Blood on the Cards Page 5

  ‘But what about the door-to-door in the village?’

  With a supreme effort Stout reined his anger in. ‘Look,’ he said, slightly more reasonably. ‘You might think that it’s important but she was just a gypsy, after all. A traveller. Should we really be wasting police time on someone like that?’ He spread his arms wide.

  Russell clamped his teeth together. If he hadn’t he would lost his temper and said something that he might have lived to regret.

  Stout mistook his silence for agreement. His voice dropped several semitones and his colour returned to a lighter puce. ‘I’m glad you see it my way.’ He took a deep breath and let it out noisily. ‘But, I can’t trust you to investigate this case any more. I want DI Parker to take over.’

  ‘But Sir!’

  ‘No buts. You’ve made me look stupid. The Chief Constable has been giving me a hard time about this year’s budget and you’ve just blown it for me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sir.’ Russell tried to look contrite.

  Stout waved his hand dismissively. ‘It’s too late for sorry.’

  He took his time to select a new cheroot from the tin on his desk. Then even longer to get his Zippo lighter fired up and the tip of the cigar glowing. He took a long drag, savoured the nicotine, tipped his head up and blew a plume of smoke towards the ceiling. Russell could only stand and wait, wondering what else was coming.

  ‘You’ve some leave due, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’ Russell’s heavy heart became leaden.

  ‘I think it might be an idea if you take a few days off.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’ Stout pursed his lips, the gripped cheroot pointing outwards; his arms folded.

  Russell tried one more time. ‘Couldn’t I work alongside Parker?’

  ‘No! I’m away for the next couple of days and I don’t want any trouble between you two. I know how you feel about him.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be a problem.’

  ‘I said… Take – Some – Leave. Now go.’

  ‘But…’

  Just get out!’

  Defeated, Russell turned to go.

  ‘And send DI Parker in. I want a competent detective on this case.’

  Russell left the room. Outside Parker was leaning against the wall, a fresh Capstan Full Strength clamped in the corner of his grinning face. He’d obviously overheard much of the conversation. ‘That went well.’ The grin widened, the cigarette dangling off his lower lip. Russell could only stand and stare. As Parker pushed past he said: ‘I’m looking forward to taking over. I expect I’ll wrap it up pretty quickly.’ He entered the Super’s office and the door closed behind him. Russell stood breathing heavily for several minutes, the stale smell of Parker and his foul cigarettes a bitter reminder of his blunder.

  -0-

  Back in his office, Russell sat slouched in his seat. He was bemused by Stout’s apparent confidence in Parker. The man was a bumbling buffoon and had proved himself incompetent on numerous occasions. He knew his own failure to toe the line angered the Super but at least he got results. His normally positive disposition had deserted him; sunshine had disappeared behind heavy cloud cover. He realised now that he should have cleared it with Stout before taking so many men away from the station but… At the time he had felt it was necessary to get a fingertip search underway as soon as possible. Before any evidence was lost. If he’d known earlier that the gypsy had been killed in her van… Well, it was no good being wise after the event. He linked his fingers behind his head and pursed his lips. But he was too down to produce a cheerful ditty. Instead he exhaled noisily. There was a loud knock on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ he said wearily.

  Weeks put his head round the door, his face like thunder. ‘I don’t believe it!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘I know, lad. I’m not very happy about it either.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Super taking me off the case…’

  Weeks looked baffled for a moment. Then his blank expression turned to one of understanding. ‘Oh. Sorry, Sir. Y-yes,’ he stammered. ‘Rotten luck. But it’s not that.’

  Russell sat up and put his hands flat on the desk. ‘What is it then?’

  ‘Bloody Bonnie Parker! The Super says I’ve got to go with him!’

  ‘Really? What about Barrow?’

  ‘He’s off sick – again.’

  ‘So you’re going to be his DC.’

  ‘Yes I bloody well am, apparently. Not my choice though.’

  ‘Never mind, lad. At least you’ll be able to keep me informed about what’s going on.’

