Disposal (The Tendring Series Book 1)

by David Evans

  “Okay,” Cyril finally said, “Any ideas?”

  Barton visibly relaxed. “Thank you.” He breathed out deeply, walked back around the desk and sat down. “I’ve been thinking …” he continued slowly, “… it has to be someone above me.” He jabbed a finger in the direction of the CID office. “I can’t think any of them has the connections ... or the balls.”

  They both glanced through the glazed door to the CID room where Miller and Walker had heard their raised voices. Once they became aware that the argument had stopped and they were being watched, they dropped their heads, attention focussed on their desks.

  Cyril resumed his seat. “Well let’s just keep an open mind on that for now.”

  Barton’s eyes narrowed. “You suspect one of them?”

  “No, but I just think we rule nothing out at the moment.” Cyril rubbed his moustache with thumb and forefinger. “So, up the line, what are your feelings?”

  “I hate to think of the possibilities.”

  Cyril sat back in his seat, confident for the first time since re-joining CID that he had Barton’s full support. “So what was the story with Jimmy Morgan?”

  Barton began playing with a pen then took a breath, as if still considering how much to tell. “Okay,” he finally said, “this is strictly confidential …”

  “Of course.”

  “I admit, Morgan was my informant. Not very often but, from time to time, he brought me some interesting snippets.”

  “So what snippet did he bring you last week? Specifically just a few days before the crash.”

  “No, that wasn’t me when Beryl said he’d gone to see a man about a dog. I’ve no idea who that was. I met him a few days before then. But he didn’t tell me anything about the Robinsons.”

  “So what was it?”

  “Yardley.”

  “Walter Yardley?”

  “Yes. He told me that Yardley was organising the smuggling of diamonds from Holland.”

  Cyril raised his eyebrows. “But why would Yardley get involved in something like that? He’s got a successful business.”

  “But is it?” Barton argued. “That’s what I asked. Apparently not everything in the Yardley Electrical garden is rosy, at least not according to Morgan. Since he told me, I’ve been trying to make some discreet enquiries to substantiate what he hinted at. But it’s difficult when you don’t want certain parties to find out you’re digging around.”

  “Chief Superintendent Viney, you mean?”

  “For one. But I did discover they have some cash-flow problems. One of their biggest customers went belly up just after Easter and they’ve been struggling since.”

  Cyril turned this over in his mind. There didn’t seem to be any panic or atmosphere of unease when he interviewed Yardley the other day. After a few seconds of consideration, he said, “But do you think Yardley might have had anything to do with Morgan’s demise?”

  Barton puffed out his cheeks then reached for the packet of Peter Stuyvesant on his desk. “I don’t know.” He pulled a cigarette free and lit it. Blowing out smoke, he added, “Perhaps not him personally, but someone who worked for him.”

  “And he does own a grey Daimler V8 like the one spotted parked up by the track entrance to the hangers the morning of the accident. I know his is a ‘G’ reg and our witness reckoned it was ‘D’, but in the dark, riding past on a bike, it would look similar.”

  “Ah,” Barton said, as if just remembering something. “I forgot to say, parked up by the Robinsons’ static this morning was a dark grey ‘D’ reg Daimler.”

  Cyril took a hand through his hair. “So that doesn’t really get us much further forward. We’ve got Morgan with connections to both the Robinsons and Yardley and they both have vehicles similar to one spotted on the morning of the crash.”

  Barton nodded and exhaled smoke. “Plus, Yardley Electrical bank with Williams & Glynn’s in Colchester, the same branch who issued the new ten pound notes we found on Fletcher. Miller found that out this morning. I mean, there’s no way they can confirm who they issued the notes to, could have been anybody over the period of a week leading up to the accident.”

  Cyril took his pipe from his pocket. He didn’t intend to light it, it just helped him think. “Okay,” he said, pointing with the stem. “Let’s look at it another way, who else knew Morgan was your informant?”

