Blackwater (DI Nick Lowry) (7 page)

-12-

4.35 p.m., Saturday, Queen Street HQ

Lowry stood next to Sparks at the front of the large ground-floor meeting room, facing handful of reporters, mostly from the local press, but some from Chelmsford, and an odd bloke with a pipe. Still in overcoats, they formed a sad little huddle and looked rougher than usual; a week of festive overindulgence had taken its toll on lives already lived in a punishing arena of booze and cigarettes. Several had hacking coughs which, thirty years ago, would have landed them in a TB sanatorium.

Sparks’s plan had paid off. He’d brushed over the ‘unfortunate, accidental death’ of the soldier in Castle Park before announcing that they’d discovered a corpse on the Strood and, just as he’d hoped, the press were far more interested in a mutilated stranger floating in on the tide than in a soldier jumping off a wall. Special Branch had been no help; until ‘the headless German’ could be identified, neither they nor Interpol was interested. Lowry listened abstractedly as his superior warmed to his subject, no doubt relieved to have averted any awkward questions about Private Daley. It wouldn’t take much to shatter the delicate peace between the military and civilian factions of the town.

‘Now, I shall pass you over to Inspector Lowry, who will be happy to answer any questions.’ Sparks winked at him as Lowry took a step forward. The questions came thick and fast:

‘How big would the boat have to be to
mutilate
a man beyond recognition?’

‘How far could the body have floated?’

‘How
—
’

‘Gentleman! Ladies!’ Lowry halted the questions. ‘One at a time, please.’ He pointed to a female hack at the rear of the room whose hand was raised. ‘Young lady at the back,’ he said.

‘Sticking with New Year’s Eve, if you don’t mind,’ she began.

Sparks’s shoulders tensed noticeably. All eyes were on the stocky woman with oval glasses asking the question.

‘Chief Sparks, in a press statement the previous day, had referred to the serviceman’s death as resulting from a squabble with local lads in the high street.’ Lowry heard Sparks’s angry intake of breath; he hadn’t quite said that. ‘Isn’t nine o’clock a bit early for drunken brawling?’

Before Lowry had a chance to compose a response, Sparks had barged in front of him. ‘I never said there was “brawling”. I said we suspected accidental death in the aftermath of a quarrel – a bit of horseplay.’

‘Was it a fight between squaddies and townies, then?’ A local hack had woken up.

‘The soldiers involved have no visible injuries that would be consistent with having been in a fight,’ replied Lowry.

‘How do you define “horseplay”?’ the woman persisted. ‘And why were things getting heated so early in the evening?’

‘Most teenagers are in the pub by midday, ma’am,’ Lowry countered.

‘So it
was
a drunken brawl?’

And so it went on, back and forth, the press asking difficult questions and Lowry ducking each of them as he would left hooks in the ring.

*

Afterwards, Sparks stood in the corridor, fuming. He glowered at Lowry, who had been joined by a tall WPC.

‘Who the fuck was she?’ Sparks barked.

‘No idea. Not local.’

‘I know she’s not fucking local, hence the smart-alec questions – it would’ve just washed over those cretins from the
Gazette
; most of them were too hungover to hold a pencil. Just wait until I get hold of the Beard – he’d better hand that kid back, or I’ll . . .’

Sparks became aware of the blonde WPC hovering next to Lowry. The one who jacked in the Littlewoods catalogue modelling, or whatever it was, for the force. Strange move, if ever there was one. And now she was lingering silently like a spare part while he argued with Lowry: a passive stance to which he took exception. ‘Yes, constable, and you are here because . . . ?’

‘WPC Gabriel was there on New Year’s Eve – she came to the park with me this morning,’ Lowry answered. ‘I told you about it.’

‘And what do you think happened, WPC Gabriel?’ Sparks demanded, with barely suppressed contempt.

‘I think there’s something peculiar about it, sir, same as Inspector Lowry does.’

‘
Peculiar?
’ He wanted decisiveness and action, not vague conjecture. ‘What do you mean, girl?’ The girl, and she wasn’t much more than a girl – about twenty-one or twenty-two – became nervous and couldn’t get her words out.

‘She means we’re investigating it,’ said Lowry, stepping in.

‘What, the pair of you?’ But Sparks didn’t wait for an answer – he had to call Lane. He could see the headlines now:
Brawl with Townies Leaves Soldier Dead
, or some such sensational stuff. Next they’d have crazed squaddies marauding through the streets on a quest for revenge, beating the hell out of the local riff-raff. ‘Have you seen the other one again – Jones?’

