Disposal (The Tendring Series Book 1)

by David Evans

  “Do you mind?”

  “Go get yourself sorted,” she said. “You’ve been up all night, haven’t you?”

  “Thanks. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  While Charlie and Doris went off for a walk, Cyril had a shower over the bath and dried himself off. He sorted out some fresh clothes and began to shave in front of the bathroom mirror. As he lathered up, he thought about Lennie King and his relationship with Jimmy Morgan. He had no doubt that Lennie would want to find out what had really happened to Jimmy. After all, if he owed him his life, he would be determined to right the wrong he saw. But who was Lennie talking about when he said he had a good idea who was responsible and that it wasn’t the Robinsons? He needed to get back into that warehouse for a better look round but he wouldn’t be able to conduct a proper search until Barton returned, otherwise suspects would be scared off. His thoughts started to bounce around like a pinball machine. That song spun through his brain; Pinball Wizard. It was one of those groups; who was it who sang that? He couldn’t remember but Doris would, he was sure. Barton also wanted him to track down Dougie Chalmers. Then there was the identity of the other corpse. Oh, and don’t forget Cathy. He would have some making up to do there. So much going on.

  Walking in through the main doors of Clacton Police Station, he paused by the desk sergeant.

  “I don’t suppose DI Barton has been in touch this morning, has he?” Cyril asked.

  The sergeant looked up. “What’s happened to you, Cyril?”

  “Oh nothing. Anyway, has the DI made contact?”

  “Not seen him since yesterday morning,” the sergeant answered.

  “Well if he calls in, can you let me know?”

  “Sure.”

  Cyril paused as he thought of something else. “Oh, is Sam Woodbridge on duty this morning?”

  “Yes, he’s on refs at the moment. Should be in the canteen.”

  Along the corridor, he saw Cathy Rogers coming in the opposite direction. She kept her head down, determined to ignore him.

  “Cathy, look, I know you’ll be angry with me but …”

  She swept past him, not even glancing up.

  “Cathy …”

  She continued on her way to the secretarial office, the door closing behind her.

  Looks like I’ve got a lot of making up to do, he thought. There again, they’d only ever exchanged a few words and hadn’t even met up socially. But he did like her and he was embarrassed by how things had worked out. He didn’t like rudeness, and that’s what he thought he had been. He’d have to think of something. But he quickly shifted it from his mind and strode out for the canteen.

  Pausing by the canteen doors, he looked round for Sam Woodbridge, finally spotting him sitting at a table in conversation with two other PCs and a sergeant. He caught Woodbridge’s eye and mouthed, ‘Upstairs when you’ve finished.’

  A big smile appeared on Sam’s face and he gave a thumbs up.

  Cyril climbed the stairs to the CID office. The place was almost deserted; only DC Walker was at his desk, talking on the phone. Cyril waved a hand in greeting, walked to his desk and sat down. There were no new messages. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. Sam Woodbridge interrupted him.

  “Skip, good to see you back,” Sam said. “But what’s happened to your head?”

  Cyril stood and put a finger to his lips, motioning for them to use Barton’s office. Walker was still engrossed on the phone.

  Once inside and with the door closed, Cyril offered the young PC his hand.

  “Sam, I owe you,” he said.

  Sam blushed, looked down and shook it. “No … well … it was only …”

  “No, it wasn’t,” Cyril interrupted. “If you hadn’t called it in and if this man …” he indicated Barton’s empty chair with his thumb, “… well, I wouldn’t be here now. So, thank you.”

  “Just glad you’re back in one piece, Skip … apart from ...” Sam had recovered his composure and was looking at Cyril’s dressed head wound.

  “That’s nothing. Just a graze.”

  “So where is the DI now?”

  Cyril glanced at his watch. “In Amsterdam, but what he might be getting up to, I dread to think.”

  “Amsterdam?” Woodbridge looked puzzled.

  “We ended up on the Hook of Holland ferry. DI Barton is currently involved in something confidential. So we don’t want any talk in the canteen about where he is and what he’s up to. Have you spoken to anyone about yesterday’s events?”

