Blood on the Shrine Page 4

  ‘Yes, Agatha Christie… in full.’

  She smiled warmly. ‘The queen of crime.’

  There was another long pause then he spoke. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Me?’

  Russell chuckled. ‘Yes you. You said you felt at home here.’

  Helen threw back her head and laughed. ‘This is about as far from home as you could get. I work in the City.’

  ‘Oh yes? What do you do?’

  She took a moment before answering. ‘Oh you know, secretarial work - nothing of importance.’ Russell was about to speak again when a bell rang summoning them to their first workshops. Uncurling her legs, Helen got to her feet and, smiling at him said: ‘C’mon, we’re going to have our first lesson in mindfulness.’

  -0-

  ‘So he told you he’s gonna rob a mail train then?’ DI ‘Bonnie’ Parker sat behind his desk, flakes of grey cigarette ash peppering his jacket and tie; a Capstan Full Strength smouldering in the ashtray sending a lazy plume of smoke snaking towards the ceiling.

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ Weeks replied hesitantly.

  Parker guffawed. ‘And you believed him?’

  ‘He was very definite.’

  ‘He may well have been.’ The DI paused. ‘Tommy Atkins,’ he went on, ‘is a greasy little toe-rag. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.’ Parker picked up his cigarette and took a long drag, blew out a stream of smoke and coughed, phlegm rattling in his chest.

  ‘But he told me the dates, the location, everything.’ Weeks looked crestfallen.

  ‘More fool you.’ Parker waved his hand towards the door, ash flying off the end of the cigarette. ‘Go on. I’m sure you’ve got work to get on with.’ As Weeks turned the DI’s voice softened. ‘Don’t take it too hard, lad; they’re not called cons for nothing.’

  Weeks went back to his desk and sat behind the pile of files, teetering on its surface. Yet again Parker had refused to take him seriously. He recalled this had happened when his usual DI, Sonny Russell, had been taken off the last big case they had worked on. Owing to Parker’s cynicism on that occasion, Weeks had been abducted and taken to France. By pure luck he’d escaped with his life - and prevented a man from being hanged. Parker obviously had a short memory, he reckoned.

  He thought back to the previous Friday evening when the ‘con’ had taken him into his confidence.

  -0-

  They were sitting in the corner of the saloon, as far from the bar as possible. Tommy had picked up his glass and taken a deep swig. He banged the glass down then belched noisily. ‘It’s like this, see,’ he began. ‘Every week, the Post Office sends a load of mailbags from Brighton up to London. Now I know – don’t ask me how,’ he leaned forward and tapped the side of his nose with a grubby forefinger, ‘but I know that some of them mailbags is stuffed with banknotes.’

  Weeks raised his eyebrows. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, really. Somebody - and I ain’t tellin’ you who – told me that they’re heading for the London headquarters of the banks down there. It’s all the takings from the previous week plus the weekend. Money from the shops an’ the races an’ that.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit unusual?’

  Tommy scowled. ‘Wadyer mean?’

  Well I thought they usually sent cash in some sort of armoured van.’

  ‘Ah, well, that’s where this is different, see.’ The amount of alcohol he had consumed turned the wink he gave Weeks into more of a leer. ‘My mate says they reckon that sending the dosh by train, anonymous like, is more secure; less risky.’ Weeks nodded sagely. ‘And this mate of mine knows which days the money is on the train,’ Tommy went on. ‘And not only that, he knows which train it’s on.’

  ‘How…?’ began Weeks, but was immediately cut off by a growl from Tommy.

  ‘Don’t ask, Johnny! I ain’t gonna tell you no details ’til I know I can trust you.’

  Weeks held his hands up. ‘Fair enough. I don’t expect you to tell me anything you don’t want to.’

  ‘No, and I ain’t gonna, neither.’ Tommy buried his face in his glass and drank deeply. It was some moments before he spoke again. He fixed Weeks with a stern look, his eyes slightly unfocused, then spoke. ‘You said you wouldn’t mind being part of something like that van robbery.’ Weeks nodded. ‘Can you drive?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘A lorry?’

  ‘How big?’

  ‘Not very. A three tonner.’

