Disposal (The Tendring Series Book 1)

by David Evans

  Sam got out of the car and locked it. After a break in the traffic, he crossed the road. Satisfied the Daimler had disappeared, he pulled up the mesh fencing and scrambled underneath. Standing on the pallet, he peered inside. All seemed quiet.

  “Cyril. Skip! Cyril!” he yelled.

  No answer.

  Louder, “Skip!”

  Still no answer.

  Deciding there was nothing for it, he grabbed the sill and pulled upwards, at the same time springing off the pallet and launching himself towards the window. Stomach on the sill, he managed to turn himself around and drop feet first into the room. His shirt was a mess but he quickly put that out of his mind.

  Walking into the open ground floor area where the van had been parked, he stopped and listened. The only sounds were of wind noise higher up the building and some seagulls screeching.

  “Cyril. Skip!” he called out again.

  Once more there was no answer.

  Had they discovered him? Was he lying injured somewhere in here? He walked around the ground floor, looking behind some old tea chests and cardboard boxes, but there was no sign. He paused by the door to the rear of the building and tried that. Locked. The staircase led up beside him and he began to climb.

  “Skip. Cyril,” he called out once more.

  Stepping out onto the first floor, he stopped and listened. As before, just wind noise and seagulls. Over on the other side was a bench. It was the only thing on this level that could conceal someone. He walked towards it.

  “Skip!”

  The bench itself was empty and behind that, only an old roll of plastic sheeting lay on the floor.

  This was serious. If Cyril wasn’t in the building, he could only be in the van. And if he was in the van, what state was he in? Was the driver aware?

  This was way over anything he could deal with. He needed help. He’d probably get the biggest bollocking of his life, but he had to tell Barton.

  Rushing back down the stairs, he had one last look around the ground floor then made his way back to the toilet. Gathering a couple of old boxes, he placed them below the window and climbed up. Outside, he scrambled below the mesh fencing.

  “Shit,” he said to himself, as in his rush to get out, the fence snagged his shirt. He kept moving then heard and felt the rip. Standing up he scanned the street. About a hundred yards away, he spotted two telephone boxes and ran towards them.

  Fortunately, when he picked up the handset, the dialling tone told him it was working. He checked his pockets and pulled out a couple of two pence pieces. Dialling the Clacton Police Station number, he only hoped Barton was in.

  * * *

  With sweat marks showing under the armpits of his shirt, Barton swept into the CID room.

  Walker looked up from his desk. “Sir,” he greeted.

  The DI paused on his way to his office. “Where is everybody? Miller? Cyril?”

  “Ben’s dealing with a couple of shoplifters in the interview room.”

  “And Cyril?”

  “Not seen him since this morning.”

  Barton thought for a moment. “Right, well I’ve got something interesting for you, Bill.”

  Walker perked up. “Yes, Sir.”

  Barton pulled out the slip of paper that Dr Maguire given him with the details of the metal plate recovered from the latest body. He placed it on Walker’s desk then stood behind him.

  “Bit of a needle in a haystack but I need you to stick with this.”

  Walker looked up at his boss, puzzled.

  “These are the reference details of a plate that was surgically implanted into our latest victim’s left leg possibly twenty to thirty years ago.”

  “Thirty years?”

  “That’s what I said. So, what I need you to do is try and trace that operation and hence the identity of our victim.”

  Walker looked bemused. “But how …?”

  “Start with the hospitals in this area, then maybe London and work your way out.” Barton paused as if considering something else. “Christ if it wasn’t even used in this country then you could be going till next Christmas.”

  Walker visibly sagged.

  “Come on then,” Barton said. “Quicker you get started …”

  He turned and walked into his office, a grin on his face, just as DCI Martin Sanderson appeared.

  “Amused are we, Dick?” he said, closing the door behind him and settling into the chair opposite Barton’s desk.

  “Just given something for young Walker to get his teeth into, Sir,” Barton responded.

