Blood on the Shrine Page 9

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about Baker, the man who was here at the same time.’

  Again a long pause. ‘No. They did not appear to be friends.’

  ‘But they left together – early.’ The monk just shrugged.

  Any further questions were halted as Vidyatara came into the room. ‘Here.’ He held out a sheet of notepaper.

  Russell took it from him. Helen McDermott, The Old Storehouse, Watchbell Street, he read.

  Weeks smiled. ‘That’s definitely different from the other address we had. That was somewhere in the north of the county – if it had existed.’

  -0-

  Back in the car Weeks sat in the driving seat but did not start the engine. ‘Come on lad, what are you waiting for?’ Russell asked.

  ‘I was thinking about Helen, Sir.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Something that Tommy Atkins said.’

  ‘And that was?’

  ‘Let me think…’ Weeks paused. ‘…Sammy screwdriver asked if Helen had gone with Baker to Uckfield.’

  ‘What did Atkins say?’

  ‘He said she was busy elsewhere, and then he looked my way and said she was nothing to do with me. It was rather strange.’

  Russell wasn’t sure how to respond. Despite what he had heard about her he found it hard to believe that she was in any way involved with Atkins and his cronies. He didn’t like to think that he had been taken in by her, she seemed so warm and genuine. Admittedly he had been on his own for a long time – except for his little terrier – and, by his own admission, wedded to the job. For the first time in as long as he could remember he had entertained an idea of a liaison, and he was reluctant to let this idea go. He shook his head sadly.

  ‘Are you all right, Sir?’

  Russell turned to see a look of concern on the DC’s face. He grinned. ‘I’m fine, son.’ Then, smoothly changing the subject, ‘Hey, aren’t we somewhere near where they plan to rob the train?’

  ‘Very close, I think.’

  ‘Let’s go and take a look then.’

  .

  -0-

  Baker had found plenty of kindling wood around the yard behind the farmhouse and had the stove burning merrily. He put some larger pieces in, shut down the damper and set off to find a phone box. He assumed there would be one in Framfield so headed in the direction of the village. He passed the gate leading down to the level crossing then continued east. After another 10 minutes he reached the outskirts of the village and soon spied the distinctive red form of the Gilbert Scott-designed call box. The street was deserted and he scuttled inside, the door slowly closing behind him. It had the usual smell of stale tobacco smoke and urine. He inserted four pennies in the slot and dialled the number for the pub in Collinghurst, as Tommy had said he would be waiting for his call at that time.

  ‘Hello? Queen’s Head,’ a male voice said.

  He pressed button A. The coins clattered into the box. ‘Oh, hello, is Tommy there?’

  ‘Hang on.’ The line crackled. He could hear the landlord calling, ‘Tommy! Call for you.’

  There was a pause, then, ‘’Ello? Who’s that?’

  ‘It’s me, Laurie.’

  ‘’Ello mate. ’Ow you doin’?’

  ‘I’m alright thanks.’

  ‘’Ave you been to the farm’ouse?’ Waddyer think?’

  ‘Yes, it’s fine. Just as you described.’

  ‘Told you it would be alright.’ Baker could picture Tommy smiling. ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘Call box in Framfield.’

  Atkin’s tone changed. ‘Anybody see yer?’ he growled.

  ‘No mate. It’s all quiet here.’

  ‘Make sure it stays that way. Don’t want nobody gettin’ suspicious.’

  Baker was a bit peeved. ‘Here, hang on…’

  Atkins relented. ‘It’s all right. Keep yer ’air on. Just need to stick to the plan. You stay put and I’ll come and find yer.’

  ‘When are you coming, Tommy?’

  ‘I’ll be over in a day or two. Got enough grub to keep you goin’?’

  ‘Enough for a day or two I guess.’ Baker sounded unsure.

  ‘Don’t worry cocker, you could always go and snare a rabbit,’ Atkins chuckled.

  ‘Or pop into the village shop?’ Baker said hesitantly.

  ‘Don’t you bloody dare!’ Atkins sounded murderous, his mood changing like the wind. ‘I’ll bring the food.’

