by David Evans
“He’ll be alright,” Gray commented.
Cyril looked across at the man then back to the quayside. “I hope to God you’re right.”
He had several hours to kill before the ferry set sail on the return journey to Harwich. Gray led him up to the crew’s mess where they could have a couple of beers and relax.
“Have you done this many times before, Frank?” Cyril asked.
“Having to do the crossing on business, you mean?”
Cyril nodded and took a mouthful of beer.
“Not too many. Sometimes we shadow a suspect and, like I say, we work closely with the KMar.” Gray pulled out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to Cyril.
He shook his head. “I’m a pipe man myself,” he said. “But I’ve left it back in the car.”
Gray smiled. “Somehow I thought you might have been.”
Cyril wiped the beer froth from his moustache. “So what do you know of this DCI Holt?” As Gray was now aware of the Met officer’s involvement, he thought he might be able to flush out an interesting response.
Gray blew out smoke and nervously flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette. “Not a lot really. Heard his name once or twice, but never had any direct dealings with him myself.”
“He’s Vice, isn’t he?”
Gray drank some of his beer. “So I understand.”
Cyril turned his glass on its mat. “Got a bit of a reputation, haven’t they?”
Gray looked guarded. “What way?”
He lifted his glass to his mouth and paused. “You know, on the take, free samples, if you follow, evidence going missing.” He took a swig.
The DS grinned. “It’s Holt not Regan. You’ve been watching too many episodes of The Sweeney.”
Cyril shrugged.
“Anyway, I’m off to get my head down. I had a late night last night too.” Gray stubbed out his cigarette and drained his glass. “I’ll see you in the morning before we dock no doubt.” Gray stood and made his way out through the door.
“No doubt,” Cyril said quietly to himself then drained his own glass. He felt uneasy about the situation. Nothing he could put his finger on but something didn’t feel right. Barton knew more than he’d been prepared to tell Cyril, and that rankled once again. And Gray seemed guarded.
It had been a long day. He could get some shuteye back in the cabin but his mind was buzzing. But no more beer though, he thought.
A couple of hours later, the ferry had set sail. It was late but Cyril wanted to try and make contact with DCI Sanderson. Apart from catching up on what developments, if any, had taken place back in Essex, he wanted to try and assess Barton’s opinion of him. As he approached the Comms Room, he could hear Gray’s familiar voice. The door was ajar.
“No, the local plod have got involved now,” Gray was saying. “One of their blokes has driven the van to the rendezvous.”
Cyril stopped and listened.
“There wasn’t a lot I could do. How were we to know he had a dicky ticker,” Gray continued.
Cyril quickly glanced up and down the corridor. No one appeared to be around at this time of night.
“Yeah, he’s gone off to hospital in Rotterdam. The doc doesn’t reckon it’s too serious.” A pause. “I know but it’s still fucked things up.”
Cyril didn’t like the sound of the conversation. He could only catch one side of it but just who was Gray talking to? His boss, Crimond? Holt? Or someone else?
“Right well, I’ll check back in before we hit Parkeston.” Another pause. “What? No, I left him drinking in the mess.” Gray gave a laugh which rose Cyril’s hackles. “Not really. We’ll speak later.”
The phone was put down and Cyril ducked up the corridor and into a toilet just before Gray came out and walked away in the opposite direction. His unease grew. Was Barton in danger? Was Lennie in the firing line before that? He did feel that Lennie was genuine, despite Barton’s innate distrust of everyone, especially outside the job. What was he saying - he wasn’t even sure about some within the job? And Sanderson, what did he feel about the DCI? In any event, he had to speak to him.
In the Comms room, he asked the operator if he could make a ship to shore call and gave him Sanderson’s home number, which Barton had given him. After a minute or two with unfamiliar beeps and tones, he finally heard the DCI mumble an answer.
“Apologies for the late call Sir,” Cyril began, “I’m back on the return journey, due to dock at 08:30.”
“Everything go okay with John?” Sanderson asked.
“As far as I know. He cleared Customs and Immigration and was on his way to Amsterdam.”
“How are you getting along with DS Gray?”
Cyril looked round to see what the radio operator was up to but seemed satisfied he was busy with his own duties and not paying any attention to the conversation. He still lowered his voice. “I’m just a bit … What’s your take on Gray, Crimond and this DCI Holt?”
“Well Holt is typical Met. Dick related my conversation with him earlier, didn’t he?”
“He did.”
“Are you sensing something, Cyril?”
“As DI Barton asked, just keeping my ears open. Will you be picking me up when we dock?”
“Of course, but you’re making me feel uneasy now. Be careful and I’ll see you in the morning.”
Cyril ended the call. Still not thinking he could sleep, he wandered down to the passenger deck and through the lounge to the bar. A cup of tea would help.
Before he went to the cafeteria, Cyril had a stroll round the duty-free shop on board and bought himself some of his favourite pipe tobacco. No point in passing up this opportunity he thought. He entered the cafe, bought a tea and, feeling hungry despite the hour, decided on a bacon roll. He sat down at a table and took a bite of his snack. There had been no sign of Gray since he saw him leave the Comms room, and that was nearly an hour ago.
