Blood on the Strand

by Chris O'Donoghue

‘The van, sir. The one that ran us off the road.’

  ‘Of course,’ Russell exclaimed. ‘Sailor Tedham and Frankie Drake. I just wish we’d given chase at the time.’

  ‘But they’d have dumped the stuff by then so we wouldn’t be any the wiser. It only came to light because of the dredger,’ Weeks reasoned.

  ‘Yes, true. That was a lucky break. We’d better get this little lot collected and taken back to the station.’

  ‘Can they get on with clearing the channel now?’ Salt was aware that time was ticking by and the tide would soon turn.

  Russell looked at him. ‘I’m afraid not, Captain. I want to wait until low water so we can see if there’s anything else down there.’

  ‘Couldn’t we send a diver down?’ Weeks asked.

  Russell turned to Salt and arched an eyebrow. ‘Afraid not, lad,’ the Captain said sadly. ‘The dredger’s churned up the mud. He wouldn’t be able to see his hand in front of his face.’

  ‘Nothing for it then, I’m afraid. We’ll just have to sit it out until we can see the bottom. When’s low tide?’

  Salt took out his large fob watch and consulted the dial. ‘After dark. We’ll have to wait for the next low water, early tomorrow.’

  The man from the dredger who had been standing quietly to one side, listening, spoke. ‘If that’s the case, I think we’re done for the day. Sorry, Captain. We’ll have to pack up now so the boat can settle on the mud.’

  ‘Fair enough. Are you still okay to carry on tomorrow?’ Salt was resigned to paying for an extra day.

  ‘Yes, we should be all right,’ the man said. ‘We’re not due to do the next job until the end of the week. We’ll start again in the morning, once there’s enough water.’ With that, he turned and climbed aboard his vessel.

  -0-

  After they had dealt with the body, Salle turned to his companion. ‘I am concerned that this car is, how you say, a little too recognisable. I think it would be good if it disappeared for the time being. So, perhaps you could put it in your garage?’ The big man grunted his assent. ‘And then we can use your van. It is not so conspicuous.’ As he got out of the car Big Paul nodded and slid across the seat. Before closing the door Salle leaned back in. ‘I will see you back here in half an hour. Okay?’

  Chapter 8

  A bucket-ladder dredger scoops material from a river or sea-bed, and then carries it in the upright buckets to the top of the ladder. At the top the buckets rotate into an upside down position and their contents fall into a chute.

  The next day – bright and early – Russell and Weeks were back at the quayside at Compass Point. Aggie was at her master’s side, interested, as always, in what was going on. They stood looking down as a couple of uniformed constables, dressed in chest waders, slopped around in the mud, poking the glutinous goo with long sticks. ‘Are you sure we’re in the right place, sir?’ PC Beaumont called, looking up.

  ‘Yes, according to the skipper of the dredger, that’s where they picked up the sacks.’

  The men carried on for some while, stabbing with their sticks, slowly moving forward, laboriously lifting each foot, the thick mud clinging stickily to their waders. It seemed a thankless task. All that was visible was the brownish surface, pockmarked with a darker grey as they stirred up the bottom, releasing a smell reminiscent of rotting vegetation. The other constable, PC Lee, stopped and prodded the same place several times. ‘Sir!’ he said, excitement lighting his face. ‘I’ve found something!’

  ‘What is it?’ Russell and Weeks peered down.

  Lee leant forward and plunged his arm into the mud, up to the elbow. The others looked on, expectantly. With an effort he pulled out … a bucket.

  ‘Oh great,’ Russell groaned. ‘Carry on. You may find something else.’ The two constables continued squelching through the slime, moving slowly along the channel for another half an hour. In that time all they turned up was a bicycle frame, a pram wheel and a small anchor. ‘Sir,’ Beaumont called out miserably. ‘Can we pack up now?’

  Russell looked and saw the incoming tide swirling round the knees of the PCs. ‘Okay lads. Let’s call it a day.’ They made their slow way to the rusty ladder and climbed up on to the quayside. As they peeled off their waders great blobs of smelly mud landed on the ground with a ‘splat’.

