Blood on the Cards

by Chris O'Donoghue

  Stout leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk. ‘Good. We need to get this case wrapped up. We can’t keep Boswell here forever without more to go on.’ There was a knock on the door. Without looking up Stout said: ‘Come.’

  The door opened and Wickstead put his head round. ‘Sorry to bother you, Sir. But I thought you should know. I’ve just had a call from the fire brigade. There’s been a blaze over near Iden.’

  Stout looked puzzled. ‘How does this affect me, sergeant? Surely they can deal with it.’

  ‘Oh yes, Sir. The local brigade is very efficient.’

  ‘I’m sure it is. But why are you bothering me with this information? Can’t you see I’m in the middle of an important discussion?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. But I thought it important enough to interrupt you.’

  ‘A fire, that the brigade is dealing with, is no concern of the police force.’ Stout was becoming increasingly tetchy.

  ‘It’s not that, Sir. It’s what’s on fire.’

  ‘Well what is it? Spit it out man.’

  ‘A caravan, Sir. Down near the river. The line was bad but I think it must be the one owned by Petulengro.’

  ‘Why the hell didn’t you say that in the first place?’

  ‘Sorry, Sir. I was just coming to that.’

  ‘Oh God. This is bound to complicate things. Parker Get over there immediately. See if there’s anything you can salvage. If you don’t get that evidence we’re back to square one.’

  -0-

  When Jack Mills had left Appledore he was wound up and angry and drove like a madman. But he quickly realised that driving erratically might draw attention so he slowed down. As he approached Prospect Cottage he was relieved to see that there appeared to be no police presence. He turned the pickup off the metalled road and bumped along the shingle to the abandoned shed. With his heart in his mouth he dragged the door open. Inside was just as he’d left it. He let out a long sigh. He pulled the broken boxes aside and dragged off the piece of rotten canvas. Breaking open one of the crates he took out a bottle of brandy, pulled the cork out with his teeth and, by way of celebration, took a long swig. Grinning he started loading the boxes into the bed of the truck. When he’d finished, he pulled the canvas tilt over the bed and tied it down firmly.

  He then climbed back into the cab but, before starting the engine, he just sat, thinking. He needed to stash the stuff – but where? Angus Goodyear had made it plain he didn’t want it in his barn and St Dunstan’s was just too risky. If that blasted girl, Edna, hadn’t been so nosey he could store it back in the cellar of the pub. Then he laughed. Of course – he’d sacked her, so there was no problem now. With that cheering thought he started the engine, ready to head back.

  -0-

  ‘What was all that about?’ Russell was standing in the entrance lobby with Bruissement and Wickstead. Each had a steaming mug of tea that the sergeant had brewed. The Frenchman had four sugars in his. The DI had been more than a little surprised when Parker had come bursting out of Stout’s office, yelling for Barrow. Russell had never seen him move so fast.

  ‘He’s going over to Iden. Apparently the gypsy’s caravan has caught fire. He was hoping to get more evidence against Boswell.’

  ‘Fat chance of that now.’ Russell took a slurp from his mug. ‘Hasn’t Lewis already searched it?’

  ‘Of course he has.’

  ‘I doubt there would be anything he’s missed. He’s the most thorough man I know.’

  ‘What about that scarf you ’ave told told me about?’ Bruissement asked.

  ‘Ha! That sounded more than suspicious.’ Russell turned to Wickstead. ‘Didn’t you say you found Parker poking around in the store?’

  ‘That’s right. Said he was looking through Boswell’s things. Wanted to get a feel for the man. It just didn’t ring true.’

  ‘So this evidence may have been, ’ow you say, planted?’ Bruissement suggested.

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past Parker. He’s a lazy sod and would do anything to cut corners and get a conviction.’

  ‘That’s a bit strong, Sonny,’ Wickstead said.

  ‘Yes, you’re right. Sorry. It’s just I don’t think the fairground owner is guilty.’

  ‘What about the man you’ve got in the cell – Pint-sized Charlie? Is he the one?’

