Disposal (The Tendring Series Book 1)

by David Evans

  She slowly picked her handbag up off the floor and followed the detective from the room. Outside in the waiting area, she sat down on a padded chair, Barton on one side of her and Walker on the other.

  “Mrs Fletcher, I wondered if you could tell me what happened to Adam?” Barton asked.

  She stiffened. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “If you could … just as much as you know.”

  The woman relaxed. “Sorry, it’s just … it’s such a … Look, all I know is that he was found by his van, near the end of his round in St Osyth just after one. Two blokes found him lying on the pavement.”

  Walker was taking notes as Barton paused. “He’s certainly been given a good going over. Have you any idea who might want to do this?”

  She looked down into her lap and a couple of tears dropped from her face before she could stop them with a paper handkerchief. “I’m not … not really.” She wiped her nose.

  Barton sighed and leaned back in his seat, head against the wall. After a second he bent forward once more. “Walker, get Mrs Fletcher a coffee would you?”

  She looked up and gave Walker a thin smile. “Two sugars please.”

  They watched the DC leave then Barton turned to the woman. “Look, I’m not interested in any petty activities Adam might have been involved in but this is serious business. Nothing from his mail bags was taken, as far as we can tell, so this was personal. Now I know you gave my colleague DS Claydon short shrift earlier on but we’re looking into some serious crimes ourselves.” He watched as she seemed to consider her options, although he would be surprised if she actually had any. He pressed on. “So what can you tell me?”

  She looked up to a point where the wall met the ceiling in front of her. “Adam owed money,” she said. “He got involved with a card school back in February. One of his mates introduced him.” She gave an ironic chuckle. “Reckoned he’d been good at school. But that was only for pennies. This got serious.”

  “How serious?”

  “A couple of grand, apparently.”

  At least that tied in with what Adam had told them earlier and it demonstrated he’d been honest with her. “So how is he paying that sort of money back?”

  She looked at Barton. “That’s the thing. I think he roped Jem into helping him.”

  “And how would Jem be in a position to pay back that sort of money?”

  “The two of them have been spending a bit of time together recently. I think Jem was using his access to the planes to … to do favours for whoever Adam owed money to.”

  “Do you know what sort of favours?”

  “I didn’t ask. I can only imagine. I mean you’re the detective. How long would it take to fly over the sea to Holland or Belgium or somewhere and bring something back?”

  “Drugs, you mean?”

  “Like I say, you’re the detective.”

  That was a new angle. Somehow, Barton didn’t think the Fletchers were involved in drug smuggling. No, disposing of ‘awkward material’ would still be his guess.

  “Any idea who Adam owed this money to?”

  She looked down and shook her head. “He wouldn’t tell me. Only that they weren’t pleasant people to deal with.” She snorted. “Huh, he can say that again.” She turned to look at Barton. “Is Adam in trouble? With you lot, I mean. Has he committed some crime?”

  “We don’t know yet, Mrs Fletcher. There’s a lot we’ve still to find out.”

  * * *

  Cyril rang the station from home. First of all, he tried to speak to Cathy. The desk sergeant told him she’d already gone home, it was Friday after all.

  “Has she left a message for me?” Cyril asked, then added quickly, “She was looking out some information.”

  “Not with me, Cyril,” the sergeant responded. “You could ask upstairs. Want me to put you through?”

  “Is DI Barton in?”

  “Came back about ten minutes ago with young Walker in tow. Like a bulldog chewing a wasp as usual,” the sergeant laughed.

  “I can picture it,” Cyril said. “I do need to speak to him though.”

  “Hold on.”

  After a few seconds, Barton came on the line. “You’ll never believe where I’ve just been,” he said.

  “Surprise me.”

  Barton then related the details of his visit to Adam Fletcher’s bedside earlier that afternoon.

  “But that doesn’t make any sense,” Cyril thought out loud.

  “How do you mean?”

