Blood on the Strand

by Chris O'Donoghue

‘Oh my Gawd!’ he gasped. ‘It’s Nipper Crabbe!’

  -0-

  After Lewis and his team had finished their search of the warehouse Russell went back there with Weeks. ‘I still don’t understand how the rope marks on Stump were so deep, or how that chair was so badly smashed.’

  ‘Wasn’t he thrown to the floor, sir?’

  ‘Possibly, lad. But it still doesn’t feel right.’ He peered around, his forehead creased in concentration. Then he looked upwards and his eyes lighted on the office at the top of the stairs. ‘I wonder…? Let’s go and take a look, lad.’ He started climbing the stairs, taking care on the fragile timberwork. Aggie slipped past him and bounded swiftly up. She stood on the landing, tongue out, wagging her tail. When Russell reached the top the terrier trotted into the office and started sniffing the wooden floor, her tail wagging even more vigorously.

  ‘Come here!’ Russell commanded. Aggie came obediently to his side and sat, looking up. Russell held the flat of his hand out. ‘Stay.’ He moved towards the middle of the floor and crouched down. He looked closely at the dusty boards. Weeks had come up after him. ‘What do you make of this, lad?’

  Weeks bent down next to the DI. ‘Scuff marks… And some sort of stain, sir?’ He pushed his thick fringe away from his face and bent closer. ‘Blood?’

  Russell gave a little grunt as he rose. ‘Yes, blood. I reckon our fisherman started off up here.’ He linked his hands behind his back, and walked slowly round the small room. ‘I’m surprised Lewis didn’t spot this.’

  ‘I think he was concentrating on the floor below, sir.’

  ‘Quite. No reason for him to come up here.’

  Weeks tipped his head to one side. ‘What do you think happened?’

  ‘I reckon poor Ted Stump was tied to the chair and tortured here. Then they threw him down the stairs.’

  ‘But why would they do that, sir?’

  ‘To make him talk.’

  ‘Yes, but isn’t that a bit extreme? They’d be more likely to kill him, if they did that, wouldn’t they? Then whatever information they were trying to get would die with him.’

  Russell rubbed his chin. ‘That’s very true, lad. Good thinking.’ He looked up. ‘But what if he threw himself down the stairs?’

  ‘To end it all, do you mean? Escape any more torture?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘That’s a bit too drastic, I would have thought.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  The two men were quiet for a few moments then Weeks spoke, his voice a low murmur. ‘How about this for an idea?’

  ‘Yes, lad?’

  ‘He was left up here, on his own, tied to the chair. Somehow he managed to make it to the top of the stairs, then toppled and fell.’

  ‘Hmm. Good point. That would explain how he ended up in the state we found him.’ The DI took off his hat and scratched his head. ‘Let’s have a closer look at the stairs. See if we can find anything. We’ll start at the bottom.’

  The two men made their way down to the floor of the warehouse then began working their way back up, the more agile Weeks going first. Aggie thought it was a splendid game and tried pushing past them until Russell told her to sit at the bottom. Reluctantly she stayed still and watched them. After a few minutes they were halfway up the staircase when Weeks stopped.

  ‘Sir! Look!’ He pressed himself against the flimsy banister rail so Russell could see what he was pointing at.

  The DI leaned forward and could see a splinter wedged between the tread and the stringer. Carefully he pulled it out. ‘It’s different wood. Let’s check.’ Carefully they made their way back to what was left of the chair. Russell held the splinter against one of the legs.

  ‘It’s the same!’ Weeks exclaimed.

  ‘Looks like you may well be right, lad. Shame it doesn’t get us any further forward. Ah well. It is another piece of evidence. Let’s get back to the station and see if anything else has turned up.’

  -0-

  ‘So, Inspector. What have you got so far?’

  Russell cleared his throat. ‘Well, sir…’

  Before he could continue, Superintendent Vic Stout interrupted. ‘I’ll tell you what you’ve got,’ he thundered. ‘A right bloody mess!’

  ‘But sir…’

  ‘No buts! If you hadn’t let that bloody Frenchman go, that unfortunate fisherman, Stamp…’

  ‘Stump, sir.’

