Disposal (The Tendring Series Book 1)

by David Evans

  Again, he referred to his diary. “Let me see, it must have been …” He flicked back a few pages. “Ah yes, here we are. Three weeks ago on the Saturday. I took a client up to Cromer for a day out. Had lunch at a lovely hotel up there, overlooking the pier, then headed back.”

  “And since then it’s been parked at Clacton?”

  “Why, yes.”

  “Oh, one last thing … do you know a Jimmy Morgan?”

  Yardley screwed up his face. “No. No, can’t say I do. Why? Is it important?”

  “No, it’s just another name that’s come up in a different line of enquiry. Okay, Mr Yardley, you’ve been most helpful.” Cyril completed his last note then stood. “If I could just ask you to read through what I’ve written and if there’s anything you’re not happy with, please amend in your own hand and initial it. And when you’re satisfied, if you could just sign at the bottom where it’s indicated.”

  Yardley took the statement and read it through thoroughly. Cyril expected nothing less, after all the man had been in business for decades. Finally, with a flourish of a signature, he said, “Well, that seems to be pretty much what I’ve told you.”

  “That’s great. In which case we won’t take up any more of your time.” Cyril removed the carbon copy and gave that to Yardley, who stood and offered him a hand.

  As they were about to leave the office, Cyril turned and asked, “By the way, is that your Daimler in the parking bay?”

  “Yes that’s mine,” Yardley answered.

  “Lovely piece of machinery,” Cyril commented.

  “Drives like a dream. I’ve had it from new, so it’s what … seven years old now. But I don’t think I could get anything as comfortable to replace it.”

  “Well, thanks again for your time, Mr Yardley.”

  14

  “Where to now, Sarge?” Walker asked, once back in the car.

  “I think we should have a word with Barry Hill.” Cyril handed the piece of paper with the address Yardley had noted down to the young DC. “Give me directions to here.”

  Half an hour later, Cyril pulled up on the forecourt of a vehicle garage on an industrial estate on the outskirts of Clacton. Hill’s Motor & Aeronautical Engineers looked closed and locked up. A white Ford Escort van with the company name on the side was parked in front of the roller shutter door. To the right, a single door had a sign in its glass pane announcing Reception.

  “Looks deserted,” Walker muttered.

  Cyril studied the premises for a second or two. “Maybe not,” he said quietly. “We’re here now, so let’s have a look anyway.”

  They both got out of the car and Cyril led the way to the single door, put his hand on the glass and pushed. It opened. Glancing towards Walker he saw him raise his eyebrows. The door led into a small reception area with a counter. An array of spare parts was arranged on shelves behind. To the left they could see part of the workshop bays through an open door.

  “Hello,” Cyril shouted.

  All seemed quiet. “Anyone there?”

  “We’re closed,” came a voice from the back of the workshop area.

  “Mr Hill?” Cyril persisted, “Barry Hill?”

  Footsteps began to sound closer, then a bald-headed man in his fifties appeared, dressed in overalls. “I’m sorry, we’re closed this week,” he said, a surly expression on his face.

  His demeanour changed when he saw Cyril holding up his warrant card.

  “Sorry to trouble you, but if you’re Barry Hill, we’d like a word,” he said.

  The man’s shoulders slumped. “Oh God,” he uttered. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  The two detectives exchanged puzzled looks.

  “Mr Hill, is there something wrong?” Cyril asked.

  “You’ve come about the plane crash, haven’t you? I knew you would.” The man visibly paled.

  “We would like to talk to you about that, yes.”

  “Will you charge me?”

  “And why would we want to do that, Mr Hill?”

  He looked at Cyril, eyes glassy. “Because I caused it.”

  * * *

  In the interview room at Clacton Police Station, Hill sat hunched over the rickety table opposite Cyril and Walker.

  “So, Mr Hill,” Cyril said, “you began to tell us about your involvement at Clacton Air Strip earlier but I’d like you to tell me about your specific connection to Mr Yardley’s aircraft, the one that crashed two days ago.”

