‘Sir?’
I refer to the current situation.’ Russell cocked his head to one side and frowned. Stout narrowed his eyes. ‘You can look puzzled but you know what I’m referring to.’
‘I’m sorry, sir…’
‘You bloody well will be!’ The Super was struggling to keep a lid on his temper. ‘I told you on the telephone to concentrate on your leave and to not meddle in office affairs while you were off. Then I find that you’ve been communicating with Lewis.’
‘But, sir…’
‘Be quiet! I haven’t finished!’ he thundered. ‘It was on Lewis’s suggestion that I sent that young WPC…’
‘Nettie Sharp…’
Stout’s murderous look stopped Russell from saying anything further. ‘On his suggestion I sent her to interview those fishermen…’
‘Tedham and Drake.’
‘I told you to shut up!’ Stout hissed. ‘…And what did she find out? Bugger all! I don’t mind that she wasted her time, she’s only a slip of a girl, but Lewis, running around on a wild goose chase - when he’s supposed to be working on the high-profile robberies - I can’t forgive that.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise…’
‘That’s what I’m getting at. He needs to prioritise and that’s his priority – and ours, not some vague instinct of yours about the possibility that someone might, or might not, be involved in some sort of smuggling of some sort of contraband.’
Russell was finding it hard to keep his counsel but managed to hold his tongue.
Stout stubbed out his cheroot so hard ashes spilled from the ashtray on to the polished wood of his desk. He took a deep breath. ‘Have I made myself clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Russell answered, quietly.
‘Right, I’m glad we’ve got that straight. Now, we need to discuss what you’re going to do now.’
‘Russell looked up eagerly. ‘Do you want me to work on the robberies?’
Stout snorted. ‘No, I’ve got that well under control, thank you. Parker and Barrow are coping very well.’
‘Hmm, Bonnie and Clyde,’ Russell muttered
‘What did you say?’
‘I said, “I’m not surprised”. They’re the men for the job.’
‘I’m glad you agree.’
‘What have you got for me?’
‘I want you to go back and interview those fishermen.’
‘But WPC Sharpe has already done that.’
Stout waved his hand in dismissal. ‘I admit that was a mistake. I should have realised that you can’t send a girl to do a man’s job. I want you to go back and discover what she should have found out. Oh, and take her with you – perhaps you can show her how it’s done.’
-0-
Sailor Tedham and Frankie Drake were sitting outside their net shop. Drake, perched on a barrel, was splicing a rope while Tedham was perched on an upturned dinghy, smoking his pipe and looking vaguely into the distance. Drake worked deftly, using a fid to push the unwoven strands into the rope, quickly fashioning an eye in the end. When he had finished he put the fid to one side, took a length of waxed twine and quickly parcelled the splice, finishing by cutting the loose ends with his knife. As he picked up another rope to start a new splice, a black Wolseley drew up beyond the further net shop, about a hundred yards away.
Tedham turned his head. He focussed on the car and exclaimed: ‘Bloody hell! It’s the rozzers!’
Drake dropped the rope and put his hand to his forehead. ‘What are we going to do? What happens if they start searching the sheds?’
‘You better scoot over to Nipper’s shop – quick! Get the van, load up the sacks and drive off.’
‘Where to?’
‘Anywhere,’ Tedham hissed. ‘Just get them away from here. I’ll meet you in the Shipwrights later.’ Drake slipped away, hoping he hadn’t been spotted.
But, as Russell was getting out of the car he had seen him go, the distinctive red neckerchief easily identifying the man. ‘Nettie,’ he said quietly, ‘I suspect that’s Drake doing a disappearing act. Slide off and see if you can find out where he’s gone and what he’s up to.’ The WPC disappeared between two of the net shops picking her way carefully, avoiding the litter of broken fish boxes, lengths of timber, old rope, chain and general junk. Russell, with Aggie at his heel, continued walking towards Tedham, who folded his arms and affected an air nonchalance. But he was sucking furiously on his pipe, giving the lie to any feigned appearance of calm.
