Disposal (The Tendring Series Book 1)

by David Evans

  The clock ticked on the mantelpiece and he squinted to see it showing a quarter past twelve. The rest of the house was quiet.

  He stretched and stood up. Immediately, Charlie stirred, rolled over and struggled to his feet. “Come on, lad,” Cyril said, “Let’s get back to our own bed, eh?”

  He quietly opened Doris’s front door, let Charlie out then closed it behind them. Charlie turned left instead of right and waddled over to a lamp post. Cyril looked up at the light rain drifting past in the lamplight then decided to take him for a quick walk around the block before home.

  69

  Thursday 9th September

  Sanderson held out a hand to the visitor. “DCI Holt, good to meet you at last,” he said.

  Holt looked to be in his mid-forties with curly dark hair and sideburns. “Simon, call me Simon.” He smiled grimly and indicated the younger man with him. “And this is DS Morley.”

  His colleague standing slightly behind and holding a briefcase nodded a greeting then shook Sanderson’s offered hand.

  “Martin,” Sanderson reciprocated. “My office is upstairs.”

  Door closed, all seated around the DCI’s desk, Holt began. “As I indicated on the phone yesterday, this is a serious situation, Martin.”

  “We’ve been wondering about information leaking out for some time,” Sanderson responded, “but …”

  “Did you obtain statements from your officers?”

  Sanderson held out a sheaf of papers. “Got them here.”

  Holt took them and began to study the accounts Cyril and Barton had written the day before. As he read, he nodded at certain points. “This ties in with other evidence we’ve been gathering,” he said once he’d finished.

  Sanderson sighed deeply. “So what are your next moves?”

  Holt glanced at his watch as he stood up. “Off to Harwich and make an arrest.” He took the briefcase from Morley, placed the paperwork inside and handed it back to his DS.

  Sanderson also got to his feet. “You don’t want to interview the Robinson brothers?”

  Holt shook his head. “No need. They’ll be clean as a whistle. They knew all about your DI Barton taking the van to Holland and would have aborted that shipment. There’ll be another time. Hopefully, sooner rather than later with this one off the field.” He indicated the briefcase then held out his hand to Sanderson. “Thanks Martin,” he said.

  Sanderson shook it once more. “You will protect Lennie King, won’t you? He asked. “My men couldn’t have pulled this off without his help.”

  “Nor me,” Holt agreed. “I’ll do everything I possibly can.”

  Sanderson walked with the two Met officers back to the main entrance.

  As they departed, Barton pulled in to the car park. Sanderson waited for him to approach.

  “Is that who I think it is?” Barton asked, jettisoning his cigarette into a puddle.

  “Holt, yes.” Sanderson turned and led the way inside. “How did you get on?”

  “As we thought, something fairly grisly happened on that upper floor.” Barton had spent the first half of the morning at the Colchester warehouse. “The forensic boys are loving it; best they’ve had to deal with in ages.” A broad smile on his face as they climbed the stairs.

  “Come into the office and tell me what you know.”

  Barton sat down opposite his DCI and flicked open his notebook. “Okay,” he began, “First off, the workbench on the first floor; confirmed as human blood there. They’re running ABO blood grouping tests back in the lab.” He flicked over some pages to the notes he’d taken during Morgan’s post-mortem. “We know Morgan was A positive which is reasonably common, maybe about 30% of the population, but there were at least two other blood types present on that bench, so they told me.”

  Sanderson was thoughtful. “So there were at least three people who bled on there? Three victims?”

  “Could be. We think Fletcher was on his third mission out to sea.”

  “What about the top floor?” Sanderson shuddered at the memory of what he and Cyril had seen when they’d visited two days before. “Cyril showed you, didn’t he?”

  “He did.” A grim expression on his face, Barton reported, “Two rooms which showed evidence of violence. The third room along was the worst. Not only blood and brain matter on the brick wall but human hair and other fibres too. They’re going to see if they can match any of that with what remains of our second corpse’s head. They also recovered lead shot from the wall. That will be checked for shape and chemical composition.”