  Walker had his notebook open and Cyril was poised with pen over a Statement Form.

  Nervously, Hill began his account. “Mr Yardley asked me to check his plane over and do some servicing work on it last week. He told me there was no particular rush as he wasn’t planning to use it until after the Bank Holiday weekend.” He paused and rubbed his eye with his hand. “I’d completed most of the work, changed whatever parts were required and then I got interrupted.”

  “And this was when, exactly?”

  “Last Friday, about half past three.”

  “Go on.”

  “Colin, the young lad who helps me at the garage, he arrived to tell me one of my regular car clients was having trouble with his car. He needed it the next day because he was planning to go to Scotland. Like I say, he was a good client. So I left what I was doing, closed the engine cover and tidied my tools away and went to attend to his car.”

  Cyril thought he knew where this account was going. “So what state was the plane in when you left it?”

  Hill looked down at his hands. “I’d changed a couple of fuel lines.” He looked up at Cyril. “The old ones were okay but I just like to be safe. They can perish if they’re left too long.” Head down once more. “But I’d only loosely tightened the glands. I should have tightened them with a spanner.”

  “And you think they may have come loose when it took off?”

  He looked up again, this time with tears in his eyes. “What else could it be? When I heard it had happened … and how it had happened, it could only have been when the fuel lines came apart. But I didn’t mean to leave it. I was distracted. Mr Yardley said he wasn’t going to fly the plane. I remembered on Monday morning and I intended to call in on Tuesday afternoon except …”

  Cyril sighed. “Except, it had crashed that morning.”

  Hill turned away, both hands covering his face, body shaking in sobs.

  Cyril looked to Walker who had stopped writing. “Go fetch Mr Hill a cup of tea, would you?”

  The detective constable stood and left the room.

  “Mr Hill, you will need to speak to the Air Accident Investigation officers. What you say seems very relevant to their enquiry but only they can assess the significance of what you’ve told us.”

  “But I’m responsible for that man’s death,” Hill struggled to say, tears running down his face and spittle around his mouth. “How can I live with that?”

  “But it wasn’t deliberate. You couldn’t have known someone else would attempt to fly the plane.”

  “But I should have left a sign on it.”

  * * *

  “Where the Hell have you been?” Barton was coming down the stairs as Cyril left the interview room.

  “I think I might have discovered why the plane crashed,” Cyril said.

  The DI walked over to him. “Smart arse,” he said.

  “Obviously, the Air Accident boys will have to talk to him.” Cyril indicated the interview room.

  “So who have you got in there?”

  Cyril told him and began to relate the morning’s events.

  Barton stopped him. “Hold it for a minute. Let’s go upstairs.” Once again, he climbed up to the first floor and led the way to his office.

  By the time Cyril had recounted everything from that morning, Barton was leaning back in his chair and on his second cigarette.

  “So how did Walter Yardley seem?” he asked.

  Cyril, sitting opposite, was puzzled. “Fine. Apart from just having had his plane wrecked. Why wouldn’t he
be?”

  Barton shrugged but said nothing.

  “Why are you so concerned that we don’t upset this man?” Cyril continued.

  “It’s just … well you know how these things work … friends in high places and all that.”

  “Is he somehow involved in this?” Cyril leaned forward. “Are there things you’re not telling me?”

  “No, don’t be so bloody soft. Of course there’s not.”

  But Cyril could see the worry on the man’s face. “You know he drives a Daimler?”

  Again a shrug. “So?”

  “Dark grey, like the one spotted at the airstrip lane gate.”

  It was Barton’s turn to lean forward, eyes narrowing. “Are you saying you think he was involved in the crashing of his own plane?”

  “Not that particularly, maybe in Jimmy Morgan’s demise though?”

  Barton slowly shook his head. “No,” he said.

  But Cyril wasn’t convinced. “You suspect something too?”

  “Bollocks!” Barton stubbed out his cigarette with some force.

  There was a moment’s silence. Cyril weighed up his next question. “Is it you?” he finally asked.

