Blackwater (DI Nick Lowry) (9 page)

-16-

11.15 p.m., Saturday, Queen Street HQ

‘What, so you glassed a man in the bogs just because you felt like it?’

‘He spilt my pint,’ muttered the young soldier in a soft Northern Irish accent. With the arrival of backup units from Chelmsford, the fighting in the town centre was quelled swiftly. Now, the police were investigating the cause.

‘He spilt your pint, eh?’ Sparks exclaimed. ‘Do you not think your reaction might’ve been a tad over the top?’

Lowry could see the vein in his superior’s neck begin to pulse. He wondered about the chief’s blood pressure, but only for a second. His wife had nearly been raped in the high street, not fifteen minutes ago. Lowry couldn’t get it out of his head. What if he’d arrived five minutes later? What if he’d not got there in time? His legs still felt weak; they were almost trembling. And to think she’d wanted to carry on partying with the girls. She’d agreed to go home, but not in a squad car; Trish and Kerry would take her. He hadn’t wanted a scene and so let her have her way. Her attacker, meanwhile, had disappeared and avoided capture, unlike the man before them now, who the chief circled, growing angrier by the second. The man before them had sparked something not far short of a riot by landing Jamie Philpott, a small-time crook, in Colchester General, and his dismissive attitude was making the chief livid.

Lowry recognized the ginger-haired Irish soldier from the gym; he had a prize-fighter’s build but was slow on his feet and, reputedly, dim-witted. It was surprising he had made the Paras. But this was the first time Corporal Quinn had been caught in a fracas in town. It was hard to believe that this docile-seeming lunk was the cause of all the trouble.

‘I thought they were big on discipline and self-control in the army?’ Sparks shook his head and paced the room. Rushed away from a County bash where he’d been seated next to the assistant chief constable herself, for nothing short of a riot in Colchester High Street – no wonder he was annoyed. In contrast, the soldier before them seemed so calm that Lowry couldn’t imagine him losing it over a spilt drink. Something about the situation didn’t add up.

A WPC poked her head round the corner, not wishing to get drawn in. ‘Captain Oldham is upstairs, sir. He’s anxious to see you.’

‘Anxious, is he? I’ll give him anxious,’ Sparks growled.

On hearing that the captain of the military police had arrived, Quinn’s passive expression barely changed – or was that a flicker of relief that Lowry saw cross his broad forehead?

‘No wonder Northern Ireland’s fucked, if they’ve the likes of you on the border,’ sneered Sparks as he made to leave the room. He then spun on his heels and, without warning, landed the corporal an unexpected left hook of such force it caused even Lowry to jump. The soldier went crashing to the ground, the crack of his head on the wooden floor a sickening sound. Sparks had, in his time, lost it with recalcitrant villains, but it had been a while since Lowry had witnessed such open aggression. Dinner with Merrydown must have been even less fun than usual.

‘Well, we can’t keep the good captain waiting, can we?’ Sparks stepped round the corner of the interview table, slamming his heel on the prone man’s fingers and making him scream. ‘You boys, you boys,’ he tutted. ‘If you will brawl, you can’t expect to get away unscathed.’

As he passed Lowry, he whispered, ‘He’s hiding something.’ And he left the room.

As to what he might be hiding, Christ only knew. Sparks himself had not the faintest idea. But that was beside the point; as long as Lowry thought there was something there, he would be diligent enough to give the man a hard time. The chief had not so much as loosened his tie since leaving the Chelmsford bash. He shuddered, recalling the moment the messenger had delivered the news – just as Merrydown was starting to show an interest in his achievements in the ring. For an instant, he had almost believed she was flirting with him. But leaving to attend to the riot, her parting haughty look of dismay at the news was emblazoned on his retina.

Sparks powered along the corridor towards the three military policemen – two tall and well built, one slight and severe – awaiting him in the reception hall. Captain Oldham’s diminutive stature always unnerved him. He had the air of a Nazi torturer – small and sadistic.

‘Chief,’ Oldham said, perfectly calmly.

‘Oldham,’ Sparks responded, dropping the officer’s rank to emphasize that he was the senior man.

‘Off somewhere nice?’ the captain remarked, eyeing the evening wear.

‘Unfortunately not – I was called away from an important engagement.’

