The terrier was delighted to see her master – pogoing on the spot when he opened the front door. He picked her up and gave her head a rub. ‘Yes, Aggie, we’re going out. Just let me get out of my work clothes.’ He exchanged his suit for a pair of worn cavalry twill trousers and a Fair Isle sweater. He kept the same shirt but took off his tie and loosened the top button. In place of his brogues he pushed his feet into a stout pair of walking boots and laced them tightly. A battered ghillie hat finished off the ensemble. Aggie was beside herself with excitement and dashed up the garden as soon as the front door was opened. Russell followed, picking his way along the stepping stone path, avoiding the clumps of Erigeron and Alchemilla mollis. Out of the gate he followed her across the scrubby grass in the meadow – rabbits scattering in all directions – then up on to the seawall. Stopping he scanned the horizon. The tide was on its way out and the sun glinted off the golden sand. Aggie liked this best as she could run madly round in circles, revelling in the freedom. Russell made his way down the shingle bank, half-running so he didn’t tumble down the shifting stones. Soon he’d joined the terrier on the beach and strode purposefully eastward, towards the distant harbour arm that marked the entrance to Compass Point.
The case was beyond perplexing. Now, on top of the mystery surrounding the sack of swag that the dredger had brought up, there was one dead fisherman, Stump, and another, Crabbe, in a bad way. He wasn’t going to be answering questions any time soon. But they had to be mixed up in it – it was too much of a coincidence for them not to be. But it was even more puzzling than that. He was pretty certain that the other two fishermen he’d seen on the beach at Rock-a-Nore – Tedham and Drake – were up to their necks in it too. So how did the dead man – Stump – fit in with it all? And Crabbe? He’d hoped that the injured man would help to untangle the puzzle. But since he’d been found outside the hospital his condition had worsened. That was one of the reasons he’d been keen to leave the police station early – so he wouldn’t have to see Stout and explain how the man had got away from the hospital in the first place. He knew the Superintendent would be on the warpath. Luckily he wouldn’t be able to reach Russell here. That confrontation could wait until tomorrow.
He walked on by the water’s edge, getting into his stride, while Aggie danced and gambolled in the shallows. His mind was clearing and he tried to get the case in some sort of order. If what had been recovered from the dredger was just part of the haul that had been in the empty crate, how much more was there? He tried to visualise a sack in the crate. How much room would it take up? How many more sacks would fit in? He calculated as he walked. Maybe four, five or even six more? Had Nettie disturbed Drake when he was moving them to a safer hiding place? And there were two crates. How much was it all worth? The contents of the sack they’d recovered had to be worth hundreds – at least. He’d have to wait for a valuation before he knew exactly how much. But that didn’t matter, really. If, as seemed likely, it was personal possessions, plundered by the Nazis, it was more important to track down the owners and return it to them – if they were still alive. That’s where Greg Judd in Ludwigsburg would come in. He made a mental note to contact his American friend.
Although Weeks and Sharpe had drawn a blank with Duncan Fountain it seemed he wasn’t as innocent as he at first appeared. The reaction they’d observed when he’d been shown the figurine had to be the action of a guilty man. It sounded like he could be a weak link. Russell would go himself and put a bit of pressure on him. Septimus Pike, the old rogue, had intimated that Duncan had been supplied by two fishermen – Crabbe and Stump. He cursed out loud and the little dog looked up.
‘It’s all right, Aggie. Take no notice.’
The terrier wagged her tail and carried on snuffling around the worn timber groynes they were passing. It was too late for Stump, but they needed to talk to Crabbe. It seemed he had a direct connection to Salle. And where were the contents of the other crate? From what Pike had told him, the mysterious, suave Frenchman had been offering the same sort of goods. So they had to be part of the same haul – didn’t they? He had a thought: Bruissement had mentioned that there was a Citroën DS parked on the Rue Gambetta in Boulogne. What if it was the same one that had been seen by Nettie near the net shops? And noticed leaving the warehouse at Nottery Quay. And the one spotted by Alf, outside the Shipwrights Arms. It all seemed to be too much of a coincidence. Where was it now? He would get on to the ferry companies. They should have a record of the car, if it had come over from France.
