Disposal (The Tendring Series Book 1)

by David Evans

  “Only to get in early this morning for a briefing. And to turn up in some scruffy clothes.”

  “Do me a favour Sam, don’t let on to anyone you were with me in here the other day.” Cyril tapped the blackboard.

  “Sure.” Sam turned and sat down with his colleagues.

  Miller and Walker strolled in at that point, Miller especially looking bleary-eyed. A couple of other officers joined them before DCI Sanderson swept in to the room, walked to the blackboard and turned to face the gathering. The room hushed.

  Cyril made to sit down with the others but the DCI put up a hand to stop him.

  “Morning gentlemen,” Sanderson began. “This morning, we will be carrying out an operation at a warehouse premises in The Hythe district of Colchester.” He looked to Cyril. “DS Claydon will explain the layout, then I’ll explain how our resources will be allocated.”

  Cyril proceeded to describe the location of the building in relation to its surroundings and the ground, first and second floor layouts before sitting down and handing over to the DCI.

  Sanderson proposed there would be three teams. At Cyril’s suggestion, one group would gain entry to the building and secrete themselves in the old ground floor toilets. Cyril and six uniforms would be stationed in a van parked up on waste ground over the road from the building. The third group would be liaising with Barton and the flower van on the outskirts of Colchester. Until he spoke to DI Barton, that was as much as he was prepared to say. “So take your refs now and be back here at 08:30,” he concluded.

  Cyril suspected that was because he hadn’t yet formulated a firm plan.

  As Sanderson left the room, he indicated for Cyril to follow.

  Sam stood as he passed by. “What the Hell’s going on, Skip?” he whispered.

  “Just get the Transit prepared so we’re all ready to go after the next briefing.” Cyril rushed out of the room to catch up with the DCI.

  * * *

  Customs closely studied the documents Barton gave them. Finally, the officer moved to the rear of the van and opened the doors. He shuffled through a few boxes, gave up and closed the doors again. With a nod, he gave the paperwork back to Barton and moved onto the next vehicle.

  Through Immigration with the aid of his warrant card, he set out on the road from the quayside. He made slow progress, checking his mirrors, imagining eyes on him from the offices above the terminal where Special Branch was based. Half a mile away, a lay-by came up on the near-side and he spotted the familiar figure of Lennie King, holdall at his feet, leaning against a phone box. Barton pulled in and drew to a halt alongside him.

  Climbing down from the cab, Barton put the keys in his pocket and walked round the front to the phone box. “Didn’t trust me?” he asked.

  King ignored the question. “Everything okay?” he countered.

  Barton nodded then pulled open the door of the phone box.

  King opened the van’s passenger door and climbed in.

  From the box, Barton peered down the road towards the terminal and studied the vehicles driving past. None looked suspicious, so he turned, lifted the receiver and dialled the number for Clacton Police Station.

  A minute later, the desk sergeant rang him back and immediately put him through to DCI Sanderson.

  “Where are you?” Sanderson asked.

  “Just got off the ferry, Sir.”

  “Everything okay?”

  Another glance up and down the road before settling on the sight of Lennie King sitting in the passenger seat of the van. “Well there is one development …”

  * * *

  Sanderson replaced the receiver slowly.

  “Problems?” Cyril wondered having listened to one side of the conversation between Sanderson and Barton.

  “Lennie King’s showed up.”

  “I thought he might. So is he with the DI now?”

  Sanderson nodded. “This could work in our favour. It’ll give us a bit more time inside the warehouse before we spring the surprise. Just hope King is up to it.”

  “For what it’s worth, I’ve known Lennie a long time. When I spoke to him on the ferry, he was determined to find out what had happened to his friend. He has his suspicions but he feels he owes Jimmy Morgan.”

  Sanderson looked at his watch and stood. “Right, let’s brief them.”

  62

  Sanderson’s car was discreetly parked in an empty church hall car park, shielded from any prying eyes a couple of miles out of Colchester on the Ipswich Road. Miller sat in the front passenger seat, Walker and two uniforms sat in the back.