‘Ah, sorry to hear that,’ Oldham remarked, clearly not sorry at all. ‘I believe you have one of our men.’

‘Yes; Corporal Quinn; big bugger, can’t miss him.’

‘That’s the one. I’d like to see him, please.’

Sparks hesitated. He wanted to give Lowry more time. ‘Of course, but right now he’s in a frightful mess. You’d think a chap that size could take care of himself. Listen, come with me for a snifter while the medics finish patching him up.’

The military captain raised a surprised eyebrow. ‘In a bad way, you say?’

‘Yes, he took a bit of a pasting.’ He clasped the little man’s shoulder and propelled him along the corridor. ‘Shouldn’t take them long. What’s your poison?’

*

‘He can’t do that,’ the soldier spat.

Lowry ignored him and picked up the arrest sheet Sparks had left on the table. The man had confessed to knowing Philpott, the man he’d hit over a spilt pint, by sight. Tensions had been running high; it was no surprise things had kicked off . . . He glanced at the paper he was holding and something leapt out at him: Quinn was in 7 Para, and barracked in the same quarters as Daley and Jones.

‘You knew Private Daley?’

‘I did. We were in the same unit.’

‘What do you think happened that night? You know, at the castle.’

‘I don’t have an opinion.’

‘But there must have been rumours flying around the barracks?’

Quinn shrugged. ‘They say there was a ruck with some local lads.’

‘Over what?’

‘The usual. Birds.’

‘Was Jamie Philpott one of those involved?’

‘I dunno, do I? I wasn’t there.’

Could this have been a revenge beating? Philpott was hard enough on the local scene but, essentially, a nobody and an unlikely threat to these guys. These weren’t your run-of-the-mill squaddies; these were 7 Para; they had yomped across Goose Green – hardly the sort to flee across Castle Park because some two-bit crook was on their tail.

‘So where . . . ?’ But before Lowry could finish the question he saw a PC wave at him through the window, distracting him. Lowry mouthed, ‘Not now,’ but the PC was insistent. He reluctantly left the room.

‘What?’

‘Philpott’s checked himself out of hospital.’

‘Checked himself out? There was a police guard – I authorized it myself.’

‘But he doesn’t want to press charges . . .’

‘Okay, let him go. He won’t stray far; we know where to find him.’ Philpott would want to dodge the spotlight, but Lowry was surprised he’d do a bunk from hospital if he was hurt. Philpott was known to the police, and to some degree he operated in Sparks’s pocket. He might be a nobody, but he was
their
nobody. Maybe his wounds were superficial. He looked back through the small, latticed window at the bloodied soldier. So where did this leave them? Did they pass this man back to his military masters and leave them to it, forget the town-centre chaos and hope it would all blow over? Lowry signalled to the PC that the interview was over.

-17-

11.30 p.m., Saturday, Police Social Club, Queen Street

Sparks helped himself at the optics.

‘Really, Chief Sparks, I must attend to my man upstairs,’ said Oldham. ‘If he has indeed been causing trouble in town, then he will be punished.’

‘Come on, one more – humour me. You can have him in due course. Corporal Quinn and whoever else it was have ruined everyone’s Saturday night; we might as well make the most of what remains.’ Sparks was merely buying Lowry time, as sharing a drink with the captain of the military police was not what he’d call enjoyable by any stretch of the imagination. Though a fan of the brigadier, Sparks loathed the military police and the way they lorded it about the town – his town – as if they were beyond the law. And Oldham was the worst of the bunch. His two goons stood to attention in the social-club doorway, as if the bar were theirs, which only annoyed Sparks further. ‘So what does “punished” mean, exactly?’ he asked.

‘Oh, come now, chief, you’re mocking me. I know you think the military police just play at being soldiers.’ Oldham grimaced as he took a slug of Scotch.

‘No, seriously. I know the Glasshouse at Colchester is the nation’s military prison. What goes on there?’

‘You’ll have to pay us a visit
—
’

There was a kerfuffle in the doorway as in came DC Kenton, filthy and wet. The two MPs looked set to pounce if he took another step further.

‘Easy, lads,’ said Sparks, ‘he’s one of mine. Jesus Christ, what happened to you?’

‘Mind if I have a drink, sir?’ Kenton asked, stumbling towards the bar.

‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’

His face smeared with mud, and his usually groomed head of hair reduced to lank, ratty streaks, Kenton resembled a Dickensian pauper. And, Jesus, he stank like one, too.

‘Mersea Island, checking out houseboats, sir.’

‘Well, I must be off,’ said Oldham, adding drily, ‘It really is getting late, and it looks as if you two have plenty to chat about.’

Midnight, Aristos nightclub, half a mile from Colchester High Street

They’d got there too early. The place was practically deserted. The three of them sat on an enormous leather bench seat with a low glass table in front of them, sipping vodka martinis. Aristos was a cavernous nightclub beneath a four-star hotel, a converted mill on the bank of the River Colne at the foot of East Hill.

The club had opened five years ago at the height of the
Saturday Night Fever
craze. Although it was tired and had the tacky feel of a wedding-reception venue, it was still the best place to go for a good boogie. The glitter ball span, its sparkle skittering across an all but empty dance floor.

The martinis had yet to kick in and the girls were feeling deflated. Jacqui and her friends had mooched down the high street, making a show of calling it a night. On parting, Jacqui had said to Nick that she didn’t want to be alone – knowing this would sting him, as he was powerless to help, being tied up with what was going on – and that they were going to Trish’s house. But now, having disobeyed him completely, and having ended up in a club, the surge of energy brought on by her defiance had dwindled.

‘’Ere, check those three loons out.’ Kerry nudged Jacqui and pointed towards the raised bar, where a guy in a tracksuit and two others in denims were haranguing the barman. He looked like he was on the verge of having them thrown out. Jacqui’s attention settled on one of the guys in denim; he looked a bit of a hunk.

She pushed herself up off the low seat. ‘Where are you going?’ demanded Kerry.

‘For a chat.’

‘What?!’

‘Why not?’ said Jacqui brazenly, and headed across the dance floor, figuring she might as well make the best of being out. Anyway, she was intrigued – the three men looked completely out of place – and she had to do something while waiting for the mood in the club to lift. The tracksuited guy was gesticulating wildly at the barman, who looked bemused by whatever it was he was saying.

Jacqui leaned in to address the good-looking one. ‘What are you fellas doin’?’

‘Just havin’ a beer, you know.’ He was looking past her into the distance, at the spinning, flashing lights, and nodding to the music – the twelve-inch of ‘Passion’, a weird, trancey disco hit. She stepped closer to speak to him over the music and noticed a strange, fishy smell.

‘Didn’t realize the dress code was so, err, relaxed,’ she said loudly.

‘He knows the doorman,’ he shouted back, nodding towards the man in the tracksuit, who was still berating the barman and seemed to be smoking two cigarettes at once.

‘You fellas don’t look the regular type for this sort of place. And what’s that smell? Did you just get off a fishing boat?’ she joked, trying to divert the man’s attention from the glitter ball.

‘You what?’ At last he turned to meet her eyes, but he wasn’t really seeing her. She looked him over in the twilight of the club. He hadn’t shaved and was grinding his teeth like anything. The overall effect was comical, but she was intrigued. ‘You what?’ he repeated.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

By now the other girls had joined her at the bar, an oval island, and had surrounded his mate, who was wearing a Fred Perry T-shirt and appeared to be terrified by their approach. His face was a picture of confusion; he looked as if he might cry at any moment.

‘Jason,’ answered the first man at last. ‘My name’s Jason.’ He downed his lager and started jigging fervently to the music. He was cute and not the least bit threatening.

‘You like the music?’

‘Nah,’ he said, still dancing. ‘I’m into the Floyd, you know?’ When she looked blank he leaned close to her and started gabbling about some album –
Medal
, or something – and its amazing experimental soundscapes, or some such nonsense, with barely a pause for breath. He really did smell of the sea, and not in a good way.

‘I’ll have to check that out,’ she said, pulling away. ‘Sounds great.’

He then looked at her properly for the first time, as if only just registering that she was a woman.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he slurred, eyes sparkling in the disco lights.

‘Have you got any left for me?’ She smiled knowingly.

He arched an eyebrow in an exaggerated fashion and turned furtively towards his pals. The little one, who, only a minute ago, had seemed to be on the verge of tears, was now laughing convulsively with Trish, while the one in the tracksuit was in earnest conversation with the barman.

‘All right,’ he said, grabbing her hand. ‘Come with me.’