Disposal (The Tendring Series Book 1) Read online

  He stood for a moment, lost in thought. When he and Maureen had moved in, twenty-six years ago now, they thought it would be the perfect place to raise a family. After years of trying, Maureen was devastated to learn she couldn’t have any children. Cyril didn’t think she ever got over it fully. And then the cancer came. She fought it well but finally, three years back, she succumbed. Forty-two. No age at all really.

  He looked around the room, searching out the evidence that she had once lived here. The tea cosy on the teapot he never used because he preferred a tea bag in a mug; the two egg cups on a stand she’d bought for them on holiday in North Wales – he only used the left-hand one – he never used the other, that was hers. He listened. The silence of an empty house.

  Looking down the hallway, he spotted the photo frame that shared the small table with the telephone. He walked to it and picked it up. Maureen and he were sitting at a restaurant table. The picture had been taken by a waiter who had fussed around them. Italy, ten years ago, their only holiday abroad. She looked gorgeous; deep brown eyes and a tan that accentuated her lovely high cheek bones. Dark chestnut hair framed her face and tumbled to her shoulders. That was before the illness ravaged her. It was as he would always remember her.

  A tear began to make its escape and he felt pulled once more. But he didn’t want to go there. Not today, there’d been enough tragedy already. Snapping himself out of his mood, he opened the back door, walked out onto the path, through the low gate and into the next door garden.

  Doris looked up, removing her reading glasses.

  “Evening Cyril,” she greeted.

  Charlie gave a low bark and struggled to his feet. Tail wagging, he approached his master.

  “Are you alright, Doris?” he responded then made a fuss of Charlie. “Has he behaved himself?”

  “You know I love the big soft mutt. We even had a walk down to the park this afternoon but it got a bit hot for him.”

  Doris had lived next door when they’d first moved in. A thoughtful neighbour, she would do anything for you. But she was getting on a bit now.

  “Is it not a bit hot for you too?”

  “Take the weight off your feet,” she said. “My friend Betty’s only just gone home. We’ve been sitting out here for an hour or two. I love it a bit warm. Does my arthritis a power of good.”

  Cyril sat in the other garden chair, Charlie settling down on the grass between them.

  “I keep thinking this has got to end soon,” she went on, “but the forecasters say it’ll be a while yet.”

  “We should just enjoy it while we can.”

  “Been a busy day for you.” She folded up the newspaper. “With that plane crash and all.”

  “And it’s going to get a whole lot busier,” he replied.

  They sat in silence for a while, both leaning back, eyes closed, absorbing the warmth.

  “You’ve been widowed a long time, Doris,” he finally said.

  “Over thirty years.”

  “You would still have been a young woman then.”

  “Forty-five.”

  Again a short silence.

  “Did you never think you’d meet someone else?” He could feel her turn to look at him.

  “Different times then,” she said. “It was just as the War ended. Besides, I never met anyone to compare with my Howard.”

  Cyril opened his eyes to see Doris studying him.

  “What’s prompted this?” she asked. “You’re thinking of retiring soon, aren’t you?”

  “Well I could take the police pension at the end of the year.”

  “Second thoughts?”

  “I’ve got my allotment and I might look at doing a bit of travelling.”

  “You are, aren’t you?”

  Cyril had to smile. He liked her, she was easy to talk to and very perceptive.

  “I’d best get off and make some dinner.” He stood to go.

  “But if you’re not ready, you know …”

  “See you Doris.”

  “Just make sure you look after yourself. And is my friend staying with me tomorrow?”

  They both looked at Charlie who was back on his feet.

  “If you’re okay with that?”

  “Course I am. Night, Cyril.”

  She’s great, Cyril thought. Just like my mum.

  Back inside, he wondered what he could eat for dinner then remembered the Vesta Chow Mein he had in the cupboard.