  “It just seems a bit counter-productive. I mean if someone owes you a grand, the last thing you’d want to do is give them such a hiding that they can’t repay the money. That way you won’t get anything back for a while, if at all if you’ve gone too far.”

  “I see what you mean but the other motive doesn’t seem to stack up either because there’s nothing to suggest there was anything missing from his mail.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Whoever it was attacked him near the end of his round in St Osyth. According to the postal guy who came out, the mail for all the addresses he still had to deliver was still on the van.”

  “Hmm, I wonder …”

  “Anyway, have you sorted whatever it was you had in mind for this weekend?”

  “Oh yes. I thought I’d give my elderly neighbour a little treat.”

  He could hear Barton sniggering on the other end. “Oh, yes. How elderly?”

  “Enough to be my mother,” Cyril retorted. “And by the way, have you thought Fletcher might have held back some valuable mail from earlier in his round to pass on to whoever attacked him? They probably overdid it. Meant it to look like a robbery and Fletcher would have already given them what he thought they could use. Pay down his debt. I’ll leave those thoughts with you.”

  24

  Saturday 4th September

  “Well this is lovely,” Doris remarked, looking around the lounge area of the static caravan. “And we’ve got it all weekend?”

  “We have,” Cyril confirmed, standing with her small case in his hand.

  Charlie waddled up the steps and into the van behind him.

  “Come and choose which bedroom you want,” Cyril said, then looked down at the dog and smiled. “Not you,” he added quietly.

  Ten minutes later, with Doris comfortably settled in the main bedroom, he took in the view from the large bay window to the front of the lounge. They could see the sea through a big gap between the next row of vans. The Robinsons’ static was to the left and just in front of the van that had been organised for Cyril. If Barton was to be believed, the park’s manager owed him a favour and had made this van available for the weekend. All Cyril had to do was to appear to be on a weekend break and try and find out what he could from the next door van. He now appreciated what Barton had meant when he said he was deliberately left out of the raid on the Robinsons’ van. He could slip into the undercover role Barton suspected he might have to employ. Barton had also explained the set up he’d found the day before; David and Victor Robinson plus, as he put it, a couple of bimbos. His assumption was that the women were staying there for a while and not just a couple of cheap pick-ups.

  Cyril put the kettle on for some tea but when he checked the fridge there was no milk.

  “I’ll go,” Doris offered. “I can take Charlie with me to the site shop.”

  While she was gone, Cyril began to study the details of the Robinsons’ static. The main entrance door was on the other side but on the side nearest him, there appeared to be a bedroom window, one for the bathroom and a larger window towards the front that served the lounge. This time of day, they were all closed. Hopefully, as the temperature rose, that would change. What Barton hoped Cyril would find out, he wasn’t sure.

  After ten minutes, Doris came rushing back, Charlie struggling to keep up.

  “Cyril, Cyril,” she called as she got to the door.

  “What’s up?”

  “Have you seen this?” She waved a copy
of the Clacton Gazette in her hand, a plastic carrier bag with milk and fresh bread in the other.

  Cyril took the paper and opened it out to reveal the headline, ‘SECOND BODY DISCOVERED OFF BRIGHTLINGSEA’. He read on.

  ‘The discovery of a body wrapped in plastic sheeting dredged up by a fishing vessel from Brightlingsea is being connected to a similar find in a plane that crashed on Clacton beach on Monday.’

  “It’s out there then,” he commented.

  “Is this what we’re working on?” A mixture of concern and excitement on her face.

  “Don’t worry about anything, Doris. I’m just here to have a look around. You just relax and enjoy the change of scene.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Now, let’s have a cup of tea and some breakfast.”

  25

  The sunlight streamed into the bedroom through thin curtains. Barton put a hand over his eyes before opening them. But he realised it wasn’t the light on his face that had woken him. Snoring sounds from somewhere at his back had done that. He struggled to make sense of it for a moment. Slowly, he turned to see a strange head covered in long curly hair of a dirty blonde colour on the pillow. Lifting the sheet, he saw his own bare form next to a naked arse, female, thankfully.