‘Sailor Tedham, I presume?’ Russell said, as he came within hailing distance. Aggie ran ahead, briefly looked up at the fisherman, who ignored her, then went off scouting round the huts.
Tedham took his time to reply. He slowly unfolded his arms and took the pipe out of his mouth. ‘Who wants to know?’
‘Detective Inspector Russell does,’ Russell said, holding out his warrant card.
‘How can I help you, Detective Inspector?’
‘Just a few questions, Mr Tedham.’
Tedham settled himself more comfortably on the upturned boat. ‘Fire away.’
‘I want to ask you about a certain crate.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Yes. The one that was in your net shop.’ Russell pointed towards the towering black buildings.
‘Dunno what yer talkin’ about.’ His face was deadpan, his eyes half closed.
‘I believe you do.’
He shook his head. ‘Sorry, can’t ’elp you.’
‘Hmm – okay. What about this?’ Russell opened the flap of the envelope he was holding and withdrew a piece of newspaper that had once been crumpled then smoothed out.
Tedham looked at it blankly and shrugged. ‘Don’t mean nothin’ to me.’
Russell held it nearer to him. ‘Look more closely.’
The fisherman appeared to study it for a while, and then shook his head. ‘Looks foreign…’
‘Can you tell me what it was doing in your shed?’
Tedham shrugged again. ‘Search me. No idea.’
‘But that was where it was found.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do. And I think it came out of a crate that you stored in your shed.’
‘I’m still none the wiser.’
Russell was getting nowhere. He tried a different tack. ‘Who was that with you just now…? Tedham looked puzzled. ‘The chap who sloped off.’
‘Oh, him?’ Russell nodded. Tedham chuckled. ‘A fisherman, of course. Who else would you expect around here?’ Then in a mumbled aside, ‘except nosey coppers’.
The policeman chose to ignore him. ‘Not Frankie Drake, by any chance?’
Tedham frowned and appeared to consider. Then realisation slowly dawned. He smiled. ‘Oh yeah, that’s who it was.’
‘Where was he going?’
‘Where was he going?’
‘That’s what I asked.’
‘How should I know?’
‘I thought you two were mates…’
‘We’re not joined at the hip, you know. We’re not the Biddenden maids!’ He laughed loudly at his own joke.
Russell’s face remained stonily unmoved. ‘Very funny, I don’t think. I just thought you might have some idea.’
‘Sorry, Inspector. Can’t ’elp you. Must be off on a mission of his own.’
Sharpe had emerged at the other end of the ranks of net shops, almost unscathed. That was apart from a ladder in her black stocking she had got when it snagged on a barnacle-encrusted post. Looking to the left she spotted Drake carrying a full sack towards the road where a Bedford van was parked. Turning the other way she could see the door of a net shed swinging open. Sharpe took her chance; she dashed towards it and scuttled inside. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom she peered around. Her gaze fell at once on a bulging sack leaning against the corner of the hut. She crouched down and nimbly untied the cord round the neck. The sack fell open to reveal oilcloth-wrapped packages. As she pulled at the sacking the material round one of the packages gaped open, ex
posing a glint of golden metal. She gasped and put her hand to her mouth. She was just standing up, intending to run to summon the DI, when something hard hit her across the back of her head. Her hat flew off. A second gasp, much louder than the first, escaped her lips as she crumpled to the floor.
Drake looked at the young policewoman’s body in horror. What had he done? He dropped the length of timber, bent down and shook Sharpe’s shoulder. She groaned but didn’t come round, just lay slumped on the floor. Drake felt panic rising. What should he do? He couldn’t ask Sailor – that copper would still be there. He looked at the last sack, then down at the unconscious form of the WPC. Sailor had told him to get the stuff away. He had better do that. He grabbed the sack – it tipped over and some of the contents spilled out. Cursing, he gathered the packages and stuffed them back in as best he could, then hefted it over his shoulder. He glanced again at the girl, shrugged helplessly, and set off for the van. Sailor would know what to do – when he got back. He dropped the sack into the back of the Bedford, slammed the door shut and climbed into the cab. He turned the key and pressed the starter. The engine coughed into life, he banged the gear lever forward, let out the clutch and the van lurched along the road. If he had looked into his mirror he would have seen a sleek blue and cream car turn the corner and park in the space he had just vacated.
