Blood on the Shrine Page 3

  -0-

  After breakfast most of the retreatants had drifted off to their rooms or to sit in one of the lounges to read. Two, whose names were on the rota remained to clear away the breakfast things and wash up. Russell could hear them going quietly about their work in the kitchen. He and the new man, Elsdale, were sitting in relatively companionable silence by the stove when Sanghaketu returned with Vidyatara.

  He addressed Elsdale. ‘We have had a discussion and decided that you can stay - at least until the road is cleared. Perhaps you would like to join the retreat?’

  ‘Well… I don’t know…’

  ‘It will be difficult if you do not,’ Vidyatara added. ‘You see, we act as a community and if one person is not taking part…’ He let the sentence hang in the air.

  ‘Perhaps you would like to share a room with, er, Sonny?’ Sanghaketu said, nodding towards Russell.

  ‘Oh, er, I don’t know. I’m not used to sharing.’ Elsdale paused and thought for a moment. ‘Is there anyone else in his room?’

  ‘Yes, Laurie.’

  ‘Oh – no.’ He was obviously flustered. ‘I mean… Could I possibly have a room on my own?’

  The monks exchanged a glance. Vidyatara spoke: ‘We like people to share. It is part of the community spirit but I suppose, in this case…’

  ‘Yes, there is a single room,’ Sanghaketu continued. ‘Come with me and I will find you some bedding and towels and so on.’ With that the two men left. Vidyatara bowed to Russell and followed them out.

  Russell sat alone by the stove. The peace that had descended on him after the meditation had quickly evaporated as the policeman’s instinct took over. Elsdale had obviously been rattled by something, or someone. Laurie perhaps? He obviously did not want to share a room with him, that was certain. Perhaps it meant nothing. Russell shook his head. No, he thought, I’ve come here to get away from work. But…but, something was niggling at the back of his brain. The trouble was, as much as he had been looking forward to a break he felt out of his depth – no, not that – he felt alone, that was it. Normally he would have the support of his DC, Johnny Weeks. Someone he could discuss things with – use as a sounding board. But discuss what? He shook his head again. Come on, he said to himself, you’re here to relax. With that he got up and wandered off to the lounge.

  -0-

  Being closer to the coast, the snow in Collinghurst was much lighter. Even so, Detective Constable Weeks felt oppressed by the weather. Pushing back the mop of dark curly hair that flopped over his forehead he flicked listlessly through the papers in the folder open on his desk. He was finding it difficult to concentrate, there were so many thoughts swirling round his head. Normally the subject would have held his attention but none of the information was making much sense. He found his focus blurring, the words on the page becoming nothing more than a series of swirling shapes – mere Rorschach inkblots. After what he had learned he needed guidance from his boss – but he was over on the other side of the county, quite possibly snowed in and undoubtedly having a peaceful time. He shook his head, stretched his arms wide and yawned deeply. Taking a deep breath he turned back to the first page.

  The file concerned what became known as the Eastcastle Street robbery that had taken place four years earlier. It was very different from others that had happened before in that it was meticulously planned. The thieves had rehearsed for weeks in advance, avoiding suspicion by pretending that they were making a film. They escaped with £287,000. The mastermind behind the raid was a notorious London criminal, Billy Hill and the gang included George “Taters” Chatham and Terry “Lucky Tel” Hogan. The robbers were never caught and the case remained open. The surprise was that the files had found their way from the normally protective Metropolitan Police to the sleepy Sussex backwater of Collinghurst. The reason was that a small-time crook had been heard boasting in a local pub that he was part of the gang.

  -0-

  Weeks had been having an after-work drink in The Queen’s Head, sitting discreetly in a shady corner of the bar, nursing a pint of bitter and poring over the crossword in the evening paper. The felon, Tommy Atkins, had already done the rounds of the local hostelries and was well oiled by the time he staggered into The Queen’s. He had started chatting to a young lady at the bar, apparently trying to impress her with his prowess but actually rather annoying her. When he said the words ‘Eastcastle Street’ rather loudly, Weeks’s ears pricked up, pen poised, the crossword forgotten.

