‘Well, well,’ he said quietly to himself. Then more loudly: ‘Weeks, come round here, and bring a torch.’
-0-
Judging by the number of empty tins, the room had been occupied for several days. And also quite recently, Russell reckoned, as there were only slight traces of mould on one or two of them. Weeks had gone back to the car to ring the station to alert the fingerprint team. They were now on their way. Meanwhile, Russell picked his way through the detritus of primitive living, carefully handling various objects with a handkerchief, or moving them aside with a pencil. By the light of the torch he could see that instead of what he at first thought were mattresses, whoever had been sleeping there had been lying on large, straw filled sacks. The bedding consisted of grey army blankets which looked quite new. As he peeled one of them back he could see that the sack had lettering on it. A noise in the doorway made him turn round. It was Weeks. Taking the torch from him, he shone it on the sack.
‘Ah, lad, what do you make of this?’ Stencilled in black were the words, PARK FARM - KILNHURST above the profile of a rearing horse. He pulled the blanket back farther to reveal the year 1950.
‘It’s a hop pocket, Sir. I did some farm work when I was a kid. I remember they filled them with dried hops and they were sent off to the brewery’
‘Just what I thought,’ Russell agreed. ‘I wonder how they came by them?’ The pillow was nothing more than a rolled-up sweater and when the DI moved it, he disturbed a photograph that had been concealed underneath. ‘Aha!’ he exclaimed. ‘What’s this then?’
Carefully picking it up by a corner he took it to the doorway so he could see the image more clearly. In the photograph were three young men, still in their teens. They were standing with their arms round each other’s shoulders, smiling happily at the camera. What was noticeable was that the one on the right of the picture, although the same sort of age, was much bigger than the other two. The one on the left seemed to have a perfectly proportioned body whereas the central figure was skinny and as Russell peered at the picture, he could see that he had an iron brace strapped to one leg. Looking more closely he could see that all three were wearing shorts. Indeed, he realised, not just shorts, but lederhosen.
‘What’s that in the background?’ Weeks asked, peering over his shoulder. ‘Mountains?’
‘You’re right. Looks like it could be the Alps.’ Russell turned the photograph over and they could see written on the back, faded but still legible:
Innsbruck 1936. Franz, Wolfgang & Ludwig. Frohe Feiertage!
Russell beamed. ‘Our missing German mariners, Weeks! They’ve definitely been here.’
‘But who’s the one on the left?’
‘Who indeed? I wonder if he has an important part to play in the solving of this case? Let’s have a careful look round to see what else we can find.’
The two detectives moved methodically around the room, gingerly lifting blankets, pushing aside boxes and peering in corners.
Weeks was crouching down, looking under the table. ‘What’s this, Sir?’ He stood up, holding a small grubby canvas duffle bag, the kind that sailors use for their personal possessions.
‘My, my…’ Russell murmured, a big grin lighting up his face. He loosened the tie around the neck and feeling inside pulled out a slim bundle of papers. Unfolding the top sheet he peered at it. ‘German,’ he said. He flicked through the rest of the sheets. ‘All in German lad. Best find Captain Salt. He’ll be the best person to translate these I reckon. I wonder what else there is?’
He reached into the bag and brought out two oval metal discs. Each was dull silver in colour with a hole in the corner through which was threaded a length of chain. On the front was an embossed German eagle, its wings outspread above a swastika. On the reverse it read:
GEHEIME
STAATSPOLIZEI
Weeks gasped. ‘Gestapo!’
‘So it seems,’ Russell agreed. ‘I think we’d better get these papers dusted for prints pronto, before we get them to Salt.’ Just as he was speaking a vehicle come to a halt on the rough ground outside. ‘Sounds like the cavalry has arrived. Right on cue.’
As soon as Lewis, the fingerprints man, saw the papers, he declared he would need to take them back to the lab for detailed examination before he could release them. Meanwhile he set to, carefully examining the room and its contents. The photographer took pictures, the whumph of the flash making the interior brighter than the daylight outside and leaving a blurred, stark black and white image burnt into Russell’s retina. He blinked, shook his head and, mumbling a goodbye, stumbled out into the open air.
