by David Evans
Cyril turned away to view the beach once more. Barton’s comments made him feel ill. After a few seconds, he turned back to face the DI. “But are you happy?”
Barton took a drag. “Oh I don’t know …”
“I don’t think that you are, John.”
Whether it was Cyril’s first use of Barton’s Christian name since working with him or he had hit a nerve, the DI quickly changed the subject. “So what do we think about this case then? What’s your take?”
Cyril took a large swig of his drink. “Well, I don’t think there’s any doubt that Jem Fletcher intended to fly out over there,” he indicated the sea, “maybe ten or so miles and dispose of Morgan where he hoped he’d never surface. But I don’t believe Fletcher was a murderer. This has all the hallmarks of a gangland assassination. But how Fletcher got caught up in all this, I don’t know. The one hundred pounds in his pocket would be a pretty big inducement. But is Morgan the first? How many times has he successfully disposed of a corpse? You’re going to say that the Robinsons are in pole position for this, especially with what Beryl’s just told us but …”
“But you’re not entirely convinced?”
“No, it’s not that, it’s just I think we have a lot more to find out yet.” Cyril used his pipe to make a point. “I mean, what did Yardley say about his plane and Fletcher?”
Barton rolled his eyes. “Oh shit, I forgot to get over and take a statement.”
“Was that the first time Fletcher had taken his plane up without asking? Had he done that with anybody else’s craft? I got a list of other owners who sometimes used his talents.”
Barton broke into a broad grin. “You know, Cyril,” he said, “I knew it was a good idea bringing you back into CID.”
Like hell you did. Cyril knew full well it had been Sanderson’s decision.
11
The Three Jays pub sat on a crossroads part way down Jaywick Lane to the west of Clacton. A big property, brightly lit with large windows meant that the people inside could be seen after dark without them being aware.
Cyril parked up by the nearby parade of shops and strolled past. He spotted his target sitting on a bar stool nursing a pint and chatting to three other men. Crossing the road, Cyril opened the door to the public phone box, lifted the receiver and dialled a number.
“Yeah?” a voice answered as the tones to insert coins interrupted. Cyril pushed them in.
“Is Lennie in tonight?” Cyril asked.
“Lennie?”
“Lennie King yes.”
“I’ll have to check. Who wants to know?”
“Tell him it’s Dirty Harry.”
There was a muffling noise as the barman attempted to cover the mouthpiece, not very effectively. “Lennie,” he could hear the man say, “It’s some fucking joker, says it’s Dirty Harry for you.”
Another load of shuffling and muffling and then, “Hello?”
“Lennie, it’s Cyril. How are you?”
“How did you know I was here?”
“Call it an educated guess. Now, I need a word.”
There was a pause before Lennie responded. “Well I’m not sure I can get them for you, Harry. It’ll take time.”
“Stop messing about Lennie and meet me outside. Walk down the street and I’ll pick you up.” Cyril put the phone down and made his way back to his car. Passing the pub once more, he could see Lennie draining his pint and walking towards the toilets.
Back in the car, Cyril watched as Lennie appeared a few minutes later, looked up and down the street then made his way down Jaywick Lane.
Passenger window down, Cyril pulled alongside him. “Get in Lennie,” he instructed.
The man leaned in through the window. “Look, this is a bit awkward for me, Mr Claydon. If anybody sees …”
“Relax. Nobody knows you’re talking to me.”
Lennie King was a character Cyril had had dealings with many times over the years. In his early fifties now, he’d lived a life on the line between honesty and criminality, veering towards the wrong side from time to time. But overall, Cyril found him to be an honest criminal, if there could ever be such a thing. And, he had his ear to the ground.
He got in and they drove down the street, turning sharp right at the bottom to run parallel with the shore. As they passed the Never Say Die pub where he’d shared a drink with Barton only a few hours before, Cyril spoke, “Thought that was your regular watering hole.”
“Clientele are a bit rough for my liking,” Lennie retorted.
