Blood on the Cards

by Chris O'Donoghue

  Russell smiled, yawned and looked up. The moon had long since disappeared over the horizon; the sky was dark with pinpricks of stars. Looking east he could see the beginning of sunrise. He guessed it must be getting on for five. Shutting the car door he set off for his lookout. When he reached it, he once again settled down on the broken chair. It wasn’t long before he was aware of movement on the beach. After a while he heard the squeak-squeak-squeak of metal wheels on rusty track. As the noise grew louder, he could make out two shadowy figures in the growing light. He couldn’t believe his luck when they stopped in the same place they had been the night before. A match was struck, lighting both faces; grotesque masks.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Mills asked, drawing hard on a cigarette, making the end glow fiercely orange.

  ‘Waddyer mean?’ Stern’s voice was low and ragged.

  ‘Jacques. He was as jumpy as a frog.’ Mills suddenly chuckled. ‘Frog – geddit?’

  ‘Very funny, I don’t think.’ He shuffled his feet. ‘Come on. I want to get this stuff loaded in your truck. The sooner you’re out of here the better.’

  As the daylight increased, Russell could see the men more clearly. Mills put his arm round the other man’s shoulders. ‘Don’t be like that. You know you like it, really.’

  Stern shook the arm off. ‘No I don’t,’ he said, anger rising in his voice. ‘And, I repeat, this is the last time I do this.’ With that, he heaved a box off the pile on the wagon and lifted it on to his shoulder. ‘C’mon. It’s getting light. I don’t want no one spotting us. Plus, I need my bed.’

  Russell sat quietly, the terrier at his feet, maintaining the silence. Bruissement obviously either hadn’t bothered to try to stop the transfer of the goods or something else had happened. Either way Mills and Stern had taken delivery of the contraband. The two men made several journeys. By the time they made the last one, it was light enough for Russell to see distinctly the words on the side of the final box Mills was carrying:

  COURVOISIER

  VSOP

  As Mills crunched away across the shingle Russell wondered what he should do. Weighing up the alternatives he realised there was very little he could do. His first thought – to burst out of his hidey-hole and confront the men in flagrante, as it were, now seemed foolhardy. Maybe he had got cold feet, but there were two of them and he didn’t relish a possible beating. On the other hand, he knew he would be cross with himself if he didn’t do something. He watched as the landlord put the box in the back of his pickup with the others and pulled the canvas tilt over the load and secured it. Stern had already gone into the cottage; Mills followed and disappeared inside. Without waiting to consider, Russell pushed the shed door open and crossed the road. Reaching the truck, he unclipped a couple of the loops of rope and rolled back the corner of the tilt. There was now enough light to see the containers, neatly stowed. As well as more boxes of brandy, there were packs of cigarettes. Russell let out a silent whistle. There must be several hundred pounds worth of goods – presumably all free of tax. He leant over further, the better to see the lettering on one of the packages. He was so intent that he didn’t hear the man creep up behind him. All he knew was something hard hit him across the back of the head. He saw bright stars – then darkness descended.

  Chapter 9

  Sea Kale – Crambe maritima – is a member of the brassica family that grows wild on shingle beaches. It became popular in the early 19th century and was served to diners at the Brighton Pavilion.

  RUSSELL SLOWLY gained consciousness. His face was wet. His eyelids flickered open and he looked up into a pair of brown eyes. Aggie was licking his face and if a dog could look worried, the terrier projected concern. He smiled then winced at the pain. He looked around and took in his surroundings. He was lying on the shingle, a blue sky above. Gingerly, he turned his head to the left. A few feet away he could see an emerging clump of sea kale, the new growth a soft purple. Looking to the right he could make out the dark hull of a wooden fishing boat. Cautiously he raised himself on one elbow. The small dog wagged her tail, pleased by the movement. Russell wondered how long she had been standing guard over him. He screwed his eyes up and looked at the sun. It was well over the horizon. Painfully he pushed himself up until he was in a sitting position and felt the back of his head. There was a lump and his hand came away, sticky with blood. He looked round.

