by David Evans
“What happened next?”
“He got in and told me to drive to the airstrip.”
“And the same pilot met you?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Again it was just the two of you in the car?”
“And the stiff, yeah.”
“You mentioned there were two other corpses, apart from Morgan. What can you tell us about the first one?”
“Similar to that one I’ve just told you about - Chalmers.”
Cyril looked over to Barton then back to Thompson. “Just you and Marshall? No help from Victor or David?”
“No.”
“And Marshall brings the body down to the car from the upper floor in the warehouse?”
“Yeah.”
“I think you’re protecting someone else. Either Victor or David or another person you haven’t told us about.”
“No, why would I do that?”
“Loyalty Eddie. You see, although Tommy Marshall is quite a well-built man, I don’t think he’d be capable of bringing a dead weight, because that’s what a corpse is, down those stairs in that warehouse. Especially Dougie Chalmers who was a big man, probably sixteen stones. He’d have needed help.”
“Well it wasn’t me. I only drove the car.”
“But there was someone else though?”
“Look, I’ve told you all I know. Marshall organised the disposal of those packages, on his own, and the Robinsons had no knowledge of any of it. And that’s all I’m prepared to say.” Purposefully, Thompson folded his arms over his chest.
72
“Well now Tommy,” Barton began, “I was just wondering if your memory might have improved since we last spoke, not to mention your attitude.”
Marshall shrugged. “What do you want to know?”
“The shotgun we found in the car. What can you tell me about it?”
“I’m looking after it for a mate.”
“Which mate?”
“Can’t remember.”
“Not Victor or David Robinson?”
“No.”
“But it was you who hid it behind the sills?”
Another shrug. “What of it?”
“Dougie Chalmers. I believe you do know him.”
“Is that a question?”
Barton had reached tipping point. He stood up sharply and leaned close to Marshall over the table.
Marshall shied backwards.
Barton spoke, his voice rising with every word, “If you’re going to persist in trying to take the piss, I’m going to send DS Claydon here from the room and I’ll bring in a couple of PCs who play rugby regularly and like nothing better than taking their frustrations out on some obnoxious bastard who thinks he can waste my fucking time!”
Cyril stood alongside Barton. “I don’t think the DI is joking, Mr Marshall.”
Barton reached a crescendo, “Do I make myself clear? You useless piece of shit!”
Marshall looked away then down to the floor. He gave a nervous cough then responded, “Alright gents, no need to get carried away.” He composed himself and finally answered the original question. “Dougie Chalmers made the mistake of trying to rob me blind in a card game. I wasn’t having that; not from some thick bastard from north of Hadrian’s Wall.”
Barton slowly resumed his seat. “So you topped him.”
“It was self-defence. He tried to attack me.”
“Where?”
“At the warehouse.”
“What was he doing there?”
“I told him it would be a good venue for a card game in Colchester. Quiet area after dark.”
Barton had a smirk on his face. “A good venue for a card game. Let me guess – on the top floor; one of the rooms.”
“That’s right.”
“And you just happened to have your sawn-off when he ‘attacked’ you.”
“Yeah.”
“What a load of old bollocks. You lured him there and blasted his fucking head off in that second room along. Tell me I’m wrong?”
Marshall said nothing, just looked down onto his lap.
“What did you do with the body?”
“You know what happened to it.”
“I want you to tell me.”
“I wrapped it in plastic then organised for it to be dumped at sea.”
“All on your own?”
“Yeah … well no. I mean Eddie drove the body in the back of the Daimler, and that pilot organised the plane.”
“The one who owed money to Chalmers?”
Marshall furrowed his brows. “No, that was his brother.”
“The one you assaulted last week? The postman?”
“If you say so.”
“And you were solely responsible for getting the body from the second floor in the warehouse down to the car on the ground?”
“Yep.”
For the first time, Barton turned to Cyril. “How heavy was Mr Chalmers, do you think, DS Claydon?”
Cyril stroked his moustache. “Easily sixteen stones, I would think.”
Barton focussed on Marshall. “And you could carry that dead weight on your own?”
