Disposal (The Tendring Series Book 1)

by David Evans

  “Hmph!” She folded her arms and looked away.

  Cyril waited for Walker to settle himself into the other chair before he began. “So what else did you take from Dougie Chalmers’ room yesterday, Morag? Or maybe this morning.”

  “Nuthin’. I’ve taken nuthin’.”

  Cyril opened the manila folder he’d brought with him. “Oh, I find that hard to believe.” He shuffled through some papers. “I mean, here for instance, shoplifting from Mothercare last year; Woolworths before that.” He paused and waited for the woman to make eye contact. “Let’s face it, if you’re presented with a golden opportunity to help yourself to some goodies from a room you know to be unoccupied and the door is a little, shall we say, not as secure as it might have been, well … who could blame you?”

  “I didnae take nuthin’. What would Chalmers have that I might want?”

  “But you have been in the room? With Hughie, maybe?”

  “Well, he said he needed some new shoes. Said he knew where he might be able to find somethin’. I didnae ken he was plannin’ to break intae Chalmers’ room.”

  “So this was all Hughie’s idea? Nothing to do with you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And just to be clear, if we searched your room right now, we wouldn’t find anything else that belonged to Chalmers.”

  Morag coloured and looked away. “You’d need a search warrant,” she mumbled.

  Cyril looked to Walker. “I think that would be no problem, Bill, under the circumstances.” He turned back to face the woman and leaned forward, both arms on the table. “Look Morag, we can waste everyone’s time pursuing all this but what we’re interested in right now is speaking to Mr Chalmers. If you have any idea where he might be, now’s the time to tell me.”

  She looked straight at Cyril. “I havnae seen him for ages, Mr Claydon. That’s the truth. We … well we used to keep our distance. He wasnae what you could call a good person to be around. Bloody psycho, if you ask me.” She pointed a finger to her temple and made a face.

  “Okay Morag, let’s say I believe you. I need you to think hard; when was the last time you saw him?”

  She puffed out her cheeks. “It’s like I say, it must be aboot four or five weeks ago now.”

  “Come on Morag, you can do better than that,”

  She screwed up her face, as if in pain then suddenly jolted, pointing a finger at Cyril. “The carnival. When was the carnival?”

  Cyril looked to Walker and back to the woman then pulled out a diary from his jacket pocket. “The fifteenth,” he announced.

  “Right,” Morag nodded. “It was before then but after the Bank Holiday.”

  Cyril sighed. “But the Bank Holiday was after that, on the thirtieth.”

  “No your one doon here, I’m talkin’ aboot oors. The Scottish Bank Holiday’s at the beginnin’ o’ August.”

  Another check of the diary. “That was the second.”

  “So it was a couple o’ days after that. Maybe the Wednesday. That’s when I saw him comin’ back to his room.”

  “That would be Wednesday 4th August. Not Thursday, or the Friday?”

  She snapped her fingers. “No. Definitely the Wednesday. I remember noo because that deaf old bugger in Room Seven had the telly on loud and Coronation Street was on.”

  “Okay Morag. We’ll see what Hughie’s been able to remember.” Cyril stood to leave.

  “Can I go now?”

  “We’ve still got matters to look into.”

  She threw her head back as if in despair. “Aw come on. I’ve told ye all I know.”

  “But there’s still more, I know there is.”

  She sounded desperate. “Would it help if I told you he wasn’t alone?”

  “Chalmers? He was with someone?”

  “That’s right, some other bloke.”

  “Who?”

  “No idea but I could recognise him again.”

  “Was that the only time you’d seen him with this ‘bloke’ or had you seen them together at other times?”

  “Only that last time.”

  “Okay, Morag, DC Walker here will bring you some mug shots to look through. Let’s see if you can spot whoever it was.”

  53

  While Bill Walker had the delightful task of taking Morag through the albums of photos of known offenders, Cyril made his way to DCI Sanderson’s office. He looked through the half-glazed door and could see him on the phone. About to turn and walk away, Sanderson waved a hand to beckon him in.

