Blackwater (DI Nick Lowry)

by James, Henry

  Lowry frowned. ‘Wha—?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it. Explains all that shit about giving up smoking, too.’

  ‘I hardly think . . . Anyway, never mind all that. The headless corpse on the Strood – I think it could be a German.’

  Sparks’s expression relaxed. ‘The Hun, eh?’

  Lowry cringed at the term. It was something Sparks’s adversary Brigadier ‘the Beard’ Lane might say. Not that Sparks would ever accept he’d been influenced.

  ‘So what makes you think that?’

  ‘German coins in his jeans.’

  ‘Aren’t we jumping to conclusions somewhat?’ Sparks replied. ‘Maybe he’d just come back from holiday.’

  ‘Maybe, but some of the clothing has what look to be foreign labels. One, I’m pretty sure, is made in Germany.’ He paused, then added, ‘So, do we notify Interpol before we make a statement? Sergeant Barnes has checked up and down the coast, and no accidents have been reported . . .’

  Sparks pondered. ‘Call Special Branch first. See if you can squeeze any missing-persons info from those slippery bastards. It would be a first, but go through the motions. And the soldier?’

  Lowry hesitated before speaking. ‘The kid’s lying. He knows who chased them.’

  Sparks frowned. ‘Of course he does.’ He stood up and turned to the window. ‘This is a delicate case: I need it wrapped up pronto and slipped past the press. Otherwise, the Beard will cause merry hell.’

  ‘You may want to ask him why he moved the surviving boy so swiftly.’

  Sparks turned. ‘Ah. Didn’t I tell you he would do that? That’s why I told you to get over there last night. Fuck it, I don’t care. If he’s moved him, he can hardly expect us to find out who’s responsible. Pompous git.’

  The two men looked at one another.

  ‘Okay, get on to the Red Caps. They’ll know where the little shit’s been moved to.’

  ‘Will do. The boy gave the name of witnesses, though: two girls. I’ve given it to WPC Gabriel – who found them – to check out.’

  ‘Good. Keep me posted.’

  Lowry made as if to go, but the chief held up his hand to detain him. ‘Listen, Lowry. Go on holiday, or have an affair – I don’t care which – anything to get your mojo back. Frankly, I don’t give a toss what you do, but I want you back in the ring.’

  2 p.m., Great Tey

  Jacqui woke in the early afternoon. Usually at the end of a row of nights, she would follow a set routine: a couple of hours’ catnap, get up at noon, mooch around a bit, take it easy and try to slip into conventional hours. But today was Saturday and she was off now until Monday, so, like ordinary people with a whole weekend to relax, she’d allowed herself to sleep in. And what was more, tonight – Saturday night, New Year’s Day – she was going out.

  Slipping out from under the eiderdown, she slunk lazily downstairs to make a coffee. She glanced at the kitchen clock: ten past two. At four o’clock her mother would appear with her son, and at half six Nick would be back to take over, so she could be ready in good time for her night on the town. Propped against the kettle was a note from Nick: Will call at 4. x

  She knew there were plenty of things she should be doing, but if nobody was going to trouble her until four, then, what the hell, she’d sneak in another hour or so in bed. Tonight was going to be a big one, so she might as well get all the rest she could. She yawned, took the kettle off the hob and went back upstairs to bed with a smile.

  -10-

  3.30 p.m., Saturday, Beaumont Terrace, Greenstead Estate

  Boyd was totally wired. He’d never felt more alive. Drugs – the magic, the sheer fucking magic of drugs. He sat, now with Stone’s headphones on, at the badly marked kitchen table dusted with white powder. The Walkman was blasting out some jazz shit – correction: jazz funk, as Stone kept repeating – Level 47 or something. If he heard the twat dribble the word ‘fusion’ in his face one more time, he’d garrotte him with the headphone cable. It was shite, even on drugs. He pressed the fast-forward button and got up from the table.

  He looked at the other two, who were burbling inanely at each other over a card game. A half-bottle of Johnny Walker now stood empty between them. Boyd felt suddenly restless. Philpott had long since disappeared; why or where, Boyd couldn’t recall. Jesus, being cooped up like this was doing his head in. He stared through the grimy window at the bright day outside. He was thirsty as hell. Time had skipped on, and he couldn’t believe they were stuck there until Freddie returned with their readies, as this bloke Philpott reckoned he would. Philpott. Where the hell was he?