  “Hmm, that’s the thing …” Barton drew on his cigarette. “The only one I told was Martin.”

  “DCI Sanderson?”

  Barton nodded. “No one else. I only told him because of the close friendship Yardley supposedly has with the higher ups.”

  “I thought you were going to say that.” Cyril rattled his teeth with the pipe stem as he considered for a moment. “And definitely nobody else?”

  “No.”

  “And of course the DCI knew you were planning to raid the Robinsons’ caravan this morning.”

  Again Barton nodded affirmation.

  “No,” Cyril said. “I can’t believe Sanderson is on anyone’s payroll.”

  Barton took a last draw and stubbed out his cigarette. “I must admit, I can’t either but … I think we need to play things carefully from now on. And that’s why I said it was deliberate on my part to keep you in the dark about this morning’s raid.”

  “Go on.”

  “I have a little plan. It may not work but, if you’re prepared to give it a chance …”

  Cyril put his pipe back in his trouser pocket and leaned forward on to Barton’s desk to hear what his DI had in mind.

  21

  About six miles off shore from the Seawick Holiday Park, the skipper of the small fishing vessel, Margaret B, was looking forward to another fruitful morning. He was accompanied as usual by his best mate from schooldays. They’d both sunk their savings into the boat about ten years ago. It had been a profitable decision on the whole. A small but regular clientele, including hotels and a couple of holiday parks had been built up over time, helping them to see through even the dark days of the three day week a couple of years ago.

  Also on board once again was the skipper’s fifteen-year-old son. The boy had been with them several times during the summer and loved the sense of freedom out at sea, as well as the great summer weather they’d enjoyed this year. What he wasn’t particularly looking forward to was the return to school next week, so he was making the most of these opportunities to be with his dad.

  The net had been reeled out from the boat and, as they slowly dragged it behind, the skipper and his mate chatted about the latest TV news reports of the drought. Apparently, some rivers had actually run dry, there were standpipes in the streets of Yorkshire, and the water level in a Lake District reservoir had dipped so low that parts of a village had become visible once again after years submerged.

  Finally, it was time to pull the net back in. This was when they began to get excited about what size of catch they would make. With the skipper at the wheel and his partner operating the winch, the young lad watched the net slowly break the surface. After a few seconds, the lad cried out, “Dad! Dad, look at this!”

  The winch was stopped immediately and the engine set to idle as all three peered over the side. Firmly entangled in the net was a large shape wrapped in black plastic. They stood for a few seconds studying what was bobbing around in front of them. The skipper and his mate exchanged concerned looks.

  “What the Hell is …,” the skipper said, “It’s certainly not an old wartime mine.”

  “Let’s have a closer look then,” the mate responded.

  The three of them struggled to draw the net in closer. Each grabbed a piece of net as they pulled the package alongside. Twice they tried to heave the net on board and twice one of them almost fell overboard.

  “Hold on,” the skipper said. “We’re going to have to be careful here. Let’s see if we can use the winch to help us.”

  The mate stepped over to the controls. “When you’re ready,” he shouted.

  The sk
ipper gave the signal and his mate gently urged the winch forward as he and his son wrestled with the bundle. Slowly, they dragged it up to the bulwark. With one last effort, the mystery object, still entangled in the net fell over onto the deck.

  The winch was stopped and all three crowded round.

  “Get this out of here first,” the skipper said, pulling at the netting. His son joined in but came to a dramatic halt as his fingers caught a taped joint in the plastic.

  A mushy substance oozed from the tear and his father stood up.

  The young lad threw up over the side.

  “Christ! What the …” He stopped mid-sentence. With his hand covering his nose and mouth, he knelt back down and began to feel the shape contained within the plastic. He looked up at his mate.

  “Is that what I think it is?” his friend asked.

  “Radio in,” the skipper instructed. “Tell them we’re bringing a body back to shore. We’ll need the police.”

