by David Evans
Settled back in the comfortable lounge seats, Doris gave her account.
When she’d finished, Cyril put his empty cup back down on its saucer. “So basically, they have a job for Lennie on Monday, but we don’t know what,” he summarised.
“If ‘Lennie’ was the visitor they had, then yes. I’m sorry I didn’t hear any of the details for you.”
Cyril put his hand on hers. “You did well, Doris.” I couldn’t have risked Lennie spotting me. It would have made all this a waste of time.”
“I did find out something else too.”
“Go on.”
“The four of them are going to the entertainment evening in the site club tonight. Apparently, the women want to see this ‘glam rock’ band that’s appearing.”
Cyril gave her a dubious look. “Glam rock?”
“Yes, you know, like Slade and Sweet.”
“Who?”
“Oh, Cyril, you need to get with it. They’re two of the biggest bands around.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Oh, I keep my finger on the pulse; that and listening to Radio Two.” She laughed at her own comments. “Anyway, it’ll be good for you to get out for a change. You never know, you might meet someone nice.”
His expression grew serious. Cathy, he remembered. He hadn’t been able to tell her he couldn’t join her at the pub quiz tonight. He hoped she wouldn’t be angry with him. That in itself surprised him; the fact that he thought about her and that he’d be letting her down.
Doris snapped him out of it. “Come on, you’ve got a lot going for you, you know. You’re still young, you’re a good looking man with a good job, your own house, got all your own teeth and hair …Ooh d’you know if I was thirty years younger, Cyril Claydon …”
“Doris, if I thought for one minute …” His face cracked into a big smile.
“How long have we known one another? Twenty-five years? More?”
“Twenty-six actually.”
“And I can’t talk to you openly and honestly after all that time?” She shook her head in mock admonishment. “I was heartbroken after Howard went. I should have shaken myself after it but, like you, I found it difficult to let go. After all, you don’t share your life with someone for all that time and can just forget about them. But maybe I should have moved on sooner. After all, as you made me realise the other day, I was still only forty-five.” She leaned forward and looked at him earnestly. “Now I’ve never told you this but Maureen and I used to have long conversations. You were on shifts. She just needed someone to talk to after … well, you know, after they’d told her. She said to me near the end, ‘keep an eye on Cyril for me. And don’t let him go all maudlin’ on you.’”
Cyril chuckled. “I could hear her saying that.”
“But she also said that when the time was right, and I think it is now, to tell you, ‘I wouldn’t mind if he found someone else. In fact,’ she said, ‘I’d love it. I couldn’t bear to see him unhappy because of me.’”
His mouth opened but it was a moment before he replied, “She actually said …?”
He stood and walked slowly to the door.
“Where are you going?” she asked. “Have I upset you?”
“No. No, you haven’t. Keep an eye on Charlie for me. I’m just going for a walk.”
27
“And you’re sure there was nothing missing?” Barton was in the depot manager’s office at the main Post Office Sorting Centre in Clacton.
“Not so far as we can tell, and we’ve spoken to most of the deliveries he would have made on his round.” The short balding man nudged his glasses up the bridge of his nose, clearly irritated at having his Saturday morning disrupted.
The detective was silent for a second. This wasn’t what he wanted to hear. It was Cyril who had posed that possibility to him as regards a motive for the attack on Adam Fletcher. And the more he thought about it, the more likely it had seemed. Still, it gave him an idea. “Well thanks for your help anyway,” he said and followed the man as he was escorted from the building.
It took him ten minutes to drive to the station. He wanted to check on a few things and make a couple of phone calls. Dashing in through the entrance, he was surprised to pass Cathy Rogers.
“Ah Sir, is DS Claydon in today?” she asked.
He paused by the second set of doors. “No. Why? Anything I can help you with?” he leered.
Her expression change to one of disgust.
“No. I’ll catch up with him another time.” She turned and strode off.
