Disposal (The Tendring Series Book 1)

by David Evans

  “Oh, yes, me too,” she said. “I’m due back from lunch three minutes ago. See you.”

  As he sat in the driver’s seat, he watched her walk over to the front doors, admiring her shapely legs, accentuated by the wedge sandals she was wearing. With a smile on his face, he started up the engine. “I’m getting too old for this,” he told himself, and drove off.

  9

  The personnel manager at Butlin’s reluctantly provided Cyril with Jack Finnegan’s home address. “What’s he been up to now?” he’d asked. Cyril told him that, as far as he knew, Jack hadn’t been up to anything but was a possible witness to an incident. He did, however, make a note to search for a criminal record on the man.

  Finnegan’s home turned out to be a semi-detached bungalow on a side road off Golf Green Road on the way in to Jaywick. The next door garden was well-tended, despite the drought conditions and Cyril could imagine the neighbour’s irritation with the state of Finnegan’s front garden. The privet hedge looked as though it hadn’t been trimmed all summer and the centre section had been an obvious target for passing school children ‘bombing’ it, the large compressed sections evidence of that.

  Cyril walked up the path past the dead-looking overgrown area that had once been a lawn and rang the bell to the half-glazed door at the side of the property. A dog began to bark loudly. Instinctively, he stepped back. Some shouting and slamming of a door preceded the appearance of a figure approaching, visible through the rippled glass. The door was opened by a woman dressed in a blouse and skirt and wearing glasses. He took her to be in her fifties.

  She eyed him warily, “Yes?”

  “I’d like to speak with Jack Finnegan?” Cyril said, holding out his warrant card.

  She folded her arms, a stern expression forming. “He’s having a rest. He’s on early shifts.”

  “I realise that er, Mrs Finnegan? But it is important. He spoke to a constable this morning. I understand he could have vital information for us.”

  “Wait there,” she said and closed the door.

  Moments later a short stocky man with a bald pate opened the door again. He was in bare feet and dressed in a vest and trousers with braces hanging by his sides.

  “Sorry about that,” he said, “She thinks I work too hard. Come in a minute.”

  He held the door wide and Cyril stepped into a neat kitchen with a small table and three chairs to the side.

  “Sit down,” the man invited, swiftly moving both braces over his shoulders. “I’m assuming this is about yesterday morning?”

  “You are Jack Finnegan?” Cyril asked as he sat at one end of the table.

  Finnegan took a seat opposite. “Yes, yes of course.”

  Cyril flipped open his notebook. “I’m DS Claydon from Clacton Police. I understand you spoke to one of my colleagues this morning on your way to work?”

  “That’s right. He was asking about yesterday morning, when that plane crashed.” He stood again. “Sorry, did you want a drink? Tea? Or a cold one, there’s some squash?”

  Cyril held up a hand. “No thanks Mr Finnegan, I’m fine. Now if you could just take me through what you saw yesterday, that would be great.”

  The man resumed his seat, rather nervously. “Well, I set off from here about four-thirty. I work in the kitchens at Butlin’s and I start at five, breakfasts and that. I bike it down so I suppose I passed the lane end to the airstrip about …” He screwed up his face in concentration. “… a quarter to five.”

  Cyril, writing down notes, paused and looked up. “So it was still dark.”

  “Sort of. I mean with this weather, the nights aren’t so dark anyway. But yes the street lights were on.”

  “And what exactly did you see?”

  “Well I thought it was a bit odd. I mean that time of the morning there’s nothing much on the road anyway. But this car was pulled up to the gate at the end of the lane.”

  “What sort of car, could you tell?”

  “Oh, it was one of these big old Jags. You know the sort the villains always seem to smash up on that new TV show that’s on, The Sweeney.” A broad grin came on his face. “Margaret and me, we love that programme.”

  “Sounds like the old mark 2,” Cyril mused.

  “I’m not up on cars but if that’s what they use, yes.”

