Blood on the Strand Read online

  BLOOD ON THE STRAND

  By Chris O’Donoghue

  A DI Sonny Russell Mystery

  Chris O'Donoghue

  All Rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  First published in Great Britain by Chris O'Donoghue

  Edited by Greer Harris

  Cover design by Paul Harwood

  "Art belongs to humanity. Without this we are animals.

  We just fight, we live, we die. Art is what makes us human".

  - Mikhail Piotrovsky, Director, Hermitage Museum

  My thanks go to my wife and soulmate, Greer, for her continuing support and expertise in editing my manuscript. To Laurie Horsey for going over it with a fine-tooth comb and to Paul Harwood for the great job he has done in designing the cover of the book, yet again.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Postscript

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  The Royal Military Canal runs for 28 miles between Seabrook, near Folkestone, and Cliff End, near Hastings, following the old cliff line bordering Romney Marsh. It was constructed as a defence against the possible invasion of England during the Napoleonic Wars.

  ‘Bloody hell! We’ll never be able to land in this!’

  The onshore wind, force six gusting seven, made it far too dangerous to approach close enough to the beach to unload the wooden crate directly on to the shingle. The deck of the fishing boat dipped in the troughs and broke through the crests of the angry sea, spray and foam flying, soaking the men. It was all they could do to remain standing.

  After they’d left the shelter of Boulogne Harbour the boat had moved easily to the long swell. But as they’d progressed across the Channel the motion had become less comfortable as the sea became more troubled. The wind had increased with every mile they travelled. Soon it was wailing in the rigging – a discordant keening – a child in the chimney. The craft was sturdy, built to take whatever the weather could throw at it. But even now the timbers groaned and seawater slopped about in the bilge. The two men looked anxiously towards the low shoreline, its featureless contours frequently disappearing in the squally rain.

  ‘We’ll just ’ave to push it over the side and let it drift in. With this wind and tide it’ll quickly reach the shallows.’

  ‘What about the other one?’

  ‘Less said about that, the better.’

  ‘’Ow are we going to explain it? The fact that it’s empty - that the contents ’ave found their way elsewhere.’

  ‘I’ve been thinkin’ about that…’ The man’s words were snatched away by the wind.

  ‘What?’

  He raised his voice to a shout. ‘I said, I’ve been thinkin’ about it. We pull the top off completely; chuck it over the side and say it must’ve sunk.’

  ‘But what if it won’t sink?’

  ‘Don’t matter. It’ll be empty, an’ as far as anyone knows, the contents are lyin’ somewhere on the seabed.’

  ‘Well… if you’re sure…’

  ‘Unless you’ve got a better idea… Come on, let’s get them overboard, Sailor and Frankie will be looking out for ’em. Then we’ve got to get this boat back to Nottery Quay, before anyone notices it’s missing.’

  -0-

  Detective Inspector Sonny Russell was thoroughly fed up with the weather. He’d been sitting in his railway carriage home for two days, watching the rain batter the windows and listening to the wind howl round the stove chimney like a banshee. Fierce gusts had thundered against the little structure, causing the very fabric to shudder. The storm had been relentless for so long he was starting to get stir-crazy. Apart from opening the back door to collect a scuttle of coal from the bunker and to let Aggie, his little Jack Russell, out for a quick trot round the garden, he had stayed tucked up indoors, the stove pumping out comforting heat, while he read, listened to music and dozed.

  He sat in his armchair, his collarless shirt open at the neck, his braces slipped off his shoulders and his feet thrust into a pair of worn carpet slippers. He loved classical music and had been through all nine Beethoven symphonies and had started on the late quartets. He had reread, for the umpteenth time, and delighted in, Erskine Childers’s classic The Riddle of the Sands, even though it had been written more than 50 years before. Sometimes he daydreamed about being a spy, like the characters in the book. It never failed to enthral him with its sense of adventure and the minute detail in the writing. Likewise, the more recently published Rogue Male by Geoffrey Household had become a firm favourite. He had just started on that again. But there was only so much glorious music and superb writing that he could take. That was the trouble with extended leave.

  -0-

  After the last case, which had concluded in a number of spectacular arrests, his boss, Superintendent Vic Stout, had insisted that he take a week’s paid leave. ‘You’ll find plenty to keep you occupied,’ he had said, through a haze of cigar smoke, puffing on one of his customary cheroots. ‘Go and relax – enjoy the countryside and take that little hound of yours for some long walks.’

