Blood on the Cards

by Chris O'Donoghue

  ‘He said he didn’t love me. That I was a bloody nuisance and that I should leave him alone.’

  This was a long way outside Gold’s experience. He knew men and women loved each other – he loved his wife and was sure that she loved him. But men loving men? His mind moved up a mental gear. ‘You really loved him?’

  ‘Of course I did,’ the man’s face twisted into a grimace.

  ‘So why?’

  ‘Why?’ the man sat slumped on the seat opposite the policeman. One gloved hand massaged his stubbly chin; the other held the knife, its tip pointing towards the floor. ‘I still don’t know. He’d rejected me, but I still loved him – couldn’t help it.’ He seemed to be reliving the experience and was silent for some minutes.

  Gold waited patiently, wondering what was coming next and, at the back of his mind, praying that help would come soon. He wasn’t sure how long he could keep this up. ‘You said you were going to untie me,’ he said more boldly than he felt.

  ‘What..? Oh yes.’ The man put the knife down and undid the ropes round Gold’s ankles then those round his wrists. Quickly he picked up the weapon again. ‘And no funny business or…’ He pointed the blade at the policeman. Gold tried hard to control the quaking he felt inside.

  Chapter 19

  A level crossing is an intersection where a railway line crosses a road or path at the same level, as opposed to the railway line crossing over using a bridge, or under using a tunnel.

  MILLS DROVE back from Dungeness at a much more sedate pace. The open brandy bottle was wedged between his thighs so he could take a drink every now and again. As he became progressively inebriated his driving became increasingly erratic. He was starting to see double and was having trouble discerning which side of the road he was on. Mercifully there was little traffic and apart from startling a young lad on a horse-drawn cart when he veered too close, he’d managed, purely by luck, to avoid causing a nasty accident. When he neared Angus Goodyear’s he slowed and considered dumping the stuff in the barn. But quickly dismissed the notion. The farmer had made it patently clear he wanted nothing more to do with him so he carried on. He took another swig from the bottle, swerved across the road, bumped up the verge and almost lost control. He wrestled with the steering wheel and managed to get the truck back in an almost straight line. His vision was becoming increasingly blurred and he was glad that he didn’t have far left to travel.

  -0-

  ‘What plan do you ’ave when we find this Jack Mills, Sonny?’ They were travelling along the Military Road. Russell was really pushing the Wolseley – the tyres squealing as he took the bends at speed. Bruissement was hanging on to the grab handle above the door to stop from being thrown sideways.

  Russell turned the wheel hard again, correcting a slide. ‘I’m not sure, Guillaume. I’m hoping we can drive him off the road. If he’s as drunk as Edna suggested it shouldn’t be too difficult.’

  A little way behind them Weeks was struggling manfully to keep up. ‘You’re doing a great job, Johnny, considering how much you dislike this car,’ Nettie observed.

  ‘It’s just the gears, really,’ he said, as the vehicle slewed round a corner. He swung the wheel. ‘It actually handles quite well. I’m unused to the boss driving like a madman – I’m only just managing to keep up. I don’t know what’s got into him.’

  ‘I suppose he’s keen to catch Mills red-handed. He needs to show Stout that he can at least do that.’

  ‘True.’ They were fast approaching the junction with the Appledore road. The brake lights on the Wolseley came on and both vehicles came to a halt. Weeks got out and trotted up to the other car. Russell wound down the window. ‘What’s the plan now, Sir?’ Weeks asked.

  ‘Same as I said in the station, lad. You position yourself by the bridge and I’ll go ahead. If I miss him, make sure you stop him from getting to the pub. Right, we’re off.’ Russell banged the car into gear and shot off, one rear wheel lifting as it went over the bridge and round the tight bend on to the Rhee Wall.

  -0-

  Mills had slowed almost to a crawl. His eyelids kept closing and he struggled to focus on the road. The truck was spending more time on the wrong side and it was only when the front tyre bumped against the verge that he wrenched the wheel across to the other side. As he approached Appledore station, he made no attempt to stop at the level crossing even though the crossing keeper was starting to close the gates. At the last moment he twisted the wheel, narrowly missing the man who shouted and shook his fist. Mills was oblivious to him and carried on his way.

