Disposal (The Tendring Series Book 1) Page 3

  5

  Cyril had the windows down on the Ford Escort he had booked out from the car pool. He’d removed his jacket but resisted the temptation to loosen his tie and undo the top button of his shirt. Clacton thronged with holidaymakers, many having booked into the Butlin’s Holiday Camp he passed on his way west. Even if Sam hadn’t told him, he didn’t need to check on ‘his uniform colleagues’. And he didn’t need Barton to patronise him either. No, he decided to visit the airstrip.

  Parking on the spare bit of land that doubled as car parking, he made his way to the timber cabins that housed the offices of Clacton Aero Club.

  “Hello there,” the short stocky woman behind a reception desk greeted. “Can I help you at all?”

  “I need to speak to someone in charge,” Cyril said, holding up his warrant card.

  “Ah, you’d best talk to Jimmy,” she replied. “Jimmy Gibson is one of our senior pilots. I’ll just give him a shout.”

  A minute later, returning from a rear office, she encouraged him to go through.

  The man sitting behind the desk looked a youthful fifty-something, brylcreemed dark hair and a thin moustache, not dissimilar to Cyril’s own. He stood up and offered a hand. Cyril noted he wore a RAF tie on a starched white shirt, a tweed sports jacket was slung over the back of his chair.

  “Jimmy Gibson,” he announced in a slight Scots accent, “How can I help?”

  “I see you served,” Cyril said, indicating the tie.

  “600 Squadron for the most part, North Africa, Malta, Italy.”

  “Great reputation on night fighters.”

  Gibson nodded modestly. “Well … You?”

  “I joined up in ’42 when I was 16,” Cyril responded. “Managed to join the ground crew with 604 Squadron. Mostly based around England but a couple of spells in France.”

  “Ah, 604 were night fighters too. And weren’t they involved in airborne radar systems?”

  “That’s right, but that was before I joined.”

  There was a pause before Cyril refocussed the conversation. “What I’m here about, as you can probably guess,” he said, “is the incident this morning,”

  “Yes, of course. Dreadful business. But I spoke earlier to your Inspector Barton, was it?”

  “Just checking on a few details, Mr Gibson, if that’s okay.”

  “Not surprised he missed some of what I told him,” Gibson said quietly.

  “Oh?”

  “Sorry, I shouldn’t be critical. Not of senior officers, eh? But he did seem to be suffering the effects of the night before, if you know what I mean.”

  Cyril took out his notebook and pencil. “If you could confirm for me the aircraft’s owner, that would be a great start.”

  Gibson opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a file. “It was a single engine craft owned by Walter Yardley. These are his details.” Gibson spun the file around so Cyril could see. “He owns his own electrical manufacturing company in Colchester.”

  Cyril leaned forward and noted Yardley’s address. It was on one of the avenues in Frinton, inside the gates, as it was known; an affluent area. “We understand that Mr Yardley wasn’t flying the plane this morning.” he said, sitting back in his seat once more.

  “He wasn’t. I reckon it was Jem.” Gibson closed the folder. “Jeremy Fletcher is one of the mechanics some of the owners regularly use to service their planes.” Gibson sighed as he returned the file to his drawer. “I told all this to DI Barton. Has he not told you?”

  “We do know that, sir, and we are following that up.” Cyril looked to his notes before continuing. “Is it usual for flights to take off at 05:50, Mr Gibson?”

  The pilot looked embarrassed. “Well, no. We don’t usually begin operations until 09:00hrs.”

  “So have you any idea why Mr Fletcher would be flying so early this morning?” Cyril stroked his moustache. “I mean, would it be usual for a mechanic to take a plane up on a test flight before your normal hours of operation?”

  Gibson considered for a moment. “It might, I suppose, if Walter would have wanted to fly today, but he didn’t. I spoke to him on the phone this morning after I found out what had happened. He’d need to contact his insurers. But maybe Jem just wanted to check something out. In any event, we have no one here until half past eight at the earliest.”

  “And the keys for the aircraft, where are they kept?”

