Disposal (The Tendring Series Book 1)

by David Evans

  The doctor thought it was a mild attack but he’d radioed ahead for an ambulance to meet the ship and take the patient to hospital.

  Cyril sat in the chair by the side of the bed. “I never knew you had heart problems, Lennie,” he said.

  King pulled the mask clear of his face for a few seconds. “It’s not something I tend to broadcast, Mr Claydon.”

  “Is there anyone we can contact for you?”

  “Not really, I live on my own now.” A few gasps of oxygen before he continued, “But listen, can your DI get in touch with DCI Holt from here?”

  Cyril was puzzled. “Possibly, I’m not sure.”

  “If he can, can he tell him ‘Code seven’?”

  “What are you on about, Lennie?”

  “Please Mr Claydon, just ask him to pass it on. It’s important.”

  Cyril held up both hands. “Okay, I’ll ask him.”

  “Thanks. Now what about the van and the Robinsons?”

  “Leave that with me for the moment. I’ll have a word with the DI and see how best to play this. You just rest. I’ll be back to see you later.” Cyril stood, gave a thumbs up sign and left the room.

  Back in their temporary cabin in the crew’s quarters, Barton and Frank Gray were discussing events when Cyril joined them.

  Gray looked up. “How is he?”

  “Lucky, I think,” Cyril responded. ”According to the doc, it was only an attack of angina but he’s off to hospital to get checked out as soon as we dock.” He sat down on a spare seat. “But what do we do about the operation now?”

  “Do?” Barton appeared surprised. “Nothing. It’s all come to an end. If King can’t carry on, then the whole exercise has to be abandoned.”

  “But everything’s in place. This was to be Lennie’s first run for Robinson.”

  Barton frowned. “In the light of what’s happened, I’ve brought Frank up to speed with King’s status.”

  Cyril was surprised. “Oh, okay.”

  “But I was wondering, how do we know he wasn’t in this for his own benefit? He could be double-crossing this DCI … Holt, is it?”

  Gray nodded. “That’s right.”

  “He’s not the most upright citizen,” Barton continued. “Plus he lives in Clacton.”

  Cyril decided to ignore the last jibe. “Look, Lennie’s not doing this for the money. You’ve heard how he served with Jimmy Morgan in the war. Bonds like that are not easily broken, believe me. No, he’s doing this to find out what happened to Jimmy. Now I know you think Lennie’s a bit dodgy but I’ve known him for years. He might sail close to the wind now and again but he’s basically straight.”

  “Let’s say you’re right, Cyril,” Barton considered, “King can hardly carry on now, so how can we?”

  “Me.”

  “You? What do you mean, you?” Realisation dawned on Barton face. “No fucking way. You might be happy putting yourself at risk but there’s no way my arse is going on the line.”

  “But just think about it for a second. I’m roughly the same build as Lennie. He’s a few years older, admittedly, but I’d pass for his age.”

  “You are a bit shorter than him, though,” Barton interrupted. “Plus that head wound might look suspicious.”

  “But whoever he’s supposed to be liaising with has never met him before. As I said, this is his first run. So what can go wrong?”

  “You want me to make a list?”

  “It might work,” Gray put in.

  “But you’ve no documentation; no tickets, no passport,” Barton argued.

  “Lennie’s got the tickets and …” Cyril turned to Gray, “You said you’ve got a couple of passes on board for emergencies and you have a good working relationship with the KMar.”

  Barton stood up. “Fuck, this is what you wanted all along.”

  “At least let Frank here make some enquiries.”

  Barton was silent for a few seconds, staring through the porthole at the last of the daylight. “Shit.” He turned and looked at Gray. “Okay, make the call and see what your superiors say.”

  Gray left the room as Barton pulled out a cigarette.

  “At the very least, we need to consider it,” Cyril said. “But look …” Cyril leaned forward and lowered his voice before telling him what Lennie King had just asked him to do.