-0-
On the drive back to town Russell slumped in the passenger seat, deep in thought. Weeks knew better than to disturb his boss in that mood. At long last things were starting to come together. The statement from the two guards that implicated Rankin and then his disappearance pointed incontrovertibly to his involvement. The discovery of the hideaway at the brickworks, coupled with the German papers and Nazi identity tags, proved beyond doubt that the two Miller brothers were up to their necks in it. But up to their necks in what? Black marketeering? Gun running? Both possible but none seemed quite right. Maybe the visit to Shell Bay in the early hours of the following morning would make things clearer. Russell really hoped so, as there was very little left of the 48 hours before Stout brought in another team.
When they arrived at the station Russell entered with heavy heart. Weeks too was downcast, especially when he sighted the mountain of paperwork, still to be sorted, on his desk. Russell quietly shut the door to his room, sat down in his chair, linked his hands behind his head and leant back, thinking. He remained like this for some time before, sighing deeply, he stood up, stretched and wandered along the corridor to Lewis’s office. Tapping lightly on the door, but not expecting a reply, he pushed it open and was surprised to see the fingerprint man sitting behind the desk.
‘Oh, you’re back already?’ he said.
‘I am. I left the lads at the brickworks; I’m picking them up later. I wanted to have a good look at these.’ He tapped the papers in front of him. Russell recognised them as the ones they had found in the duffle bag. ‘I believe you were going to show these to Salt, once we’d finished with them?’
‘That’s right. He reads German so he seemed to be the man for the job.’
Lewis smiled up at him. ‘You didn’t know?’
‘Know what?’ Russell was perplexed.
‘I spent part of the war in a German POW camp, quite a lot of it in the cookhouse. Surprising what you pick up if you keep your eyes and ears open. Ich spreche sehr gut Deutsch und ich lese es noch besser.’
Russell grinned. ‘I’m not entirely sure what you said, but it sounded pretty good. What do you make of the papers?’
‘Well I haven’t had time to look at them thoroughly, but it seems they are the identity documents of two members of the Waffen-SS – low-ranking Nazi officers. The two discs confirm this.’
‘So are these the absent Germans?
Lewis frowned.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said slowly. ‘The papers contain brief descriptions of the men but they’re nothing like your two fugitives. They’re both of normal height and build, not big and small like the Miller brothers.’
‘Well who are they?’ Russell asked.
‘Can’t help you there. I’m afraid that’s something you’ll have to find out for yourself.’
Friday
Petrified wood - the name given to a special type of fossilised remains of terrestrial vegetation. It is the result of a tree or tree-like plants having completely transitioned to stone by the process of permineralisation.
THE CROSSING in the dark from Saint-Valery-sur-Somme had been uncomfortable. The short seas were choppy, the wind, force five gusting six, made the boat pitch and roll awkwardly. The man trussed up in the shallow fish hold, although unconscious for most of the passage, had been rolled about and now his clothes were soaked with seawater and hi
s own filth. As they neared the English shore he struggled to sit up, but a well-aimed boot from Ludwig sent him sprawling back, groaning.
Soon they were nudging the sand in the shallows and as the keel scraped along the bottom, Wolfgang killed the engine and the boat slid to a stop.
-0-
Just before 4.30am the Wolseley was once more bumping down the track to Compass Point, only this time in the grey dawn before the sun rose. The car crunched to a halt on the shingle and four figures climbed out, quietly closing the doors behind them. Weeks mounted the steps to Spratt’s hut and knocked lightly on the woodwork of the weathered door and waited. Nothing happened so he rapped louder. Still nothing. ‘Go and wake him!’ Russell hissed.
The DC turned the handle and pushed the door open. He shone his torch to reveal an interior crammed with a jumble of nautical gear and a rumpled blanket on the narrow wooden bench, but no sign of the ferryman. ‘He’s gone, Sir!’ Weeks exclaimed.
Russell pushed past so he too could confirm that the shed was, indeed, empty. ‘Well I’ll be….The old bugger’s run out on us. Let’s see if he’s taken his boat.’
