Blood on the Cards Read online

  ‘Big stack of crates – covered with a tarpaulin?’

  ‘You keep your nose out of it,’ Mills said. ‘Nothing to do with you,’ he said, and slammed the cellar hatch shut.

  -0-

  Russell was in a quandary. His intuition told him that Parker had got the wrong man. He knew from the conversation he’d had earlier with Johnny and Nettie there was no love lost between the strongman and Ivy Rose. He just didn’t think he would actually kill her. But, judging by the conversation he’d heard out by the river, Petulengro and Boswell were much more likely candidates. The trouble was, Stout had made it patently clear that he was to have nothing to do with the case. And Parker obviously wasn’t going to take him seriously. So what could he do? He sat in the Ford, his hands on the steering wheel, a frown on his forehead. Aggie seemed to sense her master’s frustration. She lay quietly on the back seat, chin on paws, one eyebrow raised. Russell turned and ruffled her head.

  ‘What should I do?’ he asked, knowing he wouldn’t get an answer. ‘I suppose I could talk to Johnny – he might be able to persuade Bonnie Parker.’ The terrier yawned. Russell smiled. ‘Yes, I know how you feel. It all seems a bit of a trial. But I’ve got to do something – I hate the thought of an innocent man being convicted.’ He sat for a while then made up his mind. ‘Yes, that’s what I’ll do.’

  When he arrived at the police station Wickstead was leaning on the counter, reading the racing section of the evening paper. ‘Hello Sonny. I thought you were on leave?’

  Russell chuckled. ‘I am.’ His expression turned serious. ‘But I need to talk to Johnny. I fear our friend, Parker, is about to carry out a dreadful miscarriage of justice.’

  ‘That sounds serious.’

  ‘It is. Do you know where I can find them?’

  ‘They’ve got that chap from the fairground, Atlas, in the interview room.’

  ‘That’s who I’m worried about.’

  ‘But I thought he’d confessed.’

  ‘Huh! That’s what Bonnie said, but I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell him?’

  ‘I tried, but he wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘No surprise there.’

  ‘I’m hoping I can get Johnny to exert some influence.’

  Wickstead gave a snort. ‘Good luck with that. I can’t see Bonnie Parker letting you anywhere near him.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I think he’s decided to hang on to him while his normal sidekick, Clyde Barrow, is off sick.’

  ‘Charming. He is my DC.’

  ‘Yes but Stout has suspended you, hasn’t he?’

  Russell nodded grimly.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll just have to put up with it, until you’re back at work.’

  The DI let out a long sigh. ‘I suppose you’re right.’ He turned and was about to leave.

  ‘Oh, Sonny. Crooks, the pathologist just rang.’

  Russell stopped. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘We-ell. I’m supposed to pass it on to the officer in charge. But as you’re here…’

  ‘Go on…’

  ‘He’s got the body of that gypsy on the slab. Apparently he’s discovered something interesting.’

  ‘I’m intrigued. Can you delaying telling Parker for a little while?’

  Wickstead tapped the side of his nose. ‘Leave it to me Sonny.’

  -o-

  DI Parker sat slouched in the interview room. His jacket hung untidily over the back of his chair; his braces strained over his ample stomach; his ash-flecked tie was loosened and askew. By contrast, DC Weeks sat neatly upright, his pen poised over a pristine page in his notebook. Even his normally unruly mop of dark curly hair seemed tamed – for now. The look on his face was one of quiet resignation.

  ‘Right. Let me get this straight. The blood on your shirt is from when you cut yourself shaving,’ Parker stated.

  Not for the first time Charles Atlas shifted nervously in his seat. If he fidgeted much more the slender wooden structure was likely to give way under his weight. A rough, grey woollen blanket was wrapped round his muscular frame. ‘Yes, I’ve already told you several times,’ he answered. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face, dampening the extremity of his already moist moustache.

  ‘Huh!’ Parker exclaimed. ‘A likely tale.’ He reached for his cigarettes, withdrew one from the pack and jammed it into the corner of his mouth. Striking a Swan Vesta he applied the flame to it and sucked greedily. He held the smoke in his lungs for several seconds until, with a barking cough, he blew it out, not caring that it went straight into the face of the strongman. ‘Now let’s have the truth.’

