Murder on the Chessboard

By TONY NASH

One of Tony Dyce's friends is viciously maimed by a gang of international crooks in the first move by them to obtain the second half of an antique Chinese chess set, which when complete gives the location of one of the hoards of Nazi gold. After years spent trying to decipher the clues from their half set, without success, the pieces have for maximum security been spread around among the ex-SAS soldiers. Their peaceful civilian equilibrium is destroyed and their lives are at stake, along with the chess pieces, as the crooks go to extreme lengths to achieve their aim.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TONY NASH
• Release date: Sep 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9780957511736

TONY NASH

Tony Nash is the author of over thirty detective, historical and war novels. He began his career as a navigator in the Royal Air Force, later re-training at Bletchley Park to become an electronic spy, intercepting Russian and East German agent transmissions, during which time he studied many languages and achieved a BA Honours Degree from London University. Diverse occupations followed: Head of Modern Languages in a large comprehensive school, ocean yacht skipper, deep sea fisher, fly tyer, antique dealer, bespoke furniture maker, restorer and French polisher, professional deer stalker and creative writer.

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Murder on the Chess Board

Anthony Nash

Copyright © Anthony Nash 2013

Published by Anthony Nash 2013

Smashwords Edition

ISBN: 978-0-9575117-2-9

Other books by Anthony Nash, all published as ebooks on Amazon:

The Mayhem in Norfolk thrillers:

Murder on Tiptoes

Murder on the Back Burner

Murder by Proxy

Murder on the High ‘C’

The John Hunter mysteries:

Carve Up

The Iago Factor

The Most Unkindest Cut

Single to Infinity

The Harry Page thrillers:

Tripled Exposure

Unseemly Exposure

The Devil Deals Death – A Black Magic Thriller

The Makepeace Manifesto

Panic

The World’s Worst Joke Book

The Last Laugh

The Family Saga:

A Handful of Dust

A Handful of Salt

A Handful of Courage

Hell and High Water

‘The chessboard is the world; the pieces are the phenomena of the universe; the rules of the game are what we call the rules of Nature. The player on the other side is hidden from us…we know, to our cost, that he never overlooks a mistake, or makes the smallest allowance for ignorance.’ (A Liberal Education. 1870)

CHAPTER ONE

It was my worst ever nightmare, even before the dragon turned up.

My brain seemed to keep exploding into space, multicoloured stars hurling me into unconsciousness, only to be dragged back with the next detonation.

I was choking to death; my hands were on fire, but my body was frozen, and now I could hear and vaguely see in my few lucid moments the enormous black dragon that kept roaring and belching out flame as it hurtled towards me.

I was being thrown violently from side to side, but the rocking motions made me want to slip back into the void from which I had only just emerged, the struggle between consciousness and oblivion just about even, but the dragon tipped the balance: I was about to be burnt or eaten alive, and there was not one damned thing I could do about it!

I wanted to laugh like a maniac at the bad joke, but then there was another noise: a man shouting urgently. I could not understand what he was doing in my dream.

The dragon’s flame suddenly came at me directly, and although blinded by it I felt surprise that the flame had no heat.

The rumbling noise, which had been the dragon’s roar, suddenly filled my world, as the skipper of the tug reacted to his lookout’s shout in the fog by slamming his powerful engines into reverse and piling on full revs.

More shouting, and then I felt my body being caught and pulled through what I now recognised as very cold water.

I realised much later that they had handled me very gently, but at the time my body felt as if it were being put through a meat grinder.

I was more dead than alive, shaking violently with hypothermia, lungs half full of water, not even conscious enough to wonder how I came to be alive at all, and no memory of recent events.

The seaman who had pulled me out of the water and was now leaning over me shone a bright torch on my face. I could not see the expression in his eyes, but in my drugged state his Jesus Christ! had me giggling hysterically, wanting to tell him he’d got the wrong ID.

He blurted out to a second man I had not been aware of, Tell the skipper to call the law! Someone’s tied this poor bastard’s hands and feet! Hell’s bells, he’s been burnt too!

Things began happening in rapid succession: the tug headed straight for the harbour wall, and it seemed only seconds later before a squad car squealed onto the quayside, followed moments later by an ambulance from the nearby hospital.

CHAPTER TWO

I checked the pieces of antique jewellery I had just bought at auction – thirteen rings; two of them late Georgian, and the rest early Victorian. Chris Watson, one of the other dealers in town, had pushed me almost a hundred pounds above the figure I had decided was the most I should pay for them, but I was pleased: there was still enough profit in them to have made it worthwhile.

It had been a lovely bright morning without a cloud in the sky, but as I strolled back towards my antique shop, a light mist began to develop, and I shivered. For once, the forecasters seemed to have got it right, damn them.

The late model sky-blue Rolls was parked with its driver’s door immediately in front of the shop entrance. I didn’t recognise it, and had never seen it in the area before.

Most of my clients are regulars, and if the car was owned by one of them, it must be a new acquisition. Having said that, antique collectors as a breed usually go in for exotic cars as well.

I had left one of my helpers, Graham, in charge, for only the second time in the seven months he had worked for me.

Five feet ten, bright ginger hair, blue eyes and awkwardly gangly, with a cheap green plastic earring, he had bumped into me in the street one day, and I felt the hand go into my inside jacket pocket, as he said, Sorry, mate!

What he did not know was that I had also been trained to pick pockets, and had experienced, and overcome, the expertise of some of the most advanced practitioners of that particular science in places as far apart as Karachi, Buenos Aires and Rome.