He took a sip of his tea and began to discreetly look round at the few passengers who were sitting at the other tables. Most were in the lounge areas, heads back, sleeping in some uncomfortable positions. The back of one passenger’s head caught his attention. He was sitting in one of the lounge chairs, visible through the glazed screen that separated the bar area. He was alone and seemed to be nervously looking around. Someone with a secret?
Cyril finished his tea and glanced over once again to the man who had attracted his attention. He stood and sauntered to the exit, determined to walk past him. As he approached, he thought the back of his profile was familiar. From how he was sitting, the man looked to be reasonably tall and quite well-built. His grey hair was thinning and Cyril thought he might be in his mid-sixties. As he passed, he could see a holdall on the man’s lap, protectively covered with his hands. Cyril walked to the far end of the lounge then turned, casting a brief glance back towards the man. Of course, that’s who it is.
48
The Hotel Ostade looked like just another house in the row, built of Flemish brick with some steps leading to the half-glazed front door. Barton stepped up and could see inside a wide hallway with a lit lamp sharing a table with some flowers in a vase. He tried the door handle and it opened. To his right, there was a small reception desk with a shut leather-bound register, telephone and a brass hand bell. Before he could ring it, a tall woman of around forty appeared from a room to the side.
“Good evening, sir,” she greeted.
Am I that obvious, Barton thought? An Englishman abroad.
“Does everyone here speak perfect English?” he asked, a broad smile on his face.
“It is the second language taught in schools.” She returned his smile. “So how can I help?”
He showed her the card Freddie had given him and explained that his new Dutch friend had recommended the establishment.
“How long will you be staying?”
“Just the one night.”
“That’s fine. If you would sign the register for me.” She opened the book and turned it towards
him, offering him a pen at the same time. “And your passport,” she continued.
Barton felt the colour rise in his cheeks. “Ah, well … you see, I don’t actually have it on me.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Does that matter at the moment?”
“Well, we are supposed to see it.” She studied him closely.
Barton felt self-conscious but patted the pockets of the leather jacket he’d borrowed from Lennie King, as if to make some attempt to find it.
The woman persisted. “But your passport?”
“It’s … I left it in my van.” He hesitated as he thought of what to say.
She nodded. “And Freddie is dealing with the … consignment.”
He was puzzled. How much did she know?
“It’s okay,” she went on, indicating the register. “If you could just sign in with a name and address.” She offered the pen once again.
‘A name and address’, Barton thought; not ‘your name and address’? He took the pen and just managed to stop himself from beginning to write a J in the register. Instead he spelt out ‘Leonard King’, signed a version of the name and gave a false address in Jaywick, Essex. He handed the pen back to her.
With a quick look at the entry, she closed the book.
“No luggage?”
“It was a last minute thing. Travelling light,” he quipped.
“Well, Mr King, if you’d follow me, I’ll show you to your room.” She led the way through a door to a staircase behind.
He couldn’t help but study her legs as she climbed the stairs.
The room was on the first floor and contained a comfortable looking double bed, wardrobe and chest of drawers.
“Breakfast will be from 7:30 until 9:00,” she explained. “Are you an early riser?”
“I’ll be down for 8:00, if that’s okay.”
“That’s fine,” she said. “Towels are there and the bathroom is at the end of the hall. Enjoy your stay.”
Barton gave her a thanks and she closed the door leaving him to his situation. He walked over to the window, nudged a curtain and looked out. The street below was deserted.
He sat on the bed and shook his head. What a day, he thought. Bloody Cyril. Just what was he doing pursuing his own investigation into the warehouse. Why hadn’t he told him about it? A bloody good job that young PC was with him. Woodbridge, was it? He shuddered. If he hadn’t been with him, Cyril would probably have been a corpse in the back of that van. Another one. As it was there were two of them already; Morgan and some other poor sod. In fact there might even be another body waiting to surface if Fletcher’s flights were any indication.
Slowly, sleep overcame him as he lay on top of the bed. It was going to be another warm and sticky night in this never-ending summer.
49
Tuesday 7th September
The dawning sun streamed in through the porthole acting as nature’s alarm clock for Cyril. A steady throb penetrated his senses. It took a second or two before he realised he was on the ferry. A deep dreamless sleep had engulfed him. His thoughts immediately returned to the character he’d seen in the lounge, nervously guarding the holdall on his lap.
He glanced at his watch; 6:30. The ferry was due to dock in another two hours. He turned and swung his legs over the side of the bed just as a knock sounded on the door.
“DS Claydon?” the voice of Frank Gray enquired.
“Hello.”
“Fancy some breakfast?”
Cyril stood and opened the door. “Morning,” he greeted.
Gray cracked a smile. “Are you hungry?”
“Give me ten minutes.”
“Crew’s mess,” Gray announced. “See you up there.”
Face freshly splashed but still wearing yesterday’s clothes, Cyril sat down at a table with his fried breakfast, opposite Gray.
“Get some rest?” the Special Branch DS enquired.
“Stilted.”
