Blackwater (DI Nick Lowry) (11 page)

Nugent nodded his head wearily, like a truant schoolboy.

‘So why did you step forward in the first place?’ Kenton asked, from two steps behind. ‘Seems bloody stupid, given your situation.’

Nugent squinted in the sun. ‘I didn’t intend to, like. The poxy post-office clerk recognized me, an’ said to the copper, “Them robbers came in just as Ted Nugent were leaving.”’ He looked dejected. ‘I think it were them. All happened so fast, didn’t it?’

‘Well, think how lucky you are now, to have time to think things through. There’s a phone box outside the Victory,’ Lowry said. ‘The detective constable here will call us a lift, and you and I can have a shandy while we wait.’

3.30 p.m., Friday Woods, South Colchester

‘A bird table?’

‘Yes.’

Paul snorted and leaned across to nuzzle her ear. She didn’t like petting in the car in the daytime; there was something inherently adolescent about it, like kids with nowhere to go – which is pretty much what they were. She turned away and stared out of the window at the naked woodland, exposed in the glaring sunlight. Her mind was still on last night. She’d been stupid.

‘Come here.’ Paul yanked her towards him. And she hated to be manhandled like that. His tongue was already poking at her lips.

‘Jesus, no.’ She pulled back. ‘Let’s go.’

‘What? We’ve only just got here.’

‘I don’t like leaving Matthew alone for too long,’ she said, thinking of the bruising on her son’s neck.

‘Look, I wasn’t laughing at him – there’s nothing wrong with feeding birds,’ Paul said apologetically. The way he said ‘him’, as though her husband loomed like some great unseen calamity, rankled more than if he
had
been laughing at him.

‘I don’t care if you were. It’s Matthew I’m concerned about.’

‘Could he be doing it for some new-fangled management-training drive?’

She rolled down the window, lit a cigarette and, with a withering look, said, ‘Paul, Nick is a CID inspector, not some stiff from Lloyds. Sparks has them trying practically every outdoor sport available: when they’re not in the boxing ring, they’re rowing across the Blackwater or fishing off Clacton Pier – not building bloody bird tables!’

She felt nauseous.

‘Are you all right? You’ve gone pale.’

She blinked her eyes rapidly. What the fuck was that? She opened the car door and retched.

*

Half an hour later she was curled up on the sofa, clutching the washing-up bowl.

‘Mum? Mum! What’s the matter?’

Jacqui could hear her son as if through a tunnel, but she didn’t dare open her eyes. What on earth had she taken last night? She’d been fine this morning – well, not fine, but together enough to get up and see Nick’s temper tantrum in the garden. She started to laugh, which prompted her teeth to chatter uncontrollably. Then she had another flashback, of Paul lunging at her in the car, trying to stick his tongue down her throat. That had happened less than an hour ago. Then she’d been sick and insisted he take her home, saying she had pre-menstrual cramps. If only. She started to retch again.

‘Mum, are you okay?’

‘Fine, honey, just let me have a snooze. Just catching up on lost sleep.’ Flashbacks. Fuck. The first made sense – a nightclub. Last night crept back into her consciousness. She’d been dancing, dancing like crazy with some guys they’d picked up at the bar. She’d taken something in the loo. Coke? Jacqui could never remember feeling this dodgy after doing stuff (and she’d done a lot, from LSD to methadone – sometimes a mix). And the memory loss was a new one, too. Maybe she was just too bloody old to hack it these days. Anyway, whatever it was, she’d only had a couple of lines, but it had been enough to send her into orbit. God knows what had happened to those blokes she was with. They’d been high as kites when she met them.

-20-

7 p.m., Sunday, Butt Road, South Colchester, towards the cavalry barracks

‘Would you really have arrested him?’

Lowry and Kenton were walking quickly up the deserted road. Having dealt with Nugent, they had then been deluged with the huge volume of paperwork resulting from the Saturday-night arrests, which took up the remainder of the day. Before they knew it, it was gone half six, and they – or Kenton, at least – was required elsewhere.

‘Yes.’

Kenton was surprised. He didn’t believe Lowry would lie in a court room. ‘I suppose he must have done it . . . he knew who I was.’

‘It was dark,’ Lowry said. ‘You came to with your wallet? My guess is whoever hit you had a look, saw you were a copper then left you to wake up.’

Kenton paused under a street light but was intelligent enough not to feel angry and humiliated. He was grateful to Lowry for driving down there this morning, on a Sunday, for taking the trouble to back him up. But . . .

