Blood on the Strand Page 2

  ‘Yuck! It’s covered in grease.’ His boss, Lewis, made of sterner stuff, pulled it out.

  ‘What on earth is that?’ Russell asked.

  Lewis grinned. ‘Don’t you know, Sonny?’

  Russell shook his head. ‘No idea, I’m afraid. Just some random piece of wood – flotsam or jetsam or something, I guess.’

  ‘This random piece of wood serves an important purpose. I’m sure you know that Hastings has the largest beach launched fishing fleet in the country.’

  ‘Yes, I think I knew that. What about it?’ he demanded. The rain and the soaking he had received had made Russell uncharacteristically tetchy.

  ‘Well how do you think they launch and retrieve the boats?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’

  Lewis’s grin grew wider. He was enjoying this. ‘Until fairly recently they used horsepower and a windlass but that has more or less been replaced by old bulldozers.’

  Russell was getting more irritated. ‘Thank you for the history lesson but I still don’t see the relevance of this.’ He kicked the piece of timber with the toe of his wellington.

  ‘If they tried to move the boats across the shingle without some sort of buffer the keel would dig in and make it nigh on impossible.’

  Understanding dawned and now it was Russell who was grinning, his grouchy mood evaporating. ‘Oh, I see. They use these planks under the keel to stop the boat sinking into the stones.’

  ‘Correct!’

  Russell frowned. ‘What’s it doing here? There aren’t any boats on this stretch of beach.’

  ‘I’ve just been thinking about that. You said you could hardly move that first crate?’

  ‘It was a struggle just to get it out of the water.’

  Weeks suddenly piped up: ‘Whoever took it… they used the timber to move the crate.’

  ‘That’s right. But they would have needed more than one,’ Lewis said. He went on to explain about taking a skid from the back and moving it to the front, and so on.

  ‘So what you’re suggesting is that the person, or people, who took the crate, may have something to do with the fishing fleet in Hastings.’

  ‘Quite possibly.’

  ‘Hmm. This becomes more intriguing.’ Russell paused, thinking. Then, ‘Anyway, let’s get this crate – and timber - loaded into your van and you can take it back to the station.’

  ‘And don’t forget we’ve got that piece of newspaper in the car, too,’ Weeks added.

  -0-

  ‘Are you sure this is a good place to stow it?’ The man who spoke was Frankie Drake. He and his companion, Sailor Tedham, were standing in Drake’s net shop by the fishermen’s beach at Rock-a-Nore. With difficulty they had manhandled the crate out of the back of the Bedford and up to the net shed. Getting it in posed a conundrum as the crate was wider than the doorway. But by tipping it up on its side, and with much heaving and grunting, it just fitted through. They had shoved it over to the corner and disguised the newness of the timber by draping it with fishing nets and an old tarpaulin.

  ‘You’re worryin’ too much,’ Tedham said. ‘No one’s gonna take the trouble to look in ’ere, are they?’

  ‘I suppose not.’ Drake sounded doubtful.

  ‘Anyway, it’s only goin’ to be ’ere for a day or two until Monsewer Albert comes to collect it.’

  ‘What d’you reckon’s in it?’ Drake asked.

  Tedham snorted. ‘I don’t know an’ I don’t wanna know.’

  ‘It must be something special – the amount we’re bein’ paid…’

  ‘Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Whatever it is we’re best off keeping out of it - just hand over the crate and take the money. Come on, time for a pint. Let’s go to the pub.’

  Chapter 2

  The Hasting Net Shops are unique, tall black wooden sheds that were built to provide stores for fishing gear, made from natural materials, to prevent them from rotting in wet weather. The limited space on the beach meant the sheds had to grow upwards.

  Russell was finishing his breakfast when the phone rang. He crossed the room and picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello Sonny, Lewis here.’

  ‘Good to hear from you. Any news on the crate?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. The sea had washed any identifying marks or traces off so it remains that – just a crate.’

  ‘Shame. I was rather hoping it might give up its secrets.’