  Weeks smiled. ‘No problem. Used to drive those in the Army.’ Tommy sat up and narrowed his eyes.

  ‘When I did my National Service.’ Weeks added quickly.

  Atkins sat back smiling. ‘Well, Johnny, you might be the bloke I’m looking for.’

  ‘Sounds good to me. How big is the team?’

  ‘Ah, well, that’d be telling.’ He took a drink. ‘That’s something I learned from Billy an’ Tel when we did the Eastcastle Street job. You‘ve got to stick to a plan.’

  Weeks cocked his head to one side. ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Yeah… One,’ he tapped his thumb, ‘keep it simple. Two,’ his forefinger was tapped, ‘keep it small – that’s why I ain’t tellin’ you how many’s on the job. And three…’ he and sat up straight and held his finger to his lips and lowered his voice, ‘keep it quiet.’

  ‘When are you planning to do it?’ Weeks asked cautiously.

  Tommy drained his glass and smacked his lips. ‘I don’t know yet an’ even if I did I wouldn’t tell you...’ The look on his face made Weeks wonder if he’d gone too far, but Tommy went on, ‘…I wouldn’t tell you – yet.’ With that he got unsteadily to his feet and stood swaying. He put his hands on the table and leaned forward, his face inches away from the other man. ‘Meet me here again tomorrow night. I might have something more to tell you then.’ Weeks succeeded in remaining still although his instinct was to recoil from the sour stench that came out of Tommy’s mouth. ‘Six o’clock. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Tommy weaved his way towards the door, fumbled for the handle, then pulled it open. He turned towards Weeks, winked again and in a stage whisper said: ‘Mum’s the word.’ Then he was gone, leaving the door swinging on its hinges, flakes of snow swirling in from the street.

  The landlord lifted the counter flap and came out from behind the bar. As he crossed to the door he looked towards Weeks. ‘Don’t think much of the company you’re keeping,’ he muttered. ‘I’d be wary of that one if I were you.’ He slammed the door shut and walked, heavy-footed, back to the bar. Weeks looked at his half empty glass and decided he didn’t want any more to drink. He rose, picked up his paper and made his way out. The snow was still falling but the pavements and road were wet so it wasn’t settling – yet.

  -0-

  Russell sat on his cushion in the shrine room. Helen was sitting further along the row of seated figures so he wasn’t able to see her. But, he could see Laurie, who was immediately opposite him, looking relaxed, his eyes closed, a serene look on his face. Vidyatara was talking about “being in the moment” and, “living for today”. Rather than concentrating on the words of wisdom Russell was more intent on observing the other man. He was curious as to why such a person, especially with his distinctive haircut, would be drawn to a place like this. Perhaps this was just the sort of place distinctive people were drawn to. Helen certainly seemed ‘different’ and, so was he, come to that. A vegetarian policeman, with leanings towards eastern philosophy? He was certainly different. He’d heard the term ‘seeker’ applied to those, who, dissatisfied with conventional religion, looked elsewhere so perhaps Laurie too was a seeker.

  Laurie’s eyes weren’t completely closed. In fact he was staring straight back through his lashes at Russell. He wondered what the policeman was doing at the retreat centre. He couldn’t know about the job, could he? And why was Helen cosying up to him? She was playing a dangerous game, getting so close to a copper. And what on earth was that creep Elsdale doing there? Tommy hadn’t mentioned the little snake when he’
d asked him and Helen to check out the lie of the land. He’d have words with Tommy when he got back. Meanwhile he’d have to pretend that he was enjoying all this mumbo jumbo nonsense. He closed his eyes and, listening to the monk droning on, drifted into sleep.

  -0-

  He was running down a never-ending street. There were houses, tightly packed on either side. People were hanging out of the bedroom windows laughing and shouting at him. He looked over his shoulder and could see a giant Wolseley police car gaining on him. He tried to run faster but instead his legs grew heavier and heavier and it felt as if he was moving through porridge or thick mud. The police car was gaining rapidly, the bell clanging demonically. He tried even harder to escape, his heart pounding, his breath coming in great gasps. With a start he awoke, shook his head and opened his eyes. The shrine room swung into focus and he was aware that the robed monk was gently banging a small gong. Surreptitiously he peered round, convinced that the others would be staring at him, but no, they were stretching and shifting on their cushions, smiling to themselves, lost in the moment. Shakily he got to his feet and made his way to the vestibule where he had left his coat and shoes. He carefully averted his gaze, not wanting to make eye contact with the others. He took his time, shrugging his shoulders into his overcoat then bending to tie his laces. Soon, the others had left for the main house, a murmur of gentle conversation drifting away with them. Vidyatara was the last to come out of the shrine room. He touched his sleeve and spoke quietly.