  Stout glowered, his colour rising. ‘All right, smart arse, Stump. He’d still be alive.’

  ‘I wanted to keep him in custody, sir,’ Russell said, his voice low and even. He didn’t want to antagonise Stout further.

  ‘What?’ But Stout had heard. ‘Well why didn’t you insist?’

  ‘I did, sir…’

  ‘Don’t be clever with me! It was your responsibility and you let him go.’ Russell sighed but said nothing. There was no arguing with the Super when he was in this mood. ‘Anyway, where was I?’

  ‘You were asking what we had.’

  ‘Yes. So I was. Well, what have you got?’ Russell was about to speak when Stout ploughed on, his face red. ‘You’ve got bugger all. The mangled body of a fisherman, a WPC with concussion…’

  ‘Hardly, sir…’

  ‘Don’t interrupt! A bag of swag and, if you’re right about those crates, a whole lot more where it came from. And the only lead we had – that Froggy – is out on the loose again. What do you propose to do now?’

  ‘I’ve got men out looking for Stump’s friend, Nipper Crabbe. As well as two other fishermen, Sailor Tedham and Frankie Drake.’

  Stout let out a huge sigh and reached for his cheroots. ‘Why them, for heaven’s sake?’ He rammed the cigar in the corner of his mouth and picked up his Zippo.

  ‘I’m pretty sure they’re heavily involved too.’

  Stout flicked the wheel of the lighter, producing a yellowy flame. He lit the cheroot and sucked hard, making the end glow cherry red. ‘You’re pretty sure! That’s a bit vague, even for you, Inspector.’

  ‘Well, we know that it was Drake who hit Nettie over the head.’

  ‘Who’s Nettie?’

  ‘WPC Sharpe, sir.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Stout waved the hand holding the cigar, scattering ash across his desk. He lowered his head and stared at Russell under his eyebrows; his piggy eyes, glowing like the cigar. ‘How do you know it was this fellow Drake?’

  ‘Fingerprints, sir.’

  ‘Why haven’t I heard about this?’ Stout growled, his eyes all but disappearing between the folds of flesh.

  ‘Er, it’s only just come to light, sir.’

  ‘How so?’ His sour mood was turning rancid.

  ‘Nettie – WPC Sharpe – cleverly managed to get his dabs on a photograph. But at the time we were trying to identify those that Lewis found on Moonshine.’

  ‘That blasted boat again! Can’t understand why you’re so obsessed with it.’

  ‘I’ve got a strong feeling it’s been involved in this case.’

  ‘You and your feelings! I’ve told you, I want hard facts and evidence – not bloody feelings!’ He viciously ground the cigar out in his glass ashtray. ‘What are you doing about tracing where these valuable objects have come from and … where the missing ones have gone?’

  ‘Constable Weeks, WPC Sharpe and I are about to start visiting the antique dealers in Nottery Quay and here in Collinghurst, to see if anyone has been offering them for sale.’

  ‘At last! You’re going to do something constructive, instead of troubling yourself with some daft boat, which is about as constructive as chasing down the crew of the Mary Celeste.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well why are you still sitting here then? Get on with it!’

  -0-

  In Nottery Quay, at the bottom of the High Street, a lane called Rope Walk ran off at an angle. It was a broad, unmade track, between two rows of black, tarred warehouses, ending right on the quay. These buildings housed workshops and stores for a variety of craftsmen
. Traditionally they had been connected with boats and the sea – shipwrights and rope-workers, painters and carpenters – but increasingly those dealing in antiques and repairing and restoring them had moved in. The heavily timbered and quirky interiors were ideally suited to the selling of old oak furniture, horse brasses, warming pans and assorted trinkets. Most of the dealers were honest businessmen – if those in the antique trade were ever completely honest. But Russell knew that one or two were quite happy to deal with goods that had been come by in less than legitimate ways - no questions asked – with a suitably low price being offered which, generally, though sometimes reluctantly, was accepted.

