Blackwater (DI Nick Lowry) (20 page)

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11.10 a.m., Tuesday, Old Library Café, off the high street

Where was she? He could ill afford time out for coffee, even for someone as important as the assistant chief constable herself. He’d left a note at the front desk, so that if there were any developments they knew where to find him and to fetch him immediately. He sat in the corner of the empty café by the window, mulling over the direction he’d given at the briefing. The key was to catch Cowley, he knew that. There was every chance that, if the lad was as simple as Joanne Boyd had made out, then he would try for home. So his decision not to rake the land by helicopter had turned out to be the right one – he’d avoided alerting the entire marsh that a manhunt was in progress. But they
had
to pick him up soon – there was nowhere for him to go.

It was one hell of a start to the year. A radio in the background warned of snow. The weather couldn’t make up its mind what it was doing. Correction: it was always bloody freezing; the sky was just somewhat inconsistent in what it had on offer. He’d felt a sharp wind funnelling down the high street on his way here. A coffee machine let off steam, cutting off the broadcaster. He stared glumly down at his black coffee. He still had Jacqui to worry about – but the worry alternated with anger.

The door to the Old Library café opened and in walked a tall, elegant woman in a fur coat. Lowry stood and gave a slight wave. The ACC raised a hand in response and smiled.

‘Ma’am.’ Lowry nodded as she came over. She was fractionally taller than him, something he’d not noticed until he’d helped her out of her coat, which must have cost more than his monthly salary.

‘Morning, inspector,’ she said lightly, as informally as it was possible to be when addressing someone by rank. Such officiousness was fine by him; authority was authority, it was simpler that way. (Sparks didn’t count.) Merrydown had always been resolutely official and as straight as the pleat in the navy skirt she now ran her fingers along. The coat had thrown him, though – she always wore a beige mackintosh when she was at the creaking Queen Street offices. The waiter, who’d been borderline rude to him, was at her side in an instant. The woman who held sway over the county’s boys in blue had a certain aura.

‘Busy start to the year for you Colchester lads, isn’t it?’ She smiled again, revealing perfect teeth.

‘I was just thinking the same myself,’ he admitted.

‘How are things? Moving forward?’

‘Progress is being made.’ He took this as his cue and cleared his throat, then summarized the major cases, painting as positive a picture as he could. Merrydown was easier to impress than Sparks; her expression suggested she was pleased with the progress they had made since her visit the previous morning. She inquired about the background of the Brightlingsea men, and he veered between sketchy and knowledgeable, and she didn’t ask about the fighting on Saturday night. Sparks believed that her concern in a case was driven by the airtime it was given: the punch-up had failed to make the grade, whereas the murder at Greenstead had made it on to the national channels, and he assumed, for want of a better reason, that it was why she’d requested the meeting. He mentioned that they were after Pond and Philpott, mostly to see if these men were on her radar, but as he talked on, Lowry had a vague sense she wasn’t listening; her eyes darted here and there, and she gave several flicks of her hair. He grew self-conscious and started gesticulating with his hands to make a point – something he seldom did, even before an audience – then decided to quit while he was ahead, and finished by commending Sparks’s grasp of the situation. He knew it would pay to do so.

‘Ah, yes, Chief Sparks,’ she said sharply. ‘How is the lord of Queen Street?’ She looked Lowry in the eye for an instant.

‘He’s . . .’ Lowry paused. ‘He’s well.’

‘Is he going to marry that girl?’

‘Antonia? Why, yes – soon, I believe.’ Unusual question, Lowry thought. ‘Have you met?’

‘Yes. Briefly.’ She stirred her coffee slowly, her attention on the swirl in the cup. Where this was going?

‘Do you think Chief Sparks is modern in his outlook?’

This was a trap, he was sure. ‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ he said.

She looked up from her cup. ‘In his approach to policing?’

‘As modern as the rest of us. His are the ways we know.’ His tone was deferential. He would not be drawn into whatever game she was playing.

‘Yes, of course,’ she said, unimpressed. ‘You’ve only ever been at Colchester.’

That wasn’t correct, but he remained silent, then asked, ‘Is it something specific I can help with?’

‘No, it’s nothing specific. They tell me you’re very bright. I thought you might have a view, perhaps, on how Colchester division fits into the modern world. Is it abreast of current thinking?’

Lowry had no idea who ‘they’ might be. ‘We’re aware of developments in the law, such as the Justice Act passed last year, if that’s you mean? The treatment of young offenders
—
’

‘Never mind,’ she said, as if giving up, then, ‘Are you any closer to resolving the New Year’s calamity with the soldier?’