Definitely, he thought. Old Cyril’s pulled. He took the stairs to his office, struggling to keep his face straight.
He hardly had time for his buttocks to touch the seat before his office phone rang. Answering, he listened for a few seconds then said, “What now? Today?” A pause, then, “On my way.”
This was one duty Barton dreaded. The call was from Dr George Maguire who informed him he was about to begin the post-mortem shortly. Barton walked down the familiar basement corridor of the Essex County Hospital towards the pathologist’s office. As before, Maguire’s familiar figure was readying himself for the task in hand. Whoever it was the crew of the Margaret B had dragged from the depths of the North Sea, they were about to give up their secrets.
“Christ, you don’t half bring me some cases, Dick.” Maguire looked put out.
“I try my best. At least it keeps you off the streets.”
The doctor frowned. “Come on then,” he said leading the way to the same room where the PM on the first body had been carried out.
Joining them was a mortuary attendant and a forensics officer to collect and bag any evidence. The shape, still wrapped in plastic, lay on the stainless steel slab.
Dr Maguire slipped on surgical gloves and covered his face with a mask. “Right,” he said with feeling, “To work.”
To begin with, he walked around the gurney. “Evidence of some marine activity here.” He indicated some rips in the plastic where two hands could be seen. Kneeling down, he examined it closely, looking with particular interest at the digits.
“Unfortunately for you, Inspector, we have no skin left for fingerprint identification purposes.”
Continuing around the shape, he commented at various points. “Looks like the plastic sheet has been snagged by something, rocks maybe. The feet are also exposed here and again, our little marine friends have had a nibble.”
Back at the top end, scissors in hand, he began to cut through the plastic. After a few seconds, he paused. “Ah.”
“What do you mean, ‘Ah’?” Barton asked.
“I mean there isn’t much left up here, and I’m not talking about little fishes … or big ones come to that.” He looked up at Barton. “Whoever this is, they were blasted by a shotgun I’d suggest. The head is a mess.”
“Oh Christ! You mean dental records will be no good?”
Maguire shook his head. “Not much of anything here, let alone teeth.” He covered the mess over with the plastic once more and stood back. “If we’re to gather as much evidence as possible for you, Dick, we’ll need to carry out X-ray examinations first.” Giving a nod to the attendant, he walked to the door.
The assistant prepared to slide the body back into a fridge.
“So when do we do that?” Barton looked perplexed.
The pathologist removed his gloves. “Probably tomorrow now.”
“Can’t it be done now?”
Maguire turned at the door. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to wheel matey there past live patients sitting waiting to have their own X-rays done, do you?”
“I didn’t think they worked Saturdays.”
“Well they are today. Bit of a backlog to catch up. They’ve been working Saturdays for the past two weeks.” A smirk appeared on his face. “Anyway, he’s not going anywhere. I think we’ll reconvene on Monday morning.”
Barton was left looking at the disappearing green surgical gown.
“Nine
am sharp,” Maguire added from further down the corridor.
Before he set off to return to Clacton, Barton climbed the stairs to the Intensive Care Unit. He felt as though he’d spent more time here in the past few days than back at the nick. A different Sister was sitting at the nurse station when he walked in.
She looked up from paperwork. “Can I help you?”
Barton pulled his warrant card from his trouser pocket and tried one of his best smiles. “Adam Fletcher. I need a quick word.”
She frowned. “Not today you won’t.”
Okay, so the smile hadn’t worked. Strange, he thought, because it did last night. “But it won’t take a minute.”
She stood and walked round the desk towards him. “Did you not understand? Mr Fletcher is still unconscious, so he can’t talk to anyone.”
Barton sighed then held up his hands in surrender. “Sorry, Sister,” he offered. “Do you have any idea when I might be able to …?”
“Hard to say. He’s had a severe beating and his body will take time to recover. The doctors are thinking maybe another forty-eight hours.”