  ‘I know we’re not supposed to have contact with the outside world while we’re here, but I wondered if I might use the telephone.’ The monk went to speak but Laurie held up his hand. ‘See, I’ve got this friend and I’m a bit worried about him. He ain’t been too well. It’d only be a quick call.’

  ‘Well,’ Vidyatara began, he smooth brow furrowing and his dark eyes half-closing, ‘I suppose it would be all right - just this once.’

  Laurie beamed. ‘Thanks ever so. I’m happy to pay for the call.

  The monk waved his hand and shook his head. ‘That won’t be necessary.’ Slipping his feet into his sandals he said: ‘I will have to check with the others first. If you go back to the house I will come and find you presently.’ They stepped through the outer door and were shrouded in a thick swirl of snow. It looked like winter had returned.

  -0-

  Weeks sat in the corner of the bar, a pint of bitter on the table in front of him. He was the only customer. It was already a quarter to seven and there had been no sign of Atkins. The barman had been the negative side of surly when he ordered his drink and the miserable coal fire in the corner was doing little to take the chill off the room. He was beginning to wonder if Parker was right, and the ‘con’ was just stringing him along. He had been sure that he was on to something, despite his superior’s disdain and again, he wished Russell was there to counsel him. He sighed. Trust his DI to be away when he really needed him. He decided to leave it another five minutes then give up.

  Suddenly the street door burst open. Atkins entered with two men, one built like the side of a house, the other small and furtive. Spotting Weeks he called out. ‘Hello, matey. Wanna drink?’ Weeks held up his half-full glass and shook his head. Atkins winked and turned back to the bar. ‘Three pints landlord, and four whisky chasers.’ He took a roll of notes out of his pocket, peeled one off and laid it on the counter. ‘And one for you - keep the change.’ The barman’s mood improved appreciably. It had the makings of a lively evening.

  Clutching their drinks the trio made their way over to the table where Weeks was sitting. Atkins upended one of the chasers into Weeks’s glass. ‘Get that down you!’ The big man sat heavily on the banquette causing a cloud of dust to rise and dance around their heads. The smaller man perched on the edge of a wooden chair, his eyes darting furtively from side to side.

  ‘Well, Johnny, how’ve you been?’ Atkins asked.

  ‘Fine thanks.’ Weeks took a drink and almost choked on the whisky in it but managed to swallow, hoping his discomfort didn’t show.

  Atkins seemed not to notice. ‘These are my colleagues.’ He held out his arms. ‘Sammy the screwdriver…’ he said and pointed to the little man, who nodded briefly then quickly looked away, towards the door. Weeks smiled back and made a quick appraisal. Neatly dressed in a double-breasted blue pinstripe suit he had a beak-like hooked nose and a thin moustache on his upper lip. The way his gaze kept flitting around the room Weeks thought it made him look like a bird. ‘And this is Butcher Bates.’ The big man proffered his hand. Weeks held his out. Bates smiled and closed his around it. Weeks felt the bones in his hand being crushed. Withdrawing it as soon as he could he held it under the table and nursed it with the other hand.

  ‘Right, mate. Now we’ve got the intros over, let’s get down to business.’ Atkins shuffled in his seat and took a deep draught from his glass. ‘I’ve got a couple of my people on site, as it were, checking out the spot where we’re gonna do the deed.’ He scowled. ‘Well they should be, if it wasn’t for this bloody weather. Mind you, I expect they’ll be cosy enough.’ He chuckled and took a drink from his glass.

  Weeks took a gamble and asked: ‘Why, where have you sent them?’

  The big man, Bates, joined in the laughter. ‘A bloody Buddhist retreat, whatever that is.’

