‘That’s something, I suppose.’
‘So if you’ve still got any of those pretty trinkets you showed me, I suggest you get shot of them as quickly as you can.’
-0-
Russell had called DC Weeks and WPC Sharpe into his office. ‘Please, sit down.’ Once they were settled he went on: ‘I think this case is at last starting to go somewhere.’
‘That should please the Super,’ Weeks said.
‘Quite. But I think we’ve still got a long way to go in unravelling this one. The Bedford van we found behind the Martello tower definitely belongs to our missing fishermen – Drake and Tedham. But that’s the problem – they’re missing.’
‘Do you think Tedham’s the same one you interviewed at Rock-a-Nore?’ Sharpe asked.
‘Almost certainly – and Drake’s the one who thumped you. How are you now?’ Russell’s expression was soft with concern.
The WPC rubbed the back of her head. ‘The lump’s gone down now, sir. It wasn’t so bad.’
‘Good, I’m glad to hear it.’
Weeks looked up from under his fringe. ‘You mentioned that your nephew, Christopher, had caught a glimpse of two men running away from the tower. Do you think that was them?’
‘Well, we can’t be certain, but it does sound like it. Hopefully we’ll know more when we can talk to the chap who went off to hospital.’
‘When will that be?’
‘I spoke to a doctor earlier and he seems to think he’ll be able to answer questions in the morning – I don’t think he’s on the danger list but he’s a bit woozy from the morphine. PC Beaumont’s there at the moment. I’ll send someone to relieve him later so it should be okay until then.’ Russell paused and shuffled the papers on his desk. ‘Meanwhile, we need to find out more about the pieces on this inventory you’re compiling. And we want a list of antique dealers in the area. There are a number in Nottery Quay, along Rope Walk, plus others here in Collinghurst. We each need to take a piece from the haul to see if anyone recognises it. Let me know when you’ve finished the list and we’ll decide who’s going where.’
-0-
If Duncan Fountain’s set-up was fancy then Isobel Bailey’s was positively sophisticated. Her jewellery shop was in the smarter part of Collinghurst, wedged between a genteel establishment called Miss Smollett’s Teashop and a high-class milliner. Its frontage was small but elegant. Inside, glass cases were subtly lit, the light sparkling on rings and bracelets, necklaces and bangles – some in silver, set with semi-precious stones, others in plain gold. Jet and jade, onyx and amber glowed in the soft light. Placed towards the back of the small room was a desk that spoke of Sheraton, its elegance unmarred by clutter; just a clean blotting pad and a Bakelite telephone on its surface. Behind the desk, facing the wall, was a workbench. A hammock-like strip of leather hung beneath an arced cutaway in the wooden top, ready to catch any stray traces of valuable metal that might fall when Isobel was working on pieces of jewellery. A rack at the back held an array of files and other tools while a chrome Anglepoise lamp and a large magnifying glass on a stand were her aids in repairing trinkets that customers brought in. A radio, with a wooden, fretted Art Deco front, was tuned to the Third Programme and played softly in the background.
The door opened, the bell above tinkling musically, and DI Sonny Russell stepped in. He stopped at the threshold, his head tilted to one side, listening to the radio. ‘Beethoven’s Appassionata sonata, if I’m not mistaken.’ He took off his hat, swept his hand across his Brylcreem-ed hair and smiled.
Isobel smiled back warmly. The man before her, though not tall, and perhaps carrying a little too much weight for his height, was good looking. His dark blue chalk-stripe suit was well cut and his navy tie complemented it well. Isobel prided herself on being a good judge of character. In those first brief moments she detected a warm personality with a well-developed sense of humour, underplayed with a certain seriousness. And judging by his musical knowledge, he was cultured. What she didn’t expect was for him to reach into an inside pocket and produce a warrant card. Her smile faded. ‘Oh,’ was all she could utter.
‘No need to looks so worried, Miss…?’
Briefly, she regained her composure. ‘It’s Bailey, Isobel Bailey.’ She shook his proffered hand. His grip was light, though warm and dry.