  Barton lit up and took a deep drag. “Code seven? It’ll have to be passed on through Sanderson. And how the hell am I going to sell this daft idea of yours to him anyway?”

  “But in the light of what you said earlier, you need to hear what Gray has to say. In fact, I’d get up to the Comms Room now, if I were you. Listen to the conversation first hand,” Cyril suggested.

  “You’re right.” Barton made for the door.

  “In the meantime, I’ll learn as much as I can from Lennie.”

  “How are you doing now, Lennie?” Cyril sat down on the chair by the side of the sick-bay bed. King was dozing, the oxygen mask hanging by his neck.

  He opened his eyes. “Just a bit tired,” he responded. “What time is it?”

  Cyril checked his watch. “Just gone half nine, or half ten Dutch time.”

  “Not long before we dock, then.”

  “About our little problem,” Cyril began. “I think I’ve got a solution.”

  King gave a chuckle. “Somehow I thought you would.”

  “Do you mind if I look through your things?”

  “Help yourself,” King said, “I’ve got nothing to hide. What you need is in the envelope in my jacket pocket; tickets, address in Amsterdam.”

  Cyril felt the pocket of King’s jacket hanging up by the side of the bed then pulled out the envelope.

  “What’s your idea?” King asked.

  Cyril spread the envelope’s contents on the bed cover. “For the next day or two, I’ll be Lennie King.”

  King wriggled to sit up a bit more. “You may as well have the Guilders, then,” he said.

  “You might need them … when you get to hospital, I mean. My boss can sort something out for me.” The offer from King reinforced Cyril’s gut instinct that he was being straight with him. “So what are the arrangements?” Cyril asked.

  King explained what he was to do when he drove away from the ferry terminal. “And you can see from the ticket, you need to be on tomorrow night’s sailing, back in Harwich on Wednesday morning. Robinson will be expecting me at the warehouse with the shipment by 11.00am,” King concluded.

  Barton walked in at that point. “Got everything you need?” he asked Cyril.

  “I think so.”

  “Good, because Sanderson has given me the green light. He’s been coordinating with your DCI Holt at the Met and I’ve asked him to pass on your message.” Barton then explained to Cyril that Sanderson thought it best that he substitute for King.

  “You?” Cyril couldn’t hide his disappointment.

  “Me,” Barton repeated then looked over to the man in the bed. “I just hope to Christ you’re not setting me up.”

  “Look, Mr Barton, I want to see the bastards who did for Jimmy as much as anyone. I’d have loved to follow this through but how was I to know this was going to happen But listen, maybe on the way back I could resume my duties?”

  “Leave it to us, Lennie,” Cyril replied.

  “Just one more thing,” Barton wondered, “you said you thought you knew who murdered Jimmy Morgan, but you never told us.”

  “No, you’re right. I didn’t.”

  Barton exhaled, exasperated.

  “But could I have a word, Mr Barton … in private, like?” King leaned up on an elbow and looked over at a puzzled Cyril.

  Pausing for a second, Cyril finally relented. “Okay,” he said to Barton, “I’ll see you outside.”

  45

  “So this is your documentation for the Dutch immigration and customs.” DS Gray handed over an envelope to Barton. “We’ve spoken to the KMar and you should have no problems. Anything else, like being pulled over by traffic polic
e, give them this contact.” Gray pointed to a number he’d written on the back of the envelope.

  “Thanks.” Barton folded the package and put it in his trouser pocket.

  “And good luck.” Gray looked from Barton to Cyril then left.

  They were back in the borrowed cabin, about twenty minutes away from docking. Barton watched Gray go before placing both hands on his colleague’s shoulders. “Now listen, Cyril, trust me on this. I’ve managed to speak to Sanderson again and Holt recognised King’s message.”

  “What did it mean?”

  “It’s best if you don’t know.” Barton saw the expression on Cyril’s face. “No, don’t be like that. It’s safer for you not to know.”

  “Thanks,” was Cyril’s withering reply.

