by James, Henry
The houseboat moorings had a totally different feel in daylight. Kenton observed that the hulls were elegantly decorated in pastel pinks and yellows, and that under the sharp January sun the area was almost worthy of a holiday brochure. He had difficulty relating this idyll to his experience of creeping around last night in the pitch black.
They mounted the wooden walkway. The moorings stretched along the hard and were well spaced out, each having its own domain within the tufted grass and gullies of saltmarsh.
‘This the one?’ Lowry, looking incongruous dressed in a donkey jacket and black Sta-Prest trousers and wearing wraparound shades, gestured towards a large cream hull reaching several feet over their head.
‘Yes . . . I think so.’ He could see its name, Ahab’s Revenge, running the length of the bow, so it must be, but everything looked so different from how it had last night. As they approached, a thick-set man with black curly hair under a woolly hat and a bristly chin resembling a sea urchin appeared by the hull.
‘Morning, sir. Would you be Ted Nugent?’
‘No, that’s me,’ said another man, who had popped up on the deck above them. He had bleached-blond hair and a tatty cardigan. ‘Who wants to know?’
‘Colchester CID.’
‘Aye, thought it might be. Weren’t me that clumped the young fella last night. I were asleep.’
‘We’re not here about that,’ Lowry said. ‘You were a witness to the post-office robbery last week?’
‘I were leaving there when it happened.’
‘You stated that it was the Taylor brothers?’
‘Err, yeah, it were them, I think.’
‘You think?’ Kenton interrupted. ‘Tell me, Mr Nugent, how certain are you?’
The blond man looked down at him quizzically from his lofty position on the boat.
‘As sure as I can be . . . in such circumstances. I said all I ’ad to say to the police up there.’
‘Tell me, sir. You know the Taylors?’
‘Aye.’
‘How tall would you say they were?’
He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. ‘I don’t rightly know.’
‘Roughly? Taller or shorter than yourself, say.’
‘Shorter, for sure.’ His companion nodded in agreement.
‘The other witnesses said the gunman was a big chap, like Detect—’ Kenton turned to indicate his boss, but Lowry was nowhere to be seen.
‘Your fella there, ’e’s round the stern with a pair of binoculars,’ said the dark-haired man. Christ, Kenton thought, this isn’t the time to go birdwatching. He walked furiously to the back of the boat.
‘Sir, it would be a great help if you could . . .’
Lowry turned his back to the marsh and flicked his shades down. ‘The light’s too sharp,’ he said, to no one in particular. ‘You know, a fellow the other side of the estuary might think he’s seen a totally different bird. Trick of the light.’
Kenton had no idea what he was talking about. He stepped aside as Lowry passed him on the walkway and addressed the men on the boat. ‘Tell me, Mr Nugent, why did you give your address as 192 Seaview when in fact you spend most of your time here?’
‘I’m not with you, sir.’
‘My colleague has had trouble getting in touch with you to corroborate your statement. I wonder why you’d leave details of an address that you wouldn’t be at.’
‘It’s no secret that I’m here. You found me right enough.’
‘Were you here last night?’
‘I was, for sure. Heard one fellow took a tumble.’
‘You must be aware it’s an offence to strike a police officer?’
‘Weren’t me, I tell ya. Can get all sorts round here at night. Anyway, he shouldn’t creep around like that in the dark, unannounced, like. Serves ’im right.’
Kenton made to move forward but felt his boss’s hand on his elbow. ‘Maybe. We can discuss it on the way to the station, perhaps, where you’ll review your witness statement of 27 December.’
‘No chance; I’m busy. Got to get this varnish on the boat while the weather’ll allow.’
Lowry paused for a second and looked across to the horizon. ‘Put it this way: you’re coming now, but you’ve a choice – either come as a witness or cuffed and under arrest.’
‘Under arrest? For what?’
‘For assaulting an officer.’
‘Yeah, right, I should coco – how? On what evidence?’
‘I saw you punch Detective Kenton, and I am here to make an arrest.’
‘It weren’t me, I tell ya!’
‘It was dark, I’ll grant you that, but who’ll know any different?’ Lowry made as if to go.