This caught him out; he thought he’d successfully glossed over it. ‘We think there were outsiders involved.’

‘Ah. That’ll mean no more outbursts in the high street, then.’

‘I think not, ma’am. But we are still investigating what happened at Castle Park.’

‘Hmm . . . You must be at a stretch, what with the murders in Greenstead?’

She produced a pack of cigarettes and extracted one with long, elegant fingers. Lowry scratched the back of his neck.

‘We’ve drafted in a WPC.’ It was all he could think to say.

‘A woman?’

‘They usually are.’

She arched an eyebrow. ‘Whose idea was that?’

‘Chief Sparks’s.’

‘So how’s it working out?’ She appeared genuinely interested.

‘Terrific – they’re getting on like a house on fire.’ He was rapidly losing patience. ‘Tell me, ma’am, why did you wish to see me?’

She sipped her coffee delicately. ‘When a town is experiencing as many difficulties as this one, I feel it prudent to open channels with those on the ground and find out what’s really going on.’

‘I see.’ She was questioning Sparks’s ability to handle the situation. ‘Well, I’m always here.’ He tried a smile.

‘Christmas is a funny time,’ she said, oblivious, ‘especially for the services, spending time away from home. I had a brother stationed in Germany. He married a local girl . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

‘Really? Tell me, what do they do eat there for Christmas? Turkey?’

Merrydown gave him a blank look. Lowry, about to explain further, was distracted by an urgent rap on the window. It was a young PC. Lowry beckoned him inside. ‘You’ll have to forgive me, ma’am,’ he said.

‘Not at all. I’m intrigued.’

The PC burst through the café, blurting. ‘They’ve found him, sir!’

‘Who?’

‘Fella in a boat in the Blackwater, sir. Sergeant said I was to tell you immediately.’

‘Quite. Ma’am?’ Lowry waited for permission to leave.

‘Of course, and thank you; you’ve been very helpful.’

Lowry rose, not knowing in what way he possibly could have been. As he reached the door, she called out from their table: ‘Goose, inspector. Goose is traditional.’

11.20 a.m., Clacton Road

‘We spoke yesterday evening.’

‘Mr Kenton, was it?’ A stocky man wearing a black overcoat, who reminded Kenton more of a bouncer than a second-hand car salesman, made his way across the frozen field crowded with gleaming Fords and Vauxhalls. Chances are he’s both, Kenton thought, losing his hand in the huge sheepskin glove offered him.

‘Yes, that’s me.’

A sharp wind sliced through the forecourt bunting. Beyond the fluttering pennants there was a Portakabin, inside which another man in a suit marched back and forth, a telephone receiver in one hand and its cradle in the other. This man was the main reason Kenton was here, but not the only one; he had bitten the bullet and come to Racing Green Autos
in order
to trade in the Spitfire
.

‘Yeah, sorry about that – I’ve only just started working ’ere.’

Kenton turned his attention back to the car salesman before him. In his mid-fifties, the squat gent sported a sculpted grey bullet-head haircut and, between the lapels of his overcoat, a bright paisley tie (one not dissimilar from his own, he was dismayed to realize).

‘Oh?’

‘The gaffer’s an old pal – he was short of staff when a couple of his regulars were no-shows.’

‘A couple?’

‘Two fellas from Brightlingsea.’ The salesman clasped his gloved hands. ‘Bit parky still, ain’t it? Now then, it’s a Spitfire, right?’

‘Yep,’ Kenton said, keeping one eye on the Portakabin. ‘Here she is.’

‘Cor, bit on the bright side, ain’t it?’ He whistled.

‘It’s topaz orange,’ Kenton said defensively.

‘You’re telling me.’ He started to pace around the car, tutting. He lifted the broken roof limply.

‘I mentioned the roof on the phone . . .’

‘You did, son, you did. That’s easily fixed round back. But that colour . . .’

‘What about the colour?’

‘What was you hoping to trade it for again?’

‘The Mark 2 Capri.’

He shook his head woefully. ‘I can’t go any more than a monkey.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

The cabin door opened and out came a man in a suit with piping on it – Tony Pond.

‘Five hundred nicker.’

‘Is that all? You’re having me on.’

Pond stood on the steps, adjusting his cuffs.

‘The colour’s your problem, innit? Girls’ colour, and the birds ain’t got the readies.’