  -0-

  ‘Now get in the driver’s seat – and remember, I’ve got this.’ Atlas’s face showed grim determination as he flashed the knife. ‘I mean it. Do anything stupid and I won’t hesitate to use it.’

  Trying not to show his fear, the young PC put his foot on the step and hauled himself into the cab. He was just about pull the door closed when the strongman gripped the edge.

  ‘Not so fast!’ I know you can drive, but I doubt you’ve ever driven one of these before.’

  ‘Er no. I haven’t.’

  ‘Thought not. It’s a bit different from usual, see?’ He pointed to the pedals. ‘The accelerator is in the middle and brake is on the right. Got it?’

  ‘I think so,’ Gold said slowly.

  ‘Think so? You need to know so. You’ve got to drive this thing for 30 miles without attracting attention.’ The knife came up close to Gold’s throat.

  ‘Okay. I’ve got it.’

  Atlas slammed the door and walked round to the passenger side. With surprising ease for one so large he swung himself into the seat. ‘Right, start the engine and drive on. You’ve got time to get used to the controls before we hit any traffic.’

  The young policeman twisted the key. The engine turned over a few times then finally coughed into life. Gingerly he depressed the clutch pedal and pushed the gear lever. There was a slight clunk as the cogs engage. Lifting his foot he let out the clutch. The truck lurched and the engine stalled.

  ‘Fool! You didn’t take the handbrake off!’

  Gold sensed the tension in the other man – like an overwound spring, ready to uncoil at any moment. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You will be. Now try again.’

  This time the actions were smooth and the truck started to roll forward. Gold could feel the weight of the heavy caravan holding him back and increased the revs. He continued to drive slowly in first gear until they got off the track and on to the lane where he risked changing up into second. Already the noise in the cab from the engine in its housing between him and his passenger was growing louder and he could feel heat rising from the floor. In a few hundred yards they had reached the junction with the road and he remembered to move his foot to the right to brake. Beads of sweat were already forming on his forehead and starting to trickle down the sides of his face.

  ‘Good boy – well done,’ Atlas said sarcastically.

  Gold risked a glance sideways and could see that the strongman was grinning. But it wasn’t a friendly grin more like the grimace of a stone demon carved to frighten children.

  They pulled out on to the Rhee Wall road and if Atlas had looked to his left he would have seen the police car stationed just beyond the bridge.

  -0-

  ‘Johnny! Look at that!’ Nettie leaned forward and peered through the windscreen into the gathering gloom.

  ‘What the hell? It’s a truck and a caravan.’

  ‘The DI thought we’d made a mistake with Pint-sized Charlie. Could this be the one?’

  ‘Only one way to find out – we’d better follow it.’

  ‘But what about Mills? The Inspector said we had to wait and head him off.’

  ‘We’ll have to take a chance. We may well see him on the way. Hopefully they’ll have got him by now.’

  -0-

  Russell approached the bend before the level crossing at speed. As he turned the corner he had to brake hard and swerve as a pickup truck came towards him �
� on his side of the road. The truck swerved too late and clipped the front wing of the Wolseley before careering off. This pushed the police car up the bank, where it came to a sudden halt in a hawthorn thicket.

  ‘Merde!’ Bruissement cried, as he was thrown forward.

  ‘Sorry, Guillaume. Are you okay?’ Russell asked as he thrust the gear into reverse and tried to extricate the car.

  ‘I think I might be. Was that ’im?’

  ‘Almost certainly.’ He pressed down on the accelerator. The wheels spun; the car juddered until finally the tyres gripped and they shot backwards. ‘Hold on my friend. We’ve got to catch him.’ He executed a messy three point turn, put his foot down and they thundered up the road after the pickup.