  Miller checked his watch yet again. “Should be here by now, Sir.”

  Sanderson took a breath. “He’s just taking his time, checking no one’s following.”

  A minute later, the flower van rolled into the car park and pulled up alongside the car.

  “Stay here a minute,” Sanderson ordered, then got out.

  Barton switched off the engine and opened the door.

  Sanderson stood beside him. “Picked up a passenger, I see.”

  “Mr Sanderson,” King greeted from the other side of the cab.

  “Made a miraculous recovery then?”

  “Just a little turn,” King said, “I’m fine now.”

  Sanderson grew serious. “Anybody follow you, John?”

  “Not that I can tell.” Barton thumbed towards his passenger. “And Lennie’s been looking out too.”

  King jumped down from the passenger side and walked round the front of the cab.

  “This is a big risk, you know,” Sanderson said to him.

  “But it’s an even bigger risk if I don’t drive back.”

  Sanderson nodded. “I know.” He looked back to his car. “Everything’s in place down at the warehouse, so you know what to do, John?”

  Barton stepped down from the driver’s seat. “Yep. Who’s with me?”

  Sanderson waved at the car and the uniformed constables got out. “These two will be alongside you in the back.” He walked to the rear. “Now, have we got to arrange some space for you?”

  Barton opened the rear doors and shuffled some boxes around to give space for the three men to stand inside. “Bloody good job it’s not for long,” he said, “It’s freezing in here.”

  “If Cyril managed it for a couple of hours, fifteen minutes should be a breeze for you lot. Anyway, Lennie can switch the chiller off for now.”

  With Barton and the two constables safely inside, King set off for the warehouse. Sanderson, with Miller and Walker followed at a safe distance.

  * * *

  The unmarked Ford Transit van drew to a halt on the patch of waste ground opposite the warehouse on The Hythe. Inside, six uniformed officers sat on side-facing bench seats. They hoped they wouldn’t have to spend any considerable time in what was a tin box in the hot sun. But this morning had broken with widespread cloud cover. Was this the end of the long heatwave?

  Up front, Sam Woodbridge, now dressed in a boiler suit, was sitting alongside Cyril who had driven. Cyril released the bonnet catch, got out and lifted the cover. If anyone paid any attention, it was just some unfortunate van driver with engine trouble.

  Across the street, all was quiet at the warehouse. The vehicle doors were closed and the padlock was in place.

  “Alpha one in position,” Woodbridge said into the radio.

  “Roger that,” the answer came back. “All clear here, no sign of the target as yet.”

  Cyril checked his watch as he leaned in through the driver’s window. “Right Sam,” he said. “You know what to do.”

  Woodbridge nodded and got out.

  “You three with me.” He indicated the officers sitting on the left hand side. “The rest of you wait until the van arrives.”

  About to leave, Cyril paused and had a quiet word with Sam.

  Woodbridge nodded understanding then bent over with his head under the bonnet.

  Cyril led the way across the road and up the right hand side of the buildi
ng. “Right lads, radios on silent and follow me inside,” he said. Two of his colleagues helped launch him up to the window sill and inside. The others followed.

  63

  A few spots of rain began to fall as the big grey Daimler rolled up outside the warehouse. A slightly-built man, in his sixties with thinning dark hair climbed from the driver’s seat and opened the rear passenger door. There was no mistaking the figure who stepped out from the front passenger side; Tommy Marshall. From the rear seats, Victor and David Robinson emerged into the overcast morning. All four glanced up and down the street, but paid no attention to the tall young lad dressed in overalls with his head in the engine compartment of the Ford Transit parked opposite.

  Victor Robinson took out a key and opened the pedestrian door to the warehouse. His brother and Marshall followed suit, leaving the driver to stand outside, as if on sentry duty, watching approaching traffic.

  Once inside, the Robinson brothers walked into the middle of the open space, Marshall remained by the doors.

