Deep Waters

by Patricia Hall

  ‘Not if it annoys my boss. No, I’m not going to let you know,’ Barnard said, thinking he’d had enough of Loretta’s pestering. ‘And no, I don’t have a clue where he is. You know about Rod Miller, I take it? It would be more than my bloody job’s worth to cover for him now.’ Loretta’s lips pursed tightly.

  ‘I read about it. Is that why they want to find Ray? Does your boss really think he whacked Rod? That’s ridiculous. They’ve been thick as thieves for years.’ It was, Barnard thought, an unfortunate choice of words.

  ‘My boss was told by the Yard to offer Ray some sort of protection with the big trial coming up. But now the picture’s changed. They obviously want to talk to him about Rod and the longer he stays out of sight the more suspicious they’re likely to get. If you do track him down, Loretta, let us know. Did you by any chance go down to the gym the other day? Someone told us they saw someone who could have been you trying to get in? If that was you, you need to tell us.’

  ‘I’ve never been near the place,’ she said angrily. ‘I thought you were his best mate in the force. Can’t you do something to help?’

  ‘There’s no way I can help him now or I might end up in the dock with him,’ Barnard snapped.

  ‘Ha!’ Loretta said again. ‘Maybe no more than you deserve.’

  ‘Thanks a lot, darling,’ Barnard said, suddenly furious. He side-stepped round Loretta and hurried towards Oxford Street. She was, he thought, almost more of a liability than her ex-husband. He didn’t look back, but he felt her fury like an unexploded bomb just behind him all the way to the nick.

  Barnard walked into the CID room, hung up his trench coat and hat carefully, and went over to his desk. DC Stansfield was the only person who glanced in his direction.

  ‘The DCI’s looking for you,’ he said. ‘Though with that tie you’re likely to give him a heart attack.’ Barnard was used to banter about his fashion sense, but this morning he did not feel like offering even a faint smile of apology over the flowery Liberty’s job he had chosen to put on. He pulled his jacket back on and walked down the corridor to the DCI’s office, suddenly feeling the dispiriting effect of his late night. He knocked on the door and went in when summoned, to find an even more unfriendly welcome than usual.

  ‘You wanted to see me, guv?’

  ‘You’re late,’ Jackson snapped. ‘I got Stansfield to ring you at home but there was no reply.’

  ‘I came down through Soho,’ Barnard said more equably than he felt. ‘I hoped I might get a lead on this Dutch pornography that’s supposed to be coming in. But there’s not a whisper yet.’

  ‘Keep on with that inquiry,’ Jackson said. ‘Have you heard any more from Robertson?’

  ‘No, guv. Not a dicky bird. I don’t think he liked what I said to him very much when he called me.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘To come in and talk to us.’

  ‘I want to know if you have any contact, any contact at all,’ Jackson said. ‘Is that clear?’

  ‘Crystal, guv,’ Barnard said. ‘I did bump into his ex-wife again this morning, still hanging round the Delilah Club. She’s not managed to track him down either, apparently.’

  If it had been possible for DCI Jackson to look any angrier, he would probably have exploded. ‘If you bump into her again, bring her in,’ he said. ‘I think maybe it’s time we had a chat with that lady, don’t you?’

  NINE

  It took Essex police and fire service most of the afternoon to extricate a man’s body from where it had been buried on Maplin Sands.

  After waiting for the tide to fall, they had to establish a firm platform around the waterlogged boot that the boys had tentatively and their rescuers with more certainty identified as attached to a leg. The first police constable on the scene had seen nothing but churning muddy sea water and had not rushed back to the nick. But when he did eventually call in at the end of his shift, his inspector had been sufficiently concerned to investigate a bit further and, wearing waders, had satisfied himself that the boot contained a foot, although no more of the body was visible from the surface. It had become firmly wedged beneath the mud, though whether by accident or design it was impossible to tell.

  By then the tide was at its lowest and the mud at its firmest, but it still took more than an hour to dig the body out. When it had been dispatched to the morgue, so caked in mud and sand that not much could be seen by the naked eye, Inspector Fred Weston made his way back to the nick in Southend and poked his head round the door of CID.

