by David Evans
He turned to an inside page and quickly scanned the cricket news. It had been a poor summer for an England supporter. The West Indies cricketers were touring and had stuffed the visitors three nil in the tests with the same results in the one day internationals. The match up in Scarborough looked like going the same way.
Folding up the paper, he looked out of the window and saw that they were on the move, the big vessel cruising along the channel towards the open sea between Harwich and Felixstowe. Time for a drink, he thought, and made his way to the bar.
* * *
“Mild hypothermia,” the ship’s doctor announced. “Should be okay in a few hours.” He’d cleaned up the gash to Cyril’s head, put in a couple of stitches and covered it over. “You’ll have a bit of a headache,” the doctor had told him before turning to Barton. “He needs some rest. We’ll keep an eye on him. A hot drink is fine but no alcohol,” he said, looking at the DI who had suggested a small Scotch would do him wonders.
The doctor then departed, leaving Barton alone with the patient.
“Christ, Cyril, what the Hell were you thinking? Going off on your own?” Barton sat on a chair by the side of Cyril’s bed.
“I wasn’t on my own. Was it Sam? Did he alert you?”
Barton nodded. “Just wait till I see him.”
“He’s a good lad. I talked him into coming with me,” Cyril pleaded. “And if he hadn’t been there, I’d still be on my way to Holland.”
“No you’re quite right DS Claydon. I need to see you in my office first thing.” A slight smile belied the stern tone Barton had adopted.
DS Gray came in with a hot drink and handed it to Cyril.
“Thanks.” Cyril pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders.
Barton introduced Frank Gray as Cyril sipped the drink.
“Did you want to make that call now?” Gray asked of Barton.
Barton nodded. “Just going to speak to the DCI,” he said to Cyril. “I’ll be back in a bit to see how you’re doing.” He followed Gray outside.
39
Cyril cupped his hands around the mug and sipped the tea that DS Gray had brought him. He appreciated just how lucky he was. He could have been in that van all the way to the suppliers in Holland. With the chiller operational, he was struggling to stay awake. Chances were that when Lennie King came back to the vehicle, Cyril would have been unconscious and incapable of raising the alarm. That wasn’t a prospect he wanted to dwell on. He owed Sam a beer or two, that was certain. And he would do all he could to ensure the lad wasn’t disciplined over the incident.
He was bemused by the thoughts that had swum through his head when he’d been in the back of the van. That was the second time in recent days he seemed to have been in contact with Maureen. He didn’t believe in all that spiritualism nonsense but he was confused. Possibly it was his own internal thoughts combined with memories of his late wife that somehow became entwined when he was struggling to remain conscious.
He put his hand gently to his head wound. The doctor had done a neat job with the dressing. It felt tender and he knew it would be for some time but he felt more or less back to normal. He hadn’t had a chance to tell Barton what he’d found in the Colchester warehouse. That was a priority; that and finding Lennie King. He had to be on board and he needed to speak to him too.
Shrugging the blanket from around his shoulders, he stood up. He felt okay; no wooziness, although he thought the gentle throb of his headache would linger for a while. Hesitating for a few seconds, he listened. There were no voices and the only thing he could feel was the steady vibrations of the ship’s engines as the vessel ploughed its way towards Holland. He walked over to the door and looked out. The corridor was empty. Where had Barton disappeared to? He walked carefully along towards some stairs. The sign told him the next deck down was the passenger deck, so he headed that way.
On the large landing area, the foreign exchange office had opened and a few travellers were waiting to change pounds into guilders. Cyril instinctively felt his trouser pocket for his wallet. He remembered he had two five pound notes and a couple of pound notes in there and maybe another pound in loose change in his other pocket. Fortunately, he also had his warrant card in his wallet too. But he cursed as he remembered his jacket was still in the Escort he’d driven to Colchester in; and in one of the pockets was his pipe and tobacco.
On either side of the open area, doors led into the passenger lounges. He walked towards one of them and began to look around at those sitting there. It didn’t appear to be too crowded and he casually walked down the central corridor trying to spot Lennie King’s head. There were a few families with small children below school age, quite a few students with rucksacks on the floor in front of them, no doubt enjoying a late summer break before university started again next month. Although there were a number of men sitting on their own, reading newspapers or dozing in the seats, Lennie wasn’t among them.
At the far end, the lounge opened out into another large lobby area. From this, doors led out on either side to the promenade decks. A man and a woman of around forty came in from one of them, the man holding the door open thinking Cyril was heading outside. After a moment’s hesitation, Cyril stepped through and out into the fresh air. Here about a dozen passengers were leaning against the rail or strolling around, all with coats or jackets on; none of them Lennie. He felt cool so he turned around and went back inside.
Opposite, the cafeteria area was busy. Again, no sign of his target. Turning through another set of doors, he walked into a second passenger lounge, this time with a bar at the far end. Another scan of faces and heads finally picked up a familiar profile. Of course, Cyril thought, if Lennie would be anywhere it would be in the bar.