  The shop belonging to Septimus Pike was at the far end of Rope Walk, in one of the warehouses in need of more than a little maintenance. Several of the weatherboard planks were rotten and the hinges on the main door needed replacing. Not that the door was ever likely to be opened. Instead, cut into it was a much smaller Judas gate. Russell had to duck low as he entered so he didn’t crown himself on the lintel. Once inside, he stood looking round, his eyes becoming accustomed to the gloom inside. Aggie trotted in, tail wagging as she found new things to sniff. At first Russell didn’t see the proprietor.

  ‘That dog better not piss on anything.’ The voice came from the shadows.

  ‘Pike, my old friend. Nice to see you too.’

  The dealer loomed out of the darkness. ‘I’d like to say it’s nice to see you too, Detective Inspector Russell, but it depends on what you’re after.’

  ‘Who said I’m after anything?’ Russell asked, a warm smile lighting his face.

  Pike laughed – a sound halfway between a bark and a cough. ‘Well why else would you be here? And who’s this whippersnapper you’ve brought with you?’

  ‘This is Detective Constable Weeks. Come and say hello to Septimus.’

  Weeks stepped forward and held out a hand. It was grasped by Pike’s grubby claw. ‘Very pleased to meet you I’m sure.’ Weeks withdrew his hand as quickly as he could, held it behind his back and rubbed it on his trousers. ‘Now that the pleasantries are over, what can I do for you, Inspector?’

  ‘I’m trying to track down some goods, which may not be totally legitimate.’

  ‘And you’ve come to me?’ Pike said, a tinge of mock horror in his voice.

  ‘Not that I’m suggesting you’d have anything to do with such items, but you usually seem to know what’s going on in the local antique marketplace.’

  ‘Don’t try to flatter me – I know you too well.’

  Russell grinned. ‘It was worth a try. Anyway, take a look at this and tell me what you think.’ Hel reached into his pocket and produced the picture frame. As he did so he watched Pike very carefully. It was too dark to see him clearly but he was certain that the man gave a little jerk and his Adams apple bobbed.

  However, the dealer remained cool as he took it from the detective. ‘Very nice, I’m sure.’

  ‘Can you tell me anything about it?’

  ‘Maybe I can and maybe I can’t.’ He took the frame over to a small desk, against the wall. He switched on the Anglepoise lamp, which cast a pool of light on the cluttered surface. Pushing aside a dismantled clock, a porcelain figurine, missing its head and one arm, a vase broken in two and a brass candlestick leaning at an unnatural angle, he created a space and carefully put the frame down. As he lowered himself on to a chair he took out a magnifying glass from his coat pocket. He turned the frame to and fro under the light then, using the glass, peered at the back.

  ‘Very interesting...’

  ‘It is?’ Russell said, looking over his shoulder.

  ‘Yes. Not English, that’s for sure.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘The marks are foreign – possibly German.’ Russell exchanged a glance with Weeks. Pike peered even closer. ‘Yes. I’d say definitely German. Can I ask where you got it?’

  Russell paused. ‘Before I tell you that, I’d like to ask you a question.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ The dealer stroked his wispy beard.

  ‘Yes. Have you seen anything else like this – recently?’

  There was a slight, but noticeable hesitation prior to his answering. ‘And why would you be asking that, pray?’

  ‘I think this is a part of a much bigger haul.’

  ‘Is that right, Inspector?’

  ‘Yes. It’s my belief that a large consignment of valuable items was landed along the coast in the past week or so and whoever organised it may be looking for a way to fence the goods. I thought you might be able to help.’

  Pike glanced at him, his eyes giving nothing away and passed the frame back. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you. If that’s all, I’ve got work to get on with,’ he said dismissively and turned back to his desk. ‘Goodbye, Inspector.’

  ‘Not so fast, Septimus.’ Russell reached out and gripped the man’s arm.

  ‘I told you, I can’t help you. Now let go of my arm.’

  ‘Mr Pike…’ Russell’s voice was formal. ‘I don’t think you quite understand.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I rather hoped that you would help me willingly, but it looks like you might need a little persuasion.’

  ‘I told you. There’s nothing I can tell you.’

  Russell gave a sad smile. ‘You might say that, Mr Pike, but I’m afraid I don’t believe you.’

  ‘That’s up to you. Now, I would like it if you went. And take your lackey and your mutt as well.