One of the constables, PC Lee, jogged across to the steps and shone his torch down.’ He turned and in a stage whisper said: ‘It’s gone, Sir.’
‘Oh that’s just wonderful,’ Russell said. ‘What are we supposed to do now?’
‘We could find another boat and row ourselves across,’ Weeks suggested.
Russell sighed. ‘I suppose so. Right, spread out and see if there’s anything suitable. This is a boat yard after all. And keep the noise down!’ he hissed, as they blundered about, tripping over timber and ropes.
After more than 10 minutes of fruitless searching they reconvened. The only boats any of them had found were either being repaired or beyond repair. Besides, even if one had proved seaworthy, there were no decent oars to be found. Presumably they were locked up in one of Mitch’s sheds. ‘Damn!’ Russell said. ‘What’s the time?’
‘Ten to five,’ Weeks said, shining his torch on his watch. ‘What do we do now, Sir?’
‘Damn and blast it!’ his boss said, exasperated. ‘We’ll have to drive over there.’
‘But by the time we’ve driven back up to the bridge, crossed over the river and bumped down that awful track it’ll be well after five, Sir,’ the other PC, Beaumont, said.
‘I know that, constable, but what alternative do we have? If we’re to be there by high tide it’s the only thing we can do.’ Russell exhaled noisily, showing his frustration. Turning on his heel he headed back to the car. ‘Come on, let’s get going.’ They piled in, Weeks started the engine and they set off.
With four on board they couldn’t go too fast along the uneven track without causing serious damage to the vehicle’s springs so it was a frustrating quarter of an hour before they even reached the bridge. Once over, Weeks had to drive even more slowly along the other side of the river, partly because he had only side lights to guide him but mainly because the track was so rutted. Russell, hanging on to the grab handle to stop himself being bounced out of his seat, snapped: ‘This is ridiculous! It’d be quicker to walk!’ The constables Lee and Beaumont, bouncing around in the back, would have agreed but knowing the DI’s mood, kept quiet.
‘I’m sorry, Sir,’ Weeks said, wrestling with the spinning steering wheel. It threatened to jerk out of his hands at any moment, and send the car into the soft sand at the side of the track. ‘I’m doing the best I can.’
Russell was conciliatory, ‘That’s all right, lad, I know you are. It’s that bloody Spratt! When I get hold of him I’ll….’ He was cut short as a particularly vicious bump bounced him in his seat, his head connecting with the roof. ‘Arghh!’ he cried. The torture continued for what seemed an age until at last, the timber of the jetty at Shell Bay came into view. Weeks brought the Wolseley to a halt and turned off the engine. In the moments that followed, the four officers sat in silence, their ears ringing and their muscles aching. Then Russell spoke in a whisper: ‘What’s the time now?’
There was a brief flash of light from the back and Lee said: ‘Twenty past, Sir.’
‘Ye gods and little fishes! It’s high tide any time. I thought we’d be in place by now. How long’s it going to take us to get to the beach with the petrified forest?’
‘Should be there in about 10 minutes, Sir,’ the DC said.
‘Come on then, we’d better get going and we might make it in time.’
As they walked quickly past the jetty Russell stopped in his tracks, Weeks almost crashing into him. ‘Well would you believe it….’ he said, pointing. There, tied to a timber post was the ghostly shape of Spratt’s boat. ‘Where is the old rogue? If he’s compromised this investigation…’ His voice trailed off as he turned and made for the beach.
The sky in the east was getting lighter by the minute so they were able to move quickly through the sand dunes. The spot they were heading towards was obscured by the forbidding bulk of a Martello tower. This large conical stone structure dated from the time of the French Revolutionary Wars. Several of its companions stood farther along the shore, marching into the misty distance. In the few minutes it took to reach the tower the sun had risen enough to give them clear visibility as they rounded it and could see the curve of the bay, with the tide high on the sand. Also, clearly visible, close inshore, was a fishing boat.
‘It’s Moonshine!’ Weeks exclaimed.
‘You’re damn right it is,’ Russell said.
On the deck of the boat there was a sudden flurry of activity. ‘Wolf!’ shouted the big man, pointing to the shore. ‘Guck mal!’
