by David Evans
“Sounds like everything is in place down here,” Sanderson said to Barton. “Best get yourself up to the airfield and find out what you can about this.”
Barton took a deep drag on his cigarette. “What about you, boss?”
“I’ve got a meet with the Super at eight.” He pointed a thumb in the direction of the wreckage. “God knows how we absorb this now. We’re up to our armpits as it is.”
“What about Danny? How long is he going to be out the frame?”
“Not too sure yet, but I think we best forget about him returning for a while. In the meantime, see if you can get a clue as to who the pilot might be from up there.” He nodded inland.
Barton said nothing, appearing deep in thought. He trod his cigarette butt into the sand and walked off.
“Looks like the duty doctor’s here,” Sanderson said, glancing over Cyril’s shoulder. A man in a short-sleeved shirt carrying a medical bag made his way towards them over the sand. The DCI then looked down at Cyril’s trousers. “Best get changed into some dry clothes. It’s going to be a hot day again but we can’t afford another officer off sick. Don’t forget to write up your report before you knock off. I’ll catch up with you later,” Sanderson concluded.
Cyril shivered; not from his damp trousers, but with other, chilling images swimming through his mind. He rubbed his face to clear them, turned and walked away.
3
“Silly bastard was pissed as a fart though, wasn’t he?”
“I dunno. Wasn’t Traffic supposed to keep an eye on them? They usually do.”
“Got a shout. Drunk driver on the A120, apparently.”
“Some bastards never learn, do they? So what time did this happen?”
“About two this morning.”
As he walked up the stairs at Clacton Police Station just after one that afternoon, Cyril could hear the conversation through the open door to the CID office. All available windows were open in a vain attempt to generate some through draft to keep the place cool. It also helped to clear the fug of stale cigarette smoke that permanently engulfed the offices.
DC Bill Walker looked up from his desk as Cyril entered. “Hello, Sarge, what brings you in here?” He loosened off the large knot to his wide tie even more. His shirt sleeves were already rolled above the elbow.
Subconsciously, Cyril moved a hand to his tie, making sure it was central. He’d been home, shaved and changed into a suit with a crisp white shirt and a dark blue tie. He always took a pride in his appearance, especially if he was representing the police force; another trait instilled from his war-time years. “DCI Sanderson’s asked me to come in,” he said. “You’re struggling for staff, apparently.”
“Always.” DC Ben Miller stubbed out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. “Things not been helped by what happened to Danny last night.”
“I heard.” Cyril approached Miller’s desk. “What news on his condition?”
“Broken pelvis and collapsed lung the most serious I heard,” Miller responded.
“Did the Super say what you were going to help with?” Walker wondered.
“He wants me to report to DI Barton and work on the plane crash investigation.”
Cyril caught the two of them exchange glances.
“Don’t worry, I know what he’s like.” Cyril indicated the DI’s office. “Not back yet, then?”
“Not seen him since last night’s bash,” Walker replied.
Cyril walked over to a window and looked down on the car parking area. “His car’s there, though.” He turned, leaned against the sill and folded his arms. “So where were you all?”
“The Ferry Boat Inn out at Point Clear.”
Cyril shook his head. “Not changed in the last ten years.”
“Same landlord, same décor, yeah.”
“I meant you lot. Still getting pissed up and expecting Traffic to see you home safely.”
Miller smiled. “Perk of the job, Sarge.”
Outside on the staircase, footsteps sounded.
“You need a bag man, Dick,” DCI Sanderson could be heard saying.
“But Winco? Come on,” Barton replied.
Because of his wartime RAF history, some officers called Cyril ‘Winco’ behind his back, but never to his face. Walker and Miller looked down to their desks as Sanderson and Barton appeared in the doorway.
“Ah, Cyril, you’re here already,” Sanderson said.
“Sir.”
Barton appeared behind without a hint of embarrassment, said nothing and strode past towards his office.
“I’ve got to call the Chief Super,” Sanderson said, then added in a loud voice, “Now you two play nice.” The DCI turned and left.
