Disposal (The Tendring Series Book 1)

  DISPOSAL

  DAVID EVANS

  Copyright © 2018 David Evans

  The moral right of David Evans to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover images: Nebojsa Zoric

  ISBN-13: 978 1 5272 1524 5

  ISBN-10: 1527215245

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Born and brought up in and around Edinburgh, David Evans graduated from Manchester University and had a successful career as a professional in the construction industry before turning to crime … fiction that is and writing thereof.

  In 2013, his novel, TORMENT, was shortlisted for the CWA Debut Dagger Award. His Internationally Best Selling Wakefield Series was published in 2016, consisting of TROPHIES, TORMENT and TALISMAN, so far. A fourth in the series will follow.

  DISPOSAL is the first of a planned series set in the Tendring area of North Essex. A second book is also underway.

  Find out more by visiting David’s website at www.davidevanswriter.co.uk

  or follow him on Facebook at

  www.facebook.com/davidevanswriter

  and Twitter @DavidEwriter

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I have been privileged to meet some amazing people, without whose help, encouragement, support and above all friendship got me through some occasions when it would have been easier to walk away and do something else with my time.

  First and foremost, I have to say a huge thank-you to Sally Spedding who was the first in the publishing industry to take my writing seriously. I owe her a great debt for all her continued support and encouragement.

  I am fortunate to have a great little band of writing friends and I would like to thank Sarah Wagstaff, Jan Beresford, Julie-Ann Corrigan, Manda Hughes, Lorraine Cannell, Glynis Smy and Peter Best, all of whom are talented writers in their own right and have made some significant contributions.

  I am also fortunate to have the input of Colin Steele, ex-Detective Superintendent of the Essex Murder Squad, Tom Harper, ex-Principal Crime Scene Coordinator for the Kent & Essex Serious Crime Directorate and Steve Eastwood, ex-DCI of the City of London Police. All have given their time and guidance generously. Any residual errors here, are all mine.

  In memory of

  D. E. L. Evans

  1915 - 1971

  DISPOSAL

  David Evans

  1

  Tuesday 31st August 1976

  05:50hrs. on a fine August morning. It promised to be another blistering sticky day. This was the longest, hottest, driest spell in living memory and the weather forecast was extremely favourable for a trip that had been carried out several times before. All pre-flight checks had been performed; the delivery had been placed in the passenger seat and everything was good to go. Switches were moved, lights came on and a hand reached out and turned the key to start the aircraft’s single engine.

  At walking pace, the plane pulled forward onto the grass runway, turned and made its way to the far end. It stopped for a moment as the pilot checked the cargo in the seat beside him. This was definitely the last time, he’d made up his mind on that. The aircraft then turned through 180 degrees, and the full length of the flat scorched airstrip lay ahead.

  The sun was making its appearance over the North Sea horizon as the engine was given full throttle. Brakes released then the acceleration kicked in. Down the grass the plane picked up speed bouncing along the baked dry ground, the pilot wincing at the vibrations shuddering through him. As it got to the recognised point, the control was pulled back and the aircraft lifted off. This was always the exhilarating part.

  Seconds later, the engine noise suddenly changed. Coughs and splutters as it misfired. The pilot frantically switched his attention from one instrument to another. Stomach churning, he desperately adjusted various controls. Struggling to gain any height, the plane faltered.

  * * *

  “So how long have you got to go now, Skip?” PC Sam Woodbridge poured out the last of the tea from the flask into his sergeant’s cup.

  “I’ll probably go at the end of the year.” Cyril Claydon took his drink and dunked a Rich Tea biscuit; a fine art, just long enough for it to go soft without disintegrating. He ate it then rubbed the crumbs from his thin moustache.

  Woodbridge gazed out of the car window and off across the sea wall. The dawning sun cast its first fingers of the new day’s light over the calm sea. “I can’t imagine being in the job that long,” he said. “Twenty-five years. It’s a lifetime.”

  “It is for you, you’re only twenty-five.” Cyril took out his pipe and began to fill it with his favourite tobacco. Now he’d said it out loud, approaching fifty, retirement wasn’t a prospect he was particularly looking forward to.

  The arrest of a burglar attempting to break in to a bungalow in Holland-on-Sea was the sum total of the night’s action. That was five hours ago. Woodbridge, at over six feet tall and Cyril at five feet ten, were now sitting incongruously in their Austin Mini panda car in shirt sleeves, their night shift on patrol in Clacton on the Essex coast nearly over.

  “How long d’you reckon this’ll go on for?” Woodbridge mused, wiping his sweating brow with a handkerchief.

  “I don’t ever remember a hot spell like this. It’s been nearly three months.”

  “Must be over seventy now and it’s only …” Woodbridge turned his wrist to look at his watch, “… ten to six.”

  “Probably go down in history,” Cyril said. “The long hot summer of ’76.”

  They fell silent for a short while.

  “I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep in this.” Woodbridge had his eyes shut, head back. “I’m looking forward to the full English Mum’ll have for me though.”

