Blood on the Strand

by Chris O'Donoghue

  -0-

  He had haunted the Seahorse Inn, probably driving the staff to distraction, spending hours sitting at the bar with a single drink. Every time the door opened he had swivelled on his stool, then glowered and turned back when he saw that is was a stranger who entered. In between he visited other hostelries in Nottery Quay, enquiring after Stump and Crabbe, but with no more success. Deciding to widen the net, he set off for Compass Point… but not alone.

  -0-

  Afternoon daylight was softly merging into dusk as Ted Stump and Nipper Crabbe slunk into the Shipwrights Arms. Jack Spratt must have been sleeping off the after-effects of a lunchtime session as the bar was empty apart from the landlord.

  ‘Two pints, Alf.’

  Alf turned and filled two tankards from the barrel in the rack behind the bar. Crabbe dropped some coppers on the worn countertop and carried the drinks over to the corner table where he took a seat opposite Stump, his back to the window.

  The Citroën glided over the crossing of the three-foot gauge railway line at Compass Point; the hydro-pneumatic, self-levelling suspension smoothing the car’s passage. Quietly, it drew up some yards short of the Shipwrights Arms, the engine was switched off and the car slowly lowered. Two men climbed out, carefully pushing the doors closed, not making a sound. They walked stealthily towards the pub, Big Paul towering over Salle, who was not a small man. As they stopped at the corner of the building, the Frenchman held his hand up by way of caution. He leaned slowly towards the window, taking care to remain unseen. He could see the two men inside, sitting, talking quietly, taking the occasional swig from their tankards. At one point Stump looked up and appeared to stare out into the darkness. Salle remained frozen, sure he’d be seen. Then the fisherman looked away, his blank expression unchanged. Salle relaxed. He continued watching as the men drained their drinks, stood up and made their way to the door, Crabbe leading the way.

  Salle whispered to Big Paul: ‘I will take the first one, you grab the second.’ As Crabbe emerged Salle was on him, grasping the lapels of his threadbare jacket.

  ‘What have you done with it?’ he hissed, his face inches from the other man’s.

  ‘W-what? I dunno what you mean.’

  ‘My gold and silver! The crate you said was lost overboard!’ Crabbe remained speechless. ‘Come on! Where is it?’ Salle spat, flecks of spittle peppering the man’s face.

  Seeing what was happening to his companion Stump started sliding away into the darkness. He didn’t get far. Salle’s hulking companion appeared, gripped his throat and twisted his arm up behind his back – hard. Stump gasped but was powerless to resist as the man all but lifted his feet off the ground and propelled him towards the car. As Salle turned to look, Crabbe knocked his hands away and punched him hard on the side of the face. The Frenchman yelped in pain and staggered to one side. Crabbe rushed off into the darkness before he could be stopped. Stump was bundled into the back of the Citroën followed by Big Paul. Salle picked himself up and stumbled to the car, muttering darkly and rubbing his jaw. He slumped into the driver’s seat, started the engine and set off swiftly, even before the suspension had fully risen.

  -0-

  ‘Are you sure this will be all right?’

  ‘I told you, stop fussin’. Nobody’s gonna look for it ’ere.’

  Tedham had told Drake to turn off the road back to Collinghurst and they’d bumped and bounced along the rutted track towards Shell Bay. He’d directed him round to the side of the Martello tower which was overgrown with weeds and scrubby elder trees. By leaving the van between the tower and the undergrowth, it would be rendered virtually invisible. It was so tightly wedged that the men had to make their way through the van and out of the back doors.

  ‘Come on,’ Tedham said. ‘Pull some branches across and then we can skedaddle.’

  ‘But where to?’

  ‘My mate Lou has got an old boat on the bank, farther up the river. More of a hulk, really – don’t go nowhere, he uses it as a sort of caravan. ’E’s said I can stay there any time.’

  ‘How are we going to find our way? It’s nearly dark.’

