Carefully peeling back the paper, so as not to tear it, he revealed what was wrapped within. It was an ornate picture frame, and from the weight of it, solid silver. In the frame, behind glass, was a faded photograph of a severe looking couple. The woman, with her hair neatly coiffed, wore a high-necked, pleated dress; the man was wearing some sort of ornate uniform with a lot of gold braid and a cocked hat, sporting a feather, was tucked under his arm. Russell didn’t think they were English – they definitely had a continental look about them. He carefully rewrapped the frame. Aggie, who had been rooting around in the shadows, barked excitedly. Russell shone the torch and could see a length of stout timber, just inside the door of the shed.
‘I wonder…?’ he thought. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and, wrapping it round his fingers, he carefully picked up the piece of wood. He would get Lewis to dust it for prints when he got back. That would put chummy firmly in the frame. ‘Good dog, Aggie. Well spotted!’
-0-
‘You did what with them?’ Tedham’s eyes were wide; his mouth formed a big O. He was incredulous.
‘It was all I could think of, Sailor. I knew I ’ad to get rid of ’em pronto, before the rozzers caught up with me.’
Tedham put his head in his hands. ‘So you buried them in mud.’
‘But we know where they are…’
‘I suppose so. I just wish you’d spoken to me before you did it.’ Tedham shook his head with incomprehension. ‘Now we’ve got to wait until the next low tide before we can recover them.’
They were seated at the tin-topped table in the corner of the Shipwrights Arms. Alf was out back, doing something with a barrel; the only other customer, Jack Spratt, the ferryman, was sitting on one of the two stools at the bar. Lost in his own thoughts and staring into space, he was nursing a pint. Tedham leant across and tapped out his pipe on the fender of the unlit fire. Drake looked at him. He looked so miserable that Tedham took pity on his friend.
‘Come on. Cheer up. At least we know them sacks is safe. All the stuff’s well wrapped so it ain’t gonna come to no ’arm, is it? Don’t look so ’angdog.’ He took out his battered tin and filled his pipe with tobacco. He was just putting a match to it when Drake cleared his throat.
‘There’s somethin’ I ain’t told you…’
Tedham paused, the flame hovering above the bowl of his pipe. ‘What…?’ he said, suspiciously.
‘I hit someone.’
‘You what?’
‘She was in Nipper’s shop – looking in a sack. I panicked. Hit ’er on the ’ead with a piece of wood.’
The forgotten match had burned down to Tedham’s fingers. He flung it aside with a curse and shot to his feet. His knees connected with the underside of the table, lifting it off the ground; the two tankards tipped over, spilling their contents; the tin ashtray clattered to the floor. Spratt turned to see what all the rumpus was about, just as Alf came back into the bar. Seeing the mess he disappeared again, returning a few seconds later with a mop and a bucket.
‘Sorry, Alf. Match burned me fingers. Gave me a shock.’ Alf was surprised that a fisherman with calloused hands would feel anything so slight, but said nothing. Smiling, he just mopped up the slops. When he’d finished, he returned behind the bar. Spratt had turned back to his pint, apparently unconcerned, but now he was listening intently to the conversation between the fishermen.
‘Who did you hit?’ Tedham asked in a coarse whisper.
‘I dunno. It was a girl, I think. She was wearing some sort of dark clothes – had a hat on.’
‘A peaked cap?’
‘Dunno. Might have been…’
‘And dark clothes – blue maybe?’
‘Yeah, I think so.’
‘Christ!’ He put his hands on his head. ‘It was only a policewoman – you stupid sod!’ His voice had risen. Spratt was all ears now but he heard no more. Tedham had grabbed his companion by the sleeve and was pulling him towards the door. ‘C’mon. Outside!' Just as they reached the door it opened and Captain Salt marched in. Tedham just pushed past him, dragging Drake behind.
‘They were in a hurry!’ Salt said, quietly closing the door.
Spratt turned, a wicked grin lighting his battered face. ‘Come and sit down, Skip. Wait ‘til you ’ear what I ’eard.’
Salt perched on the other stool. Without being asked the landlord poured a generous measure of Lamb’s Navy Rum for him. ‘Thank you Alf.’ He lifted the glass in salute. ‘Now then, Jack. What have you got to tell me?’