  “… okay, well you be aware of everything around you,” Sanderson said into the handset. “And listen, steer clear of any dodgy clubs. You need to make the rendezvous tonight.” He ended the call and rubbed his face with both hands.

  “Close the door and sit down, Cyril,” he said. “That was Dick. He managed to persuade some long-haired Dutch detective to let him call.”

  Door closed, Cyril took a seat opposite the DCI and grinned. “Is he keeping out of trouble?”

  “As he said, so far so good.” Sanderson leaned back in the chair. “I hear you’ve brought in a couple of ne’er-do-wells?”

  “That’s right, Hughie McKinley and Morag Watson.”

  Sanderson rolled his eyes. “Delightful.”

  Cyril proceeded to relate the morning’s progress. “I’ve left Bill going through the mug shots with her,” he concluded. “But I was thinking of checking on that key; the one we found on Jimmy Morgan.”

  “You reckon it might fit the door to the warehouse?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  Sanderson checked his watch. “Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll come with you,” he said.

  “Perfect. I’ll sign out the evidence bag.” Cyril stood and left the DCI’s office.

  An hour later, Sanderson pulled his car onto the waste ground opposite the warehouse where Sam and Cyril had parked the day before. The building still looked deserted, the big vehicle doors firmly closed.

  Overhead, some seagulls screeched as Cyril and Sanderson crossed the road and walked up to the building. Cyril took the bag from his jacket pocket and pulled out the Yale key that had been found in the lining of Jimmy Morgan’s jacket. Forensics had been unable to retrieve anything useful from it by way of prints. He looked at the DCI and hesitated. Sanderson gave a slight nod and Cyril pushed the key into the lock of the pedestrian access door. As he thought, it turned. He held it over and gave the door a gentle push. It opened.

  Quietly, both men stepped inside then paused. Cyril carefully closed the door behind them. For a second or two they stood and listened. All was silent apart from something rattling, somewhere higher up the building. The floor where the van had stood was empty, apart from a few old cardboard boxes and discarded newspaper pages.

  “Okay then Cyril, show me what you found,” Sanderson said in hushed tones.

  Cyril led the way into the corner and up the wide timber staircase. At the next landing, they paused to listen again before stepping out onto the first floor. He indicated the footprints and scuff marks in the layer of dust on the floor as their footsteps echoed around the vast open area. They approached the bench.

  Cyril pointed to the dark marks on its top surface. “These look like blood stains to me, Sir,” he said. “And then there’s this.” He walked around the bench and looked down at the roll of plastic sheet lying in the same position as he’d seen it the day before.

  Sanderson bent down and studied the stains on the bench before looking behind at the plastic. He took out a penknife, bent down and cut a small piece off the end. “I’ll send this off to the lab when we get back; just in case this goes missing.” He carefully placed the sample into a bag and put it in his pocket. “They’ll be able to tell us if it’s the same material that wrapped the bodies. But we’ll need to get forensics in here as soon as.”

  A noise from the other side of the floor startled them. They held their breath and looked round, only to discover the source of the rattling from earlier. A win
dow swung loosely in the shallow breeze.

  “There’s another floor, isn’t there?” Sanderson asked.

  “I think so, but I never had the chance to get beyond here,” Cyril replied.

  “Let’s take a look.” Sanderson strode over to the stairs and climbed up to the next level.

  The top floor had a lower clear height than the first. It was mostly open revealing some magnificent Victorian timber trusses. There was less light up here – the windows were smaller than the floor below and some were covered over. Along the left-hand side a series of partitioned rooms kept that side of the floor in semi-darkness.

  The floor was dusty but with signs of recent activity; footprints and scuff marks, like the lower floor. There were also discarded newspapers, cigarette packets and other items of detritus.