‘Be more careful.’ Lowry stopped ahead of him and turned round. ‘C’mon; don’t dwell on it. At least in the ring tonight it’ll be bright – you’ll see them coming.’

At that moment, though, they stepped out of the only patch of light they’d see until they got to the ring. Butt Road, just south of Southway and home to Colchester’s first permanent barracks, was poorly lit, as if purposely to keep it hidden. Commissioned after an outcry at the dreadful sanitary conditions during the Crimean War, the cavalry barracks were modelled on those at Aldershot and were reputedly the finest example in the country. The imposing two-storey buildings with tall, substantial chimneys were in a deep-red brick, which rendered them black in the dark silence, lending the barracks a creepy, gothic feel. And silent they were, as most of the garrison’s inhabitants would already be in the gymnasium, where Lowry and Kenton were now heading.

And there it was, moonlight reflecting off its steep slate roof. Set within the brick walls were deep, bevelled windows behind which shadows flickered wildly, betraying the activity within. The building had always reminded Lowry more of a workhouse than a place of recreation.

‘Christ, it’s cold,’ shuddered Kenton as they drew close to the doors.

‘You’ll soon warm up.’

A shout of exaltation ripped through the night and was met by another cry from somewhere in front of them. Lowry’s mind was taken back to the night before and the shouts of anger in the high street, and he wondered if they should have postponed the boxing for a week or so, until the situation calmed down, before embarking on this round of sanctioned violence. Too late now, he thought to himself, and pushed open the door.

A heady mixture of sweat, testosterone and uproar affronted their senses. In the centre of the cavernous building, beyond a sea of closely clipped heads, was the spotlit canvas itself, over which rested a cloud of cigarette smoke. Lowry paused on the threshold, his heart beating rapidly. Jesus, he thought, I used to be part of this.
I am this.
Only, now, he was at one remove from the whole affair, psychologically as well as physically. He felt an enormous sense of relief.

‘Something up, guv?’ Kenton had walked into the back of him.

‘Nope, Daniel. Just savouring the moment.’ He looked to see if his colleague had registered the friendly sarcasm, but the young DC’s mind was firmly on the fight now: he frowned and looked steadily ahead. Lowry saw in his eyes a look he recognized – stoic and determined to do what had to be done. It was the essence of duty. He had been like that once.

Kenton headed for the changing rooms, Adidas bag slung over his shoulder, while Lowry made his way to the ringside. He nodded to those he knew and pushed towards the front of the crowd of eager young faces shouting and hooting in anticipation. He wondered if the dead private had been fixed to spar tonight.

He made eye contact with Sparks, who was standing with a clipboard, addressing a lad of about seventeen who was jogging on the spot. Lowry nudged his way further through the throng.

‘Glad you deigned to come, Nick!’ Sparks shouted, struggling to make himself heard above the clamour.

Lowry looked across the ring to catch sight of a flurry of banknotes changing hands. They ran three bouts per contest, starting with the lighter-weight fighters, usually the younger, untried lads. The betting on them was lively – speculative and sometimes lucrative.

‘Gary here is from the cadets.’ Sparks clasped the lad by the shoulder and thrust him forward. ‘Might not look much, but he’s hard as nails.’

Lowry held out a hand and wished the boy luck. The boy in turn shot Sparks a quick look, as if for permission to take his hand. Lowry could see the apprehension in the kid’s eyes. ‘First fight?’ he asked.

‘First proper fight, yeah.’ The inflection on the word ‘proper’ said it all. Tussles in the corps were all the action he’d seen – and they would be nothing compared to tonight.

‘And his opponent?’ Lowry asked Sparks.

‘Over there, by the far corner.’ Sparks jerked his chin towards the other side of the ring, where a tall, acne-ridden youth surrounded by green uniforms was just visible between the ropes. The army lad had the height and therefore the reach, but a long neck, too; land a square punch and his brain would spin. If their boy could keep moving, he stood an even chance.

‘Gary’s quick,’ Sparks said, as if reading Lowry’s mind. Gary was puffing into his gloves, zoning out, focusing – just as Sparks would’ve told him. No emotion, no feeling, all mental resources funnelled into the physical delivery, the perfect punch: that was the chief’s philosophy. Lowry could feel himself being swept up in the excitement of the fight. He surveyed the enormous gym: there must be close to five hundred men jostling in here, at least seventy-five per cent of them based on the barracks. He couldn’t detect any unusual undertones in the atmosphere; if there was bitterness about the death of the para and the disturbance of the previous evening, it was well masked. A roar of excitement went up as the two youngsters climbed into the ring, and Lowry was carried forward by the crowd moving closer to the ringside.