  Then, Russell had accepted willingly. He had often promised himself that he would walk the South Downs, in stages, stopping at pubs along the way; or do the whole length of the Royal Military Canal, which started close to his home in Sussex and finished 28 miles east in Hythe in Kent. But the weather had other ideas. Now, after a mild winter, early Spring had brought a sudden, unseasonal cold snap, with late, heavy snow followed by rain, which quickly washed it all away. Then, towards the end of Spring the weather had settled. There were fresh, sunny days and chilly nights – quite normal for the time of year. But as soon as Russell had started his leave a big depression had moved across from the Atlantic. It seemed determined to sit over the south-east of the country, centred, he was convinced, over his home. With a deep sigh he picked up Rogue Male and was just about to start another chapter when he was startled by a hammering on the door. Aggie jumped up from her place in front of the stove and start pogoing on the spot. Opening the door Russell was delighted to see the slight figure of his DC, Johnny Weeks, also his near neighbour, standing there, rain slicking down his oilskin and sou’wester. ‘Come in, lad! Take off your wet things and tell me how you are.’

  During that last case, Weeks had been coerced into driving a getaway lorry for a gang robbing a mail train. After the raid he had been incarcerated in a damp cellar; had fallen, banged his head and temporarily lost his memory. When he was finally rescued he was taken straight to the local hospital. Tests showed there was no permanent damage and over a number of days his memory slowly returned until, after a fortnight, he could recall everything that had happened. This was very useful in convicting the train robbers, although Russell had made sure that he wasn’t pushed too hard in supplying details of the raid. The DC had also been given leave and Russell was surprised to see him as he assumed he would be visiting relatives, further north.

  ‘What brings you here, Johnny?
I thought you’d be up with your mum and dad.’

  ‘I decided that they would only want to smother me. They were so worried after I had that bump on the head… they wanted me to leave the force.’ ‘No!’ Russell exclaimed.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve no intention of packing it in.’

  Russell smiled. ‘Thank goodness for that. I don’t want to have to train up another DC.’

  ‘Nice to know I’m wanted.’

  ‘You are, lad, you are… Anyway, what brings you here on this lovely Spring day?’

  ‘I imagined you felt the same as I do, sir, after being cooped up indoors for two days. I wondered if you fancied battling along the beach.’

  ‘What a great idea. Skin’s waterproof, after all. Let me get my wet weather gear and we can set off.’

  -0-

  Aggie was delighted to be out – the weather didn’t bother her. Heads down, Russell and Weeks were striding into the driving rain while she scampered around their feet, tail up, revelling in the scents she found along the shoreline. The two men said very little to each other. The roaring of the wind and crashing of the surf made conversation close to impossible. The storm showed no sign of abating; if anything it was increasing. They had been tramping along for half an hour, the rain finding a way into their waterproofs and wellingtons and starting to soak their clothes. Each was waiting for the other to suggest it was time to turn back when the terrier began barking excitedly. Looking up and peering through the spray they could see a large crate slopping backwards and forwards in the surf; each wave pushing it further up the beach, and then dragging it back again. Splashing into the shallows they succeeded, with a struggle, in dragging it out of the water and a little way up the beach. The crate was roughly three feet square by about two feet tall. It was strongly constructed from stout timbers, firmly nailed in place.

  ‘What do we do now, sir?’ Weeks said, raising his voice to be heard above the shrieking of the wind.

  ‘Not much we can do, lad. It’s too heavy to move further and we’ve nothing we can open it with. Now let me see. Where are we?’

  Weeks looked up towards the top of the sea wall. ‘I reckon we’re about half-way along the coast road, so no houses are anywhere near here.’

  ‘I think you’re right. The only thing we can do is walk back home then return with the car, and some tools, so we can take a look inside.’

  ‘But what if someone finds it while we’re gone?’

  ‘You’re joking! No one is likely to turn out in this, except mad sods like us.’ Russell chuckled, rain dripping off the end of his nose. ‘Come on, let’s set off. It should be easier going with the wind behind us.’

  -0-

  ‘What the bloody ’ell are they up to?’ The two men were clad in oilskins, lying on the wet ground and peering over the seawall, concealed behind the plants that were just starting to grow on the top.

  ‘They’ve found the crate!’ his companion exclaimed.

  ‘Christ! I bloody ’ope they can’t open it.’ The men stayed watching as Russell and Weeks debated what to do. When they turned and started to return in the direction they had come he spoke again. ‘Look! They’re going back!’

  ‘Good. As soon as they’re out of sight we can get it.’

  They waited until the two policemen had disappeared into the murk then made their way quickly down the stony bank, slipping and sliding on the rain-slicked shingle. They were both carrying a pair of narrow greased boards, each about two feet six inches long. These were fitted with rope handles threaded through a hole in one end. The men placed one in front of the crate, manhandled it on top of the board and dragged it forward until it rested on the second board. They continued pushing the crate, removing each board in turn from the back and placing it in the front. It still required a considerable amount of effort but they were brawny and, after 15 minutes of grunting and heaving, the crate was balanced up on top of the sea wall. They had a length of rope, which they lashed round it so they could lower it safely, sliding it down the steep grassy bank and on to the edge of the road. With more grunting and heaving they got the crate into the back of their Bedford CA van. Closing the rear doors and making their way round, they slid the front doors open and climbed in, glad to be out of the rain. The driver started the engine and they headed off west. Both were soaking wet and the steamed-up windscreen needed constant wiping so that they could see out.