  “I don’t suppose you got anything of the registration?”

  “I think it was D which is, what, 1966?”

  Cyril nodded. “Any indication of colour?”

  “It was dark.”

  Cyril looked up once more as Finnegan hesitated, before adding, “I mean the car was dark coloured. Could have been grey or black.”

  “Could you see the driver?”

  “There was two of them, just sitting there. The engine was running, fumes coming from the exhausts …”

  “Twin exhausts?”

  “One either side, yes. Is that important?”

  “Maybe. Sorry, you were saying.”

  “Yeah, and the lights were on. I mean the headlights, not the inside lights.”

  “And there were two people inside the car? Any idea what they looked like?”

  “No. I was just cycling past and saw the car there. They were in the front facing the gate. It was two blokes, though, but all I saw was the backs of their heads, silhouette like.”

  “I know this is difficult, Mr Finnegan, but sometimes just the smallest detail could be important. I mean was either of them wearing a hat, or bald, or anything distinguishing?”

  Finnegan looked down at the table and appeared to be thinking hard. Slowly he shook his head. “I can’t think of anything. I don’t think they were wearing hats, but I couldn’t be one hundred per cent. Oh, but one was bigger than the other; the passenger I mean. The driver was a smaller bloke.”

  Cyril closed his notebook. “Okay, Mr Finnegan, that’s been a great help. Thanks for that and I’m sorry if I disturbed your rest.” He stood to leave. “Obviously, if there is anything else that springs to mind, can you let me know at Clacton Police Station?”

  Finnegan also got to his feet. “Sure, no problem.” He opened the door.

  As he stepped outside, Cyril stopped and turned. “Oh, I’ve got to ask Mr Finnegan … what sort of dog do you have?”

  The man smiled. “That’s Sabre. She’s an Alsatian.”

  “Certainly sounds big.”

  “Soft as anything really but she makes a noise.”

  * * *

  Back at the station, Cyril climbed the stairs to CID only to be met by Barton coming down.

  “Where have you been?” he grunted. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  Cyril stopped. “You asked me to check what progress with the checkpoint this morning, so I followed up on that.”

  “Have you seen this?” Barton thrust a copy of the Evening Gazette at him.

  “No,” he replied, taking the paper and opening it out on the front page. The headline pondered, Mystery Object Recovered From Crashed Plane. “Do they come up with an answer?” he asked.

  “So far they don’t know what we found, only witness reports of a large object wrapped in plastic taken away in a van.”

  “Only a matter of time, I suppose.”

  Barton continued down the stairs. “Never mind that for now, tell me what news on this morning’s checkpoint on the way.”

  “Where are we going?” Cyril followed in Barton’s wake.

  “To see the delightful Beryl Boynton.”

  “Who the Hell’s …”

  10

  This time Barton drove the Rover 2000 down to Jaywick as Cyril recounted his conversation with the witness.

  Jaywick was a total enigma, the area having grown up around the holiday chalets that had been built for holiday makers, mostly from London, back in the thirties. After the war, it was a target for people looking for cheap accommodation with the result that many of the properties, originally intended for holiday use only and totally unfit for year round living, began to deteriorate. And
tragedy struck with the deaths of thirty-five people in 1953 when the North Sea suffered a surge tide and swamped the place.

  Driving down Jaywick Lane, the standard of property visibly reduced the further progress they made.

  “Beryl Boynton,” Barton explained, “live-in partner of the late Jimmy Morgan. Although I don’t know what she’ll be able to tell us. Her sort won’t want to tell us anything, even if Morgan did talk to her about what he was up to.”

  “So where exactly are we headed?” Cyril asked.

  “Brooklands.”

  “I might have known.”

  That area was the worst in the village. All the roads named after cars from the thirties, forties and fifties. Names like Riley, Humber and Alvis. After five minutes, Barton turned the Rover into its namesake Avenue. The property he drew to a halt outside resembled a garden shed.

  “Incredible that people still live like this,” Cyril said.

