Blood on the Shrine Page 7

  As the car bumped slowly around the potholes the detectives discussed the case. ‘When’s your next meeting with our felon?’

  ‘Atkins?’

  ‘Yes, him.’

  ‘He said he’d be in the pub again this evening.’

  ‘Jolly good. I suppose I should let the Super know what’s been going on – how you’ve managed to gain their confidence and be accepted as one of the gang.’

  The car jerked as a wheel dropped into a particularly deep rut and Weeks wrestled with the steering. ‘Haven’t you told him, Sir?’

  ‘Mmm, not yet. I thought I’d leave it for a while, see how we progressed. But, I suppose if I don’t tell him he might find out anyway.’

  ‘Yes, Bonnie and Clyde might tell him.’

  Russell chuckled. ‘Detective Inspector Parker and Detective Constable Barrow to you, constable.’

  ‘Sorry, Sir.’

  ‘That’s okay. But you’re quite right. They’re quite likely to tell him. If only to get one over on me. I’ll go and see Superintendent Stout when we get in.’

  -0-

  ‘So DC Weeks has gained the confidence of this Atkins fellow?’ Russell nodded. ‘How come I haven’t heard about it before? Oh yes, you’ve been away.’ Stout grinned.

  ‘That right, Sir. On retreat.’

  ‘But surely he could have told DI Parker?’

  ‘He did try to tell him, Sir, but Bonnie - I mean Parker – suggested that Atkins was conning him.’

  ‘And you don’t agree?’

  ‘No, Sir. I trust Weeks’s judgement implicitly. He has a photographic memory and everything he’s told me about the meetings rings true.’

  ‘How do you suggest we proceed?’

  Russell smiled inwardly. He was pleased to see that the Super was taking it seriously. ‘I think Weeks should be allowed to continue with the meetings and find out exactly when and where this job is planned before we do anything else.’

  ‘But what about this unfortunate…’ Stout looked down at his notes, ‘this Elsdale fellow? Do we have an update on his condition?’

  ‘I’ve been on to the hospital in Uckfield this morning and he’s off the critical list but is still very poorly.’

  ‘Is he going to die do you reckon?’

  ‘Hard to say, Sir. They wouldn’t commit, but reading between the lines it seems like he might pull through.’

  Stout harrumphed. ‘Let’s hope he does or a murder investigation would put an end to your clandestine operation. Now, before you go, do you think Weeks is safe, meeting these people, or should we put some sort of surveillance in place?’ Russell paused for a moment. Stout was impatient. ‘Well?’

  ‘No, I don’t think we should, Sir. It’s amazing that Atkins has accepted Weeks so readily. If there is even a suggestion that he is connected with the police…’

  ‘Point taken. Very well, tell Weeks to carry on but for goodness sake, tell him to be careful.

  ‘You can be sure I will, Sir.’

  -0-

  ‘Right, Stout says you can carry on with your meeting with Atkins.’ Weeks tossed back his mop of hair and grinned. ‘But for heaven’s sake, be careful! I don’t want anything happening to you. Don’t forget that business with Wolfgang Müller last year.’

  A shadow passed across Weeks’s face. He well remembered the little German with the withered leg and how he’d been forced to sail to France with him. Then the show-down in the barn in St-Valery-sur-Somme, when he’d just manged to stop Wolfgang from committing another murder and had almost lost his own life. ‘Don’t worry, Sir. I’ll be careful.’

  ‘You’d better be. I don’t want to start training up another DC!’ He pulled back his sleeve and looked at his watch. ‘Right. Time for a cuppa. Then you’d better write up what’s happened up to now, so I’ve got something on paper to show the Super.’

  When Weeks had gone, Russell leaned back in his chair and linked his fingers behind his head. Quietly he whistled Rodgers and Hart’s, Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered. He was glad that Stout had given the go-ahead for Weeks to continue with his meetings. He’d stuck his neck out, suggesting that there shouldn’t be any surveillance, but what if Atkins turned nasty? It was a dilemma, as he was pretty sure the man would quickly smell a rat if Russell put anyone in to watch him, but what if he didn’t? He had full confidence in Weeks’s abilities but couldn’t help having a worry, niggling at the back of his mind.

