Blood on the Tide

by Chris O'Donoghue

  Weeks took another breath. ‘Well,’ he began, ‘I spoke to Captain Valiant again, only this time he couldn’t have been more helpful. He’d anticipated that we’d be getting in touch to find out more about Rankin’s background and had already got hold of his file. He said that he wasn’t surprised to discover that the soldier had seen active service in Germany during the war. They hadn’t talked much about their backgrounds but the captain had assumed he’d fought over there. What did surprise him though, was that Rankin had lived there for some time in the Thirties so knew the country well and spoke the language pretty well.’

  ‘So is that where he met the Miller brothers?’

  ‘That the captain didn’t know. There seems to be a missing period after he left Germany and came back to England to sign up in ‘39.’

  ‘How long was it?’ Russell asked.

  ‘Well, that’s the curious thing,’ Weeks said. ‘Apparently his records show that he was living and working in Germany until the summer, when he went off to do some climbing, then he disappeared off the radar until he turned up in London in early September.’

  ‘So he could have met up with the brothers sometime then.’

  ‘I suppose so. But where and for what reason?’ Weeks look perplexed, his dark eyebrows almost meeting in the middle as he frowned.

  -0-

  The boat rocked drunkenly from side to side, the bow dipping and rising gently as it met the oily swell. The late afternoon sky was dark and the still air was heavy with foreboding. The calm before the storm. The small man spoke: ‘Richtig! Wir gehen jetzt’. He pushed the throttle forward, the engine note rose, the bow lifted and the boat surged forward. The coastline, an indistinct smudge on the horizon, grew larger and clearer as they neared the shore.

  -0-

  ‘Any news from the hospital?’ Russell was leaning round the doorway of his office.

  Weeks looked up from his desk. ‘Nothing yet, Sir. PC Lee is still sitting outside the man’s room. Do you think we should send someone to relieve him? He’s been up a hell of a long time.’

  Russell put his hand to his chin and thought for a moment. ‘Good idea, son.’

  ‘Do you want me to go, Sir?’

  The DI shook his head. ‘No, I need you here. Is there anyone else free?’

  Weeks looked round the empty office. ‘Not that I can think of at the moment. Everyone is busy.’

  ‘Ah well, we’ll just have to hope he manages to stay awake.’ Russell ducked back round the doorway and settled himself in his chair.

  -0-

  The small man eased the throttle back and the boat nudged against the stone steps leading up to the quay. ‘What are you going to do?’ asked the man in the soldier’s uniform, standing up and holding on to the mast shroud, steadying himself. He was ignored, so after a moment he tried again: ‘Was wirst Du tun?’

  ‘Setz Dich hin und bleib ruhig!’ the little man growled. The soldier meekly did as he was told and sat down on a pile of rope, looking deflated. Then the bigger man, who had been standing at the side of the boat, stepped over the gunwale, on to the steps and climbed nimbly to the top. He looked back, his large frame looming over the boat, as he tucked a slim blade into the waistband of his trousers. The little man leant out of the wheelhouse and looked up. ‘Ich bin zurück zwischen vier und fünf. Vielen Erfolg!’ The other turned and was gone.

  -0-

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. A flash of lightning lit the horizon briefly, then all was dark again. Although it was still afternoon the lights shone from the hospital windows. The bulky figure had been standing in the shadows of the entrance for some time, patiently watching the woman behind the reception desk. He had seen her make several phone calls, talk to a passing nurse then answer a question from a white-coated doctor. Now she was alone. He looked on as she glanced at her watch and put her hand to her mouth to stifle a yawn. She stretched, stood up, and pushing the chair back, moved out from behind the desk. As she walked across the entrance hall and away down the nearby corridor he made his move.

  His speed belied his bulk as he pushed open the glass-panelled door, noiselessly crossed the hall and stealthily climbed the stairs, taking them two at a time. Rounding the corner at the top of the flight he saw a uniformed figure seated to the side of a closed door. He ducked back, concerned he had been seen but grateful he was in the right part of the building. Breathing heavily he waited for a number of seconds then cautiously peered round the corner again. He could hear the man snoring gently. Tip-toeing silently, he approached the sleeping figure, ready to react if he woke. Just as he reached him, the policeman stirred and let out a sigh. The big man was just reaching for the man’s throat when he sighed once more, his chin slumped on to his chest and he started to snore again.