  ‘Somehow I don’t think so either.’ Russell looked gloomy and shook his head. ‘But I’ve got to go through the motions – now we’ve got him.’ Further conversation was halted by the telephone bell. Wickstead picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hello, Collinghurst police station. Can I help?’ There was a pause while he listened. ‘I see.’ Another pause. ‘Yes, he happens to be standing right next to me.’ He put his hand over the mouthpiece and turned to Russell. ‘Sonny, I’ve got someone called Edna on the phone. She’s asked to speak to you.’

  ‘That’s fine. I’ll talk to her.’ Wickstead passed the handset across.

  ‘Hello Edna. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Oh Inspector Russell. It’s Jack.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s sacked me.’ The girl sounded very distressed.

  ‘That’s a pity but I don’t see how I can help.’

  ‘I know you can’t. It’s not that.’

  ‘What is it then?’

  ‘He went off in his truck – I saw him. He was driving like a bat out of hell.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘And I think I know where he was going.’

  ‘Do you? Where?’

  ‘Over to Dungeness. I think that’s where he stored all that stuff I told you about.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘The thing is he’s very drunk and I don’t know what he’ll do. He’s become very violent lately – loses his temper easily.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll come after you?’

  ‘Oh no. I doubt that.’

  ‘Well that’s good, anyway.’

  ‘There’s something else...’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I can’t be sure but I have a feeling he may come back to the pub with the goods.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘It was something he said – something about Albert Stern’s death not being his problem but getting the stuff back was.’

  ‘Right. Thank you for telling me, Edna. That’s very helpful.’ Russell passed the handset back to Wickstead and explained what the girl had told him. ‘I think we’d better intercept him before anything happens. Our big friend will have to wait for now.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about him,’ Wickstead said as he put the phone down. ‘I looked in earlier. He’s in no fit state to cause trouble. He was out for the count – snoring his head off.’

  ‘Good. If we go to Dungeness via Appledore we’re bound to bump into him.’

  ‘Not literally, I hope,’ Wickstead grinned.

  ‘Oh, and not a word to the Super. I’m in enough trouble already. Johnny, you and Nettie follow me in your car. I’ll go ahead with Guillaume. When we get to Appledore, you stop by the bridge in case I miss him or he doubles back across the Marsh. We’ll carry on and see if we can cut him off.’ They climbed into their respective cars and set off out of town.

  -0-

  The police car bumped along the track past the motor graveyard and arrived at the stand of elders. ‘Bloody hell!’ Parker exclaimed. A Dennis fire engine was parked across the clearing – one hose snaking towards the river, another being held by two firemen clad in blue serge uniforms and wearing black leather, coal-scuttle helmets. They were playing a jet of water on to the charred remains of a caravan. Damp grey smoke curled lazily upwards.

  A fire officer came up to the car. ‘Afraid there’s not much left of them,’ he said.

  ‘Them?’ Parker questioned.

  ‘Yes. There are – or rather were – two gypsy caravans.’

  Parker hauled himself out of the car and stood staring, his hand on the open door. ‘I don’t understand. How come there are two
?’

  Barrow had come round to join him. ‘I think I might know, Sir.’

  The DI just stared – speech had deserted him.

  ‘Apparently Ivy Rose Lee’s caravan had disappeared from the Salts in Nottery Quay.’

  ‘Was it a bowtop van?’ the fire officer asked.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Well this might be it.’ He pointed to a charred wooden carcass, just discernible as having once been some sort of vehicle.

  ‘Why the hell would anyone set fire to them?’ the DI asked. ‘Kids I suppose.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ the fire officer replied. ‘I know a bit about travelling folk. Apparently it’s tradition to burn a gypsy’s wagon and possessions after death. Could be that’s what happened here.’

  Parker ran his hands through his hair. ‘Hell’s teeth! I was expecting to find vital evidence.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky mate. Whatever evidence there was has gone up in smoke.’

  -0-

  The big man picked up Gold as easily as if he were a puppet and threw him back against the cushions on the sofa. It winded the PC, he coughed, pain shot through his head and tears welled in his eyes. The man leaned in close to his face.

