‘Now!’ Russell said, flinging open the door. The two detectives burst out of the harbourmaster’s office and hurtled towards the big man. The boat was slowing, only yards from the quay wall, and Ludwig was still some distance away. He had been taken unawares and as he turned, Weeks launched himself at the man’s legs, knocking him to the ground. A lesser mortal would have lain there, winded, but the German was on his feet almost immediately, easily brushing the constable aside. The bow of the boat was practically touching the stonework of the quay.
Wolfgang was leaning out of the wheelhouse. ‘Spring auf!’ he cried, his high-pitched voice almost cracking with effort. Rankin stood on the foredeck, one hand gripping a shroud, as he stretched forward his other hand reaching towards the big German. Ludwig made to leap the remaining few yards but Weeks had hold of one booted ankle and he stumbled. Russell rushed forward and, throwing his whole weight at the man, brought him to the ground again, only feet from the edge of the quay. ‘Ludwig! Komm schnell!’ The little man was willing his brother to get on board the boat, Rankin stretching even further forward. But with both the policemen pinning him to the ground Ludwig was unable to make any farther progress. Acting quickly, Weeks tried to snap a pair of handcuffs on the man’s wrists. But with an almost inhuman roar he flung the detectives aside and stumbled towards the boat. Just as he was about to leap the short distance he caught his foot in a loop of rope lying on the cobbles. Arms windmilling, he fell headlong into the water with a resounding splash, between the boat and the quay. Almost simultaneously, two black police cars came hurtling round the corner and on to the quayside, bells clanging like demented telephones.
The cars screeched to a halt and half a dozen uniformed constables tumbled out. They rushed to the edge of the quay and four of them clattered down the stone steps to a small wooden jetty. Ludwig was thrashing his arms in an attempt to grab the rope that Rankin was now holding over the side of Moonshine. Suddenly the fingers of one hand connected and he grasped it. His other arm came out of the water and he gripped the rope and pulled hard, lifting his body more than a foot out of the water. Almost immediately he splashed back into the water, still holding on to it. There was a strangled yell and Rankin crashed down on top of him, overbalanced by the superhuman pull. They both went under, remaining submerged for several seconds.
When they finally surfaced, stunned, the policemen were able to grab the men and, with great difficulty, haul them on to the jetty. Just managing to pin them down they secured Rankin but struggled to get the handcuffs round the giant’s wrists. Instead they tied them with a handy length of rope. Seeing the two remaining PCs on the quay, Wolfgang panicked and slammed the engine into reverse. The propeller churned, sending up a plume of spray and the stern dug into the water. As the blades gripped, the boat gathered momentum and powered backwards. After a dozen yards it slewed round, the engine was put into forward gear and Moonshine sped off towards the harbour mouth.
Russell and Weeks had picked themselves up and brushed down their wet and muddy clothes as best they could after their tussle with the German giant, who was now being escorted up the steps to the quay. The ducking in the sea and the blow he had received when Rankin came crashing down seemed to have subdued him. The soldier was in an even worse state and two of the PCs were all but carrying him up the slippery stone staircase. Both men stood on the quayside, water running off their sodden clothes and puddling round their feet. Rankin needed the support of the officers to stand up but Ludwig shrugged off a helping hand and stood sullenly, his head bowed and his bound hands clasped, as if in prayer, before him.
Russell walked up to him and began: ‘You are under arrest and….’ but got no farther. With a roar that wouldn’t have shamed a raging bull, Ludwig lowered his head and charged. Russell had the presence of mind to leap sideways and the bulk of the huge man just brushed his sleeve. The constable standing behind him wasn’t so quick, or so lucky, and he was knocked flying and hit the cobbles with a sickening thud. A gasp escaped from between his lips. Then he lay still as the German took to his heels and raced away.
‘Quick! After him!’ the DI yelled to the other policemen. They were standing horrified, rooted to the spot. Galvanised into action by his shout, they began running after the retreating figure who already had a head start. As he turned the corner round the warehouses the leading PC was a good 50 feet behind. ‘Arrgh!’ Russell groaned. ‘For God’s sake, don’t let him get away.’