  -0-

  Weeks was sitting in his usual corner of the Queen’s Head when the street door swung open and Atkins swanned in with Sammy and Butcher Bates in tow. They collected drinks from the bar and made their way over to the table.

  ‘Well? Did you speak to your nursey friend? Is ’e dead?’ Atkins took a deep draught from his pint glass and waited.

  ‘Yes. I spoke to her. Looks like he’s going to pull through.’

  Atkins banged his glass down on the table and clapped his hands together. ‘Hooray! Fan-bloody-tastic! I might’ve fallen out wiv ’im but I don’t want ’im dead.’

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ Weeks smiled.

  Bates spoke ‘You were right, Tommy.’

  ‘Course I was. I knew ’e’d be okay. That’s why I’ve sent Laurie down to Uckfield to check out the lie of the land. No bloody snow this time.’

  Sammy looked round furtively. ‘Did Helen go with him?’

  ‘Nah. She’s busy elsewhere.’ He looked pointedly at Weeks. ‘And don’t ask. Helen’s nuffink to do with you.’ Weeks remained silent.

  Sammy took a sip of his drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand then asked: ‘Have you decided on a date for the job, Tommy?’

  This time Atkins looked round the bar. The handful of regulars were intent on their drinks and the barman was studiously polishing a glass. Atkins lowered his voice. ‘I ain’t quite made up me mind yet. It’ll ’ave to be a Tuesday, cos that’s when the banks send the cash up from Brighton. But until Laurie comes back with the info I don’t know which Tuesday it will be. Soon though.’ He let the words hang in the air for a few moments, then spoke again, louder this time. ‘So, you’ll just ‘ave to wait.’

  -0-

  Laurie Baker sat by the window on the train to Brighton, a copy of the Daily Sketch open in his lap. He had the compartment to himself and the paper remained unread as he stared out of the window at the scenery passing by. The snow had all but gone and there were signs of spring: buds on the trees and the occasional new-born lamb with its mother. They passed a farmstead with the distinctive conical shape of an oast house, topped with a white-painted wooden cowl in the yard and a Ferguson tractor trundling off to the fields. He found it hard to believe that only a few days before he’d been snowed in at that blasted retreat centre. He shuddered as he remembered the struggle in the grounds and Elsdale falling on the wooden spike. Tommy had assured him that the man was going to be okay, that he’d pull through, but he still felt sick when he thought about it. Ah well, what would be would be. He just hoped Tommy was right. Meanwhile he had a job to do.

  As the train approached Buxted Baker pulled the blinds down on the corridor side. He wanted the compartment to himself. The train drew into the station. Doors slammed. He heard voices outside and slumped in the corner of the compartment, feigning sleep. The door slid open and through half-closed eyes he saw a woman lean in. ‘Oh, sorry,’ she said and slid the door closed again. He smiled as the engine whistled and the carriage jerked as they set off again.

  Now he sat up, alert, as the train passed through the landscape. He knew it wouldn’t be long before they approached Uckfield. He looked at his wristwatch. Five minutes, and they should be there. Sure enough, just as Tommy had said, the train slowed to a walking pace and as he peered through the grimy, soot-speckled window, he heard a blast on the locomotive’s whistle and saw the gated crossing over a rough track. He sat back and waited for the train to pull into the station.

  -0-

  Baker slung the strap of his khaki haversack over his sh
oulder, got off the train and loitered until the few passengers left, the train had departed and the porter disappeared into his office. He made his way to the end of the platform and, looking back to check he hadn’t been observed, walked down the slope and along the side of the railway track. He had consulted the timetable before he had left and he knew there wasn’t another train due for a while so he was quite safe. He walked along by the side of the evenly spaced sleepers, stumbling over lumps of ballast but even so, it took barely 10 minutes to reach the crossing.

