Blood on the Cards

by Chris O'Donoghue

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And one for you?’ Russell asked.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do. I’ll have a half.’

  When they had their drinks and the money had been put in the large ornate till, the two policemen sat down on the bench with their backs to the window. The landlord returned to his stool, struck a match and tipping his head to one side, lit the stub of a roll-up, being careful not to singe his nose hairs.

  ‘Cheers,’ Russell said, raising his glass.

  ‘À votre santé.’ Bruissement replied and took a deep draught. He immediately spluttered and tears came to his eyes.

  ‘Are you all right, my friend?’ Russell asked, concerned.

  Bruissement coughed and wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. ‘Ah oui. I am okay. It went, as you say, down the wrong ’ole.’ He took a pack of Gauloises out of his pocket. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Of course not.’ As a non-smoker Russell didn’t enjoy the smell of normal tobacco but he didn’t object to the more fragrant smoke from French cigarettes. He wasn’t averse to the smell of cigars either although he couldn’t bear the stench of Superintendent Stout’s cheroots. He drank from his glass then looked towards the landlord. ‘A nice pint – Alf, isn’t it?’

  Alf grinned and nodded his head. ‘Glad you like it. I try to look after my beer. What brings you two gentlemen here?’

  ‘Well, it’s a bit delicate. We’re actually policemen. This is my colleague from France.’

  Alf’s grin widened. ‘Thought as much.’

  ‘We’re interested in Jack Mills – landlord of the Red Lion in Appledore.’

  ‘I know who he is – shifty character. Now he don’t know how to look after his beer.’

  ‘I’ll remember that.’ Russell saluted with his glass.

  ‘He came down from London, after the war. Thinks ’e knows it all. And do you know what? He knows bugger all.’

  ‘You’re not a fan then?’

  Alf snorted. ‘No I ain’t. And I don’t want to see ’im in ’ere again.’

  Russell looked quizzically at him. ‘Has he visited recently then?’

  ‘He was ’ere yesterday.’

  ‘On his own?’

  ‘No ’e was with a skinny bloke – ain’t seen ’im afore. Oh and Angus Goodyear. Thick as thieves, they was.’

  Who is Angus Goodyear?’

  ‘’E farms just up the road.’

  ‘I see.’

  Alf tutted. ‘Well, ’e’s got a bit of land and a few scraggy sheep. Seems to scratch a livin’ – don’t know ’ow.’

  ‘What were they talking about?’ Russell asked.

  ‘Dunno. Kept their ’eads together and their voices low.’

  ‘He’s got a farm nearby, you say?’

  ‘Yes, on the way to Brookland. Easy to miss. Just a shack and a barn – if you can call it that. Don’t know ’ow it’s still standing.’

  -0-

  Nettie made her way back to what was left of the funfair. Where the stalls and sideshows had stood there were patches of yellowed grass and, round them, areas flattened by dozens of feet. A generator, on the back of a large Scammell lorry, thudded rhythmically and figures scurried back and forth with ropes and bundles of canvas. Spotting Weeks in conversation with a thin man she made her way towards them. When the man saw her uniform his eyes widened, he shook his head and shot off between two vans. Weeks gave a wry smile.

  ‘Nobody knows anything, apparently. Or else they don’t want to tell me. I hope you had more luck with young Duke.’

  ‘Well sort of. We seemed to be getting on well and I’m sure I was on the brink of a breakthrough. Then suddenly, he decided he couldn’t tell me any more and dashed off.’

  ‘What did he tell you?’

  ‘Only that he knew his father didn’t kill Ivy Rose.’

  ‘Why did he say that?’

  Nettie paused and considered. ‘He said it was somebody else.’

  ‘Who?’ Excitement at the revelation filled Weeks’s face.

  ‘He wouldn’t say,’ Nettie answered sadly. ‘I think he wanted to but he said whoever it was, that it wouldn’t be fair.’

  Week excitement evaporated. ‘That’s a nuisance.’

  ‘It’s worse than that. If we knew, we could probably wrap up the case without the help of Bonnie Parker. Now we’re no further forward.’