Minutes passed while Russell and Weeks, the sodden soldier and the winded PC, sitting dazed on the cobbles, waited on the quayside. Russell slid back the wet cuff of his jacket, looked at his watch and let out a grunt of frustration. Then, around the corner of the warehouses a group of blue uniforms appeared, but without the German. ‘What!’ the DI yelled, ‘Where’s Wolfang?’
‘We lost him, Sir,’ the leading policeman panted sheepishly.
‘But both his hands were tied! He was soaked and dazed!’
‘I know, Sir,’ his companion continued. ‘He ducked down an alley, we followed, but by the time we got to the end there was no sign of him. He’s a tough brute.’
‘Yes, we know that, but he can’t have vanished into thin air…. can he?’
‘No, Sir.’ The five PCs were standing in a dejected huddle.
‘Well, go and look again! Search the warehouses from top to bottom. I want that man found! Go! Now!’ The constables headed back to the warehouses. Russell turned to Weeks then prodded Rankin in the chest with his finger. ‘Come on. Let’s get this miserable specimen back to the station. Perhaps we can get some sense out of him now.’
-0-
‘So let me get this straight. You’ve lost our prime suspect and this…’ he pointed a quivering finger at the khaki-clad figure, slumped in a chair. ‘…this excuse for a soldier has told you nothing?’ Superintendent Stout was standing in the doorway of the interview room, his body rigid with anger, his face puce, his eyes bulging. ‘That’s it!’ he hissed between clenched teeth. ‘You’re off the case, both of you!’ He turned on his heel and strode to the door. But, before he left the room, he turned and faced Russell and pointed his finger at him: ‘And I don’t want to see your face around here! You’d better take some leave!’ With that, he marched down the corridor and into his office, slamming the door so hard the solid wall shook.
-0-
The detectives had driven back to the police station with Rankin and the shaken PC who, despite assuring them he was okay, had been dispatched to the hospital for a check-up. The soldier had been frog-marched into the interview room and pushed roughly into a chair, his dripping clothes turning the seat and surrounding floor dark with seawater. Weeks and Russell had left him to stew while they found dry clothes for themselves. Ten minutes later, each wearing a borrowed uniform jacket, they returned, gripping steaming mugs of tea. As they re-entered the room Rankin had looked up beseechingly. Then he scowled as he realised there was no tea for him. They questioned him for half an hour but he refused to tell them anything they didn’t know or had guessed already. He admitted that he had met the brothers before the war but would say no more than that. He wouldn’t explain his subsequent dealings with them, however hard they pushed him. Threats of a long prison sentence if he was convicted of being an accessory to murder had little effect, if anything making him more stubborn in his resolve to say nothing.
That was when the Superintendent had walked into the room and laid into them. After he departed, Russell had called for the custody sergeant to put the man in a cell then he and Weeks retreated to his office. They sat dejected, a single-bar electric fire providing enough heat to cause steam to rise from their damp trousers. The PCs had returned from searching the derelict warehouses but had found no trace of Ludwig. He did indeed appear to have ‘‘vanished into thin air’’. ‘Well, lad,’ Russell asked wearily, ‘what do we do now?’
Weeks shook his head, his curly hair flopping over his face and making him look like a scolded spaniel. ‘I don’t know, Sir… now
we’re off the case. I’ve got plenty of paperwork to keep me busy. What will you do?’
‘As the super doesn’t want me around, there’s nothing for it but to go back home… and brood.’ Not usually given to melancholy, the DI looked thoroughly miserable and deflated.
-0-
Normally, when he got back to his little home after a trying day, when nothing had gone right and he started questioning why he had ever become a policeman, his mood soon lifted. With the coal in the stove crackling, Aggie lying contentedly before its welcoming warmth and something nourishing bubbling on the stove, things would drop into perspective and all would become right in his world. But this evening, nothing could cheer him and his mood became progressively bleaker. The dog sensed this and lay quietly, chin on paws and one liquid brown eye looking up sadly at her master. Russell thought Beethoven might help so he put Sonata 14, The Moonlight, on the turntable and gently lowered the needle. He sat back waiting for the music to soothe him, as it always did. But it was only a few minutes into the Adagio when, with a deep sigh, he stood again and lifted the needle. Even Wilhelm Kemff’s sublime interpretation wasn’t helping. ‘Come on Ag, let’s walk.’ The dog immediately came to life and leapt to her feet.