  Heaven 17 burst on to the Walkman and Boyd found himself frantically drumming his fingers on the stainless-steel draining board. ‘(We Don’t Need This) Fascist Groove Thang’ – yeah, this was better, much better! The industrial pounding resonated through his skull, and the song’s strange lyrics whizzed around his head, repeating over and over and over again until it became too much. Fucking twelve-inch remixes! He tore off the headphones. ‘I’m going out to get a drink,’ he announced.

  But first another line. He picked up the combat knife from the worktop and carved a slice of whizz from the mound on the table. It felt like more than speed – it had a strangely potent kick to it. It must be quality stuff, and no doubt whoever it belonged to would take a very dim view of them helping themselves. But it was such a small amount surely no one would notice. How much had they done – a couple of quid’s worth each? He spliced a finger’s length and hoovered the lot with a rolled pound note.

  A1! Top dog! He felt magnificent. Felix and Stone were still blathering at one another, paying him no attention. That was it – he couldn’t resist it. He was taking the shit with him. He carved off a sizable wrap into the curled note, folding it as quickly as he could, but it seemed to take forever. But the pair were still oblivious, and he smiled as he tucked the drugs into his jeans and slowly made his way towards the back door, a warm surge rushing through him and making him feel unsteady. He stopped on the threshold, suddenly uncertain. He didn’t know the local terrain. Perhaps it was best if they stuck together. A bolt of paranoia hit him with the cold January air.

  ‘Oi, you two,’ he said. ‘Fancy a drink?’

  4.02 p.m., Queen Street HQ

  Lowry placed the receiver back in its cradle. It was just gone four o’clock and already dark outside. At his back he felt the damp creeping in; a single-pane window was the only thing between him and the freezing afternoon.

  He glanced at the young DC opposite, head down, his attention once more on paperwork. Lowry’s mind turned over the phone conversation he’d just had with his wife. Did he care that their plan to spend New Year’s Day night together had been shelved? He hated forced jollity, but he loved his wife and wanted to spend time with her. He kicked himself – he should make more of an effort. It wasn’t the same as New Year’s Eve, granted, but it would have been a nice start to the year. He remembered the last time they saw in the New Year together, at the end of the last decade. They’d argued: he’d wanted to stay in but she’d insisted on going to a party. He gave in, to keep her happy, and had hated every minute: the crowded room, the squealing doctors and nurses, the sheer noise. They had left at one, not speaking. No wonder she had arranged to go out with her pals tonight. Jacqui claimed she’d told him already that she had made plans, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember. That wouldn’t be unusual, by any means. As for all the shit Sparks had lectured him on, about a mid-life crisis – God! Advice from a man embarking on his third marriage to a woman half his age – if that wasn’t a mid-life crisis he didn’t know what was. Not trading in boxing gloves for binoculars, in his book . . .

  ‘Blimey, now there’s a look of consternation!’ The jovial Sergeant Barnes had appeared in the office doorway and recoiled in mock horror. Lowry noticed that his hand was still on the receiver; he pulled it away and refocused on Barnes and Kenton, who hadn’t stirred from his report.

  ‘Ready when you are,’ said Barnes
.

  ‘For what?’ asked Lowry.

  ‘The chief wants to run through the press briefing.’

  Damn, he’d forgotten to check in with Special Branch. ‘Give me five minutes with this fella.’ He nodded towards Kenton.

  ‘Right you are, inspector,’ Barnes said, then jogged Kenton’s shoulder. ‘Thawed out yet, sonny?’

  Kenton spun round. ‘It may have helped if you’d let me do something instead of leaving me to stand there like a pillock.’

  ‘Didn’t want your nice clothes getting muddy, did we?’ Barnes chuckled, shaking the detective’s shoulder playfully before taking his leave.

  Kenton rolled his eyes. ‘As if.’

  ‘Quite,’ Lowry said, flicking through his Rolodex for the Special Branch number. ‘It’s not as though that sports jacket’s long for this world.’

  ‘That’s not what I . . . What do you mean?’

  ‘Graeme Garden would be at home in that, what with the elbow patches.’

