by David Evans
After a pause, Cyril spoke again, “I haven’t had a chance to tell you what I found in the warehouse in Colchester.”
“Go on.”
He proceeded to describe what he’d discovered on the first floor; the workbench with stains he thought were blood and the roll of industrial plastic sheet similar to that wrapped around both bodies.
“At the very least it looks like the corpses were prepared there ready for disposal. And remember when I found Morgan’s body, there was no smell? The PM suggested he’d been dead for a number of days, and that tied in with Beryl’s statement that she’d last seen him three days before we found him. In this weather especially, he would have begun to smell. Now, when you think about it, where better to keep a body and stop it stinking than in the back of a refrigerated van.”
Barton was nodding. “I’ll organise forensics to get in there when we get back.”
Cyril swung his legs off the bed and faced Barton. “So why don’t we let this run a bit? If we let Lennie come back with the load, we can catch the Robinsons red-handed.”
Barton was thoughtful.
Cyril pushed on, “I reckon I should go with Lennie on the run to the suppliers in Holland and stay with him on the return leg,” Cyril said.
Barton stood up. “No way. For a start, whoever he’s meeting will only be expecting King on his own. And neither of us have a passport or tickets.”
“But you heard DS Gray,” Cyril interrupted, “he could organise one of the open passes they keep on board for something like this. They’ve got a good working relationship with the Marechaussee …”
Barton stopped him. “I don’t care what sort of relationship they have with the Dutch Gendarmerie, the KMar, or whatever the hell they call themselves, I’m not sanctioning you heading off into the wild blue yonder of a foreign country with Lennie King, and that’s final.”
Barton held Cyril’s stare for a second. “Besides,” he continued, “have you forgotten what I’ve just told you?”
Cyril realised further protest was futile. “Okay,” he said. “But tell me this, what exactly did Morgan tell you when you saw him last?”
Barton sat back down. “He said the word was that Yardley’s were in trouble.”
“That’s what you said earlier.”
“But Morgan also had information that Walter Yardley himself was planning to make some runs to Amsterdam. Something about old war-time connections.” Barton pulled out a cigarette and lit up.
Cyril looked at him, reminded that his pipe and tobacco were still in the Escort.
Barton blew out smoke and continued. “Yardley’s idea was to buy some cheap stones through his contacts, bring them back to England and sell them on at a profit.”
“All to keep the company afloat?”
“I wonder …” Barton looked as if deep in thought. “Is it possible that the Robinsons had nothing to do with Morgan’s death? It was all the actions of Walter Yardley?”
“You heard Lennie say he didn’t think the Robinsons were responsible, although he’s not saying who he thinks was. And then we come back to the second body? Who is that? And, we think there might be a third based on what we know of Jem Fletcher’s excursions.”
“We need more information, Cyril.” Barton stubbed out his cigarette. “When we get back, see what you can find out about Yardley Electrical’s financial state. I told you one of their biggest customers had gone bust last Easter?”
Cyril nodded. “Do we know if Yardley himself has made any trips abroad yet?”
“Dunno, Jimmy was never able to tell me before he disappeared.”
“And who exactly knew that Morgan had told you about Yardley’s plans?”
“Only the DCI.”
“Sanderson?”
“That’s right.”
Cyril shook his head. “But he must have passed that on, either directly or in conversation.” He paused, looked directly at Barton then continued, “If you’re still convinced he’s not the leak.”
“I’ll speak to him again when we get back, but I’m positive Sanderson is sound. But according to the Met, that might not be our only problem.”
Cyril was thoughtful for a second then gave it one last shot. “I still think I should ride shotgun with Lennie.”
Barton gave him a withering look.
42
Sam Woodbridge replaced the receiver and walked from the call box back to the car. Barton had sounded … well, like Barton. But what else could he do? If he hadn’t come with him, Cyril would have gone on his own, he knew that. The result would have been the same, except that no-one would have known anything about him being trapped in the back of that van.