“Should be in on time.” Gray checked his watch. “Did you get hold of your colleague and organise a lift?”
“Managed to speak to my DCI last night, yes.” He didn’t particularly want to engage the man any more than he had to and shovelled some food into his mouth.
“No sign of this heatwave ending,” Gray said, although Cyril had the impression it was to no one in particular.
After a minute or so’s silence, Cyril spoke. “So, did you get all you wanted done?”
“How d’you mean?”
Cyril kept eating. “You know, speak to everyone you needed to speak to?”
There was a pause before Gray answered. “I managed to catch everybody I needed to last night before we met up for a drink.”
Cyril looked up and caught the hint of a puzzled expression on Gray’s face. He nodded. “Good. That’s good.” Then resumed eating.
“Right, well, I’ll just go and call into base. I said I would before we docked. Let them know everything is okay.” Gray stood and took his plate back to the counter.
“That’s right,” Cyril said quietly to himself, “you said you would.” He mopped his plate with the last half slice of bread and watched the DS leave.
Cyril’s warrant card eased his passage through Immigration and Customs and he stepped out into the fresh air of another warm early morning. Looking around the area in front of the terminal building, he couldn’t see a car he recognised. He was sure Sanderson had grasped the arrival time. Maybe he decided he’d be longer passing through the formalities.
He leaned against a wall, closed his eyes and enjoyed the morning sun as he waited. He wondered what Barton would do to amuse himself today. He imagined he could get himself into an awful lot of trouble in a city like Amsterdam. Cyril had visited the place himself once before and imagined the DI strolling down the streets full of windows. Worse, there were the clubs; all sorts of unsavoury activities taking place in them. But just how much money did Barton have with him? However much, he could imagine him coming home penniless.
His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a big grey Daimler in the waiting area. The Robinsons had one similar. Was that them? He squinted to see the driver but the sun glinting on the windscreen prevented him. But why would they be meeting the ferry, he wondered?
The familiar outline of Barton’s Rover 2000 then trundled up the road. He could see DCI Sanderson in the driver’s seat. The car swung round and pulled up in front of the Daimler. Cyril pushed himself off the wall and walked towards the passenger door. Opening it, he climbed inside.
“What happened to your head?” Sanderson asked.
“Ah, just a bit of a bump in the back of the van,” Cyril said dismissively.
“You might need to get that looked at. The police doctor can dress that for you when we get back.”
Before Sanderson could put the car in gear, Cyril put his hand on the gearstick.
“Just give it a minute, Sir,” he said.
Sanderson hesitated. “Everything alright, Cyril?”
“Just curious.” Before Sanderson could answer, Cyril put his hand up to the internal mirror and adjusted it so he had a clear view of the car behind. “I just want to check something.”
“Something up?”
“That car behind …”
“The grey Daimler?”
“Yeah. Victor Robinson drives one.”
Sanderson turned his head slightly to look in the wing mirror. “You think that might be his?”
“Maybe.”
“Not too many of those on the road,” Sanderson commented.
“But I thought I spotted someone I recognised on the ferry last night.”
“Looks like a woman in the driver’s seat.”
“Ah. Now who do you think that is?” Cyril nodded towards the mirror. He watched the man he’d spotted in the lounge the night before approach the Daimler.
The man opened the passenger door and, before he got in, cast a nervous look around.
“Well, bugger me,” Sanderson quietly s
aid.
“It is him, isn’t it?”
“Walter Yardley, yes.”
“Thought I recognised him,” Cyril said. “Looks a bit on edge, don’t you think?”
The big grey car set off and swept past them down the approach road.
“Made it through customs then. The question is, was that him doing a ‘dummy run’ or was it the real thing?” Sanderson pondered. “In the meantime, let’s get back to the station.”
Sanderson fired up the Rover and set off.
Cyril loosened off his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. “Actually, do you think I can nip back to the house? I need a change of clothes. I wasn’t expecting to be out all night. And I want to make sure my neighbour is okay. She’s been looking after my dog.”
“Sure.”
“And then I can tell you what I overheard last night.”
50
Back at the station, Cyril collected his jacket from the back of the chair where Sam had left it. He picked up the car keys and quickly made for the car park. He owed Doris a huge apology.
When he pulled up in his driveway, he heard Charlie give a bark before he appeared through the gateway to the back garden. The big dog waddled up to him as he got out of the car, his whole body rocking from side to side, not just his tail.
“Hello, old lad,” Cyril greeted as Doris appeared from the back garden, his lead in her hand.
“What can I say?” Cyril held his arms wide. “You won’t believe the last twenty-four hours. I’m sorry I couldn’t get word to you.”
“We thought you must be involved in something,” Doris said. “But what’s happened to your head?”
Automatically, Cyril put his hand to the dressing. “Oh, nothing, just a little bump that’s all. It was my own fault.”
Doris’s expression told him she was sceptical. “Don’t worry, we were just fine, weren’t we, Charlie?” She rubbed the dog’s head.
“But I don’t like putting on you, Doris.”
She looked him up and down. “And you’ll want me to keep hold of him today too.”
