In a flash Salle was out of the door and had the man’s arm up behind his back. ‘What the…?’ Crabbe gasped. Before he could struggle free, Big Paul had wrenched open the back door of the van and they bundled the fisherman inside. The door was slammed and, in a few moments, the vehicle was roaring down the road.
Big Paul drove furiously, braking sharply and swinging round corners. As hard as Crabbe tried to hold on one-handed he couldn’t help being thrown about, pain shooting up his arm as he crashed into the sides of the van. The torture continued for some time then, on the last corner, he completely lost balance, his head connected with the metal wheel arch and he knew no more.
Once the van was parked next to the Citroën in Big Paul’s lock-up, the two men got out and quickly made their way to the back. Opening the doors they were greeted with the sight of the fisherman lying in a crumpled heap, spark out.
‘Merde! I told you not to drive so fast!’
Big Paul hung his head. ‘But…’
‘But nothing! Now we have another corpse on our hands!’ Salle leaned forward and put his fingers to the man’s neck. He felt a slight flutter. Standing upright he let out a big sigh. ‘You are very lucky. He is still alive – just. He certainly isn’t a fit state to talk. Now what do we do with him? I don’t want another corpse on my hands.’
Big Paul shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Dump him in the street?’
‘What, and hope someone finds him before he expires? No, we can’t risk that. We will have to take him back to the hospital – leave him outside. And for the sake of Christ, drive carefully this time.’
The return journey was much smoother. Big Paul slowed to a halt near the entrance to the hospital. They were in luck – all was quiet. Carefully they lifted the unconscious man out of the van and propped him against the wall, next to the double doors. It took less than a minute and they were able to drive off before anyone appeared. Big Paul looked worried. ‘Do not concern yourself,’ Salle said. ‘Someone is bound to turn up soon. He will be okay. Now, let us go and find the warehouse that belongs to this Duncan fellow. I believe he has some things that belong to me.’
Chapter 12
Worzel Gummidge is a walking, talking scarecrow created by novelist Barbara Euphan Todd. He was in the very first book published by Puffin Books in 1936.
The next morning Weeks and Sharpe met the DI in his office. Russell had been shuffling papers on his desk while the other two settled. ‘I hear our wandering fisherman has returned,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ Weeks answered. ‘He was found, dumped outside the hospital.’
‘What’s his condition?’
‘Not good. They said it looked like he’d been knocked about. So with the head injury he’d already sustained he’s in a bad way.’
‘Is he up to being interviewed, do you think?’
‘I doubt it. He hasn’t regained consciousness apparently.’
‘Oh dear. That’s not good.’
‘No.’
‘It sounds like we won’t find out what happened to him and Stump any time soon then.’
‘Afraid not, sir.’
‘Still, at least he’s back in hospital. That should stall the Super for now. Meanwhile, what have we found out about the missing goods – Nettie?’
‘Not a lot, I’m afraid, sir. I drew a blank in all the shops I visited.’
Weeks flicked through his notebook. ‘I had much the same result. But there was one that was closed. I went back a couple of times, with no luck.’
‘Whose shop was that, Johnny?’
‘I asked around and found out that it’s run by someone called Duncan Fountain.’
‘Hang on. Didn’t Pike mention that someone called Duncan had shown him some valuable items?
Weeks flicked through his notes. ‘Yes, that right.’
‘Could it be the same one?’
‘Possibly, sir.’
‘Do we know anything about him?’
‘Very little, sir. It seems that he comes from a good background but dresses like a scarecrow, apparently.’
‘You’d better go back today – and take Nettie with you.’
Sharpe looked up. ‘How about you, sir? Did you have any luck?’
Russell paused and cleared his throat before he spoke. ‘Ahem. Yes, sort of. I visited a rather classy shop selling jewellery. I’m sure the proprietor reacted when I showed the brooch I’d taken round. I’ll go back today and see if I can find out anything more.’