-0-
As soon as the suspension on the Citroën had finished settling M. Albert Salle got out of the car and looked around. The last time he had been here it was to load the single crate into the back of a van belonging to his henchman, Big Paul. Since then he had been attempting to track down the contents of his other missing crate. He was also determined to find the two fishermen, Ted Stump and Nipper Crabbe. He was certain that they had stolen it. But he’d had no luck. He’d been to their local haunt, The Seahorse Inn, but no one had seen them. He had visited Tedham and Drake a few days before at their net shed, and decided it was worth looking at the other sheds – just in case...
He could see that the door of one stood ajar so made his way towards it, his feet crunching across the shingle. The day was overcast, but just as he approached the shed the sun came out from behind a cloud, brightening the sky. He pulled the door open. All looked black inside. Carefully stepping over the threshold he waited until his eyes began adjusting to the darkness. As he slowly looked around, he heard a noise that startled him. Looking down he could just make out a form that resolved itself into the shape of a figure lying on the floor. Kneeling, he realised it was a young woman, then he realised she was wearing a police uniform. He touched her shoulder. She groaned and, very slowly, lifted her head.
‘What? Where am I?’ she muttered.
‘Are you all right?’
As she started to struggle into a sitting position she groaned even louder. ‘My head.’ She put her hand up to brush the hair from her face. As she took it away, she looked at her palm. It was dark with blood. She gave a small shriek and looking up, saw the man kneeling by her. ‘You! What have you done?’
Salle go to his feet. He held his hands out in front of him, palms outwards and stumbled back. ‘Mais non! It was not me!
Sensing something was not right. Russell had left Tedham and squeezed between the sheds, moving as quickly as he could. Aggie had no such trouble, leaping and bounding over the obstacles. After a while they came out into a clearing. Seeing the door to Crabbe’s shed door standing open, Russell entered. He took one look at the situation and jumped to the obvious conclusion. ‘What the…! Right my lad!’ He twisted Salle’s arm up behind his back.
‘But…’ Salle protested.
‘No buts! I’m arresting you for assaulting a police officer!’ He found a length of cord, wrapped it round the man’s wrists and tied his hands in front of him. ‘Stay there!’ he commanded. Russell knelt on the earthen floor and put his hand gently on Sharpe’s arm. ‘Nettie. Are you all right?’
‘I think so, sir. Someone must have hit me across the head.’
‘That someone is standing right here.’ There was unconcealed anger in Russell’s voice.
Salle spoke. ‘It was not me. I came in and she was already lying on the floor.’
‘A likely story. You’re coming to the station.’ Then, to the WPC: ‘Can you stand?’
‘I think so.’ Russell put his hand under her arm and helped her to her feet.
‘I feel dizzy,’ she said.
‘I expect you do. Would you like to sit for a moment?’
‘No, I’ll be okay.’
‘If you’re sure…’
‘I think so.’
‘We’ll take it steady then.’ Turning to Salle, ‘You walk in front – and no funny business.’
They made their way slowly to the road, Russell with his arm around Sharpe’s shoulders, the terrier trotting obediently at her master’s side. They passed close to Salle’s Citroën, but Russell was too concerned about the WPC to notice it. When they reached the Wolseley he held the passenger door open and gingerly she sat down. Once she was seated, he opened the back door. ‘Right, you. Get in!’ He gave the Frenchman a none-too-gentle shove.
