Blackwater (DI Nick Lowry) (21 page)

‘All right, all right. Come back here a minute.’ Pond lit a cigar.

Kenton paused.

‘But don’t take me for a fool, all right? Those pictures. The men in the pictures.’

‘The two soldiers?’

‘Yes, the two soldiers – of course they are – I spoke to Lowry about them.’

‘But you never said you yourself had seen them – we know you saw them because the concierge at the George spotted you,’ Kenton pointed out.

‘And why’s that, do you think?’ He sighed. ‘To avoid having dicks like you banging on my drum, perhaps?’

Kenton waited for more.

‘Look, the way it works is I throw the rozzers the odd snippet, show them I’ve got me ear to the ground. But I don’t want to be bothered by ’em unless it’s absolutely necessary.’ He glanced out of the window. ‘It’s bad for business.’

‘Well, let’s just say that this time it
is
necessary.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I do. Daley and Jones – you know them?’

‘Know them, no. But I do know who they were after.’

‘Who?’

‘Boyd and Cowley.’

‘What for?’

‘Ooh, could it be for a good shag up the arse?’ he jeered. ‘What do you think? Drugs. It was New Year’s Eve and they wanted to score, just like everybody else.’

Kenton sat down. ‘Why did the soldiers ask you about them?’

‘One of them had looked at a motor here; he recognized me.’ Pond rubbed a dark jaw, and puffed on his cigar. ‘They knew Jace and Felix worked for me. On Friday night, I bumped into them outside the George, and it was all this “Where’s fucking Jason?” stuff.’ He held his hands up theatrically.

‘What sort of mood were they in?’

‘Pissed off. Frantic. I’d guess they were buying on behalf of half the garrison, given the anxious looks.’

‘So when you realized Boyd and Cowley were missing, what did you think had happened?’

Pond held up his hands in defeat. ‘I’m not involved, right? But I’m guessing that it’s either Boyd or Cowley dead in Greenstead, along with Stone?’

‘You know Stone?’ Stone’s name was the only one that had been made public. But Derek Stone was unknown to the police. The fact that Pond knew of him was a surprise.

‘By name only.’ Pond lightly stroked the tip of his moustache. ‘Jamie mentioned him.’

‘Jamie Philpott?’

‘The very same; so I figure, given the blood at Greenstead, it’s only a matter of time before you lot work out those two worked here, so I’m waving my hand in the air and saying they’re missing, all right?’

‘Wait – how did you know that Boyd and Cowley were selling drugs? Did Boyd confide in you?’

‘Nah. Jamie asked me if I wanted in on a big deal. He said there was a delivery due New Year’s Eve – a pal of his at the Candyman had tipped him off. Jamie P. wouldn’t have the wherewithal himself, you understand. And then when Boyd and Cowley asked for the 31st off work, I grew suspicious. I asked Felix what they had planned. He said a fishing trip. Not the sharpest tool in the box, that one.’

‘Weren’t you interested in a cut, even then?’

The Portakabin shook in a gust of wind. They both looked up as the roof stirred uncomfortably.

‘I’m an honest businessman,’ said Pond plainly. ‘Besides, I’m not interested in new-fangled party drugs.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘What they were flogging. Philpott and I used to do a bit of weed back in the day – before your time – but nothing like this sort of shit.’

‘What about him, then – Jamie Philpott?’

‘What about him?’

‘He’s wrapped up in this with Stone?’

‘You’d have to ask him that.’

‘We can’t,’ Kenton said, vexed.

‘Why not?’

‘He’s disappeared.’

Pond considered this for a moment. ‘Has he, indeed? Maybe he managed to cut himself a slice of the action? He’s been hanging out at the Candyman off his nut on something a fair bit since the good Chief Sparks brought a halt to the dope coming in through the Colne; dipping into the jazz scene up in town – amphetamines, coke: you name it, he’ll try it.’

‘Jamie took a pasting on Saturday night.’

‘So I heard on the grapevine. Hmm.’

‘What?’

‘Just thinking . . .’ He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. ‘If half the garrison was intent on getting loaded on New Year’s Eve, but instead of them being able to score, one of their procurers ends up dead in Castle Park, they’d be pretty narked to see ol’ Jamie the following night, mincing around, touting some gear?’ Pond let out an enormous cloud of cigar smoke, which filled the top half of the Portakabin. ‘Colchester ain’t such a big place. There’s not that much gear pinging around.’

‘I suppose that makes sense. They might think he was mixed up in it somehow.’

‘Too bloody right. I reckon they might’ve lynched him. I’d say he’d got away pretty lightly with a thumping, wouldn’t you?’