‘I’ve been in contact with the garrison, sir,’ said WPC Gabriel, attempting to regain composure. ‘Someone is coming back to us about it this afternoon.’

Sparks glared at her, then at Lowry. ‘Sort it out, eh, Nicholas?’

*

The pair of you
. Lowry pondered the chief’s words. It seemed they were a pair, he and WPC Gabriel, for now at least. Sparks had left them loitering together in the corridor, having marched off angrily. The chief in a temper could do nought to sixty quicker than a Ferrari. The woman looked visibly shaken by his outburst. For someone so enthralled by women, Sparks displayed not a flicker of decorum around them. Lowry immediately regretted having sent Kenton off to Mersea – if the story of the squaddie’s death flared up, he would need him. He checked his wristwatch: four fifty-five. The squaddie’s death would make the local radio news this evening, he was sure of that. But then Lowry had never believed they could cover up this accident. It would have come out sooner or later, once the post-Christmas and New Year fug had dispersed.

‘Who did you speak to at the garrison?’ he asked WPC Gabriel.

She pulled her notebook from her breast pocket. ‘A Captain Oldham.’

Oldham, the military police captain: the Red Cap supremo himself.

‘What did he say?’

‘That he’d look into it and get back to me.’

Lowry looked at his watch again. ‘Okay, we’ll give him an hour. If he hasn’t called back by then, we’ll chase him up. What time does your shift finish?’

‘Err – nearly an hour ago, actually.’

Normally, he would be keen to get to know a new partner when they were thrown together on a case, so he briefly considered asking her to stop for a drink. He just as quickly thought better of it. Of course she wasn’t his partner. And women made him uneasy at close quarters. Platonic friendships were a minefield – seeing numerous colleagues end up in trouble had convinced him of that. Attraction always got in the way. But he was equally firm in his belief that it helped if you could trust who you’re working with, and to trust a person you had to know them to some degree. Take Kenton, for example. He might yet kill them both in his death trap of a car but, essentially, Lowry trusted him, and that could only come about through shared confidences. Even within their brief partnership of three months, a bond of sorts had been created, and Lowry knew how useful an understanding colleague could be when you found yourself in a tight spot. He regretted this accidental union with Gabriel; it was so much easier to work with a man.

Lowry looked away from the pale blue eyes that were staring at him fixedly. ‘Okay, thanks for your help,’ he said kindly, then walked off, leaving her in the passageway.

4.50 p.m, Coast Road, West Mersea

Kenton wished the fisherman had accepted a lift in his car. Instead, he’d been obliged to walk the mile to the port while the old man wheeled a squeaking bicycle. The chilly walk wasn’t completely without merit, however, as the fisherman had regaled Kenton with tales about all the characters on Mersea Island. Kenton’s favourite so far was a Victorian pastor who had composed famous hymns and written gothic novels about the island in the vein of the Brontës – fascinating, especially for a history graduate. Nevertheless, time was pressing on.

‘Is it much further?’ he asked.

The old chap shook his head. ‘Nearly there,’ he wheezed.

As they rounded a corner, Kenton for the first time could smell the sea. To his right were grandiose Victorian houses, austere in the darkness, while to his left all was black – the great expanse of the estuary was swallowed up by the incoming night. The road leading down to the harbour was punctuated with street lamps casting weak orange halos of light.

‘Right, I’ll leave you to it,’ the fisherman said, mounting the old bike, which gave a creak. ‘Just carry straight on. The boat you’re looking for is
Ahab’s Revenge
.’

‘There doesn’t seem to be much life down there,’ Kenton said dubiously.

‘Look for the letterbox and you’ll find the walkway to the boat.’ And with that, he freewheeled off, wheels stinging the road as he went.

Kenton walked on, his footsteps echoing. The damp sea mist moved gently across the estuary to greet him, not with the same density as when on the Strood that morning, but enough for moisture to sit on his overcoat and catch the dim gloaming of the street lights. A low white rail which had divided him from the darkness beyond stopped abruptly as the road levelled out. He paused under a street lamp in a pocket of wan copper light and looked seaward but could discern nothing save shingle and clumps of grass. Walking a little further on, he came across a cluster of letterboxes at waist height, just as the fisherman had said. And there it was, painted clumsily on the middle one:
Ahab’s Revenge.
The shingle to his left had given way to mud, and connecting with the pavement was a wooden gangway leading off into the darkness. Kenton blinked in the mist. Patches of light were vaguely discernible out there, so he stepped on to the narrow wooden planking and headed towards them. The smell of the coast hit his senses with greater force; it always made him think of seaweed and dead crabs, a throwback to his earliest childhood memories, when his mother had taken him on days out to Southend-on-Sea.

