Disposal (The Tendring Series Book 1) Page 13

  He looks round; and it’s Maureen. She tugs at his arm. “Wait, Cyril. Wait!”

  He can’t understand. What’s she doing here?

  He turns back to the wreckage. The water spraying from the fire tenders is totally inadequate.

  He turns once more to see who’s stopping him running to help his friend. This time it’s Cathy. “Wait, Cyril. Wait,” she says.

  He screws his eyes shut, struggling to wriggle loose. “Let me go, Cathy!”

  “Wake up, Cyril. Wake up!”

  He opened his eyes to find a bright light shining from the ceiling. Blinking, he looked into Doris’ concerned face.

  “Cyril, are you alright?” She released his arm that she’d been shaking.

  He was back in the bedroom of the caravan. Drenched in sweat, the bedclothes were in a heap at the bottom of the bed.

  He studied her for a second, quilted pink dressing gown and a hair net. “Doris? What …?”

  “It’s okay. It was a nightmare you were having.” She smiled at him. “I don’t know about you but you were frightening me … shouting out, thrashing about. And who was Brian?”

  He lay back on the bed and wiped his face with his hands. “I’m sorry, Doris. I didn’t mean to …”

  “It’s okay. I was just concerned.” She took a step towards the bedroom door. “I’ll make us a cup of tea.”

  In his mind since that day thirty-two years before, he’d seen the crash played out hundreds of times. And every time, he felt guilt. Guilt that he couldn’t help Brian. But that was the first time Maureen had appeared. But why had Cathy been there as well? Slowly, his heart rate returned to normal.

  Doris had switched on the kettle and was moving cups around. He got up and went to the bathroom, dried himself down with a towel and changed into fresh pyjamas. When he came out, she was sitting at the dining table with the teas.

  “Maureen told me about the nightmares,” she said. “She used to be worried for you.”

  “I told her once.” He sat down opposite her. “She needed to know. After all she was living with the consequences just as much as me.”

  “The war did terrible things.” She stared off into an unseen distance. “My Howard was in North Africa. He didn’t tell me anything about it. But I could tell, just from his face. Poor soul didn’t live long enough to say anything about it either.” Focussing back on Cyril, she added, “If you ever need to talk about anything … I’m a good listener.”

  “Thanks, Doris. But you best get back off to bed. I’ve disturbed you enough for one night.”

  She got up and headed for her bedroom then paused. “But who’s Cathy?” She didn’t wait for an answer.

  30

  Monday 6th September

  Doris had enjoyed their adventure on the holiday park. She’d really come into her own as Clacton’s answer to Miss Marple. They’d discovered quite a bit of useful information about the Robinsons and their operations. It looked like there might be a direct connection between them and Walter Yardley. It certainly sounded coincidental that their Colchester base was next door to Yardley Electrical. And Cyril didn’t believe in coincidences.

  On a personal level, he was given a lot to mull over after what she had told him about her conversations with Maureen. But he was disappointed he’d disturbed her with his nightmare. That was the first time he’d suffered one for a good few months. There again, he wasn’t surprised after witnessing the plane crash. He tried to make sense of Maureen appearing in the dream, and was really struggling to understand Cathy’s involvement. Doris hadn’t pushed for an explanation of who she was, for which he was grateful. But he did suspect she had an inkling there might be someone else making an impression on him.

  He took the stairs two at a time to the first floor CID office on Monday morning. He wanted to check his desk for messages before anyone saw anything that looked suspicious to them. The last thing he wanted was for Cathy or him to be the butt of any mickey taking. The office was empty when he walked in with no sign of Barton in his room either. Checking his desk, he found what he was looking for. Tucked under a couple of files was a handwritten note. ‘Robin Hood 7pm.’

  Sod it, he thought. The Robin Hood pub was a lovely old establishment on London Road heading out of town. He’d pop down and see Cathy later when she came in. He’d apologise and try and repair any damage. Hold on, what did he mean damage? It wasn’t as though it was a definite arrangement anyway. His confused thought pattern was interrupted with the arrival of Ben Miller, jacket draped over his shoulder with his thumb through the loop.

