by David Evans
The DCI took hold of them and nodded. “Give me an update as soon as you can.”
“I can arrange a call from the ship’s telephone,” Gray offered.
“DCI Sanderson will be with me in my office until we hear,” Crimond said. “Now go!”
Gray led the way down some metal steps onto the tender. Barton followed suit, more nervously. He didn’t like being on water at the best of times. He hoped he’d be okay when he got onto the ferry but he wasn’t looking forward to the ride on this small craft to catch it up.
The boat cast off and accelerated away into the channel in pursuit of the vessel.
“We just shadow it until we get out beyond the breakwaters then pull alongside and bring the pilot off,” the skipper of the tender explained.
* * *
Cyril opened his eyes and struggled to make sense of where he was. Putting his hand to the side of his head, he winced. Rubbing his fingers together, the dampness told him his blood had been spilt. Then it all came back to him; the visit to the warehouse in Colchester, the flower van and the Robinsons turning up. And then there was Lennie King. What the Hell was …? Of course Lennie King had arrived. Cyril had found that out when he was on the holiday park.
He felt cold, so cold. He couldn’t work it out at first. The van was now stationary but there was a throbbing noise coming from the front of the vehicle. Suddenly it stopped. Now he could feel a heavy drumming vibration. Yes the van was at a stop, but was that movement Cyril detected? Of course, they were on the ferry. But it was cold. Here he was in only shirt sleeves. Suddenly, the throbbing noise started up again and Cyril knew immediately what it was. The chiller had been switched on and the temperature was dropping. He had to get out before they reached Holland. He put his hand to his head again; this would have to get some attention.
Holding onto a bracket on the side of the van, he slowly pulled himself to his feet. His head spun and he closed his eyes for a moment. He stretched but caught himself as a sharp pain stabbed through his back. He rubbed the spot with his hand and flinched. He’d obviously clattered himself when he’d stumbled and he could imagine the bruising spreading.
Opening his eyes, he remembered Sam. Where was he? Had they spotted him sitting in the car over the road? No, they wouldn’t have. So where was he now? Does he realise what’s happened? Has he reported in? Christ, that’s going to be one massive bollocking for the pair of them.
Thoughts of Sam reminded him he’d had hold of the torch that he’d been given. Sweeping a foot around the floor, he eventually kicked against it. Bending down, he picked it up and switched it on. Still groggy, he shuffled towards the back doors but couldn’t see any way of releasing them from the inside. On top of that, the batteries in the torch seemed to be failing. He switched it off for a minute to try and preserve what little power they had left.
The chiller had stopped once more; obviously down to temperature. He banged on the doors, shouted then listened. The only sound was the steady humming of the ship’s engines. Of course, he thought, once under way, the vehicle deck access doors would be locked and nobody would be allowed to wander through.
Feeling his way around the sides, he arrived at the front bulkhead and groped for the release bracket to the hidden section. Maybe there was a small door to the outside from in there? His head was pounding when he eventually turned the handle to the disguised door. The space was pitch black. This didn’t bode well. If there was another way into this compartment, he would expect some chink of light to show.
Another spell of yelling and banging on the walls before listening. Again, no response. He decided to preserve his strength. When they reached port and activity began prior to arrival, he’d have another go. In the meantime, he sat down on the floor and leaned against one side. He wrapped his arms around himself and closed his eyes.
* * *
It took around fifteen minutes before the small boat drew alongside the big ferry, preparations being made for the personnel transfer. Barton watched members of the ferry’s crew swing a galvanised metal ladder down from a doorway on the side, about twenty feet above the water. Nervous as he was, he had to admire the skill of the pilot boat’s skipper in manoeuvring the craft alongside, another man picking up the rope dangling from the steps and holding on firmly.
“Come on,” Gray said, tottering over to the side and grabbing the handrail of the steps.
