Disposal (The Tendring Series Book 1)

by David Evans

  “I suppose a bit of both,” he said.

  “Would you like to buy me a drink? We could sit down and have a nice time.”

  His smile developed into a grin. “I’d love to but I don’t think I could afford it.”

  She pouted. “But you’re a nice man, I can tell.”

  Barton nervously sipped his lager.

  “I know,” she continued, “you’re married and you’re worried she might find out?”

  He shook his head and sipped some more.

  “You know if I passed you on the street, I would not let on that I know you,” she said, as if to allay his fears.

  Finally, he gathered himself. “Look, you’re a lovely looking woman but I’m just having this and I’m off.” He drained his glass, placed it back on the bar and headed for the door. “See you,” he said.

  55

  “So, it all bears out,” Sanderson said.

  They were on their way back to Clacton.

  “They must be in some trouble if Walter Yardley has put his house in Frinton up as collateral,” Cyril agreed. “No wonder he’s looking to sell off some assets like that old warehouse.”

  “And it gives more credence to the rumours we’ve heard about him bringing in diamonds from Holland.”

  “You saw yourself he got off the ferry this morning.”

  “The question is,” Sanderson pondered, “was he bringing something back with him, or just a genuine business trip?”

  “He seemed nervous on board.” Cyril turned in the front seat towards the DCI. “DI Barton is due back tomorrow. What’s the plan? Do we organise a welcoming party at the warehouse or allow the porn shipment to pass on to London?”

  “The Met would have liked things to have moved on to its conclusion in London but that can’t happen now.”

  Cyril realised what was being said. “My fault, I know. I’m sorry about that.”

  “Don’t worry, Cyril. We have our own crimes to solve here. The fact that it now appears to be entwined with their operations, well …” Sanderson braked and concentrated on manoeuvring around a roundabout before continuing. “At the moment, we’ll have to strike when the van arrives.” The DCI glanced towards Cyril. “But I think Dick might have something up his sleeve.”

  Back at the Clacton Station, Sanderson told Cyril to get off home. “You’ll need a bit of recuperation time after your adventures,” he said.

  “I’ll just check on Bill Walker first. I want to see where we are with Andy Stewart and Moira Anderson.”

  “Who? Oh, yes, very good.” Sanderson smiled, making the connections. “I’ll be calling a briefing for seven in the morning. The ferry doesn’t dock until half past and by the time the van gets off the ship, that should give us time to action whatever we need to do. I’ll see you then.” The DCI strode off up the stairs.

  Before he made his way to the CID office, Cyril had a quick look in the secretaries’ room. He was disappointed there was no sign of Cathy. He checked his watch; just gone five.

  Up in the CID room, Bill Walker spotted him arrive. “Ah, Sarge,” he said, “I got a positive ID from Morag Watson.”

  Cyril walked over to Walker’s desk where the DC turned a photo album the right way round for him to look at. “This one here,” he said, pointing to a photo of a man who looked to be in his forties with dark receding hair, heavy jowls.

  “Who’s he?” Cyril asked.

  Walker read from notes on a pad. “Tommy Marshall, forty-three, previous convictions for GBH, ABH, aggravated burglary and assault.”

  “Local?”

  “No Sarge. London. But known associate of …”

  “The Robinsons,” Cyril interrupted, nodding.

  “Exactly.”

  Cyril half sat against an adjacent desk and folded his arms. “And what about McKinley? What did he have to say?”

  “When I talked to him again, he was reluctant to say anything about the last time he’d seen Chalmers. I mentioned that Morag had already given us certain information. He wasn’t best pleased and launched into a guttural attack on her. When he finally calmed down I asked him again about Chalmers. He seemed genuinely afraid. Eventually I got him to tell me that he’d seen Marshall twice. Once when he came into the Carlton Bar where Chalmers was drinking and once when he saw him leaving Chalmers’ room.”

  “Did he give any more details?”