Shutting the door behind him he set off down the path, the dog bounding along in front. The rain had stopped but the heavy grey sky still glowered oppressively. Russell strode along, shoulders hunched and hands thrust in the pockets of his raincoat. Aggie was delighted to be out, her tail up, waving from side to side, and her head down, sniffing among the plants along the side of the stony track. When they reached the end of the path, they both climbed up the embankment that protected the low-lying land from the sea, went over the ridge at the top and clattered down on to the shingle. A blast of wind gusted off the waves, ruffling the dog’s shaggy coat and making the hair on Russell’s hatless head swirl round like strands of seaweed. The wind’s freshness lifted his mood. He straightened up, breathed the ozone-laden air deep into his lungs and crunched along the beach. The shingle strand stretched away towards the horizon. The tide had barely begun to ebb, the waves falling noisily on the shore, sending up showers of spume and small stones. As Russell walked his shoulders lifted, he withdrew his hands from his pockets and swung his arms in time to his steps. This was more like it. He started whistling Mr Sandman.
With his mind clearing he thought about his predicament. At the time he had honestly felt that with the capture of Ludwig and Rankin he was about to make a breakthrough. But with the German’s subsequent disappearance and the soldier’s unwillingness to speak, his hopes of an early resolution of the case had been quickly dashed. He couldn’t blame Stout for his anger and actions, he probably would have done the same in the circumstances, but he knew he would feel cheated if another team was brought in and achieved a result. After all, he had already done a large amount of legwork, with Weeks’s help, he acknowledged, and it seemed only fair that they should get some of the glory. But he was getting ahead of himself. There was no resolution in sight plus he was on suspension. So what could he do?
The new team that Stout was about to put in place would have all the information he had gathered, plus Weeks’s copious notes to sift through, so perhaps they might have better luck than he had. A fresh set of eyes could well spot something that had been missed, but he doubted it. He and his constable had been diligent to a fault. Russell was sure they had been as careful as they possibly could have been; they had just been dogged by bad luck. In addition, they had been dealing with a pair of murderers - yes, he was certain they were guilty - who were not only foreign nationals but seemed to have spent most of their time outside the country. Also, the first two deaths had been bad enough but losing the third man had been a cruel blow. Russell was almost certain that the man stabbed in the hospital bed could have been the key to unlocking the mystery.
By now he had walked a fair distance along the beach, his internal dialogue had refreshed his mind and he was starting to feel more determined to do something that would help to unravel the tangled mess this case had become. But what? He stopped and stared out across the grey sea, the dirty-looking waves rolling relentlessly towards the shore. The smell of ozone from the tumbling water filling his nostrils. That’s France over there, not more than a couple of dozen miles distant, he thought. France?... Bruissement?... Maybe he was off the case, but there was nothing to stop him doing a little discreet investigating of his own. With that thought he turned, whistled to the dog, who had been playing catch-me-if-you-can in the shallow surf, and set off back home and to the telephone.
-0-
‘Operator.’ The female voice was brusque. Russell could image her sitting in front of a switchboard, a jack plug in her hand, ready to connect him to…
‘Ah, yes,’ he said hesitantly as he shuffled through his notes, searching for the number. He hadn’t expected to be answered so quickly and the switchboard operator had caught him unawares. ‘Sorry - just a moment.’ He imagined her drumming polished red nails on the countertop. ‘Here we are. I need a number in Boulogne.’ He was sure he heard a sigh. Or perhaps it was just interference on the line. He recited the number written on the page in front of him and waited while there was a jumble of clicks and buzzes. Then a series of long unfamiliar ring tones.
‘ ’ello. Bruissement.’