  “Any indication how long all this is going to take?”

  “Weeks. Unless …”

  “I’ll see what we can do to speed things up.” Sanderson reached out to pick up the telephone.

  “So what’s the deal with DCI Holt, Sir?” Barton asked.

  Sanderson paused and pulled his hand away. “It’s as you thought. They’ve gone off to Harwich to arrest DS Gray. Apparently, with yours and Cyril’s evidence, combined with other things, it would appear that he’s been on the Robinsons’ payroll.”

  “The little shit. No wonder he was …” Barton thought back. “D’you remember when we first went into that office with Crimond? It was Gray who quickly pulled up the paperwork for the van.”

  Sanderson nodded knowingly. “And it was him who pointed out that the ferry had slipped its moorings.”

  “Not to mention making sure he was available to come with us.”

  Sanderson suddenly stood up. “Is Cyril in yet?” he wondered.

  “Don’t know, Sir.” Barton got to his feet as well. “I came straight up with you.”

  “When you find him, I’d like the pair of you to interview Marshall then Thompson.” He walked round the desk and opened the door. “Squeeze what you can out of the buggers. I’m off to see the Super. See if he can put some pressure on the lab to get some quicker results.”

  * * *

  Cyril walked over to his desk and sifted through the messages that had been left there. As he did so, his attention was drawn to Walker who was talking on the phone.

  Barton appeared at that moment. “Ah Cyril, I’d like to …” He stopped as Cyril put up a hand and nodded towards Walker. Both men remained silent as the young DC concluded his call.

  “That’s great,” he said. “Well thanks for getting back to me. And if you could send that down to us … for my attention yes. Thank you very much.” Walker replaced the receiver, a huge smile on his face. “Yes,” he said punching the air.

  “Good news then DC Walker,” Barton said.

  “You could say that, Sir.”

  “Tell us all about it then,” he said making for his office.

  “That was the records clerk at Glasgow Royal Infirmary,” Walker began once all three were in Barton’s office, “and you’ll never guess who had their leg plated and set with that piece of metalwork?”

  “I think I can guess,” Cyril said.

  “Go on,” Barton encouraged.

  “One Douglas Chalmers.”

  “Makes sense now you say it,” Cyril added. “The guy hasn’t been seen for four weeks; all his clothes left in his room and …” he rubbed his moustache in thought, “last seen in the company of our friend downstairs, Tommy Marshall.”

  Barton tensed. “Was he? I didn’t know that.” He turned his attention to Walker. “Listen Bill, that was good work. Thanks.”

  Walker seemed to colour. “Thank you, Sir,” he said and returned to his desk.

  “I’m impressed,” Cyril said.

  “No, I think he’s showing signs,” Barton nodded.

  “Not him. I always knew he was bright. I mean you. That trip to Holland must have done you good.”

  Barton looked puzzled.

  “When I first got involved here, you would never have given the lad any praise. What was it you called them, Bill and Ben, the Flowerpot Men.”

  Barton leaned forward on his desk. “Don’t you bloody think I’m going soft. But listen, that piece
of information is timely. We’re going to interview that big bastard Marshall, and I want you with me.” Barton stood, picked up a folder and walked round the desk. “But I’ll be taking the lead this time.”

  Barton arranged for Marshall to be brought from his cell to one of the interview rooms before he and Cyril went to the canteen. “Let the bastard sweat a bit,” he said. “Meanwhile, you can tell me what you found out this morning over in Frinton.”

  Cyril got the teas in as Barton claimed a table in a corner away from anyone else and slapped the folder down in front of him.

  “So what did you find?” Barton asked as Cyril set down the drinks on the table.

  “Well Mrs Yardley was extremely upset. I don’t think she had any idea what Walter had been up to.”

  “Genuine?” Barton sipped his tea, then rummaged in a pocket for his cigarettes.

  “I think so. She looks a bit older than him. I’ll bet she’s been the dutiful wife at home, running the domestics and he’s had himself a free rein.” Cyril took a drink, then followed Barton’s lead by producing his pipe and tobacco pouch.