In the absence of a microphone, the referee hushed the crowd by holding a bell above his head before introducing the combatants. The police cadet was unmoved by the enormous cry of support for the gangly army boy. Sparks had trained him well, Lowry mused, glancing at the commander, who was now hanging on the ropes. Kenton had appeared behind him in shorts and robe. And wait . . . Who was that with him? A shock of blond hair caught the light. Was it . . . ? Yes, it was the tall WPC who’d shown him the scene of the crime at Castle Park. Lowry felt a stirring of emotion akin to . . . what? Jealousy? No, surely not – he was glad the boy had a date – but did it have to be . . . Suddenly, the bell rang and a roar went up – they were off. Sparks’s man threw caution to the wind and steamed in, pummelling his opponent. The army lad, surprised, staggered back. Cries of outrage went up. Lowry caught sight of the Beard, raging puce on the other side of the ring, and laughed. It was hard not to enjoy the atmosphere.

Then Lowry felt a tug on his sleeve and turned to see a solemn constable. The man had the cold on him still. ‘Sorry to disturb you, inspector,’ he said, almost shouting.

‘What is it?’ Lowry said loudly, knowing that whatever it was signalled the end of his evening. But he couldn’t hear anything the lad was saying. ‘Speak up!’ he cried, still trying to follow the fight, which was getting tasty.

‘Murder!’

The word scorched Lowry’s ear, taking him firmly away from the ring.

-21-

8.10 p.m., Sunday, Beaumont Terrace, Greenstead Estate

Lowry stood back from the house, as was his way, taking in everything on the periphery of the crime scene before approaching the immediate vicinity of a death. There was sleet in the air, which was caught in the car’s revolving blue roof lights. The houses on this terrace had only recently been built and were much newer than the cars that lined the streets. Vehicles often told him a lot about an area and, unsurprisingly, there was nothing newer than a K plate here, and there was even a tatty Land Rover predating both alphabetical plate systems just up from the house he was heading to.

Greenstead was already the borough’s biggest housing estate, and they were still building – hadn’t stopped since the mid-1950s. Lowry knew this part of town too well, having lived just a few streets away as a teenager.

‘More new ’ouses. These ones can’t have been up more than five minutes, and already they’re killing each other in ’em. Bleedin’ east-end trash.’ The young constable held open the garden gate, grimacing against the sleet. Lowry didn’t know him and met his comment on the residents with silent disapproval. He gently pushed open the front door, and a carpet of mail greeted him. This was probably a rental property. He remained outside on the doorstep a moment longer.

‘Who made the call?’

‘Bloke next door – smelt gas from the kitchen. He was in the shed fiddling with his homebrew – the smell must’ve wafted across the fence.’

‘The back door was open?’

‘Yes. The kitchen hob was on full blast.’

Lowry took a step inside the house. The building itself may have been relatively new, but already the carpet was dirty and the skirting boards scuffed. This house was nobody’s home, that was for sure.

‘Anyone been in the kitchen?’

‘Only me.’

‘Who let you in?’ Lowry regarded the body, slumped at the kitchen table, its head face down in a plate of food.

‘The front door was open.’

For the first time, Lowry took a good look at the constable and saw that he’d been wrong to judge him earlier. He was terrified.

The remains of an Indian takeaway on a tray sat in the pool of blood, which covered half the table. Lowry removed a glove and, with one arm across his donkey jacket to keep it clear, leaned over and took a sniff. Spicy.

‘Vindaloo,’ he said with satisfaction.

‘Sorry, guv?’

‘Curry – and a hot one. One I’m rather partial to.’ He looked around the messy kitchen and located what he was after – a brown paper bag. Wanting to be on his own, he strategically dispatched the constable to pick up the mail, reminding him to be careful and note the addressees and frank marks. Then he took the brown bag and pulled out a takeaway menu: The Way to the Raj
.
‘Shehab’s,’ he murmured. He knew the place well enough to be on first-name terms with the owner. He placed the menu back in the bag and turned and scanned the work surface: there were two more dirty plates and several takeaway containers. Numerous Special Brew cans also littered the place, one on the floor by the deceased’s foot. And there was something else underneath the table. He bent and retrieved a rolled-up one-pound note. He regarded it for a moment then ran his gloved finger across a section of the table. A line of white powder crested his finger. He lightly took a dab with his tongue, and ran it over his teeth. The taste was familiar.