  While that was heating through he began to turn over the day’s events in his mind. Ten to six this morning seemed a long way off now. So, they’d identified the pilot and the owner of the plane. But had anyone taken a formal statement from Walter Yardley? Barton had spoken to him this morning, but had he followed that up? Either way, there was no mention at the briefing. And that was a bit of a farce. But at least he’d found out the subject of the note the constable had handed to the DI that caused the meeting to break up so suddenly. He’d tackle Barton about that tomorrow.

  8

  Wednesday 1st September

  The group had dispersed the previous evening with no real plan to the investigation. But Cyril had taken the initiative and spoken to the sergeant who was covering the night shift to see if they could do a check on early morning traffic past the airfield. There was no mistaking the look that had passed between DI Barton and DCI Sanderson. Cyril knew the information on the piece of paper the constable had passed to Barton was significant. So significant in fact, it had brought the briefing to a swift and premature close.

  For today, all Cyril knew was to turn up early and report to Barton. And now, they were on their way to the County Hospital in Colchester to witness the post-mortems on Jeremy Fletcher and the other body, Cyril driving them in the DI’s Rover.

  After ten minutes of silence, Cyril decided to broach the subject. “So, the disappearance of Jimmy Morgan is important?” He glanced across at Barton.

  Barton screwed up his face. “How did …”

  One of the most important things Cyril had taken from his previous days in CID was to try and ask questions to which he already knew the answers. Not always achievable but, in this case, a word with the desk sergeant yesterday evening revealed the subject of the message.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Reported missing by his girlfriend, I understand?”

  Barton looked at Cyril. “You seem to know as much as me.”

  “So who is he?”

  Barton wound his window down a bit more before he answered. “Small time crook from East London originally. Rumoured to have connections with some of the faces up there.”

  “Like the Krays you mean?”

  “Towards the end of their reign, yeah. Was just a runner for them. Did a little bit of thievin’ himself. Couple of spells in prison in the late sixties, early seventies.”

  “And now?”

  Barton pulled out a packet of cigarettes from his trouser pocket, drew one out and lit it before answering. “Now runs with the Robinsons.”

  “The Robinsons?”

  “Yeah.” He took a deep draw and exhaled. “They’ve filled the void left by some of the old-timers. Running the three Ps; protection, prostitution and porn up in The Smoke.”

  “And he’s obviously got connections here.”

  “You know what it’s like, a lot of East-Enders come to Clacton for breaks. Some have bought static caravans on the parks. Even Reggie and Ronnie have one they brought their mum to.”

  Cyril slowed to negotiate a roundabout. “So Morgan has a caravan down here?”

  “No. Him and his slapper rent a grotty bungalow in Jaywick.”

  Cyril let the conversation lie for a minute then added, “And you think our body could be Morgan?”

  Barton took one last drag, flicked the butt from the window and looked at his watch. “Just get us there on time, will you?”

  * * *

  Essex County Hospital was a Victorian brick built structure on the west side of Colchester town centre. Cyril
managed to find a space in the car park and they made their way inside. As is customary, the mortuary was located in the basement, along a dingy corridor. In contrast to the outside world, the place was refreshingly cool, albeit impregnated with the scents and aromas of various chemicals.

  In the office, the pathologist, Dr George Maguire, was chatting to a couple of lab technicians and a forensics officer who was there to bag and note any evidence.

  “Morning everybody,” Barton greeted. “Can we get started?”

  The pathologist made a point of checking his watch. “DI Barton, a pleasure as always.”

  “And you Dr Maguire.”

  “In fact we were just waiting for you, so let’s go.”

  Barton followed the pathologist back out to the corridor and into a room on the left. A body was ready on the stainless steel slab.

  “You have a confirmed identity for the pilot, I believe?” Dr Maguire stated.

  “We do, yes. Identified by his brother.”

  “Well let’s get started then, shall we.”