  “Anything of interest in the house?”

  “Oh, yes.” He wiped his moustache then packed some tobacco into the bowl. “Good job he gave us the safe combination, we could have been there all day.”

  Barton inhaled sharply and blew out smoke. “What was in there?”

  “Well,” Cyril paused to light his pipe, puffed and exhaled. “We found another bag of sparklers and, interestingly, about a dozen rounds of ammunition for his handgun.”

  “All off to the lab?”

  “Yep. And we’ve seized some files he had in his study. Huge house it is on Second Avenue.”

  Barton frowned. “And that slimy toad Viney lives on Third.” He drained his tea and took one last drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out. “Come on then, let battle commence.”

  Cyril groaned, knocked out his pipe and followed Barton.

  Tommy Marshall was sitting at the table in the interview room, arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles, looking as though he was just enjoying a rest.

  Barton strode in purposefully, Cyril in his wake. A curt nod to the uniformed PC who had been keeping Marshall under scrutiny was the sign for him to leave. The DI pulled out a chair, placed the manila file on the table and sat down. Cyril, more slowly, eased himself into the seat on Barton’s right hand side.

  Cyril, attention focussed on Marshall, folded his arms whilst Barton opened the folder and leafed through a few pages, all the while clicking a pen. He could tell Marshall was becoming irritated.

  Finally, the man leaned forward onto the table and stared at Barton. “Well,” he said. “Are you going to keep me here all fucking day as well? Or are you beginning to realise you’ve got fuck all on me.” A smirk crept over his face.

  Eventually, Barton looked up from the paperwork. “How much are the Robinsons paying you?” His face was set in a neutral expression. “I hope it’s worth it.”

  Marshall folded his arms once again. “What? For driving a van load of flowers up to Covent Garden? It passes my time,” he replied.

  Barton nodded.

  From his peripheral vision, Cyril could see he was working hard to stay calm.

  “Ever heard of a man by the name of Douglas Chalmers?” Barton asked.

  Marshall shook his head instantly. “No, can’t say I have. Why, what’s he done?”

  “How about James Morgan?”

  A grin now appeared on Marshall’s face. “Never heard of him. Are you just going through a register of old lags, or is there a point to all this?”

  “So you reckon they’re old lags? I’m not so sure that’s how I would describe those men. How about you DS Claydon?”

  Cyril’s eyes never left Marshall as he gave a slight shake of the head. “No, not me.”

  Barton closed the folder. “Why did you leave the scene in the warehouse yesterday?”

  “I was concerned for my safety, wasn’t I? I mean, that nutter with the gun.” He looked over for the first time towards Cyril. “I mean, you were lucky there. He only hit you with it. You’re bloody lucky he didn’t shoot you.”

  “But you didn’t just get out of the building. You drove off in the Robinsons’ Daimler.”

  “Ah, well, that wasn’t me. I never drove anywhere. It was Eddie Thompson who drove off. I was only sitting in the passenger seat. I mean, I was trying to talk him into stopping. I told him it would end bad, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  Barton shook his head and lifted the cover of the folder again. “That was bad luck then,” he said, letting it close once more. “You just happening to be sitting in the passenger seat.”

  “Well it was raining …”

  Barton cut him off. “When you were stopped, and as I understand it, it was lucky for you we came along when we did, you’d upset a load of squaddies.” Barton cast a quick glance to Cyril then back to Marshall. “What can you tell me about the shotgun we found hidden in the sill of that car?”

  “Nothing to do with me. I’ve never seen it before. I don’t have nothing to do with guns.”

  “So can you explain how your dabs are on the stock?”

  No doubt, that knocked Marshall off his stride for a moment. “Ah, well, now let me think ...”

  “In your own time,” Barton sniped.

  “Yeah, I remember now, Eddie asked me to hold it a minute while he got down on his knees. I had to hand it to him so he could fit it behind the sill.”