‘Ah, Miss Bailey. It’s just a routine enquiry. ‘I’m asking around all the shops in the area. I wondered if you’d been offered anything like this.’ From another pocket Russell took out a small velvet box. He opened it to reveal a gold and diamond brooch. He noticed the sharp intake of breath, but said nothing.
Mentally pulling herself together – for the second time in less than a minute – she asked: ‘Can I see it please?’ He passed the box to her and she examined it closely. ‘It’s very pretty – where did you get it?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t divulge that information. It’s part of an ongoing investigation.’
‘I see.’ She took the brooch out of the box and turned it carefully in her hands. ‘It doesn’t look English... European, I would guess.’
‘That’s what I thought, too,’ Russell said casually. ‘But I really want to know if you’ve seen anything similar lately.’
The jeweller put the brooch back in the box, closed the lid, and handed it to him. ‘I’m afraid not. But if you’re interested in selling it…’ the smile returned, accompanied by a light chuckle.
Russell slipped the box in his pocket. ‘I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, if anything does come in like this, would you be kind enough to get in touch? I’ll give you my number.’
She opened a drawer in the desk and took out a pad of headed paper and a fountain pen. ‘Here,’ she said.
He wrote down his number at the police station, hesitated, then added his home number. Handing back the pad he said: ‘Ring me at any time, if you have any news.’ He gave a little bow, put his hat back on and left the shop.
As soon as the door closed Isobel slumped into her chair and breathed heavily. She could feel sweat prickling her skin and her heart thumping against her chest. The brooch she had just seen was almost identical to the one that Duncan had first shown her in the tearoom in Seahorse Passage. She was feeling more than a little confused. The man she had just met was very attractive, for sure. She felt guilty that she had lied to him, but… he was still a policeman. She would have to warn Duncan.
-0-
Nipper Crabbe was worried. He wasn’t in as much pain as before but he was still worried. He sat up in the iron-framed bed, his arm in plaster; a large white bandage round his head. An X-ray revealed that he’d only sustained a hairline fracture of his right forearm but had dislocated his shoulder. The ambulance man had popped it back in while the morphine was still doing its work and the hospital had provided a plaster cast. But despite his good thick skull it seemed the head injury may have been more serious. The doctor was concerned that there was a possibility that it could be more than just a mild concussion so wanted to keep him in for a couple of days, just to make sure he was okay. But Crabbe was worried about his friend, Ted Stump. He hadn’t seen him since they were jumped by Salle and his henchman outside the Shipwrights Arms. He had no idea what had happened to him but was starting to fear the worst. He needed to discover his whereabouts.
He was wearing a regulation hospital gown but he knew his own clothes were in the locker next to him. He also knew that the copper who had come in the ambulance would be sitting outside the door to his room. He wondered how he would be able to get away unnoticed. He didn’t want to talk to the police – he suspected they would be asking some difficult questions. And if it was that Russell bloke doing the questioning, well, he’d heard that he was a tricky bugger. But how to get away?
The fisherman eased his legs out from under the bedclothes and swung his feet on to the floor. Holding on to the bedhead with his uninjured arm, he stood. He was still shaky from the after effects of the anaesthetic and his head swam. He sat back on the bed, his bre
ath coming in gasps. This was not good. He closed his eyes and tried to calm himself. After a couple of minutes he felt a little easier. This time he leant carefully forwards and opened the door to the locker. Movement was awkward with his plastered arm but he managed to drag his clothes out and place them on the bed. First the trousers. It took effort to slide them up his legs and soon he was sitting still, breathing heavily again, sweat soaking the bandage round his head. Standing, Crabbe managed to tuck the gown into the trousers, then fumble the fastening of one fly button; he couldn’t manage any more. Sitting again he looked at the shirt and ragged jumper and decided it would be more than he could manage to get them over his head, let alone over the injured arm. So he just screwed them up in a bundle. With a struggle he wriggled the patched jacket over his shoulders and jammed the cap on his head over the bandage. He didn’t bother with his thick woollen socks, just pushed his feet into his sea-boots. This time, when he stood, he felt a little more confident.
