Blood on the Cards

by Chris O'Donoghue

  ‘Me?’ Russell said, feigning innocence. ‘I’m merely a member of the public. Just a bystander.’

  At first Parker looked puzzled, then a sickly smile began spreading across Parker’s face. ‘Just a bystander? It was you – the anonymous tip-off.’

  Russell held his hands out. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘A likely tale. I suppose you’ve had a look?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I haven’t touched anything.’

  ‘I should bloody well hope not.’ He turned to Weeks. ‘Right then. Let’s see what you’ve found. I just hope it’s worth my while coming out here in that rattletrap.’ The DC nodded and led the way up the caravan steps.

  Russell stood by the cars with Lewis. ‘Did you find any evidence to incriminate the strong man?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course not. I knew I wouldn’t.’ He looked towards the caravan to make sure he couldn’t be overheard. ‘To be honest, I only had a cursory look. I agree with you that Atlas is innocent.’

  ‘What happens to him now?’

  ‘They’ve nothing to hold him for. They had to let him go.’

  ‘So, back to square one for Parker.’ While the men were talking, the terrier had been excitedly sniffing around in the undergrowth – on the hunt for rabbits or rodents. Suddenly, she stopped, head erect, nose twitching, then shot off. She rocketed across the stony track, up over the raised bank and disappeared towards the river. ‘Aggie!’ Russell shouted. ‘Come here!’

  Lewis laughed. ‘She might not be a bloodhound but she’s got the scent of something. Let’s go and see.’ Following the path the dog had taken the two men climbed over the bank and down on to the flat grass along the riverside. They could just see the terrier, tail wagging madly, nosing around the plants growing at the side of the river. Lewis, the more nimble of the two, reached her first.

  ‘What have you found, little dog?’ He crouched and parted the reeds. ‘Well I’ll be…’ he exclaimed. ‘Aggie! Leave it!’ She backed away and danced about. ‘Sonny, take a look at this.’

  With a sharp exhalation Russell knelt down. ‘A slipper! It’s what Petulengro was wearing when I saw him.’

  ‘So it belonged to the gypsy? It doesn’t look like it’s been here for long.’

  ‘Do we get the frogmen in?’

  ‘We? You don’t do anything,’ Lewis stated.

  Russell stood up and sighed. ‘I keep forgetting. Will you?’

  ‘I’d better not act before consulting Parker. But I won’t suggest divers – just yet. The body will most likely float downstream so I’ll suggest he scours the riverbank for a mile or so.’

  While they had been talking, Parker had finished his cursory examination of the caravan and had come looking for Lewis. He came puffing over the ridge, almost losing his balance as he slithered down towards the river bank. He cursed loudly then said: ‘Ah. This is where you’re hiding.’

  ‘I think you’ll want to see this,’ Lewis said.

  With an effort Parker bent down and looked where the forensics man was pointing. ‘It’s a bloody woman’s slipper,’ he said, straightening up again.’

  ‘Not a woman’s,’ Russell corrected.

  ‘Who asked you?’ Parker demanded, facing up to the DI.

  Lewis stepped between them. ‘Steady on. He saw Petulengro wearing them. It’s a man’s slipper.’

  ‘Bloody pooftah’s, more like. What’s it doing here then?’

  ‘Looks like our man was dumped in the river.’

  ‘Oh Christ. Does this mean I’m going to have to get the divers in?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Lewis said. His tone was measured and mild, matching his appearance. ‘Why don’t you get some men to walk down the river for a mile or so. It’s flowing quite slowly so the body can’t have gone far. May even have snagged on a branch or got caught up in some reeds.’

  Parker nodded. ‘Good plan.’ He looked back the way he’d come. ‘Weeks!’ he yelled.

  The DC came over the rise. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Radio through to the station. Get Wickstead to round up as many bodies as he can. We want this river searched.’

  Lewis spoke. ‘Right, now you’ve organised that, I’ll see if I can find any clues in the caravan.’

  Parker nodded. ‘Good man. Just what I was going to suggest.’ He turned to Russell. ‘I suppose I owe you an apology,’ he said, struggling to get the words out.

