by David Evans
“And this game was when, exactly?”
“February.”
“And since February you’ve managed to reduce your debt by half. That’s what you told me last week, right?”
Fletcher nodded. “Yeah.”
“How have you done that? Forget all this bollocks you told me earlier about doing odd jobs. You got Jem involved, didn’t you?”
Again he clenched his eyes shut before tears began to flow. “He was my brother. He said he wanted to help.”
“Disposing of bodies in the North Sea?”
“Yes.”
“And it was this Chalmers character’s idea?”
“No. I was contacted back in July by someone else. Don’t ask me who, they never said. Only that Chalmers’ debts now fell to them and I’d have to repay.”
“Contacted? How?”
“Telephone call. At home. They never said who they were. But they knew all about me, my family … and Jem too. They knew he was a mechanic and had access to planes.”
“Are you telling me that someone else had taken over Chalmers’ debts and were forcing you to carry out favours for them?”
“Yes.”
“And it was their suggestion to coerce Jem into disposing of the bodies?”
“Yes, but we didn’t know what they wanted us to dump at first. All they said was that they had a package which needed to be got rid of and Jem could offer the best solution. In return, my debt would be reduced by £300.”
“So how were these ‘packages’ delivered for disposal?”
“We were given times, all early mornings, when delivery would be made. All Jem had to do was to supervise where they needed to be in the plane.”
“Who delivered them?”
“I don’t know. I was never there.”
“And how many did Jem do?”
“Three. One at the end of July, another a week later and then … well, this last one.”
“And this was all that they ever asked you to do? Get Jem to dump bodies out at sea?”
“Yes.”
“No drugs runs to Holland or anything?”
Fletcher’s eyes opened as wide as he could manage. “Never. We’d never get involved in that.”
“Only, your wife thinks that maybe that was what you were involved with.”
“Oh, Christ, no. Neither wonder she was so upset with everything. Her younger brother died about ten years ago with a drugs overdose.”
“I think you need to come clean with her.”
“This is all such a fucking mess.”
“So who did attack you?”
“I don’t know, honest. Just a couple of thugs. They said that since Jem had ‘messed up’ as they put it, I should remember I still owed a grand.”
“Have you any idea why Jem would have one hundred pounds in cash on him when he died?”
Fletcher looked puzzled initially, then realised something. “That was probably for me. He was going to pay me that for the painting work and other stuff at the house. I’d bought a load of materials.”
32
“Just remind me again, Skip, what exactly are we doing here?” Sam Woodbridge was sitting in the passenger seat of the Ford Escort Cyril had once again signed out of the car pool.
They had pulled to a halt on some waste ground opposite a three-storey brick-built building. Faded paintwork proclaimed it had once been a seed warehouse. Windows were boarded up giving it an abandoned air. But the closed double doors to the street, secured with a hasp and staple and new padlock, looked as though they were regularly maintained. The building adjoined the rear of premises belonging to the Yardley Electrical Manufacturing Company.
“I just want to check out this property, Sam.” Cyril switched off the ignition, eyes scanning the building as he stroked his moustache.
“Part of the Yardley empire?”
“That’s one thing I want to try and find out.” Cyril was still studying the building. This area of The Hythe was undergoing some redevelopment, buildings either side had been demolished so, with no other probable contenders, he figured this had to be the one the Robinsons were using.
Leaving his jacket on the back seat, Cyril got out of the car. “I’ll have a look around the side and check if there’s any way I can see inside. Wait here a minute,” he instructed his companion.
“Take this.” Sam held a torch out through the open window.
“Thanks.” Cyril took it and headed over the road.
As he crossed to the other side, Cyril looked up and down the street. The last thing he wanted was to be surprised by the Robinsons’ big grey Daimler. The passing traffic was mostly commercial; several lorries, vans and a bus. He approached the main double doors and tried the pedestrian access door that was incorporated into one of them. That was secured by a Yale lock. A Yale? Was it possible that the key that was found in Jimmy Morgan’s pocket would fit it? He made a mental note to check that out. Next he tried around the left hand side of the building. The plywood security hoarding to the desolate site next door stood about two feet away from the brickwork giving him just enough room to squeeze down the side. There appeared to be only a couple of small windows at high level on this elevation and no visible access to them. At the far end, a brick wall blocked any chance of checking out the rear of the warehouse. He guessed that enclosed the compound to Yardley Electrical.
Back to the front, a quick glance across to the Escort saw Sam shrug through the windscreen at him. Cyril walked to the right hand side where some wire mesh fencing blocked his path. He bent down and saw that it wasn’t fixed at the bottom. Lifting it up, he got to his knees and crawled through. Dusting himself off, he walked slowly down that side of the warehouse. To his right, a chain link fence separated the property from another cleared site. The sun streamed onto this elevation reflecting heat off the brickwork. Above, there were several windows at first floor level populated by half a dozen seagulls perched on the sills. Even they looked exhausted by the weather. A couple of long narrow windows that looked as though they could be toilets at ground level, plus a wooden door completed the details of this side of the building. He tried the door first. Secured fast. At the end of the space between the wall and the fencing several discarded wooden pallets lay on the ground. He dragged one of them over to below one of the ground floor windows and propped it up. Standing on the pallet, he could reach the decayed plywood covering the old window. It was fixed by some screws to the frame itself. Fingers behind the ply, he managed to pull the board free, the screws long since holding something solid. The wood at the bottom of the window frame had rotted near the catch. Jiggling it, the wood disintegrated into dust. The glass had been smashed years ago, leaving only a few shards which were easily removed. Carefully he opened what was left of the window.