  “Morning, Ben,” Cyril greeted.

  “Sarge,” was all that Miller replied before hanging his jacket over the back of his seat.

  Cyril thought the DC’s manner cool. “Is the DI expected in this morning?” he asked.

  “Dunno.”

  One thing Cyril hated was people being moody for the want of being honest. Deciding to flush things out, he pulled a spare seat from nearby and sat opposite Miller. “Come on, I’m sensing some hostility here. What’s eating you?”

  Miller shrugged then decided to speak. “How come you weren’t with us on that caravan raid on Friday?”

  Cyril leaned back. “So you suspect it might have been me who tipped the Robinsons off, is that it?”

  Miller coloured. “It does look suspicious.”

  “Okay. Well, there are three things.” He counted on the fingers of one hand. “First, I was conducting interviews with Adam Fletcher’s wife and Jem Fletcher’s girlfriend on Friday morning. Second, DI Barton knew where I was and hadn’t told me about the raid. And third, if you think the DI suspects I had anything to do with it and I’m still here, then you don’t really know him as well as you might think.”

  “Sorry, Sarge. That’s good enough for me.”

  He stood up. “So, any idea where he is?”

  “I’ve a feeling he might be at the County. That second body’s PM.”

  “Thanks.” Leaving the CID room, Cyril paused when he saw DC Walker coming in. “Bill,” he said.

  “Morning, Sarge.”

  Turning, he indicated Miller sitting at his desk. “I’ll let Ben reassure you.”

  As he left, he saw the puzzled expression on Walker’s face.

  * * *

  “These are the X-ray images here.” Dr Maguire slipped the plastic sheets up into the clips and switched on the lamp. “You can see there, the black spots, they’re the shot.”

  He and Barton were in his office in the basement of the County Hospital once more. The pathologist was giving the detective the edited highlights of his findings following the post-mortem.

  “So, definitely a shotgun.” Barton stated.

  Maguire slowly nodded, his eyes never leaving the viewer. “Probably both barrels by the number of pieces of lead I’ve removed. No wonder there wasn’t much left of the head.”

  Barton sat down in the chair next to the desk. “I can see this one being a bugger to identify.”

  Maguire turned, a thin smile playing on his lips. “All might not be lost, Dick,” he said.

  “Go on then, pull some rabbits out of your hat.”

  The doctor sat down on his side of the desk and opened a manila file. “What I can tell you is that the body is that of a male, somewhere between the ages of forty-five and fifty-five, five feet nine or ten inches tall. I reckon he would be around fourteen and a half stones in weight, so probably slightly overweight.”

  “Great, so we’ve got Joe Average out there. That’ll narrow it down.” Barton produced a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and was about to pull one free then changed his mind with the withering look Maguire gave him. He put the packet away again.

  “From the state of his liver and kidneys, he was a drinker, and from his lungs, a smoker.” The pathologist looked directly at Barton, as if making a point. “His heart showed early signs of the arteries furring up,” he went on.

  “All right, I get the picture. He wasn’t an Olympic athle
te. Any clothing?”

  “Shirt and trousers, no possessions in the pockets,” Maguire confirmed. “I can tell you he’d been married. He was used to wearing a wedding ring but that’s missing. There were marks on the ring finger where it would normally be.”

  “Whoever was responsible seems to have gone to a lot of trouble to stop us identifying the victim.”

  “But …” Maguire held up a finger. “… there is something that might help you.”

  Barton leaned forward onto the desk. “What’s that?”

  “Our friend broke his left leg, quite badly, possibly in his twenties, in adulthood anyway.”

  Barton sighed. “So we’ve got to trawl medical records going back maybe thirty years?”

  “You might be interested in one other aspect. The break was bad enough for it to be plated. I took the initiative of removing it to see what information it would yield.”

