Blood on the Strand Read online

  -0-

  ‘Bloody ’ell! That was close.’ Perspiration was running down Drake’s face, darkening the red scarf tied round his neck as they carried a box of herrings up the beach.

  ‘Nah. She didn’t suspect nothing.’

  ‘But when she started talking about Moonshine…’

  ‘That ain’t nothing to do with us.’

  ‘I know, but what about Ted and Nipper? They’re the ones that borrowed it.’

  ‘Exactly. If anybody needs to be worried, they’re the ones who should be.’

  ‘But what if the police talk to them and they split on us?’

  ‘They won’t. They’ve got more to lose. They’re the ones who ‘‘lost’’ that second crate, ain’t they?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Drake wasn’t convinced. After they had put the box down by the net shed and stopped for a breather he slumped on to a barrel while Tedham took out his clay pipe. He struck a match on the woodwork of the shed and applied it to the tobacco. Sucking hard he was just getting it going when there was the sound of a car approaching over the shingle. As it turned the corner and appeared round the side of huts they could see it was two-tone blue and cream and obviously foreign. They watched as the engine was switched off and the car gently sank on its gas suspension. As the driver’s door opened, Drake gasped as he saw a familiar figure. Tedham was less bothered.

  ‘’Allo Monsewer Albert. ’Ave you brought us our money?’ he asked cheerfully.

  Albert gave him a look that would curdle milk. ‘No, I have not!’ he spat. ‘I am looking for those two crooks, Stump and Crabbe. Do you know where they are?’

  Tedham took the pipe out of his mouth and shook his head. ‘No idea, I’m afraid. ’Aven’t seen them for days. Why do you want them?’

  ‘Because they have cheated on me!’

  ‘Really?’ Tedham clamped the pipe back between his teeth and sucked hard.

  ‘Yes. You tell me that the other crate must have sunk. But I don’t believe that! Why would one sink and not the other?’

  ‘Maybe it was ’eavier?’

  The Frenchman leaned in, his face close to Tedham’s. ‘You stupid man! They both contained the same, so if one sank, then the other one would too. Do you understand?’

  Tedham backed away, holding his hands out, fingers pointing upwards. ‘Okay, okay! No need to get at us. We was only the collectors, not the deliverers.’

  The Frenchman’s voice lost some of its menace. ‘That may be true, but were you not friends with them?’

  ‘Well, acquaintances, more like.’

  ‘Whatever. I still need to find them. And when I do…’ His brow furrowed. ‘Have you no idea where they may be?’

  ‘Their local is The Seahorse - same as ours. But we ain’t seen them for days, ’ave we Frankie?’ Drake shook his head. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

  ‘I will go there now and make enquiries. But if you see them you had better tell me – if you want your money.’ With that, he got back in the car. The engine started and the car rose. He put it in gear and it sailed effortlessly over the rough shingle and out of sight.

  Drake was sweating profusely now. ‘Blimey. That was nasty, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Nah. ’E don’t scare me. It’s them other two ’e’s after, not us.’

  ‘All the same… What if he finds them?’

  ‘What if ’e does?’

  -0-

  ‘So what did you find out?’ When Sharpe returned to the police station she made straight for Lewis’s office. He had told her to make herself comfortable while he went to fetch tea from the canteen. He returned, handed her a mug and then sat down behind his desk. ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘I think so…’ she said slowly.

  ‘Come on then.’

  Sharpe took a sip of tea and smiled shyly. ‘Superintendent Stout didn’t think there was much point in going.’

  Lewis grinned back. ‘If you don’t hurry up and tell me, I’ll think the same.’

  ‘Sorry. I will.’ She put down her mug and sat up straight in her chair. ‘I showed them the photo of the trow – Tedham made light of it.’

  ‘What about Drake?’

  ‘Ah. The thin one. He reacted quite differently.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘He was decidedly nervous - positively twitchy - suggested it must have been put there by children.’

