by David Evans
The policeman pushed up his visor. “Something wrong?” he wondered.
“Just checking the map,” Barton lied. “Are we far away?”
“Next turn to the right and there is a rear entrance to the ferry terminal in about a kilometre.”
“Who sent you exactly?”
“You are suspicious, yes?” the policeman asked.
Barton said nothing.
“I was instructed to make sure you made the sailing by Inspecteur Lars Hendriks. Looks like your Roger Daltrey.” The man grinned, replaced his visor and began to ride up the road.
Barton laughed to himself, lifted the clutch, released the handbrake and followed his guardian.
As he took the next right, the lights of the ferry terminal came into view. At the gates, the policeman turned the bike, waved a hand and rode off, leaving Barton to approach the barrier and begin the process of clearing the security procedures. Gray’s documentation eased his passage through Immigration checks and, after a cursory inspection of the van’s cargo by Customs, he drove onto the vehicle deck.
Safely on board the ferry, he wandered through the passenger lounges. They were a lot quieter than on the outward journey. He could do with something to eat before the boat sailed but the restaurant wouldn’t open until after they’d moved off. It had been a long time since he’d eaten. Maybe a pint at the bar too. He had enough money left for that and hopefully some duty-free cigarettes. After all, never look a gift horse. A smile came to his face as he remembered the conversation he’d had in Pippa’s Bar. Another time, maybe.
But first, he needed to ask a favour from the ship’s wireless operator. As luck would have it, it was the same man on duty who had been in charge the day before. After tapping in some numbers, he handed Barton a telephone handset with a dialling tone buzzing from the earpiece.
He managed to catch Sanderson at home. He took him through the meet at Gert’s Bar and the rendezvous a few hours ago. All seemed as it should as far as the flower cargo was concerned.
“Just give me a call from a callbox once you’re off the ferry tomorrow morning. I’ll be with the team for a briefing from seven,” Sanderson said just before the call ended.
Barton thanked the wireless man and departed in search of some food.
Just before one o’clock, suitably fed and watered he settled down into a chair on the starboard lounge, wrapping Lennie King’s leather jacket around him and cuddling his pack of 200 Peter Stuyvesant cigarettes. He closed his eyes and began to mull over what Sanderson had told him of events back in Clacton. Hugh McKinley and Morag Watson, the pair of pissheads had had some intriguing information. Tommy Marshall was not a name Barton was familiar with. But Cyril was on the case. He’d originally baulked at the idea of having him assist the CID team but he’d warmed to the man during this adventure. He’d begun to appreciate his qualities. God, he must be going soft.
He was on that slope down into deep sleep when a voice spoke to him.
“Glad to see you’ve looked after the leather jacket.”
Barton opened his eyes to see Lennie King grinning at him before sitting down in the adjacent chair.
“I wondered if you’d make it.” Barton struggled to open his eyes.
King laughed. “I told you I would.”
Barton straightened himself up in the seat. “Well you had me fooled. I thought you were in a bad way. What happened at the hospital?”
“They reckoned I was okay. They couldn’t find any evidence of the angina attack. Wanted to keep me in for forty-eight hours observation mind.” King gestured with his hands. “So I discharged myself. No good sitting around in a foreign hospital.”
“You certainly pulled the wool over the ship’s doctor’s eyes too.”
“When you know the symptoms and the signs …” King left the sentence unfinished. “Anyway, how did you get on in Haarlem?”
Barton gave a brief recount of the previous twenty-four hours. “But what was all that James Bond shit – code seven?” he concluded.
“It was a secure way to tell Holt that the operation had been compromised. That way he could make alternative plans for the shipment not making it to London.” He paused for a second. “But there was something else he was concerned about. Hopefully, that should bear fruit.”
“What’s that?”
“The fewer people who know the better.” King looked around before he spoke again. “But you’ll need me to drive the van back to the warehouse.”
“No fucking way,” Barton exploded. It was his turn to glance around the lounge. There was no one within earshot. “I’m not letting you get behind the wheel.”
King leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “So how do you think it’ll look when you turn up with the shipment? I go off in the van and a copper drives it back.”
“They won’t know who I am. I’m just a mate of yours doing you a favour. You fell ill and you called me to stand in for you.”
King threw his head back. “Are you serious? Of course they’ll know you’re job. Christ, they can smell you a mile off.” He leaned forward once again. “Now I drove it away and, as far as they know, I’ve been to Haarlem and I’m driving it back to the warehouse.”
Barton had to admit that that might give Sanderson a better option. He still didn’t know for certain what was planned for their return. The Robinsons would know straight away something was wrong if King didn’t reappear. And with their record for violence, that might not end well.
Barton wrestled with the problem as King watched him closely.
“I told you, I couldn’t leave it unfinished. I owe Jimmy that,” King added.
“What is it with you blokes and the war? Cyril’s always going on about it.”
King looked earnestly at the detective. “Cyril Claydon’s a good bloke. Straight as they come. You’re too young; you don’t understand what our generation went through; the bonds that were formed. If it wasn’t for …”
“Okay, okay, I get the picture,” Barton interrupted. “But tell me this, what do you know about Morgan’s murder?”