  ‘There’s no need to be unpleasant.’

  ‘You’re on my property and I can be as unpleasant as I like.’

  When Russell replied his voice was quiet but controlled. It had a touch of ice. ‘I think it’s time to stop playing games, Septimus. Either you tell me what you know or I leave…’

  ‘That is what I’ve asked you to do.’ Pike looked straight at the Inspector, his eyes narrowed.

  ‘You didn’t let me finish. I was going on to say – or I leave and come back with half a dozen constables and we take this place apart.’

  The dealer’s eyes widened. ‘You wouldn’t…’

  ‘Try me.’

  Pike grunted. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘That’s better. It’s pretty obvious that you have seen trinkets like this.’ He waved the picture frame. ‘I want to know who showed them to you.’

  Pike’s demeanour changed noticeably. His shoulders slumped; a resigned look occupying his chiselled features. He seemed to crumple in on himself. ‘Fair enough. I didn’t want to handle them anyway.’

  ‘So who’s been trying to pass on these items?’

  ‘I’m not happy about this,’ Pike whined. ‘It feels like some sort of betrayal.’

  Russell exhaled noisily. ‘I can always call up the troops…’

  ‘Okay, okay. No need for that.’

  ‘Names then, Septimus.’

  ‘All right. The first ones were brought in by a fellow called Duncan.’

  ‘Surname?’

  ‘I’m afraid I have no idea.’

  ‘Fair enough. What did he show you?’

  ‘You know – porcelain figurines, gold and silver candlesticks, picture frames, like that.’ He pointed to the one that Russell was holding.

  ‘Where can we find him?’

  ‘That I don’t know.’

  ‘Oh come on…’

  ‘Truly, I don’t.’

  ‘No idea?’

  ‘We-ell…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He may have a place in Collinghurst, somewhere near the hospital. That’s as much as I can tell you.’

  Russell grunted. ‘You said, “The first ones”. There were others?’

  ‘Yes,’ Pike replied quietly.

  ‘Who brought them?’

  ‘He was a Frenchman.’

  Weeks had been writing in his notebook. He looked up quickly. ‘A Frenchman?’

  That’s right – a nasty piece of work.’ Pike made a guttural sound, deep in his throat, as if he was trying to cl
ear a stubborn piece of phlegm.

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  ‘As I said, a nasty piece of work.’

  ‘The constable means what did he look like? As well you know,’ Russell snapped.

  Again the phlegmy sound. ‘I suppose you could say he was suave and good looking, in a froggy sort of way – dark wavy hair and brown eyes. Wore a pale linen suit – not cheap. But he had nasty thin lips – especially when he sneered.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like you took to him.’

  ‘No I did not. I don’t take kindly to having a gun pointed at me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He threatened me. Wanted to know, like you, who else had shown me pieces like that.’

  ‘And you told him?’

  ‘I didn’t have a choice, did I?’

  ‘When did all this happen?’

  Pike furrowed his brow, and stroked his straggly beard. ‘It was about three days ago, when Duncan came here. Then the day after when the Frenchman dropped by.’

  ‘Why did he threaten you?’

  ‘I told him I’d seen pieces like the ones he was showing me and, like you…’ his lip curled ‘…he wanted to know who had shown them to me.’

  ‘What did he do when you told him about Duncan?’

  ‘He asked if I knew who he had got them from. I told him I didn’t. Then he asked about a couple of fishermen.’

  ‘Why fishermen?’

  ‘I said I thought that’s where the goods had come from.’

  ‘What made you think that?’

  ‘Just an inkling. They’re the sorts who have the means to easily move goods from abroad. Plus quite a few of them aren’t very honest.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve had experience of them.’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Did he mention their names?’

  ‘Let me think.’ Pike was quiet for a while, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his finger and thumb. ‘Something to do with the sea. Shellfish or something,’ he paused again. ‘I’ve got it – Crabbe!’

  ‘What about the other one?’

  ‘Can’t remember.’

  Weeks opened his note book and flicked over a few pages. He looked up. ‘Stump?’

  ‘That’s it! Crabbe and Stump.’