‘Would you like me to come with you, sir?’ Weeks asked.
‘Er, no, lad. I think I’ll be able to manage.’ He made a show of gathering together the papers on his desk. ‘That’ll do for now. Let’s meet back here in a couple of hours. See if we’ve made any progress.’
-0-
Isobel Bailey paced her shop, drawing hard on one of her cigarettes. She was nervous – a state not usual for her. As arranged, Duncan had come round the previous evening with two large tea chests. She had insisted that he unpack the contents and take the chests away – they would look too conspicuous, standing in the corner of her small, neat premises. It was with some difficulty that they managed to stow all the oddly shaped packages in various cupboards around the shop. It took the best part of two hours and was quite tiring. So, she declined Duncan’s offer of a nightcap at the hotel round the corner when they had finished. Instead, after locking up, she made her way back to Nottery Quay and her little cottage in Church Square. There she spent a restless night, troubled by strange, indistinct dreams.
Now, with the morning sun slanting through the window, the bullseyes in the glass making patterns on the floor, she fretted, wondering if she’d made the right decision. Duncan was a sweetie, and she was happy to help him out, but she hadn’t realised what a large number of valuables he had wanted her to look after. She had assumed it would just be a handful of jewellery items but he’d unwrapped some of the packages to reveal much larger pieces. She was hoping that he wouldn’t want her to store them for long.
-0-
The two young constables arrived at Duncan Fountain’s shop to see the CLOSED sign on the door. ‘Marvellous,’ Weeks said. ‘What do we do now?’
Sharpe shrugged. She looked at her wristwatch. ‘It’s not quite 10. I doubt he opens until then. Let’s give it a few more minutes.’
Almost on the hour, Fountain appeared. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Have you come to buy something special?’ His tone was light but inside he was quaking at the sight of a police uniform. He was relieved that he’d taken the goods round to Isobel’s shop, but he still felt apprehensive.
Weeks held out his warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Constable Weeks and this is WPC Sharpe. Can we come into the shop and have a little chat please, sir?’
‘Of course.’ Fountain fitted a large key into the lock and soon they were inside. He turned towards them, smiling to cover his nervousness although his eyes blinked constantly behind large glasses. ‘What can I do for you?’
Sharpe took a package out of her bag and unwrapped it to reveal a small porcelain figurine. ‘Have you seen anything like this recently, sir?’ While she waited for an answer she took in the jersey he was wearing that had been washed too many times. Almost bleached of colour it hung shapelessly off the man’s bony frame.
It was a cool morning but Fountain could feel sweat trickling down between his shoulder blades. He kept his face impassive. Taking the little object he struggled to control the quaking in his body. ‘It’s very nice,’ he stammered. ‘But no, I’ve not seen anything like this lately. Sorry.’
‘That’s all right, sir,’ she said, taking it back. ‘Perhaps you’ll get in touch if you do.’ She handed him a card with the number of the police station on it.
‘Yes, of course. Is there anything else…?’
‘No, that’s all for now, sir. We’ll leave you in peace. But do let us know, won’t you?’ Weeks said.
Fountain inwardly heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Yes, of course.’
Sharpe an
d Weeks walked away from the shop and turned the corner at the end of the street. The WPC stopped and faced her colleague. ‘I don’t believe a word he said.’
‘Neither do I, Nettie. Did you see the way he was shaking when you handed him the figure?’
‘I did. If that wasn’t the action of a guilty man I don’t know what is.’
Russell had arrived outside Isobel Bailey’s business premises at roughly the same time as the other two were leaving Fountain’s. Her little shop too had a CLOSED sign on the door. He pulled back his cuff to consult the time: 10am. There was a notice with opening times on the window. He leaned forward and peered at it. ‘Damn!’ he muttered. It was closed all day today. A wasted journey. He was just about to give up and return to the police station when Isobel herself came round the corner. At first she didn’t realise it was the detective from the previous day. Then, as recognition dawned, she smiled and a flush rose up her neck at the same time.