  -0-

  Weeks put his foot down and swung the wheel hard to the left. Nettie had to hang on for dear life or she would have ended up in his lap. ‘I’ve got to get in front of the lorry,’ he said. They were gaining on the truck and Weeks pulled out. He was just about to overtake when he saw another vehicle coming straight towards him. ‘Bugger!’ he yelled, and quickly pulled back in.

  -0-

  Russell came round the bend before the long straight and they could just see the pickup in front. Suddenly, it veered across the road – right in the path of an oncoming lorry. ‘Oh my God!’ he cried.

  ‘Oh mon Dieu!’ Bruissement echoed.

  The DI stamped on the brakes and the two men watched, appalled, as the pickup crashed into the lorry, bounced off to the left and into the field where it rolled over and came to an abrupt halt. The driver of the lorry reacted and tried to swerve out of the way. But it was too late. Through a combination of the collision and the sharp turn the caravan began to fishtail. The momentum caused the lorry to lose control and the policemen watched as if hypnotised while, almost in slow-motion, truck and van travelled diagonally across the unfenced grassy bank, through the reeds and tipped over into the canal, only just remaining upright but sinking slowly in the water. The caravan remained buoyant but the heavier truck sank until only the roof was visible.

  Weeks brought the Ford Pilot to a screeching halt. Both doors flew open as he and the WPC leapt out. Nettie started unbuttoning her tunic.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Weeks demanded.

  ‘We can’t let them drown,’ she shouted, kicking her shoes off. She began to run towards the water.

  Weeks went after her. ‘It’s too dangerous – leave them!’ he shouted. He snatched at her flailing tunic but, as Nettie gave it a final shrug from her shoulders, the garment came away in his hand and he fell to his knees in the mud.

  The young policewoman tore down the bank and immediately dived into the water. The light had all but gone from the sky and the canal was so murky she couldn’t see anything, but by feel alone she managed to find the handle on the driver’s door. She pulled and pulled and just before she ran out of breath it opened. She reached blindly inside and her hands came into contact with a sleeve. She gripped the material, braced her feet against the sill and heaved. Miraculously the driver came free and floated out of the cab. Wrapping her arm under his chin she kicked her legs and propelled him to the surface where she gratefully gulped a great mouthful of air. It was only a few feet to the bank where Weeks and Russell were standing in the shallows. Together they grabbed the figure and pulled him to the side.

  ‘Bloody hell! It’s Andy Gold.’

  ‘The bobby from Appledore?’ Russell asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What on earth was he doing in the lorry?’

  The PC groaned and coughed. A gout of water came out of his mouth. His eyes flickered open. ‘Where am I?’ he said weakly.

  ‘You’re okay. You’ve had a bit of an accident.’ Gold coughed again and shivered. ‘We’d better get you out of those wet clothes as soon as we can and wrapped up in a blanket,’ Russell said. He took his coat off and laid it across the man. ‘This will have to do for now.’

  Gold’s eyes widened. ‘He’s still in the truck!’

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘Atlas. He made me drive. He’s the murderer.’

  There was a sudden splash and Weeks turned in time to see Nettie heading out towards the lorry again.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he shouted anxiously.

  ‘I’ve got to go and get him out of there.’

  ‘You can’t!’

  ‘I can.’ And she disappeared below the surface. It seemed like an age until her head appeared above the water again. ‘It’s no good. He’s stuck.’

  ‘Nettie, leave it!’ Russell cried. But the girl dived again. She was gone for much longer this time. The dark water was almost still; just the odd ripple and a few bubbles rising to the surface and bursting. Long minutes passed.

  ‘Oh God. I hope nothing’s happened to her,’ Weeks said. He started peeling off his jacket and was about to go in after her when she came up again, spluttering.

  ‘It’s no good. I can’t shift him.’ If water hadn’t been streaming down her face they would have seen tears welling in her eyes. ‘I tried, I really did. I think it’s too late anyway.’

  ‘Come on, lass,’ Russell said gently. ‘You’ve done your best. Let’s get you and Gold wrapped up. There are blankets in the car.’