The man grinned. “I’m strong,” he said. “Used to box in my youth.”
“And you managed to wrap it? All on your own too?”
“That’s right.”
“Tell me about the victim before Chalmers.”
Marshall put on a puzzled expression. “No idea.”
“We understand there was an earlier corpse you helped to get rid of.”
He leaned forward onto the table. “Have you found one?”
Barton just held his stare.
“No, I didn’t think so.” Marshall relaxed back in the chair.
Cyril thought Barton was about to react but he just slowly stood up and told Marshall he would be charged with the murder of Douglas Chalmers and obstruction of justice with regards to the disposal of Chalmers’ body and the attempted disposal of James Morgan.
73
Two Weeks Later
Friday 24th September
The endless hot summer days seemed a distant memory when Cyril and Barton sat in Sanderson’s office discussing the latest developments of the warehouse cases.
“He was allowed out yesterday for his mum’s funeral,” Sanderson said. He was referring to Eddie Thompson who was being held on remand in Chelmsford. “DCI Holt managed to have a quiet word with him.”
“Did he get anything out of him?” Barton asked.
“Only what we already suspected. The charming Robinsons were involved but there’s no way Thompson would ever testify to that.”
“What about the first victim, the one we have no trace of?” Cyril joined in.
“Some little low-life that irritated Robinson senior up in London,” Sanderson reported. “He never knew who he was but there are a number of ‘missing persons’ it could be. Marshall was trying to ingratiate himself with Robinson senior by offering to dispose. Apparently bridge sites are becoming rarer these days in which to bury a corpse.”
Barton snorted. “At least Marshall has pleaded guilty.”
“But Frank Robinson’s influences have spread far and wide,” Sanderson mused. “He could make damn sure Marshall would get a rough ride inside if he tried to implicate his precious sons in all this. As it is, he’ll probably be well looked after.”
“He won’t be bothering us for a long time,” Cyril said. “And Adam Fletcher’s statement helps too, so an aggravated assault charge to add to the mix.”
“Well that and the forensic evidence,” Barton added. “Fingerprints taken from the door frames on the top floor rooms and on the workbench matching Marshall; blood types AB positive which matches Morgan and only 3% of the population which was also picked up in the flower van, along with O positive, which is probably yours, Cyril. Then there were the fibre and hair samples from the wall up there which were a match for Chalmers’ clothes and the remains we found. All circumstantial in themselves but reinforcing what we wer
e told.”
“Any word from Lennie King?” Cyril asked.
“DCI Holt said he was up north somewhere, keeping his head down.”
“Let’s hope it’s enough,” Cyril said. “But I can’t help feeling a bit for Yardley. He thinks he has good friends in Holland and they tuck him up with false diamonds.”
Sanderson looked grim. “That was what Viney was saying this morning …” He thought back to the conversation he’d had with the Chief Super an hour or so earlier.
Viney had laughed and said, ‘So he was stitched up by his own so-called Dutch mates.’
Sanderson had nodded. ‘And all this for nothing,’ he’d said.
‘Ironic really.’
‘Ironic?’ Sanderson’s anger had risen. ‘I tell you what’s ironic. You tell Walter Yardley that Jimmy Morgan grassed on his operation and he dies. For what? A load of paste.’
Viney hadn’t responded.
“… I don’t mean about feeling sorry for him but the fact that he’d been duped.”
The three were silent for a second before Sanderson snapped back to normal. “But listen Cyril, what are you going to do?” he asked.
“What about?” Cyril played dumb.
“Don’t give me that. You were talking about retiring at the end of the year. You can’t still be thinking you will?”
Cyril shrugged.
“Come on you old bugger,” Barton joined in. “You know you’ve loved these past few weeks back in CID. Come and be my DS permanently?”
Cyril was surprised. “I’m sure your old mate Danny Flynn would be delighted.”
“Danny’ll be taken care of,” Sanderson said, “Don’t worry about him.”
“I’ll think about it,” Cyril said.
“Don’t leave it too long.”