  ‘Can’t we haul him into the station for questioning?’

  ‘We could – if we could find him. But I don’t think he’d say anything else. He’s got a stubborn streak, inherited from his father, I expect.’ She thought for a moment. ‘What about his mother? Could she get him to talk?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ Weeks said. ‘She ran off with a casual who worked on the dodgems a few months ago. That was about the only thing I did find out.’

  ‘So who’s been looking after him – while his dad’s been in the cells?’

  ‘That’s a point. If we know that, whoever it is might be able to get him to talk.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Although I suspect not. The fairground folk are not the most forthcoming. Besides, by the way he wolfed down that hotdog I suspect he’s been running wild.’

  -0-

  The two detectives eventually came out of the Red Lion and were about to cross the road to the car. Russell suddenly pulled on Aggie’s lead and put his hand on Bruissement’s arm. ‘Hang on. We don’t want to get run over.’ They stepped back as a convoy came trundling up the road from the north-west. Leading the procession was an ex-army truck, towing a large, cream-coloured caravan. Half a dozen cars were strung out behind it, waiting until the road widened enough to get past the slow vehicle. ‘Looks like the fair is on the move,’ Russell said. The convoy had soon passed and they made their way over to the Ford Popular. When they were settled in their seats Bruissement spoke.

  ‘Sonny. I ’ave been thinking. If your man Mills ’as moved the goods from the church, ’e would not move them far, would ’e?’

  Russell, gripped the steering wheel and stared ahead. ‘You may be right.’ He turned to the Frenchman. ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘Perhaps there is an old building where ’e would ’ave moved the free of duty brandy and cigarettes – in a ’urry.’

  ‘Do you mean Angus Goodyear’s barn?’

  ‘Perhaps…’

  ‘Yes, that’s a thought. Maybe we should try to find it.’

  Russell reversed the car out of the lane by the church and they drove slowly up the road until they came to a turning. It was just a dirt track that didn’t appear to lead anywhere, closed off with a broken five-bar gate. It was so deeply rutted that it seemed prudent to leave the car at the roadside. With difficulty he pushed the gate open enough to get through. The two men walked for a hundred yards between unkempt hedges, the blackthorn laden with creamy-white blossom. There was a sharp bend in the track and these petered out, replaced on either side with pasture that was more weeds than grass. Half a dozen pathetic-looking sheep stood around, miserably chewing the cud. It was likely that they had never been properly shorn; clumps of wool had just fallen off them, leaving bare patches. A little farther, past a stand of elders, a building came into sight.

  ‘Alf wasn’t wrong,’ Russell said. The barn was a patchwork of rusty, corrugated-iron sheets in various shades of red and orange, many with holes and some flapping gently in the breeze. It looked as if a strong gust of wind would blow the whole structure over. He and Bruissement walked up to it and could see there was a rickety wooden door with a length of timber wedged against it, keeping it shut. Russell leaned forward and was just about to pull the wood free when there was a shout from behind them.

  ‘Oi! What do you think you’re doing?’ They turned to see a man, as threadbare as his sheep, pointing a double-barrelled shotgun squarely at them. ‘This is private property. Get orff my land. And take that bloody mutt with you. I don’t want it worrying my sheep.’

  Russell called Aggie to heel then said: ‘I hope you’
ve got a licence for that.’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  Russell slipped his hand into to his pocket and produced a warrant card. ‘I could have you for threatening a police officer – Mr Goodyear.’

  The man looked slightly surprised but went on: ‘I don’t care who you are, you’ve no right to trespass. If you want to look around, come back with a warrant.’

  ‘We might well do that.’ Russell was not intimidated by the farmer, but knew he was on shaky ground. ‘What have you got in your barn? What is it that needs guarding so carefully?’

  The man looked startled. ‘What? In the barn? The usual – farming equipment.’ Then he glowered. ‘Not that it’s any of your concern.’

  Russell tried another tack. ‘Do you know Jack Mills, landlord of the Red Lion in Appledore?’