  Jem Fletcher’s post-mortem revealed no surprises. Cause of death was an intra-cranial bleed caused by his head impacting the plane’s screen. He was a fit and healthy male for his age and there were no signs of any illness or disease. A toxicology test would be conducted but that was not expected to show any evidence of alcohol or drugs. His personal effects, however, did throw up an interesting discovery. His wallet contained a hundred pounds in ten pound notes. Bagged by the forensics officer, Barton asked for them to be checked for prints. Some were new and the serial numbers would also be reviewed to see where and when they were issued.

  By ten-thirty, the most interesting part of the morning was about to commence. The unknown body on the second slab was carefully unwrapped from the clear plastic sheeting the forensics team had sealed it in before transporting it to the mortuary.

  “Can we get fingerprints from the black plastic?” Barton asked.

  “Should do if there are any,” the forensics officer replied.

  “Well let’s be careful cutting that off,” the DI said.

  Cyril caught the momentary expression on the officer’s face. No doubt he’d had dealings with Barton before.

  “But can we start with the head.”

  The pathologist looked up. “If all you’re going to do is teach us to suck eggs DI Barton, then I suggest you find something useful to do.”

  Cyril glanced at his superior and struggled to stop the smile that so desperately wanted to form on his face.

  Barton moved in closer as the scissors cut through the wrapping to reveal the discoloured face of a man who could be in his forties or fifties.

  “Shit,” Barton said quietly.

  One of the assistants began to take a series of photographs.

  “Not a pretty sight, I agree,” Dr Maguire declared.

  “Is it who you thought?” Cyril asked.

  The pathologist glanced up. “You know him?”

  Barton nodded. “Reported missing by his girlfriend yesterday.” He looked to the forensics man. “Can you take his prints and get them compared to Jimmy Morgan. He has a record. Details for him should be on file in Chelmsford.”

  “This gets more interesting,” the pathologist said, crouching down to study the side of the head nearest him. “A gun shot entry wound here.” He moved aside to allow more photos to be taken.

  “So we’re looking at murder then,” Barton mumbled.

  “There is one other possibility,” Dr Maguire said, a faint smile playing on his lips. “It could be suicide. He could have organised others to wrap him up in plastic and arrange for his burial at sea.”

  Barton looked up. “Are you taking the piss?”

  “Just checking your sense of humour hasn’t been surgically removed, Dick,” the pathologist responded, exchanging looks with the photographer.

  * * *

  Outside once again, Barton pulled out a cigarette and lit up. Cyril decided to follow suit with his pipe. He thought it might help overcome the back taste he had in his mouth from being in the mortuary environment for the last few hours. Leaning against the wall, they were silent for a while, watching patients, medical staff in white coats and nurses come and go.

  Finally, Cyril spoke. “Interesting assessment from Dr Maguire that Morgan had been dead for at least two days, possibly longer.”

  He puffed on his pipe and glanced across at the DI who’d said nothing in response. “So he’s fully clothed but no possessions on him,” Cyril thought out loud. “Only that Yale key inside the lining of his jacket pocket. Now why would you think that was? Had whoever killed him missed it? Well obviously. But had Morgan deliberately hidden it? Or had it just got caught in there? It’ll be interesting to see if there’s any fingerprints on it.”

  Again, Cyril glanced across and saw no reaction from Barton; he just continued smoking his cigarette.

  “So the Met will want to know about Morgan’s demise then?” Cyril continued.

  “I would think so.” At last a response.

  After a couple of minutes, Cyril pressed on. “And they’ll have some interesting info for you as well, no doubt?”

  Barton drew on his cigarette once more. “How long have you been in the police service, Cyril?” he asked.

  “Joined in ’51.”

  “And you had a spell in CID before, right?”

  “Yes.” Again Cyril looked at the DI, puzzled at the change of direction in the conversation. “Had ten years as a DC after I’d passed my detectives exam. ’56 to ’66.”

  “So how come you’re back in uniform?”

  “Passed my sergeants exam but nothing came up in CID. Then a uniform position did, so I took it. Where’s this going?”