  ‘No such luck. But…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The piece of newspaper you found has proved to be very interesting.’

  ‘I’m surprised. I thought it was merely a soggy mess – more like pâpier maché.’

  ‘That’s where we were lucky. I can only assume it was wedged in the bottom corner of the crate, and as it was upside down, it became the top corner, if you see what I mean…’

  ‘Yes I do. So it was spared some of the ravages of the seawater?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘What’s so special about it?’

  ‘Ah, that’s the interesting part.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘It’s a German newspaper.’

  ‘Really?’ Russell was intrigued.

  ‘Yes really. And it’s from 1944.’

  Russell whistled. ‘Wow! Over 10 years old.’

  ‘There was enough to recognise it as Das Reich.’

  ‘I think I’ve heard of that.’

  ‘It was a paper used by Joseph Goebbels to spread propaganda. He often wrote editorials, trumpeting the might of the Nazi party and making all sorts of claims about how the Germans were winning the war, even when he must have known the end was in sight.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ Russell asked.

  ‘Don’t you remember? I studied German!’

  ‘Of course.’ Russell thought back to the case the year before involving the murder of Nazis and how Lewis had helped in translating the papers they had found hidden by the Müller brothers. ‘What was on the paper we found?’

  ‘Sadly, nothing of great interest, but I don’t think that matters. It’s the date that’s important.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Think about it. Why would a piece of newspaper be wedged in the bottom of a crate?’

  ‘I don’t know. Why would it?’

  ‘You’re the detective , Sonny,’ Lewis chuckled.

  ‘Oi! I am on leave you know,’ he said, with mock indignation.

  ‘Fair enough. I’ll tell you what I think then.’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘I reckon it was used as packing round some sort of object. You know that when you move house, you wrap all your valuables in newspaper then put them in a tea chest, so they don’t get damaged?’

  ‘I see what you mean.’

  ‘What if this crate – and the other one – were just larger versions of the humble tea chest and were used to move valuables?’

  ‘I suppose that’s possible,’ Russell said slowly.

  ‘More than possible, I would have thought. More than highly likely.’

  ‘Perhaps I’m being a bit dense…’

  ‘You are starting to sound like Bonnie and Clyde!’ The forensics man was in puckish mood.

  ‘Thanks very much. I’d rather not be associated with Detectives Parker and Barrow, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Just pulling your leg, Sonny.’

  Russell was not really offended. He and Lewis knew each other too well. ‘So, what’s your theory?’

  ‘The date, in late ’44, was when any Nazi with an ounce of sense realised that the game would soon be up.’

  ‘Yes, I understand that, but…’

  ‘Hear me out. As we know, they were in the habit of, shall we say, requisitioning works of art for themselves.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘Obviously, I can’t be sure, but, just as you had a feeling about that crate when you found it, I have a feeling that this could be quite important.’ />
  ‘So where do we go from here?’

  Lewis chuckled again. ‘You don’t go anywhere. You’re on holiday, remember? Leave it with me and I’ll see what I can find out.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘The weather’s cheered up, so why don’t you take that little dog of yours for a nice long walk. And keep your eyes open for wooden crates.’ Russell could hear the amusement in the other man’s voice.

  ‘Thanks. I will. Just keep me informed. I might be on leave but this business is really intriguing me.’

  -0-

  Even though he was away from work, Russell could not help thinking about the crate and what Lewis had surmised. He had grown to like the man and appreciated his insightful nature. On more than one occasion in the past he had come up with ideas and, eventually solutions, which others, less diligent, might have missed. He was prepared to bet that the forensics expert was on to something with his suggestion about smuggled treasures and felt sure he would find more evidence. For the present though, he decided to take the other man’s advice.

  The weather had, indeed, cheered up so he did take Aggie for a long walk on the beach. The tide was way out and they were able to make their way along the flat sand, right up to the entrance to Compass Point. The little terrier was delighted, dashing round in circles and making spirited attempts to chase the gulls sitting at the distant water’s edge. She didn’t really stand a chance as the birds took off and flew away disdainfully before she got anywhere near them. Still, she enjoyed the chase. Russell turned inland and headed for the harbour where he hoped he would bump into Captain Salt.