Five seconds after the bump, the hand holding my pocketbook was twisted up behind his back, as he lay squirming painfully on the tarmac.

It was only much later that I told him he should not have tried it on someone who had spent fourteen years in the SAS, and who had forgotten more unarmed combat sessions that he’d had hot dinners.

I pulled him to his feet, took the pocketbook back off him and put it back where it belonged, but still held him in a wristlock.

What’s your name?

He grimaced, as I tightened the grip, along with the question.

Peter.

I squeezed a little harder, Try again.

Graham, Graham Twirl.

Okay, Graham Twirl, you and I are going to take a little walk.

He groaned, Aw, no, guv’nor, not to the pokey, please. I’ve only just come out of there!

I was grinning, No, not to the pokey; to my shop. I want to ask you a couple of questions.

My next door neighbour, Janice, a bouncy, blousy blonde, who I knew was carrying a torch for me, though without any encouragement, and who looked after the shop on the rare occasions when I had other business to conduct, looked up from the counter quizzically, seeing me push the lad inside the door.

Janice, my love, make us a cup of coffee, would you? I guess Graham would like one too?

He still looked worried, but nodded as if his head would fall off.

Now then, Graham Twirl, sit yourself down there. I was still holding his arm as I guided him onto one of the stools that we have in front of the counters, for customers to rest their weary limbs on while thinking about spending several hundred pounds, and I pulled another one out and sat in front of him.

You are obviously a crook, but equally obviously you are not very good at it. Give me your resumé.

He looked puzzled.

Your criminal history: Borstal, prison…

I in’t a-gornta tell you that! He almost shouted. Tha’ss my business! His Norfolk accent came through clearly and it told me he came from a small country village, since ninety percent of the population of the county now consists of incomers, and what with their linguistic influence and the cosmopolitan accents on the television a genuine Norfolk accent is rare indeed these days. I have one myself, not used since my youth. The Army quickly knocked that out of me, when I found that my peers could not understand me, and rated me an uncouth clodhopper. I still think regional accents are wonderful, and part of our make-up, but they have their place. The officers’ mess was certainly not one of them.

Well, I told him, you can either tell me yourself, or I can make a call to my very good friend, Detective Chief Inspector Dyce, and find out that way. He will want to know why I am asking, and will no doubt send a couple of the heavy mob to take you back to that place that you so obviously do not want to go back to.

He glowered a little, but gave in, Well, if tha’ss so blurry important to you: I’re done four and a half years in the nick. Burglary and theft. I’re never bin able to get a real job. I did keep tryin’.

No assault, GBH, sex offences?

He looked mightily offended, Do me a favour, mate! What d’you take me for?

Have you anywhere to live?

Yeah, in a half-way house, where they send you when you git out.

How long can you stay there?

A month.

How does a hundred pounds a week sound to you?

Now he was highly puzzled, Eh? Suspicion raised its ugly head, You in’t one o’ them, are you?

I laughed, and Janice, coming back into the shop with the coffee, laughed with me. She knew better.

"No, mate, I in’t one of them, as you put it. I am offering you a job, working in this shop."

He looked around at the counters, where dozens of very valuable items were on display.

He shook his head in disbelief, Come on, guv! You gotta be havin’ me on!

I took five twenty-pound notes out of my wallet, Here is your first week’s wages, in advance. I imagine you could do with some ‘readies’.

He sat there looking stunned.

Come now, Graham, you said you wanted to work. I want you to come and work for me. I will teach you the trade.

But how the hell can you trust me? I might run off wi’ half your stuff.

I somehow don’t think so. I’m a pretty good judge of character, and I think you are basically a good lad. You’ve had some tough breaks, and have never had a chance. If I’m wrong, I deserve to lose some stock, but don’t forget about my friend, Chief Inspector Dyce.

Well, he said, shrugging his shoulders, all I can say is you won’t ever regret it, guv."

Neither he nor I had ever regretted it, and I found him a quick and keen learner, with a natural wit that charmed the customers.

I expected to see him standing at the counter now, but the only person I saw, on entering the shop, was a most attractive brunette, in an iconic green, beautifully tailored Yves Saint Laurent suit that told me she had not received a great deal of change from of a couple of grand. That’s the trouble with being a dealer: everything comes down to the pounds and pence.

For the first time since our first encounter, I was angry with Graham. I had instilled in him that no matter how wealthy a customer might appear to be, he was never, ever to leave them alone in the shop.

I walked over towards the counter, and asked, My assistant?

I caught a faint trace of a perfume I recognised: Lallique Cascade; around eight hundred pounds a bottle, and a very strong trace of a French accent that to my trained ears had some German overtones, asking, Is zat who is be’ind ze countair?

What? I blurted, Where?

I leant over the top of the counter and saw Graham’s prostrate body lying on the floor.

Suspicion was immediate, but my reaction time was nowhere near what it once was, and I was not quick enough to avoid the hypodermic needle that entered my neck.

CHAPTER THREE

I woke, if you could call it waking, to find myself sitting upright, with arms and legs tied tightly to an uncomfortably hard wooden chair with arms. It was dark and quiet, and for several moments I was unable to see anything, my brain only half awake, still suffering the effects of the drug.

With time, my eyes began to focus more clearly and become accustomed to the gloom. I saw that there were two windows, no more than eighteen inches square, high up on the wall I was facing. They were encrusted with the dirt of years, but were just a fraction lighter than the surrounding walls.

As my brain began to clear, I realised that I must have been unconscious for many hours, since there had been more than five hours