Shining a torch inside the room, it was, as he suspected, a toilet. The missing entrance door enabled him to see through to the main open warehouse area. Light streamed in from some openings at the rear of the building. Parked on the concrete floor was a small box van. On the side was a colourful logo announcing ‘The Holland Flower Co.’
Bingo, this is definitely the Robinson warehouse.
Stepping down off the pallet, he made his way back to the road. Another glance up and down, then he waved to Sam sitting in the car. A hand with a thumbs up appeared in the windscreen. He beckoned him over.
Sam got out of the car and crossed the road to the fence. “What’s up?”
“I need you to give me a lift up so I can get in through the window.”
“You’re going in? I thought you only wanted a look.”
“This is definitely the warehouse. The Robinson van is in there, the one Jimmy Morgan’s girlfriend reckoned he drove.” Cyril looked up and down the street nervously once more. Bending down, he lifted up the mesh fence.
Sam looked distastefully at the gap.
“Come on then,” Cyril said, indicating the space he had to crawl through.
“I like this shirt,” Sam said b
y way of explanation, “and these jeans.”
“Don’t be soft, I’ll hold it clear for you.”
Reluctantly, Sam ducked down and carefully crept below the fence. Once clear, he dusted off his trousers and smoothed down his shirt.
Cyril looked him up and down, shook his head then led the way to the open window.
Sam clasped both hands together at knee height with his back to the wall. Cyril put a foot on Sam’s hands and, on the count of three, launched himself upwards and over the opening. Stomach on the sill, Cyril struggled to turn and get one leg inside. After a couple of attempts and with Sam helping, he finally managed to turn and drop inside.
“Alright, Sam, you go back to the car and keep an eye out,” Cyril said. “The Robinsons’ car is one of those big old grey Daimlers. I should be able to climb back out from in here. There’s plenty old boxes and crates I can use.”
“If you’re sure, Skip?”
“Go on. I’m not sure when they’re due but it will be this afternoon some time.”
Cyril heard Sam walk away. He imagined him dreading trying to make his way under the fence without someone to hold it out of the way for him.
Inside the warehouse, Cyril walked towards the van. Around the side of the open area, a few tea chests and empty cardboard boxes littered the place along with old newspapers, The Sun and News of The World mostly.
He approached the van, ‘H’ registered; six years old. He tried the driver’s door. Surprisingly, it opened.
Inside, it was clean and smelt of air freshener. An AA map of northern Europe was in the driver’s door pocket but nothing else. Closing the door, he walked round to the other side and opened the passenger door. Nothing in the side pocket. The glovebox held only the service manual and when he opened the ashtray, some sweet wrappers tried to make their escape.
He walked to the back and tried the rear doors. Again, they were unlocked. The aluminium floor and the sides with plywood linings and metal brackets all looked clean. Closing the doors, he decided to explore the rest of the building
At the back, a fire escape door he reckoned should lead to Yardley’s premises was locked. Nearby, a solid timber staircase led up. Carefully, he began to climb. Up onto the first floor, he had to admire the workmanship that had gone into the Victorian construction. Heavy section beams supported on cast iron columns allowed a vast open area for storage on this level. The floor was empty save for what appeared to be a workbench and some shapes to one side. He walked towards them, his footsteps echoing off the walls and the underside of the floor above. How long since this had been a hive of activity with men hauling sacks of seed and other merchandise, he wondered?
As he walked across the floor, it was clear that someone had been here recently. Footprints and scuff marks led from the stairs towards whatever was at the side. A thick layer of dust and dirt covered the rest of the floor. Close up, he could see dark stains on the top surface of the workbench. Walking round the rear of it, he halted. Lying flat on the floor was a roll of industrial black plastic. He turned and looked more closely at the bench top. He was sure the stains were dried blood. Was this the location where the bodies were wrapped prior to disposal? A sudden thought hit him. According to Dr Maguire, Jimmy Morgan had been dead for at least two days, maybe three before he was discovered in the crashed plane. And yet, when he’d found it, the body hadn’t begun to smell. In this hot weather that was incongruous. Therefore, it had to have been stored in a refrigerated environment. And … he rushed back to the stairs and down to the ground floor.
Before him was a strong contender for the answer. The flower van was fitted with refrigeration equipment over the top of the cab. At the rear, he opened up the doors for the second time. Stepping up inside, he looked closely at the floor and the sides. He was near the front when he heard the sounds of a car drawing to a halt outside in the street. He paused and listened. Before he could make his way to the back doors and jump down, the access door had opened and a voice he recognised as Victor Robinson spoke.