  He could see farther now: Prospect Cottage was about 200 yards away. How had he got here? He doubted he could have crawled so he guessed the men must have picked him up and dumped him. Gingerly he eased himself up until he was standing, swaying unsteadily, a jackhammer threatening to break out of his skull. He walked slowly, following the rusty railway track as it dipped and snaked across the undulating shingle. When he reached the shed where he had been hiding he looked inside. He was surprised to see that his knapsack and binoculars were still there. Picking them up he continued towards the cottage. His brain was fuzzy from the blow on the back of the head and he wasn’t sure what he was planning to do. As he neared the dwelling he could clearly see that there were no vehicles parked outside. Obviously no one at home. He shrugged, which sent a sharp wave of pain through his head. He stood, breathing heavily for a while, before trudging on up the road. When he reached Weeks’s Ford Popular he opened the door and sank gratefully into the seat. The terrier jumped up on to his lap then hopped across to the back and burrowed into the blanket on the seat. Russell closed his eyes against the thumping in his skull and in a few moments had fallen asleep.

  -0-

  ‘Let me get this straight. You claim to have had nothing to do with the death of either Petulengro or Gypsy Lee?’ DI Parker paced irritably, circling the dingy interview room liked a caged animal. Vado Boswell sat on one side of the battered table, his shoulders slumped and his head bent forward, close to its scored and battered surface. Weeks sat upright across from him, his chair pushed away from the table, his notebook in his lap. He wasn’t enjoying the experience. In the hour or so they’d been there, Parker had chain-smoked his filthy Capstan Full Strength cigarettes and a pall of grey smoke hung a couple of feet below the stained ceiling.

  ‘I told you…’ Boswell said, his voice lacklustre, reflecting the constant repetition of denial. ‘…She was dead when we went into her van.’

  ‘Why on earth did you bother to cart her body all the way over to Appledore and dump it in the pillbox then?’ Parker rested his knuckles on the edge of the table and leaned close to the gypsy. ‘Why didn’t you come straight to us?’

  ‘I thought it would be bad for business if she was found at the fair.’

  ‘Then locking up and leaving her caravan splattered with blood for a load of bobbies to coming tramping round wasn’t?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought that far ahead – I didn’t think she’d be found so quickly,’ Boswell said wearily.

  Parker lit up again. ‘Obviously not.’ He blew out a cloud of smoke and circled the table again, hands behind his back, cigarette dangling from his lower lip. ‘Right then. Suppose we believe what you say about that gyppo, what about the other one – Petulengro?’

  Boswell looked up. ‘I told you, I was a surprised as you were. He was my friend.’

  ‘And a pooftah…’

  ‘That didn’t matter.’

  Weeks spoke for the first time in a while. ‘That’s not what you said when we first talked to you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Boswell said sharply.

  Flipping through his notebook Weeks came to the relevant page. ‘You said, “He was as queer as a coot, a homosexual. I was just glad when he upped sticks and left.”’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘If he says you did…’ Parker pointed at the DC, ‘…then you did. He’s got one of them memories. What’s it called?’

  ‘Eidetic, Sir.’

  ‘Yeah, well, whatever you say. Anyway, being a pansy is not enough reason to get yourself killed, so why did you do it?’ Parker was back, leaning on the table, his face inches fro
m Boswell’s.

  The man sat up straight, his brow lowered and his eyes flashing. ‘I told you, I didn’t bloody kill him. I liked him, even though he was a queer.’

  Any further conversation was curtailed by a knock. ‘Come in,’ Parker snapped.

  Lewis’s head appeared round the door. ‘Could I have a word please, Inspector?’

  Parker tutted. ‘I suppose so. We’re not getting anywhere here.’ He pushed himself away from the table and followed the other man out of the room.

  ‘I think Boswell may well be telling the truth.’

  ‘What?’ Parker, stopped in the middle of lighting yet another cigarette.