  … If they had stayed just another five minutes, and moved forward just a few more feet, they would have stumbled over the other two sacks. But, as it was, the treasures remained hidden in their muddy grave…

  -0-

  The dredger had been moored overnight alongside the wooden wharf on the other side of the river. Earlier that morning the men on board had piled coal on to the embers in the firebox and got steam up. A curl of black smoke drifted lazily from the chimney and there was a gentle panting as pressure built up in the boiler. Soon they were ready to get started again. Once there was enough water to lift the craft off the bottom, gears were engaged and the buckets started clanking round, bringing up more silt. They had gone no more than a couple of dozen yards when a shout went up, the vessel stopped moving forward and the bucket chain ground to a halt. The two constables had been changing out of their waders while the detectives chatted with Salt. As soon as they heard the raised voice they looked towards the dredger.

  Salt was irritated that work had stopped – again. ‘What is it this time?’ he shouted. ‘Another sack?’

  ‘No, Captain.’ The voice was quiet, with a waver in it. ‘I think you’d better come over. And bring those coppers with you.’

  Spratt’s dinghy had risen on the tide, but was at the bottom of weed covered steps. Salt carefully made his way down, followed by Russell and Weeks. The two detectives sat in the stern, the terrier between them, while the Captain settled himself on the thwart, amidships. ‘Right, cast off,’ he said and slotted the oars into the rowlocks. The tide was beginning to flow swiftly and he had to row the boat diagonally across the channel to prevent it being swept upstream. The men on the dredger were ready to receive them and soon all three were clambering over the gunwale. What greeted them made Weeks gasp and Salt whistle.

  ‘What the…!’ Russell exclaimed. In one of the buckets, several feet above the deck, was the body of a man. A broken man. His clothes were torn and stained brown – with blood or slime – and his limbs lay at unnatural angles to his torso. Like a rag doll.

  -0-

  With difficulty, they had eased the broken body out of the bucket and placed it gently, almost reverently, in the dinghy. Salt had rowed it across to the other side and willing hands had carried it up to the quayside where it lay, oozing mud, blood and seawater, on an old canvas sheet. The pathologist, John Crooks, had been summoned from the mortuary in Collinghurst. Soon he, Russell and Weeks were standing round puzzling how this had come about. The two constables were holding back the handful of trippers who had just arrived on the mid-day train. They were now more interested in what was going on at the quayside than being rowed across to Shell Bay and the beach.

  ‘Do you think he drowned, John?’ the DI asked.

  ‘It looks that way, Sonny, although I won’t know for sure until I get him back and do the post-mortem. He’s certainly had a bashing though. Do you know him?’

  ‘I thought so at first. Thought it was one of the fishermen who’re mixed up with the stolen treasure hoard we found earlier, but no, he’s not one of them.’

  ‘I suppose we’ll have to wait and see if anyone reports him missing.’

  ‘Sir…’ PC Beaumont had walked over, leaving Lee to deal with the rubberneckers.

  ‘Yes, constable?’

  ‘I think I might know him.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I think he is a fisherman.’

  ‘I’d agree with that, judging by what’s left of his clothes. Don’t suppose you’d happen to know his name?’

  Beaumont furrowed his brow. ‘Ted somebody, I think.’

  ‘Surname?’

  ‘I can’t think of it at the moment, but I’m pret
ty sure he works on one of the boats at Rock-a-Nore. Usually with a chap called, er, Crabbe. That’s it, Nipper Crabbe.’

  ‘What’s he doing here then, sir?’ Weeks asked. ‘He’s a long way from Hastings.’

  Russell rubbed his chin. ‘I suppose he could have been washed in on the tide.’

  The DI recalled a case, a couple of years previously, when another body, bundled up in carpet underlay, had washed up at Compass Point. When they had undone the carefully tied knots and unwrapped it, they discovered that the man’s body was covered in lacerations. Although not deep enough to have killed him, Crooks thought they had contributed to his death. It was just the first in a series of bizarre deaths that took Russell on a journey to Germany, where he learnt about Nazi punishment squads, and ultimately to northern France. There, a further death was prevented, more by luck than judgment, and DC Weeks came close to losing his own life. Caught up in the memory, he was oblivious to his current surroundings but he was shaken out of his reverie when he realised Crooks was speaking to him.