  ‘Possible suspicious death down on the sands,’ he said to DCI Jack Baker, a heavy man who looked very comfortable behind his many chins and rolls of fat. ‘Almost buried, though he could have dug himself in deep if he fell in and panicked. I’ve sent it to the morgue and asked for a post-mortem as soon as. Could be nothing.’

  ‘Close to the Broomway, was it?’ Baker asked lugubriously as he smoothed almost invisible strands of hair over his bald head. ‘There are still idiots who think they can use that path. Should have more sense if they’re local. I don’t think it’s been properly maintained for years. It certainly wasn’t during the war. The military have always hated it.’

  ‘Not far from the end, anyway,’ Weston said. ‘Could be someone trying to walk to Foulness. But I don’t think anyone’s been reported AWOL apart from the young boy from the fairground. And his dad, though everyone seems to think he’s working away. Anyway, I’ll check.’

  The post-mortem was not scheduled until the next morning and, now aware that no one had been reported missing over the last few days, Baker felt his curiosity piqued and decided to attend. Uncomfortable in an overall that was too tight round his paunch, he stood at the end of the table where the unknown man, now washed clean of the clinging mud, lay naked under the bright lights. The closer he looked at the body, the more sure he became that he had made the right decision. Call it instinct, he told himself, or luck, but he had become certain in his own mind overnight that this death was not natural. The confirmation was now spread out in front of him as Reg Stephenson, the pathologist, gave him a nod.

  ‘Not an accident then,’ Jack Baker said flatly, gazing at the tall gangling corpse whose pale skin was cut and bruised and had been damaged by what looked like burns almost all over. Only the reddish hairy legs had been spared.

  ‘Not an accident,’ Stephenson said lugubriously. ‘Look here.’

  Baker went round to the far end of the table, where the pathologist was pushing the corpse’s thinning red hair away from his scalp. ‘He was beaten, tortured even, and then shot. At close range. Entry wound here. And exit wound here.’ When Baker went to the other side of the table, he could see that part of the victim’s jaw was missing.

  ‘No chance of finding the bullet?’ Baker asked, although he already knew the answer.

  ‘Must be under all that mud, I should think. It’s certainly not here. Straight in and out, as you can see. Unless he was shot somewhere else and it’s conveniently lodged in a door or a wall somewhere.’

  ‘No ID, I don’t suppose?’

  ‘His clothes are over there.’ The pathologist waved at a couple of buckets of mud-encrusted clothing. ‘We’ll get them cleaned up, but nothing fell out of the pockets when we took them off. Looked as if they’d been emptied. Well-worn corduroys, vest and shirt, and a donkey jacket. Nothing out of the ordinary for a working man.’

  ‘And any idea when he died?’

  Stephenson shrugged. ‘That’s an interesting question. I’ve no idea how well bodies are preserved when they’re buried in salty sand and mud and kept wet by the tide twice a day. Not something I’ve come across before. There’s not much decomposition or bloating, as you can see, but that could mean he was buried there very recently or that the body has been preserved unusually effectively. I’ll have to do some research and come back to you on that.’ Baker sighed and put a hand in his pocket to pull out his cigarettes, but then thought better of it.

  ‘So all we know is that we’ve got an un
identified bloke, shot through the head and badly injured, with no identifying features except red hair? Not much to launch a murder inquiry on, is it?’

  ‘I’ll let you have my report as soon as I can,’ Stephenson said irritably. ‘It’s pretty obvious what killed him, but you never know what I might find when I open him up.’

  ‘Thanks. I think the best thing I can do is talk to the local rag. Someone must know who this bloke is and that he’s gone missing. Dead bodies don’t turn up buried on the sands without someone knowing where they came from. Can I send in an artist to give us some sort of likeness? That would help.’

  ‘Feel free when I’ve finished and tidied him up,’ Stephenson said. ‘His face isn’t too badly damaged if you hide the bullet wound.’ And with that Baker had to be satisfied. He glanced at his watch. ‘We won’t get anything into the paper until tomorrow morning now, anyway. They were bloody slow getting him out.’

  ‘Time and tide,’ Stephenson said heavily, picking up a scalpel. ‘Especially out there on the sands.’

  When Harry Barnard and Kate got back to the flat after a rare visit to the cinema, to catch up with the new Bond film, the phone was ringing.

