Blood on the Cards

by Chris O'Donoghue

  Bruissement took a sip from his glass, and, pleasantly surprised that it wasn’t as bad as he’d expected, followed it with a deeper draught. ‘She is a nice girl.’

  ‘She certainly is.’

  ‘Why is she working for such a bad man?’

  ‘She needs the money, apparently.’

  ‘Ah, je comprends.’ He took another drink. ‘Do you know, Sonny. I could get used to this!’

  ‘That’s one thing in Mills’s favour. Despite what Alf said – he keeps a good cellar.’

  ‘Let us hope that ’e keeps a good kitchen, too.’

  It wasn’t long before Edna appeared carrying a tray. There was cold pork pie for Bruissement, hard-boiled eggs and cheese for Russell along with crusty bread, tomatoes, sliced cucumber and home-made chutney.

  ‘Ah, a feast!’ the Frenchman exclaimed.

  ‘Better not eat too much. Don’t forget we’re dining with Isobel this evening.’

  Bruissement patted his ample stomach. ‘You do not ’ave to worry about me, Sonny. My appetite is tres ’ealthy.’

  When they had finished, Edna came over to clear the table.

  ‘Where is Jack today?’ Russell asked.

  ‘He was here. But he had a phone call and had to dash off – no idea where. It was just before you arrived.’

  Oh, I see,’ he said mildly. Then when she had disappeared back to the kitchen, ‘I thought I recognised his pickup, Guillaume. We passed it on the way here. Now I wonder where he was going.’

  Bruissement raised his eyebrows. ‘Perhaps to move some of that contrebande in farmer Goodyear’s barn?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’

  -0-

  They drove back to Nottery Quay and, as Russell had hoped, a vehicle he recognised from the car pool was parked by the Salts. He grinned knowing it was the Ford Pilot that his DC hated. Stopping behind it they made their way into what was left of the funfair where they found Weeks and Nettie Sharpe talking to a very large man next to the Waltzer. He was wearing an army battledress jacket, tight over his wide shoulders, and a pair of threadbare suit trousers, held up with a thin leather belt. The trousers were obviously too small as the fabric strained over his massive thighs which bulged below the belt. His eyes were small – piggy-like; a dark, bushy moustache covered most of his mouth; a greasy cap was tipped towards the back of his head.

  ‘So you hadn’t noticed that the fortune teller was missing?’ Weeks was asking.

  ‘No. Far too busy working on this.’ He had the voice of a man who gargled with razor blades. He sniffed and pointed his thumb towards the part-dismantled machinery.

  ‘Any idea when you last saw her?’

  The man shook his head. ‘Don’t have much to do with them in the caravans.’

  ‘What about the one before – Petulengro?’ Nettie asked.

  ‘Him? He was all right. Bit of a strange bloke, but he kept himself to himself.’ The man let out a huge sneeze then wiped snot from his nose and moustache with the back of his hand.

  ‘Did you know he was queer – a homosexual?’

  The man shrugged. ‘Didn’t know and don’t care,’ he growled. ‘There’s all sorts here – working on a funfair.’

  ‘Any idea why he left?’

  ‘The thing about working in a fair is that you’re always on the move – always new places to go and new faces to meet. People come and people go. That’s the nature of travelling folk.’ After that surprisingly eloquent statement the man sneezed again and shrugged. ‘Sorry. Can’t help you any more, I don’t feel great. I’ve got to go – need to pack up as we’re moving on.’ He was just turning when Russell touched his arm.

  ‘Where are you going next?’

  ‘North of here. Tenterden, I think it’s called.’ Another shrug and he walked away. Picking up a large spanner he started undoing an equally large nut. In his oversize hand it looked small.

  ‘Do you think you’re done here?’ Russell asked Weeks.

  ‘I reckon so, Sir. Either no one knows anything or they’re reluctant to tell us if they do. Been a bit of a waste of time.’

  ‘I expect you could do with a cuppa then?’

  Nettie smiled. ‘I could, Sir. I’m parched.’

  ‘Right. Let’s see what Terry can offer.’

  As they made their way across to the lay-by Russell introduced her to Bruissement. For a change he didn’t kiss her hand but took it in his and shook it gently.