Cyril followed Barton into his office and shut the door.
“Can I just say,” Cyril said, looking straight at the DI, “I’d rather you didn’t make references like that about me. I find it disrespectful of those who served.”
Barton took out a cigarette from the packet on his desk, sat down and lit up. “Look, Cyril.” He blew smoke out emphatically. “Nothing personal, but sometimes you need to lighten up. Look at me, they christened me Dick, but I don’t get upset with that. It’s part of life.”
“I’d just prefer it if you didn’t. Okay?”
Barton leaned forward on his desk. “The alternative for me is to temporarily make up one of those two, Bill and Ben the Flowerpot Men out there, so I haven’t got a lot of choice. Besides, you’re qualified. You were in CID when I joined. So let’s just make the most of this arrangement, shall we.” He leaned back and gave a thin smile. “Sit down a minute.”
The blood still pounded through Cyril’s veins, but slowly he eased himself into the chair.
“Okay,” Barton began, “what I found out when I visited the airfield this morning was that the pilot is believed to be a Jeremy Fletcher, Jem they called him.”
Cyril frowned.
“Name mean anything to you?”
“I remember a little runt called Jem Fletcher. We nailed him for nicking cars a long while back. Maybe when I first joined CID. Must have been late 50s 1960, ‘61 perhaps?”
“Before my time.” Barton conceded. “Apparently he does some mechanical work now; servicing, that sort of thing. Or did, I should say.”
A knock on the door interrupted their conversation and Barton beckoned Bill Walker in.
“The Fingerprint Bureau just came back, guv,” Walker said. “Confirmed fingerprints of the pilot are a match for a Jeremy Fletcher.”
“Record for car crime about fifteen, twenty years ago.” Barton stated.
Walker looked surprised. “How did …”
Barton nodded to Cyril.
“Well anyway,” Walker continued, handing over a slip of paper. “Got an address for him in Great Bentley.”
Barton took it as Walker left, almost colliding with DCI Sanderson.
Barton looked up. “We’ve got an ID on the pilot, Sir.”
“Good.” Sanderson closed the door and sat down in the spare chair. “Because you’ll be leading this investigation. I’ve got to get more involved with those armed robberies with Colchester, and we’re stretched to buggery here.” He looked to Cyril. “You two okay working together then?”
“We’ll be fine,” Barton said.
“You said that without moving your lips, Cyril,” Sanderson quipped. “But that’s okay, because we don’t have a choice.” He rubbed his face with his hand. “You can have Walker and Miller out there too, but they’ll also have to carry on working the cases they’ve already got, so just bear that in mind.” His attention focused on Cyril again. “And find yourself a spare desk out there for now. Use DS Flynn’s if you have to; just tidy his paperwork to one side first.”
A shocked expression appeared on Barton’s face and he was about to speak when Sanderson stopped him.
“Danny’s not going to be back for a while, Cyril needs somewhere to base himself and it makes sense.”
Cyril glanced at the
DCI and thought the man appeared tired.
As Sanderson stood to leave, he added, “God, let’s hope this doesn’t grow into something more significant because we just don’t have the resources.”
“We’ll try and wrap it up quickly,” Barton said.
Sanderson opened the door then paused. “Excellent. In the meantime, call a briefing for six and I’ll join you for that.” He looked to Cyril. “And there’s some paperwork with Cathy, one of the secretaries downstairs. Give it a bit and check she’s finished what I asked her to do. If you need some admin backup I’ve told her to prioritise this enquiry.” The door closed and he was gone.
“We don’t need bloody secretaries,” Barton said quietly to himself, “we need detectives.”
“Fletcher?” Cyril thought out loud. “Surely it wasn’t his plane? I can’t imagine he’d be able to afford one.”
“No, it belongs to Walter Yardley from Frinton.”
“Has anybody spoken to him?”
Barton looked put out. “Spoke to him on the phone this morning. Seemed a bit shocked.”