Nugent looked at Kenton, stunned. But it was as simple as that – a barefaced lie – and the man climbed down off the boat to join them on the wooden path.
Lowry walked slowly along the walkway, the boatman and Kenton following. Something was not right. Nugent’s witness statement definitely seemed dubious, but why would he make something up and risk getting himself in trouble?
They reached the road. ‘Oh, I forgot,’ Lowry said, ‘we don’t have a proper motor.’
They stared at the two-seater Spitfire. Kenton scratched the back of his head and looked away, embarrassed.
‘S’all right. I’ll walk,’ Nugent said.
‘What, ten miles to Colchester?’ Lowry said, surprised.
‘Colchester? Nobody said anything about Colchester.’ Nugent’s frown crumpled his weathered face. A small crucifix dangling from his right ear caught the light as he shook his head. ‘No way, mate. I thought you meant East Road nick.’
‘It’s shut on Sunday,’ said Lowry. ‘We’ll have to call a patrol car. Here, wait – where do you think you’re going?’ Nugent had started walking up the road. Kenton reached out and grabbed him firmly by the shoulder. The wiry man cringed under the DC’s grip.
‘I can’t go to Colchester.’
‘Why? What’s the problem? You’ll be back before the pubs open.’
‘It’s not that . . .’
‘Well, what? Spit it out.’
Nugent looked sheepishly around him, and then said quietly, ‘I got form, ain’t I.’
‘So your problem is what? You’re a reformed character, surely. As a witness . . .’
‘It’s one thing going to see Bradley and Jennings,’ he said quickly, ‘but I can’t be seen going down a nick the size of Colchester. I get seen, you know. People will think I’m a grass, won’t they?’
‘Hold on a sec. You testified that you’d seen the Taylor brothers do the job. How did you think that was going to pan out?’ Kenton asked.
Nugent looked blank. ‘It might’ve been them.’
‘“Might’ve been”?’
‘Maybe. Look, I don’t know.’
‘For somebody concerned about being seen as a grass, that’s quite a risk to take, especially when you’re not certain.’
‘Hmm . . .’ The man fidgeted, not knowing which way to turn.
‘You mentioned Bradley and Jennings. Did they put you up to this?’
‘The Taylor boys done something wrong is all I know. I ain’t no grass.’
Lowry could see that Nugent must have been put up to it. The local police were after the Taylors for whatever reason – some minor misdemeanour or other – and Nugent had obliged as a false witness. It was only Kenton’s diligence that had caught everybody out. ‘Are you on parole?’ he said after a moment.
Nugent nodded his head wearily, like a truant schoolboy.
‘So why did you step forward in the first place?’ Kenton asked, from two steps behind. ‘Seems bloody stupid, given your situation.’
Nugent squinted in the sun. ‘I didn’t intend to, like. The poxy post-office clerk recognized me, an’ said to the copper, “Them robbers came in just as Ted Nugent were leaving.”’ He looked dejected. ‘I think it were them. All happened so fast, didn’t it?’
‘Well, think how lucky you are now, to have time
to think things through. There’s a phone box outside the Victory,’ Lowry said. ‘The detective constable here will call us a lift, and you and I can have a shandy while we wait.’
3.30 p.m., Friday Woods, South Colchester
‘A bird table?’
‘Yes.’
Paul snorted and leaned across to nuzzle her ear. She didn’t like petting in the car in the daytime; there was something inherently adolescent about it, like kids with nowhere to go – which is pretty much what they were. She turned away and stared out of the window at the naked woodland, exposed in the glaring sunlight. Her mind was still on last night. She’d been stupid.
‘Come here.’ Paul yanked her towards him. And she hated to be manhandled like that. His tongue was already poking at her lips.
‘Jesus, no.’ She pulled back. ‘Let’s go.’
‘What? We’ve only just got here.’
‘I don’t like leaving Matthew alone for too long,’ she said, thinking of the bruising on her son’s neck.
‘Look, I wasn’t laughing at him – there’s nothing wrong with feeding birds,’ Paul said apologetically. The way he said ‘him’, as though her husband loomed like some great unseen calamity, rankled more than if he had been laughing at him.
‘I don’t care if you were. It’s Matthew I’m concerned about.’