  “You should see my flat,” Barton responded before quickly getting out of the car.

  His knock on the door was greeted by a dog barking inside.

  “Looks to be a ‘must have’ accessory,” Cyril quipped.

  Before Barton could ask what he meant, the door was opened by a woman of around fifty with bleach blonde hair in ringlets, dressed in a V-necked top which showed a generous cleavage and a skirt that Cyril thought too short for a woman of her age. At her feet, a brown and black Yorkshire Terrier circled.

  “Miss Boynton?” Barton enquired, holding up his warrant card.

  “Mrs, yes, but just call me Beryl,” she said, bending down to pick up the dog. “Have you found Jimmy?”

  “Detective Inspector Barton and this is Detective Sergeant Claydon. Do you mind if we come in a minute?”

  A worried expression came over the woman’s face as she turned back into the house and led them inside. The door opened straight into a small but comfortably furnished living room. Cyril could hardly describe the interior as ‘grotty’ which is how Barton had referred to it earlier. A small two-seater settee and two matching easy chairs took up most of the floor area.

  Cyril shut the door behind him. When he turned back round, Beryl was closing the door to the kitchen, having deposited the dog inside. She sat in one of the chairs and nervously pulled a cigarette from a packet that rested on the arm.

  “What’s he done,” she asked after the first puff. “It must be something serious for a DI to turn up at the door.”

  Cyril looked to Barton who, in turn looked briefly to the floor before he spoke. “I’m afraid I have some bad news,” he said.

  Ten minutes later, Beryl was cupping a mug of coffee in both hands. She’d grabbed some toilet roll to use as tissue and had finally regained control after the first wave of tears.

  “How did he die?” she struggled to ask.

  “I’m afraid we believe his death to be suspicious,” Barton said.

  Cyril was incredulous. You can’t get more suspicious than being shot in the head, wrapped in plastic and on your way out over the North Sea for a last swim, he thought.

  “You mean murdered.” Beryl stated firmly.

  Barton nodded. “It looks that way, yes.”

  The woman shook her head and began to cry again.

  Cyril looked to Barton who seemed uneasy with the situation. He caught his eye and Barton nodded approval.

  “Beryl,” Cyril said gently, “I get the impression you’re not exactly surprised to hear this.”

  Through sobs, she shook her head once more. “I told him to stay away.”

  “Away? Away from where?”

  “He was mixing with … well it doesn’t matter anymore.” She looked up at Cyril. “Can I see him?”

  “We will need someone to make a formal identification …” Barton began.

  But Cyril interrupted. “We’ll see what we can arrange, Beryl. But who were you worried about him mixing with?”

  She wiped her eyes and nose then straightened up. “You know as well as I do the sort of company he was keeping. I don’t know their names but he was mixed up with some London men.”

  Cyril decided to change tack. “So when was the last time you saw Jimmy?”

  “Four days ago now. He said he was off to meet someone. See a man about a dog, he said. But I knew what that meant. He’d got some racket going on.”

  “What time was that?”

  “About nine he left here. At night.”

  “And you’ve no idea who he was going to see?”

  Another shake of the head.

  Cyril was aware of Barton’s restlessness. “Did he have any visitors in the days before?” he continued.

  “No. No one.”

  “Did he go out much in the days leading up to his disappearance?”

  Before she could respond, Barton finally exploded. “For Christ’s sake, Mrs Boynton, if we’re going to get to the bottom of this, you’re going to have to tell us what you know!”

  That outburst prompted another round of sobs and tissue dabbing. Cyril looked sharply at the DI. He was beginning to wonder how he ever got results with his attitude. It might work for some minor criminal who could be intimidated by an angry and threatening demeanour but not in this case.

  “Just take your time, Beryl,” Cyril said. “Try and think of what Jimmy was doing, who he might have mentioned, in the days leading up to his disappearance.”