“Anyway,” Barton put in. “Are you ever going to get round to taking that secretary out from downstairs?”
“How did …?”
The DI smirked. “Wouldn’t be much of a detective if I hadn’t noticed that.”
“Well … tonight actually.”
Barton held up a hand. “Too much information. Go get yourself ponced up ready then.” A huge smile spread over his face.
“Go on, Cyril,” Sanderson said. “Come back and see me on Monday morning.”
74
The sun had come out for the first time in what seemed like ages, drying the road as Cyril drove them down the grade into the small town of Dedham. At long last he and Cathy had finally met up outside of work.
Cyril felt a mix of nervous excitement; a feeling he hadn’t experienced in years. He’d picked her up from her house. He loved the dress she’d chosen, she looked beautiful.
He found a parking space outside the church in the main street and leapt out to open the door for her.
She laughed. “Why, thank you sir.”
As he locked up she studied the tall tower of the parish church. “Have you ever been inside?” she asked.
“Yes. I love that building.” Cyril moved beside her. “There are some interesting plaques on the walls.”
“I know. One of my favourites is the lady who died after accidently swallowing a pin.”
“And did you notice there were two years mentioned?”
She looked at him, puzzled. “I did, and I often wondered about that.”
“They’d changed from the Julian to Gregorian calendars in 1742 and the years changed so you often find both dates given.”
“See, I knew you’d be good on the pub quiz.”
He smiled. “Sorry,” he said. “Do you want to go in?”
“Let’s walk down to the river. Make the most of the last of the sun for today.”
They crossed over the road and turned down Mill Lane.
“I thought we might go in there later,” Cyril said, indicating the Marlborough Head pub, a beautiful 17th Century building on the corner.
“Looks lovely.”
About half a mile down the road they passed the old mill and were standing on the bridge over the River Stour. The river formed the boundary between Essex and Suffolk and they stared downstream over the fields in the direction of Flatford Mill.
“This is lovely,” she said.
Before he could stop himself, Cyril had blurted out, “Maureen loved it here.” He stopped, embarrassed by what he’d said. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to …”
“It’s okay Cyril. I know you were married for a long time. It’s natural you want to remember.”
“But here I am, the first time we’ve managed to make it out and I’m talking about …”
She put a hand on his arm. “Don’t worry about it. I do understand.”
After a few minutes, they turned back and made for the pub.
They sat on a bench seat at a table by a window looking out onto Mill Lane; Cyril with a pint of bitter and Cathy with a gin and tonic.
Cyril rubbed his face. “It’s been a roller-coaster these past few weeks, Cathy,” he said.
“I know. I’m processing the paperwork for when it all goes to court.” She took a sip of her drink and paused before asking, “Well come on Mr Claydon, what are your plans now?”
“I must admit, when I started thinking about things, retirement wasn’t particularly appealing. I suppose I was just drifting along towards it. It was only when young Sam mentioned it on the morning of the plane crash that I started to realise that I really wasn’t ready for it.”
Cathy sat back on the bench seat, saying nothing, allowing Cyril to talk.
“And over these past few weeks I’ve actually enjoyed using my brain, thinking on my feet and yes, the battles with Barton.”
“Ignorant man,” Cathy put in.
“I think a lot of his brusque ways are just for show. He needs a restraining hand now and then, but overall, he’s a good detective.”
“And are you that restraining hand?”
Cyril gave a laugh. “We’ve certainly had our ups and downs since Sanderson brought me into CID. But he did save my life, I’m sure. I don’t think I’d have survived the journey in that van with the chiller on. And young Sam Woodbridge too.” He looked at Cathy. “I suppose these past weeks have given me a purpose I felt I’d lost.”
“So are you staying on?”
“Sanderson and Barton want me to.”
“Dick Barton as well? Blimey.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“And are you? Staying on, I mean.”
He smiled at her. “Never in any doubt.”
She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “I’m glad. Have you told them?”
“Not yet,” he said, taking her hand. “I’ll tell them on Monday; make them sweat a bit.”
THE END