‘Could he be doing it for some new-fangled management-training drive?’
She rolled down the window, lit a cigarette and, with a withering look, said, ‘Paul, Nick is a CID inspector, not some stiff from Lloyds. Sparks has them trying practically every outdoor sport available: when they’re not in the boxing ring, they’re rowing across the Blackwater or fishing off Clacton Pier – not building bloody bird tables!’
She felt nauseous.
‘Are you all right? You’ve gone pale.’
She blinked her eyes rapidly. What the fuck was that? She opened the car door and retched.
*
Half an hour later she was curled up on the sofa, clutching the washing-up bowl.
‘Mum? Mum! What’s the matter?’
Jacqui could hear her son as if through a tunnel, but she didn’t dare open her eyes. What on earth had she taken last night? She’d been fine this morning – well, not fine, but together enough to get up and see Nick’s temper tantrum in the garden. She started to laugh, which prompted her teeth to chatter uncontrollably. Then she had another flashback, of Paul lunging at her in the car, trying to stick his tongue down her throat. That had happened less than an hour ago. Then she’d been sick and insisted he take her home, saying she had pre-menstrual cramps. If only. She started to retch again.
‘Mum, are you okay?’
‘Fine, honey, just let me have a snooze. Just catching up on lost sleep.’ Flashbacks. Fuck. The first made sense – a nightclub. Last night crept back into her consciousness. She’d been dancing, dancing like crazy with some guys they’d picked up at the bar. She’d taken something in the loo. Coke? Jacqui could never remember feeling this dodgy after doing stuff (and she’d done a lot, from LSD to methadone – sometimes a mix). And the memory loss was a new one, too. Maybe she was just too bloody old to hack it these days. Anyway, whatever it was, she’d only had a couple of lines, but it had been enough to send her into orbit. God knows what had happened to those blokes she was with. They’d been high as kites when she met them.
-20-
7 p.m., Sunday, Butt Road, South Colchester, towards the cavalry barracks
‘Would you really have arrested him?’
Lowry and Kenton were walking quickly up the deserted road. Having dealt with Nugent, they had then been deluged with the huge volume of paperwork resulting from the Saturday-night arrests, which took up the remainder of the day. Before they knew it, it was gone half six, and they – or Kenton, at least – was required elsewhere.
‘Yes.’
Kenton was surprised. He didn’t believe Lowry would lie in a court room. ‘I suppose he must have done it . . . he knew who I was.’
‘It was dark,’ Lowry said. ‘You came to with your wallet? My guess is whoever hit you had a look, saw you were a copper then left you to wake up.’
Kenton paused under a street light but was intelligent enough not to feel angry and humiliated. He was grateful to Lowry for driving down there this morning, on a Sunday, for taking the trouble to back him up. But . . .
‘Be more careful.’ Lowry stopped ahead of him and turned round. ‘C’mon; don’t dwell on it. At least in the ring tonight it’ll be bright – you’ll see them coming.’
At that moment, though, they stepped out of the only patch of light they’d see until they got to the ring. Butt Road, just south of Southway and home to Colchester’s first permanent barracks, was poorly lit, as if purposely to keep it hidden. Commissioned after an outcry at the dreadful sanitary conditions during the Crimean War, the cavalry barracks were modelled on those at Aldershot and were reputedly the finest example in the country. The imposing two-storey buildings with tall, substantial chimneys were in a deep-red brick, which rendered them black in the dark silence, lending the barracks a creepy, gothic feel. And silent they were, as most of the garrison’s inhabitants would already be in the gymnasium, where Lowry and Kenton were now heading.
And there it was, moonlight reflecting off its steep slate roof. Set within the brick walls were deep, bevelled windows behind which shadows flickered wildly, betraying the activity within. The building had always reminded Lowry more of a workhouse than a place of recreation.
‘Christ, it’s cold,’ shuddered Kenton as they drew close to the doors.
‘You’ll soon warm up.’
A shout of exaltation ripped through the night and was met by another cry from somewhere in front of them. Lowry’s mind was taken back to the night before and the shouts of anger in the high street, and he wondered if they should have postponed the boxing for a week or so, until the situation calmed down, before embarking on this round of sanctioned violence. Too late now, he thought to himself, and pushed open the door.