28
The function room was crowded but Cyril and Doris found a table towards the side which offered a good view of the stage. Doris sat down whilst Cyril went to the bar for some drinks. She’d taken some pride in her appearance, he thought. Her hair looked freshly coiffured, she wore a sparkly dress and had even applied subtle make-up. For his part, he was wearing smart flannels, shirt, his RAF tie and a sports jacket.
When he returned, the compere was beginning his first routine; a bit of comedy, a few gags, before introducing the warm up act.
“It’s not bad, this, you know,” Doris said. “Chicken or scampi and chips in the basket and entertainment too. All for £3.50.”
“We haven’t seen the entertainment yet.”
“Now don’t put a downer on it, Cyril. I’m looking forward to the band.”
“Of course. Your, what is it now, Glam Rock act?”
“You can mock. But I quite like some of this modern stuff.”
Any further conversation was curtailed by the opening act appearing on stage. A male and female duo, he on the guitar and backing vocals, she on lead vocals. They weren’t bad at all, Cyril thought. A pleasant collection of favourites from the sixties and a few standards.
As they finished, Doris made a detailed sweep of the room. “Can’t see your friends from next door,” she said.
“About to make an entrance.” He indicated the main doors. The Robinson brothers, together with two women, a blonde and a brunette, were being shown to a prime table near the front of the stage by the entertainments manager.
Doris leaned in towards him. “Who says it doesn’t pay,” she said.
The compere was back with the mic. “So we’ll have a little interval while your food is served and we’ll be back with the main act of the night,” he announced then left the stage.
The hubbub of a multitude of conversations took over as a dozen or so waiters and waitresses appeared and began to distribute the meals. The Robinsons were served quickly, Cyril noticed.
“A nice summer job for these boys and girls,” Doris remarked. The waiting staff all looked sixteen or seventeen. A few minutes later, a girl with short dark hair and acne placed two plastic baskets with chicken dinners in front of them.
Cyril opened two of the Ketchup sachets and squeezed the contents onto his chips.
“Are you okay?” Doris sprinkled some salt on her meal. “With what I told you earlier, I mean. You worried me when you went off.”
Cyril had returned to the caravan mid-afternoon after a long walk along the sea shore. A pipe-full of tobacco had helped him sort out his thoughts. He was glad Doris hadn’t questioned him then. She left the matter alone, until now. He felt she understood him better than anyone at the moment and he respected her quiet concern.
Putting down his fork, he hesitated for a moment then spoke. “I suppose it was a bit of a surprise, not the fact that Maureen said what she said to you but, I don’t know, perhaps that she even thought it in the first place. When we found out she couldn’t have children, she actually asked me if I wanted to find someone else.” He felt tears prick. “I mean, that’s how unselfish she was. Of course I didn’t want to leave her. I love her … loved her. And I shouldn’t be surprised that even after she’s gone, she’s still thinking of me, not herself. You know, Doris, Maureen was the most unselfish person I’ve ever met.”
She leaned over and put her hand on his. “I’m glad I told you. I think the time is right.” She took her hand away. “Now, eat your food before it goes cold.”
He studied his neighbour, watching her tuck into her meal. Finally, he picked up his cutlery and began to eat.
For Cyril, the band just seemed a noise. He was more appreciative of the music of the forties and fifties. Big bands were his favourite. For a split second, Glenn Miller popped into his head. No one had ever discovered what had happened to him on his last flight, back in December 1944. It was the main topic of conversation on the base for weeks. He’d no doubt he was somewhere in the English Channel, lost forever, like so many others. He did a quick calculation; Miller would have only been seventy-two now, younger than Doris.
His reverie was interrupted as Doris stood up. “Won’t be a minute,” she said.
He watched her make her way towards the toilets. That’s when he saw the two women from the Robinson table heading in the same direction. What was Doris up to, he wondered?
Ten minutes later he found out.
“You weren’t just going to the toilet, were you?” he asked.