  The DI was surprised. ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes. You were right about the strongman. It wasn’t him.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘No. It was obviously Boswell. Killed them both.’

  Russell just stared.

  ‘I’d better get back to the Salts before he does a bunk.’

  ‘But…’

  Parker smiled. ‘No, I don’t need any help, thanks. You can enjoy your time off.’ With that he turned and clambered back up the bank, yelling for Weeks to get the car ready.

  Chapter 7

  Smith’s Potato Crisps Ltd was founded by Frank Smith and Jim Viney in the United Kingdom in 1920. The crisps were sold in greaseproof paper bags, with a blue paper twist of salt. The firm started in Cricklewood, London, reputedly in Smith's garage.

  RUSSELL STOOD on the riverbank, staring at the slow-moving water. He felt at a loss. Lewis had said goodbye and gone to examine the caravan. Bonnie Parker had made Weeks drive off in such a hurry he hadn’t had a chance to exchange a word with him. He wasn’t used to this – not being in the thick of it. He was certain that Parker was on the wrong track – pursuing Vado Boswell – something he’d find out in time. He hoped it wouldn’t go too far before he realised his mistake and had to let the gypsy go. But there was nothing he could do to prevent the man following his fools’ errand. Aggie was quite happy, dashing around, following scents only she could detect. But Russell was unable to share her contentment. He felt frustrated and kicked at a clump of grass with his polished brogue. He could go and see Isobel – that was tempting, but he knew that she was busy working on a prestigious jewellery commission and he would rather not disturb her. He walked disconsolately along the river bank and his thoughts turned back to the beginning of the case.

  If he hadn’t been so hasty in sending the entire staff of the police station off on a fingertip search, but had consulted Stout first, he would still be on the case. But he had, and there was no going back. It would be a while before the Super allowed him to deal with anything more demanding than minor crimes. As his mind roved he recalled his visit to the Red Lion in Appledore, and the shifty landlord, Jack Mills. What was that all about? The man obviously hadn’t been involved in the murder of the gypsy but… he wasn’t telling the whole truth.

  The germ of an idea started forming in Russell’s mind. There was something going on – something Mills hadn’t wanted to share. He was sure that whatever it was, it was connected with his mate over in Dungeness. What was his name? Russell felt in his pocket and produced his notebook. Flipping through the pages he found it. Albert Stern, Prospect Cottage, Dungeness. The idea started as a vague framework, but the more he thought about it, the more it began to take on a discernible form. He realised that he was moving outside the bounds of accepted behaviour but he just couldn’t help himself. He needed a challenge – a puzzle to unravel. And the more he thought about it, the more he was convinced this was the one. He knew that Stern had received a visit from the local bobby, but only to confirm that Mills had visited that evening, which he had. But in the PC’s report he’d mentioned that he didn’t think that Stern looked unwell. So why had the landlord said he was? Russell decided he would like to know more. For the first time in ages he started whistling. Inspired by his location it was Down by the Riverside. Feeling more cheerful than he done for a while his step was light as he climbed up the bank and made his way to the car he’d borrowed from Weeks. First he set off for his home.

  -0-

  Back in his little kitchen he made himself a flask of tea and a round of cheese and tomato sand
wiches. He wrapped them in greaseproof paper and put them in an ex-army knapsack, added an apple and a bag of Smith’s crisps. Then he changed out of his work suit. He replaced it with a pair of worn corduroy trousers and a white submariner’s rollneck sweater. His brogues were exchanged for a pair of sturdy walking boots. He took a camel-coloured duffle coat and a Breton cap off the peg. To this he added a pair of naval binoculars. They were bulkier than he liked, but would have to do. Thus prepared, he returned to the car, whistled for Aggie to join him and headed off for Dungeness.

  The journey was uneventful, the landscape becoming increasingly flat and barren as he approached his destination. In just over half an hour he was nearing the level crossing at the approach to the estate. He slowed the car and was able to stop easily as one of the Romney, Hythe and Dymchurch railway 15-inch gauge trains rattled across the road. The one-third full-size locomotive was at the head of the rake of chocolate and cream carriages, with smoke streaming from the chimney, its whistle shrieking a warning. Russell smiled. He was used to the three-foot gauge railway that ran near his home and on to Compass Point but this was quite different. By comparison his railway was almost staid and the carriages almost full size. This outfit had the feel of a mainline railway, just on a much smaller scale. If you half closed your eyes it could be an express, thundering up the east coast main line. Almost as soon as it appeared it had gone, snaking its way through the shingle to the station near the distant lighthouse.

