‘Was there anyone else on board?’
‘There was. A big bloke…’
‘Built like a brick outhouse?’
‘Yes, right again. Do you know something about these two?’
Russell decided he should let the other man know a little about the ongoing investigation, so, without giving away too much detail, explained how the two men were suspects. ‘I don’t suppose you got a full name?’ he asked.
‘I did. Strange, he said his name was Wolfgang Miller.’
‘Do you think he was German?’
‘Difficult to say. There may have been a hint of accent but his English was almost perfect.’
‘Perhaps too perfect,’ Russell mused.
‘Anyway, as I said, they’d gone by yesterday.’
‘What about mooring fees?’
‘Oh, he paid for a week. Cash in advance. So that covered it.’
‘And you’ve no idea where they went?’
‘That’s the strange thing. He said he wanted to get the hull cleaned as he knew it was foul with weed. I explained that his best bet was Compass Point, where the boat could be lifted. But he said, not to worry, they were going back to France and there was a careening dock in Boulogne harbour.’
‘Excuse my ignorance,’ Russell said, ‘but what does careening mean?’
‘Ah, it’s a fairly old-fashioned method of cleaning a ship’s bottom. With the old sailing ships, they would be taken to shallow water and ropes and tackle would be used to ‘heave down’, that is, pull the ship over at an angle so the hull was exposed below the water line and could be cleaned.’
‘Good gracious!’ Russell exclaimed. ‘That sounds drastic.’
‘Apart from the cost of the rope, which would have to be pretty thick and extremely long, it was cheaper than moving the ship to a graving, or dry dock.’
‘Presumably that’s not what our friend was talking about though?’
‘No, I’m pretty sure I recall that in the inner harbour at Boulogne, there’s some horizontal staging that is exposed at low water. He’ll manoeuvre his vessel on to that and, when the tide drops, the boat will lean against the quay wall and he can deal with the weed and barnacles.’
‘So do you think that’s where he is now?’
‘Honestly? I don’t know, but it’s as good a place as any to start looking.’
-0-
‘Er, bonjour. This is Inspector Russell from the British police. Do you speak English?’ the DI said hesitantly.
‘Patientez un instant...’ The line crackled as the receiver was put down. Russell could hear muffled voices in the background, then the receiver was picked up again. ‘’Allo, Inspecteur Guillaume Bruissement ’ere. ’Ow can I ’elp?’ The voice was heavily accented but clear.
‘Monsieur Bruissement…’
‘Please, Guillaume.’
‘Guillaume, it’s about an English boat, Moonshine, number CP-13.’
‘What do you wish to know?’
‘We believe she is in Boulogne harbour. Possibly having her hull cleaned.’
‘Let me make some enquiries and I will get back to you. Au revoir.’
Russell replaced the receiver and slumped in his chair. If Moonshine was indeed in Boulogne then a trip to the port might be necessary. However, he wasn’t sure what that would achieve. The trouble was, although the case was going nowhere fast, he didn’t want to appear to be clutching at straws but it was one of the few leads he had. He supposed it might establish that the Miller brothers were indeed aboard the boat but, without any more proof, he couldn’t see how he’d be able to get on board to conduct a search. Perhaps the French police would have some ideas.
He was still sitting thinking about this when he was startled by the phone ringing. ‘ ’Ello? Inspector Russell?’
‘Yes. Guillaume?’
‘Yes, it is me. Do you ’ave another name?’
‘Everyone calls me Sonny.’ Russell smiled to himself.
‘Ah, Sonny. I ’ave some good news for you.’
‘Yes?’ Russell said expectantly.
‘Your ‘Moonshine’, she ‘is ’ere. And, as you made to suggest, ’aving ’er bottom cleaned.’
Russell was delighted. ‘Thank you so much, Guillaume. That is good news indeed.’
‘Is there anything else I can ’elp you with?’ The Frenchman asked.
‘There may well be.’ Russell had made up his mind. ‘I’m catching a ferry over to Bolougne as soon as I can. Would you be able to meet me?’