  “Anyway, how do I look?” Barton posed in the leather jacket that Lennie King had loaned him. “I’ve always fancied one of these. Might keep it. Handy me being much the same size as him.”

  Cyril shook his head. “You’ll give it back, we promised Lennie.”

  “Lennie’ll be alright. He’s got a jumper in his bag.”

  Cyril hesitated for a second. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

  “What? The jacket?”

  “No, not the ruddy jacket,” he snapped. “Sanderson. You told him you’d carry out this mission. I’ll bet you never even mentioned my going.”

  Barton smiled. Cyril’s mention of a ‘mission’ made it sound like something from World War Two. “He just agreed with me that it would be better for a DI to go. You’d be better placed to follow up on what you discovered in the warehouse.”

  They were preparing to leave the cabin, the ferry had slowed and announcements were being made on the tannoy for drivers and passengers to return to their vehicles.

  “But listen,” Barton’s expression became serious. “Keep your eyes and ears open on the return journey. You know what I’m saying?”

  “Of course.” Cyril’s anger had subsided. “But I still don’t like this.”

  “Aw, I didn’t know you cared.”

  Cyril pulled his shoulders back. “You’re meeting God knows who, in a foreign country with no back-up and all you can do is make jokes.”

  “Look, it’ll be fine.”

  “I know Lennie’s told us as much as he knows and I believe him on that.” Cyril stroked his moustache. “But let’s just hope no one’s leaking information about this.”

  “I know. But we need to flush that out.” Barton looked straight at him. “I’m sure Sanderson is sound. We had that conversation. There is only him and me as far as Essex is concerned. What I don’t know is what these buggers in the Met or Special Branch are up to exactly. I mean, do the Robinsons have influence there?” Barton walked around to the other side of the table. “I know what you’re thinking Cyril, if they find out that their driver has been substituted … well, it’s my bollocks on the line.”

  “We can always check on Lennie for the return,” Cyril suggested.

  Barton looked away. “Well he might not be fit enough to drive the van back.”

  “No, maybe not, but he might be okay to drive the last, say quarter of a mile. That way the Robinsons couldn’t possibly suspect anything.” Cyril studied the DI. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “No, everything’s fine.”

  Cyril didn’t believe him. “Anyway, what’s your thinking on this? Are we just going to let the shipment come in and be transferred up to London?”

  “That’s what the Met want us to do. They’re looking to uncover the full process and catch the Robinsons red-handed.”

  “But we could do that in Colchester.”

  “I know.”

  “In any event, if you drive the van back and not Lennie, you’ll have to hit them there anyway.” Cyril argued. “Also, that way would reduce any risk of a leak.”

  Barton nodded, deep in thought.

  “Plus it would give you some Brownie points.”

  Barton hesitated before his serious expression eased. “Listen Cyril, you didn’t really like me at first, did you?”

  “What makes you think I do now?”

  Barton grinned.

  The tannoy announcements began once again.

  “Oh, have you got the keys?” Cyril asked.

  Barton tapped his pocket.

  “Well, it’s time you got down to the vehicle deck.” And as an afterthought, “Oh, and John …”

  Barton paused at the door, surprised Cyril had used his first name.

  “Look after yourself,” he said.

  Barton nodded and was gone.

  46

  By ten-thirty, Barton was approaching the Amsterdam district of Haarlem where the address Lennie had given him was located. A smile had come to his face as he thought of the area in New York, home to the famous basketball team, the Globetrotters.

  He’d negotiated customs at the port, with an officer having a cursory glance in the back of the van. The documentation DS Gray had produced allowed him to be waved through immigration checks. The journey had taken him just over an hour and a half, the traffic light at that time of the evening.

  Turning off a dual carriageway, he looked for the street names and followed the directions he’d been given. One final left turn and he was on the street he wanted. Slowly he drove, keeping an eye out for Gert’s Bar which is where he was to be contacted. Finally, on the right, he saw it, sandwiched between a fruit and vegetable shop and a tobacconist’s. About thirty yards beyond, outside a pharmacist’s there was a space big enough to accommodate the van.