“He’ll need to give a statement.”
Barton held up a hand. “I’ll deal with that. Apparently, he’s a good friend of the Chief Super, so we won’t want to bother him any more than we have to.”
“Mr Viney, you mean?”
Barton nodded.
Cyril changed tack. “What about the CAA?”
Barton relaxed once more into his chair. “Eventually got hold of them this morning,” he said. “Lazy buggers don’t answer until after nine. They passed me on to their accident investigation bods. Somebody’s supposed to be on their way down. We can’t move the plane until they’ve seen it in situ. Apparently, they’d want to take it down to Farnborough but I told them bollocks, it’s our case and it stays here until we’ve finished with it.” The DI took another cigarette from the packet on his desk, lit up, took a deep draw and exhaled loudly. “Reminds me,” he continued, “I need to get a garage organised to store the bloody thing for now.” He picked up the telephone. “All right, check if uniform have found anything interesting and I’ll see you downstairs in fifteen minutes. We can have a trip out into the country.” Another drag. “You can drive,” he said in dismissal, before speaking into the phone, “Hello …”
Cyril closed the DI’s office door behind him and paused. Bill Walker was away from his desk and Ben Miller, cigarette in hand was engrossed, typing with one finger. He shook his head and wondered if they really knew their DI’s opinion of them.
4
Great Bentley had the distinction of having one of the largest village greens in the country. Plenty of room for several football pitches and the local cricket club to fulfil their fixtures and a whole lot more area besides. But now, the green wasn’t living up to its name. Various shades of yellows and browns betrayed the months of dry weather.
It took Cyril fifteen minutes to cover the distance from Clacton Police Station. The address they sought was in a side street near the railway station. The two-storey mid-terraced cottage had a section of scaffolding outside and a deeply tanned man, wearing only a pair of shorts, was at first floor level painting the front a pastel yellow.
Cyril drew the Rover to a halt and Barton stepped out. The man on the scaffold eyed them suspiciously. Cyril joined the DI by the gate.
“Can I help you … officers?” the man said pointedly.
“This is the address of Jeremy Fletcher?” Barton asked.
“What of it?”
“And you are?”
“Adam Fletcher, Jem’s brother. What are you trying to stitch him up with now?”
“Can you come down please?” Cyril joined in
Fletcher squinted at Cyril. “I know you, don’t I? Didn’t you stick Jem away last time?”
“A long time ago Mr Fletcher. And you and I have had words in the past too, but you were a youth then.”
“Come down, we’d like a word.” Barton instructed
“I’ve got this to finish.”
Barton shook one of the uprights.
“Hey! You’ll spill the bloody paint!”
“Just get your arse down here. We haven’t got all bloody day.” Barton sounded exasperated.
Cyril put a hand on Barton’s arm as he was about to rattle the scaffolding again. “Please Mr Fletcher, this is important,” he said.
Fletcher sighed, put his brush in a bucket of water and swiftly jumped down off the boards. “This had better be good,” he said, opening the front door.
Five minutes later, Adam Fletcher’s world collapsed. He sat on the settee nursing the mug of tea Cyril had made for him.
“But I don’t understand,” he said through tears. “He was so careful. He’d check everything before he got in a plane.”
“We won’t know any more until the aircraft investigation experts have examined it,” Barton explained. “In the meantime, is there anyone else we need to inform?”
Fletcher put down his drink and wiped the back of his hands over his eyes. “Vicky, there’s Vicky. Oh God, this’ll kill her. I need to …”
“And Vicky is Mrs Fletcher?”
“Er, no. There is … I mean there was … Jem is divorced. She pissed off three years ago. Living up north somewhere, I think. No, Vicky’s his partner. This is their house. I’m just giving them a hand; doing a few jobs for them.”
“So where is she at the moment?”
“Colchester. She works for an insurance company.” Fletcher stood. “I’ll have to …”
Cyril looked to Barton then back to Fletcher. “Mr Fletcher … Adam,” he said calmly, “what we need to do is have Jem officially identified.”