Carefully picking his way through the tables and chairs, he circled his prey, approaching him from the rear and sitting down in a vacant seat immediately behind him. Lennie took a sip of his beer and opened out his newspaper.
Cyril turned in the chair and leaned over to speak quietly to him. “Hello, Lennie. Fancy seeing you here.”
* * *
“I’m in DI Crimond’s office but he’s not here at the moment,” DCI Sanderson was explaining.
“I’m with DS Gray now Sir.” Barton warned.
“Well not a word, Dick. Keep what I’ve told you under your hat.”
“Absolutely,” Barton replied.
“Just get yourself and Cyril back here safely on the return sailing.”
Barton ended the call. They’d just spoken to the Harwich station where Crimond and Gray were based. “Thanks, Frank,” Barton said. “I’ll just go and see how my officer is getting along.”
“Sure,” Gray replied, “If you need me, I’ll probably be in the officer’s mess.”
Barton left the Communications Room and made his way back to the medical bay, deep in thought. On route, he took in one of the promenades and breathed in some ozone. What Sanderson had told him had given him plenty to think about. After a minute or two, he decided he’d had enough fresh air and needed a smoke. Back inside, he lit up and wandered through the gift shop, wondering just how much business it actually did with their prices. The thought also struck him that he might get some duty free cigarettes to take back on the return journey. Couldn’t waste an opportunity. After a few more minutes browsing, he began to make his way back up to the medical bay.
When he looked inside the room where he had left Cyril, it was empty. The doctor was in an office further down the corridor. The door was open and he was reading a magazine.
“What’s happened to my colleague?” Barton asked him
The doctor looked up. “I was going to ask you the same question. I went to check on him ten minutes ago and he’d gone. I thought he was with you.”
Barton breathed out heavily and walked away. Shit, he hoped Cyril hadn’t gone wandering off looking for King. That could bugger everything up.
Back down to the passenger deck, Barton scanned the faces. First he did a circ
uit of the promenades. Towards the bow, he thought he saw a man who looked like Cyril, puffing on a pipe but on closer inspection, he was much older. Once more back inside, he walked through the lounge area. Still no sign of Cyril. At the far end he followed the signs for the bar. Finally, in a corner, he saw him.
“Shit,” he mumbled to himself then made his way towards him.
40
Lennie King jumped and turned around to see Cyril grinning at him.
“Jesus, Mr Claydon,” he said, clutching his chest, “You nearly gave me a heart attack there.”
“Off on a foreign trip?” Cyril asked.
“Er … just a little business trip to Holland.” Lennie squinted, looking at Cyril. “Are you all right Mr Claydon? Have you had an accident?”
“You could say that, Lennie. Mind if I join you?”
“Well …”
“Thanks.” Cyril stood and walked round to a spare seat next to him. “So, how are things going?”
King looked nervously around before answering, “Not too bad.”
“I didn’t realise you and Victor Robinson were so close.”
King looked sharply at Cyril. “Who told you that? What are you on about?”
“All that nonsense you gave me the other week when I was asking about Jimmy Morgan and you telling me, what was it now,” Cyril made a show of trying to recall the exact words, “that was it, he thinks he’s close to some big people; talks a good game but he doesn’t know half of what he reckons he does.” He looked at King. “A bit of a gofor, was how you described him. So what are you, Lennie? Just a gofor, or are you much closer?”
“How the …”
“Cyril, a word.” The voice of DI Barton interrupted the conversation.
“Oh hello,” Cyril said. “Look who I’ve just bumped into.”
“Cyril,” Barton repeated sharply, taking a couple of steps away from the table where Cyril was sitting with King.
Taking the hint, Cyril stood and joined his DI. “I’m just asking him about Victor Robinson.” He glanced over to King still sitting at the table.
Barton leaned in close to Cyril, his voice low. “There’s something you need to know.”
Cyril moved his head nearer to hear.
“King is a participating informant for the Met.”
“Good God!”
“Exactly. So we need to let him carry on with this operation,” Barton responded.
“But we need to talk to him about his relationship with Robinson and Jimmy Morgan,” Cyril persisted. “He gave me a load of old Horlicks the last time I spoke to him.”
“Look, we can’t tread on the Met’s toes here.” Barton whispered, “They’ve got something much bigger …”
“Everything alright?” Frank Gray had appeared.
“I was just …” Cyril began.
Barton jumped in. “I found DS Claydon getting his bearings. You were bored up in the sick bay, weren’t you?”
“Er, yes. Bored.”
“As long as you’re okay,” Gray responded. “I’m just trying to organise a cabin in the crew’s quarters for you. Might be more comfortable, seeing as you’ll be spending a good bit of time on board.”
“That’s great. Thanks Frank.”
“And I need to speak with the KMar; let them know the situation.” Gray then spoke of the good working relationship the Branch had with the Dutch authorities on the ferries. “I’ll come back and find you,” he concluded, before striding off towards the opposite end of the lounge.
“What was all that about?” Cyril puzzled.
“Tell you later. In the meantime …” Barton turned to the table where King had been sitting. It was empty.
“Where’s he gone?” Barton asked.