  ‘Enchanté, mademoiselle. It is a pleasure to see such a pretty lady in a uniform of the police.’

  ‘Don’t you have them in the Gendarmerie?’

  ‘Perhaps. But not in my departement.’

  Terry served them with four steaming mugs of strong tea which they took over to the table and sat down.

  Russell took a drink from his mug. ‘Well, Johnny, can I ask how the investigation is going?’

  Weeks pushed his hair off his forehead. ‘As well as can be expected’ He grinned. ‘With Bonnie Parker in charge.’

  ‘Has he found a suspect yet?’

  ‘He has.’

  ‘And it is?’

  ‘Vado Boswell.’

  Russell was just taking another swig from his mug. At Weeks’s words he spluttered, spraying tea from his mouth. ‘What! I thought he’d have had to let him go?’

  ‘Parker made Lewis look in his van again and he found some evidence to link him to the murders.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘A pack of Tarot cards.’

  ‘Pah! That’s hardly evidence.’

  ‘They were found in the ashes in the stove.’

  ‘Mmm, I suppose that’s something.’

  ‘That’s not all.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The Lovers and Death cards and a couple of others were missing from the deck.’

  Bruissement, who had been listening carefully, spoke. ‘Is it not possible that cards were, ’ow you say, planted?’

  ‘I suppose that’s possible. But who by?’ Weeks replied.

  ‘Someone who wants to implicate him – shift the blame. Presumably the actual murderer.’ Nettie suggested.

  ‘But maybe he is guilty,’ Russell said.

  ‘Well that’s what Parker thinks. And he’s insisted that Lewis finds more evidence.’

  ‘The poor man. I bet he’s cross that he missed the cards in the first search. Bonnie Parker must have been delighted.’

  ‘You know how he likes to gloat.’

  ‘I certainly do.’ Russell drained his mug and put it down on the table. ‘Anyway. Did you get anything from the people at the fair?’

  Weeks looked at the WPC. ‘Nettie? Do you want to tell him?’

  ‘Of course. Well, Sir. I talked to Boswell’s son, Duke. Inside that tough, streetwise exterior is a rather sensitive and frightened little boy.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘I talked to him – on his own – and he began to open up. Did you know that his mother ran off with one of the casual workers?’

  Russell shook his head. ‘I didn’t. That would explain his grubby appearance and gruff manner. But you said you thought he was sensitive.’

  ‘Yes, Sir. He was almost in tears. I’m sure he’s covering up for someone – someone he cares about.’

  Russell looked towards Weeks. ‘Any idea who?’

  The DC shook his head.

  There was a pause. Nettie looked thoughtful then spoke. ‘I could be wrong but I got the distinct impression that the chap we were talking to earlier - the big bloke – was nervous.’

  ‘The huge one dismantling the Waltzer?’ Weeks asked. ‘I thought he was just a bit shifty – keen to finish the job and move one.’

  ‘Perhaps…’ the WPC said slowly. ‘Maybe he just wasn’t well.’ She paused. ‘Did you notice how he shot off when we first arrived – when Duke came running across to confront us?’

  ‘Now you come to mention it, I did. And maybe you’re right about him appearing nervous.’

  Russell had bee
n listening to their conversation with interest. ‘Perhaps you’d better speak to him again,’ he said.

  ‘I’d better check in with Bonnie Parker first,’ Weeks said. ‘You know what he’s like…’

  ‘Before you go. I wanted to ask about your car. Is it okay if I keep it a bit longer – so Guillaume and I can get about?’

  ‘Of course, Sir. I’m delighted to be driving this wonderful motor instead.’ Weeks gave a wry smile.

  ‘Thanks, lad.’

  -0-

  ‘What do you mean? You’ve found another suspect!’ Though the speaker was small and tinny Parker’s voice echoed around the car. ‘I’ve got the only suspect here – Vado bloody Boswell!’ he thundered.

  ‘But Sir…’ Weeks said meekly. ‘What about evidence?’

  ‘Evidence? I’ve got the bloody evidence! Get your arse back here now. I need you in the interview room.’