He and Aggie had reached the breakwater at the entrance to the estuary. Although his mind had cleared enough to start putting his thoughts in order, he still didn’t have a clear idea of how all the disparate threads could be drawn together. Plus, the steady pace he’d kept up and distance they’d come had made him thirsty. He looked at his watch. Alf would be opening up for the evening session in less than half an hour. A pint wouldn’t hurt. Besides, Aggie probably needed a drink.
On arriving at Compass Point he realised, as well as looking forward to a drink, he was rather hoping that his friend, Captain Salt would be there. But when he entered the shady interior of the Shipwrights Arms he was disappointed. The landlord greeted him cordially. ‘Inspector Russell. What can I get you?’
‘A pint of Best, please, Alf.’
The only other customer, inevitably, was the ferryman. He swivelled on his seat, held up his tankard and grinned. ‘Happy to join you, Inspector.’
Russell might have been affronted at the man’s cheek but instead, smiled back. ‘And one for Jack, please Alf.’
‘Very kind of you, sir.’ Spratt doffed his threadbare cap in mock salute.
While the drinks were being poured Russell settled himself on a stool. Without being asked, the landlord put a stoneware bowl of water on the floor and Aggie lapped it up. ‘Thanks Alf.’
The landlord smiled shyly. ‘Don’t mention it. She looked as thirsty as you.’
Russell took a deep draught from his tankard. ‘Mmm, that’s better. Now how’re you, Jack?’
‘Not so bad.’ Spratt rubbed the stubble on his chin with his calloused hand. ‘Could do with a few more paying customers though.’
‘Business slow then?’
Spratt snorted. ‘’Avin’ that bloody dredger ’ere didn’t ’elp. Not to mention the fuss when they brought up that poor bloke.’
‘Did you know him, Jack?’
‘Nah, not really. I knew of ’im – know most of the fishermen ’ereabouts.’ He took a drink then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘Fishermen from ’ere on The Point don’t tend to mix with them from ’astings.’
‘Is that so?’
Spratt nodded. ‘Yeah, don’t trust ’em.’
‘Yes, I can understand that. Tell me, Jack, Have you come across two other men who work on the boats – Sailor Tedham and Frankie Drake?’
Spratt looked up sharply. ‘Why d’you ask?’
‘I thought you might know them,’ Russell said nonchalantly.
‘Like I said, we don’t tend to mix with them over there, but yes, I do know them a bit.’ He paused to slake his thirst. ‘’Ere,’ he said, ‘I told the Captain about the ruckus they caused when they was in ’ere a few days ago. Didn’t ’e tell you?’
Russell nodded. ‘Yes, he did, Jack. Would you mind repeating what happened?’
Spratt grunted. ‘I s’pose not. It’s thirsty work though.’
Russell smiled and raised his eyebrows. ‘Another one for the ferryman please, Alf.’
‘Ta very much.’ Spratt drank deeply then smacked his lips.
‘Go on then, what did you hear?’
‘Now. Let me think.’ Spratt’s memory was surprisingly sharp, considering the amount he drank. In a few minutes he was able to recall every detail of the event and related them with clarity.
When Russell was sure that the ferryman had finished he said: ‘We know that it was Drake who hit Nettie – WPC Sharpe - as we found his prints on the lump of woo
d he thumped her with. But what’s this about sacks?’
‘I dunno. Couldn’t ’ear what they said at first properly.’
‘Think carefully, Jack. Was it sack or sacks?’
‘Definitely sacks – more’n one of them.’
‘Hmm.’
Both men were lost in thought for a while, the only sounds the ticking of the old clock on the wall and the distant cry of herring gulls. Spratt had been slumped on his stool, staring into his tankard. Suddenly he sat bolt upright. ‘’Ere!' The terrier, who had been dozing, sat up too and gave a little yelp, surprised by his sudden activity.
‘What is it, Jack?’
Spratt rubbed the sides of his face with his hands. ‘I just remembered. Thought I’d dreamed it but it must ’ave ’appened.’
‘For goodness sake, tell me.’
