Russell sat in stunned silence. Even Aggie stayed quiet. The DI was astonished at what he had heard. He’d half-expected something of the sort, but to hear exactly what they were planning, exactly where and at what time, was more than he could have hoped for. He knew Wissant – had been taken there by his friend, Inspecteur Guillaume Bruissement, in the Citroën DS the French police officer had on loan. They had eaten an excellent meal in a restaurant – Le Vivier – in the centre of the pretty little coastal village and taken a walk to the flat, sandy beach. That was where Stern had mentioned. Now what to do? Cautiously Russell lifted the binoculars and followed the progress of the men as they made their way to the distant beach. Russell saw them throw the bags into one of the boats then put their shoulders to the bow. Slowly, the hull of the boat started sliding down the shingle ridge towards the sea.
But, what to do? There was little point in Russell making his way to the beach. The duo would have put out to sea before he reached it. And what could he do if he got there before they left? Nothing. All he’d heard was a conversation that they could deny if pressed. It would be his word against theirs. They’d say he’d misheard and all they were doing was going out night fishing. So there was no mileage in following that course of action. The words spun round in his head again – what to do? How could he stop them? He sat back on the rickety chair, his forehead creased in thought. Then he had a brainwave. He might not be able to do anything but he knew someone who probably could. Leaving the shed he set off quickly back towards the car.
Russell remembered he’d passed a red telephone box and reached it in a few minutes. Pulling the heavy door open, he whistled to the terrier who joined him inside. He took his notebook out of his pocket and flicked through the pages until he found the one he was looking for. He picked up the receiver and dialled 100.
‘Operator,’ a disembodied female voice said. ‘What number do you require?’
‘I’d like to make a reverse charge international call.’
‘To what number?’
Russell read the number off the page. Holding the receiver to his ear he could hear a series of clicks, then the long series of purring notes he knew to be the French dialling tone. After what seemed an age, there was a final click, then,
‘Allo?’
‘I have a call from England,’ the operator enunciated slowly. ‘Will you accept the reverse charges?’
‘Mais ouis – but of course.’
‘Putting you through.’
‘Guillaume?’
‘Ah Sonny!’ Russell could imagine his French opposite number’s cheery grin beneath the luxuriant moustache. ‘’Ow wonderful to be ’earing from you. It ’as been too long.’
‘Yes it has.’ Russell was grinning too.
‘What ’as caused you to call me on the telephone?’
‘I need your help.’
Bruissement chuckled. ‘But of course. That is why you are telephoning me at my home. Do not worry. I am very ’appy to be of service. What can I do for you?’
Russell explained what he had heard and how he felt powerless to act from his position.
‘Look, my friend,’ the Inspecteur said. ‘I am understanding your concern, but do you not still ’ave shortages in Angleterre?’
‘Yes, we do…’ Russell said slowly. ‘I’m sure you do too.’
‘Mais bien sûr. But the authorities turn, ’ow you say, an eye that is blind.’
‘But it’s still smuggling, Guillaume.’ Bruissement let out a laugh that was a cross between a roar and a bark. Russell smiled. ‘So you don’t think it’s very important?’
‘That is not what I meant.’ His voice was serious now. ‘If it is something that causes you distress then I will ’elp in any way I can.’
‘I wondered if you’d be able to just take a look at what was happening on your side – in Wissant. I don’t want you to do anything heroic, just observe.’
‘Of course, I will do what I can for you, mon ami.’
‘And no risks?’
‘You know me, Sonny. I am not one to stick out my neck. I will just observe.’
‘Right. I will ring you tomorrow, to find out if you have seen anything.’
‘You do that. I will let you know if I ’ave any information that might be of ’elp to you.’
Russell finished the call, happy that his friend would take an interest. There was little point in going back to the shed; nothing would happen until the early hours when, presumably the smugglers would return. He decided to continue on to the Britannia pub and see if he could get something to eat.