  “Not really, no. To be honest, I was expecting a bollocking from the DI this morning. When I rang in to tell him about you yesterday, he sounded pretty pissed off. He wanted me to, how was it he phrased it, ‘get my arse back to the station,’ but he’d gone out when I turned up.”

  “A great turn of phrase, the DI.” Cyril grinned. “Well, play it down if anyone asks, at least until he gets back. Anyway, don’t worry about it, Sam. He’s got more important things on his mind right now.” He opened the office door. “Best get back to your duties.”

  Sam smiled. “Thanks.”

  Cyril watched him make his way out of the CID office towards the stairs, DCI Sanderson passing him on the way in.

  Sanderson indicated for Cyril to stay in Barton’s office as he walked over to join him. “Heard anything?” he asked, as he entered and closed the door. “From the DI?”

  “Not a thing as yet, Sir.”

  “I’m sure we will. If he can find a way to let us know what’s happening, he will.”

  Sanderson walked round the desk and sat in Barton’s chair. “Sit down a minute, Cyril,” he said. “While DI Barton’s away, I think we need to progress other enquires.”

  “I know we’re still looking for Dougie Chalmers and the DI told me he’d got young Walker on the case trying to identify the surgical plate from the second corpse.”

  Sanderson nodded then looked through the glazed partition. “Walker’s off the phone now. Ask him to come in.”

  Cyril rose from his chair and opened the door. “Bill,” he called, “In here a minute.”

  Walker came in.

  “Any news on that surgical plate you’re investigating?” Sanderson asked.

  “Nothing yet, Sir. I’ve spoken to all the hospitals in East Anglia and most of the London ones, but they all say they need time to check records going that far back.”

  “How far back are we going?”

  “Thirty years,” Walker responded.

  “Just need to be persistent,” Sanderson said. “Where’s Miller this morning, by the way?”

  “In court, I believe.”

  “Did he chase up on Chalmers, do you know?”

  “Yes, Sir. We called round to his last known address but there was no one in. Clothes and things there but no sign of him.”

  “The door was unlocked?”

  Walker coloured. “Well … not exactly.”

  “Miller?”

  Walker nodded.

  “But you secured the door behind you?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Sanderson checked his watch. Just gone eleven. “Just gone midday over there,” he said to Cyril.

  “We need to try and locate Chalmers. Only he can tell us who might be pressurising Fletcher.”

  Sanderson stood and lowered his voice. “You go. I’ll wait for any call.”

  Cyril considered for a second. “Come on then, Bill,” he said. “You can take me back to Chalmers’ place.”

  For the second time in two days, Walker walked into the hallway of the old house. Music was still playing loudly from somewhere above. “He’s in Room 5, Sarge. Upstairs,” he said.

  Cyril followed him as they made their way up to the first floor. By the door, Walker stood to one side. Cyril approached and put his ear to it. All was quiet inside. He knocked loudly but there was no response.

  “Just like yesterday,” Walker told him.

  Cyril tried the handle. It opened. “I thought you said you’
d made this secure?”

  Walker looked puzzled. “We did.”

  Slowly, the door swung open.

  “Sarge,” Walker put up his hand. “When we left yesterday, the curtains were closed.”

  Now, the sun streamed in through the window that looked out onto the street.

  Cyril stepped inside. The wardrobe doors were wide open and the drawers from the chest opposite the end of the bed were upturned on the bed itself.

  “Someone’s definitely been in here,” Walker said as he stepped towards the wardrobe, scattering the discarded takeaway cartons that had been lying around on the floor the day before.

  Cyril picked up one of the drawers from the bed and turned it over. Below were some envelopes. He picked them up and flicked through them.

  “Ben put them on the bed yesterday when we left,” Walker said looking at the bills. He turned around, arms wide. “But this has been cleared out. There were clothes in the drawers and in the wardrobe. Now there’s nothing.”