  Tedham chuckled and reached into his pocket. ‘Got a light?’

  Drake struck a match on the side of a box of Swan Vestas. The flame lit up the brass compass that the other man had produced. ‘I don’t go nowhere without it. Never know when it’ll come in handy. Right, the spot where the boat is on the river is almost due north from here. Shouldn’t take more’n ’alf an ’our if we cut across the dunes.’

  Chapter 7

  The Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives section of the Allies was a small corps of mostly middle-aged men and a few women who interrupted careers as historians, architects, museum curators and professors to mitigate combat damage. They found and recovered countless artworks stolen by the Nazis.

  The following morning Russell was sitting in his office, leaning back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. His eyes were half closed as he softly whistled Jo Stafford’s Shrimp Boats is a’comin’. A tidy, compact man, tending to round, his hair was neatly Brylcreem-ed, the shine matching the gloss on his shoes. Beneath the desk Aggie was resting her chin on one polished toe-cap.

  Russell was struggling to make sense of what had happened so far. He was finding the case more than a little baffling. It seemed certain that a large consignment of stolen valuables was at the centre of it, but not only were the goods missing, a WPC had also been hurt. He felt very guilty about that. Although he didn’t have any concrete evidence against Salle, he was sure the suave Frenchman was heavily involved. And what about the fishermen? Frankie Drake had certainly thumped Nettie, and his mate, Sailor Tedham, was far too cocky. It was a shame he and Weeks hadn’t realised it was the pair’s Bedford that had forced them off the road the day before. If they’d given chase, they may well have caught them but, as it happened, they, and their van, had disappeared into thin air.

  If only that first, full crate hadn’t vanished, they might know a lot more. And the scraps of newspaper. Although there was no definite evidence, he, and Lewis, thought it pointed to the stolen goods coming from Germany at the end of the war. They had discussed it at length.

  Throughout the hostilities Hermann Goering, Heinrich Himmler and Alfred Rosenberg had teams scouring occupied Europe for works of art to add to their collections. As the war rumbled on, very little could be done about this looting and it wasn’t until the autumn of 1943 when the US War department set up the Monuments, Fine Arts and Archives branch that notice was taken of this large-scale robbery. Its brief was to locate, catalogue and preserve looted cultural treasure and prepare for its restitution. Later, when the war was drawing to a close, a handful of ‘Monuments Men’ moved across France and into Germany. They found themselves custodians of millions of cultural items at a time when the military were unduly concerned; they had more pressing matters in which they were involved. Inevitably though, much of this contraband slipped through the net, and this was what Russell was convinced they were dealing with. If only his boss, Superintendent Stout, shared the same conviction…

  -0-

  The warehouses at Nottery Quay had been heavily bombed during the war. There was talk of regenerating the area around the wharf but so far, it was only talk. The South-East had suffered badly from the onslaught; there were still many signs of the damage that had been inflicted across the area. Funds were limited and the council deemed it more important to provide housing for those who had lost their homes. So, the industrial area around the quay remained undeveloped. Some of the warehouses were totally derelict, others just had a bit of damage. This suited Monsieur Albert Salle admirably.

  The previous evening, after driving away from Compass Point, he had found one warehouse that had a large pair of double doors – battered but intact. It was a surprise that the local kids hadn’t been in and made camps – probably the heavy padlock on the doors had deterred them. But not Salle. Big Paul was adept with a pick and in a very few moments the lock h
ad fallen open, the doors were eased apart and the Citroën was driven in. At the top of a rickety wooden staircase there was one room which had probably served as the foreman’s office. The large windows all round, now broken, had probably allowed him to watch what went on down below. Inside was a single wooden chair and not much else.