As he approached the building his heart sank when he saw the sign, emblazoned with the word COURAGE, swinging in its frame. It was a long way from being his favourite beer, not something that Alf would dream of serving in the Shipwrights Arms at Compass Point. With a heavier heart he pressed on and pushed the door open, Aggie trotting behind him. The handful of locals turned to stare briefly at the stranger. Holding his head up, Russell approached the bar.
‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance of some food?’ he asked.
The landlord took his time drying the glass he was holding. After an unnecessarily long pause he spoke. ‘We’ve got fish – fresh today.’ His voice was gravelly, matching the shingle outside.
‘Er, I’m afraid I don’t eat fish,’ Russell said apologetically.
The man’s eyebrows rose slightly, but there was no other reaction. ‘Might be some steak and kidney pie left.’
‘Sorry, I don’t eat meat either.’
This news was received with a sigh.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got anything else?’
By now, the three men sitting at the bar had turned to listen and the old boys sitting nearby had paused in the middle of their game of dominos.
‘I’ll have a look to see if we’ve got any cheese.’
‘Thank you. That would be good.’ Russell was regretting his decision to come to the pub and could feel colour rising from his collar.
‘I’ll go out back in a moment. Do you want a drink while you’re waiting?’
‘Er yes. I’ll have a pint please.’ The words were out before Russell realised he should have ordered a bottled beer. When the landlord had pulled his drink, Russell took it over to table near the fireplace. A coal fire burned smokily in the hearth, giving out little heat. He sipped at the beer and grimaced at the soapy taste. This had nothing to do with cleanliness of the glass – there were definite fingerprints on the surface – just the poor quality of the brew. He sat for a few minutes, turning over the events of the evening. Then the landlord crossed the room and put a plate down in front of him, none too gently.
‘That do?’
Russell looked at the uninspiring ploughman’s lunch. ‘Thanks,’ he managed. The man grunted and stomped off. Russell looked down at the contents of the plate. The chunk of bread was obviously yesterday’s; the cheese looked hard and was cracked with a gleam of sweat coating the surface. When he bit into an onion the taste was bitter – the onion insufficiently pickled. With a feeling of resignation he spread some of the dubious butter on the bread and chewed it unenthusiastically. Being a vegetarian was hard. He almost wished that he still ate fish – as they were so close to the sea it was bound to be fresh. He sighed. No, he’d made a choice and would stick to his principles. With that thought he ate as much of the unappealing food as he could manage.
While he chewed he thought about what had happened. It was pretty obvious that Mills and Stern were actively involved in smuggling duty-free goods into the country – and probably had been for some time. However, judging by the conversation, and Stern’s reluctance to carry on, this could be the last time. Russell wasn’t so sure though. It sounded like Mills could be very persuasive. Despite the end of rationing, there were still shortages, and people were often hard up. But the trade was still illegal. With his sense of duty he felt he ought to pursue it. He wondered what Guillaume might do. On the phone he seemed less than enthusiastic about
following it up, but Russell knew his friend would help him out of a sense of loyalty. After working his way through half of the food, he gave up – even Aggie turned up her nose at the piece of cheese he offered her under the table. He just wasn’t hungry anymore. And the pint remained half-drunk as he made his way to the bar. The landlord took his money with barely a word. With a sense of relief, Russell left the pub. Rather than drive home he decide to settle down in the car and wait for a few hours until the boat returned, in case he could spot anything.
Chapter 8
A Flobart is a traditional clinker-built fishing boat, unique to the northern French coast. It can float in a foot of water, making it ideal for launching off a trailer in the shallows.
INSPECTOR GUILLAUME Bruissement was reluctant to drive the 20 or so kilometres to Wissant. He knew that goods were frequently smuggled across the Channel, but, like many of his colleagues, he preferred to turn a blind eye. People had suffered enough during the war and he felt they were entitled to a little leeway when it came to paying for luxuries. But… Sonny was his friend. They’d met while working on an unusual case.