Kenton’s mind was whirling. ‘Bloody hell,’ was all he could think to say.

‘I should say so. Can I ask, if you don’t mind, how much gear there was at Beaumont Terrace?’

The police still had no idea. The drugs hadn’t been there, but ‘substantial’ was what everyone at the station was thinking. Pond took Kenton’s silence to mean he wouldn’t say.

Pond continued: ‘One imagines it was a lot. Any idea where it is?’

The young detective couldn’t help but shake his head ever so slightly.

‘To be honest, I’m not surprised you’ve got problems.’

‘Do you think Private Daley’s death is related to this drug deal?’ Kenton couldn’t help asking.

Pond shrugged. ‘You’re the policeman, aintcha?’

-41-

11.45 a.m., Tuesday, Brightlingsea port

Gabriel ran down the jetty, the collar of her raincoat flapping against her cheek as she went. Barnes was lumbering along behind her. She hadn’t noticed just how windy it was on her charge to get down here, which had seemed to take for ever, through endless narrow lanes – but she felt it now, all right.

The police launch was buffeting against the tyre bumpers in a petulant sea. The captain offered up his hand, which she took gratefully, and stepped awkwardly into the boat. A PC dispatched from Brightlingsea constabulary was already on board, arms wrapped around his greatcoat.

‘What are your sea legs like?’ the pilot asked as she climbed down.

‘Sea legs? Will I need them?’ she asked uncertainly. Gabriel couldn’t remember ever having set foot in a boat before.

‘Reckon so.’ He grimaced through chapped lips. ‘It’s whipped up a good ’un.’

The young PC looked distinctly unhappy. Gabriel took slow, cautious steps towards the prow of the boat.

‘Wow.’ Before her was a scene both frighteningly dramatic and piercingly beautiful. The sea glowed bright beneath a sharp, low sun, which was gradually being swallowed by a huge bank of dark cloud tumbling in from the east. She shielded her eyes with gloved hands. The clouds moved slowly but steadily, as though made of iron, pushed by the ferocious wind. She couldn’t remember a sky having such a spectacular array of colour; bands of blue, purple and orange stretched across the horizon, slowly compressed by the darkness above, their edges alight.

The boat gave a jolt and they were off. She took a few awkward steps back and gripped the stern as they moved out into the estuary. The sunlight and colour abruptly disappeared as the cloud sealed the edges of the horizon. Now she could appreciate the true strength of the wind; the white horses racing across the sea become perilously visible. Not that a visual aid was needed; her face stung with cold and spray as they gained momentum.

‘This is not going to be fun,’ the PC next to her shouted. The craft banked portside, and she felt her stomach turn. Oh, my heavens, was she going to be sick? ‘Keep your eyes out front and it won’t seem so bad,’ her companion added kindly.

Gabriel tried to stay focused, but all the beauty was gone, replaced with an endless, grey, hostile wall of water. ‘How the hell will we find him in this?’

‘Not many idiots try and sail a dinghy in these conditions. Must be a good force seven . . . Wait! Look!’ Barnes cried.

Gabriel craned her neck and was lashed with spray in return. She couldn’t see a thing.

‘Look right out there – just a speck!’

Sure enough, amidst the grey turmoil was a dot of white. And that was all, just a dot. The PC scrambled to the wheelhouse.

The launch adjusted its course and accelerated powerfully, almost throwing Gabriel to the deck. The hull of the vessel rose sharply, then slammed down with such force she felt the thing may split in two, shattering her with it. Again the boat surged upward. She braced herself as her feet slid on the wet deck, and as they traversed the swell, she quickly realized that this first violent movement wasn’t going to be a one-off. If she was going to be sick, the moment had passed; she was now too busy keeping herself upright.

‘What have we here?’ the PC shouted in her ear excitedly. He must’ve been all of eighteen, and very keen. The boat slowed and she realized she’d had her eyes closed. The motion eased to a queasy side-to-side rocking. Before them was a sailing dinghy, with no sign of crew. The main sail flapped angrily. ‘Right – let’s see if we can grab it with this.’ He produced a long wooden pole and leaned cautiously over the side. Sergeant Barnes helped steady him.

‘Gotcha!’ the PC exclaimed, and tugged the dinghy in. The noise of the loosened sail was deafening. ‘Keep hold!’ the young policeman yelled to Barnes, before leaping over the side and into the captured boat with a coiled rope. Spray stung Gabriel’s cheeks as the smaller vessel crashed against them. The policeman disappeared under the sail to fasten the rope, then tossed it back to Barnes, yelling something they couldn’t make out.

‘He knows his stuff!’ Barnes almost screamed with admiration as the younger policeman lowered the sail, the smaller boat rising and falling in the rough swell.