As he moved cautiously on, the unmistakable sound of a piano floated towards him on the cold air. ‘Mozart,’ he muttered to himself. The lights he’d seen from the pavement came into focus as soft red and pink rectangles. Houseboat lights. Under sparse moonlight, he could just about make out three hulls perhaps forty yards apart, resting on the muddy flats. The gangway led to the one in the centre, a large vessel with a dirty white hull and a two-storey white cabin.

He stopped at the end of the gangway, which had brought him alongside the cabin, level with a door. He could hear water but couldn’t see it. Did the tide come up here? There were no lights on, either inside or outside
Ahab’s Revenge.
God, it was eerie out here. He had just shaken the feeling off when the light on the opposite boat went out, plunging him into darkness. Brilliant, now he felt unnerved all over again. He knocked gently on the door in front of him, not expecting to get an answer when he called out, ‘Hello?’ but the vessel gave a creak, as if someone had moved inside it. Then he felt the wooden deck he was standing on rock, indicating that there was somebody else on it. ‘Hello, I . . .’ He started to address the darkness but, within seconds, he was flat on his back on the freezing mud, his nose throbbing. Jesus, that hurt! He lifted his head briefly, thinking he could see stars. Sheering white sheets of light crossed his vision before he passed out.

-13-

5 p.m., Saturday, Great Tey

Jacqui Lowry admired her features, tilted in the mirror, as she released the hair crimpers. ‘Better,’ she said to the empty room, or perhaps to Bryan Ferry, whose voice was crooning out of the cassette player.

Replacing the tongs on the dressing table, she picked up her vodka and Coke and took a sip. ‘
Much
better,’ she said, and allowed herself an indulgent sway to ‘More than This’. She whipped up a can of hairspray from the dresser and shook it, then shut her eyes as she applied it liberally. The smell was overpowering, almost intoxicating. ‘Gah!’ she exclaimed. Once the spray cloud had dispersed and she’d taken another gulp of vodka, she opened her eyes wide.

‘Matthew!’ Her son’s reflection in the mirror took her by surprise. She felt embarrassed by his intrusion into her private, dreamy moment and turned on her stool, feeling annoyed. ‘You’re not a baby any more – you should knock before coming in.’

He frowned, puzzled. ‘Why?’

‘Because. Now, what do you want?’

‘Are you going out?’

‘Come here.’ She beckoned, holding out both hands. The boy was hesitant, but slowly approached, hand trailing along the wardrobe. ‘Now, let me see that mark.’ She said this kindly but firmly, and he acquiesced, allowing her gently to push back his hair to get a better look. There was no doubt about it: the mark was a fading bruise. It must’ve happened at least ten days ago, coinciding with the last days of term. What sort of bruise would last that long? She wasn’t the greatest mother, she knew that, but she couldn’t bear the thought of her son being harmed in any way. She studied him and noticed, not for the first time, an oppressed look about him, the same one she’d seen on the face of her brother, Kenny. What on earth was going on?

‘Want to talk about it?’ she said, reaching out to clutch his shoulders, as much to stop him from leaving as to comfort him. Predictably, he shook his head.

‘You need to tell me what’s going on. Otherwise, I’ll have to tell your father.’ If this didn’t budge him, nothing would. She knew he’d hate his dad to become involved in any problems he was having at school. As a little lad, he’d been proud to have a policeman as a dad but, lately, Jacqui thought, it seemed that Nick’s profession was beginning to cause difficulties; nothing concrete – more what was unsaid than what was said. The school was rough, she knew, from stories she’d heard from the girls on the ward.

‘It’s nothing – got trampled playing rugby, in the scrum. That’s all.’ He rubbed the back of his neck, attempting to add his story some credibility. She remained doubtful.

‘Look at me, Matty.’ He shot her a glance. ‘Really?’

‘Really.’

She took his hands and studied his palms, which were covered in coloured splodges. ‘What’s that?’

‘Paint.’

‘Oh, the model plane.’ She knew he’d been at it off and on since his birthday in September. Enormous box and what seemed like thousands of pieces. ‘Spitfire, is it?’

