Blackwater (DI Nick Lowry)

by James, Henry

  ‘I shouldn’t need to ask, but your people are clean, I trust, Chief Superintendent?’ asked Merrydown, as though reading his mind.

  ‘This is 1983, ma’am, not 1963.’ Sparks said firmly.

  She seemed unsatisfied by this and turned to Lowry. ‘Inspector, you’re closer to the men on the ground – are they using?’

  ‘Speed has never been that big a deal,’ Lowry said.

  ‘If people are getting killed, then it’s a big deal.’

  ‘Hey,’ Sparks cut in. ‘We just agreed this murder wasn’t drug-related.’

  ‘No, we didn’t,’ she snapped. ‘You said that. For all we know, it could be the start of a drug war.’

  ‘I don’t think so, ma’am,’ Lowry said. ‘I found an automatic pistol in Derek Stone’s flat last night. If he was going to Beaumont Terrace looking for trouble, he’d have gone armed.’

  A short silence fell in the chief’s attic office. This assertion seemed to pacify Merrydown. ‘Okay. Maybe you’re right. Now, from one intoxicated state to another – what on earth are these drunken riots in the town centre? Have we made our peace with the army?’

  ‘We’re making progress on that front,’ said Sparks evasively.

  ‘And have you identified who it was that started this whole mess on New Year’s Eve? What does the other boy say?’

  Sparks looked hopefully towards Lowry, but now it was his turn to be evasive. He volunteered nothing more than a weary shrug.

  ‘Well? There were two, weren’t there?’

  ‘His unit has moved out.’

  ‘What!’ Sparks was aghast. He hadn’t known about this.

  ‘South Georgia. Part of the peacekeeping mission, it seems.’

  ‘You are kidding?’ She glared at Sparks with such anger that, for the first time in his life, he felt intimidated. ‘So you’ve let that bearded buffoon of an action man whisk away the only witness from under your very nose! You bloody fool!’

  -23-

  10 a.m., Monday, Queen Street HQ

  Sparks slumped dejectedly into the worn leather chair. Lowry almost felt sorry for him – almost.

  ‘Thought that went rather well,’ he quipped, trying to lighten the mood. ‘But isn’t “drug-fuelled” pretty much the same as “drug-related”?’

  Sparks arched an eyebrow. ‘Fuck off. What about the army shambles? That’s your fault.’

  ‘What?’ Lowry said, surprised.

  ‘I said I’d get you that lad for questioning by going direct to Lane. But no, the self-reliant, stubborn Lowry wanted to manage things on his own. Although, in this case, he got some bimbo in uniform to do it for him.’

  ‘Okay. I misplayed it. I’m sorry. It seemed a simple thing. I never thought the man would leave the country.’ As the chief searched for his cigarettes, Lowry leaned over to pick up the nearest of Sparks’s two phones and dialled a number he knew well: Tony Pond. He checked his watch; Pond would be at his car lot by now. The Christmas Bank Holiday is always a busy one. The line connected after a crackle. He’d see what his snitch could tell him about the riot before updating the chief on Greenstead. With a curse, he realized that he should have made this call last night. He was not on top of his game.

  Sparks lit a cigarette. ‘Who are you calling?’

  ‘Pond.’

  Sparks, who already looked like he’d been chewing a wasp, shook his head in further disgust.

  ‘Come on – if anyone knows anything, it’ll be Pond,’ Lowry said, encouragingly. Although the chief always referred to Lowry’s snitch as a ‘no-good spiv’, it was he, Sparks, who had introduced them.

  Eventually, a surly cockney accent answered the phone.

  ‘Tony!’ said Lowry.

  Pond’s tone on recognizing the inspector’s voice brightened instantly. ‘Well, Happy New Year to you, Mr Lowry. Trust you’ve been enjoying the seasonal festivities?’ He chuckled darkly.

  ‘It’s been a ball so far. What have you heard?’

  ‘Heard, inspector? Not a thing. I’ve spent a quiet one with my old mum at Frinton. Haven’t heard a dicky bird. Best to be out of town this time of year, avoid any unpleasantness, don’t you think?’