There was, though, still the matter of the policeman. He shuffled across the room, eased the door open a crack, put his eye to it and peered out. Just at the edge of his vision he could see Beaumont, sitting on a chair, a magazine in his lap. He backed away and sat down on the bed again. He felt frustrated. If only he could cause a diversion. Feeling weary after his exertions, he swung his legs on to the bed and lay back down on the pillows. He closed his eyes for a moment… and soon slipped into a dreamless sleep.
-0-
When Crabbe woke, his mouth was dry and his head fuzzy. For a few moments he couldn’t work out where he was. Slowly, understanding returned and he realised why he was partially dressed and lying on a hospital bed. A cloud descended and he felt quite sick. He remembered there was no way out, unless he could get rid of the policeman sitting outside the room. Idly, he slipped his left hand into his jacket pocket and his fingers closed round the bowl of his pipe. An idea started forming in his woolly mind. Reaching across he felt in the opposite pocket. His tobacco pouch and a box of matches were still there. He smiled. It was awkward, with his plastered arm, but he managed to pack the pipe with tobacco, place it in his mouth and apply a lighted match. Sucking greedily he soon had the contents glowing cherry red. Sliding off the bed he took the pipe out of his mouth and tapped the red hot ash on to the sheets. Within a few moments the bedlinen was smouldering. It was not long before the room was beginning to fill with smoke. Crabbe crossed to the door and shouted: ‘Fire! Help! Fire!’
Beaumont jumped up from his chair. ‘Where?’
‘In here! Quick, get something to put it out!’
Concern coloured Beaumont’s face as he dashed down the corridor looking for an extinguisher. As soon as his back was turned Crabbe slid out of the room and headed in the opposite direction.
-0-
Isobel Bailey sat at the workbench. She was deep in thought, unable to concentrate – her current project forgotten. She kept turning over in her mind what the detective had said to her. He seemed so pleasant – his manner disarming. But, to be honest, he’d said very little. But what he had said – and the brooch he’d shown her – had left her rattled.
At first she didn’t turn when the delicate tinkle of the bell announced that someone had come into the shop. ‘Isobel!’ At the sound of her name, she rose and turned, forcing a smile as Duncan Fountain walked towards the desk. Her smile faded when she saw the troubled look on his face.
She walked past the desk, reached forward and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’m glad you’ve come round. I’ve got something to tell you.’
Fountain looked perplexed, his domed forehead creased. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. I’ve had a visit from a policeman.’
‘You have? Why was he here?’
‘Sit down and I’ll tell you.’ He took a chair opposite her, across the desk, and she told him about the earlier visit. She decided not to tell him that it was Russell, although she didn’t know why.
Fountain took a large white handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and dabbed his brow. ‘That’s bloody awkward.’
She reached across and lightly touched his hand. ‘Don’t worry, Duncan. I didn’t give anything away.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s not that. I came to ask you a favour. Now I’m not sure if I can.’
‘Of course you can. What is it?’
‘It’s about the things I showed you. I’ve been warned to expect a visit from the police myself so I’ve got to move them out of my shop in case they want to search the place. I was going to ask you to look after them for a while but perhaps it’s not such a good idea now.’ He leaned back in the chair, took off his spectacles and polished the lenses with the handkerchief.
Isobel leant back too and steepled her fingers. ‘I’d love to help – you know I would but…’
‘I understand. It’s not fair of me to ask. I just couldn’t think where else to go.’
‘Isn’t there anyone else you can try?’
He shook his head. ‘No. I’ve thought hard about it and you were my only hope.’ As he rose from his chair he said: ‘Don’t worry. I’ll think of something.’
He had just reached the door when Isobel stood up. ‘Dammit, Duncan. I can’t let you down.’
He turned. ‘What about the police?’
‘Well they’ve been here already – I don’t see why they would come back.’
‘Are you sure? It seems an awful cheek.’
‘No, it’s fine. Come round tonight – around eight. I’ll meet you here.
‘You’re an angel, Isobel. I don’t know how to thank you.’
She gave a cheeky grin. Don’t worry, I’ll think of something.’
