Blood on the Cards

by Chris O'Donoghue

  ‘Confusion?’ Weeks had been reluctant to interrupt. Russell had never opened up to him before like this. During the time he had been talking his second pint had been drunk and the barmaid had replaced it with a third one which was already half-empty.

  ‘Yes, as you know, although Germany surrendered in May ‘45 the war in the East went on for a few more months. It was grinding to its inevitable conclusion in August and things were all over the place.’

  ‘How did that affect her death?’ Weeks asked, gently.

  ‘I never did find out for sure.’ There was a pause while they both sipped their pints then Russell spoke, his voice just above a whisper. ‘I could only conclude that she managed to get hold of a quantity of pills – enough to end her life. But I decided not to pursue it any further. Didn’t want to get her friends into trouble.’

  ‘It must have been hard for you.’

  ‘Yes, it was – agonising. I was fortunate though.’

  Weeks was puzzled. How could his boss possibly consider himself fortunate after what had happened? ‘In what way?’

  Russell smiled, a faraway look on his face. ‘It was the monks. I’d been spending some time with them. There was a bit of a language barrier but their compassion cut through any difficulties we had and they were able to offer me great comfort. I’d never had any strong religious beliefs, but their simplicity appealed to me and helped me to find some sort of peace.’ Another drink. ‘I’ve never forgotten her though – she was special. Probably why I’ve never really been drawn to anyone else – until now.’ He let out a sigh. ‘Now you know.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir. I appreciate it. Don’t worry though, I won’t breathe a word to anyone.’

  Russell turned to him and smiled. ‘I know you won’t, lad.’

  The two men sat, lost in their own thoughts for several minutes.

  ‘Sir…’

  ‘Yes, lad?’

  ‘You were going to tell me why you went to see the fortune teller.’

  ‘So I was.’ He chuckled. ‘After Lottie I’d been wary of getting involved with anyone – until Isobel. On a whim I decided to find out if the gypsy could give me any indication if this one might work out better.’

  ‘And did she?’

  Before Russell could answer the door swung open and the pathologist came in and strode across the bar, a galleon in full sail. ‘I’ll have whisky please – a large one.’ This brought the conversation to a swift conclusion.

  Russell signalled to the barmaid. ‘A double whisky and two more pints, please.’

  While the drinks were being poured, Crooks settled his bulk on the stool. It creaked ominously; the little terrier darted away. Crooks took his drink and toasted the detectives, ‘Cheers,’ he said, then took a large gulp.

  ‘What do you make of it, John?’

  ‘I can’t really say. Once I get the poor soul back to the lab I might know more.’

  ‘But why her, Mr Crooks?’ Weeks asked.

  ‘No idea, lad. Have you, Sonny?’

  ‘Look, keep it under your hat – I don’t want it spread about, but I visited her last week.’

  Crooks’s narrow eyebrows shot up towards his receding hairline. ‘Really? What for?’

  ‘I’d rather not go into details for now. Suffice to say, I found her to be uncannily accurate in her readings and yes, I warmed to her.’

  ‘Fair enough. Where did you see her?’

  ‘She was part of the travelling funfair camped out on the Salts.’ He paused. ‘Hang on, when do they move on?’

  ‘I think they’re around for another day or two,’ Weeks said.

  ‘Then we need to get there and talk to them before they go off to their next stop. I’m coming back here tomorrow. Can you organise that?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Do you mind doing the death knock?’

  Weeks tried not to look too crestfallen. ‘No, that’s okay.’

  ‘Take WPC Nettie Sharpe with you. She’ll be a great help. And you’ll have to find someone who can officially identify the body – maybe there’ll be a relative at the fair. Oh, and make sure her caravan is secured. Lewis will want to go over it when he’s finished in the pillbox.’

  Chapter 2

  A pillbox is a type of blockhouse, equipped with loopholes through which to fire weapons. Usually made of concrete or brickwork it is reinforced to protect against small-arms and grenades and elevated to improve the field of fire.

