Blackwater (DI Nick Lowry)

by James, Henry

  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.’

  Sunday, 2 January, 1983

  -18-

  9.15 a.m., Sunday, Great Tey

  Jacqui drifted across to the French doors, which opened on to the back garden and a small patio, and placed her trembling, hospital-scoured fingers against the glass. She was trying to put last night’s events into order in her head but she couldn’t seem to do it; jumbled images of dancing and fighting cascaded through her frazzled brain. She knew she’d taken something, and that she hadn’t been to sleep, but she couldn’t account for where she’d been at certain points of the night. She felt acutely removed from reality. One minute she was fine; the next, a cold paranoia crept over her. The crisp sunlight stung her eyes as she tried to focus on the curious scene in the garden – her husband hunched over a seldom-used Black and Decker Workmate and staring in concentration at a strip of wood. The lawn was a sea of sawdust.

  She turned to her son. ‘What’s Dad doing?’

  ‘Making a bird table.’ Matthew’s eyes didn’t lift from his Atari game.

  ‘A what?’ she croaked, shielding her eyes from the morning light. Nick’s breath was visible as he muttered, or cursed, to himself. Must be freezing out there, she thought.

  ‘Or a bird feeder or something. I dunno – here.’ Matthew patted around the sofa until he found a book, which he tossed on to the carpet. Catching her bare feet on fallen pine needles from the sorry-looking Christmas tree, Jacqui crossed the room to pick up the book with birds on the cover. She flicked through the pages, not sure what to make of it.

  What on earth is going on in your head, honey? she thought, almost affectionately, and started to laugh.

  Just then a volley of shrill curses came from the garden as Lowry kicked over the Workmate and launched a piece of timber to the far end of the garden. Even Matthew looked up in astonishment. ‘Why did he do that?’ he asked. But before Jacqui could formulate an answer, the doorbell rang.

  Lowry sucked on his injured thumb. Shit, that hurt! Just when he’d thought his fingers were too numb with cold to feel anything, too. He smiled at his son, who was staring at him dolefully from inside the patio doors. Jacqui was there, too, looking pale as a phantom and with a look of amusement on her face which irritated him.

  He patted his jeans for a cigarette, then remembered yet again that he’d given up. Shit. Jacqui was gesturing languidly at him. He could barely bring himself to speak to her – worry had distilled into anger over a sleepless night. Why, after the ordeal she’d been through, she had decided to stay around at Trish’s till the small hours, God only knew. He felt as if he’d not slept a wink for worry, and when eventually he’d heard a taxi purr outside, he’d been instantly paralysed by inertia. After she’d stumbled up the stairs and into the bedroom, he’d hugged the eiderdown, unable to speak to her, and feigned sleep.

  Now, he examined his thumb in the cold, squeezing it to see if the blood would ooze out from under the nail. These hands were only any good for punching, he ruminated, flipping the lid shut on his tool box. Anything requiring a modicum of skill or delicacy and he fell at the first hurdle. Fuck it. A robin chattered gaily from the garden fence a few feet off. ‘You can fuck off, too!’

  ‘Is that the way one communicates with nature, guv?’

  ‘If “one” has nearly lost a thumb for his trouble, then, yes.’ Lowry regarded the impeccably dressed Kenton, in his newer sports jacket, a white shirt and tie. Overall, an impressive display for a Sunday, if it weren’t for the black eye. ‘But you, perhaps, should focus your efforts on learning to work effectively with island communities before troubling yourself with the wildlife.’

  Kenton reached his hand up self-consciously to his eye. ‘I could’ve drowned, you know.’

  ‘But you didn’t.’ Lowry opened the French doors and slipped his shoes off before entering the house. ‘The Dodger has had complaints about intruders creeping around the houseboats yesterday evening, and one of his men pulled you out of the mud.’

  ‘Can’t remember much more than the incoming tide.’ Kenton followed Lowry into the kitchen. ‘I was soaked.’


  ‘What were you doing down there?’ Lowry rinsed his hands under the tap. Sparks had called him at the crack of dawn to lambast him about Kenton: ‘The last thing I need right now, Lowry, is that old codger laughing at me down the blower because he’s had to rescue a CID man from the mud – know what I mean?’

  ‘A fisherman told me that the witnesses from the post-office job might—’

  ‘Fisherman? What are you doing fraternizing with fishermen? And if you go further afield to interview witnesses, do it in daylight – don’t creep around in the pitch black. No wonder somebody took a swing at you.’