  Weeks sighed. ‘There is that I suppose.’ He shook his head. ‘Sorry, Sir. I shouldn’t have flown off the handle like that – not when Stout has been so unpleasant to you.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that.’ Russell smiled warmly. ‘I’ve got a thick skin, and besides, I might do a little snooping on my own.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve got some ideas that our Inspector Parker won’t have thought of. Not a word to anyone, mind.’

  ‘Of course not, Sir. You can rely on me.’

  ‘I know I can, lad. Presumably you’ll be going off with Parker in one of the pool cars?’ Weeks nodded. ‘Any chance I could borrow your car?’

  ‘Of course, Sir.’ Weeks fished in his pocket and brought out the keys. He grinned. ‘I won’t ask where you’re going.’

  Russell smiled back. ‘Thanks, lad. Best I don’t tell you – for now. But if you let me know what Bonnie’s up to, I’d be grateful.’

  -0-

  Weeks was driving DI Parker over to Compass Point. The only consolation was that he’d got a Wolseley from the car pool and not the dreaded Ford Pilot – with the impossible column change that had always troubled him. But it was small comfort. Parker was dozing in the passenger seat, a Capstan Full Strength stuck to his sagging bottom lip. It had gone out before burning down completely, a column of ash threatening to cascade down his already grey-flecked jacket and tie. Weeks was tempted to swerve so it did fall but decided it would be preferable to have a few more minutes’ peace and quiet. However, he had the satisfaction of seeing the DI’s head flop forward as he stopped a little too sharply on arrival.

  Parker shook his head and looked round, a puzzled frown on his face. ‘What the bloody hell…?’

  ‘We’ve arrived, Sir.’

  ‘Oh really’ He opened the door and, hanging on to the frame, levered himself out. Spitting out the spent fag end and pulling a pack from his pocket, he took a crumpled cigarette and lit up. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Where’s this gyppo’s caravan?’

  Weeks led him to the bowtop, where Nettie was still keeping watch. Parker barely acknowledged her as he pushed past and puffed his way up the steps.

  He opening the door and peered inside. ‘Hell’s teeth! What a mess.’ He turned to the DC who had come up behind him. ‘Why on earth did Russell send all those men over to Appledore when it was bloody obvious that the woman was done in here?’

  ‘He didn’t know at the time,’ Weeks answered, adding: ‘Sir’, when the DI glared at him.

  Parker harrumphed. ‘Very likely, I don’t think.’

  Weeks decided not to reply. His lips formed a thin line.

  Sucking hard on his cigarette Parker surveyed the interior of the caravan, taking in the shambles and the bloodstains. ‘Why would anyone want to do this?’ He shook his head, a look of incomprehension on his face. ‘She may only have been a bloody fortune teller, but to do this…’ He let the words hang in the air. He shook his head again, this time appearing to clear his thoughts. ‘Right. Where do we go from here?’ He looked expectantly at Weeks.

  ‘Er…’

  ‘Come on, boy. You need to be quicker than that if you want to be my wingman.’

  Weeks swallowed then answered quickly. ‘Lewis and his team have been and looked for fingerprints and any other evidence, so there’s not much we can do here. I suggest we interview the other people at the fairgro
und, again.’

  ‘That’s more like it.’ Parker grinned, showing a row of nicotine-stained teeth. ‘Where shall we start?’

  Vado Boswell had been watching them from behind a net curtain. As soon as they had gone towards the fortune teller’s caravan he had slipped out of his home. He jumped lightly down the steps to where his pride and joy, an imported Chevrolet pickup, was parked. Powerful enough to tow his showman’s van he kept it in immaculate condition. The cream paintwork gleamed and the chrome hubcaps sparkled, especially as he’d recently scrubbed it out. He got in the car, started the V8 engine and set off, heading north.

  Chapter 4

  Advance-Design was a truck series by Chevrolet. It was the company’s first major redesign after WWII and from 1947 until 1955 they were the best-selling trucks in the United States. There were three main sizes: the half-, three-quarter-, and full ton capacities in short and long wheelbase.

