Disposal (The Tendring Series Book 1) Read online

  “I wondered if you’ve thought about the days leading up to Jimmy’s disappearance …”

  “I’ve thought of nothing else.”

  “I mean whether anything stands out as unusual? Did he go out on his own and not tell you where he’d been? Was he secretive about anything?”

  “He always had secrets. But I did trust him. He looked after me.”

  Cyril took a drink of his tea and allowed a pause. He thought it best to try a different angle. “So what did Jimmy do for a living?”

  Beryl looked a bit defensive. “We got by. I do a couple of shifts in a pub and Jimmy did some odd driving jobs for people.”

  “Who specifically, can you remember?”

  She looked down to the mug of tea in her hands. “Just a couple of people he knew.”

  Cyril glanced at Walker then shifted forwards on the settee. “Look Beryl, I can understand you being defensive when Jimmy was still here. I’m sorry he isn’t for you, but the best way you can help him now is by being open with me.”

  She shook her head and put the mug down on the hearth. “I can’t,” she said, pulling a tissue from her blouse sleeve.

  Cyril pressed on. “Are you frightened of someone?”

  She wiped her eyes and seemed to recover. “He didn’t tell me everything, but he did do some delivery work for Yardley Electrical in Colchester on occasions.”

  Cyril looked to Walker then back to Beryl. “But you said ‘some people’. Who else gave him some casual driving work?”

  Again a look of alarm spread over Beryl’s face.

  “Please,” Cyril said. “We need to know.” He could see her weighing up her options.

  Finally she replied, so quietly, Cyril asked her to repeat it.

  “The Holland Flower Company.”

  Cyril had never heard of them. “Are they some florist in Holland-on-Sea?”

  “No, nothing like that.” She bent down and picked up her drink. “Apparently they import flowers from Holland on the continent. Jimmy would take a van over on the ferry from Harwich and come back later with a load.”

  “Do you know where they’re based?”

  Beryl shook her head. “No idea.”

  “So how often did he do the Dutch run?”

  With both hands around her mug, she took another sip. “I don’t know … maybe three or four times?”

  “And was he due to do that again soon?”

  She put the mug down again and wiped her eyes with her hand. “I think so,” she said.

  Cyril took a deep breath. “And was this why he went out …” He made a point of studying his notebook. “… last Tuesday, the 24th? To meet Victor?”

  Again, a look of alarm appeared on her face.

  Cyril clarified. “Victor Robinson?”

  16

  They left Beryl Boynton shaken. She knew more about what Jimmy Morgan was involved with than she was willing to say. But for now, Cyril had enough to make some progress on the case. He could understand her reticence; after all, the Robinsons had a reputation for punishing those who betrayed them. Had that been Jimmy’s fate? Had he spoken out of turn to the Clacton CID officer that Cyril suspected was Barton?

  If anything, the day was even hotter. With no wind to take the edge off, it was unbearable. Back in the stuffy CID room, Barton was studying some files when Cyril and Walker returned. He beckoned Cyril into his office. A strong aroma of BO attacked Cyril’s nostrils.

  “Take the weight off,” Barton said, indicating the chair in front of his desk. “I’ve been doing a bit of digging …”

  In a swamp, Cyril thought as he sat and watched Barton lean back in his seat, hands above his head revealing damp patches on his shirt under the armpits.

  “… the Robinsons own a static caravan on the Seawick site.” Seawick lies on the coast to the west of Jaywick, but was accessed by road through the village of St Osyth.

  “Odd you should say that,” Cyril replied, “because Bill and I have had an interesting conversation with Beryl.”

  Barton leaned forward and grinned. “I’ll bet she frightened him to death.”

  “Well, apart from that, Jimmy had been doing some driving work, delivery vans. And guess who for?”

  Barton looked serious. “Victor Robinson,” he said slowly.

  Cyril smiled. “Apparently he was taking a van over on the ferry from Harwich. It was labelled up as belonging to The Holland Flower Company.”

  “Really?”