  “He’d better not be late,” David said.

  “Relax, will you. Everything’s under control.” Victor glanced at his watch. “The ferry docked on time and we arranged to meet up here by ten.”

  The noise of a lock being turned and the escape door at the rear of the building opening disturbed them. Through the door from the yard of the electrical factory came Walter Yardley. “Everything okay?” he asked.

  “Everything’s under control,” Victor said.

  Yardley looked anxious. “You’re still on for the exchange?”

  “Relax, Walter. All in good time.” Victor approached the man. “You’ve got what you want to sell?”

  Yardley tapped his pocket. “As we said. You have the money?”

  Victor turned to his brother and smirked. “Anyone would think Mr Yardley here is desperate.”

  “I don’t know why you want to get involved in that,” David said dismissively.

  “Just doing our friend a favour,” Victor said.

  “So when can we do it?” Yardley persisted.

  “He is desperate,” David commented.

  Victor turned back to face Yardley, a strange smile on his face. “I want to sort out my business first, if that’s all right with you.”

  Before anyone could say any more, the Daimler’s driver put his head in through the pedestrian door. “Boss, he’s here,” he said, stepping inside and preparing to open the vehicle doors.

  Marshall helped him. They could hear the noise of the van’s engine as it stopped outside, waiting for the doors to open wide enough. Marshall and the driver stood either side and the van pulled in, Lennie King at the wheel.

  Once inside, the doors were closed and Marshall and Robinsons’ driver joined them by the driver’s side of the van.

  King switched off the engine and opened his door.

  “Everything go okay, Lennie?” Victor asked.

  “Like clockwork, boss.”

  “Good man.” Victor turned to Marshall and their driver. “Okay boys, let’s check the load.”

  All four walked round to the rear of the van, leaving King to pick up his holdall from the passenger footwell. Marshall lifted the lever and opened the doors.

  64

  The van doors swung open to reveal DI Barton, hand outstretched holding his warrant card. Alongside him, two uniformed officers jumped out. “Police!” he shouted, stepping down. “Everyone stay where you are!”

  Simultaneously, the three uniformed officers appeared from the toilet block by the side of the open area and spread out. Behind the surprised group, the sounds of a key turning in the pedestrian door announced the appearance of DCI Sanderson, DCs Miller and Walker and two more officers.

  Lennie King sat still in the van seat. Marshall and the Robinsons’ driver were startled and tensed as though they were about to make a run for it then relaxed, deciding not to. Initial surprised looks on Victor and David Robinson’s faces melted into smirks.

  “Well, well, well,” Victor Robinson said. “DI Barton you’re like a bad penny. And …?” He turned his attention to the group who had come in from the street.

  “DCI Sanderson,” he announced, displaying his warrant card.

  “To what do we owe the pleasure this time?” David Robinson enquired.

  “What’s in the van?” Sanderson asked.

  “I think you can see.” Victor Robinson waved an arm in the direction of the van. “Flowers. And, if you don’t mind, I need to get this into London this afternoon.” He made to close the doors.

  Barton stood in front of him. “We need to inspect this shipment.”

  Another smirk grew into a grin. Victor Robinson shrugged. “Okay. I don’t know what you think you’ll find but we need to be on the road again, twelve at the latest.” He stood to the side next to his brother.

  Sanderson gave a nod and DCs Miller and Walker, along with the two uniformed officers who had emerged from the back of the van, began to offload the boxes of flowers.

  Barton walked to the front of the van and approached Yardley. “Mr Yardley,” he said. “What involvement do you have with this operation?”

  A look of alarm spread over Yardley’s face. “Nothing. Nothing at all. I only rent the building to Mr Robinson and I … I just came in to check on the place.”

  “Not involved in any deal then?”

  A pile of boxes crashed from the van.

  “Hey watch out! These are worth money,” David Robinson exclaimed, as a commotion broke out.

  Yardley took advantage of the distraction and began to edge towards the fire escape door.

  “Just a minute,” Barton said. “I’d like you to stay.”