  Now Barton looked puzzled. “Is it me what?”

  “Is … was Morgan your snout?”

  “Who told you that?” Barton’s default setting was denial, Cyril knew, but the flush in his face told him he was on the right track.

  “Just some information I received,” he said, calmly.

  “Well it’s bollocks.” He picked up his cigarette packet, shook it then realised it was empty. “”Fuck!” He stood and made for the door. “Get on with something useful DS Claydon,” he said, snatching the door open.

  As he strode across the CID room, he bundled past Cathy Rogers, knocking a file from her hand. With no word of apology, he disappeared out into the corridor.

  Cyril rushed over to the flustered secretary.

  “Here, let me help you,” he said.

  She was kneeling down slotting some loose sheets of paper into a manila file. “This is for you anyway.”

  They both stood up and faced each other. Another awkward pause arose. “Looks like I’ve been Bartoned,” she said with one of those smiles.

  Cyril chuckled. “I think we all have at one time or another,” he responded. “And thanks for this.” He took the file from her hands and sat down at his desk.

  She hesitated then turned and walked away.

  Ben Miller looked up from the adjacent desk and waited for Cathy to disappear. “She’s got the hots for you, Sarge.”

  “Don’t be stupid. It’s just what you get when you treat people with a bit of respect,” Cyril replied.

  “If you say so.” Miller resumed reading his paperwork, a smirk on his face.

  * * *

  An hour later, Barton returned. “Right, gather round team,” he said.

  Team was a bit of a misnomer, Cyril thought. There was only Miller, Walker and himself in the room and from what he’d said previously, Barton didn’t have too high an opinion of the DCs. From the heated discussion Cyril had had with him before he left, he doubted he was considered part of this team either.

  “So where are we now with our enquiries on this plane crash? Sanderson’s biting my arse. Cyril, give us all a quick summary.”

  It was as if the previous discussion between the two had never taken place. Cyril took a breath then succinctly summarised the state of the enquiry, as far as he was aware. The pilot and the corpse identities had been established; Yardley owned the plane but had never intended to fly it in the near future; Barry Hill was certain he had inadvertently caused the plane to come down; two Air Accident investigators were interviewing him downstairs right now; and a witness had spotted two men in an old ‘Jag with twin exhausts’ by the airstrip lane at four forty-five on the morning of the crash. “I also think we need to speak to Adam Fletcher again,” Cyril concluded.

  Barton, with both hands in his trouser pockets leaning against an empty desk asked, “Specifically because …?”

  “Information received that he owed money. Maybe nothing to do with anything, but if he needed cash quickly, perhaps he persuaded his brother to carry Morgan’s body and dump it. We do think that was the intention, don’t we?”

  “Okay, follow up on that.” Barton pressed on, “Now we also know that Jem Fletcher had a hundred pounds in cash on him.” He turned to Miller. “Ben, you were trying to track down where those new notes might have been issued?”

  Miller blew out smoke then answered, “I tried the Bank of England who print and distribute banknotes but they’re not helpful at all. At the moment, I’m working my way through the local banks to see if they match any batches they’ve had recently.”

  Barton started to pace. “So, we have what appears to be an accident … and, if it hadn’t happened, we’d have been none the wiser on the murder of Jimmy Morgan. He’d have just been another missing scrote who would have been forgotten about. Maybe some of his mates would have suspected he was propping up a new motorway bridge somewhere.”

  “We need to try and establish a motive, Sir,” Walker piped up.

  “Very good, I’d never have thought of that,” Barton responded.

  Back to his sarcastic self, Cyril thought. In his opinion, Bill Walker was a smart lad who would benefit from a bit of encouragement, not ridicule.

  “Bill’s absolutely right, of course,” Cyril said. “The motive will be found amongst his associates, and that’s what we need to concentrate on.”

  “My money’s on the Robinsons,” Barton said. “What do we know about their activities down here on the Essex coast, or do they confine themselves to London?”