  ‘And what unpleasantness would that be?’

  ‘Ha ha. I wasn’t here, I’m telling you. But word on the street is the riot was payback for the young lad who died in Castle Park.’

  Lowry glanced at Sparks, who was leafing through the forensics report on Stone’s flat. ‘And what do you know about that? Who was it that chased them across the park?’

  ‘Drawn a blank, have we?’

  ‘So far. I assume it must be local, given the repercussions.’

  ‘Maybe not this time, inspector.’

  ‘What do you mean? Come on, help me out here,’ he said.

  ‘All right, all right. This is what I heard. Three men were seen talking to two lads outside the George in the high street. One of the lads fits the description of the dead fella in the paper.’

  ‘Description of the three men?’

  ‘Big blokes. Not local.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘That’s all I got.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Sure. If I knew more, I’d tell you, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Cheers.’ Lowry hung up. Sparks looked at him expectantly. ‘He’s heard that the fracas on New Year’s Eve wasn’t local lads.’

  ‘How does he know that?’

  ‘Who knows – he talks in riddles. I’ll swing by the George later – he says that’s where they were spotted in conversation with the two soldiers. Anyway, on to Greenstead.’ Lowry sat back down and prised a mint out of his pocket.

  ‘Yes – tell me something good, now that Merrydown’s gone.’

  ‘The Land Rover found in the street in Greenstead came from Mersea.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘Seaweed: traces on the tyre tread and up under the wheel arch. I reckon it must’ve been just either side of high tide to spray all the way up there.’

  ‘Brilliant. Well done.’ Sparks leaned forward eagerly. ‘Anything in the vehicle itself?’

  ‘A bundle of clothes covered in mud in the back. And two pairs of trainers, also covered in mud.’

  ‘Two pairs? I thought we were working on the basis there were three people involved? That’s what you let me tell that harpy—’

  ‘Two were from Mersea. We have nothing concrete to suggest how many were in that house on Sunday; but, odds are, Stone’s was the third plate. Then again, might have been two, three or ten. But we’ve made a start. Two men came in from the coast – more than likely from Mersea. One of the dead men had been in the Land Rover – the prints match. The mud and smell on the clothing indicates they waded ashore, suggesting that they arrived in unconventional, possibly covert, fashion. Given the substances found at the scene, it’s a fair guess that drug smuggling was involved and that the murders are the result of a deal gone wrong.’

  Sparks banged the tip of a cigarette on the desk and flipped shut the manila file on Stone’s flat. ‘Fair assessment. And the musician on Artillery Street – what do you reckon about him?’

  ‘This bloke was a buyer, a small-time user – not a smuggler. He’s a size ten shoe; the trainers in the Landy are both eights. So it looks like he was at the house, not in the Land Rover.’

  ‘What? Stone was the customer?’

  ‘No – a customer, not the main man by any stretch, given the state of his flat. He went there to buy, I’m guessing, but he had no cash on him, so any transaction must have already taken place. I think he’s small fry who got caught in the crossfire.’

  ‘So it says in the report. But it also says that the flat has another occupant: nothing to go on but an empty sports bag.’ Sparks rocked back on his creaky chair, hands behind his head. ‘It’s a mess.’

  ‘It’s a bit more complicated than when Pond and Philpott were moving weed up the Colne to supply students, years back,’ Lowry agreed.

  The chief looked at his secon
d-in-command. He sounded calm, although, given the situation, he should be feeling anything but.

  ‘Philpott,’ Sparks mused with distaste. The same man who had provoked the brawl on Saturday night. ‘Moving away from dealing dope seems to have given him new ambitions. He’s gone from being bonged off his nut in Rowhedge meadows to sparring with paratroopers.’ He rubbed his knuckle reflectively. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He checked himself out of hospital.’

  ‘I’d like to know why he thought annoying a soldier the size of Quinn was a good idea. But I doubt he had anything to do with the speed – tyke that he is.’