  ‘Not feeling so good, eh?’ The man’s breath smelled of undigested food and unbrushed teeth. Gold tried not to gag.

  ‘I feel terrible. Why did you have to hit me so hard?’

  ‘Poor diddums. I can do worse than that, so don’t tempt me.’ He turned and paced the length of the caravan. It was only feet before he had to turn and retrace his steps then turn again. As he walked he spoke – almost to himself. ‘Right. What am I going to do now?’

  Turn.

  ‘Get out of the country – that’s the best thing.’

  Turn.

  ‘I’ll have no trouble getting work as a strongman in another funfair.’

  Turn.

  He was silent for a while. The only sound was his footfalls as he walked. The caravan shook every time he put his foot down. At the mention of “strongman” it suddenly became clear to Gold. It was Charles Atlas! Wickstead had told him about the strongman and his arrest – and how they didn’t have any evidence to hold him on, so Parker had been forced to let him go. The sergeant had also mentioned the black gloves he wore. Apparently he suffered badly from eczema and he liked to keep them covered. That would also explain the lack of fingerprints. How come Bonnie Parker hadn’t noticed that? His thoughts were interrupted when Atlas spoke again.

  ‘But what if I’m pulled up? I need some sort of insurance.’ He stopped in front of Gold and stared hard at him. After a few moments a grin spread across his face, wrinkles appeared round his eyes and the corners of his moustache lifted. ‘You’ll be my insurance.’

  ‘Me? How?’

  ‘I take it you know how to drive?’

  ‘Why yes.’

  ‘Good. Then you’ll be my driver.’

  ‘What if I refuse?’

  The eyes narrowed and the grin disappeared. ‘You won’t,’ he said threateningly.

  ‘How are you going to make me?’ The young PC tried to sound more confident than he felt.

  Atlas swivelled round, surprisingly swiftly for one so large. He dragged open a drawer and pulled out a wicked-looking knife with an eight-inch blade. Turning back he brandished it close to Gold’s face. ‘I’ve killed before and I’ll do it again.’ He gave a bark of a laugh. ‘I’ll be hanged if I’m caught, so one more won’t make any difference.’

  ‘What?’ There was a tremor in the policeman’s voice.

  I said I’ve killed twice before – they both deserved it. The third one was an accident but they won’t see it like that.’

  Gold couldn’t keep the horror from his face. He knew someone had killed the two fortune tellers but he couldn’t believe that he was here, with the murderer. And a third one? Of course! It was the fisherman, Stern, in Dungeness. Now he felt really helpless. The man was obviously deranged and would stop at nothing. What was he to do?

  Think…

  Talk…

  Talk. Yes, that was the best thing. He took a breath. ‘Okay. So if I agree to be your driver, what then?’

  ‘Oh, you’ll agree all right.’ The knife was waved in front of Gold’s face again. ‘You’re going to drive me to Dover.’

  ‘And then what?’

  The man pushed the tip of the knife against the policeman’s chin. A drop of blood fell and rolled down one of his polished buttons. ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Now – I’m going to untie you. But if you try anything…’ Another scarlet dropped followed the first one.

  Gold tried to ignore the stinging sensation on his chin. ‘But shouldn’t there be some sort of plan? We might get stopped by customs.’

  Atlas looked thoughtful. He paused in untying the bonds. ‘True. Maybe I should think more carefully about it.’ Then he shook his head, like he was trying to dislodge something stuck on his ear. ‘What am I saying?’ His high voice rose even higher. ‘Stop trying to trick me!’ he screamed.

  The more the man became worked up the calmer Gold felt. It was as if he had nothing to lose. ‘Sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m not trying to trick you – just trying to help.’

  ‘What do you suggest then?’ Atlas had moved in so that their faces were inches apart again.

  ‘Well…’ the young PC was struggling to think.

  ‘Yes?’ The man had tilted his head to one side, looking like a gargoyle made flesh.

  Gold shook his head. ‘I don’t know. You’re probably right – cross that bridge when we get to it.’