  “I’ve asked Bill to check it out, but I’ll bet the firm doesn’t exist.”

  Barton nodded approvingly.

  “But not just the Robinsons,” Cyril continued.

  “Go on, surprise me. You’ve got that smug look on your face.”

  “Our old friend, Walter Yardley. Seems he was delivering for Yardley Electrical as well.”

  DCI Sanderson wafted in on a cloud of cologne. “Christ Dick, it smells like an abattoir in here,” he commented.

  Barton smelt his pits. “Well it is bloody hot.”

  “Anyway, what’s that you’re saying about Walter Yardley?”

  Barton repeated what Cyril had just recounted.

  “Forget about Yardley for now,” Sanderson said. “I can’t see him being involved in this.”

  “He did deny knowing Jimmy Morgan when I took his formal statement though, Sir.” Cyril said.

  “But if it was just a casual arrangement, he probably wouldn’t involve himself with that. Probably arranged through his factory manager or whoever.”

  “What I was thinking, Sir,” Barton jumped in, “was arranging for a warrant to search the Robinsons’ static … just to see what that throws up.”

  “Okay, Dick, it’s probably worth upsetting them,” Sanderson said. “You never know what you might find.”

  He took a step towards the door then paused. “Might also be worth investing in some air freshener,” he quipped, then was gone.

  “Tosser,” Barton said under his breath. “Anyway, Cyril, he’s right, we need some fresh air. You reckoned Adam Fletcher had money problems … let’s rattle his cage.”

  * * *

  One result of the weeks of hot weather was that when people were at home, windows would often be opened, and in some cases doors, to let what breeze there was flow through. That played to Barton’s advantage as he and Cyril approached Adam Fletcher’s neat council-owned semi. As they walked up the path to the front door standing ajar, the row was reaching its climax.

  “… and all because of you,” a shrill female voice was saying. “You saw how the kids reacted. How can you look at them again when they ask about Uncle Jem? Answer me that!”

  “Look, we can get through this,” Adam Fletcher said.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  “Come on, I can sort it.”

  “How? How are you going to fix it? You’re in over your head.”

  There were a few seconds of silence before the woman spoke again. “Come on then, you’re the one with all the smart ideas. How are you getting out of this? And I mean ‘you’. You’re not dragging me down.”

  “Fuck’s sake, Carol!” Fletcher finally shouted, slammed a door inside then strutted out through the front door.

  “Bit of a temper you’ve got there, Adam,” Barton said, leaning against the wall on one side of the doorway; Cyril was on the other.

  Fletcher stopped in his tracks, turned slowly round, saw the two detectives and rolled his eyes. “That’s all I fucking need,” he said. “What do you want?”

  Barton looked across at Cyril. “That’s no way to talk to officers of the law, is it, DS Claydon?”

  “We’d like a word,” Cyril said.

  “Aren’t you going to invite us in?” Barton pressed on, a grin spreading over his face.

  “Piss off.”

  Barton pushed himself off the wall and took a step closer to Fletcher. “Well, we could go inside and have a chat with … Carol, is it? Or we might just arrest you here, outside in the street. But let’s face i
t, this seems a nice little neighbourhood. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to have the curtains twitching.”

  “Or,” Cyril joined in, “we could just have a little drive and a chat.”

  Barton looked across at Cyril. “That’s a good idea, DS Claydon. A compromise. Always a good idea, a compromise.”

  Fletcher looked from Cyril to Barton then over his shoulder to Barton’s Rover parked kerbside. “Come on then,” he said, shoulders slumped in surrender.

  With Barton and Adam Fletcher sitting in the back and all the windows open, Cyril drove, keeping the speed down.

  Barton pulled out a packet of cigarettes. “As we said, Adam, we’d just like a little chat.” He offered a cigarette to Fletcher who took it. “Now, if at any time we don’t think you’re taking this seriously or if you’re telling us a load of Billy Bollocks, then DS Claydon here can simply drive us down the nick and we can make things more official.” Barton looked straight at Fletcher. “You get my drift?”

