by David Evans
“Not now, Dawn. I’m in a bit of a rush.”
“But …”
Yardley dashed through the office door and into a corridor. On past reception where a middle-aged woman looked up from answering the phone.
“I’ve got Mr …” she announced.
“Bit of a hurry.”
Out through the main doors, he rushed down the steps and felt in his jacket pocket for his car keys. Distracted, he didn’t notice the two figures approach him from either side of the entrance. Something tapped his heels and he lost his footing. Down onto the tarmac he fell. Hands grabbed his arms behind his back and handcuffs clicked shut.
“Walter Yardley, you’re under arrest,” Sam Woodbridge said.
* * *
“Come on Walker, get this unloaded,” Sanderson instructed his officers by the rear of the van. “You lot, stay where you are,” he addressed the Robinson brothers and their two sidekicks.
Dashing over to Cyril, he stood by Barton who was handing the DS a handkerchief to hold to his head.
“Take it easy, Cyril. We’ll get some help,” King said, easing him into a sitting position.
“How are you doing?” Sanderson asked.
“I’m getting a bit sick of this,” Cyril said. “Always the same ruddy spot.” He shuffled his position. Barton and King helped him to his feet. “Has he broken my pipe too? That was my favourite.”
Barton looked to the floor where three pieces of pipe lay. “You mean you bluffed him with your pipe.” The DI looked incredulous. “Christ he could have shot me.”
“Desperate measures,” Cyril said.
Sanderson listened to a radio transmission then said, “They’ve got him.”
Cyril made his way to the back of the van, sat on an old upturned tea chest and watched as Walker and the other two uniforms piled boxes of flowers onto the concrete floor.
“Are you okay there?” Victor Robinson enquired. “That looks nasty.”
“It looks worse than it is,” Cyril responded.
“Look Mr Sanderson,” David Robinson said, “We had no idea that idiot had a gun or was going to turn violent. It’s got nothing to do with us.”
“That’s right. We only rent this place from him. Just a convenient stopping off point from the ferry,” Victor added.
Cyril got to his feet and indicated for Barton to follow him down the side of the van away from the gaze of the Robinsons. “They’re too self-assured,” he whispered. “Did you check what was in the van?”
“How could I? The van was delivered back to me fully loaded.” Barton looked worried. “But you’re right. They’ve been smirking and cocky since we jumped out of the van.”
As the two men walked back to the rear of the vehicle, loud drumming sounded as heavy rain fell on the roof above. Automatically, they glanced up to the upper floor before peering round to see inside the van. Only a few more rows of cardboard boxes to be removed and the false front of the inside would be revealed. No mistaking the confident body language of the brothers.
Finally, the last few boxes were cleared from the door to the false front. Walker slipped the catch and opened it. He looked inside then turned to Sanderson who was waiting expectantly. “Empty, Sir,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
“Shit,” Barton said.
The smirk re-appeared on Victor Robinson’s face. “Oh dear. I don’t know what you were expecting to find but we did say, all we had was flowers.”
Barton stepped up inside the van and checked for himself. The space behind the false front was empty. He strode back down to the rear and looked at the Robinson brothers. “Think you’re fucking smart, do you?”
The brothers looked at one another then Victor answered, “No idea what you’re on about, Inspector.”
Barton looked as if he was about to explode.
“Okay, John,” Sanderson said looking at his DI. “We can keep this civil.” He turned to Victor Robinson. “Have you ever been upstairs in this building, Mr Robinson?”
Victor shrugged and shook his head. “No need to.”
Unnoticed, Marshall nudged the Robinsons’ driver closer to the pedestrian door.
Sanderson looked from one Robinson brother to the other. “So we wouldn’t find any evidence of either of you having been on the upper floors?”
“Of course not,” David replied. “Now can we get these flowers back onto the van and on their way?”
Before anyone else could speak, Marshall and the driver dashed out of the door and into the street.
“Just a minute,” Sanderson called.