  Slowly turning the handle on the door, the large figure pushed it open, entered the room and silently closed it behind him. Moving swiftly now, he crossed the floor to the figure lying in the bed. He looked down and could see that the man’s breathing was shallow and his eyes were closed. A tube from a bottle suspended on a frame next to the bed disappeared under a dressing on the patient’s left arm. Leaning over the bed, he gently lifted the arm and pulled back the bedclothes to reveal a hospital gown, covering the man’s chest. Still holding the covers, he reached under his jacket and withdrew the thin blade from his waistband. Then, with one deft movement, he thrust it upwards, into the sleeping man’s chest. The man gasped, arched his back but made no other sound. Then he slumped back, a final breath escaping from between his lips. The big man smiled grimly, pulled the bloody knife out, wiped it on the bedclothes then tucked it into the waistband of his trousers.

  As he moved away, his boot caught on something, probably the bed frame. He jerked his leg and it came free. Retracing his steps, he opened the door and stepped into the corridor. Just as he was about to walk away, the policeman stirred and opened his eyes. ‘What the….!’ he began, and started to rise from the chair. He got no farther as the big man smashed a fist into his jaw, knocking him to the ground. He fell into an untidy heap, groaned, then lay still.

  The whole thing had taken only a few minutes and when the large figure reached the bottom of the stairs and crossed the entrance lobby, the receptionist had still not returned. As he pushed open the street door there was a terrific crash of thunder, a blinding flash of lightning and the heavens opened.

  -0-

  ‘Is that Inspector Russell?’ The female voice was shaky but controlled.

  ‘Speaking. Who is this?’

  ‘I’m the receptionist at the hospital. I’m afraid there’s been a terrible tragedy.’ The DI sat up in his chair. He feared the worst but wasn’t sure what it would be. ‘Your constable has been injured.’

  ‘Is he badly hurt?’

  ‘The doctor says he’s got a fractured jaw.’

  Russell relaxed a little. ‘Oh? How did it happen?’

  The receptionist ignored his questions and went on: ‘But that’s not all…’ Russell tensed again. ‘It’s the man he was guarding…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Dead? How?’

  ‘Stabbed, Inspector.’

  She went on to explain that an unknown person had got into the man’s room and killed him, then felled PC Lee on the way out. Russell thanked her and put the phone down. He let out a heartfelt sigh and resting his elbows on the desk, cupped his face in his hands. This was all he needed. The Chief was going to be apoplectic with rage and he didn’t know what he was going to say to him. He’d been banking on the man regaining consciousness and filling in some details. Now that chance was well and truly gone; another victim had lost his life and Russell was no farther ahead with the investigation. He was starting to think that perhaps it would be better if the Superintendent did hand the case over to another team. They might have better luck than he’d had up to now.

  -0-

  The two detectives stood in the hospital room, rain dripping off their raincoats a
nd leaving puddles on the floor. ‘It’s the same MO as far as I can tell.’ John Crooks straightened up after a cursory examination of the man in the bed. ‘A thin blade, expertly thrust up under the ribs and into the heart. Virtually identical to the other two deaths. I’ll be able to confirm it when I’ve got him back to the mortuary.’ He paused, then said: ‘I don’t know whether this will help. Have a look.’ He lifted the gown covering the man’s chest. A vivid scar ran from his navel, to just below his throat.

  ‘My goodness! What on earth is that?’

  ‘I can’t be sure but it looks like he had a major operation at some time. Quite unusual I’d say. It’s certainly an identifying feature!’

  ‘You’re right there.’ Russell shook his head sadly. ‘Not sure how much help it will be though. I can’t seem to make any progress with this case.’ He sighed. ‘Thanks anyway John, I’ll leave you to get on.’ Turning to Weeks, he said: ‘Come on constable, let’s go and see what Lee has to say for himself.’

  The injured PC was in a room farther down the corridor. Russell and Weeks entered the room and were greeted by the sight of the constable in the hospital bed, propped up by several pillows, a bandage circling his face. Russell sat down at the bedside, his DC remained standing beside him. ‘Well constable, what have you got to tell us?’ The officer looked crestfallen. ‘Not very much, Sir,’ he mumbled.