  Captain Salt, RN retired, owned the little three-foot gauge railway that ran from Collinghurst to the terminus at Compass Point. There, he also owned the rights to the moorings and jetty as well as the boatyard, where Mitch Mitchell operated. In addition, there was a rowed ferry, which carried trippers across the river to Shell Bay. Well, it did, when the ferryman, Jack Spratt, deemed there was enough water to get across. At other times he could be found, propping up the bar, in the Shipwrights Arms. Salt was an old and trusted friend and Russell was looking forward to having a chat with him.

  He walked up the path, following the estuary and passing the quirky corrugated-iron hut with the red roof and black walls. Within 20 minutes the low structures of the boat shed and surrounding buildings hove into view. Reaching the yard, he made his way between the boats under repair, piles of timber, coils of rope and other nautical paraphernalia. Crossing the railway line he walked along the stony track, past the simple weatherboard structure that served as the station building and up to the Shipwrights Arms. It too was a simple, single-storey structure, but built in local sandstone with a pan-tiled roof, unusual for the area. Sat four square at the end of the quay, hunkered down against the weather, it had withstood gale-force winds, salt spray and lashing rain for more than a century. Inside was a single room that served as a bar with a door marked PRIVATE leading to the landlord’s own quarters. Alf was not the archetypal, hale-fellow-well-met sort of landlord. He was a quiet man, always smartly dressed, in neat suit with collar and tie, and those that were allowed into his inner sanctum were usually astonished at his book collection. Every spare wall was fitted with floor-to-ceiling shelves containing tomes on everything from Ancient Greeks to Zakynthos and the Ionian Islands with everything in between. To say he was a bibliophile was an understatement.

  Russell entered the pub, Aggie scuttling ahead of him, and sure enough, as the tide was out, Jack Spratt was at the bar and next to him, sitting on his customary stool, was Salt. They turned as he closed the door. ‘Sonny!’ Salt exclaimed. ‘Good to see you. What’ll you have? Or are you on duty?’

  ‘No, I’m on leave. I’ll have a pint please.’

  The men shook hands while Alf turned and held a pint tankard under the tap of the barrel behind the bar. When it was filled he placed it on the well-polished counter. ‘Another for you, Captain?’ he asked Salt.

  ‘Go on then. Got to keep this man company.’

  When Salt’s drink was poured and he had paid, Russell said: ‘Shall we go and sit over by the fireplace?’

  ‘Not cold are you?’ Salt asked, his blue eyes twinkling beneath bushy eyebrows.

  ‘I should think not! We’ve just walked all the way from home.’

  ‘You definitely need this then,’ Salt said, handing him his pint. Russell took off his coat and hung it on a nearby hook; the two men settled on chairs either side of a battered tin-topped table, in front of the coal fire, which gave out a steady heat. Salt pulled a large fob watch from out of a breast pocket and looked at the time. ‘I’ve just realised, it’s lunchtime. You must be hungry after your walk. I’ll see what there is to eat.’ He turned towards the bar. ‘Alf. Can you rustle up some grub for us? Oh, and don’t forget, Sonny doesn’t eat meat.’ Alf nodded and went into the back room. ‘Have you come here just for a pint and a bite or am I right in thinking you wanted a chat?’

  Russell laughed. ‘You know me too well. Although this is most welcome,’ he toasted Salt with his glass. ‘I really wanted to pick your brains.’

  ‘Thought as much.’ The Captain took a sip of rum. ‘What did you want to know?’

  ‘I’m interested in Nazi treasure.’

  ‘And I thought you were an upstanding member of the local constabulary.’

  Russell chuckled. ‘No, not for me.’

