as the two gangs slugged it out between them. Unwilling to get involved with so many tough nuts brawling amongst themselves, one of the policemen continued to keep watch, while the other ran the two or three hundred yards to a nearby phone box and, panting breathlessly, called the station, which was only a couple of streets away. Within minutes, constables and patrol cars had surrounded the area. One of the lorries tried to drive off at speed but was forced to swerve by a car driven by an enterprising officer and ended up crashing into a wall, crumpling the bonnet. A plume of steam shot out sideways and the horn sounded as the driver was thrown against the wheel. The brawl continued, with the police sustaining injuries but eventually, most members of the gangs were rounded up, handcuffed and carted off for questioning.

  It took three Black Marias to transport them and the numbers had to be split between two police stations. In time it was learnt that they were rival gangs, both involved in the post-war black market and it turned out that the man they had originally found, lashed to the chair, was a member of the second gang. He had been treated in such a sadistic way as a warning for his colleagues to keep clear of the first gang. Russell remembered how complicated it had all seemed at the time but the top brass had been pleased with the final outcome, when several ruthless characters were put behind bars for very long stretches.

  This case had a whiff of the same unpleasant odour about it. The man they’d found had been tortured in a most macabre way and he wondered if this too was a warning. It seemed likely that the two Germans, if they were indeed German, lay at the heart of this. He needed to find out who they were and the only person who’d seen them was the ferryman. Time for another visit.

  Sunday

  The Maronibrater boot - originated as working boots for mountain farmers and woodsmen. Made in Vienna from dark brown calf leather with a band of grey melton wool around the top.

  ON SUNDAY Weeks had the day off so Russell decided to catch the train down to Compass Point. The line ran close to the end of the unmade track where he lived so it was a short walk to the low wooden platform by the narrow gauge railway line. He stood in front of the simple shelter, waiting for the 10.15. He was whistling Freight Train. Aggie sat obediently at his feet looking up at him in the hope of a treat. Russell kept a supply of her favourite biscuits in his pocket and she didn’t mind at all that they were sometimes covered in fluff or tasted vaguely of cough candy twists.

  The three-foot gauge branch line had been completed in 1895 in a flurry of optimism for traffic that never materialised but it had soldiered on, just about breaking even, until the outbreak of the Second World War. Then, requisitioned by the military to help with the war effort, it received a much welcome cash injection that allowed the infrastructure and rolling stock to be upgraded and renewed. Thus, when it was handed back at the cessation of hostilities, it was in much better heart.

  Within a few minutes a smudge of grey smoke appeared on the near horizon and he could hear the steady beat of the engine. As the train drew closer he could see it was hauled by the little red Bagnall locomotive, Cardinal. He preferred this engine to the more basic petrol railcar that often provided the service, but realised economics meant it was more expensive to run on regular trains. However, he knew Captain Salt, who owned the narrow gauge railway, liked to use it at weekends, when there were more tourists.

  The train drew to a halt, its single wood-panelled carriage level with the platform. Russell opened the door and climbed aboard. He was just sitting down when, with a single toot from the engine’s whistle, it drew away from the halt, jerking him into his seat. He had a handful of happy trippers for company: parents with straw hats and picnic hampers and excited children holding buckets and spades. The flat landscape seemed to float past the window as the carriage rocked along the rickety
track at a stately 15 miles an hour. After 10 minutes the train was pulling into the station at Compass Point.

  It was a beautiful spring day. The tide was in, boats bobbed on the sparkling water and gulls mewed softly. However it did little to lift Russell’s spirits. Even the terrier, sensing his mood, was subdued, trotting closely at his heel, seemingly uninterested in any possible new scents.

  Russell had slept badly. His dreams had been filled with visions of a club-footed man, stomping across a sandy beach, leaving giant footprints, which, however hard he tried to avoid them, he kept tripping over and falling into. And as those images faded they were replaced by ones of a huge man wielding a long knife, mercilessly pursuing him across a barren landscape. The more he tried to escape, the heavier his legs became, until he could feel the giant’s breath on his neck. Just as his pursuer was about to plunge the knife into his back he would burst into wakefulness, covered in a cold sweat. Then he would lie awake for long minutes, trying to control his breathing, until he fell into another uneasy slumber. He spent the night alternating between short periods of troubled sleep and long bouts of restless wakefulness. He was in no mood for a confrontation and hoped Jack would be approachable.