‘Guillaume! You’re still in the office.’
‘Ah, Sonny! But of course. A policeman’s work is never done.’ The Frenchman sounded genuinely delighted to hear his voice. ‘ ’ow can I ‘elp you?’
‘Well, how long have you got?’
Bruissement chuckled. ‘All the time in the world for you mon ami. What is the problem?’ Russell began by telling him about the German they’d rescued and his subsequent death at the hands of Ludwig. Then he went on to outline the watch he and Weeks had kept in the harbourmaster’s office; how they had captured Rankin and the big German, only to lose both him and Wolfgang, who had sped off in the boat. Bruissement had remained virtually silent throughout but when the DI told him how the soldier had refused to talk, he couldn’t contain himself. ‘Poouf!’ he exclaimed. If I could get my hands on him…’ His voice tailed off. ‘Pardon, please continue.’
‘Anyway,’ Russell said, ‘the upshot is, I’m now off the case.’
‘And you would like me to help you?’ Russell could imagine the twinkle in his friend’s eye.
‘I rather think so. I believe I would like to talk to your contact in Berlin.
There was a pause, then: ‘I have a better idea than that.’
Russell was intrigued. ‘What is that?’
‘Why don’t you meet him?’
‘Really?’
‘Why not? You would probably make more sense of the information he can give you if you meet face to face.’
‘But isn’t it a rather difficult journey? After all, isn’t he based in Ludwigsburg?
Bruissement let out his breath sharply. ‘Pff! Not so difficult, but maybe long. But does that matter? You are off the case, so your time is your own, non?’
Russell thought for a moment. He hadn’t been in Europe since 1945, and then under very different circumstances. It would be interesting to travel through the continent and see how it had changed, a decade on. ‘Hmm, maybe you’re right.’
‘Bon!’ Bruissement said. ‘I will construct you an itinerary. You will have no problems travelling through France and into Germany.’
-0-
Ludwig lay still, huddled under the ragged tarpaulin that had been flung carelessly over a pile of rotting fish boxes in the corner of the ruined building. Despite the smell, he had remained there for some time. With his thick strong fingers, he’d worked steadily at the knots in the ropes binding his hands, only pausing when a clatter of feet on the warehouse floor signalled the entry of his pursuers, making him lie silent, holding his breath. They came close, and one kicked the pile. Another lifted a corner of the canvas, quickly dropping it at the sight of the boxes and letting out a dis
gusted ‘ Pooh!’ at the smell, but the German remained undiscovered, the thud of their boots fading as they moved on to the next warehouse. He smiled to himself as the rope slid easily from his wrists. No one could tie knots like Wolfgang could. He waited a further 10 minutes then carefully rolled out from under the tarpaulin. He stood, and reaching out with his arms and tipping back his head, stretched, easing his cramped muscles. He walked cautiously to the entrance, the battered wooden door hanging drunkenly from its hinges, and carefully peered out. The light was fading, the grey overcast sky hastening an early twilight. He moved soundlessly out into the alley between the buildings, stopped to get his bearings, then headed purposefully away from the waterside.
Ludwig had trudged along the road leading from Nottery Quay to Collinghurst for half an an hour. A number of times he’d had to throw himself flat in the weeds and scrub at the roadside, as the headlights from a passing vehicle strafed the road, but he had remained undiscovered. After a few more minutes he saw the rutted track and realised where he was. Turning away from the road, he followed it, the fitful moon, appearing fleetingly from behind dark clouds, showing him the way. He was soon at the chain link-covered gates. The moonlight showed a shiny new padlock holding them closed. Grasping it he rattled it hard and cursed. He let go, the metal clanging against the gate, and cast around the ground at his feet. Reaching down he picked up a large chunk of ballast-filled concrete. He lifted it above his head with both hands and brought it down with all his strength. The concrete connected with the padlock, smashing it loose from the chain round the gates. With a satisfied grunt Ludwig put his shoulder to the gates, which now yielded easily. He stepped through the gap, turned and closed them behind him, then headed off towards the shadowy buildings.
Blood on the Tide Page 14