Finally pulling up on some waste ground by the side of the amusement arcade, Cyril switched off the engine and turned to face Lennie. “Jimmy Morgan,” he said, “what’s the story?”
A bewildered expression appeared on Lennie’s face. “Jimmy Morgan? What’s he done now?”
“Just tell me about him.”
“Can I smoke?” Lennie asked.
“Be my guest.”
The man pulled a cigarette packet and a lighter from his pocket, tapped one out and lit up. “Jimmy keeps himself to himself these days. You know he has a small bungalow down here?” He indicated the streets beyond the arcade.
Cyril nodded. “So I believe.”
“Shacked up with some divorced bird. Dresses a bit tarty but I think they’re solid.”
Cyril smiled. “But what’s the word, Lennie? You know what I’m asking.”
He took a deep draw and exhaled loudly. “He thinks he’s close to some big people. Talks a good game but I would think he doesn’t know half of what he reckons he does. I can’t see anyone letting him in on anything big. Just a bit of a gofor.”
“So when was the last time you saw him?”
Lennie screwed up his face. “That must have been … ooh, about five days ago. He was in the shop buying some cigs.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“Exchanged a nod, that’s all. Like I say, he tends to keep a distance and, to be honest, I don’t want to get too involved.”
Cyril studied him for a few seconds. “But no word on the street as to what he’s been up to, specifically?”
Lennie puffed on his cigarette once again. “Not heard anything involving him, Mr Claydon. But you’ve obviously got him in the frame for something.” He looked pleadingly for some morsel of information from the sergeant.
Cyril was amazed word still hadn’t leaked out about Morgan’s demise, and he certainly didn’t want to be responsible for that revelation hitting the streets. “Okay Lennie, thanks for that.”
The man looked disappointed, pulled a last drag on his cigarette, flicked it out of the window and opened the door.
“Careful you don’t start a grass fire,” Cyril quipped, about to start the engine.
Before he closed the door, Lennie popped his head back in. “Very droll Mr Claydon. Grass fire. But you do know he’s a grass, don’t you?”
Cyril froze and looked to the man. “What do you mean? Morgan? Who for?”
“Word is, one of your lot in Clacton.” A smirk appeared on Lennie’s face. “See you Mr Claydon.”
The passenger door closed and Cyril watched him make his way across the rough ground to the road before disappearing around the front of the arcade.
12
Thursday 2nd September
Cyril had called Yardley Electrical and made an appointment for eleven that morning to take a formal statement from Walter Yardley. Barton had told him to arrange that when they were on their way back to the station yesterday afternoon.
“I’m sure if there’s anything significant in what he has to say, you’ll find it,” he’d said. “But don’t upset him, he has connections.” With that, Barton had raised his eyes skywards. “Oh, and take Walker with you. It might be interesting for him.”
DC Bill Walker was twenty-four and in his first year in CID. He looked enthusiastic when Cyril told him what was planned for later that day. DC Miller, sitting one-fingered typing on the ancient Remington manual machine that sat on his desk, gave a grumble and
lit another cigarette. He was the older of the two, thirty-two, overweight and had probably reached the highest rank he’d achieve, whereas Walker appeared to have some ambition about him. That was Cyril’s opinion but he’d be surprised if Barton didn’t share it.
Cyril had also done a lot of thinking since talking to Lennie King last night. In his head, he replayed some scenes he’d witnessed since becoming involved in the investigation. The sharp close to the briefing on that first night; the look on Barton’s face when he received the note; Sanderson’s reaction. And then Barton’s behaviour when they spoke to Beryl Boynton. It just made him wonder … but how best to handle it, that was his dilemma.
After walking Charlie and dropping him off early next door with Doris, he hadn’t had time to eat anything before coming in. So by half-past nine, Cyril was beginning to feel peckish. Still, there’d be something interesting for him in the canteen.
About to put the first forkful of bacon, toast and beans into his mouth, a familiar voice interrupted.