  22

  Brightlingsea has a strong historical foundation, being one of the Cinque Port limbs. It was a limb of Sandwich, one of the Kent and Sussex ports formed for military and trade purposes. Its recent industries have been fishing, specifically connected with oysters, and boatbuilding. With one road in and out, it was along this that Barton was driving his Rover 2000 with Cyril sitting alongside.

  Barton had been discussing his plan for Cyril’s weekend when the telephone call interrupted. Cyril had watched the expression on Barton’s face grow serious as he listened to the voice on the end of the line. When the call was ended, Barton grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and simply uttered a ‘Come on’ to Cyril. On the fifteen minute drive to the harbour, Barton explained what he’d been told about the fishermen’s find.

  The sun was beating down once more as the Rover paused by the uniformed constable at the end of the road, keeping unauthorised persons at a distance. Cyril could see a couple of Escort vans further along the quayside, recognising the unmarked white vehicles used by forensics officers.

  Barton drew the car to a halt and stepped out. Cyril followed. As they approached the circle of activity surrounding a small fishing vessel tied up against the quay, a gap opened up allowing them to see for the first time the black plastic covered shape lying on the concrete. The two forensics attendants wore face masks and the two uniformed officers held handkerchiefs to their mouths and noses. Barton and Cyril followed suit. Sitting on a nearby bollard, Cyril saw a youth being comforted by an older man whilst another man dressed similarly in all-weather fishing gear looked on.

  “The crew of the Margaret B, Sir,” one of the uniforms confided in Barton. “The two men own the boat and today, one of them had his son on board. They dragged this up in their nets about six miles out.”

  Barton nodded. Then to one of the forensics men, “Is this what it seems like? A human body?”

  “Certainly is, Sir,” the man confirmed. “Looks like it’s been in the sea for at least four weeks, I’d say. We’ll know more when we get it back to the morgue.”

  Barton gave orders for the uniforms to get statements from the crew then turned away and walked back down the quayside, grateful to put some distance between himself and the corpse.

  “Christ, Cyril,” he said, “Is this the start of a fucking epidemic?”

  “Well that’s two,” Cyril responded. “If what Vicky told me is correct, there’s still one more out there.”

  “Shit!” Barton quickened his pace back to the car.

  On the way back, Barton resumed the conversation about his proposals for Cyril. “Well there’s nothing we can do until we get matey there back on the slab and I’m not looking forward to that,” he said. “In the meantime, any thoughts on how you’re going to play things?”

  “I’ve got an idea,” Cyril said.

  A grin spread over Barton’s face. “So you’ve discounted the delightful Annie Cauldwell then?”

  “I think her husband might have some objections to that, don’t you?”

  “Maybe you’re right. I wouldn’t like to get the wrong side of that big Geordie bugger.” Barton thought for a second. “Mind you, there is always the lovely Cathy Rogers …”

  “Oh, damn,” Cyril reacted. “Sorry, didn’t mean to … It’s just …” he shook his head, remembering the invite from Cathy to join her in her pub quiz team on Saturday night. “It doesn’t matter. But no, that’s not an option either.” He knew Barton was trying to wind him up, but he was becoming adept at ignoring that strategy. “I have another idea but I need to do a bit of work on that when I get home. I’ll let you know later today,” he concluded.

  Barton resumed a serious expression. “Okay, but let me know what’s happening. And don’t forget, this is purely between you and me. I don’t want this leaking out … not yet anyway.”

  23

  “Cup of tea for you, Doris.” Cyril walked out into the back garden. His neighbour was sitting in her garden chair, Charlie in his favoured position by her side. The old dog struggled to his feet as he walked over to the pair of them.

  “Careful, Charlie,” he said, placing two cups and saucers on the table by his neighbour’s side.

  “You’re a treasure,” she responded. “Just what I need.”

  Cyril sat down beside her in the other chair. “Has he been good?” he asked, making a fuss of the big Labrador.