  He parked up, got out and looked up and down the street before locking the cab door. It was mostly residential with a few shops on either side. No one appeared to be around but the lights had been on in the bar when he’d driven past.

  He approached Gert’s and walked in through the door, pausing for a second to gain his bearings. The room was about thirty feet long and twenty feet front to back with the bar opposite the door. The barman, sitting behind, looked up from his newspaper and gave a brief nod. Barton approached the counter, glancing at the couple sitting at a table to his right and noticing two men standing chatting behind the vestibule.

  “Heineken, please,” Barton said.

  “Bottle or draught?” the barman replied in perfect English.

  “Draught.”

  “Large or small?”

  Barton smiled. “Large. It’s been a long day.”

  His lager was poured with no further conversation and he sat down at a spare table. The first swig tasted good. Wiping the froth from his top lip, he had a quick check of his watch. This was certainly a change from some of the rough pubs in Clacton he sometimes frequented. When he woke that morning, he never for one minute thought he’d be sitting in a small bar on the outskirts of Amsterdam enjoying a lager. Looking back, it seemed a lot more than just over twelve hours ago since he was in Dr Maguire’s office at Colchester County Hospital looking at X-rays of some unidentified bloke’s head, blasted into oblivion by a shotgun. Just who the Hell was he? He smiled to himself at the thought of Bill Walker trawling through hospital records for a match on the surgical plate discovered in the victim’s leg.

  Leaning back in the seat, Barton focussed his thoughts on the job in hand. So Jimmy Morgan had been working as an informant for the Met, a participating one at that. But what had he got himself into? Had he been stitched up by some double dealing? Did the Robinsons find out what he was up to? And why did he persist in feeding information to him, albeit concerning Yardley? Did he really buy King’s story? He supposed he did. But if Morgan had been set up, maybe King was about to be. And for Lennie King, read DI John Barton. No, he had to discount that idea. And then there was what Sanderson had told him from DCI Holt of the Met. Was that reliable?

  The two men who had stood behind the vestibule drained their glasses and left. The middle-aged couple sitting at their table, the barman and himself were now the only ones left.

  Just then, the door o
pened and a man of around thirty dressed in a denim shirt, jeans and trainers entered. He had long fair hair and a full beard. He nodded to the barman then walked over to Barton’s table.

  “Mr King?” he asked.

  “Who wants to know?” Barton responded guardedly.

  The man smiled briefly and sat down in a chair opposite. “You’re here to pick up a delivery for Mr Robinson?” he continued with only a hint of a Dutch accent.

  “You’re Freddie?” Barton asked.

  “That’s right.” The man turned towards the door then back again. “I see the van outside. Do you have the keys?”

  Barton nodded.

  The man held out his hand. “Well can I have them? It was explained to you before you left, yes?”

  “Partly. What happens now?”

  “You come back here tomorrow night at nine o’clock and we give you back the keys. Simple as that.”

  Barton reached into his trouser pocket and produced the keys to the van.

  The man took them and gave him a card. “Just around the corner. Hotel Ostade will put you up for the night at a reasonable rate. Tomorrow, enjoy yourself in our wonderful city.” The man grinned. “You like the ladies? There are plenty to choose from. We cater for every taste.”

  Barton didn’t react.

  Freddie shrugged. “Or if you like some culture, we have museums, including Anne Frank’s House. You will like.”

  The man stood and, with another gesture to the barman, walked to the door and was gone.

  Barton studied the card Freddie had left him then looked at his watch again. Quickly he finished his lager, deciding not to leave it any later to find this hotel. On his way out, he showed the barman the card. He was directed to turn left out of the door and take the first street on the left. The hotel was small but comfortable, the barman added. Barton thanked him and departed.

  Outside on the street, there was a space where he’d parked the van. So far, so good, he hoped.

  47

  Cyril had watched the van disembark and slowly make its way through official checks before joining the exit road from the terminal.