  As it transpired, the ferryman was in a good mood. He’d already rowed a boatload of sunseekers across to the dunes at Shell Bay, some of whom had tipped him, and was just returning from the trip. He pulled strongly to the foot of the steps, effortlessly tied the boat to a mooring ring and came up the stone staircase at a speed that belied his age and penchant for beer.

  ‘Morning, Inspector,’ he exclaimed loudly, before Russell could speak. ‘I’m glad you’ve turned up. I’ve got summat for you.’ He rummaged around in his trouser pocket and, with a flourish, produced a crumpled piece of paper. ‘’Ere,’ he said, offering it. ‘Dunno what it means though.’

  The DI unfolded the paper and smoothed out the wrinkles as best he could. The writing was neatly done in blue ink. It was smudged and had run in places but some of the few words were reasonably clear, although not all:

  Fl*t. Freitag 05.35

  **ell-Buch*

  versteinerte *ald

  Russell looked up from the paper. ‘Where did you find this?’

  Jack grinned. ‘S’funny. I was pokin’ about under me shed earlier, lookin’ for a bit of tackle I wanted, an’ there it was, just below the steps. I was rackin’ me brains, trying to figure out where it might ’ave come from. Thought at first it’d been dropped by one o’ they trippers but then I remembered…’ he paused and appeared to think deeply.

  ‘Yes?’ said Russell, encouragingly.

  ‘It was that little bloke.’

  ‘What, the one who wanted you to buy the boat?’

  ‘The very same. I remembered t’was when ’e gave me the first 20 quid. I saw somethin’ flutter down - when ’e took the cash out of ’is pocket - an’ fall between the steps. Didn’t think nothin’ of it at the time.’

  ‘You are certain it was this piece of paper?’ Russell held it out towards him.

  ‘As sure as I can be. Why, d’you think ’tis important?’

  Russell was reluctant to let the man know it was the first solid piece of evidence he had, so just shrugged and said: ‘Thanks, it might help me with my enquiries.’

  Jack, disappointed there wasn’t more enthusiasm for his find, lost some of his jollity and was about to turn away when he stopped and spoke again.

  ‘Oh, I nearly forgot. The little bloke, Wolfgang, paid me in onesers. I didn’t notice at first but when I counted them again I found this tucked in between the pound notes.’ He held out a banknote, printed in blue. In bold, across the centre, it said:

  EINE

  DEUTSCHE

  MARK

  ‘It’s German, ain’t it? Don’t suppose it’s worth anythin’?’ he asked, hopefully.

  ‘Sorry, Jack. A few coppers, that’s all. I’ll tell you what, as you’ve been so helpful, I’ll treat you to a pint or two.’ Russell reached into his inside pocket and opening his wallet produced a crisp 10-shilling note. Spratt looked at it and smacked his lips in anticipation.

  ‘But…’ Russell continued, holding it just out of reach, ‘Before I give it to you, I need a bit more information.’

  ‘Thought there might be a catch.’ Jack’s mood was turning sour.

  Russell, keen to keep him sweet, went on quickly: ‘Oh, it’s not much. I just need to know a bit more about the two brothers.’

  Eager for his reward Spratt asked: ‘Go on then, waddya want to know?’

  ‘I could do with a bit more information about them - what they looked like and anything else you can think of.’

  ‘I told you, Wolfgang was little wiv a gammy leg an’ ’is brother was ’uge.’

  ‘Yes, I remember that, but can you recall, for instance, how they were dressed?

  Jack screwed up his face, gurning in the attempt to think back. ‘Blimey, you’re askin’ somethin’ aint yer? It was ages ago.’

  ‘Anything you can remember could help,’ Russell encouraged.

  Spratt’s face became even more contorted as he tried to dredge the information from the depths of his booze-addled brain. After a time the creases unfolded, he smiled and held up a finger. ‘Ah!’ he said. ‘I remember! Ludwig, the big bloke, ’ad one of them thick blue jumpers on. You know, named after some island…’

  ‘A Guernsey?’ Russell offered.’

  ‘‘Yeah, that’s right, with a jacket over the top. And ’is boots…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘They was kind of brown leather at the bottom but with a sorta woollen bit on the top ’alf, an’ a little strap an’ buckle on the side. I ’adn’t seen nothin’ like ’em before.’ He shook his head uncomprehendingly.