‘Inspector Russell, isn’t it? What are you doing here?’
He returned the smile. He was rather pleased that she had turned up. ‘I wondered if I might ask you a few questions.’
‘Of course.’
He paused before speaking again. A frown crossed his face. ‘But it says here, you’re not open today.’ He tapped on the window.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘So…?’
‘…So what am I doing here?’
Russell laughed. ‘I suppose so. Look, can we go into the shop, rather than standing out in the street?’
‘Er, I haven’t got the key,’ she said hurriedly, the words tumbling over one another. Then, more slowly, ‘Have you got time for a cuppa? We could go next door. My friend runs the teashop.’
It was early so they were the only customers. They sat opposite each other, either side of a small table covered with a pristine white cloth. A waitress, in an equally white pinafore over a black dress, had placed a tray on the table. ‘Shall I be mother?’ Isobel asked. Russell smiled and nodded. When she had poured the tea and handed him a delicate china cup and saucer she finally asked: ‘What is it you wanted to ask me, Inspector?’
Russell took a sip from his cup then placed it carefully back in the saucer. ‘First of all, what are you doing here – your shop is closed today, isn’t it?’
She poured milk into her cup and slowly stirred the tea. At first Russell thought she was stalling, but quickly dismissed the notion. ‘I had some shopping to do so I thought I’d pop into town.’
‘I see.’
‘Yes, I usually come in, on my day off, go to the bank and so on.’
‘I thought you’d use the one at Nottery Quay. That’s where you live, isn’t it?’
The blush returned. ‘You’ve been checking up on me, Inspector.’
‘You know how it is, once a policeman, always a policeman.’
She laughed, a musical tinkling sound. ‘I suppose so. Anyway, to answer your question, I use the branch of the bank here for business, the one near home for my private affairs. Will that do?’ She looked at him over the rim of her cup, her green eyes mischievous.
‘I suppose so,’ he smiled.
‘More tea?’
‘Thank you.’ He put his cup down and she refilled it. Then, taking the lid off the teapot, she topped it up with hot water. Even if she was stalling, Russell was surprised to find he didn’t mind. There was something disarming about this woman that he found rather pleasant.
By his own admittance he was wedded to the job these days. Away from work he liked his own company. He could experiment in his small kitchen, cooking vegetarian dishes; listen to classical music and read into the early hours, if he found the book gripping. And of course, Aggie, was a great companion. But just occasionally he thought it would be nice to have some female company again. The year before he’d been attracted to a woman he’d met on a Buddhist retreat. Initially he had been taken in by her, even though she’d turned out to be a bad lot. Not only that, she was involved with someone else, someone who was far from honest. But still he’d felt a pang of regret. Maybe that was why he’d never got close – pretty, intelligent women clouded his normally good judgment. But this one stirred something inside and made him curious. He realised he’d been lost in thought for a few moments and she was staring at him with that mischievous look.
‘Sorry, I was miles away.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I wondered if you’d had any more thoughts about our conversation yesterday – about the brooch?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ she answered quickly. ‘But I’ve got your number if anything turns up.’
‘Yes, well – if you do…’ The conversation turned to blander subjects – the weather, the local economy and soon the teapot was empty. He signalled to the waitress for the bill. ‘Anyway, this has been very pleasant. Thank you.’
‘I’ve enjoyed it too. Perhaps we can do it again, some time.’
‘That would be nice.’ Rising from his chair, he said: ‘I’d better get back to the station now. But do get in touch.’