Sam unlocked the car and opened the door, letting some of the heat out before he got in. Let’s face it, he wasn’t in a hurry to drive back to Clacton, not with Barton in a mood. He looked down and saw Cyril’s jacket lying on one of the rear seats. Picking it up, he felt the weight and shape of his pipe and tobacco pouch in the pocket. Old Cyril will be missing those, he thought to himself. He folded it up and placed it on the passenger seat so he wouldn’t forget it.
Finally, Sam sat in the driver’s seat and started the engine. Fortunately, Cyril had left the keys with him, otherwise that would have been another awkward situation to explain, not to mention him having to leave the car there and get the train back.
Sam locked up the Escort in the police station car park and, carrying Cyril’s jacket over his arm, walked in through the main doors.
“Hello Sam,” the desk sergeant greeted. “What are you doing here on your days off? Can’t keep away?”
“Something like that, Skip. Is anyone in upstairs?” Sam asked, referring to CID.
“Don’t think so. Dick Barton and the DCI took off a couple of hours ago as if there was free beer somewhere. Miller and Walker went out about an hour after that and they’re not back. Anything I can do for you?”
“No thanks, I’ll just drop this off for Cyril,” Sam said, indicating the jacket over his arm.
Up the stairs to the CID office, Sam didn’t feel so bad knowing Barton wouldn’t be there. At least his bollocking would be put off until tomorrow.
As the desk sergeant had said, the room was deserted. Barton’s office door was ajar as if he’d left in a hurry, which he had. He walked over to Cyril’s desk and hung his jacket on the back of the chair before taking the car keys from his pocket and placing them on his desk.
Footsteps and voices could be heard on the stairs so Sam hurried to the door. Coming up were Bill Walker and Ben Miller.
“Looking for anyone?” Miller asked.
“The DI,” Sam said, nervously.
“He’s gone out,” Miller said, walking into the office.
“You don’t know when he’ll be back, do you?” Sam went on.
“No idea, mate,” Walker responded. “He dashed off to the ferry terminal with DCI Sanderson.”
Sam’s eyes widened. His stare darted around the office before settling on the floor. That must be where the van was going, with Cyril inside. Would they have got there before it sailed? God, he only hoped Cyril was okay. He could feel himself pale.
“He did say he wanted to see you first thing tomorrow,” Miller added, slouching down at his desk. “I won’t tell you exactly what he said, though.” A smirk on his face.
“Are you alright?” Walker asked.
Sam looked up. “Fine, yeah. I’m okay.” But as he left and walked back down the stairs, he knew he wasn’t.
* * *
Cathy Rogers picked up a manila file and made her way to the stairs. A glance at her watch told her it was nearly four-thirty and she hadn’t heard anything further from Cyril. Up the stairs and into the CID room, Ben Miller and Bill Walker were sitting at their desks.
“Look, I know it’s going back a long time but …” Walker was saying into the telephone. “If you could,” he added. “As soon as you can.”
Walker put the phone down, groaned loudly and leaned back on his
chair.
Cathy walked over to Cyril’s desk and noticed car keys on the desk and his jacket hung over the back of his seat. “Is DS Claydon not around?” she asked the two detectives.
“Not seen him since this morning. Anything I can do?” Miller asked, with a leer.
“He just wanted a file, that’s all,” Cathy responded. “It can wait till tomorrow.”
Miller turned round to Walker. “Fancy a pint then, Bill? I’m bloody parched.”
“In a bit,” Walker responded. “I’ll just try one more before we go,” he said, picking the handset up once again.
Cathy walked out of the room, still clutching the file. She afforded herself a slight smile as she remembered one of the other secretaries referring to the pair as Tweedledum and Tweedledee.