  ‘Well, certainly about Petulengro.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We’ve examined his clothes and only found traces of Ivy Lee’s blood, not the other fortune teller’s. And if he had killed Petulengro, the caravan was such a mess he would be bound to have his blood on him, and we found none.’

  Parker grimaced, the cigarette gripped between his thin lips. ‘That’s as maybe, but I was right about one thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘He did kill the gyppo woman.’

  ‘I’m not so sure.’ Lewis frowned.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He certainly handled the body. We went over his immaculate Chevrolet. The pickup body wasn’t quite so pristine. It had obviously been thoroughly cleaned but we found definite traces of the gypsy’s blood that had been missed. I’m guessing that he – and probably an accomplice – did as he said: took the body from the funfair and dumped it in the pillbox.’

  Parker drew on his cigarette a thoughtful expression on his face. ‘You say you’re guessing?’

  For the first time in the conversation the forensics man looked unsure. ‘I can’t be certain…’

  ‘In fact, you don’t have any proof that he didn’t kill her, do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well. I still think he’s as guilty as hell. I’ll grant you that you were right about the strongman, but I think chummy in there did it. And I want you to find the proof. Go back over his van with a fine tooth-comb if necessary. Okay?’ He prodded Lewis in the chest with his finger. ‘Now I’m going to do my job. I suggest you do yours.’ With that he dropped the cigarette end, ground it under his heel and re-entered the interview room.

  Lewis stood for a few moments, stunned. Then muttered: ‘Bloody man,’ and stormed off.

  -0-

  Half a dozen uniformed policemen had been walking slowly along the riverbank for more than an hour when a shout rang out. ‘Sir!’

  ‘Yes? Who’s that?’ Sergeant Wickstead asked.

  ‘It’s Beaumont, Sir. I think I’ve found him,’ came the excited reply.

  Wickstead made his way towards where the voice had come from. As he neared the river he could just make out the constable, crouching down in the reeds. ‘Let me look, lad.’ He made his way cautiously down the slippery bank until he could see what the PC had found. Face down in the water was a body. The water had darkened the shirt and headscarf making them almost as black as the trousers. One foot was bare but a slipper, matching the one found earlier, still clung to the other. The shirt had snagged on a branch, just below the water’s surface, stopping the body from floating farther down the stream. Wickstead shuddered. He’d seen enough dead bodies in the force and during the war, but he still found it disturbing. ‘Well done. Let’s get some help to pull him out of the water.’ With an effort, he scrambled back up the bank. ‘Lee,’ he said to the nearest constable. ‘Go back to the car and radio in. Let DI Parker know we’ve found Petulengro.’

  -0-

  Parker arrived forty minutes later, accompanied by Weeks. Lewis and John Crooks, the pathologist, hung back behind them. Lewis was still smarting from the DI’s comments. The spot where the body had been found couldn’t have been more idyllic. A weeping willow hung over the river, the tips of the newly emerged leaves just touching the surface. A gentle breeze ruffled the water, sunlight glinting off the ripples. The reeds swayed rhythmically; a hidden warbler chattered his song and a pair of swans glided serenely by. The only thing that marred the sylvan setting was the body of the gypsy, laid out on a piece of tarpaulin – oozing water. The PCs stood about, smoking and quietly talking. Parker had knelt on a dry corner of the canvas and was peering at the body.

  ‘Bloody hell. Same MO as the other gyppo – Ivy Lee, or whatever her name was. Throat cut from ear to ear.’

  Lewis had crouched down on the other side. ‘What’s this?’ he said, almost to himself. Rigor mortis had yet to set in and it wasn’t difficult for him to prise the man’s jaws apart. He inserted a rubber gloved thumb and forefinger and withdrew a piece of sodden card. A decorative pattern in blue and white covered the surface but, as Lewis unfolded it, a graphic illustration was revealed.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ Parker asked.

  ‘It’s a Tarot card. The Lovers. Like the one in Ivy Rose Lee’s mouth.’

  ‘What, the same?’

  ‘No, hers was Death.’

  ‘Why ain’t his Death?’

  ‘That would mean having two packs of cards,’ Lewis explained patiently.