‘Scheisse! Die Polizei!’ In a moment there was a roar from the diesel engine, a cloud of spray was thrown up by the propeller and the boat moved backwards gaining momentum, until suddenly, as the helm was swung, it turned through 180 degrees, the engine was put in forward gear and it headed off, out to sea. As the bow cut through the still water, plumes of spray rising from either side, there was a loud yell and a splash. Someone was in the water. As the boat powered off towards the misty horizon a panic-stricken voice shouted: ‘Help!’ PC Beaumont ran towards the gently lapping waves, peeling off his jacket as he ran. Throwing it to the ground, he waded waist deep, then dived into the sea. He was a strong swimmer and within a dozen strokes had reached the figure, bobbing in the water. The other three policemen stood at the water’s edge as the constable brought the man into the shallows.
‘Well I’ll be….!’ the DI exclaimed. ‘If it isn’t Jack Spratt…!’
Sure enough, it was the ferryman, but in a sorry state. They dragged him up on the beach where he lay, water running off his sodden clothes. He was panting heavily and spluttering as he coughed up mouthfuls of dirty liquid. Russell noticed his hands were caught behind his back.
‘He’s tied up. Quick, loosen the ropes!’
Carefully they rolled him on his side and Weeks tried to get the knots undone. He struggled for a few moments then said: ‘I can’t shift them, Sir. I reckon it’s another one of those double-constrictors. Anyone got a knife?’ Constable Lee, who had been standing on the shore, reached in his pocket and produced a clasp knife and handed it to him. Opening the blade Weeks worked at the cords until, with a grunt and an oath, Spratt was able to bring his hands round to his front where he proceeded to rub his wrists, all the time alternating between muttering and spitting out seawater.
Sitting up, he held his head between his hands and groaned.
‘Cor! I thought I was a gonner back there!’ He coughed, spraying the ground, his face florid with the effort.
Russell carefully crouched down in front of him.
‘Once you’ve recovered I think you owe us an explanation,’ he said.
‘Blimey, give us a moment. I almost drownded.’
Standing up again, Russell nodded. ‘Okay.’
Until this point, all eyes had been turned seaward, watching the rescue of the ferryman and the boat disappearing into the morning mist. Week
s was the first to turn and peer inland.
‘Sir! Look!’ he said suddenly, pointing.
All eyes turned. In the distance, tucked behind the Martello tower, its nose just visible, they could see the distinctive shape of the Bedford lorry, the red mudguards gleaming dully in the weak sunlight.
‘Well blow me down. Now I’m really confused,’ Russell said, scratching his head, a perplexed frown on his face. He turned back to Spratt whose breathing was becoming less laboured. ‘You feel up to talking now?’
‘I s’pose so. What d’yer wanna know?’
The DI sighed. ‘I thought that was pretty obvious, Jack. What you’re doing here, when you were supposed to row us across, for starters.’
‘Let me think.’ Spratt screwed up his face as he tried to dredge up the details. ‘Oh yeah, I was fast akip when I was woken by a ringin’ sound. Nothin’ usually wakes me but I s’pose I was a bit on edge cos I knew you was comin’ an’ the sound of a bell means I’m needed on t’other side. Anyhow, I gets up an’ the bell rings again. I opened the door an’ it was still a bit dark but I knew it wouldn’t be long before the sun come up. Then I ’eard the bell agin, an’ it was from t’other side.
‘I thought it were strange but reckoned you’d changed your plans an’ needed me over there. There was just enough light for me to get into the boat an’ row over. The tide was slack so I just ’ad to go straight across an’ in a few strokes I was bumpin’ agin the jetty.’ He paused, then added: ‘An’ that wasn’t the only bump.
‘I’d just got on to the jetty an’ was tying up the boat when somethin’ hit me ’ard across the back of me ’ead. As I fell I sorta spun round an’ caught a glimpse of a giant figure before I passed out. Next thing I knows, I’m sitting on Moonshine’s deck, wiv me ’ands tied behind me back an’ wiv a thumpin’ ’eadache startin’.
Blood on the Tide Page 11