  ‘Hello, boys.’ Jacqui sauntered in, dressed in a kimono. She smiled at Kenton and gave Lowry a peck on the cheek. He softened; his anger was already waning. She was all right, and that was all that mattered.

  ‘Morning, Mrs Lowry,’ said Kenton rather formally.

  What a well-brought-up boy, thought Lowry.

  His wife made to push down the plunger on a cafetière. ‘Coffee, anyone?’ She seemed jittery and twitchy and it looked like coffee was the last thing she needed. Why she insisted on getting so loaded after finishing a string of nightshifts was beyond him. it might release stress, but she wasn’t twenty-five any more and her recovery speed wasn’t what it used to be.

  What was more, Lowry could see that his young colleague looked uncomfortable that Jacqui wasn’t fully dressed. Her kimono was starting to ride up her thigh.

  ‘I’ll do the coffee – you get dressed,’ he answered with a sigh.

  *

  Lowry’s wife waved from the doorstep, still wearing her kimono.

  ‘Dunno what’s got into her,’ Lowry mumbled, sinking down into the Spitfire’s bucket seat.

  Kenton didn’t comment. The boss had never discussed his relationship with his wife, for which he was glad. The vision of Jacqui Lowry in her slinky robe was imprinted on his mind. He’d met her a few times, and had always found her attractive, but today took the biscuit – she’d looked like a slightly dishevelled 1950s movie star, and he’d found himself tongue-tied. The word at Queen Street was that Lowry was old before his time and that his younger wife was maybe too much for him. Kenton had never stooped to join in the gossip and had thought the suggestions unfair, but he had to admit it was disconcerting to find Lowry, a man not yet forty, building bird boxes on a Sunday morning while his sexy wife slid around the house in a nightdress. He reversed the Triumph through a cloud of exhaust, its engine roaring.

  ‘Sorry.’ Kenton winced.

  Lowry said nothing. Smoothing his Brylcreemed hair, he reached for the hip flask Kenton kept in the glove compartment, and snuggled down into the seat as Kenton floored the Spitfire on to the main road.

  -19-

  10.50 a.m., Sunday, Colchester

  Sparks hated waiting. He stood outside the worn, white, timber-framed chapel on Military Road, convinced that Brigadier Lane was doing this to annoy him. He strode the grass impatiently until he remembered he was in the cemetery, and that his irritable trudging may not be appropriate.

  Voices from within the chapel rose in a close harmony; the service was taking place for the dead private. He lit a cigarette. He glanced at the clock, high on the wall: nearly eleven o’clock. The chapel was a strange building, a huge barn of a place better suited to Dorothy’s Kansas than to housing hundreds of servicemen in prayer. Lane could have invited him to the service as a sign of solidarity instead of having him loiter around outside like some ne’er-do-well. He was the bloody police chief superintendent, after all, goddamnit. Feeling distinctly bad-tempered, he was on the brink of getting into the car and leaving when there was movement in the barracks chapel and a long line of men in green uniforms started to file out.

  Sparks himself was in civvies and sporting a tan leather blouson. He’d avoided wearing uniform so as not to draw attention to himself, but it proved pretty pointless, given that they all seemed to recognize him and glared as they walked past. Now he felt naked.

  ‘Ahh, there you are, Sparks.’ Lane and his adjutant, a brawny, red-haired officer, marched across.

  ‘Morning, Lane.’

  ‘And what a fine one it is. Let’s take a stroll. That’ll be all, thank you, Major,’ he said to his adjutant. The other man saluted and fed into the stream of uniformed bodies on the quadrangle. Lane forged ahead, striding past what Sparks knew to be the gymnasium, the venue for tonight’s sparring. As Sparks caught up with him, he turned. ‘Now, what do you think could have sparked this tiff?’

  ‘Tiff? A shade more than a tiff, Brigadier, if you don’t mind,’ Sparks said stiffly. ‘What sparked it off was your man taking exception to a couple of local lads in the pub.’

  ‘Hmm, yes; Quinn. I know,’ Lane mused, his hands clasped behind his back.

  ‘He’s from the same battalion as the other two – the Paras – bit on the big side for the parachute regiment, but, yes, we know he’s one of them. So, given the obvious conclusions, I am here to insist we have no more of this retaliation nonsense.’

  ‘Is that what you think this is?’ Lane stopped in the middle of the quadrangle.

  ‘Well, don’t you?’ Sparks said, vexed.