  ‘Damn and blast!’ Barnard muttered, flinging his coat carelessly on a chair and letting his hand hover over the receiver. ‘If it’s Ray Robertson again, I’m in trouble. Jackson told me he wanted to tap the phone, and I’ve no doubt he will already have arranged it.’ Kate pulled him away and picked up the receiver herself.

  ‘Hello?’ she said. ‘Who’s that?’ But to the surprise of both of them no one responded, and after a couple of seconds the line went dead.

  ‘Wrong number? Or someone who doesn’t want to talk to me?’

  ‘Or someone canny enough to know the sound of a wiretap kicking in,’ Barnard said. ‘I get the distinct feeling that I’m being set up, but whether it’s by the Yard and Jackson or Ray, or someone else entirely, I haven’t a clue.’

  Kate pulled him on to the sofa and took his hand.

  ‘Don’t get paranoid,’ she said. ‘I don’t think this is anything to do with you personally. It’s about Ray Robertson and his crazy brother. They’re just hoping you’ll lead them to him. But as you don’t have a clue where he is that’s not going to happen, is it? So relax.’

  Barnard shrugged and got up to pour them both a drink but before the Scotch had even hit the glass the doorbell sounded, making them both jump. Barnard topped up his drink and took a gulp.

  ‘Who the hell is that?’ he said. Kate’s stomach tightened as she wondered whether Ray Robertson had decided to turn up in person, but as she listened to Barnard opening the door she realized that the husky voice was unmistakeably female. ‘You again!’ she heard him say.

  He came back into the room closely followed by a tall buxom woman in a fur coat and high heels, heavily made up and with her red hair in a fashionably short style. She looked slightly startled when she saw Kate.

  ‘I didn’t realize you had company, darling,’ she said to Barnard.

  ‘This is my girlfriend, Kate,’ Barnard said with a very thin smile. ‘Kate, this is Loretta, Ray Robertson’s ex-wife.’ Kate nodded, uncertain how to react.

  ‘How did you get this address?’ Barnard asked Loretta, obviously furious at her unexpected arrival. ‘Have you tracked Ray down? Did he tell you where I live?’

  ‘No, I haven’t tracked him down,’ Loretta said. ‘I wondered if you had.’

  ‘If I had, he’d be at the nick by now,’ he said. ‘The top brass aren’t going to give up on this, so if you do find Ray you can tell him that from me. He can run but he can’t hide for ever. Why do you want to see him so urgently, anyway? It’s years since you split up. You haven’t given me a clue what this is all about.’

  ‘Well, you can whistle for that sort of information, Harry. But I can tell you that Ray’ll be furious if he finds out what I know and he’s not been told in time. Let’s just say there’s a pot of gold for him at the end of the rainbow and I know where it’s hidden. Anyway, I won’t keep you from your bed. I’m sure you’re having lots of fun there. You always did.’ And she spun on her heel and left as quickly as she had entered. Within seconds they heard a car accelerate away, and by the time Barnard had pulled back the curtains and looked out of the window all that could be seen was a cloud of exhaust fumes hanging over the small car park at the front of the flats.

  ‘That woman is a pain in the neck,’ Barnard said angrily. ‘I wonder where she got my address from? It must be someone at the nick. I’m not in the phone book for obvious reasons.’

  ‘She’s something else,’ Kate said thoughtfully. ‘But I did wonder why she’s wearing that red wig. She’s a bit long in the tooth to be trying to look like Cilla Black.’

  DCI Jack Baker extricated himself wearily from the patrol car that had given him a lift to the fairground. He scanned its windswept and almost deserted depths and pulled his coat collar up more tightly around his neck. The sharp wind and flecks of rain didn’t offer much hope of trade for the stalls and rides, some of which were making preparations to open their shutters and ticket offices. Like most of the locals, he regarded the showmen and their families with more suspicion than respect. And the feeling, he knew, was mutual.

  ‘Come on, lad,’ he said to the young plain-clothes officer who accompanied him, carrying a handful of papers in a folder that inadequately protected the contents from the rain. They skirted around the amusements and headed for the caravans parked in the lee of the sea wall and the pier. His lumbering approach was being watched, he knew, and he was not surprised when the tall figure of Jasper Dowd appeared at the door of one of the larger and more ornate vans and headed in his direction.