  Outside, footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs from the second floor. Cyril moved quickly to the door and watched a man and a woman turn at the bottom step. The woman hesitated when she saw him, before aiming to walk past, the man close behind.

  “Just a minute,” Cyril said, “I’d like a word.”

  “Fuck are you?” she said, then quickly added, “As if ah didnae ken.”

  “That’s no way to greet an old friend, Morag. You know perfectly well who I am. I’ve lifted you often enough.”

  “We need tae get on. He’s got an appointment.” She indicated her companion.

  “The pair of you,” Cyril continued pointedly. “Hughie.” He smiled at the man. “You two getting along okay now?” He turned to Walker who had appeared at his side. “Morag and Hughie here often have a few heated disagreements.”

  “We’re a’ fine noo, Mr Claydon,” Hughie said.

  “Have you seen Mr Chalmers recently?” Cyril asked.

  She looked disparagingly at Walker. “You were here yesterday. I told you then we hadnae seen him for weeks. I think he’s cleared off.”

  Walker cast a glance down at the man’s feet then panned up his body to face him. “So when was the last time you were in Mr Chalmers’ room?”

  Hughie looked nervously towards Morag. “I’ve never been in.”

  “Sure about that? Not even for a wee bevvy,” Walker dropped into a mock Scottish accent.

  Hughie stiffened. “You tryin’ tae take the pish?”

  Cyril was bemused with Walker’s questioning but decided to let him carry on.

  “How about you?” Walker turned his attention to Morag.

  Again she avoided eye contact. “As if you think I would go intae his room.”

  Walker looked to Cyril. “I think we should carry on this conversation down at the station.”

  That was the cue for Hughie to bound down the stairs.

  Walker was ready for it and was quickly after him. Years of drinking cans of strong lager and God knows what else had an adverse effect on him and Walker brought him down in the hallway before cuffing his hands behind his back.

  “Looks like he might miss his appointment,” Cyril commented before cuffing Morag too.

  51

  Barton had spent a restless night. The room was too warm for him to gain much sleep. Opening the window around midnight improved matters until early morning deliveries to the various shops roused him from his light doze. He squinted to look at his watch. Five past seven, or was it five past six? No, seven, he remembered changing the time before he left the ferry.

  After a quick shower in the bathroom, he dressed in the same clothes from yesterday. He’d have to try and find some new underwear and a shirt, some deodorant too, otherwise he’d be arrested for a breach of the peace when he stepped back onto the ferry.

  Downstairs in the small dining room, there was no sign of the woman from the night before. A tall man in his fifties, probably her husband, served a basic breakfast. Although there were two other tables set with cutlery, no other guests appeared. He wondered if he were the only one staying that night.

  After checking out and paying his bill, he wandered down the street and bought some underarm deodorant from a chemist. At least that would cover odours for now. He checked his wallet to see how many Guilders he had left from the amount DS Gray had given him. He wondered how easy it would be to justify all this when he made it back to Clacton. He imagined having to fill in reams of forms and have everyone from the DCI up to Deputy Chief Constable sign the bloody things.

  Thoughts of Sanderson brought to mind the fact that he’d have to find some way to make a telephone call to Clacton to let them know where he was in the scheme of things; and find out what was happening back in Essex. He pulled out the piece of paper Lennie King had given him after sending Cyril from the sick bay. On it was written a Dutch name and reference to the main police station by Amsterdam train station. This should be his best bet.

  He walked to Haarlem railway station and boarded a train to Amsterdam. Ten minutes later, he walked through the main concourse of the train station and spotted the Politiebureau. At least one existed where King said it was.

  An awkward conversation with the officer on the front desk began. But with the help of his warrant card, the documentation Gray had given him and the name he’d been given, he was invited upstairs by a plain clothes detective who looked as if he could have been a lead singer in a rock band. Shirt sleeves rolled up and jeans, his long curly fair hair reminded him of Roger Daltrey.

  The Dutchman introduced himself. “Inspecteur Lars Hendriks,” he said. “You wish to call your force in UK?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind,” Barton answered.