Barton was feeling decidedly queasy, the small boat moving up and down on the slight swell. Timing was everything. He hesitated a couple of times before grabbing the handrail and pulling himself up onto one of the steps. Immediately, he felt much better, the ferry very stable compared to the pilot boat. Don’t look down, he told himself. He took a breath before slowly climbing up to the door on the ferry’s side. There, he was met by the grinning face of a Sealink staff member.
“First time you’ve done that?” he asked.
Barton just nodded and stepped clear, DS Gray right behind him.
The crewman ushered the two of them to one side leaving his colleagues to complete the pilot’s transfer, pull up the ladder and make the door secure.
“You’re looking to find a van?” the crewman asked.
“DS Gray and DI Barton. Yes, as quick as you can.”
“Follow me.” The man in the Sealink jumper led the way down the corridor to a doorway opening onto some steps. “Your boss has spoken to the captain,” the man explained as they walked. “Normally, they wouldn’t allow anyone onto the vehicle decks once they’ve cast off but I’ve been asked to accompany you down there and open the doors for you. It could be dangerous, especially if the sea’s a bit rough, but we should be okay today.” He grinned again at Barton. “Plus, they’ll keep the speed down for a little bit to keep it as safe as possible.”
One flight down, they came to the locked door to B deck. The crewman unlocked it and opened the door. Immediately in front of them was a coach.
Barton looked up and down the row; heavy goods vehicles, buses and a few cars stretched as far as he could see. “Any idea where this van might be?” he asked.
Gray looked blank.
“Which van are you looking for?” the crewman asked.
Barton described it.
The man thought for a few seconds then turned to the left. “I think I remember that. Quite late boarding so it should be down this end,” he said, striding along the narrow lane between the vehicles and the sidewall.
“Let’s just hope you haven’t pulled another lorry up so close behind it that we can’t get the doors open,” Barton stated.
Along the line of buses and lorries they went to the very end where the bow doors had closed. Barton strained to look over the vast array of cars, buses and wagons, but it was impossible. So many large vehicles blocked his vision. Plus they were parked in a slight curve down the length of the boat.
“We’ll split up,” Barton said to Gray and the crewman. “Take one row each and we’ll meet at the other end. You both know what we’re looking for. If you find it, big shout. Okay?”
The other two nodded and they set off down the rows as quickly as the space would allow. Five minutes later, they were at the other end of the deck. Barton glanced at his watch. “It’s got to be here,” he said. “Are you sure you saw it?” he asked the crewman.
“Positive. This next sweep should cover most of the deck.”
The three set off once more. Barton had made it about three-quarters of the way to the opposite end when he heard a loud shout from DS Gray.
“Here! Over here!”
* * *
“I’m sorry I couldn’t give you children.” Maureen’s familiar voice drifts through Cyril’s head once more.
“Don’t,” Cyril was saying. “You’ve got nothing to apologise for. You were the best friend, wife, lover … everything I could have wanted.”
Softly, Maureen says, “I know.”
Cyril rubs his hands up and down his sides. It’s getting colder. “Are you happy?” he asks.
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“I’m at peace. I would have liked a few more years with you but … it wasn’t to be.”
“I miss you Maureen,” Cyril says, unsure whether aloud or in his head.
There is silence for a while then Maureen speaks again. “I know Doris told you.”
“Told me what?”
“I want you to be happy, Cyril. I want you to let go. If there’s anyone else that comes into your life, don’t think I’ll be upset.”
“There isn’t … I mean …” Cyril hesitates.
“I know there might be someone who likes you.” Maureen takes a breath. “I’d be glad if there was. I don’t want you to mope around. You’re still young.”
“I’m so cold, Mo. Am I joining you?”
“You’ve still got things to do, Cyril. It’s not time. You need to stay warm.”
Cyril opens his eyes. “Maureen? Where are you?” He can see nothing in the pitch darkness. The temperature has dropped and he is shaking uncontrollably. He’s tired, so tired. Stay awake, he tells himself but he feels his eyes closing. I’ll just have a little doze, he thinks.
From somewhere in the distance, an unfamiliar voice shouts, “Here! Over here!”
37
“Okay, thanks. If you could as soon as you can,” Walker said, ending the call.