‘Eet would be my pleasure.’ Bruissement seemed genuinely pleased.
‘Right, I’ll make a reservation. I will find out what time I get in and let you know.’
Russell opened the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet and took out a small overnight bag containing washing and shaving gear, a clean shirt and underwear. He put on his jacket and leant out of his door.
‘Weeks,’ he called, ‘can you come here a minute?’ The DC got up from his file-stacked desk. ‘I’m going to France to follow up a sighting of Moonshine. Can you run me to the station?’
‘Certainly, Sir.’ Weeks was glad to get away from the paperwork. He stood up and pulled on his jacket.
Russell went over to the Superintendent’s office and tapped lightly on the door. He waited a moment but there was no reply so he pushed it open. The room was empty.
He turned to Weeks, who was standing expectantly behind him. ‘Can you tell the Super where I’ve gone? He’s not in his office so must be out somewhere. And tell him I’ll be back with some new leads.’ Russell sincerely hoped that would be the case.
The two went out to the car park, climbed into the Wolseley and made the short journey to the station. On the way they discussed the case. Russell gave instructions on what to do if any more information should come in. He gave Weeks his door key and asked the constable to pop in and feed Aggie.
‘Don’t worry, Sir, she can come home with me until you get back.’
-0-
Russell caught the train from Collinghurst and was in Dover by 3.30pm. He was booked on board the 3.50pm Côte D’Azur. This was the second ferry to carry that name. The first one had plied its trade from when it was launched in 1931 until it was sunk towards the end of the war. The ship Russell was to travel on had been commissioned only a couple of years before so he was looking forward to a luxurious crossing.
He wasn’t disappointed. The ship was not only clean and bright but fairly quiet. Few passengers seemed to be crossing the Channel at that time. It was a balmy afternoon and the sea was almost flat calm, promising a smooth passage. As the Côte D’Azur steamed out of Dover Harbour he leant on the taffrail, watching the wake tumbling and foaming, the spring sun lighting up the white cliffs. He found the scene quite soothing and felt the worries of the case begin to fade away, although he knew it would only be for a short while. As the white cliffs of England faded into the distance, he strolled contentedly in to the cafeteria, ordered coffee and a pastry and found a vacant seat next to the window. He had brought his notes but was happy to leave the file closed and enjoy the journey. In little more than an hour the coast of France hove into sight and a voice on the Tannoy announced it was time to prepare to disembark. The carefree mood he had enjoyed during the crossing faded as he prepared for what he feared might be a trying time.
Russell queued with the handful of foot passengers. As he made his way down the gangplank he was aware of a rotund figure, sporting a luxuriant moustache and with a dark mop of well-groomed hair, standing by the barrier. As the man caught sight of his English counterpart he smiled and waved.
‘Sonny! Come this way.’ The DI walked over and the two men shook hands warmly across the barrier. A French customs office moved towards them. Bruissement quickly produced his identity card and spoke quietly to the man who nodded, pushed the barrier aside and waved Russell through the gap.
‘Come this way and you will avoid the wait at the passport control and douanes,’ Bruissement said. The two detectives made
their way through the customs hall, past the passengers queuing with their passports, and out on to the quayside where the Frenchman led Russell to a shiny black Citroën traction Avant. They climbed into the back and the driver set off for the town.
The day was fading as Bruissement said: ‘I think, for now, we should avoid making ourselves known to the men on Moonshine but while we still ’ave the light I will show you where your boat is.’ He drove the car out of the docks and over Pont Marguet towards the town. Turning left along the Quai Gambetta, the driver brought the Citroën to a halt and the two men climbed out. ‘Over there,’ said the French detective, pointing across the channel to the opposite side. The tide was falling and Russell could see a white fishing boat, perhaps 30 feet long, sitting on a series of substantial parallel timbers, coming out at right angles from the quay. The boat leant in towards the wall and appeared to be well tied up. A large man, wearing a pair of chest-high waders, was playing a hose on the hull of Moonshine, the powerful jet sending clouds of spray and debris in all directions. On the deck stood a much smaller man, looking down at the operation. ‘That is them, eh?’ Bruissement asked.
