‘A dead fisherman with a nasty head injury. Just want to make sure he didn’t do it himself.’
Crooks had to stand on tiptoe in order to reach into the boat. ‘Not much chance of his doing this to himself – unless he was a contortionist. Looks like someone bashed him with a heavy, pointed instrument and then dumped the body in here.’ He shone his torch around the inside of the hull. ‘There’s nothing obvious that could have inflicted such a wound.’
While he and the others had been engaged in observing the dead man, Lewis had been shining his torch on the various objects scattered about the beach. The beam lit up a tangle of worn and sea-stained rope, some rusty chain, a pile of wooden fish boxes and a jumble of rotten fishing nets. Then he spotted something. ‘John!’ he cried. I think I’ve found it.’ The others turned to look. Lewis’s torch beam was shining on an old anchor, the sharp fluke pointing heavenwards.
Crooks walked over and knelt on the stones. He looked closely at the rusty metal spike. ‘I think you’re right. Looks like blood. And fairly fresh at that.’
‘What do you think happened, John?’ Russell asked.
‘I reckon he must have fallen and ended up bashing his head on this. Judging by the dent in his occiput, death would have been pretty swift, if not instantaneous.’
‘Would just falling have been enough to kill him?’
The pathologist considered. ‘Hmm, probably not. I suppose he could have been pushed.’
‘By the person who dumped him in the boat?’ Weeks added.
‘Yes, most likely. Help me up lad.’ Crooks held his hand out and the DC pulled him to his feet. ‘I don’t see we can do much here tonight. Any idea what the forecast is – any rain in the offing?’
‘I don’t think so, John,’ Lewis answered. ‘As long as no one tramples over the site it should be okay until the morning.’
‘How do you feel about standing guard for a while, Fishwick?’ Russell asked.
‘That’s fine, Sir. I only came on at six.’
‘Good man – we’ll get someone to relieve you later.’ He turned towards the pathologist. ‘Thanks for coming, John. I know how you hate being disturbed at home.’
Crooks snorted. ‘Normally, I’d agree but tonight I was glad to get out of the house. We had a lawyer and his wife to dinner – both tediously boring. This is much more enjoyable. However, I think we’ve finished here for the evening. Fancy having a drink?’
‘I’d love to, but I’ve got a dinner party to get back to – if I’m still allowed in.’
‘Ah, the fragrant Isobel.’ Although he couldn’t see his face in the gloom Russell could hear the chuckle in the man’s voice. ‘Better not keep her waiting any longer.’
‘That’s all right – she’s got Guillaume for company.’
‘You’d better rush back then, you know what they say about the French!’
Chapter 13
Dungeness is one of the largest expanses of shingle in Europe. There is a collection of unusual dwellings. Most are wooden weatherboarded beach houses, but there are approximately 30, built in the 1920s, constructed around old railway coaches.
PARKER WAS in a foul mood. When he’d heard that Weeks had summoned Russell to the incident at Dungeness he was apoplectic with rage.
‘Why the hell didn’t you try to get hold of me?’ he demanded. Before the DC could reply he went on: ‘Russell is on leave! I’m the senior detective in the station.’
‘I did try,’ Weeks said mildly. ‘But no one knew where you were.’
‘I was with the Super!’ he thundered.
‘But I tried him and he wasn’t at home.’
‘That’s because we were at the golf club – not that it’s any of your business.’
Standing in front of the DI’s desk, hands clasped in front of him, Weeks remained silent.
‘You’ve been nothing but a nuisance since I generously took you under my wing. I can’t wait for DC Barrow to get back to work. At least he knows how to behave.’
‘Like a lackey,’ Weeks said under his breath.
‘What was that?’
‘I just said he was lucky – to work with you…Sir.’
‘Hmm. Glad you appreciate it. Now, bugger off, I need to talk to the Super. Bring him up to date with this latest development.’
‘Er, I think he’s busy right now.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘DI Russell is with him. I’ll leave you in peace, Sir.’ Weeks scooted out of the office before he was subjected to the broadside he knew would be coming.