  ‘All right, Tommy. Don’t worry, I won’t. Just don’t leave me on my own for too long. You know I hate the countryside.’ The pips sounded on the line. ‘I’ll put some more money in,’ Baker said, panic in his voice.

  ‘Don’t bother mate, ring me tomo…..’ Atkins’s voice was cut off as the money ran out.

  Baker put the receiver down gently. The man had the ability to boost your ego or leave you deflated and Atkins’s words had left him feeling hollow. He pushed the heavy door open and set off back to the farmhouse.

  -0-

  Weeks had parked the car by the gate at the end of Hempstead Lane and he and Russell had walked down to the level crossing over the Uckfield line. Aggie dashed in and out of the trees, either side of track, excitedly picking up the scent of woodland creatures.

  ‘Is this where the deed is to be done?’ the DI asked, leaning on the crossing gate.

  ‘I think so. I’m pretty sure it is.’

  ‘Your pal Tommy Atkins has picked a good spot,’ Russell said, with a twinkle in his eye. Weeks grinned back. They stood for a while without speaking. Although cool, it was a calm evening. The rain had held off. The only sound was the wind, soughing in the trees and the songs of birds. Russell could identify some: robin, great tit, wren and a couple of others he wasn’t sure about. Suddenly there was the distant sound of a whistle and within a few minutes, a locomotive came into sight. It was pulling a pair of work-worn carriages that rattled and clattered slowly over the crossing as the train climbed the slight gradient and disappeared out of view, round the bend.

  After it had gone Russell stood upright and brushed dust off the sleeves of his coat. He looked towards the darkening sky. ‘C’mon lad, time to head back.’ They made their way up the rutted track between the beech trees as the night closed in, the terrier still frantically seeking rabbits. It was beginning to get dark by the time they reached the car. Weeks started the engine and switched on the headlights, lighting up the trees, standing like silent sentinels.

  They had just set off towards Framfield, the car gathering pace, when suddenly he flung the steering-wheel over and the car swerved violently. Russell was thrown sideways, this face pressed against the glass of the window. ‘What the…!’

  ‘Didn’t you see him?!’ Weeks wrestled the car back in a straight line.

  ‘I just saw a figure. Bloody fool out walking at this time of night…’

  ‘But Sir. It was him!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Baker!’

  ‘What?!’

  ‘Laurie Baker, Sir.’

  ‘Oh no! Do you think he saw us?’

  ‘I doubt it. It’s too dark now.’

  ‘But what about the car?’

  ‘It’s not marked, is it?’

  ‘I just hope he’s not suspicious.’

  -0-

  Baker stood by the side of the lane, dazed and shaking, as the tail lights of the car dwindled into the distance and finally disappeared out of view; the fading rumble of the engine the only sign it had been there. If the driver hadn’t swerved he might not be here. His mind had been on Atkins and he hadn’t expected to see a car. And bloody hell! So close to Hempstead Lane. Jesus! What if someone had found out that was where they planned to do the job? And the car – the shape looked familiar. Then it came to him, it was a Wolseley. The police use those! Replaying the last few seconds in his mind he suddenly felt icy fingers squeeze his guts. ‘Oh, my God!’ he said out loud, as he realised the face pressed against the car window was familiar. It was that copper, Russ
ell! The one at that blasted Buddhist retreat. Helen had told him he was a detective. What the hell was he doing here? ‘I’ve got to tell Tommy!’ He started running back towards the village, all thoughts of discretion flying from his mind.

  -0-

  ‘What the hell are you doing ringing me again?’ Atkins’s anger was unconcealed.

  ‘Now calm down, Tommy…’

  ‘Don’t you tell me to calm down you bloody idiot! I told you not to ring ‘til tomorrow!’

  ‘But something’s happened,’ Baker pleaded.

  ‘What? It better be good!’

  Baker explained about the brush with death and how he thought it might have been Russell in the passenger seat.

  ‘Oh Christ!’ Atkins exploded. ‘Did you see who was driving?’

  ‘No, it was too dark.’

  ‘Did the bloke in the passenger seat see you?’

  ‘I don’t think so. The car swerved so hard the side of his face was pushed up against the window.’

  ‘And they didn’t stop.’

  ‘No.’