  ‘Maybe I do. Not that it’s any of your business either.’

  ‘I just wondered if you were storing anything for him.’

  Goodyear’s face darkened. ‘I’ve had enough of this. Time you went.’

  ‘You’d better be able to produce a licence for your gun when we come back though. Come on Guillaume. We don’t want to waste any more of this gentleman’s time.’ They turned and made their way back along the track, the terrier trotting obediently at their heels. Once in the car, Russell sat quietly, before starting the engine. ‘Well, what do you make of that?’

  ‘’E was ’iding something, that is for certain.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, too. I reckon Mills’s contraband is stored in that rickety barn.’

  ‘So ’ow are we going to find out? He seemed ready to use that shotgun.’

  ‘I doubt if he would have done. I’m sure he knows it could be a hanging offence. But yes, we need to find a way of having a look in there. Not now though; we’ll have to come back.’

  Chapter 11

  A Waltzer is a fairground ride consisting of a number of cars which spin freely while rotating around a central point, in much the same way as a carousel. As they revolve, the floor of the ride undulates over a track so that the cars rise and fall and the offset weight of the riders causes each one to rotate. The riders experience varying levels of g-force from the constant spinning.

  ‘SO I was right all along. I knew it!’ Parker sat back in his chair, a triumphant grin lighting his smug face.

  ‘Looks like it.’ Lewis’s expression was far from triumphant. It stuck in his craw to admit it.

  On the DI’s insistence he had reluctantly gone back to Boswell’s caravan, not expecting to turn up any further evidence, but he was wrong. On his original inspection, which he was sure had been thorough, he’d found nothing incriminating. So this time he’d virtually turned it upside down. He’d emptied all the cupboards, shining the beam of a powerful torch into the recesses. The cushions had been pulled off the settee and the boards forming the base lifted. The bed had been stripped of its linen, the mattress upended and the wooden frame examined minutely. Even the carpet had been rolled back. Nothing. Lewis had stood in the middle of the van scratching his head. He was still convinced that the man was innocent of the murders. Looking round one final time his eyes stopped at the cast-iron range. ‘I wonder…’ he thought and crouched in front of it. He opened the door to the firebox and shone the torch. His eyebrows rose in disbelief as the beam picked out a small packet. Carefully he retrieved it, shaking the ash off as he did so. The corner had been burned but the rest of the box was intact. He recognised it immediately as a deck of cards. With rising astonishment he slid them out of the pack and began carefully laying them out on the small table. This was no ordinary deck – these were Tarot cards.

  Since the beginning of the investigation he’d made a study of them and knew the pack almost intimately. He went through them twice, but the result was the same each time – four cards, Death, the Lovers, Justice and The Tower were missing from the major arcana. Judging by the designs and the intricate blue and white pattern on the backs, he was pretty sure they were the same set as the cards found in the mouths of the two fortune tellers. The absence of Justice and The Tower was a bit of a mystery, but that would have to wait for now. It seemed that, for once, DI Bonnie Parker had got it right.

  ‘You say you found them in the stove?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘I suppose he was trying to burn the evidence.’

  Lewis could only agree. ‘So it seems.’

  ‘Right. Let’s see what the pikey has got to say about this.’

  -0-

  ‘You can’t keep me here any longer – I know my rights,’ Boswell growled.

  ‘Is that so, sunshine?’

  ‘Yes, it bloody well is. You know you haven’t got any evidence against me so you’re going to have to let me go.’ He started rising.

  ‘Not so fast. Sit down!’

  Parker’s menacing tone took the man by surprise and he flopped back in his chair.

  ‘I was prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt. You really took me in. But things have changed.’

  ‘What do you mean? Boswell’s brows were knitted together; suspicion written across his features.

  ‘We’ve got the evidence.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Where?’

  ‘Here.’ The DI slipped the pack out of his pocket and placed it on the table between them.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘As if you didn’t know.’ Parker grinned, shook the cards out and spread them out in a fan.

  Boswell stared uncomprehendingly. ‘They’ve got nothing to do with me.’