The ferryman had not been as self-absorbed as he had appeared. His hearing was pin sharp. He had paid little attention when the fisherman had first started talking as their conversation was conducted in hushed tones. However, he was able to tell the Captain most of what had passed between the two later on. Spratt took a long drink and put his tankard down.
‘I couldn’t ’ear what they was sayin’ at first – they was speakin’ too softly. But I did catch most of what they said after.’ He paused and grinned conspiratorially.
Salt waited a few moments but was impatient to hear what the other man had to say. ‘Come on Jack, it could be important.’
Spratt drained his tankard. ‘I reckon it could. But a man can get mighty thirsty…’ Salt signalled to Alf who refilled the man’s drink from the barrel racked behind the bar. ‘Thank you, Skip… As I was saying, I only ’eard part of their conversation.’
‘For goodness sake! Spit it out man!’
‘All right, all right, keep yer ’air on.’
‘Well get on with it.’
‘First of all they was talking about sacks…’
Salt sighed with exasperation. ‘Is that all? Sacks?’
‘Now ’ang on. That’s not all.’
‘Well…’
Spratt took another drink, hitched up the knees of his worn trousers and wriggled on his stool, making himself comfortable. ‘It sounded like Drake was saying he’d thumped someone.’
Salt rolled his eyes. ‘Jack, they’re fishermen. I’m sure they often drink too much, get into scrapes and thump each other on a regular basis.’
‘Ah, but you didn’t ’ear who ’e thumped.’
‘Who was it?’
‘It was a copper.’ Spratt grinned triumphantly.
‘What? Why the hell didn’t you tell me that straight away?’
Spratt’s smiled vanished.
‘For God’s sake! A policeman…’
Spratt help up his hand. ‘No, not a policeman – a police woman.’
‘That’s even worse. You’d better tell me everything you heard – and quickly.’
Spratt screwed up his face, his eyes disappearing beneath bushy eyebrows; his lips, a thin line of concentration. ‘Now let me think…’
Salt just managed to contain his impatience.
‘After I ‘eard Sailor mention summat about sacks, I started listenin’.
‘And…?’
‘Frankie said ’e ’it some woman on the ’ead – wiv a piece of wood. Sailor asked ’im what she was wearin’. Frankie said she was wearin’ some sorta uniform. That’s when Sailor jumped up and sent beer flyin’ all over the place.’
‘Are you’re sure that’s what they said?’
‘I might be old but I ain’t daft. And there’s nothin’ wrong wiv me ’earing,’ Spratt said, aggrieved.
‘No, I know that, Jack.’ He frowned. ‘I think I’d better let Sonny know about this.’ He looked at the landlord. ‘Can I use your phone Alf?’
-0-
Back at the Collinghurst police headquarters M. Albert Salle was sitting on one side of a scarred wooden table in a dingy interview room. Russell and Weeks were sitting opposite. The Frenchman looked relaxed, his arms folded loosely across the front of his pale linen jacket. A hint of smile played about his thin lips; the skin round the corners of his brown eyes was crinkled
‘So you still insist that you didn’t hit WPC Sharpe on the head?’ Russell asked.
‘I have told you �
�� she was already lying on the ground when I went into the building.’
Russell leaned forward. ‘You do realise, we have the piece of wood she was hit with. And… if we find your fingerprints on it…’
‘You will not.’ Nonchalantly he ran his hand through his dark wavy hair.
‘We’ll see.’ Russell turned to Weeks and nodded. The DC opened a large envelope and took out the wrapped package that had been found in the net shed.
While Weeks was doing this Russell watched Salle carefully. The Frenchman appeared unmoved, but Russell saw him moisten his thin lips with his tongue; his Adam’s apple bobbed.
‘Do you know what this is?’ Weeks unwrapped the package, revealing the silver frame. Salle shook his head. Russell noted there wasn’t even a flicker of recognition. Either the man really didn’t know or… he was a very good actor. Russell suspected the latter.
‘Are you sure?’
Before he could reply there was a knock at the door. It opened and Lewis put his head round. ‘Sonny, can I have a word?’