Once the sail was stable, Gabriel noticed a shape in the bottom of the boat, covered by a tarpaulin. Her heart raced. As the PC went about busily securing the rigging, the shape began to move, and Gabriel nudged Sergeant Barnes. A very pale man raised himself into the storm. Gabriel couldn’t help herself: she went rigid with fear as a corpse-like man struggled to his feet. Though she knew she was in no danger, the figure in front of her was so shocking in appearance she felt she might vomit in panic and scrabbled back hastily to allow Barnes room to help the skeletal Felix Cowley on board.

5 p.m., Colchester town centre

When a drenched, fragile WPC Gabriel returned to Queen Street, a gentle wave of relief washed over Lowry. The young woman had obviously found the experience draining – she looked exhausted – but the recovery of Felix Cowley from the Blackwater had a more effusive effect on Sparks, who was positively jubilant. This was a major result. Cowley wasn’t in great shape. He had narrowly avoided pneumonia. Unable to get much sense out of him, they heeded medical advice to let him rest overnight – but in the Queen Street cells. The loss of Philpott from the General Hospital was still on their minds, and Sparks was adamant. However, Lowry had ordered the duty PC to move the electric heater to Cowley’s side of the barred door to at least try to keep him warm; after all this hassle, he didn’t want him expiring overnight. Having overseen the PC grudgingly move the heater, he and Sparks then left the station, and it was with lightened moods that the pair made their way through the town centre on foot as the first snow of the year began to fall.

‘I gather you had coffee with the ACC,’ Sparks said casually, his breath catching in the streetlight as they made their way towards the old city wall. The uneven cobbled pavement was slippery in places as the snow began to settle on patches of ice. Their footsteps, which at first echoed along the glistening alley, were soon muffled as the snow grew heavier.

‘I did. How do you know?’ Not that it was a secret.

‘I know someone in the police. Sneaky bastards have eyes everywhere.’

Lowry didn’t respond. Instead he asked, ‘Are you sure you’ve got time for this?’

‘Of course. Besides, I think it does good to show my face on the streets every once in a while – show ’em who’s the daddy.’

‘Jeez, you watch too much telly.’

‘C’mon, Nick, what did she want? What did you talk about?’

‘You.’

‘Me? What the fuck did she want to know about me?’ They turned off at Sheregate Steps; they were steep and treacherous on an evening like this. The number of people who had come a cropper navigating their way down these slippery stones was one of Colchester’s least noble statistics.

‘Whether I thought you were “modern”.’ Lowry stopped outside a dark wooden door within an enclave, halfway down the ancient passageway. Even during the daytime, most would pass the Candyman jazz club and remain unaware of its existence.

‘“Modern?” What the fuck does that mean?’ Snow had settled on the chief’s eyebrows.

‘Beats me. Shall we?’ They stepped inside. The place was darker than the alley they’d just left, and the cigarette smoke clawed at their throats, causing an involuntary cough from both, hardened nicotine addicts as they were. ‘What’re you having?’

‘Better take it easy – I’ll be driving through those pissy lanes later. Vodka tonic,’ Sparks said, wincing in the smoky gloom.

‘Two large vodka tonics, love. I thought you were looking forward to ladies’ night?’

Sparks shrugged and surveyed the scene around him. ‘You blowing me out has taken the wind out of my sails somewhat. Would’ve been nice to see Jacqueline, too. How is she?’

Lowry paid for the drinks. ‘All right.’ He’d not spoken to her since their conversation the night before and was not particularly keen to say any more to Sparks. Instead, he signalled to the waifish girl behind the bar and asked, ‘Lester in?’

Sparks’s good humour had evaporated as swiftly as it had arisen. When, thanks to Granger, he’d first got wind of this tête-à-tête between the ACC and Lowry, he’d hardly minded at all, but now, on hearing Lowry’s oblique response, he was furious. Talking about
him
? Modern? What the fuck was Merrydown on about? Now he’d stopped to think about it, why was she talking to Lowry like that, behind his back? Not that he didn’t trust Lowry – he did – but her? No chance. She hadn’t got to where she was by being Felicity Kendal. She was not to be trusted. Indeed, she had, only this afternoon, called Sparks to warn him about her niece, Gabriel. And though Merrydown was sweetness and light about the whole thing, and apologized that he was kept in the dark about the connection, it was still underhand. Sparks was going to mention it to Lowry, but now thought better of it . . .