Cathy stood in front of the bathroom mirror applying the final touches; mascara and lipstick. Nervously glancing at her watch, she noted it was five to seven. Cyril must have returned to the station, she was sure, despite those two saying they hadn’t seen him. His jacket was there along with a set of car keys. And he was wearing that jacket this morning when he’d asked her out. She smiled to herself at the thought that, more accurately, she’d propositioned him. But he did seem keen. A final check and, plumping her hair with both hands, she walked into her bedroom and looked out of the window. No sign of a car.
Simon, her fourteen-year-old son was riding up and down the street on his bike with his mate, Kevin, from around the corner. She’d arranged with Kevin’s mum for him to stay with them until she got back to pick him up. She knew he would be safe, she’d reciprocated for Kevin’s mum a few times in the past.
Another check of the watch. Seven dead on now and still no Cyril. God, if he lets me down again, she thought, well … She caught sight of herself in the wardrobe mirror. A floral dress she’d had for a couple of years, just on the knee, and white slingbacks with a medium heel. I’ll do, she thought, picking her white cardigan off the bed; just in case the evening drew in. Despite the hot sunny days, the nights could be cool. And sooner or later, this incredible dry spell would have to break.
Downstairs in the living room, she automatically switched on the television. Crossroads, she never liked that, so she switched over to the BBC. Damn, she’d missed Nationwide and she did enjoy that. Some game show had just started so she left it on for background noise and looked through the window again. Nothing.
By twenty-five past seven, disappointment had evaporated to be replaced by anger. Finally, she went into the kitchen, made herself a cup of tea and returned to the lounge. One last look from the window before changing TV channels to watch Coronation Street.
* * *
About two miles from Cathy’s house, Doris was wondering what to do with Charlie. The big old boy had again been her companion for the day but normally Cyril would have appeared by now and taken him back. She checked her watch; half-past seven.
“I’ll bet you’re hungry, old lad,” she said to the dog.
He just thumped his tail twice on the grass.
“Come on then, let’s sort you out.”
Ever since Maureen had become ill, Doris had a key to Cyril’s house. He had one for hers in case of emergencies. Unlocking the door, she let herself in, Charlie lumbering close behind. She hadn’t been in the house for some time but it struck her that nothing had changed since Maureen’s passing. Items in the kitchen were where they had always been.
She opened the door to the cupboard where she knew Cyril kept Charlie’s biscuits. A tin of dogfood was already on the worktop next to the fridge. First she refilled his water bowl and put it back on the floor. He wasn’t interested in that; he was waiting for his supper.
With Charlie noisily munching his biscuits and meat, Doris wandered from the kitchen and into the hallway. Some post lay on the mat behind the front door, so she picked it up. In the lounge, the same dralon three-piece suite sat around the focal point of the fireplace with a gas fire. A small television was in the corner on a unit.
She didn’t feel she was being nosy, it was just something for her to fill the time while the dog ate. On the fireplace she recognised the distinctive shape of a Spitfire. It was cast in bronze with a moving propeller. Maureen had told her someone in Cyril’s squadron had made it for him as a reminder of their war-time days. That brought her thoughts back to Cyril’s nightmare. Whatever he experienced during those dark days still haunted him now. Maureen had told her he sometimes woke in a cold sweat, jabbering something incoherent, but he never spoke of it. That frustrated Maureen because she thought that if he talked to her, she could help him through it. Sadly, she died before she could persuade her husband. Doris enjoyed her conversations with Maureen. She missed her as a neighbour and she only hoped she’d helped her in her last days.
She was brought out of her reverie by the sounds of Charlie slobbering some water from his bowl and burping, signifying he’d enjoyed his meal.
Back in the kitchen, she wondered about calling the station to see what Cyril was up to but dismissed it. She was sure he would be involved in something important and wouldn’t welcome his neighbour pestering him. No, Charlie could come back with her. It had been some time since she’d had his company for the evening.
43
“Oh, sod it!” Cyril was studying his watch.
“What’s up?” Barton asked. They were still sitting in their cabin.
Cyril rubbed his face with both hands. “I’ve just remembered I should be somewhere else right now.”
“Shouldn’t we all.”