  -0-

  In just over 20 minutes the detectives were getting into Weeks’s car; hammer, chisel and crowbar stowed in the boot. They bumped along the stony track, the tyres sending up spouts of water and the wipers barely clearing the torrential rain off the screen. Soon they were on the Tarmacked road and the going became easier. After a few minutes Russell said: ‘This must be about level with where we left the crate. Come on, let’s go and see what secrets it contains.’ Weeks drove the car off to the side of the road; they got out and retrieved the tools from the boot. Clambering up the bank and breasting the sea wall they were hit with the full force of the wind. They battled their way down across the shingle, to the troubled water’s edge. Russell stood surveying the beach.

  ‘Where is it?’ he asked. There was no sign of the crate – it had vanished. ‘Perhaps we’re in the wrong place,’ Weeks answered.

  ‘We can’t be far from the spot. Listen, you go that way,’ - Russell pointed east - ‘and I’ll go the other way. One of us is bound to find it.’

  ‘Okay.’

  They set off, but after each of them had tramped several hundred yards along the shoreline and returned, neither had seen any sign of the crate.

  ‘It’s gone, sir. Someone must have beaten us to it.’

  ‘I’m baffled. Who would have taken it? …And what’s in it that was so important that they had to spirit it away?’

  ‘I’m as bewildered as you are, sir. It’s really frustrating.’

  Russell stood staring out to sea, surveying the rolling waves making their way inexorably to the shore, just visible as a heaving grey mass through the sheeting rain. He was about to turn away when he leaned forward, shielding his eyes with one hand and pointing with the other. ‘Hang on lad, what’s that?’

  Weeks followed the line of his arm. ‘Something in the water, sir! Looks like another crate.’ They stood watching as the object gradually moved closer, shoved inward by the huge waves. Aggie had seen it too and started barking excitedly. It took some time to drift closer. The two men had to walk slowly along the shoreline, following its drift, as the crate crabbed sideways, driven by the wind and the tide. By the time it was within reaching distance they were 50 yards from where they had first sighted it. Standing in the shallow surf they managed to get a handhold; it was much easier to drag than the first one. When they had hauled it out of the water, they discovered why. ‘This is the bottom, sir. Let’s turn it over.’ It required very little effort to tip the crate up on its side and, when they did, they could see that the top was missing and there was nothing inside.

  ‘Well I’ll be…’ Russell exclaimed. ‘What the hell was in it?’

  They tipped it right over and examined the inside. It looked completely empty. Weeks leant inside. ‘Wait a minute…what’s this?’ He stood upright holding a soggy piece of crumpled newspaper that he had found wedged in a corner.

  ‘Anything else?’ Russell asked.

  ‘No, that’s it.’

  ‘Okay. No point in trying to unfold the paper now. It will just disintegrate. You take it back to the car, drive into the village and ring the station. Get them to send a van to pick the crate up.’

  ‘But, sir. You’ll get soaked waiting here.’

  Russell smiled. ‘I can’t get much wetter and anyway, I think it’s easing off.’

  ‘If you’re sure…’

  ‘You go on. It may come to nothing but I have a feeling about it and I don’t want to lose this one.’

  While Weeks headed off, Russell remained on the beach. He found a stick, to the delight of Aggie, who was happy to pla
y fetch in the foam-flecked shallows. The rain gradually began to ease. While they played Russell pondered what the contents of the empty crate could have been and whether the one that had disappeared was connected with it. It must have been important for someone to have snatched it away so swiftly. He wondered if it had something to do with smuggling – but what? Rationing was over, thank goodness, although there were still shortages of certain goods. But what would require such a strong, well-constructed crate? And what would survive in the sea? It could be bottles – brandy perhaps – but surely that would be in smaller, individual crates? Something more valuable? Much more valuable? His imagination was starting to run wild. Bullion? Gold bars? Then he came back to earth. No that would be far too heavy – the crate would have sunk like a stone. And where on earth had it come from? He would just have to wait to see if forensics turned up anything – or if that scrap of newsprint yielded a clue.

  Eventually Weeks returned and was closely followed by Lewis, the forensics expert who arrived in his van with an assistant. Lewis was neatly dressed in a black oilskin over dark blue jersey and corduroy trousers. His nut brown brogues were well worn but shone from regular polishing. He had a fine, aquiline nose and high cheekbones; his short hair was carefully combed with a sharp side parting. He had the look and air of a fighter pilot, not surprising as he had been no stranger to Spitfires and Hurricanes during the war. He’d parked the green Morris J-type van behind Lewis’s car and they made their way up the grassy slope, over the sea wall and down on to the beach. By the time they had reached Russell and started carrying the damaged crate back up, the rain had almost ceased, although the wind was still blowing strongly. They were manoeuvring it over the sea wall when the assistant tripped and nearly lost his balance. Lying, almost hidden in the weeds and undergrowth was a length of worn timber. He started pulling it out then just as quickly dropped it.