  THE NEXT morning, at first light, a dozen uniformed constables squeezed into a Bedford CA minibus. There was coughing; fags were ground underfoot; grumbles at the early start. The vehicle travelled along the Military Road, a low mist lying on the marsh; a suggestion of a warm day ahead. There was little conversation. It was too early for banter – that would spark up later. In half an hour the bus arrived at the bridge over the canal and came to a halt. The back doors opened and the men tumbled out. A police Wolseley was parked at the side of the road, Russell and Sergeant Wickstead already on the scene, Aggie sitting obediently between them.

  ‘Beaumont. I you want you and PC Gold to go into the village. Knock on every door – ask if anyone saw or heard anything. Find out if there have been any strangers hanging around.’

  ‘When were they likely to have been here, Sir?’ PC Beaumont’s voice was hoarse – it had been an early start.

  ‘The day before yesterday. The pathologist reckons she’d been dead for over 24 hours. Right, off you go.’ The two men peeled away from the group and set off along the road. ‘The rest of you are going to conduct a detailed search of the area around the pillbox. I want this done methodically, no rushing. Hopefully we’ll find some important evidence, maybe even the murder weapon. And use these.’ He passed a handful of bamboo canes to PC Lee. ‘Stick them in the ground to mark out a grid, so you know where you’ve been and you don’t cover the same area twice. As I said, take your time. I don’t want anything missed.’

  It was a relatively narrow strip between the road and the Royal Military Canal, maybe 40 yards wide at most. A bridge, crossing the water, marked the boundary at one end, not far from the pillbox. In places the bank was steep and uneven leading down to the edge of the canal, fringed with tall Phragmites – common reeds, swaying gently in the breeze. Surrounding the WWII structure where the body had been found was scrubby grass liberally threaded with stinging nettles and vicious brambles.

  The PCs walked slowly in a line abreast, staring intently at the rough grass surrounding the pillbox. The area had been marked out and each held a cane which they used to poke the ground. Wickstead watched the men with an eagle eye, prodding them if they strayed away from the strict line and offering words of encouragement when they stumbled. After a couple of hours, when all that had been found was a kettle, rusted through, and the skeleton of a discarded umbrella, the sergeant said: ‘Right lads, time for a break.’ There was a murmur of approval and the men started turning back. He held up his hand. ‘Not so fast. Please stick your cane in the ground where you’ve reached, then we’ll know where to carry on.’ The policemen made their way back to the bus, grabbed haversacks and poured strong tea from Thermos flasks. As they sat around, eating corned beef and Spam sandwiches, the conversation was about everything but the task in hand.

  Meanwhile, Russell had been examining the pillbox. Ivy Rose Lee’s body had been taken to the mortuary the evening before but he was looking for clues to her murder – before the forensics team turned up. The interior of the room was barely 10 feet across. The concrete walls were dank and unwelcoming. Russell smiled wryly at the graffiti: A heart with Adolf loves Eva had faded almost to nothing. The legend: YANKS GO HOME had stood the test of time and was much clearer.

  The floor was littered with empty bottles and broken glass, rusty tin cans and torn newspaper. He guessed that kids sometimes used the place as a camp and the occasional tramp dossed down there. But it certainly wasn’t a very inviting space. Holding a slim torch he crouched and looked carefully around the spot where Ivy Rose
Lee had been found. With his free hand he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, placed it on the ground so he could rest one knee on it and lean closer towards the floor. He took out his fountain pen and pushed some dead leaves aside. Something caught his eye. It was a ticket for the local narrow gauge railway.

  Return

  This Ticket is issued subject to the Printed Bye-

  Laws, Regulations & Notions of the Committee

  Third Class Fare 2s. 1d.