  ‘Jasper,’ Baker said, holding out a conciliatory hand to the man who towered over him. ‘We need some help.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Dowd said. ‘That makes a change from the way you usually come here mob-handed. You’d better come in. I’ll get my lass to make some tea.’ He made his way back to the caravan he had come from and led them up the steps into a spotlessly clean space where it was obvious that everything had its place and was firmly in it. A pale young woman who had been washing cups at the sink turned round towards her father.

  ‘Tea,’ he said and within seconds the kettle was on and beginning to whistle. Dowd waved the two policemen on to a bench seat in front of a table and reached for a bottle of whisky from a shelf above the cooker.

  ‘You’ll join me, gents?’ he asked when the three cups were poured and the girl who had made them had put her coat on and left. Baker opened his mouth to object but it was too late. Dowd had topped the cups up with the spirit regardless.

  ‘So how can I help you?’ he asked, leaning back in his seat and appearing completely relaxed. Baker took the file from his DC and opened it.

  ‘A man was found dead on Maplin Sands yesterday,’ he said. ‘He was buried so deep in the mud he’d not have been found in normal circumstances, but it was a neap tide and it uncovered his boot. We don’t know who he is, but we’ve got an accurate sketch of his face.’ He pushed a copy of the sketch towards Dowd and drummed his fingers on it.

  ‘Anyone you know?’ he asked. Dowd picked up the sheet of paper and took a swig of his well-laced tea.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘That’s Bert Flanagan, who runs the dodgems. Not much doubt about that, Inspector. We wondered where he’d got to. We thought he was working away.’

  Irritated by Dowd’s casual manner, Baker scowled.

  ‘The father of the lad who’s missing?’ Baker snapped.

  ‘Yes, we thought he must have picked Luke up from school and taken him off somewhere. The parents have not been getting on too well lately. Bert’s wife is my niece, Connie.’

  ‘So how long exactly has Bert been away?’ he asked.

  Dowd shrugged and looked vague. ‘A few weeks, I reckon,’ he said. ‘It’s not unusual at this time of the year. You can’t make a living just opening at the weekends. Some of the men go off to wor
k somewhere else.’

  ‘And they don’t keep in touch?’

  ‘No reason to,’ Dowd said. ‘When the season starts, they generally come back.’

  ‘So tell me about the family.’

  Dowd hesitated for no more than a split second, but it was enough for Baker to make connections he knew he should have made as soon as he had learned the dead man’s name. He’d not been nearly quick enough there, he realized – and he wondered, not for the first time, if half a bottle of Scotch a night was slowing him down.

  ‘So a young boy’s gone missing,’ he said. ‘You didn’t rush to tell us and, anyway, everyone said maybe he’s gone to his dad. So now his dad’s been hauled out of the sinking sands, what do you reckon? Should we be looking for Luke out there as well in that bloody bog?’

  Dowd stiffened and pushed his hat even further to the back of his head while the ensuing silence lengthened. ‘I don’t know,’ he said at last. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘If someone wanted to get rid of Bert, is there any reason you know of why they might kill the lad as well?’

  ‘I don’t know who might want to get rid of Bert,’ Dowd said angrily, ‘so how would I know if Luke was in danger? Why would anyone want to hurt an eleven-year-old boy?’ Baker did not respond to that and changed tack.

  ‘Is his mother here?’ he snapped.

  ‘Connie? No, she did a flit the other night with the other two kids.’ Baker froze.

  ‘What do you mean, did a flit? Don’t you know where she’s gone?’

  ‘She didn’t say,’ Dowd said angrily. ‘I’m her bloody uncle, aren’t I? I was supposed to keep an eye on her while all this was going on. They were staying in my van and I was sleeping in another. When I got up yesterday morning they weren’t there. She’s always been a law unto herself, has Connie.’

  ‘So it was not last night? It was the night before when she did a flit?’

  ‘Yeah, the night before,’ Dowd muttered reluctantly.

  ‘Did she not leave a message, or give any indication where she’d gone?’ Baker’s patience was at breaking point by now. ‘She couldn’t have gone far without some help, with two kids in tow.’