“Know? I don’t know anything for sure,” King responded. “But I suspect.”
“What do you suspect?”
“He was your grass, right?”
“What makes you …?”
King stopped him. “Look, if you want me to be honest with you, the least you can be is honest with me.”
Barton held up a hand. “All right,” he sighed. “Yes, he used to come to me with snippets.”
“And what was the last snippet he brought you?”
Barton stood up. “Let’s get a drink. I think it might be a long night.”
“Before you do,” King looked straight at the DI. “Let’s have my jacket back. It cost me an arm and a leg.”
Barton couldn’t help but grin, took off the jacket, handed it back to the man then headed for the cafeteria bar.
King opted for a mug of tea but Barton came back with a pint of lager for himself.
Back at the table, Barton explained that Morgan had told him about Walter Yardley’s plans to bring diamonds into Britain illegally. He’d got no further details other than that; certainly not the expanded story of them picked off stolen items of jewellery from across Europe and no mention of Victor Robinson’s involvement further down the line.
“I didn’t know that until I spoke to him that last time,” King explained, stirring sugar into his tea.
“And when was that?”
“It must have been … mid-August. Maybe a week or so before the plane crash. I met him for a pint.”
Barton sipped his lager. “How did he seem?”
“Nervous.” King caught Barton’s expression. “Not from the flower runs. He’d done two of those already. He just had a feeling, you know?”
“I don’t.”
King leaned in closer. “Well, you know he was also doing some driving work for Yardley?”
Barton nodded.
“That was how he discovered Yardley�
�s plans. He overheard a telephone conversation one night when he got back to the yard. I don’t think Yardley expected anyone to hear.”
“So did Yardley find out?”
“No.” King took a drink of his tea. “At least at that point he didn’t think so. But he was becoming suspicious of someone in the job.”
“Like who?” Barton was indignant. “I hope you don’t think it’s me.”
“It’s a bit bloody late if I do, but no, he trusted you. I hope he wasn’t wrong.”
“Not with me. But in what way was he suspicious? Why?”
“He was beginning to wonder if someone was in the Robinsons’ pocket. I must admit I’m a bit wary as well. But I got myself involved to try and find out who did for Jimmy.”
“And just how did you manage that?”
“Jimmy had introduced me to Holt. I told you we were close. Jimmy told him I was interested in working with him inside the Robinson set up.”
“Hold on,” Barton said disbelievingly, “You couldn’t have just walked in on the say so of Morgan.”
King took a breath before he replied. “No, you’re right. I knew Frank Robinson, the old man, during the war. We used to … well, Jimmy too, later. In fact it was me who introduced Jimmy to Frank.”
“But listen, are you saying it could be DCI Holt?”
King shook his head, “No, I don’t think so. Why would he stitch us up to the Robinsons? He wanted us in there to find out what they did and how they did it.” He drained his tea, looked down at the table for a second before focussing on Barton. “He thought it was someone in the local plod who was close to Yardley.”
Barton leaned back and puffed out his cheeks. “Shit,” he said quietly.
“Exactly. So how many know you’ve substituted for me? If word gets back to the Robinsons, I’ll be the next stiff. Why should I trust you? How do I know for sure you’re not in somebody’s pocket?”
Barton mulled things over. “You don’t,” he finally said. “But I don’t think you’ve got a choice.”
King frowned and thought for a minute. “Okay, but I’m driving the van back to the warehouse.”
59
Wednesday 8th September
It was six thirty when Cyril approached DCI Sanderson’s office. He’d woken early, his mind lively. He’d glanced at the clock for the first time at four, unable to stop himself wondering how Barton was. If all was going to plan, he should be safely back on the ferry. If it wasn’t - it didn’t bear thinking about.
Sanderson saw him approach through the glazed partition and waved him in. “You couldn’t sleep either?” he greeted.
Cyril shook his head. “Not with all this going on.” He wasn’t surprised to see the DCI dressed in a smart shirt and tie, and a suit jacket, even at this time of the day. “Have you heard from the DI?”
“He’s on the ship with the van. He managed to call me last night at home.”
“Everything okay?”
“As far as he could tell. Got a bit of help from a Dutch detective when the traffic snarled him up on the way to the port. I’m expecting him to call with a final update once he’s off the vessel.” He glanced at his watch. “They shouldn’t be far off docking now.”
“So what are your thoughts?” Cyril asked.
“Tell me again what you heard when DS Gray made that call on the ferry.”
Cyril reprised what he’d overheard.
“And you’ve no idea who he was talking to?”
Cyril shook his head.
“His boss, Crimond maybe?”
“Might have been, but I couldn’t say.”
A grim expression formed on Sanderson’s face. “Anything in his tone?”
“I’ve been turning it over in my head, but there’s nothing really, except …”
“Except what?”
“I got the impression it was someone he knew well, as a friend maybe. That’s not to say, it couldn’t have been a work colleague.”
“So it might have also been someone from the Met - Holt, or even one of the Robinsons.”
“Sorry.”