  The four of them clambered back up the bank, the detectives supporting Gold who, though dripping with water, seemed remarkably unscathed. Bruissement was standing by the cars which were slewed untidily across the road. ‘I don’t think ’e is going anywhere.’ He pointed with his good arm towards the field where they could just make out the shape of the pickup truck in the gloom. It was wedged, upside down, between two elder saplings jamming the doors shut. A column of steam rose lazily from the engine and shouts and a stream of foul language was emanating from inside the cab.

  ‘Radio the station, lad,’ Russell said. ‘Get them to send an ambulance and the fire brigade. We’ll need a tow truck too. This is going to cause quite a stir.’

  Chapter 20

  Seeing a red mist can be brought on by extreme stress or anger. Losing control and raging, destroying things or people nearby, can actually cause internal blood vessels in or near the eyes to start leaking. The blood can sometimes spill into the inside of the eye, causing the one affected to see everything through a ‘red mist’, hence the name. At this point, however, the person is so angry that they completely lose control and essentially go insane for a time.

  THERE WAS a buoyant, almost celebratory mood in the police station that early evening. Surprisingly, following his imprisonment by the murderous strongman and his ducking in the canal, a change of clothes and a stiff drink helped PC Andrew Gold to seem little the worse for wear. Someone had been to the off-licence for a crate of brown and light ales while a couple of bottles of duty-free brandy had somehow found their way from the wreckage of Jack Mills’s pickup truck. It was rumoured that a bottle of Superintendent Stout’s single malt might make an appearance but that hadn’t happened so far.

  Mills had been freed from the upturned truck, shaken and bruised, with maybe a couple of cracked ribs, but apart from that was astonishingly unscathed. The officers joked that the amount of booze he’d drunk had anaesthetised him. He was now sleeping if off in a cell. Charles Atlas had not fared so well.

  ‘I’m afraid he didn’t stand a chance.’ John Crooks was standing in the centre of the main office with a glass of brandy in his pudgy hand, holding court. He’d been there when the CMP lorry had been pulled out of the water.

  ‘When the truck left the road and plummeted into the canal he must have been thrown forward,’ he explained. ‘Unfortunately, the strongman was still holding the knife and he managed to impale himself upon it.’ Crooks turned to Nettie, the heroine of the hour. She’d been lent a spare tunic and trousers. Despite them being several sizes too large she still somehow managed to look demure and attractive. ‘Even if you had succeeded in freeing him,’ the pathologist said. ‘It would have been too late as, in my opinion, he was already done for. The knife h
ad gone straight up into his heart.’

  ‘So he managed to dodge the gallows by doing himself in,’ Russell mused.

  ‘It looks that way.’

  ‘So why do you think he went on a killing spree, John?’

  ‘You’re the detective, Sonny.’ Crooks took a drink from his glass. ‘But as I’m feeling magnanimous I’ll give the benefit of my wisdom.’

  ‘That’s good of you.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘So do tell.’

  ‘Someone find me a seat and I will.’ A chair was quickly produced and the portly pathologist took time settling himself. When he was comfortable and had everyone’s attention he began. ‘I can’t be one hundred percent certain, but I think, to use layman’s terms, he flipped. He couldn’t cope with rejection and something happened to his brain – the logical side was buried under the emotional part and he couldn’t control his actions. He felt the whole world was against him and he just let rip.’

  Crooks had been closeted with Gold before the party started. The young PC had related the conversations he’d had with Atlas and had been questioned closely as to actual words the strongman had used. Gold had been an extremely reliable witness and the pathologist was able to form a comprehensive picture of the mental state of the man.

  ‘You really believe that he didn’t know what he was doing when he killed the gypsy, Ivy Rose Lee?’ Russell asked.

  ‘I do. I think a red mist descended and he acted automatically – there was no premeditation, no planning, just a man out of control.’

  ‘And the other fortune teller, Petulengro?’

  Crooks took a sip of his drink and frowned. ‘I think that was slightly different. He really did think he stood a chance with him. They were both homosexuals and Atlas couldn’t understand why his feelings weren’t reciprocated.’