  “Only that he hadn’t come into the pub to join Chalmers socially for a drink. In fact, he didn’t have a drink. They just talked briefly, then Marshall left. He got the impression that it was more Marshall speaking to Chalmers rather than them having a conversation.”

  Cyril studied the photo more closely.

  “And that last time, he only passed him on the stairs. McKinley was keen to keep his head down.”

  “All right, Bill, good work. Now if you haven’t heard, the DCI is calling a briefing for seven in the morning, so don’t be late.”

  “No, Sarge. I just want to follow something else up tonight before I clock off.”

  Cyril checked his desk for messages one last time before making for the door. As he did, he heard Walker on the phone.

  “Can I speak to someone who could help me with medical records,” he said, “going back possibly to 1946?”

  Yes, Cyril thought, a conscientious lad, well worth encouraging.

  56

  It was just gone eight when Barton stepped off the train at Haarlem railway station. After the amusement of Pippa’s Bar, he’d found himself somewhere quiet to eat at reasonable cost and meandered around Amsterdam’s pavements for a while. He found the streets full of windows he’d heard so much about. It amazed him how there seemed to be every different taste catered for; all ages, some older than his grandmother; all sizes, thin to very fat; all nationalities. It also amused him to see the innovative use of lorry overtaking mirrors; bolted to the walls at the sides of the windows so the ladies could see who was approaching.

  Back in Haarlem, early evening sun bathed the town in a warm light. It took him fifteen minutes to walk back to Gert’s Bar where he nodded acknowledgement to the familiar barman and ordered himself a large draught lager.

  He sat down at the same table as the night before, drawing no interest from the five men and two women who were seated at other tables.

  Just before nine, the door opened and Freddie entered, dressed in jeans and trainers as he had been the previous night but with a different shirt. Barton watched as he approached the bar, ordered himself a bottle of lager then made his way over to sit down at his table.

  “You have fun in Amsterdam, no?” Freddie asked, with a knowing smile.

  “Interesting place,” Barton responded.

  “And the hotel, it was good, yes?”

  “Comfortable.” Barton looked around the room but no one was paying them any attention. “You have the van?”

  “All ready for you, my friend,” Freddie said. “You need to allow yourself a couple of hours to get to the ferry, so I’d advise you to leave in about half an hour. It’s outside.” He reached into his trouser pocket and brought out the keys, placing them on the table. “No need to look inside,” he added.

  “As long as Customs don’t want to.”

  “They’ll find nothing.” Freddie produced an envelope. “You need this too. Paperwork for the export of flowers.” He placed that on the table also.

  Barton picked it up and had a cursory glance at the documents inside. Along with his return ticket and the paperwork DS Gray had given him, he should be able to board the ferry without any obstructions. He folded it up and tucked it into the inside pocket of Lennie King’s leather jacket.

  Freddie drained his lager bottle and stood. “Okay, I have to go now but see you next time perhaps?” He turned and casually walked out of the place.

  “I doubt it,” Barton said quietly to himself, playing with the set of keys to the van.

  A short while later, he’d finished his lager and made his way out onto the street. It was getting d
ark, the sun had set and all seemed as quiet as before. The Holland Flower van was parked on the same side a short distance away, facing the direction he’d be going.

  He didn’t walk directly towards the van, deciding instead to walk away in the opposite direction for about a hundred yards, cross over and come back on the opposite side. All the while, he was keeping an eye out for anything unusual. He still didn’t trust his situation. Was he (or Lennie for that matter) being set up? Eventually, having walked a circuit and seen nothing to arouse his suspicion, he sauntered up to the driver’s door, unlocked it and climbed aboard. The chiller unit was humming away.

  Twenty minutes into the journey, having kept a close lookout for any vehicles following, he pulled into a layby and waited. Nobody followed so he jumped down and walked to the back where he opened the doors. The van was chock full of cardboard boxes. Through holes in the sides he could see flowers. All appeared to be as it should. The important cargo would be behind the boxes and false front in the compartment where Cyril had concealed himself from the Robinsons back in Colchester.