  A narrow track was bisected by the railway line. This was Hempstead Lane. To the west it turned into a metalled road which eventually led to a residential area backing on to the High Street. But in the eastern direction a rutted track, bordered by grass and weeds, went into Hempstead Forest. Then it meandered through a series of narrow byways until finally reaching the B2102 near the small village of Framfield. This was of great interest. Tommy had said that was the direction in which they would make their getaway after robbing the train.

  Baker lifted the latch on the gate and pushed it open, the bottom scraping on the long grass. There was a sign on the inside of the gate,

  LBSC Rly

  PENALTY

  FOR LEAVING THIS GATE OPEN

  40 SHILLINGS

  He smiled. Leaving the gate open would be the least of the authorities’ worries, after they had carried out the job. But for now, he pushed the gate closed, latched it securely and set off along the track. The surface was uneven, made up of compacted soil, rubble and pieces of broken brick. The track climbed steadily causing Baker to lean forward and breathe more laboriously. After a while he stopped and took a piece of paper out of the pocket of his jacket. Unfolding it he studied the neat map that Billy had drawn on it. It showed the railway line and the crossing, a spidery network of lanes that ran through the forest and a boldly drawn cross. This marked an isolated farmhouse that Tommy had found, which was where Baker was heading.

  The forest was thickly wooded, stark twisted branches pointing skywards like witches’ fingers. Even without a full covering of leaves, the trunks and crooked limbs of the beech and chestnut trees still made it quite gloomy. Baker shuddered. He was a townie and he did not like the countryside. Plus it was quiet – hardly a bird had made itself heard. He preferred pavements and streetlights, not rutted tracks and trees. Still, he knew that this isolated spot was perfect for what Tommy was planning and, boy, had he planned it well. He might seem naïve and a bit cocky, especially when he’d had a few. But he had learned his lessons from Billy and Tel when he worked with them on the Eastcastle Street robbery: plan everything meticulously, and stick to that plan. The blasted freak weather had set the timetable back by a few days but that could not be helped. At least the snow had not lasted and now he could get on with looking over the area. The track levelled out and 10 minutes after leaving the level crossing he came to a gate, closing off the end of the track and opening on to the junction with a slightly less weedy road. He consulted the map. Right would take him along Sandy Lane, which soon joined the B2102 at Framfield and then back into Uckfield. But pushing the gate open he turned left along Spurlings Lane, and after a few hundred yards, left again on to Etchingwood Lane. He passed the entrance to a substantial house; the lane curved round to the right then there was a sharp bend to the left. Just after this he found what he was looking for.

  Set well back from the road, down a long stony drive was a small, run-down farmhouse with a group of outbuildings. These included a large and a smaller barn, all well-screened by thick conifers. It had seen better days and was just as Billy had described it. No one had lived there for years, apparently - some dispute over ownership - which meant no one was likely to be interested in it either. How Atkins had found this out, he had not let on to Baker, but he assured him that it would be the perfect hideout.

  The farmhouse was four square; two first-floor windows and two windows either side of the porch. The walls were rendered, coloured bilious brown, the paint peeling in places. A rickety five-bar gate, between straggly hedges, barred the way, a rusty chain and padlock keeping trespassers out. This was no obstacle to Baker. From his jacket pocket he produced a bunch of skeleton keys. Carefully selecting one, he inserted it in the slot in the padlock, twisted it a few times until the lock clicked open. He removed the chain and pushed the gate wide enough to slip through then pushed the gate shut again, securing it with the chain and the padlock. He didn’t close it fully this time but it would look locked to the casual observer.