-0-
‘I told you to take some leave.’ Superintendent Vic Stout said. He was sitting behind his large uncluttered desk, one of his customary cheroots smouldering in the glass ashtray.
‘I did, Sir.’
‘I meant for at least a week.’ Russell could see the colour rising in Stout’s puffy cheeks.
‘But Weeks needed a senior officer last night.’
‘He should have found DI Parker.’
‘He tried to – with no luck.’
‘Couldn’t have tried very hard.’
‘Sir, DC Weeks is a very diligent officer. He tried very hard to find Parker but he wasn’t anywhere to be found.’
‘Enough!’ Stout banged the flat of his hand down on the desk making the ashtray jump. ‘He was with me, if you must know. Discussing the case he took over from you and has made progress with. Something you were unable to do.’
‘Sir?’
‘He’s got the murderer in the cell. Going to charge him this morning.’
Russell was dumbfounded. ‘Charge him? Has he got sufficient evidence?’
‘Enough to pin both murders on the man.’
‘But Sir. As I understand it the only evidence is a pack of cards and some bloodstains on a scarf. And it’s not certain how they got there.’
The colour in Stout’s cheeks had spread to the rest of his face and was fast turning a shade of beetroot. ‘Inspector!’ he snapped. ‘If DI Parker thinks he’s got enough evidence then I’m happy to let him go ahead.’
‘I think you’re making a mistake.’
‘What did you say?’ he snarled. ‘How dare you question my authority! I suggest you leave Parker to get on with his job and as a concession I’ll let you continue with the investigation of the death over at Dungeness. Shouldn’t tax you too much – probably a brawl that got out of hand.’
‘But what if the deaths are related?’
‘What? Preposterous! How could the accidental death of a fisherman, miles away, have anything to do with the deaths of a couple of gypsies over here?’
‘I don’t know at the moment, Sir. I just have a feeling…’
The cheroot had gone out so Stout stuck it in his mouth and lit it with his Zippo lighter. He sucked hard then blew out a column of smoke. ‘You and your blasted feelings.’
‘What if I’m right?’
‘Then you’ll have proved me – and Inspector Parker wrong. And I think that’s about as likely as men landing on the moon. Now get out before I suspend you indefinitely.’
-0-
Russell left the room, muttering as he walked down the corridor. ‘Bloody Bonnie Parker. How does he always manage to get round Stout? How can such an idiot appear at all credible? After all the cock-ups he’s made in the past… I just don’t get it.’
‘Sir?’
While he’d been talking to himself his feet had led him into the open office. Weeks was sitting at his desk, the teetering stack of files threatening to tumble to the floor at any moment. ‘Oh, lad. Take no notice.’
‘Sounds like someone’s really upset you.’
Russell grinned. ‘Perceptive as ever. Listen. Does DI Parker need you at the moment?’
‘He told me to “bugger off” a while ago, so probably not.’
‘How do you fancy coming back over to Dungeness with me? See if we can get any clues as to what happened to Albert Stern.’
‘I’d be delighted, Sir.’
‘Lewis and Crooks should be there already. We can go and talk to the locals – see if anyone saw or heard anything.’
-0-
‘Weeks? Weeks? WEEKS!’ Parker’s bellowing brought not the DC but Sergeant Wickstead.
‘You after DC Weeks, Sir?’ the desk sergeant said, leaning round the open door.
‘Course I bloody am. That’s why I was yelling his name. Where is he?’
‘Out, Sir. Gone off with Inspector Russell.’
‘WHAT? WHERE?’
‘Dungeness, I think.’
‘I thought Russell had been told to take some leave?’
‘Apparently the boss said he can investigate the death over there.’
‘First I’ve heard of it. Doesn’t give him permission to pinch my DC.’
‘Ahem. Weeks is actually his DC.’
‘What? Oh yes, I suppose so. Don’t expect he’d be much use, anyway. Who else is in the station?’
‘Constables Beaumont and Lee are both here, Sir.’