  ‘See,’ Tommy said to the girl, ‘before that, all robberies was “Wham, bam, thank you Mam”.’

  ‘You what?’ She was obviously not the brightest.

  Tommy rolled his eyes, and then went on, speaking slowly and deliberately. ‘They weren’t planned – well not properly. A couple of blokes would get together an’ decide to rob a bank. Then they’d nick a car an’ get another mate to be the getaway driver. They’d pull nylon stockings over their faces, get tooled up an’ burst into the bank.’

  ‘What’s “tooled up” mean?’

  ‘Blimey! Don’t you know nuffink?’

  ‘ ’Ere! Cheeky!’ she said, thumping him on the arm.

  He rocked on his stool, just managing to stay upright. ‘Steady on! Just means they ’ad guns - sawn-off shooters maybe.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say that then?’ The girl tossed her hair and reached for a cigarette from the pack on the bar.

  Tommy ploughed on. ‘Anyway, sometimes they’d get away with it an’ get a few quid – an’ sometimes some bright spark would ring a silent alarm under the counter, the rozzers would turn up an’ cart them off to clink.’

  The girl was rapidly losing interest. She drew hard on her cigarette then blew a plume of smoke towards the ceiling. ‘So what are you saying?’

  ‘At last.’ She gave him a withering look that he barely noticed. ‘What I’m sayin’ is that Billy Hill’s blag was carefully planned. ’Im an’ is mates, Taters Chatham an’ Lucky Tel Hogan among ’em, pretended they was making a film when they was really plannin’ the job.’

  The girl looked up. ‘Who was starring in it then?’

  Despite his inebriation, Tommy couldn’t believe his ears. ‘Starring in it? They were only pretending, you silly cow.’

  ‘You what?!’ She whirled round and slapped his face - hard. ‘You’re full of shit! I’ve ’ad enough – I’m going!’ With that she grabbed her bag, scooped up her cigarettes and stormed out of the pub, slamming the door so hard the windows shook and the glasses rattled on the shelves behind the bar.

  Tommy was shaken. He sat on his stool, speechless. The barman pretended not to notice. Weeks took the opportunity to leave his seat and walk to the bar to order another drink. ‘Women!’ he said, standing next to the crook.

  Tommy seemed not to hear at first. Then he shook his head, as if trying to get water out of his ears. ‘Sorry mate, what did you say?’

  ‘Buy you another?’ Weeks pointed to the empty glass.

  Tommy looked down, then up at the other man, still stunned. ‘What? Yeah. Thanks, matey.’

  Weeks signalled to the barman who refreshed their glasses. When they were filled he chanced his arm. ‘I couldn’t help hearing you talking about the Eastcastle Street robbery.’

  Tommy looked up sharply, suddenly sober. ‘You a copper?’

  Weeks held his hands out, palms forward. ‘Me? No. Far from it!’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘It’s just I admire the way they pulled it off.’

  ‘Tommy’s face relaxed into a grin. ‘Clever, weren’t it?’ He paused, then spoke again. ‘’Ere, what’s your name?’

  Weeks thought quickly. Better to stick to the truth, as far as possible, without giving too much away. ‘Johnny,’ he said. This seemed to satisfy the other man. Feeling he was on safer ground the DC warmed to the subject. ‘Yeah, all that careful planning paid off. Nearly three hundred grand, wasn’t it? I wouldn’t mind being part of something like that.’

  ‘An’ they never got caught. Cheers Johnny.’ Tommy lifted h
is glass in salute then took a swig. Leaning forward he lowered his voice conspiratorially, taking Weeks into his confidence. ‘D’you know what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was one of the team.’

  ‘You weren’t?’ Weeks was astonished. The booze had made the man careless.

  Tommy tapped the side of his nose with a none-too-clean forefinger and peered both ways along the bar before speaking. ‘I was the look-out,’ he said in a whisper.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Shh! Keep yer voice down.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘S’alright. Learnt a lot from Billy and Tel.’