  “Right, well I need you to give me an update on our friends wrapped in plastic.” Sanderson stood up and walked over to the window. “You really need to get some air through here,” he said and pulled up the bottom casement.

  Ten minutes later, Barton had told his DCI everything he knew on the background of Jimmy Morgan and the difficulties they could have in identifying the second victim.

  “And what about the attack on Adam Fletcher?” Sanderson asked.

  Barton settled back in his chair, playing with a pencil. “Ever come across a big Scottish twat by the name of Dougie Chalmers, Sir?”

  Sanderson screwed up his face in concentration. “Came down here about … ooh … ten years ago? Used to get involved in some rough stuff in the pubs, mostly with other members of his tartan army.”

  “That’s him,” Barton agreed. “Well, apparently he was the one that Fletcher owed money to.”

  Sanderson nodded sagely. “He’s certainly tough enough and daft enough to have given him a good pasting.”

  Barton bent forward onto his desk. “But he doesn’t own the debt now, so he wasn’t involved. I don’t think so anyway.”

  “So who exactly does Fletcher owe money to?”

  “He doesn’t exactly know.”

  “Or he’s not saying,” Sanderson added.

  “No matter what, we need to speak to Chalmers.”

  Before the conversation could continue, the phone rang.

  The DI picked up the receiver. “Barton,” he said gruffly. After a pause, “Who? … Okay put him through ... Yes constable.”

  Barton listened for a few minutes, interspersed with, “He’s done what?” and “Where is he now?” followed by, “Are you sure?” Then, “And the registration number?” He scribbled on a pad on his desk. Finally, he said, “Just get your arse back to the station as soon as.”

  “What’s all that about?” Sanderson asked.

  “Bloody Win… I mean Cyril. God give me strength.” Barton leaned far back in his chair, both hands covering his face.

  Sanderson waited until Barton began to tell the story that Sam Woodbridge had just related.

  “So he thinks he’s in the back of that van.” Sanderson said. “What did you say it was, the Holland Flower Company?”

  Barton nodded. “That was the van Jimmy Morgan’s old bird told us he’d driven. The one we suspect Victor Robinson is using to bring porn in from Holland.” Barton felt his heart rate increase. “Shit.” He looked steadily at the DCI.

  “You thinking what I’m thinking?” Sanderson asked.

  Barton picked up the phone again and made a call. When he’d spoken to the person on the other end, he felt numb.

  “We’ve got to get to Harwich,” he said, grabbing his jacket from the chair back. “The next ferry to Hook of Holland is due to leave shortly.”

  Sanderson stood also. “I’m coming with you,” he said.

  As they left the office, Ben Miller was returning to his desk.

  Barton paused. “Oh, Ben, I need you to try and track down the whereabouts of Dougie Chalmers for me.” He and Sanderson resumed their rush for the stairs. “And if that big streak of piss Sam Woodbridge turns up, tell him I want to see him tomorrow first thing.”

  “Where are you off to now, guv?” Miller wondered.

  “Harwich ... Parkeston Quay to be precise.”

  35

  Cyril heard the voices as the men entered the wareho
use. There was no time to jump down from the van. He could probably do it quietly but the route from the van to the toilets was exposed; he’d never make it. He pulled the second door to and walked as silently as he could to the front of the van. The voices were clearer now and he heard David Robinson quizzing Lennie about what was in his holdall, for he was in no doubt that Lennie King had turned up. David sounded suspicious. And then Victor told him to relax and stop being paranoid. All the while, Cyril was studying the front wall of the van section.

  That was when he spotted it; the well-concealed line of a doorway in the middle. Thinking about things, it did seem as though inside the van was shorter than it should have been from outside. A false front. One of the metal brackets was disguised as a handle. He turned it and the door was silently released. A small section about two feet long, the whole width of the body was revealed. He had no doubt this would be where the illegal material would be stored for the return journey. He stepped inside and pulled the door to, feeling for a handle on the inside before closing it.