Over the crescendo of rainfall, they could hear the noise of the Daimler’s engine being started and the screech of tyres as it made a hurried departure.
“Christ’s sake,” Sanderson cursed. “John, Cyril, stay with this lot. They’re going nowhere. You with me!” he bellowed to the last uniformed officer who’d come in with him and dashed out of the door.
“Why the Hell did those two dash off?” Barton queried.
“They’ve taken my bloody car too.” Victor Robinson looked genuinely annoyed.
“Not a good day for you then,” Barton said.
“Could say the same for you,” David Robinson quipped.
“I’ve got an idea why,” Cyril put to Barton.
* * *
Sanderson jumped into his car, gunned the engine and raced off in the direction of the town centre, the PC in the passenger seat.
“Radio in for back up.” He leaned forward to see through the windscreen, the wipers struggling with the monsoon that appeared to be falling from the sky. “Tell control we’re in pursuit of a grey Daimler being driven at speed up Hythe Hill in the direction of the town centre.”
Sanderson wasn’t keen to pursue them at high speed. As well as the heavy rain, this was a built-up area, the road was narrow with cars parked on either side. On top of that, it was a lorry route to the quayside. But when he got to the Town railway station, he was in for a surprise.
The Daimler had obviously made the mistake of attempting to cut up two army vehicles on their way from the barracks with numerous squaddies on board. Marshall and the driver were being hauled from the car and it looked like the soldiers were about to take matters into their own hands.
Sanderson skidded to a halt just as the rain eased. He and the uniformed constable jumped out. “Thank you gentlemen,” he said, holding out his warrant card. “If you could just restrain yourselves and hold onto these two for us for a minute.”
* * *
“What do you mean, Cyril?” Barton asked.
Once again Cyril walked down the side of the van away from the Robinsons’ gaze. The three remaining PCs kept watch on the brothers. Lennie King stood by the van cab, hands in his pockets.
“Those old Jags, or Daimler in this case,” Cyril began, “are favoured by villains for a number of reasons. One, is they’re fast, but the other advantage is that they have voids behind the sills. Very useful place to keep a shotgun.”
“Come on officers,” Victor bleated. “Is there any chance we can get these flowers back onto the van? This is an expensive cargo.”
Barton looked cheered up. “Not until all these boxes have been checked by forensics.” He walked back to the rear of the van and surveyed the dozens of cardboard boxes strewn all over the concrete. “Who knows, you may be smuggling drugs in them.”
David turned on his brother, “This is all your bloody fault,” he scowled and paced the floor. “And as for that tosser you brought in to drive the van …”
Barton pulled out his radio, stepped into the street and called Sanderson.
* * *
Sanderson concluded the radio conversation with Barton, walked over to his car, opened the glovebox and pulled out a pair of gloves. He approached the Daimler and crouched down on the driver’s side. Feeling behind the sill, he could detect nothing untoward. As he walked round to the passenger side to do the same, he caught the concerned look on Marshall’s face. This time,
he detected the outline of something hidden behind. “Ah ha,” he said. Dropping to both knees and using both hands, he gave the object a shake and a twist. Finally, something came loose. From beneath the vehicle, as if producing a rabbit from a hat, he stood up with a sawn-off shotgun in his hands.
“Well, well, well, Mr Marshall. Is this what you were expecting I might find?” Sanderson held up the gun.
“Never seen it before,” Marshall said, none too convincingly.
A couple of the soldiers smirked as the DCI and the PC handcuffed Marshall and the driver, took them back to Sanderson’s car and pushed them into the back seat. Sanderson then radioed for transport to take the prisoners.
65
Clacton Police Station was witnessing one of the busiest days in its history. Certainly not since the pitched battles through the town and on the beaches between the Mods and the Rockers back in ’64 had the accommodation been so full.
The warehouse in Colchester had been sealed off as a crime scene and a team of forensics officers were working their way systematically through the building, some on the upper floors, others checking the van and its cargo.