  Kenton frowned.

  ‘Lighten up. He likes you! Be thankful for it.’ He dialled the number and held his hand up to silence the objecting Kenton as it rang. Lowry knew his young detective had had a difficult early morning, but he needed him not to take it too seriously. It was important to get on with the likes of Barnes, who’d been in uniform for over twenty years.

  The number continued to ring. Eventually, it went through to the Scotland Yard switchboard. He was put on hold.

  ‘All right, instead of scowling at me,’ Lowry said finally, ‘get on down to Mersea and tie up the post-office job from last week. Nail the witness statements. I’m going to be tied up here for the next couple of hours.’ Lowry thought Kenton would like that, to be trusted to go out on his own. But if he found the likes of Barnes condescending, he was in for a shock down on the island; they kept to themselves and had no time for outsiders. Still, he had to learn. The only way to know a place was to know its people.

  4.05 p.m., Great Tey

  Had there been an edge to his voice? Jacqui stared at the phone as if the plastic itself were harbouring a grudge. The doorbell – it had been ringing but she’d not heard it. Matthew, she thought. Her parents had brought back her son. Of course, she was still half asleep. Sex on shift work was clearly taking its toll. She shrugged off the covers and slipped on her dressing gown. The heating was off, and the cold January afternoon had infiltrated the house.

  She went downstairs and opened the front door to see her ten-year-old son, grudgingly wearing a Christmas scarf, looking tired and sulky. Behind him were her parents, who, as usual, looked like they were dressed from another time, her mother in a fur hat and her father in a homburg.

  ‘Happy New Year!’ She forced a smile. ‘Mum, you’ve not let him stay up too late, have you? He looks exhausted!’ She kissed her mother on the cheek as the three of them shuffled into the house. ‘Brrr! Quick, in, out of the cold! I’m just going up to get my slippers.’ Jacqui sighed and pushed the door shut, then hurried upstairs. The parquet flooring was freezing. Returning downstairs, she discovered the three of them lingering in the cheap modern kitchen, unsure what to do with themselves. This sort of behaviour annoyed Jacqui. Her parents were here at least twice a week; they might flick the kettle on. She was surprised to see Matthew hanging around, though – usually, he scarpered up to his room, nose in a comic or fingers sticky with Airfix glue. Jacqui rustled the lad’s chestnut hair and smiled wanly at her son as she filled the kettle herself.

  ‘Sit down, Dad,’ she said.

  Her father was old before his time; he’d never really been right since the stroke. She took down cups and saucers from the cupboard.

  ‘Let me do that,’ her mother interjected. ‘You pop some clothes on.’

  ‘It’s fine, Mum. I’ve started now. How was last night?’ The question was directed at her son, who was slouching against the kitchen units. Christmas holidays this year had been a trial; with both her and Nick working, Matt had been sent from pillar to post. It can’t have been that much fun. The boy had the sulky demeanour of a teenager already. But he was still very slight; he had has mother’s delicate features and, as yet, no sign of his father’s build.

  ‘It was fun, that Rod Hull does make me laugh. Awful journey back though. Your father could hardly see in that fog.’

  Jacqui thought Matt had outgrown the likes of Rod Hull and Emu, but her mother had insisted. Next year they must try harder; maybe there was a friend he could stay with.

  ‘. . . won’t stay long, Brief Encounter is on later.’

  ‘Hmm, really? That’s not much fun,’ said Jacqui absently, and moved to hug Matthew and muss up his hair. It was almost down to his shoulders. A haircut was long overdue.

  ‘Eh?’ Her mother lifted the kettle off the hob. ‘It’s a classic. If I ever came across a doctor like Trevor Howard, your father better watch out.’

  ‘The chance’s of that are . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

  At the back of her son’s neck, Jacqui noticed a large yellow blemish, and rubbed it with her thumb, causing the boy to pull away from her. Instinctively, she clung all the more, and a tussle ensued until he bolted from the kitchen.

  ‘He’s had a whale of a time,’ her mother said, frowning.

  Jacqui didn’t believe this for one minute, but she had to balance any maternal guilt with her work at the hospital and the patients’ needs. Christmas was, and always had been, a difficult time for the Lowrys, a time when their dysfunctionality shone through. She sighed. What child would choose a nurse for a mother and a policeman for a father?