A heady mixture of sweat, testosterone and uproar affronted their senses. In the centre of the cavernous building, beyond a sea of closely clipped heads, was the spotlit canvas itself, over which rested a cloud of cigarette smoke. Lowry paused on the threshold, his heart beating rapidly. Jesus, he thought, I used to be part of this. I am this. Only, now, he was at one remove from the whole affair, psychologically as well as physically. He felt an enormous sense of relief.
‘Something up, guv?’ Kenton had walked into the back of him.
‘Nope, Daniel. Just savouring the moment.’ He looked to see if his colleague had registered the friendly sarcasm, but the young DC’s mind was firmly on the fight now: he frowned and looked steadily ahead. Lowry saw in his eyes a look he recognized – stoic and determined to do what had to be done. It was the essence of duty. He had been like that once.
Kenton headed for the changing rooms, Adidas bag slung over his shoulder, while Lowry made his way to the ringside. He nodded to those he knew and pushed towards the front of the crowd of eager young faces shouting and hooting in anticipation. He wondered if the dead private had been fixed to spar tonight.
He made eye contact with Sparks, who was standing with a clipboard, addressing a lad of about seventeen who was jogging on the spot. Lowry nudged his way further through the throng.
‘Glad you deigned to come, Nick!’ Sparks shouted, struggling to make himself heard above the clamour.
Lowry looked across the ring to catch sight of a flurry of banknotes changing hands. They ran three bouts per contest, starting with the lighter-weight fighters, usually the younger, untried lads. The betting on them was lively – speculative and sometimes lucrative.
‘Gary here is from the cadets.’ Sparks clasped the lad by the shoulder and thrust him forward. ‘Might not look much, but he’s hard as nails.’
Lowry held out a hand and wished the boy luck. The boy in turn shot Sparks a quick look, as if for permission to take
his hand. Lowry could see the apprehension in the kid’s eyes. ‘First fight?’ he asked.
‘First proper fight, yeah.’ The inflection on the word ‘proper’ said it all. Tussles in the corps were all the action he’d seen – and they would be nothing compared to tonight.
‘And his opponent?’ Lowry asked Sparks.
‘Over there, by the far corner.’ Sparks jerked his chin towards the other side of the ring, where a tall, acne-ridden youth surrounded by green uniforms was just visible between the ropes. The army lad had the height and therefore the reach, but a long neck, too; land a square punch and his brain would spin. If their boy could keep moving, he stood an even chance.
‘Gary’s quick,’ Sparks said, as if reading Lowry’s mind. Gary was puffing into his gloves, zoning out, focusing – just as Sparks would’ve told him. No emotion, no feeling, all mental resources funnelled into the physical delivery, the perfect punch: that was the chief’s philosophy. Lowry could feel himself being swept up in the excitement of the fight. He surveyed the enormous gym: there must be close to five hundred men jostling in here, at least seventy-five per cent of them based on the barracks. He couldn’t detect any unusual undertones in the atmosphere; if there was bitterness about the death of the para and the disturbance of the previous evening, it was well masked. A roar of excitement went up as the two youngsters climbed into the ring, and Lowry was carried forward by the crowd moving closer to the ringside.
In the absence of a microphone, the referee hushed the crowd by holding a bell above his head before introducing the combatants. The police cadet was unmoved by the enormous cry of support for the gangly army boy. Sparks had trained him well, Lowry mused, glancing at the commander, who was now hanging on the ropes. Kenton had appeared behind him in shorts and robe. And wait . . . Who was that with him? A shock of blond hair caught the light. Was it . . . ? Yes, it was the tall WPC who’d shown him the scene of the crime at Castle Park. Lowry felt a stirring of emotion akin to . . . what? Jealousy? No, surely not – he was glad the boy had a date – but did it have to be . . . Suddenly, the bell rang and a roar went up – they were off. Sparks’s man threw caution to the wind and steamed in, pummelling his opponent. The army lad, surprised, staggered back. Cries of outrage went up. Lowry caught sight of the Beard, raging puce on the other side of the ring, and laughed. It was hard not to enjoy the atmosphere.