  RUSSELL KEPT the Chevrolet in sight but stayed well back. He doubted that Boswell would suspect a humble Ford Popular was following him but he didn’t want to take any chances.

  -0-

  After leaving the police station earlier he’d driven Weeks’s car back to his railway-carriage home. He had quickly changed out of his suit and donned a pair of worn corduroy trousers and an ex-naval, white wool roll-neck sweater. He’d exchanged his polished brogues for well-worn walking boots and jammed a battered trilby on his head. Back in the car Russell had headed for Nottery Quay and the Salts. He’d parked a little way back from the funfair, the vehicle partly concealed behind some bushes. He turned off the engine and sat waiting, slumped low in his seat. After a few minutes the police Wolseley had driven past, and turned into the site. Not long after, as he’d hoped, the Chevrolet had nosed out from between a Scammell and Bedford lorry.

  He followed the truck out of town and up the hill. When it reached the Peace and Plenty it forked right towards Iden. Russell had to wait while an Austin Atlantic turned on to the road in front of him. This suited him as now he could follow without appearing obvious. They drove through the village, round the double bends and were soon descending the steep hill towards the river bridge, the brake-lights of both vehicles glowing red. As they reached it the driver of the pickup slowed, stuck his arm out the window and turned right. Once clear, the Austin roared off. Russell followed at a more sedate pace and pulled into a farm gateway. He climbed out of the car, his terrier scampering behind him.

  ‘Aggie!’ he called. ‘Come to heel.’ They crossed the road and walked down the track the pickup had taken. It was stony and rutted; the river on one side and open fields on the other, initially bordered by mature trees. A little farther on it opened up to what could only be described as a motor graveyard. There were vehicles in various states of decrepitude. Russell didn’t know a lot about cars – they were only useful for getting him to where he wanted to go – but he could recognise at least a couple of Model T Fords, three or four Austin 7s, the odd Standard and even what looked like a Bentley – all of pre-war vintage. Partly dismantled engines, gearboxes and differentials lay around along with tyres, wheels and pieces of metal he couldn’t identify. All very interesting but his destination was further on. The pickup was out of sight. He presumed it was beyond a distant clump of elders. Rather than observing discretion he threw caution to the wind, pulled the brim of his hat lower and strolled on confidently – a country gentleman out for a ramble with his dog.

  When he reached the trees he could see the Chevrolet tucked into a clearing. Drawing closer he was surprised to see beyond it, a gypsy caravan. He carried on walking past, whistling nonchalantly, Aggie rootling excitedly around in the undergrowth. He went on another 20 yards or so before he risked looking round. All was still. He obviously hadn’t been seen, or been paid any attention. Quietly calling the dog, he slipped her lead out of his pocket and clipped it on to her collar. Moving more cautiously he retraced his steps. When he reached the elders he stopped and peered through the emerging greenery. The door to the caravan was open and he could hear raised voices.

  ‘You said she wouldn’t be found for days!’

  ‘She shouldn’t have been.’ Russell thought he recognised Boswell’s voice.

  ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  There was a pause, then, ‘What’s happened to your ear?’

  ‘Oh that. I’ve lost an earring. Must have got torn out when we were moving her. Solid gold it was. Bloody annoying.’ Russell started. There was an earring found where Ivy Lee’s body had been found.

  ‘Where do you think you lost it?’

  ‘How the hell should I know?’ The voice was agitated.

  ‘All right, keep your hair on.’

  ‘Must have been when we were carrying her along the river bank or somewhere.’

  ‘I hope the rozzers don’t find it!’

  ‘Doubt it. Could be anywhere.’ Another pause. ‘Anyway, it’s best if you lie low for the time being. Nobody knows you’re here. I’ll come out again with some grub. Okay?’