The case had involved ex-Nazis being hunted down and killed by a strange pair of Germans who’d been seeking revenge for the death of their brother. Bruissement had a natural loathing for Hitler’s elite. However, despite his feelings of leniency towards smuggling, murder was a much more serious crime, and in that instance he was happy to see the brothers finally captured and behind bars.
Despite the distance and the language barrier the friendship between the two policemen had grown. The Inspecteur might not feel so strongly about the illicit trade but he would follow it up for his friend’s sake. So, just before 11pm, he left his appartement and lowered himself into the seat of his Citroën Traction Avant. Heading north from Boulogne he wound his way through the sleeping villages and hamlets. Wimereux, Audresselles, Audinghen and Tardinghen were passed. A few houses still had their lights burning and the occasional dog let out a warning bark as the car went by. When Bruissement reached Wissant he turned off the D940, drove down the main street and parked in the square between Église Saint-Nicholas and the Hôtel Normandy. He got out of the car and stood for a moment in the quiet square. Automatically he reached into his pocket for the pack of Gauloises. He was about to shake a cigarette out of the flimsy carton when he hesitated. ‘No,’ he thought. ‘I will do without.’ He thrust it back in his pocket and set off for the beach.
Walking past the Hotel de la Plage he turned down the unmade road that led to the sea. The track was rutted from the wheels of the tractors that hauled the fishing boats, on their crude trailers, down to the beach. Luckily the moon was almost full and gave enough light to enable him to make his way without stumbling. After a few minutes he reached the boundary where the scrubby grass ended and the sand began. There was a gap in the concrete barrier – the remains of the Atlantic Wall that the Germans had built – that led to the beach. Close by, on his right, was the solid shape of a German WWII blockhouse. Over the 15 or so years since it had been built, the shifting sands had gradually undermined the hurriedly constructed foundations and it now leaned at a jaunty angle. Bruissement made his way across the soft sand and entered, wrinkling his nose at the scent of damp and decay. Just enough light filtered in for him to see a low, concrete platform – presumably the mounting for a gun. He lowered himself on to it and sat, waiting.
Through the embrasure in the wall the French policeman had a good view of the beach. Like Russell he had developed an ability to wait patiently and, after half an hour, he heard the sound of an engine. In a few minutes the shape of a tractor hove into view, towing a traditional wooden flobart on a simple trailer. As it passed within a few metres, Bruissement could see there were just two figures – one driving the tractor, the other standing in the boat. He watched as the vehicle was driven to the water’s edge. It then turned in a tight arc and started reversing into the sea. There was enough moonlight reflecting off the surface for him to see the moment when the boat floated off the trailer. Bruissement decided it was time to make a move and emerged from the blockhouse. Though short and round, he could produce a decent turn of speed. In a few dozen paces he had reached the tractor, as it dragged the empty trailer out of the shallows and rumbled up the beach. The driver, who had been looking over his shoulder, turned and saw the detective and brought the tractor to a halt.
‘What the…?’ he exclaimed.
‘Doing a spot of night fishing?’
‘Maybe. What’s it to you?’ he asked as he climbed down from his seat.
‘I didn’t think you boys went out after dark.’
The man squared up to Bruissement. ‘I don’t see that’s any of your business.’ Although a whole head shorter than the other man the detective stood his ground. After a few moments the man flicked his head upward in dismissal and made to turn away. Bruissement gripped his arm.
‘I asked what you were doing.’
‘None of your damn business,’ was the terse reply. He tried to shake the hand off but Bruissement had a tight grip. The man growled and, with his other hand, pushed the policeman hard in the chest. This made him let go, stumbling to regain his balance as he staggered backwards. His heel caught the trailer drawbar and he toppled over, falling heavily on his arm. Bruissement let out a gasp. The man ignored him and stomped off down the beach towards the boat, riding in the shallows. As he clambered over the gunwale the other man, Jacques, spoke.