With a grunt, Russell levered himself out of the chair and followed the fingerprint man into the corridor. Once they were out of earshot he said: ‘What is it?’
‘I think you’ve got a problem, Sonny.’
Russell cocked his head to one side. ‘Really?’
‘Afraid so. We ran comparisons on the length of wood that Nettie was thumped with.’
‘And…?
Salle’s fingerprints weren’t on it.’
‘Oh,’ Russell said, disappointment clouding his features.
‘It appears he’s not our man. Sounds like he’s telling the truth.’
‘So it seems. Blast. I was so sure he’d done it. I’m going to have to let him go, I suppose. I’d better give him the good news.’ He turned to go back into the interview room.
Lewis touched him lightly on the arm. ‘Hold on, Sonny. – it’s not all bad news.’
Russell paused on the threshold. ‘Go on.’
‘We do know whose fingerprints are on it…’
‘You do?’
Lewis grinned. ‘You’re not going to believe it…’
‘Try me.’
‘Frankie Drake.’
‘No!’
‘The very same.’
Russell frowned. After a moment he spoke. ‘So he thumped Nettie, and disappeared – just before Salle turned up.’ The frown returned. ‘I saw him sneak away when we turned up earlier. Nettie went off about the same time – to check up on him.’ His forehead wrinkled in concentration. Then: ‘So what happened?’
‘What did she tell you?’
‘She just said that she was bending down and something whacked her over the head.’
‘She didn’t see anything else?’
‘No. I’m afraid not.’ Russell looked thoughtful. Then his face lit up. ‘No, hang on. How could I have forgotten. She said she saw a sack. She undid the chord round the neck. It was full of packages. Wait there a minute.’ Russell went into the interview room. He returned in a few moments with the picture frame. ‘This must have fallen out of the sack.’
‘Lucky I’ve already checked it for prints.’ Lewis gave a lopsided smile.
Russell grinned back. ‘But you found no matches?’
‘Sadly not,’ Lewis answered. ‘Anyway, what were you doing with it in there?’
‘Ah. I wanted to see if our Frenchman, Monsieur Salle, reacted when I showed it to him.’
‘And did he?’
He tried not to but I’m sure he recognised it.’
‘How does he fit into the puzzle, do you think?’
‘I don’t know at the moment,’ Russell answered slowly, stroking his chin. ‘But I’m pretty sure he’s tied up in it somehow. In fact I’d go as far as to say I believe he’s up to his neck in it.’
‘What are you going to do?’
Russell shrugged. ‘Long term – I don’t know, but for now, I’m going to have to give his freedom...’
He turned once more and was just opening the door when he was stopped again – this time by Wickstead, the desk sergeant. ‘Sonny, there’s a phone call for you.’
‘Can it wait? I’ve to get back in there.’
‘I think you’ll want to take this call – it’s Captain Salt.’
‘In that case… Hang on.’ He put his head round the door. ‘Weeks, hold the fort, I’ll be back in minute.’
Russell picked up the handset that Wickstead had laid on the counter. ‘Captain. What can I do for you?’
‘It’s what I can do for you, Sonny,’ Salt replied.
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s something that Jack Spratt has just witnessed. Something he overheard in the Shipwrights Arms.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘Sailor Tedham and Frankie Drake were deep in conversation…’ Russell pricked up his ears. ‘…And it got rather heated – beer was spilled; a table was almost turned over.’
‘What was said?’
‘Apparently Drake admitted that he’d hit someone – a policewoman…’
‘With a piece of wood?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’ve got the weapon with his prints on here. Are they still there? I do hope so.’
‘I’m afraid not, Sonny. They were on their way out – in a hurry – as I came in. I got Jack to have a look outside but they’d skedaddled.’
‘Many thanks, Captain. I just have to do something here then I’ll be right over.’
-0-
‘You want to do what?’
‘I want to hold Salle for a further 24 hours, sir.’
‘Bloody hell! His lawyer will have a field day!’ Superintendent Stout’s blood pressure was rising, his face reddening.
‘He hasn’t asked for a lawyer.’
‘He will – mark my words.’
‘So can I detain him – sir?’
‘Remind me – on what grounds…?’
‘Suspicion of handling stolen goods.’