  The Dutch detective grinned. “This is a bit unusual,” he said. “You’re on a secret mission we know nothing about.”

  “I had to substitute at the last minute for an informant who took ill,” Barton explained. “Look, I really need to speak with my boss back in England.”

  “How you say over there, I pull your leg.” The Inspecteur lifted the telephone and spoke to the switchboard. After a few seconds, he handed the receiver to Barton. “I’ll get you a drink,” he said, stood and left the room.

  52

  With Hughie and Morag in separate interview rooms, Cyril had a chance to ask about Bill Walker’s line of questioning.

  “The fact is, Sarge,” Walker said, “those trainers the bloke’s wearing are brand new. I noticed there was a pair exactly like that in the bottom of Chalmers’ wardrobe when we looked round yesterday.”

  He was impressed with Walker’s observational skills.

  “And another thing, I’m pretty certain there was a suede jacket in there too, just like the one he’s wearing now.”

  Cyril grinned. “Let battle commence then, Bill. We’ll take Hughie first.”

  He knew Hugh McKinley well, having arrested him several times over the past few years. Mostly drunk and disorderly and a couple of assault charges, he was a nightmare for the uniforms sent to deal with the disturbances. Morag Watson, his common-law wife, wasn’t much better. She had a sharp temper on her, mostly fuelled by drink. The pair of them had migrated south to London from their native Kilmarnock initially, like so many of their fellow countrymen in recent times, then east to Clacton.

  Hugh was sitting on a wooden chair at a metal table in the dingy interview room when Cyril and Bill Walker entered.

  “What’s this all aboot?” Hughie asked.

  Cyril flipped open a notebook. “First of all, Mr McKinley, if we can just take a few personal details.”

  Hughie shrugged.

  “You are Hugh McKinley, are you not?”

  A nod of the head. “You know bloody well I am, aye.”

  “Currently living at the address where you’ve just been detained?”

  “Detained? What have you detained me for?”

  Cyril held up a hand. “Height?” he asked.

  “What d’you want t
o know a’ this crap for?”

  “Just answer the question,” Walker joined in.

  “Five feet eight.”

  “Weight?” Cyril continued.

  “Twelve an’ a half stone.”

  “Shoe size?”

  “Eight. But what’s that got to do wi’ anythin’?”

  “Take off your shoes, please.”

  “Oh come on. This is unreal.”

  “Just remove them for me.”

  Hughie bent down and took off his trainers. Walker bent down, picked one of them up and examined it. A grin broke out on his face. “Struggling to break these in, Mr McKinley?” Walker said, passing the shoe to Cyril.

  Cyril raised his eyebrows. “Might be a bit loose for you, Hughie, seeing as they’re size nine.”

  “I bought them cheap. It was the nearest size they had.”

  “Was that the same place you got the suede jacket?” Walker added. “Looks a bit too big for you to me as well.”

  The man looked bamboozled.

  Cyril leaned forward onto the table. “Look Hughie, we’re not really interested in your second-hand clothing efforts …”

  Hughie rubbed his face.

  “Whether you nicked it from another scumbag like Dougie Chalmers doesn’t really interest us, for now. What we want to know is, where is Chalmers?”

  “Look Mr Claydon, like we told the other detectives, we havenae seen him for weeks.”

  “I know it might be difficult for you to remember one day from the next but I really need you to think long and hard about when you last saw him.” Cyril stood up. “For now, we’ll give you time for that.”

  “But …”

  “We’ll be back later.”

  With that, Cyril and Walker left the interview room and a uniformed constable stood in to keep an eye on McKinley.

  Next door, Morag was sitting in a chair at exactly the same type of table Hughie was. “I could sue you fuckers,” was her opening salvo. “Just what are we doin’ in here anyway? We havnae done nuthin’.”

  “Morag, that’s no way to address officers of the law,” Cyril said, taking a seat opposite the woman in her forties with bleach blonde straggly hair. “We just need you to help us with our enquiries, that’s all.”