  “My best friend.” She took a drink of her tea. “You’re home early today. Have you solved the riddle?”

  “Riddle?”

  “Crashed plane, mystery object.”

  “Ah, the Gazette. No, not yet.” After a few seconds, he spoke again. “Doris, I wanted to ask you something.”

  She turned and using a hand to shield her eyes from the bright sunshine, looked at him. “Of course you can, Cyril.”

  “When was the last time you had a holiday?”

  “Ooh, it must have been …” She thought for a second or two. “… last July. Yes. Me and Betty took a coach holiday to Torquay for a week. Why do you ask?”

  “So you’re really overdue one now?”

  A broad grin broke on her face. “Cyril, you’re not propositioning me are you? Not at my age?”

  He snorted. “No, Doris but I thought we might be able to do each other a favour.”

  “I’m intrigued.”

  Over the course of the next few minutes, Cyril outlined the scheme he and Barton had come up with.

  * * *

  “Is Cyril not with you, Sir?” DC Walker asked as Barton strode through the CID room towards his office.

  Barton turned round and made an exaggerated point of looking all round him. “No, I don’t believe he is.” He continued on his way.

  “It’s just …”

  Barton paused again. “Yes, Walker.”

  “He asked me to have another word with the chef from Butlin’s.”

  Barton scoffed. “That’s two words I thought I’d never hear together. Since when did Butlin’s employ chefs?”

  “Anyway,” Walker ignored his boss’s sarcasm. “Jack Finnegan, the bloke that spotted the car idling by the track end on the morning of the crash ...”

  “What about him?”

  “When I spoke to him this afternoon, he was wearing glasses. When I asked him if he always wore them, he said he didn’t really like to, but he had to when he was working.”

  Barton sighed. “What’s the point of this, Walker?”

  “The point is that when he was cycling to work that morning, in the dark, he couldn’t really tell if the car was D registered or G. He just thought it might be a D.”

  Barton looked to the ceiling. “God give me strength. Okay lad, thanks.”

  As he approached his office door his phone began to ring.

  “Barton,” he growled into the receiver, listened for a minute then added a ‘thanks’ and replaced the handset.

  Back out into the CID room, he pointed at Walker, the only officer present.

  “With me, Walker,” he said,
striding out and leaving the DC to grab his jacket and hurry after him.

  This time Barton was not so lucky to find a parking space at the Essex County Hospital. He cursed his luck driving around the small car park. Finally, one car began to back out but was turning towards them. Another car was behind ready to take the space.

  “Make sure we get that,” Barton instructed Walker who was sitting beside him.

  The DC jumped out and ran to the spot. He held up a hand to the other hopeful driver and produced his warrant card. Some shouting erupted from the car but Walker stood firm. Barton eventually drove into the vacant spot.

  “Hell d’you think you are!” the middle-aged man shouted, getting out of his car.

  Barton jumped out to join his colleague. “This is police business,” he said. “If I were you I’d get back in your car and find another space.”

  The man studied the two officers, each holding out their identification, then turned away, muttering under his breath.

  Barton locked the Rover and led the way through the main doors and up the stairs to the Intensive Care Unit. They were directed to the room adjacent to where Danny Flynn had been looked after. Thankfully, Danny was now on a general ward for recovery.

  The Sister in charge of ICU told them Adam Fletcher was still unconscious, his wife was at his bedside and they wouldn’t be able to speak to him any time soon. Barton assured her he wouldn’t disturb the patient but he did need to speak to Mrs Fletcher.

  He peered through the vision panel, knocked on the door and slowly entered. Walker remained outside.

  “How is he?” Barton asked, taking in the figure lying on the bed, tubes appearing to enter every orifice and an oxygen mask covering most of his battered and bruised face.

  He could see her eyes red and puffy as she turned to look at him. “Not good,” she said quietly.

  “I wondered if I could have a word?” He nodded towards the corridor.