  ‘How come you didn’t stop the murderer entering the man’s room? You did see him go in… didn’t you?

  His already glum face crumpled even farther and he answered, his voice hardly above a whisper: ‘I was asleep, Sir.’

  Russell started. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I was asleep, Sir.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake!’ Russell ran his hand through his hair and shook his head. ‘I don’t believe it! You were supposed to be guarding the man and waiting until he regained consciousness.’

  ‘He had been up all night, Sir,’ Weeks muttered.

  The DI exhaled noisily. ‘Hmm. I suppose so. My fault for not sending a relief earlier I suppose.’ The constable relaxed slightly. Russell’s voice softened. ‘You’d better tell me what you do know.’

  ‘Well, something woke me and I looked up to see this huge bloke coming out of the room. I started to say: ‘What are you doing here?’ but I only got the first couple of words out when I saw him swing his fist; it connected with my jaw and knocked me out cold. Next thing I know I’m lying in bed with my face hurting like hell. Sorry.’ He lowered his eyes and a pained look crossed his face.

  ‘A big bloke, you say. Can you describe him?’

  ‘Not really. I’d no sooner opened my eyes than he’d landed me one.’

  Russell snorted. ‘You must remember something, surely? What was he wearing for instance?’ Lee’s face was a picture of abject misery. ‘Anything…?’ the DI asked.

  Lee appeared to be thinking hard. Russell waited patiently. Then the PC looked up, a ghost of a smile crossed his face. ‘Boots.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Russell was puzzled.

  ‘He was wearing brown boots. I saw them as I went down.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Lee appeared to think even more intensely. ‘But not ordinary boots. They had kind of felt tops and I saw a little buckle on the side of one of them.’ Russell looked at Weeks who flipped his notebook open and riffled through it. He stopped turning the pages and looking up smiling.

  ‘“They were kind of brown leather at the bottom but with a sort of woollen bit on the top half, and a little strap and buckle on the side”. That’s what Spratt said when we questioned him about the big German.’

  ‘Hmm. So it was the Miller brother Ludwig who killed the man then?’ Russell raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Seems likely, Sir.’

  ‘That’s just what we need. A knife-wielding maniac on the loose.’

  ‘Do you think he’s a danger to the public Sir?’

  Russell rubbed his chin and thought for a moment. ‘No, I don’t think so. Well I hope not. I guess the man in the hospital bed was his target and he sloped off as soon as the deed was done.’

  ‘But how did he get here?’

  ‘Good question. The last time we saw him, he was on Moonshine, heading out to sea.’

  ‘Then they must have turned round and dropped him ashore somewhere.’

  ‘They must have, constable.’ The DI slid back his cuff and looked intently at his watch. ‘So it was just after six this morning when we last saw the boat.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And it’s almost three pm now.’ Russell sighed. ‘Nine hours. Plenty of time.’ Nobody spoke for a few minutes then he asked: ‘What’s the nearest place they could have dropped him off.’

  ‘Er, Nottery Quay, Sir.’ The two detectives looked at the injured policeman, surprised that he’d spoken.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘It’s p-p-part of my beat, Sir,’ he stammered.

  ‘I see. So how long would it take someone to get here from the quay…assuming he walked?’

  The constable thought then answered: ‘About three-quarters of an hour, Sir.’

  ‘Damn!’ Russell slapped his hand on his thigh. ‘That means he could be back there now. Maybe even on the boat, heading out to sea.’

  ‘But Nottery’s tidal, Sir.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘High tide won’t be until about six o’clock.’

  Russell became animated. ‘So he can’t be picked up until then?!’ he said, excitedly.

  ‘Well a bit before. Say half-four at the earliest.’

  ‘So our man will have to lie low until then?’

  ‘I guess so, Sir.’

  ‘Well done!’ Russell said, rising from his chair, his original anger at the man’s negligence temporarily forgotten. ‘Come on, lad,’ he said beckoning towards Weeks, as he headed for the door, ‘we’ve got a killer to catch.’

  -0-

  The two men clattered along the corridor, down the stairs, across the foyer and out through the doors. As soon as they left the shelter of the building, the full force of the rain drove down on them, slanting at 45 degrees.