‘Suspicion? Is that all?’
Russell shrugged.
Stout shook his head, a look of disbelief on his face. ‘You have to be joking. Not only have you not got a scintilla of evidence but, as a foreign national, we have to give him a certain degree of protection. So the answer is no.’
‘But, sir…’
The Superintendent reached for his tin of cheroots. He took one out. Just before lighting it he spoke. ‘Go on. Get out. If all you can offer me is suspicions, don’t come back until you’ve got certainties. And for goodness sake, get someone to take Monsieur Salle back to wherever he’s left his car. We don’t want an international incident on our hands.’
-0-
Russell and Weeks were driving along the road to Compass Point. As they rounded a left-hand bend a vehicle came towards them – speeding on the wrong side of the road. Luckily Weeks’s lightning reflexes saved them from a nasty collision as he flung the wheel over, the car mounted the verge and bounced on its springs. He brought it to a halt in a cloud of dust.
‘Bloody hell! They were in a hurry!’ Weeks was white-faced.
‘They certainly were. If we didn’t have more important business I’d say chase them. Sadly we’ll have to leave it.’
On arrival at Compass Point, they found Salt was waiting in the entrance of the Shipwrights Arms. As soon as the door of the Wolseley opened the terrier leapt out and ran up to the Captain.
‘Aggie!’ Russell shouted.
‘Don’t worry, Sonny. I don’t mind, she’s my favourite little dog.’ The terrier danced around him, her tail wagging madly. He bent down and ruffled the thick hair on her neck. ‘I’m afraid the birds have flown,’ he said. ‘They drove off in that Bedford van like the devil himself was after them. The van went over the level crossing so fast it all but took off.’
The two detectives looked at each other. Russell turned to Salt and sighed. ‘We’ve just passed them. They ran us off the road. Too late to give chase but we can let the station know.’
<
br /> ‘I’ll get them on the radio, sir.’
‘Good lad.’ Then to Salt: ‘Is Jack still here?’
Salt chuckled. ‘The tide’s out so Spratt is in.’ He nodded towards the bar.
Crossing the sawdust-covered floor, Russell took a seat next to the ferryman.
‘Drink, Sonny?’ Alf asked.
‘Better not. Wouldn’t mind a cuppa though.’ The landlord smiled and went out into his private quarters. Russell looked at Spratt. ‘Tell me what you heard, Jack.’
-0-
‘We’re going to ‘ave to dump the van.’ Tedham shouted, over the noise of the engine.
Drake wrestled with the wheel, his face tense with concentration, as the Bedford bounced across the uneven road surface. ‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Because that was Russell’s bloody motor we drove off the road. Knowing ’im ’e’ll be straight on to the station – putting out an all car alert.’
‘We can’t dump it - we’ve got to go back and recover those sacks,’ Drake replied.
Tedham let out a bark of laughter. ‘You’re joking! We’re not going back to Compass Point – the loot will ’ave to stay in the mud.’
‘But…’
The laugh turned into a howl. ‘You’ll just ’ave to hope that it stays hidden. If Nipper finds out what you did… Well, you’ll just have to pray ’e don’t.’ The van swerved round a pothole. ‘Christ, Frankie! You trying to kill us?’
‘Sorry, Sailor.’ He straightened the steering. ‘What are we gonna do with the van?’
‘What?’
‘The van. You said we’d ’ave to dump it.’
‘I know!’ Tedham snapped. ‘I’m just trying to think of the best place.’ Drake stared ahead – concentrating on the road.
-0-
The uniformed constable drove Salle back to Rock-a-Nore. ‘This will be fine,’ the Frenchman said, before they reached the place where he had parked the Citroën. He was prepared to walk the last couple of hundred yards so the policeman didn’t see his distinctive car. He stood in the road, watching the police vehicle until it was out of sight. When he reached his own car he sat in the driver’s seat but didn’t start the engine. He was experiencing a whole catalogue of emotions: relief that he had been allowed to leave the police station; frustration that he was no further in recovering the stolen goods; anger that he had been duped by two dumb fishermen. He banged his fists on the steering wheel and growled through gritted teeth: ‘When I get my hands on them…’
Blood on the Strand Page 9