She made herself comfortable at the table before answering. “The thing is, nobody pays much attention to a little old lady like me.” That twinkle was back in her eyes.
“Let me guess, you’ve been listening in again.”
“Why do women these days feel they have to go to the toilet with a friend? I’ve seen some that actually squeeze into the one cubicle.”
He was amused by her observations but knew she’d tell him what she’d found out once she’d built up her part. “And were those two cubicle sharers?”
Her expression changed to one of mock surprise. “Oh, you mean the blonde and the brunette?”
“What did you find out?”
“Well ... I could really do with another gin and bitter lemon, if you don’t mind.”
A short while later, he returned with her drink and a half of Watney’s Red Barrel for himself; not his favourite beer but it was all they sold on draught.
“So, come on,” he prompted.
She took a sip before beginning her account. “Well, it seems the men are going to be busy on Monday.”
He nodded. “That ties in with what you heard earlier. It’s involving Lennie, that character who turned up today.”
“Whatever it is, they’re going to some warehouse in Colchester. Those two are off shopping there while the men do whatever business they have to do.”
Elbows on the table, he clasped his hands together, thumbs under his chin. “Did they say where exactly … or time?”
A smile played over her face. “It’s down by The Hythe. Early afternoon, I think. Oh, and what was it now …” She looked as though she was thinking hard, trying to recall something else. “… that was it, they mentioned it was at the back of Yardley’s.”
29
1944 and the war is going well. It’s a bright sunny morning, little cloud and a light breeze from the west. The smoking shape slowly appears out of the southern horizon. Every available man from the base is outside, willing the stricken craft to make it back. Brian Richardson is performing heroics at the controls.
Cyril likes Brian. He’s twenty-four, only six years older than Cyril. This is Brian’s second mission. The radio operator alerted the base as to what befell the Lancaster on its way back from Germany. Attacked and strafed with fire from two Messerschmitt fighters, the crew are in trouble. The rear gunner hasn’t made it an
d from what they can gather, two others on board are dead. By Cyril’s reckoning, that leaves four men to make it home.
He watches as the bomber turns first one way then slowly manoeuvres in the opposite direction to line itself up with the grass runway. Members of the fire crew nervously wait in their vehicles, ready to chase the plane down once it lands. One engine is on fire and he can see the stilled propellers of two more. Brian struggles to control the craft with the one engine still working.
The plane is barely a hundred feet off the ground as it clears the hedge between the corn field and the base. Now he can see the damage to the undercarriage. Handling is almost impossible, minor corrections difficult to make. About to touch down, the Lancaster lurches and a wingtip touches the ground with catastrophic effects.
The wing and propellers of number four engine catch the grass and slew the plane in a sideways motion. Brian is clearly visible through the Perspex cockpit. It looks as if everything is happening in slow motion. The wing is ripped from the fuselage as the main body of the plane slides sideways down the grass, debris flying in all directions. The fire crew are in pursuit. Finally, after what seems an eternity, it comes to a halt. One crewman has been thrown from the plane and is lying on the grass some distance from where it has come to rest. A few men run to help him, the rest are running towards the wreckage, Cyril included. Before they get there, fire takes hold.
There is shouting of orders and people scurrying around. He is running too. He can see his friend still in the cockpit. He’s close enough to see the panic in his eyes. Brian can’t release the Perspex covering. They all know the Lancaster is difficult to evacuate. Someone pulls Cyril back. Shouts of ‘Stand clear!’ and ‘She’s about to blow’ resonate. Cyril struggles to break free. He must help Brian. Brian who’s helped him.
And then the explosion. Men are blown off their feet. Cyril is thrown backwards several yards. He gets back on his feet as fire envelopes the craft. And Brian is still sitting there. Cyril can feel the heat. Why isn’t someone trying to get them out? Tears are streaming down his cheeks now. Someone is holding him back. He tries to break free again.