  Outside, he heard Victor tell Lennie that he expected him back on Wednesday. Two sets of footsteps walked to the rear. Victor shouted to his brother that he must have left the door open. A pause, then the clang of metal as the rear door closed and a lever moved to lock it in position. Seconds later, the van rocked as someone climbed into the cab.

  Bloody Hell, Cyril thought to himself as the engine fired up. He felt for the handle on the inside of the secret compartment and let himself out into the main open body. As he stepped out, the van slewed, catching him off balance and knocking him to the floor. A bracket caught his head and total blackness descended.

  Slowly, light gradually fights its way through the pitch black. A warm early summer’s morning has witnessed the disaster of the Lancaster breaking up and catching fire on the grass runway. Cyril is in an agitated state, desperately trying to break free from the arms that are holding him back from going to the aid of his friend. The image of Brian, flying helmet already removed, struggling to release the covers to his position in the fuselage comes into sharp focus. Men are pulling at the hatches of the stricken craft when the explosion occurs. Cyril is thrown backwards.

  Pain and more blackness.

  And then Brian is talking. “Don’t worry, Cyril. There was nothing you could have done. I’ll be okay, honestly.”

  “But Brian, I couldn’t get to you. They wouldn’t let me,” Cyril says.

  “I know. If they had, you would be here with me. But I’m fine now. You have a life. Don’t waste it. And when we do see each other again, I want you to tell me everything you’ve done.”

  “But Brian …” Cyril hesitates. His friend is gradually being enveloped by white smoke. Finally, he is gone.

  And then another voice speaks, “Cyril? Cyril, darling. You must be strong.”

  Strange, Cyril thinks. Sounds like … “Maureen? Maureen, what are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come to take care of you,” she says. “Just like you took care of me. You know I couldn’t have got through it without you.”

  “But I don’t understand.”

  “You’ll be fine. I just need to be with you for a little while.”

  “But …”

  The fuzzy feeling in his head begins to clear and he is aware of calm.

  36

  “Christ’s sakes, John, we need to get there in one piece, otherwise we’re no good to anybody.”

  Barton had just overtaken an articulated lorry on its way to the Harwich freight terminal. He’d pulled in sharply in front of it just before another lorry coming the other way took them out. Both drivers had blared horns and flashed lights at them. Barton immediately realised how close they’d come to oblivion and tried to calm himself. The use of his proper first name, John, by Sanderson sitting alongside him in the passenger seat of his Rover, only emphasised his reckless driving.

  “Sorry, guv,” he said. “It’s just we don’t have much time before that ferry’s due to sail.”

  They were still a few miles from the Parkeston Quay turning for the passenger terminal. For the next few minutes, an anxious silence descended in the car. Finally, Sanderson spoke. “What’s getting at you, Dick?” He turned to look at Barton.

  “I’m just nervous about Cyril. If anything happens, there’ll be an enquiry and it’ll be my bollocks on the line.”

  “But it’s more than that,” Sanderson persisted. “You’ve been … distracted, deep in thought, however you want to describe it, for a few days now.”

  Barton held his breath for a few seconds then exhaled. He wasn’t sure how to handle this, whether the time was right or even if he could analyse whatever answer he got. “Look,” he said at last, “Is there anything about the events of the past few weeks you want to tell me?”

  Sanderson seemed puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

  Again Barton hesitated. “How long have we worked together? Four, five years?”

  “I chose you as my DS when I was a DI nearly five years ago,” Sanderson replied. “And I recommended you for promotion eighteen months ago. You know I’ve always supported you, Dick. Where’s this going?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It’s just with Jimmy Morgan turning up dead just after he gave me information on Yardley then this Robinson involvement. They always seem to be one step ahead.”

  “And you think I might be connected in some way?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But it’s what you’re asking.”