  He walked up the stony track to the house then climbed the single step to the front door. Again, expertly selecting a key he put it in the lock. The lock was a little stiff, but with a bit of persuasion, the key turned and, with an eerie creak, the door swung open. The room was sparsely furnished with a sagging sofa and a pair of armchairs of indeterminate colour, a wonky table and four battered wooden chairs. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light from the low sun that filtered in through the grimy window. Opposite was a fireplace with an ornate tiled surround, the grate filled with a jumble of sticks, probably from last year’s rook’s nest on the chimney pot. Dumping his haversack on the table he set off to explore. An open doorway from the main room led to the kitchen. Beneath the window looking over the yard at the back of the house was a deep Belfast sink. A single cold tap dripped rhythmically, leaving an orange stain on the sink where the water fell. On the opposite wall was a rusty range, which had probably been black at one time. It had an open grate to one side, an oven door and single square hotplate. Baker rubbed his hands. At least he’d be able to have a brew and a hot meal. Next to it was another door. Turning the handle he pushed it open, revealing a flight of stone steps descending into the gloom. A damp, musty odour rose from a cellar. He shuddered and quickly closed it. Wandering across to the other side of the kitchen he unlocked the back door and wandered out into the yard in search of firewood.

  Chapter 7

  The previous year

  Newhaven is a town in the Lewes district of East Sussex. It lies at the mouth of the River Ouse and is a port for ferries to Dieppe.

  Wolfgang Müller sat disconsolately on the helmsman’s seat in the wheelhouse of Moonshine. Well, although he still thought of it as Moonshine, the name painted on the stern now read Cormorant and the boat had been given a complete repaint from white to dull black.

  -0-

  When he had escaped capture by disappearing into the fog off Saint Valery the previous year, he had set off blindly in Moonshine, out to sea, and then turned south-west, heading vaguely towards Dieppe and, more by luck than judgement, had stumbled upon a narrow creek. As the fog gradually thinned he nosed the boat between the muddy reed-topped banks and found a perfect berth, away from prying eyes. He had lain low, constantly on the alert, looking out for the French police who were undoubtedly seeking him. After several days, when he had seen no one and his supplies were running low, he climbed over the gunwale of the craft, stepped on to the springy marram grass and set off to explore his surroundings.

  Dragging his withered leg, he found it hard going but gritted his teeth and pressed on. In a short time a collection of cottages came into view either side of a narrow, metalled road. He walked more easily now and he could see at the far end a bar-tabac. He pushed the door open and made his way inside. A solitary figure sat on a stool at the zinc topped bar, with the patron standing behind, polishing a glass with a tea towel. The man on the stool turned his head and they both looked towards the stranger. Wolfgang was expecting to be recognised but neither displayed more than idle curiosity.

  ‘Bojour, Monsieur. Que voulez-vous boire?’ the barman asked.

  Wolfgang thought quickly. ‘Ah, I’ll have a beer, please.’ His French, though accented, was good enough to pass muster. The barman nodded and turned to the shelf behind him. Adeptly he flicked the top off a bottle and placed it next to a glass on the counter. Wolfgang slid awkwardly on to a bar stool, the other customer coughed and turned back to reading a week-old c
opy of L’Equipe, opened out in front of him. The barman went back to his polishing.

  Wolfgang had almost drained his glass before the barman spoke again. ‘Are you staying nearby?’

  He thought quickly. ‘Quite close.’ Not wanting to admit where he had actually come from he said, ‘I’ve just brought my boat up from Cherbourg. I need to do some work on it.’

  His neighbour looked up from the newspaper and moved the smoldering Gitanes Maïs to the corner of his mouth. ‘Oh yes? What are you planning to do?’

  Wolfgang felt a little uncomfortable but replied, ‘She needs a repaint.’

  ‘Why didn’t you get it done while you were in Cherbourg?’

  ‘Er, the yard wanted too much to do it.’ He made a rubbing gesture, between thumb and forefinger. ‘I thought I’d paint her myself.’

  ‘I might be able to help you there,’ the man said. ‘What colour were you thinking of?’

  ‘Er, black.’

  The man grinned. ‘You’re in luck. I’ve got several cans of black. Do you need a hand doing it?’

  Wolfgang was sweating but tried not to show his discomfort. ‘That would be helpful.’

  The man grinned even more widely. ‘Good. There’s not much work around here. I could do with earning a bit of money.’