  Atlas stood back and put his hands on his hips. ‘Huh! You’ll never make a detective.’ His face twisted into a sneer. By now the light was draining from the sky and the interior of the caravan had grown gloomy. The man turned again and, taking a box of matches, lifted the glass and lit an oil lamp that was fixed to the wall. It cast a warm glow that did nothing to cheer Gold’s mood at all.

  A silence stretched between them. Gold thought furiously. All the time the man was talking he was safe and, hopefully, his colleagues would be out looking for him. Well, he hoped so. He didn’t fancy his chances if they made it to Dover – Atlas wasn’t going to let him go. He was sure of that. He would need to do something to stall him until the others arrived. Almost without thinking he said, in a quiet voice: ‘Why did you kill Ivy Rose Lee?’

  Atlas looked up, Puzzlement on his face. ‘Why?’ He paused. ‘Why? Because she was a cow,’ he snarled.

  ‘Killing her seems a bit drastic if that was all.’

  Atlas seemed lost in thought and didn’t answer for a while. ‘What? No, that wasn’t all. At first we were friends. She knew I was missing Pilgrim – it wasn’t really her fault he went away.’

  ‘Whose was it?’

  ‘Bloody Boswell. He never liked him. Once he found out what he was he couldn’t wait to get rid of him.’

  Gold was puzzled. ‘What do you mean, “What he was”?’

  Atlas gave a snort. ‘He called him a “nancyboy” and a ‘Jessie”. Said he was “as bent as a nine bob note”. And much worse than that.’

  ‘I see.’ Again Gold was finding it hard to comprehend but was determined to keep playing for time. The cavalry would have to arrive soon – wouldn’t they? ‘So why the fortune teller and not Boswell?’

  Atlas narrowed his eyes and his face darkened. ‘I wish I had done for him. Would’ve been much simpler.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  Atlas’s face softened and took on a wistful look. ‘His boy.’

  ‘What, the lad Duke?’

  ‘Yes, we were friends.’ Atlas had stood up and was pacing again.

  Without thinking Gold said: ‘Is he – you know – queer?’

  ‘Good God no!’ The man looked horrified at the suggestion. ‘He’s just a nice lad – troubled but basically decent. When his mother ran off he started to go a bit wild. His brute of a father didn’t know how to deal with him – or didn’t care. I
’m not sure why he came to me but we just got on. It wasn’t a father and son relationship, nor an uncle or nephew. We were just… friends.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘That’s why I planted the cards in Boswell’s stove. Hoped he’d be accused of the murder. By the way, has it worked?’

  ‘Well, he’s in custody. I believe they’re still trying to get evidence against him.’

  ‘Serves him right, nasty piece of work.’ He looked up, regret crossing his face. ‘It’s the boy I feel sorry for. He hated the thought of going into a home.’

  ‘I think he’ll be all right,’ Gold said softly. ‘I heard someone had taken him in.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  A silence stretched between them again. The PC pushed his luck. ‘So… why Ivy Rose Lee?’

  Atlas returned to his seat, rested the knife across his knees and cupped his hands round his chin. ‘She was all right at first, even cooked a meal or two for me.’

  ‘What changed?’

  ‘She did.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘She started to snipe at me – make nasty gibes – about me being queer. But it wasn’t that. I’ve put up with that for years.’

  ‘What was it then?’ Gold wondered when his luck would run out.

  ‘She made a horrible accusation about my relationship with Duke. That was a step too far. I saw red and lost my temper. I don’t really know what happened. Just found a knife in my hand and when I looked round there was blood everywhere and she was dead.’

  ‘What about Petulengro?’

  At the mention of the fortune teller’s name the man’s face softened and in the lamplight Gold could see that he was close to tears. ‘I didn’t mean too.’ His voice too had grown soft. ‘I loved him.’

  ‘Then why?’ Gold asked gently.

  ‘I don’t really know. I was mad, I suppose.’

  ‘What made you mad?’

  The man started to look quite pathetic. His shoulders drooped and his head was bowed. He’d clasped his hands, turning one over the other in a washing motion. ‘It just happened.’

  As Gold watched Atlas’s gloved hands he thought again about fingerprints but quickly cast the thought from his mind and pressed on. ‘What did?’