‘Stuka. Nearly done.’

‘That’s it, a Stuka. Well, you’ve certainly stuck with it!’ She smiled, her cheesy joke producing just the hint of a grin on his face. He was a determined little soul, her son. Jacqui then pondered her husband’s resolve; Nick had announced an intention to pack up ciggies
and
boxing. It was hard to imagine him without either; both habits were as much a part of him as the wings were to her son’s model plane.

6.05 p.m., Police Social Club, Queen Street

‘The giving up smoking has been a triumph then!’ Sparks smirked, puffing on a panatella. Lowry shrugged without comment and bent his cigarette end double in the enormous bar ashtray. In his penguin suit, the chief looked more menacing than usual, he thought.

Lowry was waiting in the dingy basement bar for Kenton to return from Mersea. His quiet drink and pause for thought had been interrupted by Sparks, who was on his way to a function. The chief suddenly reached over and clapped Lowry heavily on the shoulder, causing him to splutter. ‘Let’s hope you display the same tenacity in giving up boxing, eh?’ The chief exploded in a great guffaw at his own joke, causing two young officers to look up from their pool game.

Lowry was sure Sparks had been drinking upstairs alone already, not just because of this boisterous outburst but because he never normally came in the social club. And the rank and file hated him being in here. A tense hush had fallen on the room when he walked in.

‘Phyllis, two doubles, please,’ Sparks chirped, not taking his eyes off Lowry.

‘I can’t,’ spluttered Lowry. ‘Jacqui’s going out. I’ve got to be home by six thirty.’ Where the hell was Kenton?

‘Nonsense, you can stay for one more.’

‘I’ve got to go.’

‘One more.’ Sparks pushed him back down in his seat. ‘Listen, I’ll let you off boxing tomorrow, but you have to come and watch – check out the Beard’s new talent.’

Lowry was taken aback by Sparks’s magnanimity; he hadn’t expected to get off this lightly. ‘All right, it’s a deal.’ He smiled in relief.

‘But, next week, I want you back in the ring. No point chucking you in now for a pummelling, which you’ll undoubtedly get, as I guess you haven’t trained over Christmas.’ Sparks blew an enormous cloud of smoke into Lowry’s face, causing him to wince in irritation.

‘No chance. I’m finished with that.’

‘Come on, don’t be such a big poof about it.’ Before Lowry had a chance to protest further, Sparks was off on another tack. ‘Now, tell me about the
peculiar
circumstances of Private Daley’s death.’

Lowry didn’t miss the jibe at WPC Gabriel. Not for the first time, he was appalled by Sparks’s derision of the women in the force. He took the Scotch from the tiny bar, which this evening was ably manned by the station’s cleaner, Phyllis. She was a huge, round-faced woman who perspired profusely, her brow too close to the spotlights above the bar.

‘I’ll advise Gabriel to use a less loaded term in future.’

‘You do that. Until we know more, it’s still an accident, nothing more, right? But it would be handy to know how it happened and who was involved – must be a couple of hard bastards. Take it you’ve not been in touch with the other soldier?’

‘We’re chasing it up.’

‘Never mind; it was an accident!’ Sparks boomed. ‘Forget about it.’

And then he lapsed into silence. This could mean he was considering the situation, or it could mean he’d simply had too much to drink. Senior policemen had a lot of official engagements at this time of year, and Sparks was of the view that a constant level of alcohol in the bloodstream was the best way to deal with the season, not unlike the smallpox vaccine. After a moment or two he sighed and ground out his cigar in the large ashtray. He spoke in a low voice.

‘Personally, I don’t give a stuff what Jones has to say. I know I was a bit pissed off this afternoon, but, you know, if the Beard is playing silly buggers over the death of one of his own men, who cares?’

A fresh-faced uniformed officer appeared at Sparks’s side.

‘Understood?’ the chief said to Lowry before sliding off his stool, clasping the shoulder of the young PC in order to steady himself. ‘My carriage awaits. Think yourself lucky that you’re going home – I have to face Merrydown at Chelmsford town hall.’ Sparks grimaced and straightened his bow tie. ‘What a life,’ he added woefully. And, with that, he was gone.

‘You will give a stuff, if Merrydown has anything to do with it.’ Lowry remained at the bar and nudged Phyllis for a top-up before he hit the road. ‘Right, Kenton,’ he said to himself, ‘I’m afraid I can wait no longer. Hope you’re enjoying your evening with the Dodger.’