‘It certainly looks like it,’ Russell agreed. ‘How long have they been there?
‘I think they moved the boat round when the tide began to fall, say two hours ago? Then, as soon as it ’ad fallen enough, the big man started the cleaning.’
‘How much longer do they have?’
‘Oh, several hours of low water but soon the light will fade and they will ’ave to pack up.’
‘Mind you,’ Russell said, ‘the speed he’s working at it won’t take long.’
‘Don’t forget ’e still ’as to do the other side an’ they will ’ave to turn the boat round for that.’
‘When will they be able to do that?’
‘Let me see…’ The Frenchman thought for a moment. ‘ ’Igh tide is about two in the morning but there will be enough water to float the boat in a few hours. Then they will ’ave to wait until the tide goes down, so the earliest ’e can start is about six heures.’
‘Six in the morning, eh?’ Russell pondered. ‘Do you think they’re likely to do it then?’
‘’Oo knows?’ Bruissement gave a shrug. ‘As I said, I think we should tread very carefully. We don’t know why they are ’ere, or what they are planning to do. I think we should wait until the morning, and then go on board. We could say we were making some general enquiries and not raise a suspicion, oui?’
Russell was troubled. ‘I suppose that’s a good idea, although I don’t like the thought of them going before we have a chance to look at the boat.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Bruissement reassured him. ‘I can’t see them leaving until she has been cleaned completely. If we come back at say, seven in the morning, the boat will still be on the bottom.’
‘Maybe you’re right…’ Russell still felt uneasy.
‘Let us go to the Commissariat de Police and you can explain what information you ’ave already.’
-0-
They drove to the police station in Rue Perrochel. Bruissement’s office was much like his own, Russell thought: a small room, off a larger office. His too had a single desk with a comfortable-looking chair behind and two upright seats in front. The difference was that there was a pervading smell that he recognised as coming from the almost ubiquitous French cigarettes, Gauloises. As a non-smoker, Russell normally found the stench of tobacco smoke distasteful but - he couldn’t explain why - he didn’t mind either pipe smoke or this very French fragrance.
‘Please to sit down, Sonny,’ the Frenchman said, waving him to one of the chairs and taking his place behind the desk. He too had a single filing cabinet but when he reached over and opened the bottom drawer, he produced a bottle of cognac and two glasses. ‘I think the sun, as you say, is over the yardarm, oui?’
Russell smiled. ‘Yes, I think it is.’ The two men settled down and after toasting each other Russell proceeded to explain why he was there. Bruissement sat quietly, occasionally sipping his drink and listening without comment. It took some minutes to explain the whole story until finally, Russell said: ‘You see, although Wolfgang and Ludwig are our only suspects, we have very little evidence. Certainly nothing that would stand up in a court of law.’
‘Oui, I see your problem.’ Bruissement leant back in his chair and linked his hands behind his head. A gesture, Russell realised with amusement, was something that he was prone to do himself. ‘Why do you think the two men were killed? And tortured in such a way?’
‘I really don’t know. I can only imagine some sort of gang rivalry where they overstepped the mark and had to be punished.’
Bruissement took his hands from behind his head and, leaning forward, laid then on the table, palms down. ‘What if it ’ad something to do with smuggling? Many things are still ’ard to get ’old of since the war. You still ’ave some rationing in England, mais ouis?’
‘Yes, that’s true. But I can’t think what would be so important to cause two deaths.
Bruissement shrugged. ‘ ’Oo knows? I am constantly amazed at man’s inhumanity to man as your poet Robert Burns would say. Now let us find you your bed for the night then we must eat. I would let you stay in my appartement but it is tres small so you will stay in a nice little hotel run by a friend of mine.’
-0-
The hotel was located a little farther along the rue Gambetta, near where they had stopped earlier. Although a modest affair, it was warm and welcoming, as were Bruissement’s friend, the patron and his wife. Russell was shown to a first-floor room that had a view across the fishermen’s quay, with colourful boats tied up along its length. After he’d freshened up he met Bruissement in the little lobby and they set off for a nearby restaurant. ‘This place is not, ’ow you say, fancy, but it ’as a very good chef who offers the best of the local cuisine.’