  ‘It is the truth!’ Atlas protested.

  Parker took another drag on his cigarette. ‘We’ll see. At this very moment our flash and dabs boys are examining your shirt.’ He leaned forward, put his elbows on the desk and rested his chin on his knuckles. ‘And let me tell you – I think we’ll find it’s the blood of that gypsy.’

  ‘But I didn’t kill her.’

  ‘So you say. I think the evidence will tell a different story.’

  ‘But why would I want her dead?’

  Parker turned his head towards Weeks. ‘Constable, read what he said when you interviewed him.’

  Weeks flipped back a couple of pages in his notebook. He cleared his throat. ‘He said, “I wasn’t surprised that she was dead. She was poison”.’

  Parker smiled triumphantly. ‘Now if that ain’t a confession of guilt, I don’t know what is.’

  -0-

  Russell stopped outside the austere façade of the one-time asylum. The Victorian red-brick building was now an annexe of the town’s hospital, with the mortuary off to one side. He reached below the dashboard, pulled up the handbrake and switched off the engine. Exiting the car he climbed the steps to the front door, crossed the foyer and turned down the pea green and beige corridor that led to John Crook’s domain. At the end was a door marked:

  PATH LAB – ONLY AUTHORISED PERSONNEL TO ENTER.

  Pushing the door open he crossed the small, plain anteroom containing just a row of filing cabinets and a pair of straight-backed chairs. On the other side was another door marked PRIVATE. Russell knocked then pushed the door open. The pathologist was bending over a body lying on a stone slab.

  ‘Ah, Sonny,’ he said, straightening up, the green gown straining over his ample stomach. ‘I hoped I’d be seeing you instead of that appalling Bonnie Parker. He really is an unpleasant character – bumbling and incompetent, a real scruff of a man. Always puffing on one of those foul cigarettes and scattering ash over everything – mainly his own greasy suit. Eugh. Can’t stand him.’

  Russell was taken aback at the force of the outburst.

  ‘You agree with me, don’t you?’ Crooks lowered his eyebrows and stared at the DI.

  ‘I couldn’t possibly comment, John.’

  The pathologist let out a sharp breath and tutted. ‘Anyway I’m glad it’s you.’ He turned back to the slab. ‘Come over here. I think I might have found something rather interesting.’

  Russell walked across to where the body of Ivy Rose Lee lay, modestly covered with a green rubber cloth. He was glad it was pulled right up to her chin, covering her throat which he knew wouldn’t be a pretty sight. Her eyes were closed in her nut-brown face – she looked at peace, an image at odds to her violent end. ‘What is it John?’

  ‘I thought I’d wait until you – or that awful man – turned up, before revealing what I’ve found.’ The gypsy’s lips were parted, her mouth slightly open. Taking a large pair of tweezers from the metal tray on the end of the slab he carefully pushed them into the opening. Squeezing the blades closed he pulled out a piece of folded card. There was an elaborate pattern on the back. He put it on the woman’s chest and returned the tweezers to the tray.

  Russell leaned forward as the pathologist unfolded the card. ‘Well I’ll be…’ It was a tarot card, featuring a lurid drawing of a skeleton, astride a white horse. His hand gripp
ed a vicious-looking scythe; his mouth was set in a sickly rictus. MORT was written across the bottom in large letters.

  ‘Oh, Death,’ Crooks said. ‘Any idea what it means? Apart from the obvious, of course.’

  ‘Not really. I suppose it might be some sort of message from the killer.’

  ‘My thoughts, too.’

  ‘I know the cards have different meanings. I’ll have to look it up. Can I take this?’

  ‘You’d better not. I ought to show it to Parker.’

  ‘I suppose so. Shame, as it’s rather intriguing.’

  ‘But aren’t you off the case?’

  Russell grinned sheepishly. ‘Doesn’t stop me doing a bit of private investigating, does it?’

  Crooks chuckled, his belly shaking. ‘Nothing ever does.’

  Russell paused for a moment, considering. Then spoke hesitantly. ‘John,’ he began. ‘I’ve got a bit of a dilemma.’