“Hello, Skip, mind if I join you?”
Skip, short for Skipper, was the favoured term most uniformed constables used to refer to their sergeants.
Cyril looked up into the smiling face of Sam Woodbridge.
“Sit yourself down,” Cyril invited.
Sam plonked his cup of tea onto the table and took a seat. “How’s progress with the air crash investigation?” he asked.
Cyril looked around then, keeping his voice low, said, “You know we’ve identified the other body now too?”
“I heard rumours you had but not who.”
Cyril decided to keep that information to himself. “That was a good witness you uncovered yesterday morning, Sam. The chef spotted a big Jag waiting at the lane entrance, and from what he told me I think I could narrow it down.”
“Glad to be of service.” Sam took a drink of his tea. “By the way, I heard something else you might be interested in.”
Cyril wiped his moustache with a paper napkin. “Really?”
Sam leant in close across the table. “You know the pilot, Jem Fletcher …”
“Yes.”
“He has an older brother, Adam … of course you do, I was forgetting, he identified Jem’s body.”
“Go on.”
“Well, from what I hear Adam Fletcher owes money to some fairly unsavoury outfit. Not really the sort you would want to cross.”
Cyril widened his eyes. “How much?”
“Didn’t hear specific amounts but rumoured to be fairly serious.”
“And the ‘unsavoury’ banking outfit?”
Sam looked disappointed. “I didn’t hear who, but I got the impression it was someone with London connections.”
“Well that’s certainly interesting, I’ll look into that.” Cyril prepared another forkful as Sam drained his tea.
“Must get off,” the young constable said. “Supposed to be out on patrol …” he paused to glance at his watch. “… about now.”
“Take care, Sam,” Cyril said. “And if you pick up any more tit bits, let me know.”
Sam nodded as he left, taking his empty cup and saucer with him.
As Cyril followed Sam’s progress, he spotted Cathy Rogers enter the canteen and study the menu. Up on tiptoe momentarily to look at something, he found himself admiring her legs once again. Surprised by his interest, he looked down at his plate and continued to eat.
After a few minutes, he looked up again to find her looking across at him, breaking into a smile. She walked over with a tray containing a cup of tea and a sandwich.
“Hello again,” she said. “Do you mind if I join you?”
He coughed on his last mouthful and indicated the seat opposite him. “Sorry about that,” he said, wiping his mouth with the paper napkin. “Went down the wrong way.”
“And here’s me thinking I’d caused it,” she quipped, taking her cup, saucer and plate off the tray.
Cyril felt himself colour.
“I always seem to get hungry this time of the morning,” she went on. “Don’t eat at lunch-time but …”
“Actually,” he interrupted, “I’m glad I saw you.” He wondered if she might be talking nervously. “Could you could get hold of a file for me?”
“Sure. Just let me know.” She took a bite of her sandwich.
“Can you get hold of Adam Fletcher’s record? He’s the older brother of Jeremy, the file you tracked down the other day.”
She swallowed. “Mmm. I’ll pop it up to you a bit later.”
“Thanks, Cathy.” He began to tidy his knife, fork and plate then noticed Bill Walker enter and look around.
Spotting Cyril, Walker walked towards them.
“I’ve got to go,” Cyril said, standing up. “Speak to you later.”
“Bye then.” Cathy gave him that smile again.
As they left the canteen, Cyril was sure Walker wanted to say something but daren’t risk it.
13
The premises of Yardley Electrical Manufacturers Ltd were located in The Hythe district at about the limit of shipping up the River Colne. Colchester, renowned for being Britain’s oldest recorded town, to the surprise of many was also a port. Presumably that was one of the reasons the Romans settled the area.
Cyril pulled to a halt in one of three visitors’ parking spaces outside the Victorian brick built offices and killed the engine. As he swung the car in, another vehicle caught his eye. He and Walker stepped out and he locked the car. Strolling over to the bay marked ‘Chairman’, he took note of the dark grey Daimler V8 Mark 2 which sat there. The Daimler was a variant of the Jaguar with exhausts either side. Interestingly though, this was ‘G’ registered, 1969.