  Sanderson made his way towards the row of rooms. He paused at the doorway to the first, Cyril at his shoulder. He pushed the door open to reveal an empty room with two windows, the glass grey with cobwebs, dust and rain marks. The DCI stepped in and walked over to one of them. It was obvious they’d never been opened in decades.

  Cyril had meanwhile moved on to the second room. The door was closed but there was a key in the lock. He turned it, and slowly opened the door. The one window to this room had brown paper covering the glass. But there was enough light to see something that made him hesitate from entering. “Sir,” he called out. “I think you should see this.”

  Sanderson joined him and looked past Cyril. “Shit,” he said quietly.

  A door banged from somewhere below and both men looked sharply at one another. They held their respective breaths and listened. Voices. Indistinguishable voices were speaking.

  Cyril pulled the door to and turned the key. As silently as they could, they made their way back to the stairs. The voices were clearer here but still they couldn’t make out what was being said.

  ‘Ground floor,’ Cyril mouthed.

  Sanderson nodded and began to descend the stairs, one careful step at a time. By the time they reached the first floor landing, they could make out the conversation from the floor below.

  “Do you need to see the rest of the building?” one asked.

  “I don’t think so, Mr Yardley,” the other responded.

  Cyril and Sanderson exchanged knowing glances.

  “Unfortunately,” the second man continued, “despite it being a magnificent Victorian structure, this will be worth more as a site than a building. You can just imagine the costs to bring it up to date with all that clients are looking for nowadays. Plus the maintenance costs on these old properties …”

  “Okay thanks.”

  Footsteps sounded as the pair appeared to walk towards the stairs.

  Cyril and Sanderson took a step onto the first floor.

  “And you’ll get back to me … when?” Yardley asked.

  The sounds of a door opening.

  “I should be able to have something for you …”

  The door slammed shut and all was silent again.

  Cyril walked over to the stain-encrusted window on the landing. He wiped a small section clear and could see Walter Yardley and another man in a suit carrying a clipboard walking across the open area of Yardley Electrical and back to their offices.

  “Who did you say Yardley’s bank with?” Sanderson asked.

  “Williams & Glynn’s on Head Street.”

  “I think we’d best pay them a visit, Cyril.”

  “So how are you getting along with DI Barton?”

  “He’s certainly unique,” Cyril said.

  DCI Sanderson was driving them into the centre of Colchester. They’d left the warehouse the same way they’d entered, Cyril making sure the door was as secure as when they’d found it.

  “You mean he’s difficult?”

  “He has some good points, once you get past the exterior.”

  Sanderson smiled and nodded. “Here we are,” he said, pulling the car to a halt kerbside outside the bank.

  Their enquiry was finally met by a small bespectacled balding man in a pin-stripe suit leading them through several doors and along a corridor to a room announcing ‘Mr C West, Manager’. The man opened the door and sat down behind a large mahogany desk.

  “Please gentlemen,” he said, indicating two chairs opposite, “take a seat. How can I help you?”

  “Mr West, we’re making enquiries into the background of someone we believe to be one of your customers,” Sanderson began.

  The manager adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose before responding. “In what way can I help?”

  “We were wondering what their financial status is.”

  “I’m not sure I have the authority to provide you with any confidential information, not without a warrant or permission from Head Office.” West’s tone was quiet, calm and measured. Cyril immediately thought of Richard Attenborough’s portrayal of John Christie in the film, 10 Rillington Place. He bore an uncanny resemblance too.

  “We could go through the process of obtaining a warrant, having a word with your managers,” Sanderson countered in equally measured tones. “But we are talking about a murder enquiry, Mr West.”

  The bank manager appeared to consider for a moment. “Which customer, may I ask?”

  “We’re interested in Yardley Electrical and Walter Yardley in particular.”

  West frowned. “Hmm.”

  He stood and walked over to a filing cabinet and pulled out a green folder. Returning to his desk he sat down, opened it and began to read. After a second, he paused and looked up at Sanderson. “Oh, excuse me, Chief Inspector, I’ve been rude. You and your colleague would like a drink? Tea or coffee?”