  Nottery Quay

  to Compass Point

  12(s)ARDARA RD

  He was just about to rise when the torchlight reflected off something metallic that he’d disturbed. Moving another leaf with his pen he uncovered what appeared to be a gold ring. But not the ring for a finger, but an earring. The sort that a gypsy might wear. He would have to check if Ivy Rose had lost one. He heard a noise outside; the beam from a powerful torch cast a pool of light on the ground and Lewis, the forensics man, entered.

  ‘Hello Sonny. Found anything interesting?’

  Standing upright, with a gasp at the effort, Russell answered. ‘I think so, look.’ He pointed towards the floor.

  Lewis shone the torch down, the light flickering on the ring. ‘Well done,’ he said. Then looking round: ‘You haven’t touched anything, have you?’

  ‘Touched anything?’ Russell’s voice was filled with mock indignation. ‘You should know me better than that.’

  Lewis chuckled. ‘Sorry. I knew you wouldn’t have done, really.’

  -0-

  In Nottery Quay DC Weeks and WPC Sharpe had arrived at the funfair on the Salts. The rides were silent; the chairoplanes hung limp on their chains, swinging gently in the breeze; the sideshows shuttered. The grass between the attractions was flattened by the dozens of feet that had turned up to see all the fun of the fair. Smoke curled lazily from the chimneys of half a dozen caravans and living vans. A mean-looking dog barked at their approach, straining at the chain that tethered it. They gave the hound a wide berth.

  ‘There’s her caravan,’ Nettie said. She pointed towards a bowtop which stood out among the others. The curved green canvas stretched over the roof looked new and the carved woodwork was freshly gilded and sparkled in the morning light. A piebald mare was tethered to one side, munching at a full hay net hanging from the side of the caravan. Someone was obviously looking after the horse. They approached and could see a board propped against the steps declaring:

  THE ORIGINAL

  GYPSY ROSE LEE

  PALM READING

  TAROT CARDS

  CRYSTAL BALL

  ‘Not likely to be anyone home. Better check to see if it’s locked.’ Weeks climbed the steps and tried the handle. ‘Yes, it is. I suppose we’d better see who’s in charge.’ As they stood deciding which way to go a grubby urchin shot out from between the vans. When he saw the uniformed policewoman he stopped, eyes widening in surprise. He hesitated for a moment too long before turning, about to retreat. Nettie was quicker and grabbed him by the sleeve.

  ‘Waddyer yer want?’ He tried to shake her off but her grip was strong. ‘I ain’t done nuffink.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s the whole truth,’ she said, grinning at him. ‘But we’re not interested in you. Who’s in charge round here?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  Weeks let out a sharp breath and crouched down, his face a few inches from the boy. ‘Look, lad. We’re not here to cause trouble. We just want to know who runs the funfair.’

  The boy scowled. ‘It’s me dad.’

  ‘That’s better. What’s your name?’

  ‘Duke,’ was the sullen reply.

  ‘Now, Duke. Please show us where he is.’ Nettie kept a tight grip as the boy weaved his way between the stalls and rides, pulling like a dog on a lead. He stopped in front of an impressive living wagon standing on pneumatic tyres. It was painted a deep maroon, the panels expertly lined out in gold. At the foot of the short flight of steps stood a polished milk churn. Another dog lay beside it, quiet this time, head on paws, one watchful eye open.

  ‘Dad!’ the boy yelled. ‘Da-ad!’

  The door of the wagon opened and a man appeared. His frame was stocky, but muscular; his curly blond hair flopped over his forehead, startling blue eyes flashed beneath. He was wearing a collarless shirt open to reveal a thick matt of hair, with a red spotted scarf knotted round his throat. His legs were clad in a pair of corduroy trousers, cinched at the waist with a thick leather belt. ‘What?’ he growled. ‘What do you want? D’you know what time it is?’

  The boy shook himself free. ‘Sorry Dad. These rozzers wanted to talk to you.’ He dashed off again. They didn’t see him disappear round the corner and run up the steps of the strongman’s van.

  Weeks took a step forward. ‘Sorry, Sir. Could we have a word with you?’