After a wait of a few minutes, the young receptionist guided them through to the Chairman’s office. Walter Yardley stood to greet them, holding out a hand. He was a tall well-built man in his sixties with thinning grey hair.
“DS Claydon,” he said, “Good to meet you.”
“And you, Mr Yardley,” Cyril responded. “And this is DC Walker.”
Yardley indicated the two chairs in front of his desk.
“Please,” he said, before sitting down himself. “Shocking business,” he went on.
Walker flipped open his notebook whilst Cyril pulled out a statement form from the folder he’d brought with him. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr Yardley, you’re obviously a busy man but we just need to go through the formality of obtaining a statement from you.”
Yardley held up a hand. “Of course, I understand. And if there’s anything I can do for Mr Fletcher’s family …”
“I’ll pass your sentiments on.”
“Sorry gentlemen, can I get you some refreshments? Tea, coffee, or something stronger, eh?”
“We’re fine, sir, thank you,” Cyril said. “Now if I can just go through some of the facts? How long have you owned the plane?”
Yardley leaned back in the old comfortable-looking winged back leather chair and clasped his hands together. “Well, that one I’ve had for about four years. It’s the second model I’ve had. I sold the previous one to fund this one. I’ve always had the flying bug since a pal took me up in a Spitfire at the end of the war. Probably wouldn’t be allowed to have that sort of treat nowadays, but back then, things were a bit different.” Cyril nodded agreement as he began to write. “And once this place took off …” he gestured around him with both hands. “I began to realise I might have the money to indulge myself.”
“So the business is doing well?”
“Despite the government’s best efforts to cock things up, yes.” He grinned at his own comments.
“So how do you handle maintenance on the plane?”
“When I first had one, I used to do a lot myself, but I was younger then. Also, I seemed to have more time. But as the business grew, I realised it was more effective to have external mechanics carry out the routine maintenance. First of all there was old George who was one of the stalwarts of the flying club. He’d been
a top engineer in the Castle Bromwich factory that produced Spitfires and Lancasters in the war and retired down here. But then he died.” Yardley shook his head. “A sad loss. What he didn’t know about an aircraft engine wasn’t worth knowing.”
Walker began to fidget but Cyril was happy to let Yardley carry on reminiscing. Although it might take a little longer, he knew he’d get more and better information if he just let the man tell it in his own time.
Yardley leaned forward. “And that’s when someone recommended a couple of the mechanics the others use, Barry Hill and Jem Fletcher. So I gave Barry a try about … ooh, two years ago now, and he keeps the machine airborne.”
Cyril looked up from the statement pad. “So your regular mechanic was this Barry Hill?”
Yardley looked a bit flustered. “Yes, he was supposed to be doing some servicing for me last week but I’ve also used Fletcher too.”
“But did you know Fletcher was going to take the plane up on the morning he did?”
Yardley coughed. “Well er … not exactly. But he did have permission to fly it,” he added quickly.
“Mr Yardley, I’m not concerned with any insurance issues you may have here, I’m only interested in establishing the facts. Now, if Jeremy Fletcher took your plane up without your specific knowledge but had blanket permission to do so, that’s of interest to us. What about Barry Hill? Was he subject to a similar arrangement?”
“Well, yes. They both were.”
“Do you have contact details for Mr Hill?”
Yardley opened up a desk diary and flicked through some pages before making some notes on a piece of paper. “This is where Barry’s based,” he said, handing the paper to Cyril.
“Thanks.” Putting the note in the folder, Cyril resumed his questioning. “Knowing what we know now, that Fletcher was attempting to fly the plane, can you think of any other occasion when you might have suspected that he’d done this without telling you?”
Yardley furrowed his brows for a second. “I can’t think of anything. But, it’s not beyond the realms of possibility.”
“So when was the last time you actually flew the plane yourself?