  The military man’s brow creased. It occurred to Sparks that, despite Lane’s concern on New Year’s Eve, he hadn’t perhaps considered the matter with any seriousness.

  The chief leaned forward and said in a hushed tone, ‘I mean, come on, really. We can’t have people beating the crap out of each other in the town centre, can we? Your mob follow bloody orders, don’t they?’

  Lane looked at him slyly, stroking his beard.

  ‘Well, don’t they?’ persisted Sparks. ‘I mean, the big worry is –’ he inclined his head conspiratorially – ‘that our recreational activities might come under the spotlight.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Our boxing bouts are reported in the Gazette. Suppose some smart arse decides the two are connected: “Sparring Paras not getting enough institutionalized violence in the barracks – resorting to the high street”, and calls to ban the Services cup – that sort of thing. Think about it – the implications for the social side if we don’t restore harmony to the streets.’

  The other man considered his words. The boxing tournaments were of equal importance to both men.

  ‘Now, look here, Sparks, it takes two to tango. Seen the state of Quinn? Yes, of course you have – Oldham collected him from you. A bit of respect for the military might not go amiss. I don’t know how he ended up in that state, and I—’

  ‘And nothing.’ Sparks was beginning to lose his cool. ‘Put it this way: if a Red Cap so much as spits on the pavement in future, all of this will stop.’ He waved his arm, encompassing the whole barracks, when of course he only meant the gym. His raised voice had gathered an audience.

  ‘Do I have your assurance that you’ll catch those responsible for chasing my men across the park, resulting in an officer’s death?’ Lane responded stiffly.

  Sparks tugged his blouson’s imaginary lapels. ‘I’m glad you brought that up.’

  ‘Oh, how so? Progress?’ Lane adjusted his cap and jutted his bearded chin forward, signalling approval.

  ‘The other kid – the one who jumped off the wall – was lying. And when we went to interview him again, we discover he’s been discharged from the civilian hospital.’ Sparks watched the Beard for a reaction. ‘I assume you have him squirrelled away back there.’ He jutted his thumb behind him. ‘The military hospital, Abbey Field.’

  ‘That’s shut, Chief Sparks. Now, wait a damn minute—’

  ‘Only to civilians.’ The frightful old place had officially closed a few years back. There were all sorts of stories – hauntings, the ghosts of nurses floating across the wards, poisonings – but, in Sparks’s view, these had all been invented to keep civvies away. ‘If you want this resolved, give me the kid back – he’s the only one who saw who attacked them, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘I am not aware of Jones’s current situation, but I’ll look into it.
’

  Sparks looked at him doubtfully. ‘Scout’s honour?’

  ‘I give you my word.’

  11 a.m., West Mersea

  Kenton heard Lowry groaning as he got out of the car. His ears were bright pink. He was going to complain about the cold, Kenton knew it.

  ‘You know what they say at the station, Daniel, don’t you?’ said Lowry.

  ‘About what, guv?’

  Lowry pulled out a comb and swept his hair back into place. ‘They,’ he said with emphasis, meaning the station, not himself: ‘They say you won’t fix the roof on purpose because you feel you need to prove yourself as a man. Because you’re embarrassed about the car.’

  ‘Why’s that, sir?’ he replied, but he knew what was coming.

  ‘An orange car with a 1300cc engine is, well – how can I put this delicately?’

  ‘Not a man’s car? Suitable only for hairdressers and ladies of leisure?’

  ‘You’ve heard, then.’

  ‘Well, they can say what they like. I think the car’s great. It’s a Triumph, and that’s the engine it was built with. And I’m not trying to prove anything to anyone.’ Kenton tried to sound defiant.

  ‘And you’re equally untroubled that everyone knows it was a present from Mummy and Daddy?’

  That was different – he hadn’t known that was general knowledge. How had that got out? Lowry knew, but he’d not say, surely. Kenton had mentioned it to WPC Gabriel – she had asked him how he’d managed to afford it, and he, forgetting what’d he’d said to the other lads and eager to prove himself not well off, had said it was a gift, not realizing then that it probably sounded worse. The car had been a twenty-first-birthday present four years ago. At the time, he’d been over the moon. Driving a sports convertible was cool, especially at university, where it was a huge help when it came to girls. But now he was in the police force – more than that, the CID – and life was a whole different ballgame. Working roof or not, cruising around in an orange car given to him by wealthy parents was doing nothing for his image. The car would have to go.