  -0-

  ‘Who did you say turned up?’ Jack Mills’s eyes blazed.

  ‘He was a copper. Short, with a big chin. Nattily dressed.’ Angus Goodyear stood in front of the barn, his shotgun over his arm, the breech broken.

  ‘What was ’is name?’

  ‘I dunno. He didn’t say.’

  ‘Bet it was that nosey DI Russell. Didn’t he show you any identification?’

  ‘Er… oh yeah, he did. A warrant card.’

  ‘Well, what was on it?’ Mills demanded.

  Goodyear bristled. ‘Oi! Don’t you have a go at me. I’m doing you a favour.’

  Mills backed down. ‘Yeah, well. You’re going to be paid, ain’t yer?’

  ‘That’s not the point. If he does come back with a search warrant and finds the stuff…’

  ‘’E won’t come back. An’ if ’e did ’e wouldn’t find nothing.’

  Goodyear furrowed his brow. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Cos I’m going to shift it. All right? Come on. Give me a hand to load it up.’

  The farmer looked even more puzzled. ‘Where will you take it? You’ve already moved it once.’

  ‘Never you mind. Just be ’appy you won’t ’ave to worry no more.’

  ‘But if you’re taking it away, what about me?’ Goodyear could see some easy money slipping through his fingers.

  ‘Waddyer mean, what about you?’

  ‘You said you’d pay me for storing it, and if it’s not here…’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll see you’re all right,’ Mills grumbled. ‘No come on, let’s get it shifted. I want it out of ’ere.’

  Once the pickup was loaded, Mills gave the farmer some cash. It was not as much as at first promised and Goodyear grumbled but he was glad to see the back of the stuff. Mills drove along the track and stopped the truck in the gateway. He was in a quandary. Where should he take the boxes? He’d thought the church would have been a safe place – luckily he’d moved them in time. But transferring them to the barn had obviously been a bad idea.

  That blasted copper. He was fed up with him and his meddling. Why couldn’t he leave him alone? Mills thought that after he’d thumped him the other morning he’d stop looking but it seemed it had made him even more determined to continue. He couldn’t take the stuff back to the pub – that would be too obvious. So where? He sat for a long time, his hands on the steering wheel, his forehead resting on his knuckles. There was nothing for it. He’d have to take it back to Dungeness. Albert Stern would not be pleased.

  -0-

  Mills was relieved to see that Stern’s van was parked outside Prospect Cottage but still approached the house with a feeling of trepidation. Stern had made it patently clear that he wanted nothing more to do with his smuggling operation. He’d said this before, on more than one occasion, but Mills got the impression that he really meant it this time. It was annoying as the man’s boat was swift and seaworthy, which meant the collection of the goods had always gone smoothly.

  He was at a loss as to where he could find another willing boat owner and he was blowed if he was going to give up on the trade. Running the pub was okay but it was long hours for a relatively small reward. Whereas bringing cigarettes and brandy across the channel – without the burden of paying duty – and selling them on the black market was much more lucrative. Perhaps he should buy a boat of his own? Now, that was a thought. He was turning this over in his mind as he knocked on the door. It was a while before it opened a crack and Stern’s face appeared round the edge. When he saw who it was, the skinny man’s face darkened – thunder clouds filling a summer sky.

  ‘Waddyer want?’ he said, his voice coming out as a menacing growl.

  Mills held his hands up in supplication. ‘Don’t be like that, my friend.’

  ‘Don’t you my friend me. Turning up like this can only mean one thing – you need my help.’

  The landlord chuckled. ‘You know me too well. Aren’t you gonna invite me in?’

  ‘No, I’m not. I told you I want nothing more to do with you or your schemes. Every time I hear a knock on the door I’m expecting it to be a visit from the rozzers, after you thumped that copper.’

  Mills’s arms spread. ‘Don’t worry about that. No one knows it was us…’

  ‘Us…? You mean you! I don’t want nothing to do with it – or with you. Now bugger off!’ With that he shut the door firmly and Mills heard the bolt being shot.