  Slowly, Beryl settled down and appeared to give the question some thought. Finally, she seemed to remember something. “The only thing I can think of is that he mentioned having to see someone called Victor.”

  “Victor?” Barton queried. “Did he mention another name?”

  “No, just a Victor.”

  “And when was this?” Cyril followed up.

  “Last week, maybe Monday, no Tuesday. He went out on his own early in the evening. He was back about eleven.”

  Barton took a deep breath and exhaled, as if in frustration, then stood. “Okay, Mrs Boynton, we’ll leave it there for now. But, as I said, we will need someone to make a formal identification. Would you be willing to do that?”

  Beryl also got to her feet. “Of course,” she said sharply.

  On the way out, Cyril paused. “If there’s anything you remember, no matter how insignificant you might think,” he said, “give me a call at Clacton.” He gave her a grim smile. “And someone will be in touch shortly regarding the process we’ll need to go through.”

  Barton was already by the car.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Oh, by the way, I notice you don’t have a Yale lock on here.” Cyril glanced at the front door.

  Beryl looked puzzled. “No. Is it important?”

  “No,” he said. “Not at all.”

  * * *

  “You’re a bit of a smarmy git on the quiet, aren’t you, Cyril?”

  Barton was driving them back to the station, windows down, the warm wind whistling through the car.

  “Did you fancy her or something?” he went on.

  Cyril took a breath, determined to keep some self-control. Maybe that’s what Barton wanted.

  “I suppose you would have held her up against the wall and given her a few slaps,” he responded. “Beat a confession out of her.”

  Barton laughed, surprising him.

  After a few seconds, Cyril asked, “Any ideas on someone called Victor?”

  “Notice it was Victor, not Vic or any other shortened version,” Barton said. “That makes me think of only one person.”

  “Any chance of sharing that?”

  Barton looked across at Cyril, a broad smile on his face. “Victor Robinson, son of gangland boss, Frank,” he said.

  “So, we’re back to the Robinsons.”

  “Fancy a pint, Cyril?” Barton didn’t wait for an answer, he pulled in to the side of the road outside the aptly-named Never Say Die public house, switched off the engine and wound up his window. “I’m buying.”

  Cyril sat on the sea wall at the rear of the p
ub, looking out over the beach. He puffed on his pipe, waiting for Barton to come out with his pint of bitter. The irony of Jaywick was that although a lot of the housing stock was dilapidated, it had one huge attraction. The beach was one of the best on this coast. The golden sands were peppered with family groups lying down, soaking up the sun, children playing football, toddlers running around starkers on long term missions back and forth to the calm sea fetching buckets of water to fill the moats of their sandcastles. Others were busy using spades to bury their dads in the sand. It was times like these he missed not having any children with Maureen.

  “Here you go,” Barton said, holding out the glass to him, dispelling any more regretful memories.

  “Cheers,” Cyril responded, taking a sip then wiping the froth from his moustache.

  Barton sat on the wall beside him and loosened his tie a fraction more. “You got any kids, Cyril?” he asked.

  A puff on his pipe gave him a chance to consider his response. “No,” was all he decided to say. He certainly wasn’t going to discuss the fact that, unfortunately Maureen couldn’t have any.

  “And your wife died, didn’t she?”

  “Three years ago now.”

  “I’m sorry.” Barton took a drink of his lager. “You still miss her.”

  “Every day.” Another puff of the pipe. “Anyway, what about you?”

  Barton lit up a cigarette. “Divorced about eighteen months ago.”

  “Sorry to hear that too.”

  “No, it was my fault.” He turned to look at Cyril. “Did you ever fancy anyone else when you were married?”

  Cyril shook his head. “No, we were happy together. Soul mates really.”

  “Maybe that’s where I went wrong. Married a great pair of tits but I wanted to test drive other models.” Barton gave a snigger.

  “But where are you now?”

  “I know. Some shitty one-bed rented flat in town. Still … handy for taking a bird back for a shag. Plenty of them in Clacton, especially in the holiday season like now.”