  Atkins let out a sharp breath. ‘It weren’t the rozzers then. They would ’ave stopped to see if you was alright – or would ’ave done you for bein’ out at night,’ he chuckled. ‘Anyway, don’t worry. It’s a just a coincidence. Nobody, except the chosen few, knows about our little plan.’

  Baker was silent for a moment, thinking. Then: ‘Tommy…?’

  ‘Yeah? What is it?’

  ‘Weeks.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Johnny Weeks.’

  ‘Yeah… What about him?’

  ‘How well do you know him?’

  ‘How well do I know him?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Umm, a bit…’

  ‘But can we trust him?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Sure we can. He’s sound as a pound.’ There was laughter in his voice.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘You doubting my judgement?’ Atkins growled. Again, the instant mood change.

  ‘Of course not. I was just wondering…’

  ‘Well don’t! ’E’s alright. I just know ’e is.’

  ‘If you say so…’

  ‘I do. An’ if that’s all, I’ve got a pint to get back to.’

  ‘Fair enough. I just don’t want this to go wrong.’

  ‘It won’t, trust me. Okay?’

  ‘Okay, Tommy.’

  ‘Right, now scuttle back to the farmhouse. And stop worrying. I’ll see you soon.’

  Chapter 9

  The previous year

  Harley Street, in Marylebone, central London, has been noted for its large number of private clinics. It was named after Thomas Harley, who was Lord Mayor of London in 1767.

  After paying the fare, Wolfgang Müller got out of the taxi and stood at the junction of Wigmore Street and Harley Street. He pulled his hat down firmly - there was quite a breeze whistling round the buildings - and leant on his stick. He had no idea where to start. He could see houses with grand facades stretching along each side of the street, the weak sun glinting on brass plaques. He stood for a moment, and then made a decision. He would go into the first clinic and ask.

  He walked a few yards along the street then, using his stick for support, he climbed the two steps and pushed open the heavy, panelled door. A uniformed receptionist sat behind a desk in the foyer. It was a grand room, high-ceilinged with decorative cornicing. ‘Can I help you, Sir?’ she asked, smiling.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he said, hesitation in his voice. ‘I am looking for a specialist who can help me with this.’ He tapped his leg with his stick.

  ‘I see,’ the woman said, her smile appearing to be fixed. ‘I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place. We deal with burns and skin complaints here.’

  ‘Oh.’ He affected a crestfallen look.

  Her smile broadened further. ‘But don’t worry. I’m sure we can point you in the right direction.’ She started to get up. ‘Please take a seat and I’ll go and ask.’ She went out through a door behind the desk and closed it behind her. Wolfgang was happy to sit and had to wait only a few minutes before she returned. ‘I thought someone would know.’ She sat at the desk and, pulling a pad towards her, wrote down an address.’ She tore it off and held it out. ‘There you are, Mr…?

  ‘Meunier, Monsieur Meunier.’ He got up from the seat, crossed to the desk and took it from her. ‘Thank you. You have been most kind.’

  The smile stayed fixed. ‘That’s perfectly all right. Will you be all right? It’s not far.’

  ‘I will be fine. Thank you once again.’

  After walking for a short time, and looking at the numbers on the buildings, he found the one that the receptionist had written down. This time the room he found himself in was not so opulent. The ceiling was lower and the décor dingier. In addition, the person behind the desk was a youngish man. He was dressed in a sharp, double-breasted suit, dark blue with a narrow white pinstripe. He had a thin strip of a moustache across his top lip and severely Brylcreemed hair, swept back off his high forehead. A cigarette burned in an ashtray on the desk. He gave a smile that wouldn’t have disgraced a shark. ‘Good morning, Sir. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I believe you may be able to do something with this.’ He looked down and touched his leg.

  ‘I’m sure we can, Mr…?’

  ‘Monsieur Meunier.’

  ‘Ah – a French gentleman.’ He showed his small, pointed teeth. ‘Take a seat.’ He got to his feet and ran his hands down the front of his jacket, smoothing non-existent creases. ‘Won’t be a mo.’ He walked down a corridor and disappeared from view. Wolfgang sat on the edge of the chair, his stick between his knees. It was more than five minutes before the man returned. He was accompanied by another man, dressed in an almost identical fashion, but wearing a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. His hair was thin and sandy, his face pasty.