  ‘I guessed that. Why do you want to know?’ Russell explained about the crate they had found – and the one they had lost – and told Salt about Lewis’s conjectures. Salt stroked his neat goatee beard and reached absentmindedly in his pocket and produced his pipe. Deftly, he filled the bowl with tobacco from a small pouch, put a match to it and sucked greedily. Aware of Russell’s sensitivity he blew a column of smoke towards the ceiling, no doubt adding to the nicotine staining. ‘I’m afraid I can’t be of much help there. Didn’t you have a contact somewhere down in Germany? Helped you out with those Nazi murders?’

  ‘Yes, Greg Judd. I’ll give him a call. He may be able to help.’ The previous year Russell had travelled down to south-west Germany, where the records of Nazis, who had fled after the war, were kept. Greg had been instrumental in tracking down the identities of three men who had been murdered and found the whereabouts of a fourth, whose life they had saved. ‘I’ll see if I can get hold of him when I get back.’

  ‘Although I can’t shed any light on that, I might be able to help you with something else.’

  Russell took a drink from his glass then cocked his head to one side. ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Your piece of wood.’ Conversation stopped as Alf arrived with the food – a roast beef sandwich for Salt; bread, cheese and pickled onions for Russell. ‘Thanks, Alf,’ Salt said, smiling. ‘Just what the doctor ordered.’

  Russell spread butter on the crusty bread and cut a slice off the chunk of cheddar. ‘What about it?’ he asked.

  ‘Well if it’s what you and Lewis think it is it’s called a trow.’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ Russell said, through a mouthful of food.

  ‘But there’s something else that might be even more interesting. Although one trow might look like any other, sometimes – and I stress, sometimes – there might just be an identifying mark.’

  ‘What would that be?’

  ‘Occasionally, whoever cut the plank may carve his initial or even the registration of the boat into the wood.’

  ‘Lewis didn’t mention it…’

  ‘He probably wasn’t looking for anything in particular – more interested in the crate.’

  ‘That’s true, although he doesn’t usually miss important details.’

  Salt shrugged. ‘Maybe there weren’t any identifying marks, but I should have thought that it’s worth asking.’

  -0-

  Frankie Drake was standing by the sheds at Rock-a-Nore, repairing a tear in a fishing net slung over a wooden frame. He worked swiftly, the netting needle almost a blur as he wove the thread throug
h the mesh. Nearby, Sailor Tedham sat on an upturned rowing boat, puffing on a clay pipe that contained a foul-smelling tobacco. He was staring absently towards the beached fishing boats.

  ‘I wonder what’s in that crate?’ he mused.

  Without pausing in his work Drake said: ‘I thought you wasn’t interested in the contents? Yesterday you said, “I don’t know and I don’t wanna know”. Are you changin’ your mind?’

  Tedham sucked on his pipe and looked thoughtful. ‘No, I’m not. But it do make you wonder, don’t it?’

  ‘I’m not so sure.’ Drake paused, his hands still for a moment. ‘Monsewer Albert wouldn’t be too pleased if ’e found out we’d been tampering with ’is property.’

  ‘I was thinkin’ about that. Who’s to say that the crate didn’t get damaged when it were washed up?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘One or two of the planks could’ve come loose, couldn’t they?’

  ‘I suppose so…’ Drake said slowly.

  ‘So if we carefully eased a corner open…’

  ‘Is it worth the risk? We’re getting paid well enough as it is.’

  ‘Yeah, but… it wouldn’t do no ’arm to ’ave a look – would it?’

  ‘It sounds like you’ve made up your mind.’

  Tedham gave a sly smile. ‘Maybe I ‘ave.’ He starting rising from his perch. ‘C’mon, let’s have a shufti.’

  With a shrug, Drake set his repair aside and followed his companion into the gloom of the net shed. Tedham dragged the grimy tarpaulin back, revealing the new wood of the crate. He picked up a large blunt chisel, pushed the blade under the edge of a plank on the top of the crate, and tapped the other end with a large wooden mallet. Nothing happened. He tapped again, harder this time and there was a screech as a nail starting pulling out of the wood. Putting the mallet aside he used both hands to press down on the handle of the chisel. With a further screech, the nail came free and the plank lifted.