  “You yourself said they have a static caravan on one of the parks.”

  “I didn’t actually say that. What I said was, a lot of the East London gangs come down here for breaks and some have bought or rented them.” Barton wagged a finger as if in thought. “Look, you have another word with the delightful Beryl. See if you can squeeze something else from her. I’m sure you’ll manage it with your charm. Take Bill with you, she might be able to teach him a few things.” A broad grin appeared on his face. “In the meantime, I’ll see what I can find out about the Robinsons’ local presence.” He set off for his office. “Right, that’s it. Chop chop,” he said over his shoulder before closing the office door.

  15

  Beryl opened the door to Cyril and Bill Walker. “Not brought the Rottweiler with you, then?” she asked, stroking the Yorkshire Terrier she held in her arms.

  “We’ve left him back in the kennels.” Cyril couldn’t help but smile. “Can we have another word, Beryl?”

  This time, more soberly dressed in dark trousers and a white blouse, she stood aside to let them in. “That’s good, because Pinky didn’t like him.”

  “Pinky?”

  She nodded to the dog. “Pinky.”

  “This is DC Walker.” Cyril indicated his colleague.

  “Sit yourselves down. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?” She put the dog down and began playing nervously with her hands. “Or a cold drink?”

  “We’re fine, honestly.” Cyril and Walker sat on the edge of the settee then waited until she was sitting in the armchair opposite. Pinky settled down on the floor in front of her. “I understand you’ve now officially identified Jimmy,” he said.

  She nodded, her eyes immediately turning moist.

  “Please Beryl, I don’t want to make this any more difficult for you but thanks for that. I know how difficult it can be.”

  She looked across at him. “I believe you do, Sergeant Claydon.”

  Cyril paused. He felt as though she could see inside his soul. “I wondered if you could tell me a bit about Jimmy? How you met for instance? What you liked to do?”

  She dabbed her eyes then smiled at her memories. “We met in Clacton about two years ago at one of the clubs. I was with a friend. She’d gone off with another bloke, I was left on my own and J
immy came up and started chatting. Nothing heavy, just a nice guy. He was kind to me.” She stood up. “Are you sure you don’t want a drink? I’m going to make myself a cuppa.”

  Cyril considered for a moment. “Go on then, I’ll have a tea, milk, no sugar.”

  “Not for me thanks,” Walker said.

  While she made their drinks, Cyril wandered around the small sitting room taking in some details. On a unit by the side of the television, he picked up a framed photo of Beryl and Jimmy smiling at the camera, sitting at a bar table with drinks in front of them. Putting it down, he picked up another of a much younger Beryl holding two small children, a boy and a girl.

  “That’s Christine and William.” Beryl came back into the room with two mugs. Handing one to Cyril, she went on, “Christine’s twenty-five now and working in London, William’s twenty-three. He’s a mechanic in the Ford garage in Chelmsford.”

  “You must be proud of them.”

  She smiled, the first time Cyril had seen her do so. “Yes, they’ve done well considering …” Her expression changed and the smile was gone.

  Cyril raised his eyebrows and gave her the photo back.

  “Their father left just after this picture was taken.”

  “So you brought them up on your own?”

  She nodded, studying the photograph. “Bastard’s never paid a penny. But I wouldn’t want it. It was hard, yes, but we managed.” She put the picture back on the unit.

  Cyril resumed his seat on the settee. “You were telling me about Jimmy.”

  She took a sip of her tea and sat down on the armchair again. “I knew he was a bit of a rogue,” she began. “I’ve learned to tell the bad ones, but Jimmy was good to me. Never imposed or took me for granted. I suppose our relationship grew slowly. After their dad,” she indicated the framed picture by the TV once more, “I wasn’t too keen to get taken for a ride again. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ve had a few men friends since … after all, a woman has needs.” She glanced at Walker, a smile playing on her lips.

  “So you’d been together for about two years?” Cyril asked.

  “I met him two years ago, as I said, but he didn’t move in with me until about a year ago.”