  Fletcher nodded and Barton lit both their cigarettes.

  Cyril had adjusted the mirror so he could keep glancing at Fletcher’s reactions. The man certainly seemed less cocky than when they’d all stood on his path a few minutes ago.

  “I hear you have some problems, Adam?” Barton began.

  A flash of anger appeared on his face. “Like my younger brother’s just died.”

  “That’s not what I’m particularly talking about. You had other problems before that.”

  A shrug of the shoulders. “No more than anybody,” Fletcher responded.

  “Specifically money.”

  “Like I said. We’ve all got rent to pay, food to buy, clothes for the kids.”

  “Adam, I was hoping for a full and frank discussion here but …”

  Fletcher stiffened. “So I owe some money. Big deal.”

  By now, they were slowly driving along the seafront, heading east towards Holland-on-Sea. Families were picnicking and playing on the greensward and beyond, where the paths dropped down to the promenade, the sea reflected the depth of the late afternoon sun. There were a few parking spaces so Cyril pulled the car to a halt facing the sea. Switching off the engine, he half-turned in his seat to face the two men in the back.

  “I think it might be a big deal, though,” Barton continued.

  Again, another shrug.

  “That would depend on who he owes money to,” Cyril joined in.

  Barton nodded theatrically. “Very true.”

  Fletcher took a last draw of his cigarette and flicked it out of the window. “I got into a bit of trouble.” He blew out smoke and looked down at his hands. “At school, we used to play cards. Only for coppers, but I was good at it, you know. I’d not really played since but … earlier this year I got involved with a card school.” He looked to Barton. “Don’t ask, because I won’t tell you but … to cut a long story short, it turns out I wasn’t as good as I thought I was.”

  Barton shifted in the seat. “How much?”

  Fletcher hesitated. “Two,” he finally said.

  “Hundred?” Cyril asked.

  “No. Grand.”

  “Bloody Hell, Adam, that’s serious money.”

  “I know.”

  “And your job is …?”

  “I’m a postman. So with my hours, that’s why I could afford some time to help … well, do a bit of decorating for ...”

  Cyril rubbed his hand over his face. “That’s got to be a year’s salary,” he wondered aloud.

  Fletcher slowly nodded his head.

  “So how are you repaying that?” Barton asked.

  This time Fletcher shook his head, still looking down onto his lap. “Slowly.”

  “They must be quite understanding … these people.”

  Fletcher was silent.

  “So who do you owe?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Adam!”

  Fletcher looked to Barton then Cyril, sheer terror in his eyes. “I can’t. They’ll kill me.”

  “Look …” Barton began angrily, before Cyril put up a hand.

  “You said you lost money in this card school,” Cyril said in quiet measured tones.

  “That’s right.”

  “How much have you managed to pay back?”

  Fletcher’s eyes were watery. He looked away across the greensward to the shape of Clacton pier. “About half,” he finally responded.

  “So how have you managed that?”

  He wiped his face with his hand and sniffed. “Odd jobs.”

  “Who for?”

  Another shrug. “Different people.”

  Barton finally snapped and grabbed hold of him roughly by his tee shirt. “When we ask you a question,” he snarled, “we expect a fucking answer!”

  Adam Fletcher cowered as Cyril placed a hand on Barton’s arm.

  “A word,” Cyril said, opening the door and stepping out.

  Reluctantly, Barton released his grip. “Stay there,” he barked then got out of the car to join Cyril by the boot, a dark expression on his face.

  “He’s scared,” Cyril said in hushed tones.

  “He fucking well ought to be. I’ll take him down the station and give him a …”

  No,” Cyril interrupted. “Whatever he’s got himself into, he fears them more than us. We need to try a different tack to squeeze that out.”

  Barton seemed to calm slightly, leaning against the back of the car. “Go on then genius, what do you suggest?”

  “I think Mrs Fletcher might be the way in.”

  “And you think he’s told her what he’s been up to?”