  “Those craft we, the flying club, own, have their keys in the cabinet behind the reception desk. Those owners who want to can place them there as well. Most would have a spare set they keep themselves, or one or two might lock them in the maintenance hangers over on the other side of the airfield.”

  “And in Mr Yardley’s case …?” Cyril persisted.

  “Apart from a set he kept himself, I think Walter kept a spare set over in the hanger.”

  “And Mr Fletcher would have access to the hanger?”

  Gibson nodded. “A couple of local mechanics we use would.”

  “Do you mind if I have a look over in the hangers?”

  “Be my guest. Just be a bit careful …” he paused, “… well, no need to tell you about the dangers of an airfield.”

  Cyril gave a wan smile. “Just one last thing, do you have a list of those owners Jeremy Fletcher has worked for recently?”

  Again, Gibson opened his desk drawer, pulled out another list and began to write on a slip of paper. “I think these have used Jem in the past,” he said, passing the piece of paper over.

  Cyril stood, thanked him for his help and made his way outside.

  Seagulls screeched overhead as Cyril looked across the grass runway towards the small hangers at the far end. Around a dozen or so planes were parked nearby. There appeared to be at least one person moving around the area. Keeping close by the fence at the bottom end, he turned and made his way up the other side towards the buildings. As he reached the first hanger, a small man of around forty appeared by the side of one of the planes.

  Closing an engine cover, he caught sight of Cyril. “Are you from the investigation unit?” the man asked.

  “Clacton Police,” Cyril announced, holding up his warrant card. “DS Claydon.”

  The man wiped his hands on a rag and walked towards Cyril. “Alan Massey. This is my plane.” The man indicated the aircraft he’d just been attending. “Shocking business,” he added.

  “Did you know Mr Fletcher?” Cyril asked.

  “I’ve seen him up here quite often. Spoken to him a few times but I can’t really say I knew him.” Massey returned to the side of his plane and began to tidy tools into a box.

  Cyril followed. “So he never did any maintenance work for you, Mr Massey?”

  The man looked up and smiled. “Do all my own. It’s half the fun.”

  Cyril nodded. “I can appreciate that.” He looked to the building. “Do you all share these facilities?”

  “Mostly. Some members do their own work in there, not many. And some use outside mechanics who can share them too.”

  “Do you know Mr Yardley? I believe it was his craft that crashed.”

  “Yeah, I know Walter. He’s been a member here for years. He doesn’t fly that much these days. Won’t be doing any for a while now either with no plane,” Massey added with a smile. “Sorry, I shouldn’t make light of it.”

  “Did Mr Yardley use Fletcher regularly?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” The man nodded towards a white Ford Transit van parked behind the hanger. “But that’s Fletcher’s van over there. It’ll need to be moved soon, it’s blocking access.”

  Cyril walked over to the van and peered in through the driver’s window. It appeared reasonably tidy for the cab of a working vehicle. A plastic folder lay on the passenger seat with what looked like a manual alongside. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and tried the door. Locked. He walked around to the passenger side and repeated his action with a similar result. The double rear doors were the same but he held a hand to one of the windows and squinted
inside. Tools lined the van’s sides, neatly hung on hooks whilst the bulkhead behind the cab had a range of cupboards fitted. The van floor seemed clear.

  Cyril turned and made his way to the front of the hanger and stepped through the open doorway. A twin-engined plane sat on the concrete floor, wheels chocked. The once familiar scents of engine oils mingled with a hint of aviation fuel greeted his nostrils. A cabinet on one wall caught his attention. The metal door was open. Several sets of keys hung on hooks inside.

  Massey appeared in the doorway, carrying his heavy tool-box.

  Cyril turned towards him. “Are these keys always this accessible?”

  The man dumped the box against the rear wall before responding. “The cabinet is usually locked. I’m about to return my set, and then I’ll lock it up. The door is locked too but most owners will have a key to the hanger and the cabinet, if they choose to keep their keys there.”

  “Okay, thanks,” Cyril said, making for the door.