Both men were silent for a while before Cyril thought out loud, “Don’t forget we had to tell Gray about Lennie King’s participating informant status because he was present when DI Barton and I were discussing that someone should substitute for him.”
“He seems to have been everywhere,” Sanderson said, almost to himself.
Cyril could see the DCI was troubled. “Is there something else, Sir?”
Sanderson let out a deep breath, looked at him for a second before coming to a decision. “This is in strictest confidence, Cyril.”
“Of course.”
“I’ve been sifting through the events since Dick, I mean John, came to me with the information that Morgan had passed on to him about Walter Yardley’s plans.” Sanderson paused. “Well, the only one I can think of was …” He turned away and shook his head. “Oh, I can’t believe I’m saying this.”
“Go on,” Cyril encouraged.
“Well it’s the Chief Super.”
“What, DCS Viney?” Cyril sounded incredulous. “Are you sure?”
Sanderson nodded. “Positive. I remembered I bumped into him in the corridor later that morning, after John had told me. He’d seen Morgan the night before. And when the Super asked me how things were going, I mentioned what I’d just been told.”
“But he could have spoken about that to someone else; higher up maybe?”
“I considered that, but …”
“Something else?”
“I seem to remember hearing that Yardley and he were close in the past. Socialise in the same circles. Mr Viney lives in Frinton too.”
“Does he know about the DI’s unplanned trip to Holland?”
Sanderson shook his head. “He’s been on holiday, not back until tomorrow - golfing, I think. I didn’t think I should try and get hold of him.” A smile played on the DCI’s lips.
“Because of your suspicions,” Cyril completed.
Sanderson didn’t react.
“So what are we doing, Sir?” Cyril asked.
The DCI hesitated for a second. “You’ve been in that warehouse,” he said. “Do you think you can sketch out some plans before the rest turn up?”
“I should think so. So we’re going in with the van then?”
“I’d like to keep my options open. Plan it that way but I’m hoping John will have something for me to work with. I don’t have to make a definite decision until I know a bit more. In the meantime, use the blackboard in the CID office.”
60
Barton’s mind was humming. What King had said about someone in the local force made sense to him. But who? And who were they tipping off? Certainly the Robinson boys knew the raid was coming on their static. But Morgan came to him with information about Yardley. So did Yardley tell the Robinson brothers? After all, he’s renting the warehouse to them. And he’s hoping to fence his diamonds through them. But then, does he also know that Morgan and now King are working for the Met? If that’s the case, King will be targeted when they get back to Colchester. But do the Robinsons also know about King’s medical problem and the fact that he, Barton, had made the contact in Holland? He’d been convinced it wasn’t DCI Sanderson. But was he duped? Could it be? Or is it, as Sanderson suggested, someone higher up?
King had explained all he suspected about Morgan’s death and what he knew about the Met detective, DCI Holt. Somewhere along the line, he couldn’t discount the possibility of someone on the payroll within Special Branch too.
Barton couldn’t make any sense of it. His thoughts scrambled into one big mass like spaghetti. It turned out to be a long night. But somewhere around four in the morning, Barton and King had dropped off.
A few hours later, movement in the lounge brought Barton awake.
King stood up and stretched. “Just going for a pee and freshen up,” he said and wandered off.
Barton returned to the cafeteria and bought two teas. As he
did so, he scanned the other passengers for any faces he recognised, or any suspicious ones. Nothing. Maybe he’d be followed once he left the ship. After all, the van was pretty distinctive.
King returned and welcomed the hot drink Barton had organised.
“So you travel through Customs and Immigration as a foot passenger with your passport and ticket,” Barton instructed. “I’ll take the van through and use the Special Branch pass DS Gray gave me.”
“You’re not going to piss off and leave me, are you?” King said. “That’ll be a disaster for you.”
“Trust me,” Barton responded. “Make your way up to the roundabout and I’ll pick you up there. But I’ll need to make a phone call first.”
As they finished their hot drinks, the crew made the announcement for all drivers to return to the vehicle decks and prepare to disembark.
Barton and King looked at one another. “Keep your eyes peeled for anything suspicious,” Barton said. “Anybody following you, taking too much of an interest in you, anything at all. If in doubt, call the station in Clacton and speak to DCI Sanderson.”
“But I’ll see you up the road.” King expressed it as a statement, rather than a question.
Barton nodded. “I’ll be doing the same. But if I think someone is on to me, I’ll abort the whole thing.” Barton held out a hand. “Take care. See you later.”
King shook it. “You too.”
Barton made his way down to the vehicle deck via the toilets, staying alert for anything unusual. Back in the cab, he waited until the vehicles in front began to move. He fired up the engine and slowly made his way off the ferry.
61
By the time the room started to fill up, Cyril had drawn out the floor plans of the warehouse from memory onto the blackboard which stood on an easel.
“Morning, Skip,” a familiar voice said.
Cyril turned to see Sam Woodbridge at his shoulder.
“I recognise that,” he said, indicating Cyril’s drawing. “Is that what all this is about?”
Cyril looked round and recognised the half dozen or so uniforms filtering into the room. He spoke quietly. “Looks like DCI Sanderson is preparing then. What have you been told?”