They were quiet for a few seconds, Cyril lying flat on the bed, Barton slouched in a chair, eyes closed.
“I’m starving,” Cyril finally said. “Shall we get something to eat?”
“Don’t think you can book it on expenses.” Barton still had his eyes closed.
Cyril got up. “Come on then.”
They found the self-service restaurant and chose their meals before settling into a table near a window. There was nothing to be seen outside but the wide grey expanse of the North Sea.
Cyril took a couple of mouthfuls of his shepherd’s pie, chips and beans before looking up to speak to Barton. “You haven’t told me what the PM came up with … that second body.”
“Mmm, interesting,” Barton said, chewing his food and waving his fork at the same time. “The one thing I can tell you is that whoever he was, he wasn’t killed with the same weapon.” He took a forkful of his chili-con-carne before elaborating. “This poor sod was blasted by a shotgun.”
“Head?”
Barton nodded.
“Doesn’t mean he wasn’t dispatched by the same perpetrator though,” Cyril argued.
“I know. But there was one thing that might lead us to finding out who he was.” In between eating, Barton outlined the discovery of the plate in the victim’s leg.
“I’ll bet you’re Bill Walker’s favourite at the moment,” Cyril said, referring to the DC’s task of contacting hospitals all over the country.
“It’s the only bloody thing we’ve got to work on.” Barton scooped another forkful of food into his mouth. “No possessions on him to give us a clue.”
“Whereas we did find something in Jimmy Morgan’s pocket lining,” Cyril said slowly.
“A key.”
“A Yale to be precise.” Cyril paused while he ate. “Well, I think I know where it might fit.”
“Go on then.” Barton was impatient.
“We can check it out when we get back but I’ll bet it’ll unlock the pedestrian access in the double doors to the Colchester warehouse.”
Barton was still chewing. After a pause, he spoke again, a grin on his face. “I’m assuming it was worth your while spending a couple of days on the holiday park?”
“That’s how I found out about the warehouse. Lennie turned up on Saturday morning for a meet.” Cyril placed his knife and fork on his empty plate and took a sip from the mug of tea in front of him. “But what about Adam Fletcher? What news on him?
”
“Ah, well …” More chewing from Barton. “He was back in the land of the living this morning.”
“You’ve been to see him?”
“Yup.” Barton then related his tactic of a double-bluff to get Fletcher to talk.
When he’d finished, Cyril shook his head disbelievingly.
“Anyway, what do you know of a character by the name of Dougie Chalmers?” Barton asked.
Cyril was puzzled by the change of tack. “Big Glaswegian nutter.”
“That’s the boy. Turns out he was the one that Adam Fletcher owed money to at first.”
“At first?”
“The debt was taken over by someone else, we don’t know who.” Barton pushed his empty plate away. “Got Miller trying to track Chalmers down to see what he can tell us.”
“Good luck with that. The guy gave us all sorts of grief in uniform. Always at the heart of one disturbance or another; and all involving drink.”
The conversation was suddenly halted by activity in the nearby passenger lounge. Several people were running towards an area half way down. Barton spotted the ship’s doctor rush past.
Cyril stood to look. “What’s going on there?” he wondered aloud.
“Let’s check it out,” Barton said.
Just then, they overheard someone coming out of the lounge mention something about somebody having a heart attack.
Barton, with Cyril in his wake, struggled to push his way through other passengers trying to get a better view of what was happening. A group were on their knees surrounding someone he couldn’t yet see. One of them, Barton recognised was the familiar form of Frank Gray. On the other side the doctor was performing CPR. Finally, Barton manoeuvred himself to be able to see the patient. He froze. The man was Lennie King.
44
In the sick bay where Cyril had rested after his rescue, Lennie King now lay on the bed, pillows under his head and an oxygen mask covering his face. He’d survived the attack, pointing the doctor in the direction of his jacket pocket where he had pills to put under his tongue. His angina and the stress of the day’s events had obviously led to his situation.