  “I don’t suppose …” Massey began to say, “… there’s any news on what went wrong?”

  Cyril paused. “That’ll be for the Air Accident boys to determine. Unless you have any theories?”

  Massey shook his head. “Just wondered, that’s all. But losing power on take-off … it would have to be electrical or fuel.”

  Cyril said nothing and walked away. Pulling his pipe from his pocket, he filled it and lit up as he made his way back to the car. Looking to the sky, there wasn’t a cloud. Straight in front of him the sun sparkled off the sea. Puffing on his pipe he thought about what he’d witnessed this morning. But the events of a similar morning, some thirty-three years ago now, forced their way into his mind. Early morning sunshine bathed the airfield when the Lancaster limped out of the sky, barely holding altitude of a thousand feet. They could see the smoke trail from the damaged engine. Every man on station willed the craft to make it and was ready to act. The pilot somehow managed to bring it round to line up with the grass airstrip. It was at that point they could see the full extent of the damage to the fuselage. Bullet holes had ripped through the metal. The rear gun turret had been virtually shot away.

  A seagull swooped down screaming loudly, disturbing his memory. A puff on his pipe and he focused on current events.

  He and Sam Woodbridge had been instructed to say nothing about the plane’s ‘cargo’. As far as Gibson and Massey were concerned, the news blackout seemed to be holding. But it was only a matter of time before a revelation like that became known. Nothing like a police station for leaking like a sieve. But who was the victim? That would determine the next steps. For the time being, Cyril was enjoying yet another hot summer’s day and wondered when this heat wave would end.

  6

  It was just gone five when Cyril returned to the station. He’d called by the crash site and spoken to the sergeant organising the search for debris. Engineers from the Air Accident Investigation Branch had arrived mid-afternoon and conducted an initial survey of the plane. The fuel had been pumped from the tanks in the wings and a crane and low-loader had arrived. The wreckage was in the process of being taken to a warehouse in Colchester. So Barton had got his way, Cyril thought.

  Parking up outside the station, Cyril stepped out and walked to the main doors. He almost collided with Cathy Rogers, the civilian secretary Sanderson had mentioned. She was just leaving, bag on one arm and coat over the other.

  “It’s Sergeant Claydon isn’t it?” she asked. Her face lit up with a warm smile.

  “Cyril, call me Cyril,” he responded, holding the door open. “And you’re Cathy, right?”

  “That’s me,” she said. There was an awkward pause as they looked at one another. “I’ve left some notes with DC Walker upstairs.” Cathy gestured inside. “DCI Sanderson asked me to type them up. And he wanted you to take a look at a file from records. I’ve put that on your desk. I’m assuming you’re sitting at DS Flynn’s.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  Before the conversation could continue, DI Barton barged his way through the doors. “You done those notes yet?” he barked at Cathy as he drew on his cigarette.

  “Upstairs with DC Walker,” she repeated.

  With an expulsion of smoke and a grunt for a response, he disappeared into the building.

  Cyril saw the look of disgust on the secretary’s face.

  “Obnoxious man,” she said quietly.

  “Sorry about that,” Cyril said. “We’re not all as rude as DI Barton.”

  “I’m sure you’re not.” She smiled at him again. “Well, have a good night.”

  “You too.”

  Cyril turned and watched her walk away. He’d put her mid-forties at most. A shapely figure in a floral summer dress. Lovely smile too.

  Surprised by his thoughts, he shook his head as if clearing those images from his brain. It had been years since he’d paid any attention to a woman. More to the point, it was probably years since a woman had paid any attention to him. Not since his beloved Maureen succumbed to cancer three years ago. It was a pain that had started to ease through the summer months, but he still felt guilty for it.

  Up the stairs, he walked through open doors and into the haze of cigarette smoke that had descended on the CID office once more. With not a breath of wind outside, the open windows did nothing to help. Several detectives were involved in conversations or sitting at their desks. A couple of them he knew glanced up at him. “Cyril,” they greeted.