  Weeks cocked his head to one side. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. I learnt that the most important thing in doing a job is … plannin’. Don’t matter ’ow long it takes, you’ve got to plan – make sure you don’t forget nothin’ – look after every little detail. That’s what they taught me.’ He lowered his voice even further so it was not much more than a whisper. ‘And d’you know what?’

  Weeks had to lean in close, just to hear. ‘What?’

  ‘I’m plannin’ me own job.’

  Weeks couldn’t believe his ears. He swallowed, trying to keep his voice neutral. ‘Really? Tell me more.’

  Tommy stood up unsteadily. He gestured to the corner where Weeks had been sitting. ‘Let’s go an’ sit over there – so no one can hear us.’ He picked up his glass and weaved his way across the bar. ‘Right,’ he said, sitting down heavily on the dusty, plum-coloured banquette. Weeks pulled up the chair on the other side of the table. ‘You know that Billy robbed a post office van?’ Weeks nodded. ‘Well I’m gonna rob a mail train.’ He sat back, a triumphant grin spreading across his face. ‘An’ this is how I’m gonna do it…’

  -0-

  Dave Elsdale sat on the narrow bed in the narrow room the monk had shown him to. He shuddered. It really was a miserable little cell but at least he wouldn’t have to share with Laurie Baker. He couldn’t believe his eyes, when he saw him in the dining room. That horrible little man with the silly haircut - bosom pals with Tommy Atkins. Thick as the thieves they were. Dave liked to think that he wasn’t jealous, but he was.

  He and Tommy had grown up together during the war. As boys, neither had enjoyed school and although Tommy had shown a genuine talent for drawing he had preferred scrambling over the rubble of bombed-out houses, looking for valuables that had been left behind by the unfortunate householders. The pair became adept at dodging the rozzers, firefighters and ARP wardens. The things they found – watches, jewellery, photo frames – more than made up for the grazed knees and bruised elbows.

  He remembered Tommy’s dad as a shadowy figure, still young enough and fit enough to be called up but somehow avoiding enlistment. He didn’t spend much time with his family, preferring the bars and dives where he mixed with the other lowlife in the city. But he was useful to the boys. He knew the right people who would fence the trinkets they looted, giving them pocket money for their finds. Dave was bright enough to realise that the man probably gave them only a fraction of the value of their pilfered spoils but the boys were glad of the coppers and occasional half-crowns that kept them supplied with sweets, when they were available, and cigarettes. That was then. Now, and for the past few months, Tommy didn’t want to know him. They hadn’t grown apart, as boys becoming men often did. Tommy had actively pushed him away. Dave was pretty sure the reason was because he’d gone straight. Got a proper job. Up until then they had passed from being naughty boys - pinching what they could - into manhood, becoming outright, small-time villains. They hadn’t been very good at it, never hitting the big time, just scratching a precarious living. After a few years Dave had grown tired of the brushes with the law and decided to go straight. It was from then that he had definitely been given the cold shoulder.

  He’d started working as a clerk for the Southern region of British Railways. At first Tommy jeered at him and said he was ‘going soft’ but still kept his company. Then, Laurie Baker came on the scene. He was a sneaky little man, a bit older by a couple of years, and Tommy took to him straight away, carelessly brushing his long-term friend aside. When he first started his job, Dave was tolerated by Tommy and his cohorts but quickly it was made known that he wasn’t welcome. This really hurt. At first he was angry at being cast off so glibly. Most of his frustration was directed at Laurie who, he felt, was the main reason for his exclusion. Gradually, as he settled into his job, he found he quite enjoyed the routine, even though it was lowly and poorly paid. Eventually he began making new friends and gradually the hurt he had felt at being rejected began to wear off. Then something happened that made him hanker for the buzz of his old life.

  He was having a drink with one of his fellow clerks, a pleasant enough, but slightly flash chap called Simon, a little older and more senior but very much a Teddy boy. After a few pints they got to talking about unusual loads that the railway carried and Simon let slip that there was a regular consignment of mail bags that went from Brighton up to London containing bank notes. As soon as he mentioned it the older man realised he’d said too much and clammed up. Dave knew better than to push him for more details and let it go. However, the next time they met, he managed to steer the conversation round to the subject and Simon, probably having drunk more than usual, opened up. Dave found out when the consignment was sent, on what train and how often. As he weaved his way back to his digs – he’d drunk quite a bit too – he started working out how he might be able to get back in favour with Tommy.