  ‘Very likely I’m sure. I know kids enjoy playing in dirt but that lump of wood was disgustingly greasy. What about the boat?’

  ‘I showed them the photo but they claimed to know nothing about it.’

  ‘Did you believe them?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I was watching them carefully and there was very little reaction. But…’ She paused.

  ‘But…?’

  ‘Nothing really. I just got a feeling. Somehow I thought they might have known more that they were letting on – but I couldn’t be sure.’

  ‘That’s a shame. I was rather banking on you turning up something definite. We’ve analysed the fingerprints we found on Moonshine and I hoped that Tedham’s would show up.’

  ‘And they didn’t?’

  ‘Sadly not. Of course, Drake’s may have been on the boat, but as he’s not been brought in for anything, we don’t have them.’

  Sharpe grinned. ‘I may be able to help you there.’ She took the photograph of the boat out of her bag, carefully holding it by the corner. ‘He had his mitts all over this.’

  ‘Good girl! Well done. I’ll get that dusted right away. Perhaps we might strike lucky.’

  ‘There’s something else.’

  ‘Lewis tipped his head to one side. ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Yes.’ She reached into her bag and withdrew the piece of crumpled newspaper. ‘Here. What do you make of this?’

  Lewis took the scrap, laid it on the table and carefully smoothed out the creases with his hands. ‘Wow! It’s in German,’ he said, his eyes lighting up with excitement.

  Sharpe looked puzzled. ‘Is that significant?’

  ‘I should say so.’ He looked up, a huge grin on his face. ‘The piece Russell found in the bottom of the crate that was washed up was a page from a wartime propaganda newspaper called Das Reich. I’ll have to carry out some tests but I’ve got a sneaky suspicion that this might be from the same source. You’ve done really well. Stout ought to be proud of you.’

  ‘Are you going to tell him?’

  Lewis considered. ‘Not for the moment. I think I’ll discuss my findings with Sonny Russell first.’

  ‘But isn’t he on leave?’

  Lewis grinned. ‘Yes, he is, but he’s already involved and I know he’ll want to hear what you’ve found out.’

  Chapter 4

  Oloroso is a variety of fortified wine made in Jerez and produced by oxidative ageing. It is normally darker than Amontillado, with a nutty flavour.

  ‘These are very nice little trinkets. Won’t you tell me where you got them from?’ The speaker was hunched over the table in the warehouse; the light from a single Anglepoise lamp glinting off the gold and silver objects.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t do that,’ Duncan Fountain answered.

  The man rubbed his grubby hands together; talon-like nails poking from fingerless mittens. ‘That is a shame. It is often a help to know the provenance of the goods I handle, but in this case...’ With his hooked nose, wispy hair and straggly beard Septimus Pike was a dead ringer for Fagin. His long, nondescript overcoat and shabby shoes just added to the impression. If they were ever casting for a local production of Oliver Twist he would be at the top of the list.

  Fountain had produced some of the items that had been ‘liberated’ by Stump and Crabbe for the other man to appraise.

  He had used Pike a number of times in the past, particularly when the goods he had wanted to pass on had been less than legitimate. In this case he knew that the provenance of the candlesticks, picture frames and other items made from precious metals needed to be dealt with discretely. He was sure
that the man, now examining them closely, would be discretion itself.

  ‘What do you think? Can you find buyers for them?’

  Pike rubbed a hand across his chin, the wiry beard waggling to and fro. ‘Possibly…’

  ‘What sort of price do you think you might be able to achieve?’

  The chin rubbing continued and as a frown spread across his face, deep wrinkles appeared on his forehead. The combination of grime and sunburn made it look like a freshly ploughed field. ‘Difficult to say… Without provenance the price I can get will be much less than if you could tell me where they came from.’

  ‘Yes, I understand that. But how much less?’

  Pike held out his hands. ‘Who can say? It depends on whether I can find a buyer who is prepared to accept them at face value, and not ask questions.’

  ‘Do you have anyone in mind?’ Fountain asked.