Content that he’d committed a snapshot of the scene to his memory, he approached the body. Taking hold of a tip of each ear lightly in each hand, he lifted the head from the plate and sat the body back in the chair, revealing a slashed jugular. The arms of the body hung limply. He noted that the wall immediately behind the body was free of blood – no spray or marks. And there was only a neat puddle on the floor. He looked at the hands. They were grubby, with traces of mud and dirt, but no blood. Lowry was confident there had not been a struggle: the man had known his attacker, or perhaps had decided to top himself after one last, last binge, except there was no sign of the weapon.

He was disturbed by a scenes-of-crime officer at the back door.

‘All yours.’ He gestured towards the dead man, who promptly slumped forward into the half-eaten curry.

Out in the street, residents had gathered, aware that something was up. Lowry was buttonholed by a man in a dressing gown.

‘What’s going on?’ the man, in his mid-fifties, rasped in his ear.

‘A fatality, I’m afraid.’ Lowry watched for his reaction in the light from the open doorway. The man was eager to know more – probably a neighbourhood busybody. Just the type the police love. ‘Tell me, sir – you strike me as an observant man – that Land Rover over there; who does it belong to?’

‘Land Rover? Bleeder’s taking up Mrs Fleetwood’s parking space. First noticed it yesterday evening.’

‘Thank you, and excuse me for a moment. If you saw anything out of the ordinary, have a chat with the constable there.’ He pointed to a marked Cortina, blue light rotating in the dark.

‘“Out of the ordinary”?’

‘You know,’ Lowry replied, fishing out a pocket torch from his donkey jacket. ‘Strange comings and goings, cars parked where they shouldn’t be, unfamiliar faces, that sort of thing.’ He walked over to the Land Rover.

It was locked. Mud spray reached up to the door handle. He flashed the torch through a window, but he couldn’t see much. Crouching, he ran the light across the top of the vehicle’s dashboard. Then he examined one of the rear tyres. Something caught his eye and he reached forward to extract some kind of black thread hanging from the deep tread. He looked at it curiously, then flashed the torch up into the wheel arch.

‘Sir.’ The intrusion startled him.

‘Yes, constable. What is it?’

‘There’s another one upstairs.’

‘Another one?’

‘Person, sir. Deceased.’

Lowry levered himself up from the cold road.

The young PC had gone upstairs to relieve himself and discovered the second corpse. Lowry reflected that young officers often failed to search a crime scene properly – the shock of coming face to face with a gruesome corpse could render an inexperienced officer incompetent. It was understandable.

Lowry followed the PC back into the house and up to the bathroom. The naked bulb hanging from the ceiling rose gave the all-white room a scorching glare that stung Lowry’s eyes. The victim, it seemed, had been attacked while he was on the lavatory. The features and fatal wound were hidden from view – the prone figure was wedged between the lavatory bowl and the bath. The victim’s jeans were bunched at the end of a pair of hairy legs, a wallet poking out of the back pocket. Blood lay undisturbed across the bare tiled floor – a lake of it, almost reaching the doorway.

‘Do you think he’s dead?’

Lowry had forgotten the lad behind him. ‘No, I imagine he’s looking for the loo brush,’ he said. They stared at each other for a second, the constable wide-eyed with horror. ‘Nip downstairs and ask that SOCO to pop up, will you?’ Lowry said.

The PC nodded and left. Lowry climbed into the bath to avoid the blood on the floor and pulled the victim’s wallet from his pocket.

*

Shortly afterwards, Lowry left the house.

Inside the wallet there were two pound notes and a driving licence: Derek Stone, thirty-two, 19a Artillery Street. Lowry didn’t waste any time. Having left the SOCOs to it, he drove over to the south side of town, cutting up through Brook Street, on to Barrack Street and turning right into Artillery Street. The Victorian terrace houses were close set and the numbers hard to see in the dark, so he bumped the Saab up on the kerb and walked up the street, his leather soles echoing in the cold night.

The house at 19a, it turned out, was a flat on top of a hair salon, halfway down the street. Lowry buzzed on the door, which rattled loosely. No response. It gave a fraction when shoved, indicating it was on the latch, so he was able to enter easily. The stairs led straight up to a two-bedroom flat. Checking the bedrooms first, Lowry’s immediate observation was that both rooms had recently been occupied. The larger bedroom contained a saxophone and, judging from the military certificates on the wall, whoever lived there had a connection to the armed forces.