  Barton took a deep breath, closed the doors again, looked around him once more then climbed back into the cab and drove off towards the ferry terminal.

  Traffic was steady until about ten miles from the port when red brake lights all came on ahead of him. Half a mile of slow progress eventually ground to a halt. Ten minutes of no movement looked permanent as drivers in the distance began to step out of their vehicles onto the road.

  For the first time since he’d convinced Sanderson that he should pursue this strategy, panic began to set in. Shit, he thought. Shit, shit, shit! He’d never considered not being able to return on the sailing. What the Hell happens if he can’t get the van back to Britain tomorrow for the rendezvous? How would anyone get word to Victor Robinson without revealing that he was under close scrutiny? And Lennie King; what if he was discharged from hospital and made the ferry and was spotted back in Essex without the shipment?

  Barton leaned on the steering wheel and buried his head in his hands for a second. Tapping on the passenger window shocked him. Alarmed, he turned to see a man in police uniform with a motorcycle helmet on, visor up. He slid across onto the passenger seat and wound down the window.

  The traffic cop had put his bike on its stand. “You’re going to the ferry terminal, yes?” he asked.

  Guardedly, Barton answered, “Yes.”

  “Follow me and stay close.” The officer pulled his visor back down and climbed onto his motorcycle.

  Barton was puzzled; and nervous. Why would a police motorcyclist stop and offer to help him? Was this a set-up? Truth be told, he wouldn’t be able to tell a fake uniform from a genuine one.

  The policeman had already switched on the bike’s flashing lights.

  One look up the line of stationary traffic convinced Barton he had no choice. The vehicles in front of him were already shuffling to the side, rear lamps blazing out looking like the parting of the Red Sea. He fired up the engine and gingerly followed his protector.

  Slowly they made their way down the centre between the two lanes of traffic until they came to an exit which the motorcyclist cleared a way to. Barton followed onto a single carriageway unlit road for some distance. Finally, they came to an industrial estate, the road lined with warehouses and low-rise commercial units. At a junction controlled by traffic lights, the police rider turned left onto another poorly lit road.

  Barton’s heart rate increased. If he’d been duped and was about to be attacked, this would be the spot. He slowed and the motorcycle pulled away before it also slowed down. Now stationary, Barton checked that the cab doors were locked. With the van in gear ready for a getaway, he waited.

  The policeman on the bike stopped, turned and looked back at him.

  57

  Cyril checked his fridge and found little with which to make a meal. Charlie, on the other hand, was pleased to eat the same food every day. Head down, ceramic bowl rattling on the tiles until he began to chase it round the kitchen, just to make sure he hadn’t missed a morsel.

  “You know what, lad,” he said, “I think I’ll get something from the chippy and take it down to the allotments. What d’you say?”

  Charlie’s tail wagged. As usual, he was just pleased to have company, and the prospect of a walk was a bonus, not to mention the possibility of a piece of batter from Cyril’s fish.

  Doris had looked after Charlie for two days now and Cyril felt uncomfortable that he had somehow been putting upon her quite a lot recently. She protested that she loved having the dog but he thought she deserved some time unhindered by him and his problems.

  The aromas floating out into the street from the chip shop reminded Cyril just how hungry he was. He could imagine Maureen berating him for having neglected himself in recent days, but that was all down to circumstances beyond his control; well almost. Furthermore, she’d probably have a moan at him for eating greasy food. But when you’re hungry and they smell as good as this, well …

  “Ow’s things, then Cyril?” Big Pete asked from behind the counter when he walked in. Pete was from Yorkshire and did the best fish and chips Cyril had tasted. And he was called Big Pete because he was only five feet five. “’Ere, what’s happened to your …”

  “Nothing, Pete.” Cyril interrupted him, not wanting to have to explain his head injury again. “But I’m starving,” he went on.

  “Ah’ll bet thee could eat Ghandi’s loin cloth,” Pete quipped in his strong Yorkshire accent then laughed like a drain.

  Cyril couldn’t help smiling. It was a line Pete had used many a time.