  He stood on the step for a few moments, debating whether to try again, but seeing Stern in such a mood he doubted he would change his mind. Mills trudged back to the truck, climbed into the driver’s seat and just sat, thinking. He couldn’t take the stuff to the pub – that would be an obvious place for the coppers to look. Besides, he was growing suspicious of Edna. That blasted detective, Russell, seemed to be one step behind him and he wondered how he managed it. The barmaid could well be telling him more than she should. He would have a stiff word with her when he got back. But that didn’t help with his present dilemma.

  He had backed the truck into Stern’s drive so it would be easier to unload the boxes. He stared out through the windscreen, his eyes half-focused on the boats pulled up on the distant shingle bank. Then he noticed the shed next to the little railway track they’d used a couple of days before. ‘I wonder…’ he thought. He started the engine and drove across the road and on to the shingle. Keeping the truck in low gear he bumped across the stones, hanging on to the steering wheel as he was thrown from side to side. Luckily it wasn’t far and shortly he pulled up beside the semi-derelict building. He switched off the engine and climbed out of the cab.

  The door to the shed was firmly shut. He pulled it open, the woodwork complaining as the bottom was dragged across the pebbles. He scanned the interior, unaware that it had been Russell’s hiding place. It looked to him like no one had been in there for ages. It would have to do. He rolled back the cover, spat on his hands and lifted the first box out of the back of the pickup. In a few minutes he had transferred the goods into the shed. He dragged a couple of pieces of moth-eaten canvas over the stack he had made and piled some broken boxes on top. After shutting the door he kicked a pile of shingle against the bottom, hoping no one would be curious enough to look inside. He was due to meet one of his contacts who could shift the stuff so it wouldn’t have to be there for long. After one more glance at the shed he climbed back into the truck and reversed out on to the road.

  Chapter 12

  Canadian Military Pattern (CMP) trucks were a range of military vehicles, made in large numbers, and in numerous variants, by Canada during World War II. They were built to British Army specifications, primarily intended for use in the armies of the British Commonwealth.

  AFTER BOSWELL had been sent down to the cells, Parker returned to his office. He lay back in his chair; feet on the table; one scuffed brogue crossed over the other. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth, a thin column of smoke spiralling towards the grubby ceiling. He was feeling disgruntled. His usual sidekick, DC Clyde Barrow, was sick – again. Parker enjoyed using DC Weeks as he knew it annoyed Russ
ell, but, in his opinion, the man was useless. He found him surly and uncommunicative, unlike Barrow, who always agreed unquestioningly with him. But that wasn’t the only reason he was out of sorts. He was concerned about the case. Although the discovery of the charred deck of Tarot cards seemed to implicate Boswell, he had a feeling in his water that it wouldn’t be enough.

  He was annoyed that Lewis had missed the cards on his first search and wondered if he’d missed anything else. But he doubted it, the blasted man was rarely wrong. If he didn’t turn anything further up there wasn’t much of a case and he’d have to let Boswell go. He loathed the gypsy, especially after he’d been nearly assaulted by him and he was buggered if he was going to let him walk free. He sat, turning things over in his mind. The forgotten cigarette burned down and a long column of ash fell and peppered his lapel. Then he had an idea… He grinned. Yes, he had an idea and it was a good idea. In fact, it was a very good idea.

  -0-

  ‘Wickstead, my friend,’ he said, ‘how are you today?’

  The desk sergeant was taken aback. Bonnie Parker was never this convivial. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

  ‘That’s good, that’s good,’ the DI said, nodding sagely. ‘Tell me, what happened to the clothes Boswell was wearing when he was arrested?’

  ‘His clothes?’ Wickstead was even more confused. ‘They’re in a box in the store. You won’t find anything on them though; Lewis has been over them with a fine-tooth comb.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t doubt that. He’s very thorough,’ Parker said, spreading his arms in a magnanimous gesture. ‘I just thought I’d take a look, get a feel for the man.’

  ‘Right.’ Wickstead’s eyebrows joined in a frown.

  ‘You say they’re in the store?’

  ‘That’s right. You’ll have to search as the boxes are in rather a muddle.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll find them.’

  ‘Do you want a hand?’

  ‘No. No! I can manage – thanks,’ he said, trying not to sound alarmed. The last thing he wanted was anyone with him.