“Who was that?” Miller flicked ash from his cigarette into the overflowing ashtray on his desk; he’d brought it into custody for its own protection after a session in the pub next door earlier in the year.
“Ipswich.” Walker responded. “So that’s Colchester, Chelmsford and now Ipswich, all saying the same thing; they’ll have to get someone to trawl through their archives and get back to me.”
Miller blew out smoke. “How long’s that going to take?”
“Could be bloody weeks. Barton asked me to go back thirty years.”
Miller laughed. “You might get a result by Christmas.”
“That’s what the boss said.”
Miller’s phone rang. He stubbed out his cigarette and answered.
Walker leaned back, stretched and cracked his back. He’d been on the phone for the best part of an hour since Barton and Sanderson had left, trying to track down someone, anyone who could give him some help on tracing operations using the metal plate.
Miller scribbled something on a pad, thanked whoever was on the other end and put the receiver down. “Come on, Bill.” He stood up, tucked his shirt back into his trousers and grabbed his jacket. “Let’s get some fresh air.”
“Where are we going?” Walker asked.
“Track down Robert the Bruce.”
The address Miller had been given from records was a run-down large Edwardian house not far from the police station. It would have been impressive when it was first built and Clacton was a resort of choice for Londoners but now, it had been split into flats and single rooms. The main door was open. Music was playing from somewhere on the upper floors. A smell of stale food wafted out.
A battered table sat in the hallway with a pile of post waiting for someone to collect. Miller flicked through it, pulled out several envelopes and studied the address. “Flat 5,” he said to Walker and led the way up the creaky staircase. Doors with numbers 3, 4, 5 and 6 were on the first floor. Miller approached number 5, put his ear to the door and listened. After a few seconds, he knocked. No response.
“Mr Chalmers, we’d like a word,” Miller said.
Still no response.
The door and frame looked battered and worn. Miller took out a plastic card from his wallet and slid it into a gap around the Yale lock. It opened.
“We’ll need to send the crime prevention officer round,” Miller said, a smile on his face.
“I didn’t think we could …” Walker began.
“I think there may danger to life if we don’t check this out,” Miller interrupted. “Wouldn’t you agree, DC Walker?” He pushed the door open and called out Chalmers’ name. The only sounds were of traffic from outside and the booming base line of a stereo system from the floor above. Miller’s other senses were attacked with the smell of rotten food and the sight of the room being a complete tip.
“Christ my Mum would go spare if she walked in here,” Walker offered.
“You’d be surprised how many sad bastards live like this, Bill.”
Miller took a few steps inside. It appeared to be a bedsit. The one room was dark, the curtains pulled roughly together at the window with gaps at the top where they didn’t quite meet. To one side, a double bed looked as though the occupant had got out and left it in a hurry. On the floor, the empty metal cartons of takeaway food lay scattered. A chest of drawers stood opposite the end of the bed, a couple of drawers not quite shut. Miller picked his way carefully across the floor towards it and opened the top drawer. Socks and underpants lay inside. The next drawer down contained a couple of shirts. Next to this, a wardrobe stood, its doors open. Amongst the empty hangers, a couple of jackets and a pair of trousers were hung up. A pair of almost new trainers sat forlornly at the bottom.
Miller flicked through the four or five envelopes he’d brought with him from downstairs and studied the postmarks. “They go back over the past five or six weeks,” he said.
Suddenly footsteps were heard from the hallway and a woman who looked to be in her forties but could have been younger appeared at the door. “Fuck you doin’ in Dougie’s room?” Her aggressive tone sounded more to do with the can of strong lager she had in her hand than any real concern.
Miller flicked open his warrant card. “And you are?”
“None o’ your business,” she responded in a strong Glaswegian accent and drew on the cigarette she held in the opposite hand.
“You know Mr Chalmers then?” Miller took a step towards the doorway.
“Used to. Why? What d’you want wi’ him noo?”
“Just a chat, that’s all. Have you seen him?”