  ‘I might and I might not. You know how it is.’ He lifted his shoulder in a partial shrug. ‘I will do my best, but I can’t make any promises.’

  ‘Fair enough. I’ll have to trust you on this one.’

  ‘You do that, my friend. You do that.’

  -0-

  As soon as he returned to his own shop Fountain placed the trinkets in a tea chest with the other things. He pulled back his cuff and looked at his wristwatch. There were still a couple of hours before Isobel Bailey was due to arrive. Time for a snifter. He was just reaching for the brandy bottle when he paused. No, he would wait until she turned up, and crack open the bottle of Oloroso he’d been saving. So he contented himself with a cup of tea, then lay back in his chair and dozed.

  A light tap on the warehouse door woke him from his reverie. He had taken the precaution of switching on a standard lamp before he’d settled down in the armchair for a nap, so he was able to find his way without falling over the jumble of antiques cluttering the warehouse.

  ‘How lovely to see you Isobel,’ he enthused.

  ‘You only saw me yesterday, you old smoothie,’ she chuckled, giving him a playful shove and pushing past him. She sank into the armchair that he’d just vacated and took a pack of Sobranie Black Russian out of her handbag. Putting one of the gold tipped cigarettes between her painted crimson lips she produced a silver Ronson lighter and lit the end. Drawing deeply she produced a slim column of bluish smoke, perfuming the air. ‘What about a drink – before we get down to business?’

  Fountain smiled and fetched two slender, tulip-shaped glasses and the bottle of sherry. Pouring carefully, he passed one to her. She breathed in the scented aroma then took a sip. ‘Mmm. Very nice.’

  ‘I thought you’d like it – I saved it just for you,’ he said, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses.

  ‘Do shut up Duncan. I know when you’re buttering me up.’

  ‘Who me?’

  ‘Yes, you. I know you too well.’

  Fountain chuckled. ‘I suppose you do.’ He paused. ‘But I know very little about you.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yes. I know nothing of your background.’

  She took a drink from her glass. ‘Mmm. What would you like to know?’

  Fountain sat on an upright chair facing her. ‘Where you grew up, for instance…’

  ‘Fair enough.’ She sucked hard on her cigarette, the end glowing brightly, contrasting with the black paper. ‘If I told you I came from minor nobility, would you believe me?’

  ‘I think I probably would.’

  ‘And that I grew up in a castle – well, a fortified manor house, anyway. There was a ruined castle in the grounds.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me. Whereabouts?’

  ‘In the wilds of west Sussex.’

  ‘Are your folks still there?’

  ‘Good God no! You don’t think I’d be buying and selling jewellery if we still had the family estate, do you?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘No, I’d be living it up, not slumming it round here – negotiating a decent price with the likes of you.’ She smiled and held out her glass. ‘Come on, top me up.’

  Fountain uncorked the bottle and poured a generous measure. ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Death duties, is what happened.’

  ‘Oh. I thought you would have married well and become independent of the family.’

  She chuckled. ‘So did I.’

  Fountain raised an eyebrow but didn’t speak.

  After taking a drink from her refilled glass she went on. ‘They had it all mapped out for me. A private education at Roedean …’

  Fountain interrupted. ‘I thought the school was taken over by the Admiralty during the war. Training for navy cadets or something?’

  Yes, it was. We were sent to Keswick. Bloody cold it was too.’

  ‘How did you get on?’

  ‘At school?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Pretty well. I was a studious sort. Enjoyed lessons. Got a place at Newnham College to read English Lit.’

  ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘My folks were too.’

  She was just taking a drink when he asked: ‘Did you get a good degree?’

  She sputtered, put down the glass and dabbed her lips with a lacy handkerchief. ‘No! I didn’t go.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She drained her glass and gave a huge sigh. ‘I came out as a deb.’

  ‘And that stopped you? How?’

  ‘It wasn’t the coming out – it was what happened after…’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘A man.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yes. Oh.’

  He refilled her glass without being bidden.