  “And?”

  Maguire pulled a sheet of paper from the file. “And there’s a manufacturer’s reference number on it. So all you need to do is to match that to an operation.”

  “How easy is that going to be?”

  “Won’t know until you start trying to trace it. But if you think of the number of hospitals that would have done those sorts of operations over the past three decades, quite a task. Then add in any places overseas … and you can see what you’ll be up against.”

  “Great.” Barton stood up. “I need that cigarette now.”

  * * *

  It was just gone ten o’clock when Cyril spotted Cathy. He was sitting in the canteen just finishing a bacon butty and a cup of tea. Walker and Miller had been quiet all morning so he was sitting alone. Standing at the counter for her coffee, she glanced over at him then quickly looked away. He was beginning to feel like a pariah. He watched her walk down the line to the till, pay, then walk out without looking in his direction again.

  He stood, took his crockery to the trolleys and quickly followed her out. He checked the typists’ office first, but she wasn’t there. Stepping through the main doors, he saw her sitting on the low wall, enjoying the sun.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  She shrugged and he sat down next to her.

  “Look, I didn’t get your message until this morning,” he said.

  She didn’t respond, just took a drink of her coffee.

  “I did try and call you here on Friday, but you’d gone home. I’d got no way of making contact.” He looked away. “How did the quiz night go?”

  “All right, I suppose.”

  “Look, Cathy, I did want to come with you but I had to work. It’s this case they brought me in to help out on.”

  Finally, she looked at him. “All weekend?”

  “Friday afternoon through to yesterday afternoon, yes.”

  Another sip of her coffee … and then the smile. “Did you really try to get hold of me?”

  “Of course. I really wanted to go. I told you I enjoy quizzes. So how did you get on?”

  “We came second. We were a man down but Jim, you know, Jim and Sandra, they were the ones who’d asked me, well, Jim knew a bloke at the bar who joined us to make four. But he was useless.” Probably aware she was rambling on, she laughed.

  “I am really sorry about that,” Cyril offered once more.

  “Well, if you want to make it up to me, you can take me out for a drink tonight.”

  A broad grin spread over his face. “How about Dedham?” he suggested.

  “Ooh. One of my favourite places. I love the church and down by the river.”

  “That’s settled then.”

  She stood up and smoothed her skirt. “Pick me up at seven,” she said before giving him an address in Little Clacton.

  As she strode back towards the main doors, Cyril was left admiring her legs, again.

  “What are you looking so pleased with yourself about, Skip?”

  He looked across at the source of the interruption to see Sam Woodbridge walking along the pavement towards him.

  “Ah, just enjoying the weather, Sam,” Cyril answered. “Are you on a day off?” Cyril studied the constable’s attire; cheesecloth shirt, jeans and trainers. “Or under cover?”

  “Ha! Very good. No I’m back on an early tomorrow.”

  A thought struck Cyril. “Are you doing anything special at the moment?”

  Sam thrust both hands in his pockets. “No, not especially.”

  “You don’t fancy helping me, do you?”

  “Official business, like?”

  Cyril shrugged. “Sort of.”

  “What’s up with your CID colleagues?”

  “Let’s just say, this might be better with people I can trust.”

  “So when you mentioned ‘under cover’ …?”

  “Don’t get excited, Sam.”

  31

  Having smoked a cigarette whilst considering what Dr Maguire had told him, Barton wondered what he was up against in trying to identify the latest victim lying in the morgue’s fridge. If ever there was any doubt over the body recovered from the plane, he was in no doubt that the one dragged up by the fishing boat was a professional gangland hit. With both wrapped in the same black plastic sheeting, they were most definitely connected. The only significant difference, was the murder weapon; a .45 calibre revolver in the first case and a 12-bore shotgun in this latest.

  But while he was here, he decided it was time to see if Adam Fletcher had returned to the land of the living.