He grabbed his drink from the bar and took in his surroundings. He used to listen to the odd jazz record once upon a time and he knew this place from his days as a DC in the sixties – his glory years. A desk job wasn’t what he’d signed up for, but that’s what it had become, and although the sports that he engaged in compensated to a degree, it didn’t quite replace life on the streets. ‘This place hasn’t changed,’ he said, nodding to a leathery old goat at the far end of the bar. ‘He was in here when this was my patch, in sixty-seven. Don’t think he’s moved. Certainly hasn’t shaved.’

Lowry raised his glass and took a swig. The low ceiling caused both of them to stoop. ‘Not much of a stage,’ he said, indicating the far end of the bar, where a skinny, long-haired youth was messing with a snare drum.

‘You don’t need a big stage with jazz, Nick. There’s no need to strut about like they do with that crap you’re into – the music does the job for you.’

‘Didn’t know you were into jazz, chief
—
’

‘Evening, gents.’ A man so skinny that it was a wonder a turtleneck was made that would fit as snugly as the one he sported had drifted over. ‘Superintendent, welcome. It’s been a while.’

‘Lester,’ Sparks acknowledged. ‘There’s been a mishap.’

‘Derek.’ He nodded, tutting. ‘Shocking business.’

‘When was the last time you saw him?’ Lowry asked.

The club manager waved a cigarette indolently. ‘Thursday. He was supposed to be here on Sunday – but he didn’t show up.’

‘How did you hear about what had happened?’ Sparks asked.

‘I can’t recall – was it in the paper?’

‘Did you not inquire as to his whereabouts? He’s in the house band – didn’t you wonder why he hadn’t turned up?’ he persisted.

‘How does one ever hear anything?’ the man half replied, his attention drifting towards the guy fiddling with the snare drum, who had been joined by a short black man with a trumpet.

Sparks was out of the habit of being dicked about. He was sure Lester Pink had a drugs habit. What it was, he had no idea, but there was no way a man could be this skinny without poisoning his body with something. Maybe he was on it now, which would explain his disrespect. He downed his drink and muttered to Lowry, ‘See if you can jog his memory – or, if not, unsettle it.’

Sparks marched over the trumpet player. ‘Evening,’ he said.

The musician gave a cursory nod but then carried on chatting to the man at the snare drum.

‘Oi, Satchmo,’ Sparks said politely. ‘May I have a word?’ They both stopped what they were doing and stared at him.

‘Armstrong played the cornet,’ the black guy said.

‘I’m sorry? What did you say?’

‘I said –’ he paused – ‘Armstrong predominantly played the cornet.’

‘Did he? Did he really?’ Sparks looked at the low, yellow ceiling as though in thought, tapping his foot playfully as he did so, then stared at the man straight and said, ‘Well, I don’t give a fuck whether he blew down Liberace’s bone flute.’ With a sudden jerk, he shoved the trumpeter against the back wall. Due to his small size, this didn’t require the effort Sparks put in, and the push caused several framed photographs of hallowed jazz musicians blowing earnestly to shatter.

‘Now, Derek Stone. Know him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes?’

‘Yes, he plays with us. He hasn’t been turning up. Turns out he was murdered.’

‘Did he take drugs?’

‘Erm . . . occasionally.’

Sparks shoved him hard against the wall.

‘Hey, man,’ came a soft voice, followed by a tap on his shoulder. ‘There’s no need for that.’ It was the drummer.

‘Come here,’ Sparks beckoned, as if to confide in him. As the man leaned forward, Sparks spun and deftly headbutted him on the bridge of the nose. The drummer toppled and Sparks felt momentarily stunned. The trumpeter, still in his grip, had gone limp against the wall, pulling Sparks forward. He was trying to whisper something.

‘Sorry, son – didn’t catch that?’

‘He’d gone to score – Del had – on Saturday night. He’d gone to score on Saturday night.’

‘Fab.’ He yanked the man upright. ‘Anything else? Any girlfriend? Who’d he hang out with?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’ Sparks squeezed the man hard again. ‘Wait; he had a mate who’d drop by – Ted.’

‘Ted? Ted who?’

‘Nugent. Comes from Mersea. Bleached-blond hair. You’re hurting me.’

Satisfied, Sparks released him and marched back to the bar, where Lowry and Lester Pink had been watching the display. ‘That’s bang out of order, Mr Sparks,’ Pink protested, seeming now to have been roused from his dreamland. Sparks squared up to him and he instantly shrunk back.

‘The trouble is, Lester, people ponce about. Call me old-fashioned, but I believe that if a policeman, especially a senior one such as myself, asks for information, he’s entitled to an answer.’ Sparks gestured towards the musicians, where the trumpeter was fussing over the drummer, who was still lying on the floor. ‘Not a load of arse. Know what I mean?’

‘We done?’ Lowry said, and placed his empty glass purposefully on the bar. They left in silence.