  As Russell passed Prospect Cottage he could see a van parked out front, presumably belonging to Stern. He drove further on up the road until it turned to the right where he pulled on to the side, so the car would be out of sight. He turned off the engine and got out. Reaching into the back he took out the duffel coat and cap, put them on, grabbed the knapsack and walked back the way he had come, Aggie happily sniffing out new scents. He was just an ordinary man taking his dog for a walk. Approaching the cottage he could see what looked like a derelict shed about a hundred yards away on the other side of the road. He set off diagonally, crunching across the shingle. When he reached the building he pulled at the door, which opened with difficulty, the hinges complaining and the bottom scraping noisily on the ground. The terrier scampered in after him and he hauled the door shut.

  As Russell’s eyes grew accustomed to the dark interior he took in his surroundings. Inside was a jumble of broken fish boxes and unidentifiable lumps of rusty metal. There were three windows, missing most of their glass. One faced towards the distant beach and a handful of fishing boats pulled up on the shingle; a second gave a good view of Prospect Cottage; the third looked out sideways. A few feet away were the rusty tracks of one of the hand-worked fishermen’s railways. This traversed the shingle, elevated in places, raised up on piles of planks where it crossed dips in the terrain. At the inland end a flat wagon sat on the narrow track, a large, crude wooden box balanced on top.

  Looking round the interior of the shed he found the remains of a chair, its back missing but the legs intact. Gingerly he lowered himself on to the seat. Despite an alarming creak, it held his weight. He opened the knapsack and took out the binoculars. Focussing on the cottage he could pick out the details of the door and windows but was unable to see inside. He swivelled to look the other way and had a clear view of the half a dozen boats pulled up on the shingle. He wasn’t sure what to expect or what he was going to do but he had a gut feeling that he was in the right place at the right time. Russell settled down for a long wait.

  -0-

  The immaculate Chevrolet pickup was parked alongside the immaculate living van so it was reasonable to assume the man was at home. Leaving DC Weeks standing next to the Wolseley, Bonnie Parker stomped up the steps and hammered on the front door. It was only a few seconds before the door suddenly swung open and the stocky figure of Boswell stood staring at the policeman, a belligerent scowl spoiling his handsome face.

  ‘What the bloody hell do you want?’

  Parker was unaffected by his glowering presence. He puffed out his chest. ‘Vado Boswell, you are under arrest. You are not obliged say anything unless you wish to do so but whatever you say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.’

  ‘What? You must be joking. What I am I supposed to have done?’

  ‘The murder of Pilgrim Petulengro, for starters, and probably of the gyppo Rose Lee.’

  Boswell held his hands out. ‘I don’t believe it… Where’s the evidence?’

  ‘Don’t worry, sunshine. We’ll find it.’ He turned to PC Beaumont who had come up the steps behind him. ‘Cuff him constable. We’ll continue this down at the station.’

  As the junior officer reached out with the handcuffs Boswell looked quickly from one side then to the other. In a flash he pushed Beaumont hard on the chest, knocking him backwards into Parker who overbalanced, his arms windmilling. Both policemen stumbled backwards down the steps and fell in a heap. Boswell vaulted athletically over them, landing on the ground on all fours. Pushing himself upright, he ran towards the pickup and wrenched the door open. But, before he could get inside, Weeks was on him. The gypsy tried to shake him off but, although wiry, the DC hung on as tenaciously as a terrier. They fell to the ground, rolling in the dust. Parker had stayed down, groaning, but Beaumont was quickly on his feet and dashed over to the grappling figures. This time he did manage to get the handcuffs on Boswell’s wrists and suddenly, the fight seemed to go out of him. Panting, Parker rose to his feet and tried to brush the dust off his suit jacket. It made little difference.