  “Young ones today,” Cyril responded, “you don’t know you’re born.” A smile on his face, he wound down the window of the car and lit his pipe. Smoke belched out into the humid morning air. When his shift finished, he’d take Charlie out for a walk. The old Labrador wasn’t as lively these days. Then he’d probably sleep in the chair for an hour or two before popping down to his allotment. As he puffed he thought how this combination of the heat and hosepipe bans had made it difficult to keep his crops healthy. He’d have to use buckets and watering cans again.

  His thought pattern was suddenly disturbed by the noise of an aircraft engine firing up. Both men automatically turned to look inland. There was nothing to be seen. The airstrip lay on a slight rise behind the hedgerow next to their parked car.

  It was Cyril’s turn to glance at his watch. “Seems a bit early,” he muttered to himself and puffed another ball of smoke through the window.

  He could hear the revs maximise and grow louder as the small plane approached. The sounds helped him imagine lift off several hundred yards beyond the hedge. War-time memories came flooding back. A mechanic on the squadron’s ground crew, faces flickered through his mind; most long gone, many never returning from bombing missions over Germany.

  Moments before the plane appeared over the top of the scrub behind the hedge, the engine tone changed. Cyril looked sharply at his colleague. One thing he could recognise was an engine in trouble; and this one was struggling. It spluttered and spat, fighting to fire properly. By the time it cleared the hedge it was only about ten feet abov
e the road and some fifty yards in front of them. He could see the pilot wrestling with the controls as more height was lost. The wheels were ripped from the fuselage by the concrete sea wall and it disappeared from view. A moment later, a plume of water rose up then, almost in slow motion, fell back down like some ornamental fountain.

  Cyril reacted first, opening his door. “Radio in, Sam,” he said, “Tell ‘em we have a major incident down here. We’ll need the Fire Brigade as well as an ambulance.”

  As his constable did as asked, Cyril ran over the road and jumped up onto the wall. He paused for a second and took in the scene. A lone furrow had been ploughed through the sand to the water’s edge about fifty yards away. The sea, at almost full tide, was disturbingly calm, the waves lapping gently onto the shore. Some thirty yards beyond, in about three feet of water, the single engine light aircraft stood, looking fairly intact, the right way up, steam rising from the engine.

  Jumping down the six foot drop off the wall, Cyril rolled onto the sand as if he’d just been parachuted. Old training still holding him in good stead. Scrambling quickly to his feet, he ran into the water and waded out to the wreckage. As he got to the pilot’s side, a yell from the beach made him turn round. Sam had followed him but looked as though he’d turned his ankle jumping down. He limped towards him.

  Wrenching open the door, Cyril pulled the pilot back off the windscreen. His face was bloodied, eyes open but sightless.

  “Sam! Here, quick, this side,” Cyril called to his colleague as he struggled to free the pilot from his seat. He had the body half out when Woodbridge joined in the effort.

  “Is he dead?” Woodbridge asked.

  Cyril ignored the question. “Let’s get him onto the sand first.”

  With Sam’s hands under the armpits and Cyril holding onto the legs, they made their way slowly back to the shoreline. Clear of the tide they placed the man on the sand on his back. Cyril knelt down and felt at the neck for a pulse. Unnecessary, he thought as the open eyes told him all he needed to know. He shook his head at Sam and swept his hand over the pilot’s face to close his eyes.

  “Stay with him,” he instructed, rising to his feet. “I’m just going back to look in there.”

  “But …” Sam looked puzzled but said no more as he watched his sergeant walk back into the sea on the other side of the craft.

  Cyril waded around the wing and approached the passenger side. Something had caught his eye when he’d hauled the pilot out and he wanted another look. He opened the door and saw the large upright bundle, wrapped in black plastic, which had obviously been thrust forward off the seat on impact and was now leaning against the cockpit windscreen, half in the footwell. Standing in the doorway, he tugged the package backwards. The bottom was caught under the seat. As he tried to pull it free, his hand slipped and caught some of the wrapping, ripping it open a touch. He paused then looked closer at what had been exposed. The unmistakeable look and colour of dead flesh, part of an ankle possibly. He pulled away more of the plastic then was sure.

  Definitely a human foot.

  He stepped down into the water and looked over to where his constable was standing next to the pilot’s body. “Sam!” he shouted. “Get on the radio and tell CID to get down here. We’ve got something for them!”

  2

  The noise was like a peal of church bells. He thought his head had only touched the pillow, but DI John, “Dick” for obvious reasons, Barton had been comatose for about four hours. He grunted and pulled the sheet over his head. The noise persisted and he turned towards the bedside cabinet. Eyes glued shut, his hand flailed around for the telephone. Knocking the handset from its cradle, it fell to the floor. Some remote voice spoke to him from down there. Finally, he rolled over to the side of the bed, picked up the phone and held it to his ear.

  Freeing his tongue from the roof of his mouth, he spoke. “Barton.”

  “Dick, you need to get down to the seafront now.” His Detective Chief Inspector’s voice barked from the earpiece.

  He struggled to force his eyelids open. “What bloody time is it?”

  “Just gone six. The section by the airstrip. Meet Cyril Claydon down there. Might be an interesting one for you.”