  “We’re fine at the …” Sanderson said.

  Cyril cut him off. “Actually, a cup of tea would be good, Mr West, thank you. He looked to Sanderson and nodded.

  “Er, well, a coffee for me please,” Sanderson joined in, realising what was happening.

  “I’ll just go and organise that for you gentlemen,” West said. He stood and left them alone in his office, the green file open on his desk.

  54

  Barton replaced the telephone receiver on the detective’s desk and stood up to leave. Before he could, ‘Roger Daltrey’ returned, two plastic cups of coffee in his hands.

  “Here,” he said. “I thought you could do with this.”

  Barton took the offered cup. “Thanks.”

  “You get through to the person you wanted?” the man asked.

  “I did, thanks again.”

  The Dutchman sat down behind his desk. “I gather you came over on the ferry yesterday? A little unexpected, I believe.”

  Barton sipped more of his coffee. “You could say that, yes.”

  “But you’re back on tonight’s sailing?”

  Barton was growing suspicious. He knew the man was a detective but he asked a lot of questions. And he knew the answers already. “Maybe. Just see how things go,” he said, trying to knock the man off his stroke.

  A slight smile played on Hendriks’ face. “You are a little suspicious,” he said. “Have you met Simon Holt, our London detective friend?”

  Barton was surprised at the mention of the Met officer. “No.”

  “Nice man. We worked together on a couple of investigations in the past. I had a missing girl from a small town near here. Simon found her for me in London. Only fourteen.”

  Barton nodded sagely. “Anyway,” he went on, “I’ll let you get on. Thanks for the coffee. It’s a bit better than we get in our station.” He offered his hand.

  Hendriks shook it. “You take care,” he said.

  Outside on the pavement, Barton found a street map on a noticeboard and studied his location and surroundings. He checked his watch and strode off, away from the railway station and towards the streets bordering the canals. First, he needed a change of underpants and maybe a fresh shirt. As he turned a corner, he got a pleasant surprise. There in front of him was a logo he instantly recognised;
C & A.

  He walked in and found menswear. Opting for the cheapest pack of three jockey shorts, he looked for a short-sleeved shirt. Finally, he settled on a cream cheesecloth one and paid for them. A quick check of his money revealed only about one hundred guilders left. That might just cover a couple of drinks, a snack and something for emergencies. In the first floor toilets he changed into his new purchases, put his old clothes in the bag and made for the exit.

  Back out on the street, the sun was still blazing down. Time to find a quiet bar, have a drink and pass the time until he had to catch a train back to Haarlem.

  Down a little side street he discovered a cosy looking establishment. The front was constructed in small Flemish brickwork incorporating a circular window and double doors. Above, a sign proclaimed it was ‘Pippa’s Bar’.

  He walked in from bright sunshine to a darkened interior. A few steps and he was at the bar. The barman asked what he’d like and he chose a bottle of Heineken. As he was waiting, his eyes began to grow accustomed to the light. That’s when he noticed that all the customers were young attractive women. The one exception was a middle-aged man sitting at a table with a glamourous dark-haired woman in hot pants and a low cut top.

  Oh shit, he thought, wondering how much his lager would cost and whether it would clean him out. Deciding not to be left with a shock, he insisted on paying when the barman placed it on the counter. At five guilders, he was pleasantly surprised and began to relax.

  “Hello,” said a sultry-sounding voice over his right shoulder.

  He slowly turned to see the smiling face of a gorgeous blonde-haired woman of about twenty-five.

  He hesitated. “Hi,” he finally responded, turning to face her.

  “Are you English?” she asked with a heavy Dutch accent.

  “You’ve guessed right.”

  “On business here or holiday?”

  He looked down to her cleavage then back to her face. Memories of the old TV series, Rawhide flashed through his mind. He could hear a cowboy character shout, ‘Head ‘em up, move ‘em out.’ He smiled, more at that thought than the woman.