“There.” Cyril pointed to the quickly disappearing back of Lennie King.
“You go after him, and I’ll cut round this way,” Barton said, dashing off around a column and down the opposite side of the lounge.
Cyril set off in pursuit of King forming a route through the tables and chairs and other passengers and out into the lobby area. King was nowhere to be seen.
Barton appeared from the other side. “I’ll take the outside decks, you make your way through the other lounge and meet back here,” he said then shot out through the door to the side.
Cyril decided it wasn’t going to be worth dashing around the ship. It wasn’t as if King could disappear anywhere. Besides, Cyril was supposed to be resting after all. He made his way into the toilets. All this tea he’d been drinking was having an effect.
A man on his way out held the door open as Cyril entered. All the cubicles seemed empty, apart from one at the far end with the door closed and the red bar showing. A young man with long hair, dressed in flared trousers was standing at one of the urinals. Cyril did the same and prepared to relieve himself.
The young man quickly finished and left; the toilets now quiet. Cyril zipped himself up, washed his hands and dried them on some paper towels. Walking towards the exit, he paused. Opening the door, he stood where he was and let it close. Standing quiet, he listened. He could just detect someone breathing in that engaged cubicle. He waited. A man coughed. He thought he recognised the sound. He remained motionless and as quiet as he could.
The bolt slid across and the door slowly creaked open. Then a head peered out.
“Come on, Lennie,” Cyril said. “Let’s have a chat.”
The man visibly sagged.
“There’s nowhere else to go,” Cyril went on. “We may as well have a drink and sit down somewhere private and you can tell me all about it.”
With hot drinks in front of them, Cyril, Barton and King were seated around a table in a quiet corner of one of the lounges.
“So Mr King,” Barton began, “Tell me about your involvement with Victor Robinson.”
“Sorry,” Cyril interrupted, “before you do, can you tell us about your relationship with Jimmy Morgan?”
Barton looked puzzled but Cyril kept his focus on King.
King looked down into the mug on the table in front of him. “Jimmy was my mate,” he said. “We went back a long way. I met him during the war. We were in Italy together.”
“So when we spoke last week, you led me to believe you only knew of him but you kept your distance.”
“I was just being protective of a mate. Christ, I didn’t know he’d been murdered then.”
“But you told me he was a grass,” Cyril persisted.
“I just thought I had to say something. Besides, I thought you knew that anyway. I didn’t think it would be news to you.”
Barton leaned forward in his chair. “If we can just focus on what you’re doing for Victor Robinson, Mr King,” he said.
King looked to Barton. “You know what I’m doing. I’m driving his van to Holland, picking up a load of fresh flowers and taking them back to Covent Garden.”
Barton snorted. “Since when have the Robinsons been interested in flowers?”
“I don’t know. It’s what it says on the van.”
“What about the porn?”
King looked down. “Well, there is that too, but …”
“Look Lennie,” Barton went on in a softer tone, “we know about DCI Holt from the Met. We’ve been told about your ‘participating informant’ status.”
King leaned back in his seat. “Well, there you go then. You know all about it.”
“A bit dangerous isn’t it?”
King shrugged.
Cyril took up the conversation again. “Lennie, how long have we known one another?”
“Too long, Mr Claydon.”
“Must be nigh on twenty years.” Cyril took a drink from his mug. “It isn’t like you to put your neck on the line. I know you’ve been a bit naughty in the past, but this is something else.”
The use of the word ‘naughty’ drew a smirk from Barton.
King responded, ignoring Cyril’s boss. “When we were in Italy … me and Jimmy … we were in a unit attacking a Germa
n gun position.” King drained his tea, avoiding eye contact. “I’d crawled ahead and nearly got to it when I got shot. Here.” He placed his hand on the top of his left thigh. “The rest of the boys began firing … keeping them pinned down like. The next thing, Jimmy runs up, dodging some bullets and lies flat beside me. When the time was right, he gets me up and somehow drags me back to safety.” He looked directly at Cyril. “I owed him, Mr Claydon. You were in the war. You must have had some incidents like that? You understand, don’t you?”
Instantly, Cyril thought of Brian. Clear images of him trapped in the burning Lancaster flashed in front of him. He nodded and closed his eyes for a second.
King continued, “I wanted to find out what happened to Jimmy. I thought if Robinson had topped him, I’d want to find a way of making him pay.”
“And do you think Robinson did for Jimmy?”
King shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”
“So who do you think did?” Cyril encouraged.
“Not until I’m sure.”
“Very commendable,” Barton snorted. “But listen …” He looked from Cyril to King and back again. “Before DS Gray spots us, there’s something else you should know …”
41
“What do you think?” Barton asked.
Cyril was lying down on a bunk bed, Barton lounging in a chair by its side in the cabin Gray had managed to obtain for them.
“On the face of it, it could make sense.” Cyril pulled himself upright. “But that’s a hell of a leap. Are you sure?”
Barton rubbed his face. “I’m not sure of anything at the moment. But until we know more, we keep as much of what I’ve told you between ourselves.”