  ‘What’s that, Sonny? Crooks replied going over to the sink and washing his hands.

  ‘I suppose you’ve heard that Parker has made an arrest.’

  ‘Yes, the news had reached me.’

  ‘What do you make of it?’

  Crooks shrugged. ‘Not really given it much thought.’ He looked directly at Russell, his bushy eyebrows low over his eyes. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me he’s got the wrong man…’

  ‘As a matter of fact…’

  ‘I knew it! Go on then. Spill the beans.’

  Russell explained about the conversation he heard between Boswell and Petulengro.

  Crooks, who had listened in silence, nodded. ‘That’s does put a different complexion on it, doesn’t it? What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘The Super is away so I tried to tell Bonnie but he wasn’t having any of it.’

  ‘No change there, then.’

  ‘He’s convinced he’s got the right man. I wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to fit him up – you know how he feels about homosexuals.’

  ‘Yes, he is rather biased.’

  ‘That’s being polite.’

  ‘But you’re convinced the man is innocent?’

  ‘Well, not convinced, but it does seem rather convenient.’

  Crooks rubbed his chin. ‘Listen. I’ve got an idea.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Why don’t you ring the station? No doubt you’ll speak to Wickstead. Tell him you’re a member of the public and you’ve seen a caravan that fits the description of the one that belongs to Pilgrim Petulengro. Get him to pass it on to Parker as an anonymous tip-off.’

  ‘Do you think that’ll work?’

  Crooks spread his arms expansively. ‘Of course, trust me. He’s such a lazy sod he’ll accept if without question and get someone else to follow it up.’

  ‘Hmm. That’s a good idea. Thanks, John. I’ll give it a try. Meanwhile, I’ll see if I can find out what this card means.’

  Chapter 5

  The Reading or kite wagon has straight sides that slope outwards towards the eaves, high arched wheels, and is relative light in weight.

  PILGRIM PETULENGRO lay back on the plush velvet sofa in his van, his hands clasped behind his head. His was a Reading wagon, elaborately decorated in red, with details picked out in yellow and green. The interior was equally decorative with ornate bevelled mirrors; painted cupboards and seat lockers where goods were stored when the van was on the move. But none of this finery gave him any comfort. Boswell’s visit had rattled him. He’d been so casual about the gypsy Rose Lee. The man had been certain that the body wouldn’t be found for weeks. By then Petulengro would have been miles away, working in another funfair. Instead he was stuck, far too close to where they’d dumped her body. His van was in good condition and his horse, young and fit. But he could still only travel at a few miles a day and would be easy to spot. Much as he disliked it he was just have to stay put for the time being. Boswell had assured him that he would be safe where he was. He said he knew the bloke who owned the land – and the cars dumped there – and nobody came down this track. He let out a long sigh, closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. He couldn’t know it was a sleep he would never wake from.

  Chapter 6

  Aleister Crowley was an English occultist, ceremonial magician, poet, painter, novelist and mountaineer. A prolific writer, he founded the religion of Thelema and published widely over the course of his life.

  ‘RIGHT, LET’S get this straight.’ DI Parker had levered himself out of the chair and was walking round the room. ‘You still claim that you had nothing to do with the death of this gyppo, Ivy Rose Lee.’

  ‘I’ve already told you that – several times. I might not have liked her, even hated her, but I didn’t kill her. Why would I? She was nothing to me. She may have driven Pilgrim away, maybe not, but I had nothing to gain from her death.’

  Parker shook his head sadly. Coming up behind the strongman, he placed his hands on the back of the chair. He leaned forward until his lips were almost touching the other man’s ear. ‘But the evidence will tell a different story,’ he said, in a throaty whisper. He stood upright and was returning to his chair when there was a knock at the door. ‘Come in,’ he growled, lowering his bulk on to the seat.

  The door opened and Lewis appeared. In contrast to Parker he was the height of elegance, a neat side parting in his well-cut hair. ‘Can I have a word?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Parker groaned as he heaved himself out of the chair again. When they were in the corridor he said: ‘I hope you’ve come to tell me the blood on the nancyboy’s shirt is a match.’