  Barton let his silence do the talking.

  “You told me what Morgan said and I reported that up the line,” Sanderson explained. “When you were applying for the search warrant for the Robinson static, I did the same. I’d got no reason to keep that information from the Chief Super.”

  “So does Mr Viney have connections with …?”

  “I just don’t know, Dick.” Sanderson sighed. “I can see why you think someone is keeping the Robinsons in the know but it is not me,” he said slowly and deliberately. “You have to trust me on that. Whoever it is, and that’s if there is someone on the inside, it’s above my head.”

  Barton didn’t respond. Finally, he steered the car left onto the passenger terminal approach road. The big ship was still at its berth. Drawing the car to a halt, both men jumped out, Barton only pausing to lock it up.

  Through the entrance doors, past the check-in desks and on to security, Barton and Sanderson hurried through with warrant cards displayed. At the immigration desk, they were met by an official who introduced himself as DI George Crimond from Special Branch. The man looked to be around forty and spoke with a slight Highland lilt. Although situated in Essex, responsibility for policing at the port fell to the Branch.

  “DCI Martin Sanderson and this is DI John Barton,” Sanderson began. “We’ve not got much time. We believe one of our officers is trapped in a vehicle on board this ferry.” He nodded towards the quay.

  “Are you sure? Do you have the vehicle details?” Crimond asked.

  “We believe so,” Sanderson responded.

  “A Leyland three and half ton van labelled up as belonging to The Holland Flower Company.” Barton pulled out a scrap of paper from his pocket. “This is the registration number.”

  “Right, follow me.” DI Crimond led the way along a corridor and up several flights of stairs to an office where a group of men in casual clothes were sitting around a large desk, filling out paperwork.

  “Okay gents, listen up,” Crimond announced, “Can you drop what you’re doing a minute and check whether we have this vehicle on board.” The DI dropped the piece of paper Barton had handed to him in the centre of the desk.

  “These are members of our team,” Crimond said, by way of explanation.

  Barton leaned from one foot to another, looking at Sanderson. He shared the concern he could see etched on his DCI’s face.

  Within a few minutes, one of the men confirmed that the flower van was indeed on board.

  “Ri
ght,” Crimond said, “Let’s get you guys out there.”

  “But Sir,” the same man interrupted. “They’ve just cast off.” He stood and looked out of the window; Sanderson and Barton following his gaze.

  “Shit!” Barton exclaimed, agitated. “What do we do now?”

  “All is not lost,” Crimond assured him. “Frank, with me,” he said to his colleague who’d attracted their attention to the ship’s departure. “Let’s go, gents.”

  Barton and Sanderson followed in the wake of Crimond and the officer introduced to them on the way as Detective Sergeant Frank Gray.

  They made their way down to the quayside, the huge bulk of the ferry about a quarter of a mile away already.

  “Fuck. What the Hell are we going to do now?” Barton whispered to Sanderson.

  Crimond was speaking into a hand-held radio. Barton couldn’t hear what he said but a few minutes later a small black and white craft came alongside the jetty; PILOTS in large letters down the side.

  “Right, I’ve spoken to Trinity House and these guys will get you on board. They’re collecting the pilot off the ferry and taking him out to a freighter on its way in. I’ve contacted the ferry captain and he’ll keep the speed down before they make the open sea and you’re safely on board,” Crimond explained.

  “I could go with them, Sir,” Gray said, “Make sure everything goes well.”

  “Good idea, Frank. Then come back with them on the return sailing.”

  Sanderson looked at Barton. “You go, Dick, I’d best stay here. We can’t have two senior officers away from the station for the rest of the day and the night.”

  Barton looked exasperated as he realised the truth of the situation. He would have to go and wait until the ferry came back tomorrow morning.

  “Go on,” Sanderson urged. “At least it looks like you’ll get a calm crossing.”

  “Here,” Barton held out his car keys. “You best look after these until I get back.”