  “Gents,” he acknowledged, checked his desk and picked up the file Cathy had left there. Making his way to Barton’s office, he knocked on the door and waited a second for the DI to beckon him in.

  Barton was leaning back in his chair behind the desk. “You’ll be glad to know we’ve got the right body. Adam Fletcher confirmed it was his brother, Jem. His partner Vicky insisted on coming too, but she got herself into a bit of a state.” He began to shuffle through various files and bits of paper on his desk. “Now I did leave a message for that dozy secretary to dig out Fletcher’s file but she doesn’t seem to have done it.”

  Cyril held out the manila folder he’d collected from his desk. “It’s here. She left it on my desk.”

  Barton flashed a disapproving look as he took the file from him.

  “DCI Sanderson asked her to leave it with me,” he said by way of explanation.

  Barton gave another grunt, flicked open the file and scanned it quickly before closing. “So what have you got to tell me then?” he asked.

  Cyril recounted what he’d learned from his visits to the airfield and the crash site. “So uniform were just clearing away when I left, but nothing of any significance has been found,” he concluded.

  Barton glanced at his watch. “Right, ten minutes until the DCI’s briefing. I’ve got a phone call to make so I suggest you get your notes together on today’s events and we’ll be ready for six.”

  “Okay gentlemen, listen up,” DCI Sanderson announced.

  A hush descended on the gathered group as he glanced around, mentally taking a roll call.

  “John, give us the lowdown as far as you know, will you?” he instructed.

  DI Barton stepped forward and turned to face the detectives.

  “At five fifty this morning a light aircraft belonging to Walter Yardley crashed on take-off from Clacton airfield,” Barton began. “Confirmed dead was the pilot, a mechanic from Great Bentley, Jeremy Fletcher. Alongside him in the passenger seat was a body, as yet still unidentified, wrapped in plastic.”

  “Has Fletcher been officially identified?” Sanderson interrupted.

  “I accompanied his brother and girlfriend this afternoon,” Barton responded. “The PM is scheduled for nine tomorrow morning. Me and DS Claydon will attend.”

  Cyril was surprised. Not wanted for the formal identification this afternoon, he deigns to have me hold his hand at the gory bits, he thought.

  “With regards to our other stiff,” Barton continued, “the forensics lads will be with the pathologist tomorrow
for the PM on that. Until that happens, we won’t know any more. They’ll also be recovering Fletcher’s van from the airfield and searching that for anything to connect it with the body.”

  “But until we get an ID on the body, we can’t really progress things,” Sanderson said. “Ideas anyone?”

  “I’m just thinking, Sir,” Cyril said, “if Fletcher’s van gives no forensic evidence to show that the other body was ever in it, and it seemed pretty clean to me when I looked in it this afternoon, then it must have been transported to the airfield in another vehicle.”

  Sanderson began to pace. “Look, this is all ifs and buts for the moment. We need to find out what the PM on matey comes up with first.”

  “But what I was thinking, Sir,” Cyril persisted, “was that the body was probably brought to the airfield in the early hours of this morning. That being the case, why don’t we carry out a check tomorrow morning? People travel to work for early morning shifts. Let’s see if anyone was around this morning and saw anything suspicious near the locked gates to the track leading up to the hanger?”

  “Good point, Cyril,” Sanderson said. “Even if it turned out that Fletcher brought the body himself, it would still be useful if we had a witness to confirm what time he arrived.”

  A uniformed constable knocked at the doorway and nervously approached the group. “Sorry,” he said, looking at Barton. “Message for you, Sir.” He handed the DI a folded slip of paper.

  As Barton read, the colour visibly drained from his cheeks. He glanced at Sanderson then walked back to his office.

  “Okay gents, carry on with what you’re all doing,” Sanderson said, followed Barton to the office and closed the door.

  7

  The evening was still warm when Cyril returned home; the house he’d shared with Maureen all their married life. Stepping in through the front door, he picked up the free paper that had been delivered that afternoon and walked through to the kitchen. From the window, he could see Doris sitting in a chair in her back garden enjoying the evening sun and reading the paper. Charlie was at her feet.