Blackwater (DI Nick Lowry)

by James, Henry

  ‘What’s the situation?’

  ‘Not good. At first, a solider punches a civilian in the Lamb. The civvy is left out cold, slumped in the bogs, while the squaddie makes off to the Wagon and Horses.’ The Lamb was in the middle of the high street, one of the busiest places in town on a Saturday night, and the Wagon and Horses, a well known squaddie haunt, at the top of North Hill. ‘Next thing, a bunch of locals storm the Wagon and Horses looking for the chap, just as two Red Caps get there—’

  Lowry could picture the rest. ‘Okay. Better get a move on,’ he said.

  ‘Take care, inspector.’

  10.35 p.m., Colchester town centre

  As Lowry rounded the corner on to the high street, chanting greeted him long before he could see anything. He passed two uniforms shoving a couple of handcuffed teenagers along the street and quickened his pace. The noise grew louder and, gradually, he could make out a bunch of figures moving frenetically at the far end of the street. A bottle broke on the pavement in front of him as a gang of youths tore by, then they veered off down a side alley. The dark forms of uniformed police officers came into view. ‘Jesus!’ he exclaimed, catching sight of a retreating PC with a bloodied face.

  ‘Glass caught me, guv,’ explained the constable apologetically, blood pouring from a cut above his left eye.

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’

  ‘We had it contained until the Red Caps turned up. They started laying it on a bit thick, sir.’

  Another bottle smashed, closer this time, spraying Lowry’s feet. ‘Go get that cut seen to,’ he said, sidestepping the shattered glass.

  Just then, two black Commer vans with sirens blaring shot past, driving in the middle of the road, one with a mounted spotlight. Reinforcements from County. This was turning ugly.

  He was now in the thick of things, at the point where the high street met Head Street, near where the trouble had started. All around him, people were brawling. Others spilled out from pub doorways, yelling encouragement or insults. It was difficult to work out who was on what side in the fight but, given the spark that had set things off, this was clearly a reprisal for the Castle accident. In front of him three youths in denims had a Red Cap down on the ground and were booting him mercilessly. They were dragged off by two uniformed PCs. To his left, two men with crew cuts were shoved up against a parked car by a bunch of braying yobs. The arrival of the MPs on the scene had clearly exacerbated matters, and outside the Lamb was the biggest scene of trouble – a stand-off between Red Caps and police on one side and a gang of chanting youths on the other. It was poised to get nastier.

  *

  Jacqui’s heart was pumping nineteen to the dozen as she and her friends walked briskly up North Hill towards the high street, partly from exertion – going uphill in heels was an effort – and partly from embarrassment. The soldier in Tramps wine bar who had taken exception to her comments had turned the mockery on her, deriding her as ‘overdressed mutton’ and ‘out for it’ because she was wearing an above-the-knee skirt in close to freezing temperatures. The humiliation, combined with the chill air – her legs were already numb – had sobered her up with a jolt.

  ‘Are they following us?’ Trish asked anxiously.

  ‘Don’t mind if they are,’ said Kerry, a spiky edge to her voice. Jacqui shot her daggers and caught a deep-red-lipstick smirk in return.

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ Trish muttered. ‘One of them was pretty hacked off.’

  ‘I wonder why.’ Kerry sniffed.

  From behind them came a loud rallying cry and the sound of leather soles on the pavement. ‘Jesus Christ!’ Jacqui hissed under her breath.

  ‘Look!’ Kerry squealed, pointing ahead. ‘Party on!’

  At the junction of North Hill, Head Street and the high street there appeared to be people dancing in the road. With cheers of encouragement, the soldiers in slacks from the bar ran past to join the crowd.

  ‘Wait!’ said Jacqui. ‘That’s no party. That’s one massive punch-up.’ Loud chanting rose up from behind them. ‘And we’re smack in the middle of it.’

  Behind them, more people filled the road, as the pubs began to empty. The women had no escape. Jacqui clasped her hands to her ears to block out the shouting and to protect her head from the blows as she was knocked on one side then the other, after a moment loosing her footing and falling to the ground.

  ‘Not so cocky now, are you?’ a voice above her asked.

  Blinking rapidly, she looked up to see the soldier from Tramps. ‘Come on, get up,’ he said.

  Roughly, he pulled her to her feet and shoved her against a shop window. She could smell his boozy breath. Where were her friends? A hand clasped her breast and panic rose sharply in her throat.

  ‘Come on; in a skirt that short you must be gagging for it.’

  Jacqui struggled to try and free herself, but his grip was iron. ‘Get off me!’ she screamed, kicking him hard in the shin and losing her shoe in the process. Incensed, the soldier slapped her. She was stunned. All around her, people were fighting. No one noticed what was happening to her.

  ‘Come on; a quick one round the back – said you wanted a bit of rough.’

  Jacqui tilted her head up towards him. He was almost a foot taller than she was. She held his gaze for a moment, then, with a deft flick of her tongue, she spat in his face.

  ‘Slag!’ he spat.

  In an instant, Jacqui was winded and on the ground. Fighting for breath, she knew she was in trouble; biting her bottom lip, she braced herself for pain. She shrank on the pavement as he positioned to kick her. In her panic, everything switched to slow motion. And as it did, the enormous foot aimed at her face changed direction and missed, going high. Her attacker went over backwards and disappeared from view. A voice coming through a megaphone and a bright light flashing past the shop windows burst through her inertia. Another figure appeared, as if from nowhere, coming close, blocking the coloured light. She cowered and tried to scrabble away, across the pavement, but found herself up against another shop front.

  ‘See what happens when you hit the town?’ said a voice she knew, and a hand reached down to help her. The police spotlight gave an almost angelic tint to the man’s profile.

  Nick pulled Jacqui to standing. Regaining her poise, she straightened her skirt and pulled her hair back from her face.

  ‘You okay?’ He tried to look her in the eye.

  ‘I need a drink,’ she said sullenly, unable to meet his gaze.

  ‘I think not. You’re going home.’

  ‘Where’s Matthew?’

  ‘At the station – I’ll have someone there run you home.’ Her husband’s voice was soft, controlled amidst the chaos. She was aware of her friends standing behind her, not sure what to do.

  ‘I’m fine, Nick, really.’ She didn’t know whether she was fine or not – she was shaken, certainly, but wanted the situation over and to be away from here. Away from Nick, too. And, yes, she really did need a drink. Who could go home now, after all this? There were people thronging everywhere. The air was alive with sirens and shouts. Sod New Year’s – this was her night out. And that fella wouldn’t have done anything to her, right there in the street . . . would he, seriously? She adjusted her red leather jacket and flicked back her hair. She smiled weakly. ‘Really.’

  Nick clutched her tightly to him. ‘Go home,’ he said quietly. Even in this flashing, obscure light, in the midst of the chaos of the town, she could tell he meant it.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, barely above a whisper.

  -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 react
ion 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 t
he 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.