  ‘Damn and blast it!’ Russell said, as he sat heavily in the seat and slammed the car door. The rain hammered down on the metal roof as Weeks pressed the starter and the engine coughed reluctantly into life. As they set off the wipers could barely cope with the downpour, reducing the vision to a blur and rendering the car’s progress painfully slow. Russell could barely contain his frustration. ‘This bloody weather! He’s going to be long gone if we don’t get to the Quay soon!’

  ‘Not necessarily, Sir.’ Weeks almost had to shout to be heard above the noise of the rain. ‘It’s been chucking it down for an hour or more so that would have slowed him down too. Plus the boat won’t be able to cross the bar to the harbour for at least another hour.’

  Russell harrumphed. ‘I suppose so,’ he said, settling himself back in his seat, and controlling his temper with difficulty. As they drove toward the coast, the rain eased a little and Weeks was able to speed up. There was hardly any traffic on the road and, after five minutes they had entered the outskirts of the town and were within sight of the quay. ‘Slow down, lad. We don’t want to give him any warning.’ Weeks slowed the car to a walking pace. ‘Turn in here,’ Russell said, indicating a narrow track behind a row of black-weatherboard warehouses. ‘I’ve got an idea.’

  On the quayside, near where the car was stopped, stood a curious, hexagonal stone building. This small structure was the harbourmaster’s office. With windows on five sides it commanded views, not only of the waterside, and out towards the harbour entrance but nearly the whole of the quay. ‘If we make a dash for it while it’s still raining, we should be able to get in without being noticed.’

  ‘Good idea, Sir.’ The two men left the shelter of the car and, keeping close to the timber walls of the warehouses, made their way to the quayside. They waited briefly as the downpour eased. Then, as it stepped up a gear, Russel nodded, rain
flipping off the brim of his trilby, and they ran across the narrow gap towards the office. Luck was with them as he turned the handle. The door was unlocked and it opened easily. They bustled inside and stood panting. The whole exercise had taken only a matter of seconds so it was unlikely that they had been seen.

  The interior was barely ten feet across and contained very little, just a couple of stools and a small table with a map of the harbour and a book of tide tables lying on the surface. On the one wall without a window was an old faded photograph of the quay, with a number of sailing boats tied up alongside and next to it, a pair of binoculars, hanging by a leather strap from a hook.

  ‘Ah, good,’ the DI said, lifting them down and placing them on the small table. The two men perched on the stools, water dripping off their sodden clothes. After a while, steam starting to rise in the confined space.

  The rain was easing, reducing to a mist, with an occasional quick, heavy squall blowing in off the sea and battering the glass. The thunder had reduced to a distant rumble, as the storm moved along the coast. The two men sat for perhaps half an hour, saying little, intent on keeping watch.

  There were two or three false alarms when hardy souls braving the elements scuttled by, head downs and muffled in oilskins. The two detectives initially alerted, quickly realised the damp passers-by were just that and relaxed again. As the air in the room heated up condensation began building on the windows. Weeks stood and reached out, preparing to wipe one of the panes with his sleeve. Russell grasped his arm. ‘No, lad,’ he said. ‘Sit tight; it’ll clear in time and we don’t want anyone to see us moving about.’

  ‘Sorry, Sir, you’re right,’ Weeks said, again taking his seat. They sat in silence, Russell’s unfocused eyes staring into the distance. After a further ten minutes the DC cocked his head to one side. ‘Listen, Sir.’ The DI, roused from his reverie, sat up. They could hear the note of a diesel engine approaching.

  ‘You look for the boat, constable, and I’ll keep an eye out back.’ The pair sat, watching intently. The windows were still smeared with condensation but were clear enough to see anything going on outside. Russell thought he caught a movement in the shadows between two buildings. Weeks spoke, almost in a whisper. ‘There it is!’ His boss risked a quick glance seaward and could see the dark shape of a vessel heading towards them. He swivelled his head back again, just in time to see the shadow grow into the form of a large man, bent over, making his way across the front of the warehouses. As the engine note grew louder, the man left the shelter of the buildings and, crouching low, jogged in the direction of the edge of the quay.