  ‘Mmm. I suppose so. But what does it mean?’

  ‘There I can’t help you. You need an expert on the Tarot for that.’

  Parker let out a heartfelt groan. ‘Don’t suppose you know one, do you?’

  ‘Afraid not. Looks like the main two contenders are no longer available.’

  ‘Eh?’ The DI’s face began as a picture of puzzlement, slowly changing as understanding dawned on him. ‘Very funny, I don’t think.’

  ‘All very interesting, but perhaps you could allow me to confirm the cause of death.’ The two men kneeling down looked up. Crooks was standing, his fingers linked across his ample stomach, his eyebrows raised.

  ‘Pretty obvious, ain’t it?’ Parker said as he got creakily to his feet.

  ‘That’s as maybe. But best check, to be on the safe side, don’t you think?’

  -0-

  It was the light that woke him. He had slumped in the seat, his head thrown back and now the sun was streaming in through the windscreen. He half-opened his eyes and winced. The brightness seemed to penetrate right to the back of his skull. Quickly he closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, as waves of nausea swept over him. He tried again. This time it wasn’t as painful. Slowly he sat up and took in his surroundings. To the left, across the shingle, he could see the huddle of huts, surrounded by a chain-link fence that housed the old radar station. Craning his neck round to the right he could just make out the Victorian lighthouse beyond the Britannia Inn, its black finger pointing skywards. Russell pulled back his cuff and looked at his wristwatch. The glass face was cracked, the hands motionless. He held his wrist up to his ear. No sound came from the watch. Must have stopped – maybe damaged when he was struck. He looked down at his clothes. Streaked with dust. He realised his body ached too. He had obviously been dragged across the shingle. Perhaps that was when the watch glass was broken. Looking again out of the windscreen, he reckoned it was probably something like 10am. He tried to think, but the blinding headache made recollection slow. What time was it that Mills had said they were making the rendezvous? The word midnight slowly formed in his brain. He tried to concentrate. If that was the case it would have taken Mills and Stern between four and five hours to get back. That would seem about right as it was just getting light when he saw them return.

  Russell paused while muddled thoughts crowded into his brain. Then his mind cleared. So, assuming he’d been knocked out and dumped sometime between five and six o’clock, it had been around four or more hours since he’d woken on the beach. The effort had drained him and he breathed out a long sigh. He was still unsure what to do. Should he have confronted the men when he had a chance? Probably not. He might have ended up in a worse predicament than the one he was in now. Should he report what he had seen? Probably. But it would still be his word aga
inst theirs. They would be unlikely to have left any of the illegal goods in Stern’s cottage. And he doubted whether Mills would be foolish enough to leave any evidence in the Red Lion. But you never knew. He had to do something so he started the car, turned it round and set off for Appledore.

  -0-

  In France, Inspecteur Guillaume Bruissement was sitting up in bed. When he had passed out the barman had called the emergency services. Not wanting to move the man before they came he had draped a blanket over him and waited. When the ambulance had arrived at the Hotel de la Plage the attendants had taken one look at the officer, and whisked him off to the hospital in Boulogne. He’d been diagnosed with a fractured radius bone which was now secured in a plaster cast from wrist to elbow, and held in a sling across his chest. His immediate superior had been to visit him earlier.

  ‘Looks like you’ve been in the wars, Inspecteur. What were you doing in Wissant at that time of night? Care to tell me about it?’

  Bruissement looked glum. His luxuriant moustache drooped and his cheeks were dark with stubble. ‘I was following a tip-off.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ the boss’s eyebrows formed two perfect, raised arcs.

  ‘About smuggling.’

  ‘I see. Presumably guns or other weapons.’

  ‘No. Duty-free.’

  ‘I don’t understand…’ The eyebrows stayed up, the brow furrowed.

  ‘Alcohol and tobacco.’

  ‘I’m puzzled. Why would a senior police officer involve himself in something like that – at night, on his own? I thought you usually turned a blind eye to such things?’

  ‘It was a favour for an English friend.’