  Nothing more was said and Boswell appeared in the van’s doorway and descended the steps. Clutching the terrier’s lead tightly Russell held his breath and watched the man get into the truck, start the engine and reverse out on to the track. The vehicle turned and set off back to the road. The DI waited, watching the open doorway of the caravan. A man appeared. He was thickset and stocky. A russet-coloured scarf was tied round his head; dark curls escaping from underneath, the colour matching the moustache on his upper lip. He wore a loose shirt, the same shade as his headscarf. His trousers were black and Russell noticed his feet were pushed into a pair of curious looking slippers. They had an eastern appearance, but what stood out most was the bright pompom atop each of them. The man stood for some moments, hands on hips, looking out at nothing in particular before turning and going back inside and closing the door. Russell waited for a few minutes before retracing his steps, making his way to the car.

  What should he do? Judging by what he’d just heard, Boswell and the other man – Petulengro? – may well have killed the gypsy, Ivy Rose Lee, or at least been involved in her death, somehow. Stout had taken him off the case but this was too important to keep to himself. He made a decision. He would go back to the funfair and tell Parker what he had heard. Then the man would have to do something about it, wouldn’t he? He started the engine, turned the car in the gateway and set off back towards Nottery Quay.

  -0-

  When he arrived at the Salts he was alarmed to see Charles Atlas being led away in handcuffs by a uniformed officer and bundled into the back of a police car. His shoulders were so broad it took some effort to get him in. The shambling figure of DI Parker followed behind, a self-satisfied grin on his face, a customary fag clamped between his lips. Weeks brought up the rear, his bewildered expression the counterpoint to the DI’s. Russell got out of the Ford and made his way across to his opposite number.

  ‘Russell,’ Parker said, a gleeful look on his face. ‘I’ve done your job for you.’ He folded his arms across his chest, the grin spreading, Cheshire-cat like.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Russell asked.

  ‘We’ve got the murderer.’

  Russell couldn’t believe his ears. ‘Atlas? The strong man?’

  ‘That’s right. Got him banged to rights.’

  ‘But how do you know he did it?’

  ‘More or less confessed. Said he hated the woman – wanted her dead.’

  ‘What about evidence?’

  ‘Evidence?’ Parker gave a shrug. ‘I’m sure we’ll find it.’

  ‘I think you’re wrong.’

  Parker snorted, a shower of ash cascading down his front. ‘Listen,’ he said, walking up to Russell and prodding his chest with a finger. ‘You are off the case. I’m in charge now. So get used to it.’

  Russell tried once more. ‘I think Boswell and Petulengro, the other fortune teller, did it.’

  ‘Oh yes? On what do you base this unlikely ide
a?’

  ‘I heard them talking.’

  ‘You heard them talking.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘And you ask about me having evidence. Sorry mate, I can’t see how I could have got the wrong man. You’ll just have to lump it, I’m afraid. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’ He turned to the DC. ‘Weeks – come on. I want to get back to the station. I’ve got a guilty man to question.’ With that he got into the Wolseley and settled himself in the passenger seat. Weeks looked towards Russell and shrugged. His expression was far from happy.

  -0-

  In Appledore Jack Mills was getting ready to open up the Red Lion for the lunchtime trade. With a sense of relief he’d seen the police pack up and go. Not that it had been bad for trade. A number of people had come in from outlying villages to see what was going on and had popped in to the pub for drinks and food. But the close proximity of the boys in blue had made him nervous.

  As he went about his preparations Mills was worrying about his friend Albert Stern over in Dungeness. Well, he called him a friend but he was more of an acquaintance. He only remained in touch with him because he had a boat, capable of easily crossing the channel to France. And that was very useful to Mills. He was worried because he didn’t trust Stern to keep his mouth shut if the police did call on him. He was unreliable at the best of times and if the police started probing, Mills was concerned he would cave in. He decided he would better go over and see him in person – sooner rather than later.

  Edna had gone down to the cellar to stock up on bottles of bitter lemon and tonic water. The hatch opened, her tousled head appeared and she came up the steps.

  ‘Jack,’ she said. ‘What’s that stack of crates in the corner of the cellar?’ Her face was a picture of innocence.

  Mills’s scowl was the complete opposite. ‘What?’ he growled.