‘All right. Keep yer ’air on. It was like this: I was up early the other mornin’ – been sleepin’ in me shed.’ He held his hands up. ‘No, don’t ask. Anyway. I ’ad to get up for a pee. It was quite a relief, I can tell you.’ He chuckled. ‘It was only just getting’ light an’ I ’eard voices, up at the end of the quay. And before you ask, I couldn’t ’ear what they was sayin. But…’ he took a swig then went on. ‘I ’ad a look and I see two blokes carryin’ sacks. They looked like they was in a bleedin’ ’urry.’
‘That’s great, Jack. Can you remember anything else?’
Spratt screwed up his weather-beaten face, his nut-brown brow furrowed in concentration. ‘’Ang on... Yeah, I remember. The sacks looked wet. There was mud or somethin’ drippin’ off them.’
‘Can you point out where you saw them?’ Russell’s eyed sparkled with excitement.
‘Sure. Let me just finish this.’ Spratt drank the last of his beer, put the tankard down and belched noisily. Rising from his stool he said: ‘C’mon. I’ll show you.’
Just as they were stepping out of the door to the Shipwrights Arms, a black Wolseley came rattling over the level-crossing and skittered to a halt outside the pub – a cloud of dust swirling round the bodywork. As it stopped Weeks tumbled out. ‘Sir! I thought I’d find you here!’
‘Johnny. What on earth are you doing at Compass Point?’
The DC looked bashful – a shy grin lighting his face. ‘I tried you at home, sir, and guessed this was where you might end up.’
Russell returned the smile. ‘Why the big rush to find me? Has something happened?’
‘Duncan Fountain’s warehouse has been broken into.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, Nettie was on patrol round there and she saw the door wide open. She looked inside and it was a terrible mess apparently. Everything upside down or smashed on the floor.’
‘Was he there?’
‘Yes, he was about to start clearing it up.’
‘Why hadn’t he reported it?’
‘Nettie asked him that. She said he was rather evasive.’
‘Hmm. I wonder why?’ Russell looked thoughtful.
‘I don’t know. But she insisted that it should be reported and reluctantly he agreed. She rang the station and told Sergeant Wickstead. He passed it on to DI Parker. He’s there now.’
‘Oh great. Trust Bonnie and Clyde to get involved. That’s all we need.’
‘It’s only Parker, sir. Clyde – DC Barrow is off sick.’
‘Presumably Lewis will go too?’
‘Apparently not. The DI didn’t think it would be necessary.’
‘Oh wonderful. I thought at least there would be one keen pair of eyes on the job.’
‘That’s what I thought, too.’
‘Hang on. Isn’t Parker supposed to be working on the break-ins at the expensive properties owned by influential people?’ He mimicked Stout’s gravelly tones and held his hand up, gripping an imaginary cheroot between his fingers.
‘It seems one of the houses that was robbed belonged to a golfing buddy of the Super. That’s why he was so keen to find the villains.’
‘And did he find them?’
Weeks grinned. ‘An announcement is due to be made at any time, apparently.’
Russell smiled back. ‘Ah, I see. Anyway, maybe he hasn’t messed it up – this time.’
‘Maybe.’ Weeks was eager to carry on. ‘But that’s not all, sir. Fountain wasn’t alone.’
Russell raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh?’
‘No, apparently there was a woman with him. Quite distinctive, Nettie said. Very pretty with flame red hair.’
The Inspector kept his voice even. ‘I don’t suppose she got a name?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir. Perhaps Parker will find out.’
‘I expect he will,’ Russell said with resignation. ‘Anyway, it’s good of you to let me know.’
Weeks beamed. ‘That’s why I came to tell you as soon as I could.’
‘Thanks… Now, while you’re here, this gentleman’s got something to show us.’ He nodded towards the ferryman.
While the two policemen had been talking, Spratt had rested his weight on a wooden barrel, feigning indifference but actually taking in everything he heard. He looked up, a broad grin lighting his wind-burnt face. ‘Ready Inspector Russell? Then I’ll show you where I saw them.’
The three men walked along the length of the jetty, dust rising from the dry shingle. Just before they reached the end, and were about to step off on to dry mud, Spratt stopped. ‘I reckon it was about ’ere, where I seen ’em.’ They stopped and looked around.