  ‘Can we take him back to the mortuary, Sonny?’

  Russell looked up. ‘What? Oh yes, of course. No reason to leave the poor blighter here any longer.’

  ‘Right. I’ll let you know as soon as we’ve found out what caused his demise.’

  -0-

  The body was laid carefully in the back of the van that Crooks and his assistant had arrived in earlier. The two constables had loaded their waders into the boot of their squad car, said their farewells and headed back to the police station. Weeks was just about to open the door of the Wolseley when Russell stopped him.

  ‘No, lad. There’s no rush. Let’s go and have a drink in the Shipwrights with the Captain.’ Weeks raised an eyebrow. ‘One won’t hurt and we could both do with it. We’ve had quite a morning already. We can grab a bite to eat, too.’ He looked towards Salt.

  ‘That sounds like a splendid idea.’ Taking his fob watch out of his pocket he nodded and said, ‘The sun’s just about over the yardarm.’

  Seated round the tin-topped table by the fireplace, the three men lifted their glasses. ‘Cheers,’ Russell said. ‘Here’s to unravelling this rather convoluted case.’ They drank a toast and settled on their seats.

  ‘So, Sonny, have you any idea who the poor unfortunate is?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Captain. PC Beaumont seemed to think his first name was Ted but that’s about all we know. I’ve sent him and Lee off to start asking around the fishing community at Rock-a-Nore, so I expect we’ll find out in due course.’ A polite cough made him turn round. The landlord, looking dapper as usual, in smart grey suit and dark tie, had come up behind him. He was rubbing his finger around the collar of his shirt, as if it was too tight. ‘What is it Alf?’

  Alf put his hand in his pocket. He cleared his throat. ‘I don’t know whether it’s important,’ he said, his voice soft and respectful, ‘but I think I’ve seen the man you’re talking about.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘A couple of nights ago. He was in here with Nipper Crabbe.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Oh yes. I know him of old.’

  ‘Did you speak to them?’

  ‘Not really. They took their drinks over to this table and I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they seemed nervous. They only stopped for one drink then left.’ Russell waited while Alf shuffled his feet and looked thoughtful. Then he continued. ‘It was odd though.’

  ‘What was, Alf?’

  ‘It was dark outside but I’m sure I saw a face at the window – just a glimpse.’

  ‘Did you see who it was?’

  ‘No. But just that after the fishermen got up and left. And that was odd, too.’ Russell cocked his head to one side. ‘There seemed to be some sort of scuffle outside. I went to the door but couldn’t see anybody. Then an engine started and a car drove off, going hell for leather.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you know what sort of car?’

  Alf shook his head. ‘Afraid not. I only caught a glimpse, but somehow I don’t think it was an ordinary English car – something about it made me think it was foreign, perhaps French?’

  ‘That’s most interesting. But you didn’t see anyone?’

  ‘No. Just the car, and then only for a second or two.’

  ‘Well thanks, anyway. That could be very useful.’

  -0-

  After their early lunch the two detectives had returned to the station. They were sitting in Russell’s compact office. Weeks was leaning forward, curly hair flopping over his forehead, as he concentrated on his notebook. His fingers were stained blue from a leaky pen. Russell sat back in his chair, hands behind his head, and softly whistling Mystery Train. Aggie lay on the floor under the table, her head on her paws, one eye open, alert to what was going on. There was a knock on the door. Russell stopped whistling. ‘Come in.’

  The door opened and WPC Sharpe appeared. Her auburn hair was pulled back neatly into a bun and her grey eyes were shining. ‘Sir…’ The terrier sat up, her tail wagging.

  Russell smiled. ‘Hello Nettie, what is it?’

  She wrinkled her brow, the skin at the corners of her eyes crinkling. ‘It may be of no importance. It’s something I’ve been thinking about. I’m not sure if it’s relevant, sir, but I thought I ought to tell you.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘I was out on the beat a couple of evenings ago, with Constable Lee, round the back of Nottery Quay – where the old warehouses are.’