  She went on. ‘He was the archetypal glamorous Frenchman, attached to the French embassy in London. It was probably the beautifully cut suits that did it. He looked absolutely ravishing – the spitting image of Yves Montand – I can see him now. Anyone would have fallen for him.’

  ‘What went wrong?’

  ‘Where do I start?’

  Fountain smiled warmly. ‘The beginning?’

  ‘He swept me off my feet. All thoughts of going to Cambridge went out of my head. We had a whirlwind romance. Would you believe we went to Gretna Green and got married?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yup. It was wonderful – at first. He couldn’t have been more attentive and considerate. We had a little flat in Fulham – a love nest.’

  ‘Why did things fall apart?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose he missed his old life – before we met. He’d been a soldier prior to joining the diplomatic service and he’d kept up with his old army pals. He’d meet with them, when they were over here. Then he started spending evenings with them, drinking, gambling – and who knows what? I suppose I felt neglected and we began having rows. I quickly fell out of love with him. I told him and he was really angry.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘It got worse.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘He changed – became moody. Then he lost his job. I asked him what he was going to do. He became cagey – said something about working with a friend. I asked him what it was. Told me to mind my own business. Said it was going to make him rich, and then perhaps I’d love him again. I laughed in his face, we had a flaming row and he walked out.’

  ‘That’s a shame’

  My fault I suppose. Perhaps I should have been more understanding – I don’t know. Then… disaster.’

  ‘Oh – what?’

  ‘My parents were killed.’ She opened her handbag, took out her handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. ‘Sorry.’

  Fountain leaned forward and patted her hand. ‘That’s all right. Don’t apologise.’

  She blew her nose gently and put the handkerchief back. ‘It’s okay. I’m over it now. But it was such a shock when it happened.’

  ‘How did they die?’ he asked gently.

  ‘Car crash. Daddy always loved fast motors. He had a succession of wonderful two-seaters – even took part in some track ev
ents. His last was a pre-war Frazer Nash – his pride and joy.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘We never did find out for sure. The police assumed that he’d been driving too fast. All we knew was that he lost control on a bend and drove straight into an oak tree. They were both killed on impact.’

  ‘How awful.’

  ‘Yes, it was. Then it got worse.’

  Fountain tipped his head to one side.

  ‘There were the funerals, which were pretty dreadful, but I thought that was the end of the misery but it wasn’t…’

  ‘My God. I can’t imagine anything worse.’

  ‘Well it was. I was young, still in my early twenties, not very worldly wise. I didn’t realise how much would have to be paid in death duties. I won’t tell you how much – the amount was colossal. It meant the family pile had to be sold and I came out of it with very little. Then it got worse again.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. How?’

  She gave a throaty laugh. ‘Somehow my glamorous Frenchman heard about it and decided to come back. He thought I was going to inherit the lot. When he found out I’d hardly got a penny we had the most awful bust-up. He showed a side I’d never seen before. He turned into a demon. I couldn’t wait to see the back of him. Luckily he went and that really was the last I saw of him. Despite what had happened I was heart-broken.’

  ‘I bet.’

  ‘Took me some time to get over it. At least I had my little flat. Anyway, I sold that, reverted to my maiden name, moved down here, bought my present house and this is where I am now.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say. I thought you lived down here because you liked it.’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong – I do – now. But you did ask.’

  ‘Yes, I did. Thank you for being so candid.’

  ‘That’s all right, Duncan. Now, are you going to show me the rest of the jewellery?’

  -0-

  ‘Cor blimey! It’s been a nightmare tracking you down. Worse than the bleedin’ Scarlet Pimpernel, you are.’

  ‘We weren’t going to make it easy. Not with Monsewer Albert after us.’

  The four fishermen were sitting round a tin-topped table by the fireplace in the Shipwrights Arms at Compass Point. Crabbe appeared relaxed, leaning back in his chair, a roll-up dangling from his lower lip. Stump, however, kept glancing nervously towards the door.