He was obviously ready to show off his town but Russell needed to warn him of something. ‘Um, I don’t like to sound ungrateful but I don’t eat meat or fish, so that may cause a problem.’
‘Pas de problem my friend,’ Bruissement said, taking the sudden announcement in his stride. ‘You can see that I take food very seriously,’ - he patted his ample stomach and winked - ‘so you will ’ave the very best omelette aux champignons, I promise you!’
They walked companionably through the new part of the town, the Frenchman pointing out places of interest, and up through the cobbled streets to la Haute Ville, the old walled citadel. The restaurant, which overlooked one of the squares, was a plain but homely affair. The evening was too cool to sit outside but they were given a seat in the window. Bruissement ordered for them both and Russell wasn’t disappointed. The mushroom omelette came with crispy French fries and a good green salad; the wine flowed, as did the conversation. They talked of cases they had worked on, comparing notes and toasting successes; they touched on family life, or lack of it - both were bachelors, wedded to the job. It was late by the time they started on the cognac.
‘I think I’d better get back to my hotel,’ Russell said, feeling slightly bleary. ‘We have an early start.’
‘Yes, you are quite right,’ Bruissement agreed. Russell offered to pay for the meal but the Frenchman was quite insistent that it was his treat so he backed down graciously, promising to return the compliment when Bruissement came over to England. After farewells to the chef and patron they headed back, through the quiet streets to Russell’s hotel where they bid goodnight to each other and Bruissement headed off to his apartment. Russell’s head was spinning as he laid it on the pillow. He’d drunk more wine that evening than he had for a long time but hadn’t realised how much as the atmosphere had been so relaxed. Ah well, he thought, I dare say I will pay for it in the morning.
-0-
Wolfgang leant over the gunwale of the fishing boat, holding on to the corner of the wheelhouse to steady himself. ‘Have you finished yet?’ he shouted down to the other man.
Ludwig looked up, paused, t
hen turned off the stream of water jetting from the hose. ‘Eh?’
‘How much longer will you be?’
‘Oh, maybe another 20 minutes.’
‘Good. We must get going as soon as there is enough water.’
Within an hour the boat was swaying as the tide lifted it off the timbers and they made ready to set sail. Wolfgang entered the wheelhouse and started the engine while Ludwig climbed the ladder up to the quay and prepared to cast off. When he heard the shout from his brother, he untied the last warp and let it drop. Climbing down the ladder, he gave the boat a shove away from the quay wall and jumped on to the deck as the vessel moved downstream, against the tide. Once outside the harbour entrance Wolfgang pointed the bow south and they headed down the coast towards Saint Valery.
Wednesday
Tide tables – used for tidal prediction and to show the daily times and heights of high and low water, usually for a particular location.
MORNING CAME all too soon, and with it a hangover headache. Russell sluiced cold water over his face and felt a little better. Downstairs he was glad the breakfast consisted of just good coffee and crisp rolls. After he’d eaten, he felt a little more human. Just before seven Bruissement arrived. He looked glum. ‘I am afraid I ’ave some bad news, mon ami. The boat, it ’as gone.’
‘What?’ Russell was flabbergasted – and very angry. He’d come all this way and was now no farther forward. ‘But you said they’d have to turn the boat so would still be here this morning,’ he said sharply. ‘What the hell happened?’
Bruissement looked sheepish and unhappy. ‘You recollect that I thought they had just started the cleaning of the boat?’ Russell nodded. ‘It seems that what we saw yesterday was them cleaning the second side. One of my colleagues saw them turn the boat earlier in the day. Unfortunately, he only told me this morning. I am so sorry.’
‘I don’t suppose you have any idea where they have gone?’
Bruissement shrugged. ‘It could be anywhere. Maybe back to Angleterre?’
Blood on the Tide Page 9