  -11-

  4.25 p.m., Saturday, East Road, Mersea Island

  Kenton pulled up outside West Mersea police station. The ancient-looking police lamp above the entrance to the 1950s building glowed grubbily in the cold, damp air. He’d just come from Seaview Avenue, the address he’d been given for the witness to the post-office robbery, but had found no one home. The station was open though, and the rattly door knob yielded to the twist of his wrist. Stepping over the threshold into the tiny reception room, he had the sense of walking in on a private conversation. Behind a reception hatch, an elderly, red-faced man in uniform paused mid-sentence, while, on the visitors’ bench, a whiskery old man in a fisherman’s jersey sat smoking a pipe. Both stared at him.

  ‘Afternoon,’ Kenton said tentatively. The man on the bench shifted position, but Kenton declined the unspoken offer to sit down. Beside the bench was a gas fire with half of its elements out, which explained why the room felt barely heated. ‘Sergeant Bradley, I wonder if I might ask you a few questions.’ Kenton had never met the Mersea chief sergeant before and felt obliged to address him formally rather than use his affectionate nickname, ‘Dodger’.

  ‘About the body on the Strood, will it be?’ replied Bradley, his huge forearms barely contained by the reception hatch.

  ‘No, it’s about the post-office robbery on the 27th.’

  ‘Oh?’ The burly sergeant raised a set of fearsome bushy eyebrows. ‘But that were resolved. Steve Taylor and his brother did it.’

  ‘He says he didn’t do it, and—’

  Bradley guffawed. ‘They all say they didn’t do it! You’ll get used it after a few years.’

  Kenton ignored the remark. ‘And the witness statements don’t match.’

  ‘Really?’ Bradley was unmoved. Kenton felt a blast of chill air as the door opened behind him.

  ‘Evening, all.’

  ‘Ah, Jennings. The detective here is querying your collar of the Taylor boys for the post-office job.’

  Jennings removed his helmet and regarded Kenton suspiciously before stepping towards the fire. He and the fisherman exchanged greetings. Kenton was conscious of being an outsider, but he was convinced that the locals’ complacency blunted their instincts, whereas his remained heightened. Seven hundred pounds was taken, bad enough for a provincial island community, but far worse was the violence accompanying the robbery, which left two bystanders in hospital.


  ‘Had those Taylor boys bang to rights, sarge. Money was hidden under the bedroom floorboards.’ The two officers and the fisherman laughed ruefully together at the robbers’ blunder. ‘Didn’t even take it out of the bags!’

  ‘See,’ Bradley affirmed. ‘Caught red-handed.’

  ‘Not really.’ Kenton shifted uncomfortably on his feet. The sergeant and the officer eyed the CID man, who cleared his throat and lit a cigarette. ‘Money, in post-office bags, was found on the premises at a flat on Buxton Road, that’s correct. But that is circumstantial—’

  ‘Why’d they leg it when we turned up if they weren’t guilty?’ Jennings jumped in. Bradley nodded approvingly at his junior.

  ‘I couldn’t tell you, not having been there myself,’ replied Kenton, reaching towards the tin ashtray balanced precariously on the gas fire.

  ‘So, detective.’ Bradley cleared his throat behind the reception desk. ‘What exactly is your point?’

  Kenton pulled out his notebook and thumbed to the page he wanted. He continued, ‘The witness statements of two pensioners said both attackers were about six foot in height. The third witness, a Mr Nugent of Seaview Avenue, directly indentifying the brothers in his statement, described them, and I quote, as “Little Steve Taylor and his runt of a brother”.’

  ‘Every Tom, Dick or Harry is six foot to an old biddy,’ Jennings said. ‘How could they be sure?’

  ‘How could Mr Nugent be sure, when both men were wearing masks?’ Kenton countered.

  ‘Stockings.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Kenton turned to the senior man behind the desk.

  ‘They were wearing ladies’ stockings.’ Bradley smirked, but said nothing more, adjusting his elbows on the hatch sill.

  ‘The point still stands,’ insisted Kenton.

  ‘But, detective,’ Bradley said flatly, ‘money was found in their home, which they couldn’t account for.’

  ‘Yes, I know that, but it doesn’t quite add up?’