  The man scowled, a look of defiance spoiling his matinée looks. ‘Go on. I’m listening.’

  ‘Could we come inside? It’s a rather delicate matter.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ He turned and went back into the van. The two constables looked at each other. Nettie mounted the steps followed by Weeks.

  The interior of the wagon was a symphony in mahogany and brass. Everything was polished to a high gleam, reflected in numerous ornate mirrors. The two officers were invited to sit on a plush, fitted settee, opposite an immaculate cast iron range. A cheery blaze flickered behind the glass door.

  ‘Right then. What can I do for you?’ The man stood in front of the fireplace, his muscular arms folded across his chest.

  ‘Could we have your name first, please?’

  ‘It’s Vado Boswell. Now what do you want?’

  ‘I think it might be an idea if you sat down, Mr Boswell,’ Weeks suggested.

  The man’s arms tightened; his face hardened. ‘I’m all right standing,’ he said.

  ‘Fair enough. I’m afraid we have some bad news.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘You have a fortune teller here by the name of Ivy Rose Lee.’

  ‘Yes, what of it?’ Nettie, who had been watching Boswell carefully, saw him swallow. His neckerchief rose and fell as his Adam’s apple bobbed briefly.

  ‘She was found dead yesterday.’

  ‘What? Where?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t give you that information at present.’

  ‘What happened to her? Was it an accident?’

  ‘No. We suspect foul play.’

  ‘Really?’ The man appeared genuinely shocked. ‘How did she die?’

  ‘Again, I can’t say at this time.’

  Nettie spoke. ‘Didn’t you notice that she wasn’t around?’

  The man shook his head, a blank look on his face. ‘No. I don’t keep tabs on all the showmen and women. It’s up to them when they operate. If she hadn’t opened up for a few days there would have been complaints, but nobody’s said anything.’

  ‘Did she have any family, do you know?’

  Boswell shook his head slowly. ‘Not that I’m aware of. She only turned up a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Strange.’ Nettie said. ‘I would have thought a fortune teller is an important part of any fair.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘What did you do before she came?’

  There was a hesitation, then, ‘Oh, we had another one – a man.’

  ‘What happened to him, Sir?’ Weeks asked.

  ‘Oh, he went.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  Boswell appeared to consider. ‘Um, I think he went off to join another fair.’

  ‘You think?’

  He seemed to make up his mind. ‘He did. Yes.’

  ‘Do you know why, Mr Boswell?’

  He paused for a moment. ‘Not really. Probably fancied a change.’

  ‘How long had he been with you?’

  ‘Six months or so.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit strange, going off like that?’

  He gave a shake of his head. ‘Not really – people come and people go.’


  ‘But after six months?’

  Boswell exhaled. ‘You know how it is.’

  ‘Not really, Sir.’ Weeks said, frowning.

  ‘We are known as travellers. Or didn’t you realise that?’ Up until then the man’s tone had remained even. Measured. Now it had an edge. He turned away from the officers and opened the door to the range. Crouching he took a small shovel and filled it with coal from the gleaming copper scuttle. He shot the fuel into the grate and shut the door. Then stood and faced them again, his eyes hard and his mouth set in a thin line.

  Weeks decided to change tack. ‘Did Ivy Rose have any friends here?’

  ‘Doubt it. She hadn’t been here long enough.’

  Weeks rose from his seat. ‘Do you mind if we ask around?’

  ‘Feel free. I wouldn’t think anyone can tell you anything about her.’

  ‘Thank you. And would you be willing to identify the body?’

  Boswell shrugged. ‘I suppose so. When?’

  ‘We’ll let you know. Thank you for your time.’ Nettie rose and made her way to the door with Weeks following. Just before they reached it he turned. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a key to Miss Lee’s caravan?’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  ‘We’ll need to search it so we’ll need access.’

  Boswell looked blankly at him. ‘Not my problem. You’ll probably have to break in then.’

  Weeks nodded. ‘Oh, by the way. What was the name of the other fortune teller, Sir?’