  ‘He’s your boy, so say they word and we’ll pull him in.’

  Sparks sighed. ‘Get him in. Send Uniform. We better have a word.’

  The chief spun round in his chair and propelled himself towards the window. It was a cold, bleak winter’s day; typical grey January weather. Although they’d only just arrived in 1983, he’d already had enough of this year. He wasn’t going to bollock Lowry over losing a witness – there’d been no reason to expect Jones to disappear altogether – but, all the same, Sparks resolved to make some changes. He would, himself, take a more active role in policing and not remain stuck up here in this attic, away from the action. There was no denying that lamping that soldier had got his blood up. A gull strutted along the black wrought-iron railing on the window ledge, its beady eye regarding him warily.

  ‘Amphetamines don’t send people wacko – or do they?’

  ‘What, speed?’

  ‘Yes. Not familiar with it myself. All I know is what I’ve seen in films – those little mods in Quadrophenia popping pills that make them dance funny.’ He banged on the window pane. The bird cried out but stayed put.

  ‘It was all pills in those days, not powder, nabbed from the chemist. Who knows what’s in this shit,’ said Lowry. Though he knew from the dab he’d taken from the kitchen table at Greenstead that it contained something familiar. ‘We’ll have to wait for the toxicology report.’

  ‘Good-o. In the meantime, scoot over to the island and see what you can sniff out about the Land Rover. Check in with the Dodger – that wiley old toad knows everyone’s comings and goings.’

  ‘Kenton is on it now – he’s beginning to get a feel for the place at last.’

  ‘Is he?’ Sparks snorted. ‘Not sure I’d agree – he came in the other night like the Creature from the Black Lagoon. How’s he coming on, anyway? He’s been here nearly three months – his review is next week.’

  ‘It’s a bit different to what he’s used to,’ Lowry conceded, popping another mint into his mouth, ‘but it takes time to settle in out here. When you’re used to the thrills of Surrey . . .’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Sparks interrupted, spinning round to face Lowry, ‘the lad fought well last night. He had a touch of the magic potion in his swing. I was worried he’d be distracted when I saw that blonde piece from Uniform hanging around, but he took that pencil neck in the fifth.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ Lowry said, and stood up to leave, not wanting to get caught up in boxing chit-chat.

  ‘Middleweight wasn’t such a success, though.’

  Lowry’s weight. He crunched down hard on the mint.

  ‘Yes, in your absence, I had to field Granger – now, he is past it.’ Sparks paused and frowned. ‘What the fuck’s wrong with you?’

  Lowry had put his hand to his mouth. Something had cracked other than the sweet. He’d lost a crown.

  ‘Eurghh!!’ Sparks said dramatically as Lowry removed an incisor from his mouth. ‘I told you – stick to the cigarettes. It doesn’t become you, not smoking.’ He laughed loudly for the first time that year.

  There was a light rap on the door.

  ‘Come.’

  A fresh-faced uniform entered, clutching a piece of foolscap. ‘Important message for Inspector Lowry. News on the ownership of Beaumont Terrace.’

  Lowry snatched the paper from him. ‘It’s a council house,’ he said to Sparks. ‘The last tenants were evicted in October. It’s been unoccupied ever since. The neighbours complained of squatters in December, though.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  The PC stood there.

  ‘You have more?’

  ‘A lady’s scarf has been found at the scene. Forensics picked it up first thing when they went back to the house for a fresh look. It’ll be here later today. And there’s unopened post going back to October. We’re checking two names; they should give us—’

  ‘Forget the post – the people we’re after aren’t letter writers.’ Sparks dismissed the PC and addressed Lowry. ‘Maybe the third person is a woman?’

  ‘Perhaps. We need people banging on doors. There must’ve been some activity in that house before Sunday.’

  ‘Organize it, then.’

  ‘With what? All our uniforms are currently wading in the Blackwater estuary, looking for a German’s head.’