  ‘That’s just where you’re wrong.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They were found in the stove in your caravan. How do you account for that?’ Parker sat back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, a fixed Cheshire cat-like grin plastered across his face.

  ‘Listen. I’ve never seen them before.’

  ‘A likely tale. See where they’re charred?’ Parker prodded the nearest card where the corner had been burned away.

  Boswell stared but didn’t speak.

  ‘You obviously tried to get rid of the evidence but didn’t succeed.’ Parker’s voice was joyful. He celebrated by lighting up.

  Boswell shook his head disbelievingly. ‘You cannot be serious?’

  ‘You’d better believe it. This is damning evidence. On its own it might not prove conclusively that you did for both those fortune tellers. But I can tell you, I’m expecting more of the same.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘We’re going to take your lovely caravan and your smart pickup apart, until we find what we need,’ Parker said triumphantly.’

  ‘How dare you!’ Boswell hissed and lunged forward.

  The DI was just quick enough to jerk back before the other man could grasp his throat. There was a scuffle as Weeks and a constable standing by the door leapt in and thrust him back in his chair. Parker let out a breath. ‘Easy sunshine! No point in losing your rag. You know I’m right. I’m afraid you’re not going anywhere in a hurry.’ He nodded to the constable. ‘Take him down to the cells. I’ve got evidence to find.’

  -0-

  Russell and Bruissement trudged back to the car and slumped into their seats. ‘Well,’ Russell said, ‘there’s not much point staying here. Goodyear is obviously determined to keep us orff his land.’

  ‘What do you suggest we do then, Sonny?’ the Frenchman asked, wincing. He’d banged his plastered arm on the door.

  Russell frowned and looked thoughtful. After a pause he said: ‘I think we should try to meet up with Johnny Weeks and find out what’s been going on – what blunders Bonnie Parker has managed.’

  ‘Blunders? What is this?’

  ‘Foolish mistakes – miscarriages of justice – generally ignorant behaviour – that sort of thing.’

  Bruissement chuckled. ‘I think I understand.’

  ‘Plus, I ought to see if Johnny needs his car back.’

  ‘Yes. That is something I am not understanding.’ />
  ‘What’s that?’ Russell asked, as he manoeuvred the Ford out of the gateway and on to the road.

  ‘Why you do not ’ave a car of your own.’

  Russell smiled. ‘Yes, I suppose it is a little strange.’

  ‘I mean, ’ow do you get anywhere? Notamment when there is an emergency?’

  ‘I suppose that’s the privilege of being an Inspector. My DC, Johnny Weeks, lives close by or they’ll send a man with a car from the station. If necessary I can borrow one from the car pool. It doesn’t seem to be a problem.’

  ‘Hmm, I see – I think.’ The Frenchman took a deep breath and let it out noisily. ‘Anyway, that cidre, agréable as it is, ’as made me, ’ow you say, peckish. Is there anywhere we can get something to eat?’

  They were nearing Appledore and Russell said: ‘We could try the Red Lion. I’m not sure how good it would be but it could be interesting.’

  ‘You mean the pub of Jack Mills – the man you ’ave suspicions of?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Why not? It might be amusant.’

  Russell parked the car in the main street and they entered the pub. The bar was empty, although it was still lunchtime. There was no sign of Mills but Russell was pleased to see Edna standing behind the counter, smiling. He introduced her to the Frenchman who reached over, took her hand and held it up to his lips. The customary blush spread from her throat to the rest of her face.

  ‘W-what can I get you, gentlemen?’ she stammered.

  ‘We’d like some food. Is that possible?’

  ‘Jack’s not here so I’m afraid the kitchen’s closed.’ Bruissement’s face fell; his moustache drooped even lower; his eyes were as sad as a spaniel’s. Edna took pity. ‘I might be able to rustle something up.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t eat meat,’ Russell said. ‘But my friend will eat anything,’ he grinned.

  ‘Can I get you a drink first?’ Edna asked. Russell suggested that Babycham would be no match for Alf’s cider so they opted for two pints of best bitter. They took their drinks over to a table by the window.