  Lewis shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m sorry to let you know that he was telling the truth. It looks like he really did cut himself shaving.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to. The evidence is conclusive.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Parker paused, his brow furrowed. ‘What about fingerprints in the gyppo’s caravan?’

  ‘Oh there were lots.’ Parker’s face brightened. ‘But none matched Atlas’s,’ Lewis said.

  ‘Bugger. So we’ve got nothing to hold him on then.’

  ‘Sorry. Wish I had better news.’

  ‘Double bugger! I suppose I’ll just have to let him go – for now.’ A sickly smile crept across Parker’s face – like an oily tide coming in over a muddy riverbed. He leaned towards Lewis ‘Listen. We’re both men of the world, aren’t we?’ Lewis’s affirmative nod was almost imperceptible. ‘We both know he’s guilty as hell, don’t we.’ It was a statement not a question so Lewis remained silent. ‘I need some evidence, so I suggest you go back and find me some. Okay?’

  ‘If you say so. But I don’t hold out much hope. We’ve been very thorough.’

  Parker put his hand on the door knob. ‘I don’t doubt it, old chum. But another look ain’t going to hurt, is it? I want him convicted.’

  The door hadn’t been closed properly while they talked. The strongman couldn’t help but hear every word.

  -0-

  “Death, or Mort, signifies change. The figure of death is a living skeleton surrounded by the dead and dying – kings and paupers – signifying that no one can cheat death”. On a shelf of the bookcase in his railway-carriage home Russell had found a well-thumbed book called The Meaning of the Tarot. He recalled buying it some years before from an antique shop housed in one of the warehouses in Nottery Quay. He remembered paying for the book and the man snatching the ten shilling note with bony fingers that ended in talon-like nails emerging from grubby fingerless gloves. Then almost throwing a few coppers change back to him.

  Squeezed between a shop dealing in good quality oak and another selling slightly battered utilitarian furniture was a dingy weatherboarded warehouse, the timber rotting and the floor uneven. It was filled with a kaleidoscopic selection of antiques. The interior was so gloomy it was difficult to tell if there was anything of value or if it was just all just junk. The owner’s name was
Septimus Pike, a wizened man, of indeterminate age, straight out of a Dickens novel. Russell had known him for some time.

  When he had asked if Pike had a copy of a book on Tarot cards he said: ‘What do you want it for?’ his voice a cross between and rasp and a croak.

  ‘Just idle curiosity,’ Russell answered

  ‘You ought to be careful. Dabbling with the occult can be dangerous.’

  ‘And you would know about that?’

  ‘Maybe I would and maybe I wouldn’t,’ Pike said, stroking his wispy beard with dirt-ingrained fingers.

  ‘I’d be interested to hear your thoughts, Septimus.’

  ‘I’m sure you would, my friend.’ He made an elaborate flourish with his arm and gestured towards a leather armchair. ‘Take a seat and I’ll tell you what I know.’ Russell gingerly lowered himself into the chair. The leather was torn and stained and as he sat he could feel a broken spring pressing into his thigh. He shifted to make himself more comfortable.

  ‘Right. What do you know?’

  ‘Have I ever told you that I met Aleister Crowley?’

  Russell’s eyebrows shot up in amazement. He knew of the man but was surprised that Pike would have known him. ‘Really? Wasn’t he called “The most evil man in Britain”?’

  ‘Well, “The wickedest man in the world”, actually.’ The antique dealer rose from his chair. ‘Just a minute.’ He walked across to a shelf and ran his finger along the spines of the books on it. After a few moments he stopped at one and pulled it out. He placed it on the low table between them and settled back in his chair. Russell picked up the volume. It had a rich blue cover with a beautifully painted illustration of a Tarot card in the centre. Above the picture were the words THE BOOK OF THOTH (Egyptian Tarot) and below, by THE MASTER THERION (Aleister Crowley). He opened the cover and inside the flyleaf the author had signed his name. The signature was most distinctive, the capital ‘A’ forming a crude representation of a man’s genitalia. Russell looked up to see Pike staring at him grinning, his hand caressing his beard.