‘You said the sacks looked wet, or muddy?’
‘That’s right. Drippin’ they were.’
‘So they must have just got them out of the water.’
‘Nope.’
‘No?’
‘Nope. Tide was out. Must’ve been in the mud.’
‘So how did they get them up on the quayside?’
‘Look, sir,’ Weeks said. ‘There’s a ladder here.’
They peered over the side of the quay. The top rungs were dry and rusty but, as the ladder descended, they became increasingly encrusted with dark weed and barnacles.
‘Well spotted, lad. Hang on What’s that? Russell pointed to the lowest rung, just appearing as the tide fell.’
‘It’s rope! Tied round the ladder.’
‘Go and take a look, lad. You’re more agile than I am.’
Weeks turned and made his way down the ladder, being careful not to slip on the slimy lower rungs. When he’d descended as far as he could without getting wet he reached down. ‘There’s more than one piece.’ Ignoring the mud and slime he felt the knots tied round the metal bar. ‘I think there are three.’
Russell took a handkerchief out of his pocket, laid it on the timber beam along the edge of the quay, knelt on it and bent over. ‘See if you can find the other ends, lad.’
Weeks hung on to the ladder with one hand and pulled at the loose pieces of rope. Climbing back up the ladder he brought the ends up to the quayside. He held them like a bouquet, the ends splaying out like a bunch of dried up flowers. ‘They’ve been cut, sir.’
Russell took a fountain pen out from an inside pocket and poked at the ropes. ‘Aha! Two have been cut – by our friends, I dare say. The other has been torn - by the dredger, I suspect.’ He stood and in one fluid movement, picked up the handkerchief, shook it and put it back in his pocket. ‘That adds up to three sacks.’ One we have in custody, the other two, almost certainly carried away by Messrs Tedham and Drake. So, by my calculations, that’s half the haul from the crate that turned up empty.’ He started pacing along the quayside. ‘So where is the rest? Have the fishermen – Crabbe and the late Stump, and/or Tedham and Drake – spirited it away? And what about the other mysterious crate? It’s pretty certain it spent some time in one of the net shops at Rock-a-Nore before it too disappeared.’ Weeks was having trouble keeping up both physically and mentally with his boss’s outpouring. Aggie had no problem, dancing and skipping round Russell’s heels. Spratt just sat on a bollard, grinning.
‘We need to find t
hat suave, but dangerous Frenchman – Monsieur Albert Salle. I’m certain that he’s the key to the whole muddled affair.’
There was a pause while Russell smiled to himself. Before he could continue Weeks spoke. ‘Sir…’
‘Yes lad?’
‘There’s something else.’
‘What’s that?’
The Super, sir.’
Russell let out a heartfelt sigh. ‘Don’t tell me. He’s on the warpath.’
‘I’m afraid so. He’s furious about Crabbe.’
‘Ah well. I guess I’ll have to face the music tomorrow.’
-0-
‘So let me get this straight, sir.’ DI ‘Bonnie’ Parker took a drag on his Capstan Full Strength, a scattering of ash joining the smudged grey pattern on the lapels of his grubby jacket. ‘You didn’t want to trouble us by reporting a break-in.’
Fountain looked directly at him, his eyes large behind his glasses. ‘That’s right.’
‘But whoever did it, made a right mess.’ Parker swept his arm out to encompass the chaos in the room, more ash flying from the end of his cigarette. Fountain shrugged. Parker took one last drag, dropped the butt on the floor and ground it out with his toe. He scowled. ‘I think we need to have a chat, sir, man to man.’ He turned to WPC Sharpe and gestured towards Isobel Bailey. ‘Lassie, would you take this lady outside please, she looks like she could do with some fresh air.’ When Sharpe hesitated he said: ‘Please – now - if you don’t mind. There’s no need for you to stay in here.’
Once outside, Isobel looked daggers back towards the warehouse, her green eyes flashing. ‘God! I don’t know how you manage to put up with that man.’
Nettie smiled. ‘Luckily I don’t usually have much to do with him. He’s got his own pet side-kick – DC Barrow.’
‘Bet he’s as bad.’
Blood on the Strand Page 17