  A different Sister was the gatekeeper to the Intensive Care Unit. In response to his enquiry, yes, Mr Fletcher had regained consciousness but was in need of rest as his body was still recovering, she told him. “His wife went off about an hour ago, but she should be back shortly,” she added.

  Assuring her he wouldn’t agitate the patient, only some basic questions that needed answers, he walked over to Fletcher’s room and looked through the vision panel in the door. The patient was propped up in bed with fewer tubes than before connecting him with various machines and monitors by the side.

  Cautiously, he entered the room. As he walked to the chair by the side of the bed, Fletcher’s eyes flickered open.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he said through a bruised and battered jaw.

  A cut over his left eye and one down his right cheek had been stitched. Elsewhere, the bruising gave his face some autumnal hues of yellows and browns with some reds clinging on.

  “How’re you doing?” Barton asked.

  “Never better,” Fletcher said, through gritted teeth.

  Barton smiled. “Have they said how long you’ll be in?”

  “Another day or so here, then down to the ward. But I should be out by next weekend.”

  Barton leaned in closer. “So, Adam … have you had any thoughts on who was responsible for this?”

  Fletcher clenched his eyes shut for a second.

  “You must have seen something,” Barton persisted.

  “They jumped me from behind.”

  “They? So there was more than one?”

  Despite the state of his facial injuries, his expression gave a hint of annoyance. Barton knew he was making progress.

  “Must have been. Came at me from behind.”

  “Why do you think you were attacked, Adam?”

  He tried to give a shrug. “I don’t know. Probably after the mail.”

  “Is there usually something of value in that?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Barton theatrically pulled out his notebook from his jacket pocket. “But according to the Royal Mail blokes that came out to collect your van and complete the round…” He flicked through some pages. “…they don’t reckon there was anything missing.”

  “Well that’s good.”

  “So there must have been another motive.”

  “Suppose.”

  “Come on, Adam, you know what this is all about. Why don’t you tell me?”

  All Barton got in response was a slight shake of the head.

&nbs
p; The detective leaned back on the chair and flicked through his notebook once again. “But then I asked your Depot Manager at the Clacton Sorting Office to check through the deliveries that you’d already made on the round …”

  “So?”

  “And he tells me there were some items missing from some customers, businesses and the like, who reckon they were expecting cheques, postal orders, cheque books even, which didn’t turn up.” Barton paused for effect. “Now, that tells me you could have held those items back. After all, you’ve been a postman now for, what … fifteen years? You know what these envelopes look like. You know your customers well; you’d be able to identify who was likely to have these valuable items delivered.” Despite the damage, Barton could see the alarm sweep across Fletcher’s face. Glancing at one of the monitors, he recognised Fletcher’s pulse spike from the 82 or so it had indicated constantly since he’d entered the room to the mid-nineties it read now. He pressed on, “And if you had held them back because … oh, I don’t know, let’s say you have some outstanding debts … you could have given them to your ‘attackers’. They give you a bit of a going over, just to make it look good, and bang, there’s another chunk of your debt paid off.”

  “No, no!”

  “And when they checked your van, all your post yet to be delivered would appear to be untouched. How am I doing?”

  “No! It wasn’t like that.”

  Barton pulled the chair up nearer to the bed and leaned in close to Fletcher. “Well how about you start telling me what it was like,” he snarled.

  Fletcher closed his eyes for a few seconds. “Look, you don’t understand.”

  “Well help me out here.”

  A tear escaped from his eye. At last, he spoke. “I’m trying to protect my family; Carol and the kids. And because of my stupidity, Jem’s dead.”

  Barton adopted a softer tone. “Adam, if you tell me, I can help. We can protect Carol and your family. But you need to help me to help you.”

  “Promise me you will?” Fletcher pleaded.

  Barton nodded and Fletcher began.

  “The card school was organised by a hard nut, Scottish guy by the name of Dougie Chalmers.” Fletcher wiped his cheek. “I realised afterwards that the game was bent. But by that time I was in deep.”