  Who the Hell was this? He struggled to remember much beyond ten o’clock last night. He could recall the pub. After that, he had a vague recollection of visiting a club. Pulling the sheet off him he swung his legs round and sat on the edge of the bed. Everything looked normal. This was definitely his bedroom. The phone was on the bedside table along with his alarm, a packet of Rothmans and a creased copy of The Valley Of The Dolls. He’d been attracted by the cover but could never get on with it.

  He stood and walked round the foot of the bed. His bare feet kicked one of a pair of red slingbacks. Whoever it was, was still fast asleep. A red dress hung on the floor. That rang a distant bell. A black bra draped itself over the top of his chest of drawers. Picking it up, he sought the label. 38D, promising, he thought. Finally, on the opposite side of the bed was a matching pair of lacy black knickers. All the signs were that he’d had a good night; just a pity he couldn’t remember any of it.

  The female stirred, the snoring had stopped. As she turned over, her face became visible. Horror struck him; and then depressing thoughts. She looked old enough to be his mother; well at least fifty. ‘Christ, I’ve hit a new low.’

  She opened her eyes, mascara stains down her cheeks. “Hello, Johnny boy.” She smiled at him, revealing deep wrinkles around her mouth. “You enjoyed yourself last night.”

  He hoped his expression had recovered and his shock wasn’t reflected on his face. “Er, yeah … about that,” he stuttered.

  “You can’t remember, can you? Why don’t you get back in and I can remind you.” She sat up and giggled like a girl, her saggy breasts in full view.

  Instinctively he covered himself with both hands.

  “Aw, don’t be shy. You weren’t earlier on.” She looked him up and down. Finally, her expression changed to one of disappointment. “Well at least get me a drink. Tea or coffee, I don’t mind.”

  “Look, I’m sorry, it’s just … Of course. I’ll put the kettle on.” He turned away, glad of something to distract him. Opening a drawer, he pulled out some underpants before putting them on and walking through to the kitchen.

  As the kettle boiled some images began to run through his mind from last night. There were two of them he thought; a shorter, dark-haired girl and her taller, older, blonde mate. It was the dark haired one he’d fancied. Some of it was coming back to him. What happened to her?

  The kettle clicked off and he poured water onto tea bags in two mugs.

  There was another bloke … a bit later. Did the younger bird piss off with him?

  He could hear the woman next door shuffling around; no doubt getting herself back into her clothes.

  In the fridge there was just enough milk for the teas. Removing the bags, he added the last of the milk. About to shout out about sugar, she clacked her way into the room in her heels.

  “It’s Sharon, by the way. I can see you’re struggling,” she said.

  “I’m starting to remember.” He held up the sugar bowl.

  Shaking her head, she went on, “Good memories?”

  “I ... I think so.” She filled her dress out very well; looking a bit sexy after all. “I seemed to remember you were with a mate.” He handed her a mug.

  “Karyn, yeah. She pulled. Went off with some smarmy git. You got a fag?”

  “Bedside table.”

  He watched her walk through to the bedroom. The heels definitely improved the look; lovely legs, he thought.

  He followed behind with his own mug.

  Back in the bedroom, sitting on the bed, she offered him one of his own cigarettes. He nodded and she lit both of them, handing one to him. The way she did that began to stir his feelings.

  “So Sharon,” he said, “Did we ever get to the part where I asked you what you do?”

  She giggled again. “Oh come on John, no point dancing around that one. I’ll drink my tea, finish this …” She looked at her cigarette. “… and let you get back to your life.”

  “Look …” The telephone interrupted him.

  “Saved by the bell.” She stood up, leaned over and kissed his cheek. “I’ll see myself out,” she said, heading for the door.

  “But …”

  “You better get that. See you around.”

  He watched her go. The sound of the flat’s door closing brought him back to the insistent ringing of the phone.