  ‘I know. The ones that were bombed during the war. The council keep talking about renovating them, but nothing’s happened yet.’

  ‘They’re the ones. Well, as I said, we were patrolling the area when we saw someone open the doors to one of the warehouses and a car came out. The man closed the doors and then got in the car and it drove off.’

  ‘Did you take a look at the warehouse while you were there?’

  ‘We did. Lee shone his torch and we could see there was a padlock on the door, so we assumed it was all above board.’

  ‘Yes, it does sound pretty innocent. They might have just parked the car in there.’

  ‘Maybe, sir. But the more I thought about it the more I realised it wasn’t an ordinary car.’

  ‘What do you mean, Nettie?’

  ‘I’m not an expert but I didn’t think it looked English – you know, an Austin or a Morris. Lee didn’t think so, either.’

  ‘What was it then?’

  ‘Well, I asked my younger brother – he’s motor mad – and he showed me his scrapbook, where he keeps pictures of cars. He’s only 14 but he’d like to be a racing driver one day.’ She chuckled at the thought. ‘Anyway as we flicked through, I stopped him. I recognised the shape of one. I asked him what make it was and he told me it was one of the latest Citroëns. It looked very futuristic.’

  ‘Funny. Alf mentioned a foreign car, too.’

  Weeks looked up from his notes and pushed his hair off his forehead. ‘Didn’t Bruissement say something about a Citroën in Boulogne – when they were loading those crates?’

  Russell sat up. ‘Don’t suppose you saw what colour it was, Nettie?’

  ‘It was pretty dark, but just as it went round the corner it passed under a streetlamp. It looked like it had a two-tone colour scheme. Maybe green and white?’

  Weeks flicked through his notes. ‘Could it have been blue and cream?’

  Sharpe thought for a moment. ‘It could have been,’ she said slowly. ‘Difficult to be sure at that distance in that light…’

  ‘What did Lee think? Russell asked.

  ‘Same as you, sir. Just someone parking off the road.’ She stood there, a thoughtful expression on her face.

  Russell looked at her intently. ‘There’s something else, Nettie, isn’t there?’

  ‘Well, sir. I was thinking back to when I got that knock on the head. It didn’t register at the time. But when I saw that picture in the book, it jogged my memory.’

  ‘Go on.’<
br />
  ‘When you were helping me back from the net shed I caught a glimpse of a parked car. I was feeling a bit woozy so didn’t take much notice. But then when I saw the picture my brother showed me it jogged my memory. I’m sure it was the same car I saw the other evening.’

  ‘Salle!’ Russell and Weeks exclaimed in unison.

  Russell rose from his chair and reached for his trilby from the stand. ‘Thank you Nettie, you’ve been a great help.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she beamed.

  He settled his hat on his head, straightening it so it was it was aligned, fore and aft. ‘Are you busy at the moment, WPC?’

  She looked a little surprised. ‘Nothing that can’t wait, sir. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Good, you can come and show us where this warehouse is. And Johnny?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Go and find Lewis and ask him to come as well please. Hopefully there will be some evidence for him to examine.’

  -0-

  ‘Can I ask where these trinkets came from?’ Septimus Pike was sitting across the table from Salle, a collection of objects between them glinting in the lamplight. It was broad daylight outside, but little light penetrated into the warehouse.

  ‘I am afraid not.’

  Pike rubbed his chin. ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Well, if you are not interested…’ Salle stood and started collecting the pieces. He was about to put the first candlestick back in the box he’d brought them in when Pike reached out with a claw-like hand and gripped his wrist. He could see an handsome profit disappearing.

  ‘Sit down. I didn’t say I wasn’t interested.’ Salle put the candlestick back and took his seat again. Pike picked up a porcelain figurine and turned it slowly in his hands. ‘You know, it’s funny. I was looking at some pieces that were very similar to these, just a few days ago.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Salle said, his eyes narrowing.

  ‘Yes, very similar.’ Pike reached into a pocket, and after rummaging for a few moments took out a magnifying glass. Putting down the figurine he picked up a silver statuette. Inverting it, he examined the marks on the base. ‘In fact, I would say they were from the same source.’ He looked up and waited.