  Barton shook his head, a slight smile on his face. “Let me get this straight, you’re now telling me that you, who ‘don’t have nothing to do with guns’ has suddenly remembered you helped your friend hide it in the car we stopped you in?”

  Marshall held up both hands in mock surrender. “I forgot.”

  “What a load of bollocks.” Barton leaned back. After a second or two, he continued, “Have you ever been on the upper floors of that warehouse?”

  Slowly shaking his head, Marshall eventually responded, “No, can’t say as I have.”

  Barton turned to Cyril. “You see, I’m worried now that Mr Marshall’s memory might not be too sound.”

  Marshall leaned forward once more, a sneer on his face. “You taking the piss?”

  Barton snapped back at him, “You fucking started it!” He held his stare until Marshall finally looked away. “So we shouldn’t find your prints anywhere in that building then?”

  Marshall folded his arms once more. “I’m sayin’ no more.”

  “And you still maintain you don’t know Douglas, or would you know him better as Dougie Chalmers?”

  “Shove it up your arse.”

  Finally, Barton snapped, jumped up and grabbed him by the lapels. “You piece of shit,” he said, “you did for him and we’ll prove it. That’ll wipe that smug look from your face.”

  Cyril remained unmoved.

  Barton released his grip, shoved the man back into the chair and picked up the file. “In the meantime, you’re going nowhere.” He turned and left the room, Cyril following and the uniform coming back in. “Take the prisoner back down,” he said, “We’re far from finished.”

  70

  “I thought you were going to intervene,” Barton said, reaching for the cigarette packet on his desk.

  “Now why would I do that?” Cyril crossed his legs as he sat opposite.

  “You’re not so keen on giving a bit of stick in interviews.” Barton lit up.

  “There’s a time and a place, and he was certainly asking for a slap. But you’ve got to know who to give a bit to. Not everybody will respond how you want.” Cyril sat normally and leaned forward, making his point. “Yardley for instance, he’s just a broken man. Now all this has surfaced, I can see him telling us all we want to know.”

  Barton drew on his cigarette, smiled and blew out smoke as he spoke. “You’re a canny old bugger, aren’t you?”

  Cyril remained silent.

  “I can see why Sanderson thought you w
ere a good man to bring in.”

  Cyril shrugged. “You needed bodies and I was on hand. And I’d witnessed the crash.”

  “Ah, talking of which …” Barton said looking through the glazed door.

  Sanderson entered, looking serious. “I’ve had to release the Robinson brothers on bail. Their smarmy git lawyer turned up this morning. And basically, we’ve got nothing on them. Well not yet anyway.”

  “Bastards,” Barton said, under his breath.

  “Just hope forensics find something. In the meantime, their solicitor has had a word with Thompson and Marshall as well.”

  “And we’ve let him?” Barton blustered.

  “I can’t stop them seeing a solicitor, John. Anyway, he’s gone now, he was driving Victor and David away a few minutes ago.” Sanderson walked away.

  Barton looked at his watch. “Okay,” he said, “Let’s get Thompson up from the cells in fifteen minutes and I think you should lead on his interview.”

  “Sure?”

  Barton nodded. “I want to see what method you think will work with him.”

  Cyril stood. “I’ll fetch his file and see you downstairs.”

  He’d studied the file of Edward Michael Thompson, Eddie as he was commonly known, and learned a bit about his background and criminal record. He was sixty-three and had been an associate of Frank Robinson since before the war. He’d managed to secure himself a reserved occupation as a dock worker during the hostilities; handy for Robinson and his scams but not exactly a holiday with the German bombing raids in London.

  Cyril watched from along the corridor as Thompson was brought up to the interview room. He didn’t think he looked a well man.

  As he flicked through Thompson’s file one more time, Cathy Rogers walked down the corridor towards him. Her face lit up in a smile when she saw him.

  “How’s the head?” she stopped to enquire.

  “Better now after a good night’s sleep.”

  “I hear you’re all busy with yesterday’s activities?”

  He nodded, smiling. “Just about to interview another one.”

  She stood for a second and there was an awkward pause.