Cyril had refused to leave until a patrol vehicle arrived to take the Robinson brothers and Lennie King separately, back to Clacton. He’d then taken Barton up to the first floor of the warehouse and shown him the workbench and the roll of industrial plastic. On up to the second floor, he told him about two of the rooms they suspected of being the site of the killings.
Barton finally persuaded Cyril to go to Clacton Hospital to have his head wound attended to. He and Walker stayed at the warehouse along with a couple of the uniforms until the forensics team arrived whilst Sam Woodbridge drove Cyril back to Clacton in the Transit van.
Victor and David Robinson were being held in separate interview rooms. Their solicitor had been called but had yet to arrive.
Walter Yardley was safely ensconced in another cell, dressed in a tracksuit, having given up his clothes for forensic analysis, the hand gun sealed in an evidence bag. Sanderson had no doubts it would be connected to the bullet they’d recovered from Jimmy Morgan.
The DCI had brought Marshall and the driver, a known villain by the name of Eddie Thompson, back to the station. They seemed relieved to have been rescued from the angry squaddies. They were in separate cells downstairs. The Daimler was being taken to a police garage in Colchester for forensic examination.
For appearances and possibly for his own protection, Lennie King was in another cell.
Up in the CID room, Sanderson was about to allocate who would conduct the various interviews when Detective Chief Superintendent Viney stormed in.
“Martin. A word now,” Viney said, turned and left the room as quickly as he’d entered.
Sanderson followed him along the corridor to his office.
“What the Hell’s going on?” Viney exploded as soon as the door was closed. “I have to hear about our big operation from some pompous arse in Colchester.” Five feet eight with dark hair around a bald dome, he was two years away from his retirement age of fifty-five.
“I did try and contact you, Sir but I understood you were on the golf course,” Sanderson replied calmly.
“But I wasn’t on the golf course when Barton disappeared to Holland though, was I?” Viney was up close to Sanderson, staring hard.
“It was one of those fluid situations. We had to act quickly.”
“And now I hear you’ve arrested Walter Yardley."
“That’s correct Sir. He held a hand gun to DI Barton and assaulted Sgt Claydon. We also suspect he was involved in the murder of James Morgan, the corpse discovered in Yardley’s crashed plane.”
“You have evidence to support this?”
“Witnesses to the assault, including myself …”
“I’m not talking about that, man. I mean the bloody murder.”
“We’re awaiting ballistic test results on his gun but I believe it will prove a match for the bullet we recovered from the body, Sir.”
Viney seemed to deflate. “Christ, this is going to send shock waves. He was good friends with the ACC as well, you know.”
Sanderson was encouraged. “What about yourself Sir? I mean you’re practically neighbours in Frinton.”
Viney’s look hardened. “We may live in the same town and I believe he belongs to the tennis club, but we’re not friends. There is no connection between us.”
“Of course not, Sir.”
Viney chose to ignore the last comment. “And you have the Robinson brothers in custody too?”
“We need to question them, yes.”
Viney gave an ironic chuckle. “Have you formulated a strategy? Who’s interviewing who?”
“I was just about to address the team on that, Sir.”
“Best get on with it then. I’ll have to speak with the ACC of course.”
As Viney lifted the handset, Sanderson left the office and closed the door.
* * *
“Try and keep your head away from any more bumps, Mr Claydon,” the doctor had said as he finished the dressing and removed his surgical gloves.
“Easier said than done, doctor.”
Feeling obvious, with a white bandage protecting the doctor’s fresh handiwork, Cyril returned to the waiting area. This was the second time in three days he’d had his head wound stitched.
A familiar figure stood up to greet him, a look of concern on her face.
“Hello,” he said. “Are you here to see a doctor?”
She grinned. “No, you fool, I came to see how you were.” Cathy Rogers studied his head. “That looks a neat job.”
“They tell me it shouldn’t scar … well hopefully not.”