  Weeks was lifting his glass to his lips and only just managed to stop himself from dropping it in surprise. He slowly lowered it to the table. ‘Oh?’ was all he managed to say, his mouth suddenly dry.

  ‘Yeah,’ Atkins said, ‘over towards mid-Sussex, somewhere near Uckfield.’

  The policeman could hardly believe his ears. It had to be the same place where his DI, Sonny Russell, had gone. He gulped and chanced his arm. ‘Why there?’

  The little dapper man looked around nervously, his eyes darting, but Atkins was in amiable mood. ‘Calm down, Sammy, Johnny’s one of us now.’ He punched Weeks playfully on the arm. ‘I chose it because it’s not far from the main Brighton line where I reckon we can do the job. I figured if they were staying in this ’ere retreat place they be able to go out on a walk and find a good spot without raising suspicion. Good cover, eh?’ He winked and pinched Weeks’s cheek.

  ‘Er, yes. A great idea. Gives them an alibi.’

  ‘Just what I thought.’ Atkins sat back, pushed his hands into his jacket pockets and grinned.

  -0-

  Russell kept his head down and his eyes half-closed against the snow as he trotted the short distance from the shrine room back to the house. He stamped his feet on the coconut doormat and shook the snowflakes off his shoulders. Helen had stopped in front of him. ‘Brr! I reckon the weather is setting in.’

  ‘I think you’re right. I can’t see anyone going anywhere for a while if this carries on.’

  -0-

  ‘You can use the telephone now.’ Vidyatara had come into the warmth of the blue lounge, the snowflakes melting on his bald head causing trickles of moisture to run down his face.

  Baker looked up from the book in his lap, open but unread. Helen lifted her head at the same time, a glance passing between them.

  ‘Oh thanks,’ he said, closing the book and putting it on the arm of the chair. He stood and followed the monk out of the room.

  Although the look had been almost imperceptible Russell had noticed it. He was puzzled but didn’t comment. Instead he said, ‘I thought we weren’t supposed to communicate with the outside world?’

  Helen shrugged her shoulders and smiled. ‘Who knows?’

  -0-

  After receiving this unexpected piece of news Weeks had sat quietly listening to the exchange between the men. His eidetic memory was absorbing all the details and he would write up his notes later. He still couldn’t believe his luck that Atkins appeared to have accepted him as part of his gang.

  Atkins cleared his throat and spoke. ‘Anyway, enough banter. We’ve got a blag to plan.’

  He was just about to continue when the landlord called over from the bar: �
��Tommy - phone call for you.’ He was holding up the black handset. With a ‘tut-tut’, Atkins got up from his chair and crossed the room.

  -0-

  ‘Listen Tommy, I wanna know what’s goin’ on!’ Baker barked down the phone, his voice loud in the cramped hall of the monks’ accommodation. ‘What’s that toe-rag Elsdale doing ’ere?!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dave Elsdale – he’s here, large as life and twice as ugly.’

  Atkins was taken aback. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Course I bloody am. Turned up this morning, bold as brass.’

  ‘Have you spoken to ’im?’

  ‘No, I bloody haven’t. Anyway, what’s he doing here? You never told me you were going to use him. I thought it was just me and Helen out here. What the bloody hell are you playing at!’

  ‘Now calm down.’ Atkins glanced round the bar. His drinking companions were sitting in silence, just Sammy returning his gaze then quickly looking away.

  ‘No, I bloody won’t calm down. I want to know what this is all about!’

  Atkins furrowed his brow. ‘Listen, I’m as much in the dark as you are…’

  ‘You sent him to check up on me.’ Baker hissed.

  ‘No, I bloody didn’t.’

  ‘Why’s he here then?’

  Atkins was silent.

  ‘Well?’ Baker’s indignant voice echoed down the phone. There was a pause while Atkins took a deep breath and collected his thoughts. ‘I’m waiting…’

  ‘Honest, Laurie, I’ve no idea what ’e’s doing there.’ He paused. ‘Let me think for a minute.’ The line went quiet.

  ‘You still there?’

  ‘Yeah, give me a moment.’ Atkins looked up. The three seated figures were staring expectantly. The barman polished a glass, feigning indifference to the man’s obvious confusion.