After Russell left the teashop, Isobel sat back watching him go, wondering what was happening to her. Since her dashing Frenchman had slunk off, she’d been out with one or two men but there had been no real spark and the liaisons had come to nothing. She’d become resigned to the life of a spinster – or divorcee – and assumed she would probably always live on her own. But this man, this policeman, had made her think again. She couldn’t understand it. He wasn’t conventionally handsome. He was probably barely as tall as she was, carried a little too much weight and had a large, though well-shaved chin. But… there was something about him – a twinkle in his eyes – a warm smile, never far from his lips – and an easy manner, at odds with his profession. She would have to be very careful. She shook her head. What was she thinking? He was a policeman and her shop was crammed with what she was certain were stolen goods. Opening her handbag she took out a compact and dabbed powder on her cheeks and nose. She nodded to the waitress, who was idly watching, rose from her chair and left the teashop. Walking up to the corner, Isobel peered round, making sure that Russell had indeed gone, then returned to her shop. Taking the key out of her bag – yes she did have it – she opened up then quickly closed the door behind her. All was calm inside but things were getting too uncomfortable. She decided she needed to talk to Duncan – tell him she couldn’t store his goods any longer.
-0-
Duncan Fountain arrived to open up his warehouse to find Isobel standing outside. She was drawing hard on one of her black cigarettes, looking agitated. ‘Duncan! Thank goodness you’re here. Look!’ She leaned forward and pushed the door. It swung open on its hinges.
Fountain could see where the wood round the lock was splintered. He put his hand on his head, his eyes wide with shock. ‘My God!’
‘Someone’s broken in. Let’s see what it’s like inside.’
The interior was a shambles. Tables and chairs were upended; a dresser had been pulled away from the wall. It leant at a crazy angle and the china that had been on the shelves lay smashed on the floor. The drawers in Fountain’s desk had all been pulled out, the contents strewn everywhere. Paintings had been pulled off the walls – canvasses ripped. A tall glass cabinet was tipped over. The contents – jewellery and small objects mixed up with broken glass – lay on the wooden floor. Even a couple of antique teddy bears had been torn open, their stuffing spread around like snow.
‘Who the hell did this?’ she asked.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Fountain said miserably. He wondered if Septimus Pike might have done it but dismissed the notion instantly. He couldn’t see the dealer causing such mayhem – it was not his style – he’d be much sneakier. And anyway, why would he have bothered to warn him?
‘You said you’d been told to expect a visit from the police.’
‘It wouldn’t be them. I had a visit yesterday. A nice young WPC and a detective constable who looked about 16. Anyway, they wouldn’t have done this.’
‘Well
who did?’
Fountain shook his head. ‘Don’t know. Can only think someone was looking for that stuff I took to your shop.’
I’ve just come from there. Nothing’s been touched.’ Isobel’s hand went up to her mouth. ‘What if they know I’ve got it?’
‘It’s unlikely. No one knew I’d taken it round.’
‘Are you sure?’ When Fountain hesitated she said: ‘Look Duncan. The reason I’m here is that I’m not happy about keeping it for you.’
‘Why, has something happened?’
‘I had another visit from the police.’
‘What, to the shop?’
‘No, luckily it was closed and I pretended I’d forgotten the key.’ She took his hands in hers and looked earnestly into his eyes. ‘Duncan. I’m sorry, but after this…’ She let go of his hands and held out her arms to encompass the devastation, ‘I don’t want to run the risk of it happening to me.’
Fountain hung his head, crestfallen. ‘I understand.’
‘Anyway,’ she said, trying to put a positive spin on it, ‘first of all, let’s tidy this place up. See what we can salvage.’
-0-
Russell needed to clear his head. It wasn’t just the meeting with Isobel Bailey – that was something he could put to one side for now, something to be savoured later. No, it was the convoluted nature of the case. He always found the best place to marshal his thoughts was on the beach – with his little dog. That morning he’d left Aggie at home for a change, but decided to leave work early and take her for a long walk. Taking his hat off the hook, he made his way out of his office. He paused next to Week’s desk. As usual, the DC was half-hidden behind a tottering pile of files. ‘I’m off home, lad. Give me a call later if anything turns up.’
Blood on the Strand Page 16