She looked serious. “Sam told me what had happened. I’m sorry, Cyril. There’s me giving you the cold shoulder and all the time …” she began to laugh.
He smiled. “What’s so funny?”
“Sorry, it’s just me, take no notice. It’s just … well, Sam told me you were trapped in that van, with the chiller on, so you’d have had more than a cold shoulder in there.” She held his gaze for a second before he also burst into laughter.
“So am I forgiven for not turning up when I said I would?”
She made a face. “Well … depends how you’ll make it up to me.”
There was an awkward pause before Cyril looked at his watch. “Look, I’ll need to get back and find out what’s been happening while I’ve been in here with my feet up.”
“Of course,” she said. “I need to get back too. I only nipped across on my break.”
“I’ll walk with you,” he said and began to make his way out of the department.
She followed suit but began to talk. “I just need … I want to call in at a shop on the way. The others … they wanted …”
He stopped and faced her. “That’s okay, Cathy. You do what you have to for your colleagues. I’ll head back but look, when this has settled, do you still want to go to Dedham?”
She nodded and beamed at him. “If that’s okay with you?”
“Of course it is.” Another pause then, “I’ll see you back there and … thanks for your concern.” He smiled, turned away and disappeared through the doors.
* * *
Cyril walked back into the CID room just as Sanderson was resuming his briefing to the team. When the group saw him, a loud cheer broke out. He felt embarrassed.
Barton, who had returned just before him, came over. “What are you doing back,” he said quietly. “You need to rest up.”
“It’s only a flesh wound.” His hand went to the bandage.
“Come and sit down, Cyril,” Sanderson said. “I was just bringing everyone up to speed with where we are and how we’re going to take this forward.”
Cyril spotted Sam and sat next to him.
“So,” Sanderson continued. “Now you’re back with us Cyril, you and DI Barton, I want you to interview Yardley. Myself and Miller will tackle the Robinsons.” He paused to look round
the room. “As for Marshall and Thompson, well, we’ll let them stew for a while. The rest of you this will be your priorities …” The DCI proceeded to allocate tasks to the assembled officers.
Woodbridge turned to Cyril and whispered, “Thanks for the tip with Yardley. It was a good collar for me.” He was grinning.
“Just a hunch. I thought we’d best cover all the bases. Glad it worked.”
Sam leaned in closer. “Did Cathy find you?”
He turned to his young colleague. “Yes, Sam. She did.”
Sam smiled and faced the front once more. “Good,” he said. “One good turn ...”
66
“So what are you going to do now, Lennie?” Cyril asked.
Barton, Cyril and King were standing in Barton’s office. They’d brought him up from the cells before any of the other characters were to be questioned.
“I’ve got a sister in Nottingham,” King replied. “I thought I’d go there.”
“You’ll need to keep your head down for a bit. The Robinsons will know you had something to do with that raid.”
“I know.” King thrust his hands deep in his trouser pockets. “But first, I need to see DCI Holt too. He’ll want a statement from me before I disappear. I’ll get my things together and catch the train this afternoon.”
Barton offered a hand. “I admit I was suspicious of you at first.”
King shook it.
“But Cyril here always had confidence.”
King looked to the DS. “Thanks Mr Claydon.”
“I’ll see you out.” Cyril led the way downstairs. He paused by the main doors. “Take care of yourself, Lennie,” he said.
“You too,” King replied, shook Cyril’s offered hand and patted his arm.
Cyril returned to Barton’s office and lit up a replacement pipe. He needed a smoke after all that had happened.
“How did you know to send Woodbridge and the other lad round to the front entrance of Yardley’s offices?” Barton flicked ash from his cigarette into the Guinness ashtray on the desk, no doubt purloined from some drunken pub crawl.
“I just had a feeling Yardley might show up,” he said. “And if he did, he might want to make a quick exit when we showed our hand. I knew he was in the offices when we arrived, I spotted his car outside. And the obvious escape route.”