“Of course. I’m forgetting … I’ll do that. But … is he … I mean …?”
An image of the pilot’s body on the beach flashed through Cyril’s mind; only a few hours ago. “No,” he said, “He’s not in a bad way.”
“Only …” Fletcher considered, “I’m not sure if Vicky would …”
“Do you want us to call on her?” Cyril offered, aware that an unannounced ‘agony visit’, as it’s known, by uniformed officers would be more upsetting.
“If you want, I can take you into Colchester,” Barton added. “Pick her up and, if she wants to come too, I can organise things; with the mortuary.”
“Let me call her first. I think it best if it comes from me,” Fletcher decided.
* * *
“Thanks, Sam, I appreciate it.”
“You mean he just drove off and left you to make your own way back?” Sam Woodbridge was chuckling as he drove his beloved ten-year-old blue VW Beetle. “I knew he had a reputation as … well, difficult, but you’re one of our own.”
Cyril was in the passenger seat, staring out of the window. “Well, it made sense. Driving Adam Fletcher into Colchester after organising the identification with the hospital.” He’d called Sam at home from The Plough in the village. His mother said he couldn’t sleep.
“You could have gone with him.”
Cyril knew Sam was right but he wasn’t going to criticise a superior. “He did suggest I get the Great Bentley village bobby to take me back, or the train.” He turned to Sam and smiled. “But I thought you’d be better company.”
“Thanks.”
“And he wants me to check on the uniform team down on the beach.”
“I think there’s only a couple of lads left down there now, the rest are all back on normal duties,” Sam said.
Cyril glanced over at Sam who still had a smile on his face at the latest Barton episode.
“Did you have time to get Charlie out for his walk before the call from the DCI?” Sam asked.
“Yes. He’s next door with Doris now. I think she loves him almost as much as I do.”
“Doris?”
“She’s seventy-six and a widow. She loves the company; reckons she feels secure with him.” Cyril looked over at Sam once again. “She tells people she looks after a police dog.” It was his turn to smile
. “He’s more likely to lick someone to death than savage them.
“By the way, did you enjoy your fry-up?” Cyril continued.
Sam’s expression turned serious. “I wasn’t hungry.”
“How’s the ankle?”
“Walked it off. Just a bit of a sprain.”
They were quiet for a minute.
“Are you okay?” Cyril asked.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just didn’t sleep very well, that’s all.”
“Bit of a shock for you this morning.”
They drove on in silence for a few more minutes before Sam finally broke it. “You know that was the first time I’ve ever seen anyone die?”
Cyril studied Sam. “I didn’t. But you have been called to other deaths before though, haven’t you?”
“Four, I think. But they’d all been old. They’d had their lives. But that pilot, he’d be, what, forty-ish?”
“Thirty-seven. A couple of years younger than his brother, Adam.”
“Married? Kids?”
“Divorced I’m told. Living with another woman now, no mention of children,” Cyril said. “But listen, Sam, this is life. People have accidents all the time. We can’t do anything to stop that. All we can do is pick up the pieces, so to speak. But we’re not social workers.”
“I know, I know.” Sam screwed up his face. “Still doesn’t make it easy.”
“No,” Cyril said quietly, resuming his view from the window.
Sam glanced at him. “Anyway, listen to me going on. What you lived through in the war, you must have seen far worse than this morning?”
Cyril blew out his cheeks. Sam was right, he had seen some awful things, things a seventeen-year-old boy, because that’s what he was, shouldn’t have seen. An image of that Lancaster coming in to land on one engine, two others out of action and the fourth ablaze flashed into his mind. The pilot was younger than Sam was now and he’d done a brilliant job to bring it back over the channel. But it hadn’t been enough.
A car going the other way beeped its horn at someone, bringing Cyril back to the present. Finally, he replied, “Yes, well … I have but … just like you, it doesn’t make it any easier. You just learn to cope.”