  ‘You!’ he said, his face red with rage. ‘You’re for the bloody high jump.’ He leaned forward and gripped the spotted scarf round the suspect’s neck. ‘And I’m going to do you for assaulting a police officer!’ He let go of the scarf and pushed him away, a look of disgust on his face. ‘Take him to the station and chuck him in the cells.’

  Boswell said nothing as he was led to the police car.

  ‘Where’s Lewis?’ Parker demanded.

  Weeks looked blankly at him. ‘Sir?’

  ‘The bloody flash and dab bloke – the forensics man, whatever you want to call him.’

  ‘He’s over in Iden, Sir. At the other caravan.’

  ‘Hell’s teeth! We need him here. I want the case against this gyppo sewn up so bloody tight you won’t be able to crack it open with a crowbar.’

  ‘I’ll go over and let him know, Sir.’

  ‘Not before you’ve taken me back to the station. I’m not travelling in the car with that low-life. Don’t know what I might catch.’

  -0-

  During Russell’s time out in the East the monks had taught him how to meditate. When he’d tried to sit cross-legged they had laughed, good-humouredly. One, who spoke passable English, explained that westerners weren’t flexible enough to take up the lotus position easily. If they tried, it would become uncomfortable after a while and they’d concentrate more on the pain and not the meditation. Once that was accepted, he’d learned the practice sitting in a chair and had become quite adept at it. So, sitting in the tumbledown shed he’d found no difficulty in maintaining his posture for quite a while. He tried emptying his mind, as he had been taught, but there were so many things spinning round in his head, demanding his attention, that he wasn’t totally successful. But, the time passed easily enough. Aggie too, seemed content to curl up on an old sack and snoozed happily. After an hour or so Russell got up and stretched, poured a cup of tea from the flask and unwrapped the sandwiches. After an impromptu meal, which he shared with the terrier, he settled down again to wait.

  It wasn’t long before he heard the sound of an engine. Keeping well back in the shadows he saw a Standard Vanguard pickup pull up outside Prospect Cottage. The light was slowly ebbing from the sky but, with the aid of the binoculars, he was able to make out the distinctive form of Jack Mills. The landlord got out of the car and walked up to the front door of the cottage. The door was opened and he disappeared inside. ‘Bingo!’ Russell thought. So he was right
to stake out the property. It wasn’t long before the door opened again. Mills reappeared followed by another man. Where the pub landlord was broad and stocky, his companion was stick thin. Through the glasses Russell could see he had a long face with a sour expression that looked permanent. Albert Stern, he presumed. The men came walking straight towards his hideout. He held up an admonishing finger to the terrier and melted further into the shadows, praying they wouldn’t see him. When the two men reached the little railway track, they dumped the bags they were carrying into the box on the wagon. Mills took out a packet of Senior Service and offered it to Stern. Stern shook his head. The pub landlord shrugged, put a cigarette in his mouth, lit the end and sucked greedily.

  ‘I’m not happy about this,’ Stern complained.

  Mills put his arm round the other man’s shoulder. ‘Don’t be like that mate. Just one more time, one more consignment of booze and fags, then I’ll leave you in peace.’

  ‘You said that last time,’ Stern mumbled, twisting away.

  ‘I mean it, this time – honest.’ Mills beamed at him.

  ‘You’d better. Anyway, where’s the meeting this time?’

  ‘Wissant.’

  Stern looked alarmed. ‘Wissant? I’m not landing on that bloody beach again. Last time we only just managed to get off before those French rozzers turned up.’

  ‘Don’t worry. This time Jacques is gonna meet us in his boat.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Stern paused – Mills drew on his cigarette, the tip glowing in the gathering gloom. ‘What time are we supposed to be meeting him?’

  ‘Midnight.’ Mills slid his sleeve back. He peered at his watch. ‘That gives us a good five hours before the rendezvous.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Come on, mate. Cheer up. You know you enjoy it really.’ Stern gave him a look that said the opposite then bent and started pushing the wagon. The rusty wheels squealed in protest and it rocked alarmingly on the uneven trackwork. Mills took one more drag, dropped the cigarette end on the shingle and followed.