  Ted Stump was sitting on the chair. He’d been sitting there all night. He wasn’t going anywhere. His wrists were tied behind him and ropes bound his chest to the back of the seat. He was dog tired and his face was sore; he tasted blood and his tongue could feel a cavity, where a tooth had been. And he was scared. Salle’s companion was built like a brick outhouse. Despite his size he had not really inflicted any serious damage so far but Stump feared that he’d only just started and there was worse to come. He wasn’t a brave man and he’d told them, early on, that he didn’t have the goods any more – and he didn’t know where they were. But, to his horror, they didn’t believe him, however much he tried to convince them. The big man had stopped knocking him about some hours earlier, and he and Salle gone off to sleep in the car. He’d held back from mentioning Tedham and Drake but decided he’d tell them when they started on him again. He had dozed but was too frightened to sleep for long. As daylight crept through the cracks in the building Stump started quaking.

  He was unable to see if there was any movement below but all was quiet. Panic rose in his throat. He had to get away. He tried flexing his wrists but the bonds were too tight. Likewise the ropes round his chest had no give in them. He tried standing. His legs were shaky from sitting so long, but with an effort he managed to lift the chair off the floor. It was heavy but he was able to shuffle a few feet towards the door. He paused, panting. Still no sound from below. He peered down and could just see the Citroën in the shadows. If he could make it down the staircase he could get out into the street and then what…? He didn’t know, but he knew he needed to escape. Tentatively he shuffled on to the small landing outside the door. It looked a bloody long way down. If he descended forwards the chair could catch on the stairs and topple him over. So, he turned and gingerly stepped backwards. His foot hovered in mid-air and he thought he was going. The panic rose higher. Then his foot touched the step and he regained control. He paused, while he caught his breath. He put the full weight of his foot on the tread. So far, so good. Feeling more confident he tried repeating the move with the other leg. As his foot connected with the tread and he transferred the weight of his body and the chair, the rotten wood gave way and he found himself falling through space.

  ‘Mon Dieu! Quel était ce son? The crash had woken Salle from a deep sleep. He tumbled out of the back of the Citroën, followed by Big Paul from the front. They were faced with the sight of Stump lying at the foot of the stairs in a tangle of rope and broken wood. The position of his body didn’t look natural. He wasn’t moving.

  Big Paul spoke. ‘Is he dead?’

  Salle knelt and held his fingertips to Stump’s neck. ‘There is no pulse,’ he said, shaking his head.

  ‘Now we can’t find out where the goods are.’

  Salle looked at him. ‘Merde! Are you mad?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You are worrying about that when we have a dead body on our hands?’

  ‘Isn’t that what you wanted me to do anyway?’

  ‘No!’ Salle snapped. ‘I only wanted you to frighten him!’

  ‘But I thought…’

  ‘Why do you think I stopped you from going too far last night?’ The big man stared but remained silent. ‘Anyway, what are we going to do now? We cannot leave him here.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because, when the authorities find him they will know he died in suspicious circumstances. That other man, Crabbe, was there when we took him and he may well tell them.’

  ‘So what do you suggest we do?’

  The Frenchman paused before speaking. ‘I think we must put him somewhere where it looks like he has had an accident.’

  ‘But he has.’

  Salle snorted. ‘What? Fell down a staircase in a derelict warehouse, tied to a chair? That is no accident!’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘He is – or he was – a fisherman. Perhaps he fell overboard from a boat.’

  Big Paul nodded his head slowly. ‘Yes, that is possible.’

  ‘So we put him in the water.’

  ‘What, here?’

  ‘No!’ Salle snapped. ‘Too close to home. We’ll dump him in the river, over towards Compass Point.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Of course not now! We’ll have to wait until dark. I suggest we put him in the boot of the car – just in case anyone comes looking around.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So let’s get it done, and then we can have some more sleep. There’s nothing we can do until tonight.’