  “Cyril? Winco? Why?” Barton was sitting up on the edge of the bed now. “Has someone given Danny a call; he’ll love this almost as much as I do.” Danny referred to DS Danny Flynn, Barton’s bag man.

  “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Danny’s in hospital. Smashed his car up on the way home last night.”

  “But I thought …”

  “I know,” his boss interrupted, “but they got called away.”

  “Shit. How is he?”

  “Haven’t got the full details yet but it sounds serious. Now get your arse out there and I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

  Barton wanted to ask more but the line had gone dead.

  He looked down to see he was wearing yesterday’s underpants … and socks. They’d do for the time being. Scanning the bedroom he spotted trousers on the floor and a shirt thrown over the back of a chair. He couldn’t remember how he’d got back in the early hours. The last thing he could recall was a disjointed conversation with a DI from Colchester as he was about to leave the pub. Rubbing his face, he stood. For a second, dizziness swam over him. He steadied himself and made his way to the bathroom.

  Leaning over the toilet, arms on the wall, he peed. Turning to the sink, splashing water on his face, he paused to study himself in the mirror. He looked like shit, tousled brown hair, puffy eyes and stubble growing from a jowly jaw. Thirty-six years old and one divorce already. He didn’t miss her. Well he missed the sex; but there again, he’d had a few good sessions since. A couple of bad encounters too but he was enjoying his return to bachelorhood. Or was he? A rented scruffy one-bedroomed flat in the middle of town, visits to the laundrette, when he could be arsed. He splashed his face again, dried himself off and padded back to the bedroom to retrieve his trousers.

  Opening the wardrobe, he took his last clean shirt off the hanger. Supposedly drip-dry eliminating the need for ironing, it looked creased. Still, with a loose tie and his jacket on, nobody would notice. And what do they expect on his salary?

  On the ten minute drive along the seafront, windows down, Barton took it steady. He was sure he’d still be over the drink-drive limit. No sense in pushing things. Besides, what was so important? Probably some pissed up dosser washed up on the beach with the incoming tide.

  Behind him, sirens grew louder as he passed the entrance to the Butlin’s Holiday Camp. A few seconds later, his rear-view mirror was filled momentarily with the front end of a fire engine before it swept past him. Were they bound for the same incident? Five minutes later, he had the answer, drawing to a halt behind the vehicle. It was the second engine there and along with the ambulance and marked patrol cars, the flashing blue lights did nothing to ease his throbbing head.

  * * *

  Within ten minutes of the alert, an ambulance was on the scene. Cyril had returned to the pilot whilst Sam was securing the site with blue and white plastic police tape. One of the ambulance crew confirmed Cyril’s opinion that there was nothing more to be done for the pilot but a doctor would have to certify death. A blanket from the patrol car gave some dignity to the deceased. The other body in the wreckage would have to wait for the Forensic team to arrive.

  The first fire appliance appeared a few minutes later but the Station Officer who’d come with the crew quickly established the plane was stable and in no danger of catching fire. An oil tank would be sent to pump out the fuel tanks later.

  Shortly afterwards, two cars with uniformed constables from the day shift arrived to take over, the sergeant instructing Cyril and Sam to return to the station, make their reports and go off duty. Just before they did, the Rover 2000 of DI Barton arrived behind the second fire engine.

  He strutted over towards Cyril. “What have we got then?” he asked, pullin
g out a cigarette and lighting up.

  Cyril gave his account, pointed to the pilot’s body on the sand and told of the other remains wrapped in plastic in the passenger seat.

  The news seemed to surprise the DI. “Do we know any identities?”

  “Not yet,” Cyril responded. About to lead the way onto the sea wall, he paused as another car pulled up.

  DCI Martin Sanderson stepped out and buttoned up the jacket of his suit. Taller and slimmer than Barton at six feet three, with a full head of hair, sprinkled now with grey, he always seemed immaculately dressed.

  Approaching the pair, he chuckled, “Christ, you look rough, Dick. Best not ask you to blow in a bag.” Turning to Cyril he offered his hand which was shaken warmly. “Cyril, you witnessed this I gather?”

  “That’s correct, Sir. Saw him fly over the hedge about six feet off the ground, clip the wall and dive into the sea.”

  “Let’s take a closer look.”

  Cyril guided them fifty yards along the sea wall to where some concrete steps made for an easier descent to the beach.

  As they reached the pilot’s body, Barton stood beside Cyril and repeated Sanderson’s request. “Let’s have a look then.”

  Cyril lifted the blanket and held it up, allowing both CID officers to see the face. He couldn’t be absolutely sure, but he thought a glimmer of recognition passed over Barton’s face. “Know him?” he asked.

  Barton slowly shook his head. “Can’t say I do.” He looked to Sanderson. “You, boss?”

  The DCI shook his head then turned to the wreckage in the sea. “What about out there?”

  “Appears to be a corpse wrapped in black plastic. Forensics are on their way.” Cyril waved a hand towards the body at their feet. “And the duty doctor should be here any time to certify death for this one.”