‘What was that all about?’
‘Just some nosey parker – wanted to know what we were doing,’ the first fisherman, Jean answered.
‘Who is he?’
‘I dunno. Never seen him before.’
‘I saw you shove him. He went down and didn’t get up. Is he all right?’
‘Why should I care?’ Jean grunted.
‘We should check.’
Jean let out an exasperated sign. ‘We’ll be late for the meeting.’
‘It’ll only take a moment.’ With that Jacques started getting out of the boat.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘I’ll just check he’s all right. It won’t take long.’ Jacques splashed through the shallows and walked hurriedly up the beach. In a couple of minutes he was back.
‘Jesus!’ he panted, scrambling back into the boat. ‘I don’t know what you did but he’s out cold.’
‘Must have banged his head or something. Is he breathing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well he’ll be okay then. He’ll come round soon – with a headache. Serve him right for poking his nose in where it’s not wanted. Come on. We’ve got to get going.’
Pushing against the sea bed with long oars they moved the boat into deeper water, then turned it to face out. Jean swung the starting handle several times and the engine coughed into life.
-0-
The two men had gone out on the rising tide. On the barely sloping beach the incoming flood came in swiftly. Bruissement lay unconscious on the cold sand as the water came towards him. It lapped at his feet then dampened his trousers. It crept past his waist and darkened his jacket and shirt. The water lapped and rose up to his ear and moistened his moustache. It rolled between his lips, into his open mouth. When it started trickling down his throat he coughed then retched, bringing up bile and seawater. His body convulsed and he cried out.
‘Mon Dieu! My arm!’
He managed to raise himself to a sitting position, cradling the injured limb. With an effort he got on to his knees, then struggled slowly to his feet. He gritted his teeth against the pain. Stumbling through the shallow water he made his way up the beach. It seemed to take forever, as he staggered up the track, finally reaching the Hotel de la Plage. Driving himself was out of the question, so he pushed the door open and walked slowly up to the bar.
‘Sir?’ the barman said. Then paused, looking more closely at the newcomer. ‘Are you all right? You’re wet. You look very pale.’
Bruissement took a
breath, and then replied, almost in a whisper: ‘It’s my arm. I think it’s broken.’ He took a step towards the counter and leant against it, swivelled and slowly slid to the floor, his head slumped on his chest.
The barman came round from his side of the bar and took one look at the crumpled figure. ‘My God! He needs an ambulance.’ Dashing back again he grabbed the telephone and dialled the emergency number.
-0-
At the funfair the rides and sideshows had shut down for the night. Once the garish, coloured lights were off there was little illumination. Out of the shadows a large, shadowy figure emerged from between the vehicles and furtively crept up the steps to Boswell’s van. Carefully opening the door, he eased his bulk inside and closed it quietly behind him. He struck a match, cupped the flame with his hand and looked round. Once he had his bearings he blew the match out and crouched by the fireplace. Reaching forward his hand found the handle at the front of the range. It was lukewarm. He opened the door, took a small package out of his pocket and pushed it into the ashes. He closed the door, stood upright and left the way he had come.
Although the fire had been out for some time there was one gently glowing ember. The corner of the package touched it and the cardboard began to smoulder.
-0-
Russell spent an uncomfortable few hours curled up on the back seat of the Ford Popular. Sleep seemed to evade him. Finally, in the early hours, he gave up. Reaching for his knapsack he took out the flask and gave it a shake. Yes, there was still some tea left. He took the cup off the top and balanced it on his knee. Then, after removing the stopper, he poured the contents out. He took a tentative sip. He grimaced – it was barely lukewarm, but just about palatable. When he’d drained the cup, he pushed the car door open and stepped out into the night. He was stiff and cold. He shuddered and wrapped his arms round his body and bounced on the spot a few times. Aggie thought it was a game and bounced too.
Blood on the Cards Page 9