  First, he needed to find out more about the journey the mail bags took from the coast to the metropolis. On his next free day and using his railway travel pass, a perk of the job, he set off for Brighton. It was when the snow started falling heavily that his troubles started and his journey ended at Buxted station, which was how he came to find his way to Shambhala.

  -0-

  Russell walked into the blue lounge. Along one wall was a floor-to-ceiling bookcase with works on Buddhism, meditation and Tibet filling the shelves. A cheery blaze sent out waves of heat from within a large ornate fireplace with tiled surround and heavy overmantle. A couple of armchairs faced the fire. Sitting on one of them was the woman who had welcomed him the previous day. She elegantly uncurled her legs that had been tucked beneath her and standing said: ‘Hello, Sonny. Can I help you choose something to read?’

  Russell smiled. ‘Thank you, Helen, that would be very kind.’

  She crossed to the bookcase and ran her finger along the spines of the books. Stopping, she gently pulled out the Manual of Zen Buddhism by D. T. Suzuki. She held it out and said, ‘This should be a good introduction. There are simpler “How to meditate” guides, but I think this would be more your style.’ She smiled knowingly and much to his surprise Russell almost blushed. He was obviously more relaxed than he realised. She returned to her chair, Russell sat in the other and flicked through the pages of the book she had chosen for him.

  After a few minutes of companionable contemplation he lifted his head from the book to see Helen looking back at him, an enigmatic smile playing about her lips. Russell returned the smile and spoke: ‘How well do know Laurie?’

  ‘Laurie?’ She looked puzzled.

  ‘The man sharing my room. He was at our table for supper.’

  ‘Hmm, not well. I only met him yesterday evening. Not long before you turned up.’

  ‘Oh, I thought you were old friends, the way you were chatting.’

  Helen coughed and looked down. ‘Er no, we just seemed to click. It’s like that in a place like this,’ she added quickly.

  ‘I see. What do you know about him?’ he asked.

  ‘Well,’ Helen began, ‘I don’t think he’s been on a Buddhist retreat before, or any other retreat, despite his appearance.’

  ‘You mean the hairstyle?’

  ‘It is rather distinctive.’ She laughed. ‘But I don’t think he’s a monk.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  She thought
for a moment. ‘He was quizzing Sanghaketu and Vidyatara.’

  ‘What about?’ Russell leaned towards Helen, closing his book and putting it on his lap. He had regained his composure and his policeman’s inquisitive nature had come back to the fore.

  I think it was something to do with trains.’ She paused. ‘Yes, I remember, he was asking how far this place was from the Brighton line.’

  Russell frowned. ‘A strange sort of question.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. Probably why I remembered it.’

  ‘Can you recall anything else about him?’

  ‘You seem rather interested. I thought you’d come here to get away from detective work?’

  Russell smiled sheepishly. ‘Sorry. Force of habit.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I quite understand.’ The easy silence between them returned, only broken by the crackle of the fire. After a few minutes Helen spoke again. ‘Tell me about you. Where do you live?’

  ‘Ah.’ Russell wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of questions but was happy to open up to this woman. ‘I live in a converted railway carriage by the coast, on the other side of the county.’

  ‘How fascinating. Is there a Mrs Russell?’

  He laughed. ‘No. I guess you could say I’m wedded to the job.’

  ‘Any family?’

  No. My parents are both dead, I’ve got an older sister but we don’t get on. She’s rather domineering.’ He looked a little wistfully into the glowing embers of the fire. ‘There may be some distant cousins but we don’t keep in touch.’

  ‘Oh. That’s sad.’ Helen’s eyes were full of compassion.

  ‘It’s what I’ve got used to.’ He looked up and beamed. ‘But I do have a little terrier, Aggie.’

  ‘That’s a nice name. Is it a girl?’