  Barton took one last drag on his cigarette, dropped it on the pavement and trod on it, blowing smoke into the air as he did so. “So you’re old school, right?”

  Cyril didn’t respond to that but felt the DI was holding back. “But there’s more, isn’t there?” he asked

  Barton folded his arms and took a deep breath. Cyril thought he was about to open up, but he only pushed himself off the wall and began to walk to the car. “Did you organise that checkpoint on the coastal road with uniform?”

  Cyril knocked his pipe out, put it back in his pocket and followed him. “Yes. Some of the night shift were putting that in place from four this morning, provided there were no major incidents.”

  Barton stopped after a couple of steps. “But you’ve not heard anything?”

  “Didn’t see anyone before I left the station, but I’ll chase that up when we get back.”

  “Yeah, do that will you?” Barton said. “Now while I’m here, I suppose I’d better kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.” He turned and headed back into the hospital.

  Cyril was puzzled. “Where are you …?”

  “I’ll be back in a bit.”

  Cyril watched him disappear along a corridor. At least this time, he can’t leave me to make my own way back, he thought, feeling for the reassuring outline of the car keys in his pocket.

  * * *

  Barton pushed open the door to the Intensive Care Unit.

  The Sister looked up from her desk as he walked in. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “My colleague, Danny Flynn?” He held up his warrant card.

  “His wife’s with him now.” She indicated one of the rooms. “Number five. But he’s sedated and needs to stay calm.”

  Barton nodded, hesitated for a second then walked over and opened the door. Helen Flynn was sitting by Danny’s bedside.

  She flared up when she saw her husband’s boss. “You’ve got a nerve showing up here,” she hissed.

  He held up both hands in surrender.

  She gave him a disgusted look and stood up, “How could you let this happen. ‘We look after our own,’ that’s what Danny used to tell me.” The tears were welling in her eyes. She looked over to the man in the bed, wired up to machines that beeped and d
isplayed green lines on monitors. “Well you certainly did.”

  Barton saw the tears run down her anguished face. “I’m so sorry,” was all he could think to say.

  She took a step towards him. “Sorry? Sorry? You’re pathetic. I don’t want you here. Go.”

  “Look …”

  She virtually bundled him back out through the open door. “Go!”

  The Sister came out from behind her desk. “I told you Mr Flynn needs rest and to stay calm. I’m not having you disturb my ward.”

  “That’s all right Sister, the gentleman …” Helen Flynn looked him up and down. “… was just leaving.”

  Barton held her stare for a moment, looked back at Danny in the bed then walked away.

  * * *

  When Barton returned to the front doors, he merely grunted what sounded like, “Let’s go,” as he strode past.

  Cyril strolled after him and by the time he got to the car, the DI was impatient to be on his way.

  Despite a couple of attempts by Cyril to start a conversation, the return journey to Clacton was conducted in silence, the DI preferring to be alone with his thoughts. The atmosphere was tense.

  Back at the station, Barton disappeared into his office and closed the door.

  The note on Cyril’s desk was from Sam. He’d worked the checkpoint this morning and had come up with a possible sighting of suspicious behaviour the previous morning. Cyril didn’t need to disturb Sam at home, there was enough information for him to follow up so, in the absence of any involvement from Barton, he put his jacket back on and made his way outside.

  About to put the key in the lock of the Escort, a greeting from behind stopped him.

  “Off out again, Cyril?”

  He turned to see the smiling face of Cathy Rogers.

  “Oh, hello Cathy. Busy times,” he responded.

  “Did you get that file I left on your desk yesterday?” She took a step closer.

  “Yes I did, thanks, although Inspector Barton was expecting it apparently.”

  “Was he now,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Well I hope he wasn’t disappointed.”

  Suddenly, Cyril felt awkward. Was she flirting with him? It had been years since anyone had. She was certainly an attractive woman. He looked down to his hands. “I’d best get on,” he said, fumbling with the car key.