-0-
That early morning when Sailor Tedham and Frankie Drake had visited the quay at Compass Point they thought they hadn’t been seen. They assumed that the absence of Jack Spratt’s motorcycle combination meant that he was at home. But he wasn’t.
The previous day his bike had refused to start. However hard he tried, the engine just would not fire. His leg ached from stamping on the kick-start and his foot was sore. Cursing, he had made his way to the station and caught the train to Compass Point. The frustration continued as he sat around idle for most of the day. There had been very little custom for his ferry – mainly due to the comings and goings on the bucket dredger – so in the end he walked across to the Shipwrights Arms, intending to have a quick pint before catching the last train home. But, as so often happened, one drink led to another and he was the sole customer when Alf called time. He knew that his wife, Joan, wouldn’t be bothered when he failed to return home – she’d probably be relieved. So he’d stumbled his way to the hut, tottered unsteadily up the steps and, wrapping an old blanket round himself, settled down to sleep on the bench inside.
Just before daylight crept over the horizon, the pressure on his bladder became too much and Spratt staggered out to relieve himself. As he stood at the side of his shed, gradually becoming more comfortable, he was aware of sounds coming from the far end of the quay. They were not the sounds he expected to hear at that early hour – birdsong or the lapping of water – but human voices. He furrowed his brow and strained to hear what was being said but, whoever the people were, they were speaking very quietly and were too far away for him to catch what was being said. Buttoning up his trousers Spratt walked to the edge of his shed but stayed back, not showing himself. The voices stopped but he could hear footsteps. Leaning cautiously round the timberwork he caught a shadowy glimpse of two figures disappearing, each carrying a muddy sack. He couldn’t be certain but he thought it might be the fishermen he’d seen a few days before, arguing in the Shipwrights Arms. But he was still feeling groggy after the previous night’s session so, shaking his head, he made his way back into his shed and was soon snoring soundly. A couple of hours later, when he woke fully, the memory of what he had seen earlier was so hazy he dismissed it as a bad dream.
-0-
Monsieur Albert Salle was growing increasingly frustrated. H
is beefy accomplice had been driving him round the streets in his Ford Thames van for most of the afternoon. He was hoping, on the off chance, that they might spot the fisherman who had given him the slip. But, as the day wore on, it looked more and more unlikely that they would find him. There was one moment of excitement that broke the monotony: motoring along the wharf at Nottery Quay he thought he’d spotted Crabbe. They had come up behind a figure – in cap, faded blue smock and wearing seaboots – walking nonchalantly along the quay, rolling with a sailor’s gait.
‘Stop the van!’ Salle commanded. Big Paul stood on the brakes, almost propelling his passenger through the windscreen. ‘Mon Dieu!’ he gasped, slumping back into his seat. He wrenched the door open, tumbled out and grabbed the man he had spotted by the sleeve. But, when he turned, Salle could see he was nothing like Crabbe. He sported a full beard and wore an eyepatch. Before the man could protest the Frenchman muttered a grudging apology and climbed back into the van. As dusk fell he started wondering whether it was time to call it a day.
-0-
Nipper Crabbe had made it out onto the pavement in Stone Street, round the corner from the hospital. When PC Beaumont ran off in search of a fire extinguisher, the fisherman, half-dressed and barely respectable, had headed down the opposite corridor. More by luck than judgment he had found his way along the maze of corridors and down a little-used back staircase, then out into the fresh air. It must have been a quiet time as he had only passed a couple of members of staff and they had shown no interest in the dishevelled figure. Night had fallen; there was little street lighting and he stood shakily in the gloom, wondering what to do next.
-0-
Salle decided to make one more circuit round Collinghurst, the van’s headlights casting two yellow pools on the Tarmac roads as he and Paul scanned the dimly lit pavements. Very few of the locals were abroad. They were either safely tucked up in the comfort of their homes or perhaps enjoying a drink in one of the many pubs in the town. Driving past the entrance to Collinghurst hospital and turning into Stone Street, Salle spotted a lone figure. ‘Slow down,’ he hissed. This time the big man allowed the van to come to a controlled halt.
Blood on the Strand Page 15