  -0-

  Captain Salt stood on the quayside at Compass Point. It was a sparkling spring day, the rainy weather a distant memory. Small, pristine white clouds drifted lazily across the sky; the drawn-out rising ‘peewit’ call of lapwings sounded from across the river at Shell Bay. He could see them soaring and falling on broad wings, twisting and turning in the warm air. His attention was then drawn to a rusty, clanking monster slowly working its way up the channel. Looking and sounding like a throwback to the industrial revolution, it was a steam-powered bucket dredger – a cross between a barge and an excavator, with a tall, slender chimney belching thick grey smoke. It was only a small model but still looked huge in the narrow strip of water. A ‘ladder’, angled at 30 degrees, extended above and below the hull, supporting a continuous chain of large metal buckets, lifting silt and mud from the river bottom. Its hire was costing Salt handsomely so he wanted to get the channel cleared as quickly as possible, hopefully in just one day. Suddenly a shout went up – the clanking ceased and the buckets stopped revolving. All was quiet except for the panting of the steam engine.

  ‘What’s up?’ Salt called out. ‘Why have you stopped?’

  ‘Something in the bucket,’ a figure on deck replied.

  Salt strained to see what the man was pointing at. ‘What is it?’ he asked, tetchily. ‘Is it important?’

  ‘It’s a sack,’ the man said. Salt could see him tugging at something in the hold. ‘Bloody hell…! I think you’d better see this. Can you get across here?’ Salt saw Jack Spratt’s blue dinghy tied up at the ferry steps. There was no sign of the ferryman so he made his way down the stone staircase and climbed nimbly into the boat. He slotted the oars into the rowlocks, untied the painter and pulled strongly across the river. In a few strokes the bow was gently nudging the heavy rope fender encircling the dredger. The line Salt threw was secured by the seaman and he followed it up over the gunwale of the larger vessel. When he saw what the bucket had brought up from the river bed he gasped. There was the remains of a hessian sack, ripped and torn, spilling its contents into the mud in the hold. He could see packages, most tightly wrapped in oilcloth. But half a dozen or so had ripped open, revealing flashes of gold and silver.

  ‘I think I ought to get Sonny over here – right away,’ he said, quietly. ‘You’ll have to stop work until he arrives, I’m afraid.’

  The seaman shrugged. ‘That’s fine. You’re paying.’

  Salt offered a shrug of his own, took a deep breath and sighed. ‘You’re right there.’ He furrowed his brow. ‘Look. I think I had better stay here. Can you go and find Mitch in the boatyard?’

  ‘Sure...’

  ‘Tell him to ring the police station and ask for DI Russell.’

  ‘I could do that. But wouldn’t it be better if we get this tub tied up alongside first?’

  For the first time since he’d come on board Salt looked up from the hold and saw that the vessel had drifted a dozen or more yards on the tide. ‘Good idea.’

  The man shouted to his companion in the wheelhouse. ‘Take her alongside, Tel.’ Slowly the boat turned towards the quay. Just then Mitchell appeared from his office in t
ime to catch the mooring rope and tie it off on a bollard.

  ‘Mitch,’ Salt called. ‘Ring Sonny Russell and tell him to get here, pronto. He’ll want to see what we’ve found.’

  -0-

  The sack, and its contents, had been decanted on to the quayside. ‘This puts a whole new complexion on the case,’ Russell said. He and Weeks were carefully picking over the heap, the little terrier sniffing and wagging her tail excitedly. ‘I must say, this is quite unbelievable. How on earth did it get there?’ He looked up at Salt.

  The Captain shrugged. ‘Didn’t you say you found an empty crate?’

  ‘Yes, but that was several miles along the coast.’ Russell rubbed his chin, ‘You’re not suggesting that it fell out of the crate and got washed along the beach, are you?’

  ‘No, of course not. Even though the longshore drift would have carried it east, it’s hardly likely to have come this far up the channel.’

  Russell tutted. ‘Then it doesn’t get us any further.’

  ‘Sir,’ Weeks interrupted. ‘Didn’t WPC Sharpe say she saw sacks in that net hut?’

  ‘So she did! Well done lad.’ Russell frowned. ‘But how an earth did one end up here?’