  ‘Forget “Strood man”,’ Sparks said. ‘There’s a body, but no case. Leave it. Her ladyship didn’t even mention it. Use that bird who was at the fight last night – if she’s into hanging round gyms and watching sweaty blokes punching the living daylights out of each other, there might be a future for her in CID.’

  ‘Lucky her,’ Lowry remarked cynically. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ He had plans, though; he’d be off to Mersea himself at some point, depending on what a certain bad-tempered Bengali restaurateur, unwittingly the last-meal chef for two men on Greenstead, had to say first.

  -24-

  10.30 a.m., Monday, Mersea Island

  For the second morning on the trot, DC Kenton found himself on the way to Mersea. With him, he had the registration number of a blue 1955 Land Rover Defender.

  The weather had returned to the dismal conditions of New Year’s Eve, a thick, icy fog enveloping the land. Driving through it was slow and disorientating, like finding your way through a thick, grey soup, with no point of reference. And, of course, it was freezing in the convertible; despite wrapping up in gloves and a scarf, Kenton’s extremities were numb.

  But while he was cold on the outside, inside he had something of a warm glow. Last night had been a success: he had won his fight and remained unscathed, and WPC Jane Gabriel had come to watch. It hadn’t exactly been a date, but when she’d mentioned it in passing in the canteen queue, he’d been keen immediately. Unusual, as most female officers tended to run a mile from boxing matches, but there she’d been on the night, a shock of blonde serenity amidst all that sweaty turmoil. He had been surprised to see her, as she didn’t look the type for that sort of thing; she was a bit . . . how would he describe her? Fragile? Yes, fragile. But attractive, definitely. She even came for a celebration drink afterwards. His head throbbed, vaguely reminding him of the one-too-many he’d downed in the buzz of victory.

  Blast! Instead of following the road round to West Mersea, he’d taken the left fork by mistake. He cursed the Spitfire’s wipers, which were hopelessly inadequate at clearing the viscous sea mist from the windscreen. He slowed even more so as not to miss the right turn that would put him back on track and prevent him ending up in East Mersea. The mist gradually cleared as he rasped along the soft spine of the island. A murder of crows on a dormant field lifted abruptly into the murky sky as he passed. It was Lowry, of course, who’d told him that the collective noun for crows was ‘murder’.

  He swung a left to the seafront and found himself passing the Nugent home on Seaview – the home that Ted had left because his mother insisted he do something for himself, although painting houseboats and crabbing seemed to be the sum of it. As he passed the house, he noticed on the drive a white Ford XR3, which, the first times he’d visited, looking for Ted, he’d never seen. It had a large set of ladders on the roof and didn’t look like the kind of car Nugent’s mum would own. He slowed to crawl just as a busty blonde in a tight T-shirt at odds with the time of year came out of the house. She stared straight at him before climbing into the XR3 and driving away.

>   Kenton took the next left. Onerous though it was, he had to call on Bradley at home – the Mersea station wasn’t open until the evening on a Bank Holiday Monday. He lived in a sedate close lined with chalet-style bungalows just around the corner from Nugent’s house.

  Although the Mersea police were responsible for filing their own reports, as a part-time station they required back-office support, hence Colchester’s assistance in validating their paperwork. Kenton’s involvement in the robbery that had taken place at the end of the year was part of this arrangement, but as the case began to look more and more dubious he’d found himself drawn in ever deeper – which would, inevitably, make him unpopular with the Mersea-based force. He stood, nervously shuffling his feet on Sergeant Bradley’s doormat. He dreaded the prospect of asking the sergeant to open up shop to check out a possible Land Rover sighting.

  The door opened to reveal the station sergeant in a string vest. Kenton stepped back. ‘Sorry to disturb you at home, sergeant, but the station is—’

  ‘Closed.’ He scratched his expansive gut. ‘I take it it’s urgent?’

  ‘Arthur! You’re lettin’ the bleedin’ cold in! Shut the bloody door!’ This shrill voice came from a stout silhouette at the other end of the hallway.

  Dodger Bradley rolled his eyes wearily. ‘You’d best come in, then.’