  Yardley stepped forward and grabbed Barton around the neck, turning him, back towards him and pointing a gun to his head.

  Barton was taken by surprise but was in no doubt what was being held to his cheek. The cold, round, unmistakable feel of a gun barrel.

  One of the uniformed officers who’d emerged from the toilets made to step forward but stiffened when Yardley warned him. “Don’t do anything stupid.” Yardley adjusted his grip. “Now, unless you want to have your colleague on your consciences, I’d suggest you all back off.”

  Activity at the rear of the van died as everyone became aware of what was happening.

  There was no disguising the shocked look on Victor Robinson’s face. “Look, Walter, there’s no need for this.”

  “What do you know,” Yardley snarled. He began to pull Barton backwards with him as he shuffled away from the van towards the rear of the building.

  Sanderson took a stride forward. “Put the gun down, Mr Yardley. If that goes off, it’s a whole new ball game. As it stands, we can sort whatever it is without things getting too serious. But harming a police officer, well …”

  Yardley paused. “You know nothing,” he said. “Now, I’m leaving and you’re not going to stop me.” He started moving backwards once again.

  From the shadows behind the staircase, Cyril moved slowly and silently towards Yardley and Barton. Shuffling in his pocket, he pulled out his pipe.

  Yardley took another step towards the escape door in the rear wall then felt a shape prod into his back.

  “That’s far enough, Mr Yardley … Walter.” Cyril had pressed the stem of his pipe into Yardley’s back. “You don’t want to do anything stupid.”

  Yardley froze but didn’t ease his grip on Barton. “It’s Sergeant Claydon, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “That’s right. Now you don’t want me to have to use this, do you? Why don’t you let DI Barton go and, as Mr Sanderson said, we can sort this out?”

  Yardley stiffened. “I can’t do that. It’s gone too far.”

  “Jimmy Morgan, you mean.”

  Again, a slight reaction in Yardley’s posture. “He deceived me. You don’t do that to people who’ve given you a chance. You should appreciate that. You were in the war.”

  “But we didn’t kill our own. We dealt with it pro
perly.”

  “I dealt with it properly,” Yardley sneered. Then, with a thrust of the elbow of his gun hand, he swung round on Cyril, knocking the pipe from his grip. At the same time, Barton was thrown forward, stumbling to the floor.

  Cyril went to grab Yardley’s gun but wasn’t quick enough. The butt of the revolver caught Cyril on the head, the same position as the wound sustained in the van a couple of days earlier. He dropped to his knees then sank to the floor unconscious.

  Yardley made for the escape door and bundled his way through.

  By the time Barton had recovered and made it to his feet, Yardley had disappeared. He took in the crumpled figure of Cyril lying on the ground, blood pouring from his head wound.

  “Get after him!” Sanderson shouted.

  Lennie King jumped down from the van and joined Barton who had knelt to tend to Cyril.

  Several uniforms rushed for the exit door but it refused to open, despite their hammering on the release bolt.

  “He’s locked it from the other side,” one of them said.

  Cyril opened his eyes. “What’s …?”

  Sanderson turned to the group who’d followed him in through the pedestrian door. “Miller, take two others with you and get round to the front of Yardley’s and grab him.”

  “Don’t worry, Cyril,” Barton said. “Yardley’s gone through the fire escape. But we’ll get him.”

  “Radio Sam,” Cyril said quietly. “Tell him to get ready.”

  “Sam?”

  “PC Woodbridge. Just radio him.”

  Barton switched on the radio and made the call.

  * * *

  Walter Yardley slammed the fire exit door behind him and slid the bolts across, top and bottom. For a second, eyes closed, he leaned against it. What the hell had he done? How had he got into this mess? He thrust the gun back into his jacket pocket.

  Banging on the door focussed his thoughts. He had to get away. Hurrying across the yard, he burst in through the rear door to the offices.

  “Mr Yardley, I need a signature …” a young woman sitting at the desk in the first office he came to said.