  ‘Can you remember if he had a hat?’ the DI asked.

  Jack brightened. ‘Yes! It was a blue cloth cap. Like them Dutch bargees wear. I remember, when is brother was talking to me, ’e’d taken it off an’ was holdin’ it an’ kept turnin’ it round in ’is ’ands.’

  While he was talking he had walked across to his hut and had sat down on the bench along the side. Aggie trotted over and sat in front of him, looking up at his face.

  ‘That’s very helpful, Jack, but I could do with some more info about his brother,’ Russell said.

  ‘What, Wolfgang?’ The DI nodded. ‘I dunno,’ the ferryman said. ‘It was difficult not to look at ’is gammy leg.’

  ‘Tell me about that then.’

  ‘As I said, ’e seemed to ’ave this skinny leg wiv a built-up boot on ’is foot. An’ there was the iron…’

  ‘What?’ Russell asked. ‘You didn’t mention that…’

  ‘Yeah well, I must ’ave forgot. Anyway, it were one o’ them leg irons. You know, the ones they put on kids what can’t walk proper like.’

  Russell looked heavenwards in exasperation, but managed to say calmly: ‘Well, that is quite unusual. Anyway, can you remember anything about his clothes?’ Jack screwed up his face. Russell waited for a few moments. ‘Anything at all?’

  Again Spratt’s face brightened. ‘Oh, yeah,’ he said, ’e ’ad an odd sort of jacket.’

  ‘How do you mean, odd?’

  ‘Well it weren’t like yer normal suit jacket, it were almost, well, sort of, like military.’

  Russell was impressed with Jack’s recall. He’d underestimated the man’s

  memory and was pleased with the information he was now being given. ‘Can you describe it?

  Jack was in full flow now. ‘Yeah, it were a sorta greeny tweed with a buttoned-down collar. Not seen one like that afore so I noticed it.’

  Russell held out the 10-shilling note. ‘You’ve earned this old fella. I expect you’re dry after all that talking.’ Jack’s eyes twinkled and a grin spread across his face.

  ‘Thanks guvnor. You know where to come if you need to know anythin’ else.’

  The DI’s mood was considerably brighter than it had been when he arrived. ‘Come on, Jack,’ he said,
gently taking the other man’s arm, ‘I think I’ll join you.’ The ferryman beamed - but Russell had an ulterior motive for visiting the Shipwrights Arms.

  -0-

  ‘Hello, Captain,’ Russell said, tapping the seated man on the shoulder. Salt turned, half rising from his stool at the bar. ‘No, stay where you are. Same again? he said, pointing to the empty rum glass.

  ‘Go on then. It is Sunday after all. Twist my arm,’ Salt said, chuckling. He sat down again. ‘What brings you in here at,’ he pulled his fob watch from his pocket and consulted the dial, ‘… just after 11 in the morning?’

  ‘Ah well, I have a puzzle for you,’ Russell said mysteriously. Seeing Alf looking expectantly at him he said: ‘Oh, a half for me and the same again for the Captain.’ Then aware of Jack at his elbow he added: ‘And one for this fine gentleman too.’ This brought smiles from the other three men. The drinks were served and the DI perched on the remaining stool at the bar. ‘Now Captain, what do you make of this?’ he said, taking the piece of paper from his pocket and laying it in front of Salt.

  Fl*t. Freitag 05.35

  **ell-Buch*

  versteinerte *ald

  The Captain reached into an inside pocket and pulled out a pair of gold-rimmed, half-moon spectacles, which he perched on the end of his nose. He peered intently at the smudged writing for some minutes before speaking. Then he turned to Russell and raised an eyebrow. ‘Ah, you knew I read German?’

  ‘I had heard.’

  ‘You’re right, but I’m not sure how much help I can be.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I can tell you the bits I can read but can only hazard a guess at the rest.’

  ‘Start by telling me what you can read then,’ Russell encouraged.’

  ‘As I said, not much. The first bit is straightforward; it can only be flut, that is high tide and Freitag, Friday, presumably at five thirty-five am.’ He paused, concentrating. ‘The next word could be anything and Buch means book. Unless there’s an ‘e’ on the end, then buche means beech.’