  Cyril put both hands in his pockets. “Think back to the argument we overheard. What was it she said? ‘How are you going to fix it? You’re in over your head.’ She knows. Certainly more than he’s saying.” Cyril pointed towards the rear window.

  “So how do you suggest we play this? Take him back and interview the wife with him present?”

  For the first time, Cyril thought Barton was taking him seriously. “She’d probably clam up,” he said. He slowly walked in a circle, considering what to do. “He’s a postie. We can try and talk to her on her own tomorrow morning. She’ll either be at home or, if she works, we can engineer something.”

  Barton finally nodded. “Okay, let’s work on that. Although I’d still rather have five minutes on my own with him in an interview room.”

  17

  The Gateway supermarket was quiet in the evening. This was Cyril’s preferred time for an activity he hated. Shopping for food didn’t interest him these days. Although it was a necessary function, he couldn’t get excited about it. But a quick check through his cupboards after he’d returned home, revealed a lot of empty space. He’d asked Doris if she needed anything and she’d given him a small list which he’d gladly added to his. After all her help since Maureen had passed on, especially with looking after Charlie, it was the least he could do.

  Wandering around the aisles, he reflected on what progress had been made that day. Adam Fletcher had been dropped off at the end of his road and they had learned that, while his wife worked some evenings, she was around in the day, apart from picking up her two boys from school in the afternoon. Cyril and a female uniformed constable would call round the following morning.

  It also sounded like the reason for the plane’s failure was down to Barry Hill, albeit inadvertently. The engineers had confirmed the cause and Hill would suffer for a long time. He obviously had a conscience.

  Beryl had given them links between Morgan and both Walter Yardley and the Robinsons. Cyril had an uncomfortable feeling about Yardley. That car; there couldn’t be too many models like that. Denial of knowing Morgan could be true but he’d like an opportunity to probe further. Every time Yardley’s name was raised, the defences seemed to rise; both Barton and Sanderson were guilty there. And then there was the rumour of Morgan being a snout for a CID officer. Despite the denial, Cyril was in no doubt that Barton was the one. Barton said he was arranging for a war
rant to search the Robinsons’ static but had said no more to him since. For some undisclosed reason, was he keeping Cyril in the dark? That thought unnerved him too.

  Steering his trolley around the end of the tinned vegetables aisle, Cyril collided with another. He looked up and saw the shocked expression on Cathy Rogers’ face turn into a smile.

  “Sorry about that … Oh, it’s you,” he said.

  “Yes, it’s me.” She swept a hand through her shoulder-length dark curly hair.

  “I was on auto-pilot.”

  They looked at one another for what seemed like ages but must only have been a split second.

  “Is this your regular shopping venue?” Cathy asked.

  “Er, no. I don’t have one. But Doris likes the bread in here.”

  Cathy raised her eyebrows. “Doris?”

  “Yes. She’s my next-door neighbour. She’s seventy-six and looks after Charlie.”

  “Her husband?”

  “No, my Labrador.”

  She laughed infectiously and Cyril joined in.

  “That sounded like one of those comic sketches on TV,” she said.

  “I suppose it did.” An awkward pause. “So is this your local?”

  “Supermarket? Yes. I only live a few streets away.”

  Another uncomfortable silence. “Well, I’ll let you get on,” Cyril said, and began to manoeuvre his trolley to the side.

  “Actually,” she said, nervously, “I was just wondering …”

  He stopped. “Yes?”

  “No, it doesn’t matter,” she flustered.

  “Go on.”

  “No. You’ll think I’m … well.”

  “What is it Cathy?”

  She took a breath before blurting out quickly, “Well, some friends of mine have asked me if I’d like to join them on Saturday night as part of their quiz team. They go regularly and they’re two men down this week, well a man and a woman down because their other friends Jim and Sandra are away for the next two weeks and …”

  “Slow down,” Cyril said, amused by the fact that Cathy seemed not to take a breath.

  “Stupid idea, I know,” she went on, “but I just wondered if you’d like to come with me? I’m sure you’re very knowledgeable on all sorts of subjects …”