‘Good. I want that gyppo, Boswell, brought up from the cells. You’d better hang around too. After last time I’ve got a feeling he may cause trouble. Stick him in the interview room.’
‘Will you wait there for him, Sir?’
‘No. I’ll keep the bugger waiting.’
Boswell was led into the interview room by the two PCs. He’d had little sleep and it showed. There were dark circles under his eyes, his curly blond hair needed a wash and was flattened greasily on his skull. He was wearing a borrowed police shirt and dark blue serge trousers, neither of which fitted, the shirt too tight and the trousers too short. He sat, slumped in the chair, arms folded – chin on chest. He’d been sitting for a good ten minutes. ‘When are you going to let me go?’ he rasped.
Wickstead was standing by the door with the two constables. ‘I’m sorry, Sir. You’ll have to wait until DI Parker gets here.’
Boswell looked up. ‘Where is he?’
‘He’s on his way.’
‘What’s keeping him?’
‘I don’t know, Sir. I expect he’s got some important business to attend to.’
‘Ha! I’ve got important business too. I’ve got a fairground to run.’
They waited a few minutes longer – the silence becoming increasingly uncomfortable. Then the door burst open and Parker strode into the room, a Capstan Full Strength clamped between his smirking lips, a cloud of ash trailing behind him. He sat down heavily opposite Boswell and plonked a file on the table between them.
The fairground owner sat up and looked the policeman straight in the eye. ‘So can I go now?’
Parker sat for a long while before answering. ‘You’re not going anywhere in a hurry, matey.’
‘What do you mean?’ Boswell’s eyes were half-closed, his whole body tense. The words came out as a growl.
‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you.’ Parker was obviously relishing every moment.
‘What?’
The DI opened the file and read from a sheet of paper: ‘Vado Boswell. You are accused of the murders of Ivy Rose Lee and Pilgrim Petulengro. You will be taken from here and held in custody until…’ He got no further as Boswell leapt up, sending his chair flying. He reached across the table, scattering the papers, and tried to grab Parker’s throat. In a flash Beaumont and Lee were on him. His arms were pulled back and handcuffs snapped on his wrists.
‘Why, you bastard…!’ he shouted. ‘You haven’t got any evidence.’
‘Oh yes we have, plenty. And it’s probably the hangman’s rope for you.’
The chair had been righted and the two constables forced Boswell to sit. ‘You can’t be serious. I admitted I’d moved Rose Lee’s body – I told you I didn’t kill her. And Pilgrim was my friend. I didn’t kill him – why would I?’
‘I don’t know but the evidence against you is damning. I suggest you own up to it and hope the judge is lenient.’
Boswell shook his head violently. ‘No, no, NO! It’s not true – you can’t pin this on me – it was someone else.’
Parker decided to play the game a little longer. He really was enjoying this. ‘Okay. So tell me – if it wasn’t you, then who was it?’
‘I don’t know. I only know you’ve got the wrong man.’
‘I don’t think so. You’re not going to wriggle out of this now.’ The DI started gathering the papers together. ‘Take him down. I’ve got a case to prepare.’
-0-
As Weeks and Russell headed over to Dungeness they chatted. ‘Tell me again what Parker said about the worker on the Waltzer,’ Russell said.
‘Nettie and I tried to get him to let us go over to Tenterden, where the fair had gone, and interview him again. But he’s adamant that Boswell is guilty of both murders. And he seems to have persuaded the Super, too.’
‘I’m surprised. Despite his faults, Stout usually likes everything cut and dried before he allows any of us to make a decision – especially one that might mean the death penalty.’
‘Between you and me, Sir, I think the Super has the same opinion of travellers as Parker. I reckon he wants him to be guilty.’
‘But that’s terrible. We could be sending an innocent man to the gallows.’
‘I know, Sir. But what can we do about it?’
‘I’m not sure, right now. But we have to try to do something.’ The car hummed along the road. Russell was thoughtful for a while. ‘Listen, Johnny. I know it might sound fanciful but I’ve got an odd feeling that this death – the one we’re going to investigate – is somehow linked to the others.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Don’t ask me how. Hopefully all will become clear before too long.’