She looked the DC up and down considering her answer. “No’ for weeks,” she finally said. “I thought he’d pissed off.” She turned and walked down the corridor and up the stairs to the second floor.
“Shall we get her back?” Walker wondered.
“Don’t see the point,” Miller considered. “She’s just another piss head who won’t be able to tell us any more. Looks like our Mr Chalmers has moved on.”
“Bit strange for him to leave some of his stuff though, don’t you think?”
Miller shook his head. “Probably moved on to create havoc in another unsuspecting seaside resort. Let’s go.” He led the way out of the room and closed the door, the lock snapping shut behind them.
38
Barton squeezed himself between the front end of an articulated lorry and the rear of a tour bus, wishing he were a stone or two lighter. On the other side he saw DS Gray by the side of the van he’d been seeking.
He scurried towards the DS. “Let’s get the back doors open,” he said.
The Sealink crewman reached the van at the same time.
“Cyril! Cyril, are you in there?” Barton shouted.
At the back of the van, another van had been drawn up within three feet. Gray was already pulling on the door levers. “Could be a bit tight,” he said.
A faint shout and a muffled bang came from the van.
Barton ducked under the door that Gray had just managed to open a foot or so. Inside, he saw the bloodied face of Cyril Claydon, blinking.
“Cyril, how are you doing? Are you okay?” Barton asked before realising how stupid that sounded. “We’ll get you out. Can you move? Can you get over here?”
“Bloody free …zing but I’m alright,” Cyril said between yawning and the involuntary shudders sweeping through his body. “This probably … isn’t as bad as it … looks.”
Cyril slowly shuffled himself towards the open door, turned and swung his legs down. The narrow gap the door could only open made it difficult for him to squash through but with Gray and Barton’s help, he finally made it. They helped him to the narrow
corridor between the rows of vehicles. He bent over, hands on his knees, backside against the side of the van and took in some deep breaths.
“How did … How did you know where I was?” he struggled to ask.
“Never mind that for now, let’s get you checked over,” Barton replied.
He began to shiver violently.
Barton took off his jacket and placed it around Cyril’s shoulders. “You look pale, man,” he said as Cyril yawned again.
“I’m just a bit tired, that’s all,” he said.
The Sealink crew member looked concerned. “I think he’s suffering from the initial effects of hypothermia,” he suggested. “I’ve seen it before. It can be a danger for us, especially on the winter crossings.” He looked to DS Gray. “Best get him up to the Medical Bay. We’ve got a doctor on board who can take a look at him. This is the quickest way,” he said, indicating a bulkhead door nearby.
* * *
Lennie King had checked in with his paperwork, no problems with the tickets that Victor Robinson had provided and he’d been through the Immigration checks. It was cooler on the vehicle deck where he’d been guided by the ferry’s crew.
It was about ten minutes before sailing when he locked the driver’s door on the van and made his way up the stairs to the passenger decks. First off, he’d buy a newspaper, catch up on the sport and find the bar. Seven hours was a long time to kill on the sailing. At least it looked as though it should be a calm crossing; nothing worse than being tossed around on the North Sea for hours on end.
He pulled his leather jacket from the holdall and put it on. Despite the warm weather, it would be breezy on board plus he liked the comfort of a pocket to keep the envelope safe that Robinson had given him. He checked it again before taking a ten pound note from his first instalment to use on the journey. He’d keep the Dutch Guilders for when he got to Holland.
He found the kiosk and bought a Daily Express. The bar wouldn’t open until they were on their way, so he sat in a comfortable chair in one of the passenger lounges. Although the weather was summer-like, the kids had gone back to school so the boat wasn’t particularly busy. He settled down and opened the paper. Drought measures were causing concerns, mostly in the north of England. Prime Minister, Jim Callaghan had created a Minister for Drought, Denis Howell, who Lennie had always thought was a bit of a waste of space. Turning to the back pages, he was surprised to read of rumours of Third Division Portsmouth being on the brink of going bust. He tried to remember the last football league club to go out of business; Accrington Stanley, maybe?