  He held out his hand. ‘Monsieur Meunier?’

  Wolfgang took the hand in his. It was soft and limp.’ Yes, that is correct.’

  ‘I am Dr Nathan Baxter. How can I help you?’ The smile he gave was as weak as the handshake.

  ‘It is my leg. Poliomyelitis.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Perhaps I could take a look?’ He cocked his head to one side, reminding Wolfgang of a small chubby bird. ‘Would you care to follow me?’ He made a sweeping gesture with his arm, finishing with a finger pointing along the corridor.

  Wolfgang found himself in a small, cream-painted room. A desk stood to one side and against the other wall was a raised couch with a large lamp hanging over it. ‘Please would you go behind the screen and take your trousers off, then lie down on the bed. I will join you in a moment.’ Doctor Baxter turned and left the room, shutting the door behind him. Wolfgang did as he was asked and, with some difficulty, climbed on to the high bed. He lay down and shivered. There didn’t appear to be any heating in the room and the sheet was icy cold. After a few moments the doctor returned.

  ‘Ah good.’ His voice was low, almost a hiss. ‘Now let me see.’ He put his hand on the withered flesh of Wolfgang’s leg. His hand was a cold as the sheet and Wolfgang shivered again. The doctor responded with a thin smile. ‘Good. I see that you have feeling in the limb. Tell me, how long have you been like this?’

  ‘Since I was a boy.’

  ‘I see. And do you always wear this?’ He tapped the iron brace.

  ‘Yes. It gives me support. Without it I struggle to stand up, let alone walk.’

  ‘Have you considered a wheelchair?’

  ‘Not really. It would not be suitable for, er, where I live. And besides, I do not think my arms would be strong enough to propel it.’

  The doctor’s face brightened and his smile was almost genuine. ‘Ah, there is a company called Ernest and Jennings who have developed a power wheelchair. It is not cheap but I understand it is very manoeuvrable.’

  Wolfgang smiled back. ‘That is not the solution I was looking for. I would just like
to be able to get about a little more easily and…’ He sought for the best way to phrase what he wanted to say. ‘…and be less – conspicuous.’

  Again the wan smile. ‘Have you thought of surgery?’

  Wolfgang, shivering on the bed said, ‘I did not know that it was possible.’

  ‘Oh, anything’s possible – but it could be expensive.’

  Chapter 10

  The Bedford QL was a 3 ton, 4 x 4 general service truck, manufactured by Bedford for use by the British Armed forces from 1941 to 1945.

  Russell and Weeks drove back to Collinghurst, not saying much, each lost in his own thoughts. As they approached the town Russell said: ‘Drop me at the station, lad. I can get a lift from there. You go on to the Queen’s Head and see if your mate Atkins is around. Best you show your face – don’t want him to get suspicious.’

  ‘Righto, Sir.’

  ‘Let me know how you get on. And take care! I’ve a feeling his mood can change like the wind, so be vigilant.’

  ‘I will, don’t worry.’

  ‘Oh, and another thing…’

  ‘Yes, Sir?’

  At some time you need to ask how much you’re getting for taking part. It’ll look more than suspicious if you appear to be doing it for nothing.’

  -0-

  As soon as Weeks walked into the pub there was a loud shout, ‘Watcher Johnny! Where’ve you been?’ Before he could answer, Atkins continued. ‘You’ve turned up just it time – it’s your round!’

  Weeks ordered the drinks and carried them over to the table. Only the big man Bates was there. In his crumpled suit, he sat like a partially deflated balloon. Weeks nodded a greeting then turned to Atkins. ‘How’s tricks?’ he asked.

  ‘Not bad me old mucker, not bad. ’Ere, you would’ve laughed earlier.’ Atkins paused, looked around and lowered his voice. ‘I spoke to Laurie. ’E rang from near the farmhouse where we’re going to ’ide out when we’ve done the job. ’E’d been out walking when this car nearly flattened ’im.’ Atkins chuckled, the sound deep in his throat. He reckoned that copper, Russell – the bloke from that Buddhist place – was in the car.’