Weeks felt no need to comment. He had become used to his boss’s hunches and feelings and he knew, however unlikely they at first appeared, they often bore fruit – eventually.
By now they had reached the turning to the beach where the body had been found. ‘Park here, lad,’ Russell said. ‘There’s no point in bothering Lewis and Crooks. We’ll go over and see if any of the locals can tell us anything.’
On the other side of the road, half a dozen dwellings were spread out. None had a discernible boundary with its neighbour, it was just continuous shingle. In fact there was shingle as far as the eye could see. In this desert of a place wild plants grew in surprising profusion: Santolina, all spindly glaucous leaves and yellow button flowers; Valerian in rich pink, with occasional white blossom; Vipers bugloss with electric blue flowers on upright stems. The first home they came to was a converted railway carriage, not unlike Russell’s own, except this one was much more careworn. The structure was essentially the same – a redundant Victorian carriage, but the paint was peeling and a couple of the windows had wooden slats instead of glass. Russell smiled as he knocked on the door. After a few moments it was opened by a wizened figure dressed from head to toe in dark-blue, shapeless clothing. A battered felt hat was rammed down on the small head. It was difficult to tell the sex until the figure spoke.
‘Yes?’ The croaky voice announced it to be female.
‘Hello madam, we’re police officers. I wonder if you can help.’
‘What? You’ll have to speak up – I’m deaf.’
Russell raised his voice. ‘We’re from the police.’
Alarm crossed the woman’s face. ‘You can’t accuse me of nothing. I ain’t left the house for a week.’
‘No, we’re not accusing you of anything,’ the DI said patiently.
‘I should think not! What do you want then?’
‘I wondered if you’d seen or heard anything – anything unusual in the last day or so?’
The woman frowned, her nut-brown face wrinkled like a walnut. ‘I told you, I’m deaf! I don’t hear anything.’
Russell tried once more. ‘But have you seen anything?’
‘What?’
‘Have you seen anything unusual?’
‘Seen anything? No, I broke my glasses.’ She cackled, a so
und that wouldn’t have disgraced one of Macbeth’s witches. ‘Can’t see farther than the end of me nose.’
Russell admitted defeat. ‘Thank you anyway,’ he said loudly.
‘Don’t mention it,’ she answered, and closed the door.
‘I hope they’re not all like that,’ Weeks said, as they walked back to the road.
The next house looked more promising. It was a single-story dwelling, the weatherboard-clad exterior tar-black under a tiled roof. An attempt had been made to create a garden with circles of larger stones round trimmed shrubs. The front door looked as if it had been newly painted. From a hook to one side hung a loop of fishing line, threaded with hagstones.
Russell rapped with his knuckles. This time the door was opened by a man who appeared to be a fisherman. He looked to be in his mid-fifties but could have been younger. His face was so weather-beaten it was difficult to tell. He wore a traditional smock, tan coloured like the sails on an old fishing boat, and a Breton cap sat on his head at a jaunty angle. He took the clay pipe out of his mouth and viewed the two policemen with suspicion.
‘Yes?’
‘Hello, we’re making enquiries about an incident on the beach.’
The suspicious look softened. ‘Oh, Albie Stern. I ’eard about that.’
‘Was he a friend of yours?’
‘A friend?’ the man snorted. ‘’Don’t think ’e was friends with anyone. Sorry to speak ill of the dead but ’e was a miserable sod.’
‘Then you didn’t have much to do with him?’
‘Well… I sometimes gave ’im an ’and to launch ’is boat. And ’e did the same for me, from time to time. We fishermen tend to ’elp each other out – it’s an ’ard life, you know.’
‘I imagine it is. I wondered if you’d seen or heard anything in the last couple of days – anything unusual.’
‘Let me think.’ The man stuck the pipe back between his teeth and sucked hard. The tobacco in the bowl must have still been glowing as after he’d inhaled he blew out a gout of smoke from the corner of his mouth. ‘Now you come to mention it there was something a bit odd.’
Blood on the Cards Page 17