  “Cod and chips please.” He made an exaggerated gesture of looking round the empty shop. “This weather can’t be doing much for your business though?”

  “Could be better, but could be a lot worse. They’ve got standpipes in t’street back home,” the man informed him.

  Cyril was amused. Pete had been in Clacton since he was demobbed after the war but he still referred to Yorkshire as ‘home’.

  “Playing havoc with my leeks and as for the onions, they look like they might only be good for pickling this year. Here, maybe I could sell you some?”

  “Supposed to be breaking soon, I heard.” Pete shovelled chips into the wrapper on top of the battered fish. “Any bits?” he asked.

  “No thanks, that’s fine as it is.”

  “Salt and vinegar?”

  “Just a little salt, please.”

  Food wrapped, Pete handed the package over. “Dining in then?”

  “Not exactly.” Cyril paid, took his supper and looked down at the dog. “Charlie and me are just heading down to the allotment to have these al fresco.”

  “You know how to live.”

  Cyril always felt cheered up when he spoke to Pete. He’d never heard him complain and he always had a quick retort; a half full sort of bloke.

  Five minutes later, he sat down on the old bench he’d obtained years ago that looked out over his patch on the allotments and unwrapped his meal. The sun was just going down and the evening was still warm. There were three or four other gardeners walking up and down their plots of land, watering cans in hand. Cyril hadn’t heard any weather forecasts in recent days. Maybe Pete was right and this long dry spell was coming to an end. He broke off a chunk of batter and held it out to Charlie. The big dog licked his lips and gently took it from his fingers.

  As he ate, Cyril’s thoughts drifted to Cathy. He hadn’t seen her since she blanked him in the corridor this morning. He couldn’t blame her. He imagined her all ready for him to pick her up last night and he doesn’t show. Anyone would be annoyed. But he had to see her; explain why. She’d understand, surely. There again, it was the second time he’d let her down. Perhaps it was Maureen’s way of looking after him. Perhaps she didn’t want him to become involved with anyone else. What the Hell was he thinking? He’d only spoken to the woman a few times. Yes he’d agreed to take her out but there was nothing to it. But there again, he rec
alled what Doris had told him of her conversations with Maureen. And when he was trapped in the van, what he heard then, Maureen talking to him; was that just his mind playing tricks?

  Charlie rested his head on Cyril’s knee, reminding him the best part of the fish supper was still in the paper.

  “Go on then, but don’t tell Doris,” he said and held out a couple of chips.

  Charlie took them from his hand softly, ate them, burped then lay down at Cyril’s feet.

  Cathy came into his mind once again. Now he knew where she lived, he’d thought about calling round to see her tonight but … it would be too late now. Morning then? Give her a lift into work? No, that wouldn’t be possible. He had to be in at seven for the briefing.

  That brought his thoughts round to Barton. He hoped he wasn’t getting himself involved in anything stupid. He’d be like a kid in a sweetshop walking the streets of Amsterdam. There again, he was a detective, he should have some sense. Like all those getting tanked up after hours and expecting to be escorted home by uniform? Didn’t quite work out for Danny Flynn though, one of the circumstances behind Cyril’s involvement in this case in the first place.

  It seemed a long time ago now since he had been sitting with Sam Woodbridge in the patrol car, looking forward to wrapping up the night-shift and spending some free time down here on the allotment. And then the crash; Jem Fletcher dead; Jimmy Morgan murdered; Adam Fletcher in debt and somehow pressured into involving his brother. A bent card school run by Dougie Chalmers was the catalyst. But where is Chalmers now? And who took over the debt? The Robinsons? Or this Tommy Marshall character running his own scam? Certainly Hughie McKinley was unnerved by him. Or are Chalmers and Marshall running some racket together? In any event, they still needed to track down Chalmers.

  “Oh I don’t know, lad,” Cyril addressed Charlie, “there’s still a lot we need to find out.”

  58

  Eventually, the police motorcyclist approached the driver’s side of the flower van and Barton wound the window down a touch.