-0-
Drake drove furiously, not sure where he was going or what he was going to do. He drove on auto pilot, just getting away from Rock-a-Nore as quickly as he could. Without meaning to he found himself on the quayside at Compass Point. He parked the van at the end of the quay – as far from Mitchell’s boatyard and Jack Spratt’s ferry shed as possible. Switching off the van’s ignition he just sat for several minutes, the engine pinking as it cooled. The only other sounds were the piping of a wading bird and the gentle soughing of the wind. What should he do? He couldn’t leave the sacks in the van – the police were bound to search it at some point. He stared through the grimy windscreen. If he could get them aboard Our Jake he could take them out to sea – drop them overboard with a line and a float. Then it would just look like a crab pot marker. He sighed. No, he couldn’t go back to the boat. The beach at Rock-a-Nore would most likely be crawling with cops. He would have to hide them somewhere else – but where? He slid the door open, got out of the van and stood on the quayside, hands thrust in pockets. He was staring into the distance, his eyes unfocussed. He remained like this for some time, his mind a jumble of thoughts.
The tide was about a quarter full, the water just beginning to cover the build-up of mud at the foot of the wooden quay wall. Letting his gaze drop, he was aware of the swirling eddies as the seawater crept in. ‘Look at that mud,’ he said to himself. He remembered, as a small boy, being told by his mother: “Go and gather me some samphire – it goes lovely with a bit of fried plaice”. He had found it too bitter and salty, but he adored his mum so went searching for it willingly. The trouble was, it grew right along the edge of the tidal margin – where the mud began – and when he got home, with a pail of samphire, he was also caked with mud up to his knees. He smiled as he remembered the scolding he’d received. It wasn’t very severe; his mother was too pleased with his haul of her favourite delicacy.
A wan smile spread across his wind-burnt face as he remembered, but too quickly he was brought back to his current predicament. He needed to hide the sacks. He was still staring downwards when he had a sudden idea. Mud. That’s where he could hide them. He looked around, made sure there was no one about, then returned to the van. Opening the door he got the first sack out, then rummaged in the back and found a suitable length of rope which he tied tightly round the neck. Making his way back to the edge of the quay he could see there was an iron ladder down the side of it. He slung the sack over his shoulder, turned and climbed down, taking care on the slippery lower rungs. When he reached the tread just above the water he swung the sack outwards, holding tightly on to the end of the rope. There was a splash and the sack started sinking in the soft mud, about 10 feet out. He tied the rope off, low down, and went back for the other two sacks. When they had joined their companion he climbed back up to the quay and surveyed his handiwork. The gathering tide had already
covered the tied-off rope ends and, apart from a few bubbles rising to the surface, there was no sign of the hidden contraband. He relaxed his shoulders and smiled. Tedham would be pleased with him, he was sure.
-0-
Russell had just started the engine in the Wolseley when Sharpe cried out: ‘Stop!’
He turned towards her, concern on his face. ‘What’s the matter? Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine! I’ve just remembered. There was a sack in the net shop. It was full of wrapped packages. I’m sure there was something metal in one of them – gold possibly.’
‘Really? I didn’t see anything when I found you – and him.’ He nodded backwards towards Salle. Thinking quickly he said: ‘Will you be all right if I go back and take a quick look?’
‘Of course.’
Russell turned off the ignition and got out of the car, followed by Aggie. Before closing the door he leaned back in, looking pointedly at Salle. ‘As I said, no funny business from you. Just sound the horn if he does anything, Nettie, and I’ll come running.’
He made his way to Crabbe’s net shop and stepped inside. As he anticipated, there was no sign of the sack. He was just turning to leave when he decided to have one more look around. He took a slim torch out of his pocket, switched it on and played the beam around the hut. Nothing. In the far corner, where Sharpe had lain, there was a bundle of canvas, red ochre in colour. An old sail. He pulled it aside. Russell had a feeling that something had been hidden beneath it. Reaching down his fingers closed round an oilcloth wrapped package, tied with waxed cord. It was rectangular in shape, roughly six inches by nine. He took it out into the daylight and placed it on a barrel, which stood by the doorway. The knots were too tight to untie so he cut the cord with his penknife. He unwrapped the oilcloth to reveal … newspaper! With mounting excitement he saw that the print was in German.
Blood on the Strand Page 8