Kenton ignored the stocky man and made his way across the forecourt to prevent Pond climbing into a white XJS. ‘Mr Pond, might I have word?’

Pond held his up his hand. ‘I don’t dabble in the day-to-day – Mr Palmer is my man on the forecourt.’ The bullet-head beamed behind him.

‘I’m sure that’s so,’ Kenton acknowledged, ‘but it’s Mr Palmer’s predecessor I’m interested in.’ He held up his ID.

‘Ah, of course. I didn’t recognize you.’ Pond frowned and scratched the back of his neck. His impressive handlebar moustache appeared to move independently as he spoke. ‘You’d better come in, then.’

Inside the Portakabin, Kenton laid two photos on the cheap desk while Pond poured coffee into polystyrene cups.

He turned and froze, the cups steaming in his hands. ‘Those two, er, gentlemen, have never worked here,’ he said.

Kenton leaned over the desk, and feigned having made a mistake. ‘Oh, how clumsy of me. This is a different investigation.’ He scooped up the pictures of Private Jones and Private Daley, all the time watching Pond’s reaction.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ Pond’s sudden outburst of swearing was accompanied by him dropping, or throwing, a scalding coffee over Kenton’s legs. ‘Shit, I’m so sorry! I scalded myself . . . Shit, shit! Here.’ He fumbled with a tea towel. Kenton mopped away the liquid as pain began to throb across his thighs. He tried to compose himself.

‘Now, where were we?’ asked Pond.

Kenton sensed he’d been out-manoeuvred; spilling the coffee had been a diversionary tactic.

‘Your employee, Jason Boyd
—
’

‘Yes, terrible what happened to him. I heard the news.’ He relieved Kenton of the tea towel and wiped his own heavily ornamented fingers. ‘We reported him missing, you know?’

‘Yes, we’re aware of that.’ Kenton sat down on one of the plastic chairs, to make it plain he had no intention of leaving. ‘That’s why I’m here. When was the last time Boyd and . . . ?’

‘Cowley. He just washed the cars. They were expected here on the Saturday. I left it a day, thinking they were likely to be hungover, but when I still couldn’t get hold of them on Monday, I called Boyd’s old dear. I’ve said all this already.’

‘Of course, of course. But there’s something else,’ Kenton said, unable to stop fidgeting; his legs were wet and uncomfortable: ‘We – I mean myself, Chief Sparks and Detective Inspector Lowry – know you’ve got a history of small-time drug-dealing. So, bear with me, this is just routine question
—
’

‘Ha! This shit on the Greenstead Estate?! That’s a far cry from selling a bag or two of weed to students.’ Pond rocked back on his far grander chair on the other side of the desk.

‘Drug dealing is drug dealing: it’s the contacts rather than the contents a jury will be interested in.’

‘Stop fucking with me, boy.’ Pond lit a cigarette and fixed Kenton with a scathing stare. ‘So, what’s the plan – you’re going to arrest me? On the basis of what? After all those years you’ve ignored the weed floating by under
your
very nose – something I’ve never been nicked for. How’s that going to look to a judge?’

Kenton hated this sort of misplaced smugness. Sparks and Lowry had allowed this minor collusion to fester; for how long, he had no idea. On some level, he felt it would serve them right if it all came crashing down. There was a whiff of corruption there, as with the Mersea post-office job – the kind of thing Kenton couldn’t abide.

‘Times change. The pressure is on from County,’ Kenton said loosely, in a manner that suggested it wasn’t worth the energy to argue; there were far greater forces at work. ‘This is a big deal. Nobody’s safe when we’re faced with an incident on this scale.’

Pond leaned forward across the desk, his face contorted with menace. ‘Do you really think if I was involved I’d call Boyd’s old dear when he’d not turned up for work? Of course she’s going to call you lot.’

Kenton remained unruffled, picturing how he imagined Lowry would play it. ‘I don’t know what you’d do, Mr Pond, but anyone wrapped up in this mess should consider their options very carefully.’ He rose to leave.

‘I’ve heard about you, college boy. You’ve got no idea how things work in this town. Next time, tell Sparks to send me the organ grinder, not his monkey.’

‘The organ grinder says to let you know we’ve spoken to the concierge at the George.’ He peered out of the Portakabin window. Pond’s salesman was gushing around a young woman who looked to be interested in the Capri he himself was after. ‘I am indeed only the messenger, but this won’t go away. Next time, it won’t be me asking nicely. Good morning to you, Mr Pond.’