33
Sam had his eyes closed with the radio on in the Escort, listening to Radio One. They were playing a ‘Golden Oldie’ and he was back in the Summer of Love, 1967 with Scott McKenzie and San Francisco. He was sixteen again and listening to Radio Caroline anchored just off the Essex coast near Frinton. His thoughts drifted to the gorgeous Stephanie Crossland in his class; he remembered watching her walking past a garden and picking one of those big daisy flowers and pushing it behind her ear. His first love; unrequited. The last he heard, she’d gone to London, modelling someone had told him.
The big grey Daimler drew to a halt near to the warehouse doors. Sam opened his eyes and sat up straight. Shit, he thought. Two men got out, one taller with fair hair, maybe around six feet, the other shorter by about three inches with dark wavy hair. From Cyril’s descriptions, these had to be Victor and David Robinson. Sam glanced to the right hand side, willing Cyril to appear. Nothing, not even a seagull.
The two men stood chatting for a while. The shorter man checked his watch and looked nervously up the road towards the railway station. The taller man appeared to placate him.
Sam switched off the radio. Still no sign of Cyril
From the direction of the station, a slim man probably in his fifties, dressed in a tee shirt and jeans and carrying a holdall came walking towards the two men. No handshakes, just a nod of recognition. The tall man produced a key and opened the pedestrian access door and the three of them disappeared inside.
Sam felt his stomach heave; the first signs of his inner panic. He’d give it five minutes then he’d have to try and find out what was happening over there; and more importantly, where Cyril was.
* * *
Lennie King picked up his holdall and left the train, slamming the door behind him. This was Hythe station and it was a three minute trot to the warehouse. A check of the watch confirmed the train was on time and he had five minutes to the rendezvous. Good. One thing he didn’t want to do was upset the Robinsons on this his first job.
Lennie looked up at the clear blue sky and hurried off the platform. Dressed in tee shirt and jeans, his favourite leather jacket, sweater and a change of clothes were in his holdall. Last night’s TV news items spun through his mind and he’d begun to wonder if it would ever rain again. From the train, he’d seen the River Colne meandering its way to the sea. Exaggerated by the low tide, there seemed an even wider expanse of mud flats either side of the narrow channel that trickled towards the coast. Could this dry up completely, like some rivers in other parts of the country he’d seen news footage of?
With these thoughts, he walked away from the station. As he turned a corner, he saw two figures he recognised standing by a big grey car. He picked up his pace towards them.
“On time, Lennie,” Victor Robinson greeted, before turning to his brother. “Told you he wouldn’t let us down, Dave.”
David Robinson remained silent as Victor unlocked the door. Lennie followed him inside with David bringing up the rear, closing the door behind him.
Victor turned to face Lennie. “Right, you know what’s expected. I explained all the details on Saturday.”
“Yep. And this is the van?” Lennie said.
“Got your passport?”
“In the holdall.”
“What else is in there?” David asked.
“Change of clothes, a jacket, jumper and a book.”
“Let’s see.”
“Christ’s sake, Dave, relax. Stop being so paranoid. Lennie here’ll be fine,” Victor addressed his brother. “Because if he isn’t …” he turned to Lennie. “… he knows what’ll happen.”
“I won’t let you down.”
“Good to hear it.” Victor held out an envelope. “Here.”
Lennie took it and looked inside.
“Tickets and some Dutch Guilders, and the first payment as agreed,” Victor went on. “The address of the café is in there and the phone number. You know what to do.”
> “Yes.”
“So you get back here on Wednesday morning, ten o’clock and we’re all happy, right?”
“Right, Mr Robinson.”
“Good man. There should be a full tank,” Victor assured him. “Get yourself settled in the cab and we’ll open the doors for you.”
Lennie began to walk around the vehicle. “Just want to check everything’s okay first. Wouldn’t want to get stopped by some over-zealous traffic police.”
Victor walked to the back of the van with him, immediately spotting the doors were unsecured. “I thought you closed these up when we left it last time, Dave?” he asked his brother.
David was standing at the front of the van. “I did, I’m sure,” he shouted back.
Victor swung open one of the doors and looked inside at the empty space before shutting it and moving the catches over to close it securely.
Lennie, satisfied all was well, climbed into the cab, threw his holdall into the passenger footwell and adjusted the mirrors. Two minutes later, he drove the van out into bright sunshine. A last glance in his wing mirror saw the Robinsons closing the warehouse doors. And now he was on his way.
34
Now Sam was really panicking. Why did he allow himself to get involved in this? He liked Cyril, he was a great mentor. But this was career suicide. Taking himself off on a venture when he wasn’t even supposed to be on duty.
A glance at his watch. Six minutes they’d been inside and still no sign of Cyril having climbed back out. He’d give it another four minutes then he’d have to do something. But what?
Just then, the access door opened and the dark haired Robinson came out, unlocked the padlock on the main doors and swung them open. The other brother joined him as the van nosed its way forward. Finally, it appeared into the daylight, paused for a break in the traffic then pulled away, the man who’d joined them with the holdall driving. Immediately the doors were closed again and the padlock put back in place. After a short conversation on the street, both men got back into the Daimler and the fair haired man drove them away towards town.