  “Barton,” he snapped.

  26

  By mid-morning signs of life began to appear in the next door van. The bathroom window opened a touch, followed a few minutes later by the bedroom one to the rear.

  Cyril and Doris were sitting on the veranda to the front of their unit, empty tea cups in front of them. Cyril had read as much as he wanted in the paper and Doris, glasses on, was busy reading the reports from the magistrates’ court.

  “So wot the bleedin’ ‘ell are we supposed to do for the afternoon, then?” a shrill female voice was asking in the Robinson bedroom. Barton’s assessment of who was there was probably right, Cyril thought.

  “I don’t know. Go for a swim, take a bus into town and do some shopping,” the male voice replied. “I thought that’s what you women liked to do.”

  “Fine,” the woman snapped.

  Doris put the paper down, leaned forward and, in a quiet voice said, “She’s not best pleased, is she?”

  Cyril smiled. “Probably the gangster’s moll,” he whispered.

  She looked surprised. “Is that what she is, do you think?”

  “I’m only joking.”

  “But it’s them we’re here to keep an eye on though.” Her eyes flickered in the direction of the voices.

  Someone opened the Robinsons’ lounge window. “Smells like a bloody armpit in ‘ere,” a man’s voice declared.

  “You are only here to relax, Mum.” Cyril stood and picked up their tea cups. “I’ll do us another drink.”

  Doris put her paper down and got to her feet. “You sit down, Son,” she said, joining in the act. “I’ll go.” She took the cups from him and added quietly in his ear, “You need to listen in.”

  He laughed to himself and looked down at Charlie, dozing gently at his feet. “She’s loving this,” he said quietly. “But you need to earn your keep too.”

  The big dog raised his head off his paws and looked up at Cyril as if he understood every word.

  “Here you are.” A tennis ball was pulled from his pocket.

  Charlie scrambled to his feet, suddenly interested.

  “Fetch.” Cyril threw the ball onto the grass in front of their caravan by the side of the Robinson one.

  Charlie trotted off after it, picked the ball up in his mouth then slumped onto the grass, as Cyril knew he would. He’d always happily chase a ball but very rarely returned with it.


  “Good boy, Charlie,” he said, got to his feet and wandered over to the dog.

  Charlie’s tail thumped the ground as his master approached. Cyril got to his knees and made a fuss of him … just below the Robinsons’ open lounge window.

  “What time’s he supposed to be here?” one man asked.

  A slight delay before the second man answered, “Any time now.”

  Cyril was about to settle himself in for an earwigging when he spotted a familiar form making its way from the park entrance. He got to his feet and encouraged Charlie to follow him. He was back in the van watching from the lounge window when the figure walked past the spot on the grass where he’d just been lying moments before.

  Lennie King strode purposefully around the front of the Robinsons’ static.

  “I thought we were having another cup of tea outside?” Doris stood looking puzzled, holding two tea cups in her hands.

  “Sorry.” Cyril indicated the Robinson abode. “Developments.”

  He took a cup from her and sat down on a chair.

  “Do we need to get closer to listen in?” she asked, her eyes twinkling.

  “They have a visitor and he knows who I am.”

  “Soon sort that,” she said, putting her cup down and rising to her feet.

  “Where are you …?”

  “Come on, Charlie,” she said. “Let’s have a short walk.”

  “No, wait …”

  Charlie followed her out of the van and Cyril watched them make their way slowly up the side of the next door static before she stopped a short way from their lounge window and bent down over the dog.

  After ten minutes, Doris and Charlie strolled back to the van. Just as she got to the door, Cyril saw Lennie King walk off in the direction of the main entrance.

  “Interesting,” she said stepping up into the lounge.

  “I don’t know, Doris.” He shook his head. “What am I going to do with you?”

  “Listen, you don’t get to my age without knowing how to eavesdrop and pick up gossip.” A big smile appeared on her face. “Now, make us a fresh pot of tea and I’ll tell you as much as I could get.”