by James, Henry
Kenton’s expression was blank. ‘Car?’
‘Yes, after pulling the job on Mersea? Never mind. Ah, there you are,’ he said, looking over Kenton’s head. Damn, Kenton suddenly recalled, he was supposed to talk to Barnes yesterday. He’d clean forgotten when Gabriel had turned up.
‘I’ve set up the incident room, as you suggested, sir,’ came a familiar female voice from behind him. ‘Sergeant Barnes is waiting.’
Kenton turned to see WPC Jane Gabriel outside the office, her delicate, pale fingers lightly holding the doorframe.
‘Right, let’s go.’ Lowry rose, slipped on his suit jacket and exited the office swiftly. Had Kenton missed something? Since when was Gabriel involved in setting up briefings? He grabbed his blazer – the briefing room below was possibly the coldest room in the building, without so much as a fan heater – and hurried after them. He trailed behind, suddenly not feeling part of things. The blonde WPC was shoulder to shoulder almost with Lowry, her bearing upright, confident; she seemed replete with the trust his boss had clearly put in her. Maybe if Sparks has concerns about Lowry’s state of mind he should ask Jane Gabriel . . . Or was he overthinking the situation between the two?
In the interview room, xeroxed pictures of the two dead men from Greenstead were pinned to the noticeboard, alongside an OS map of Colchester and the Blackwater. Lowry walked to the front and the room fell into silence. Gabriel accompanied him and stood to one side. Kenton remained at the back, like a spare part.
‘Morning, fellas.’ Lowry rubbed his hands to warm them up. ‘Now, you’ll be pleased to hear we have now identified both victims of the Greenstead Estate murder.’ He slapped one of the large black-and-white images. ‘On our left, we have thirty-two-year-old Derek Stone, retired army Lance Corporal saxophonist. On our right, we have twenty-five-year-old Jason Boyd, second-hand car salesman and part-time fisherman. Now, what do these men have in common?’ The question was rhetorical.
‘Here’s what we know about Stone: a redundant army musician who plays in a jazz band under Sheregate Steps. Part of a small alternative community that dabbles in class-A drugs as part of a lifestyle, but not really out to trouble anyone – or not that we know of. We also know from bank records that Stone squandered his redundancy money and was on the dole. Sergeant Barnes, anything else?’ Lowry addressed the bearded uniform sergeant.
‘A Browning automatic pistol was found at Stone’s flat on Artillery Street. With two clips,’ said Barnes.
‘Go on.’
Kenton knew Lowry had discovered the pistol himself, and yet here he was, deploying Barnes, a uniform sergeant, to inform the team. It was Lowry’s way of stepping back and allowing others to come to the fore. He was reticent to the point of shyness when it came to taking credit.
‘It’s a standard-issue officer’s pistol. Though Stone was an NCO, it’s not uncommon for the rank and file to possess firearms,’ Barnes continued. ‘They pick them up all over the place, souvenirs and the like.’
‘Does it work?’ someone in front of Kenton asked.
‘Very much so,’ Lowry said. ‘We have conclusive evidence that the gun was used in the Mersea Island post-office job.’ A murmur went around the room. Kenton felt himself colour.
‘Which leads us to believe there’s a connection between this raid and the drugs murder. Sergeant Barnes, in the first instance, can you get banging on doors around Artillery Street – Stone must have had a car.’
Kenton looked at his feet as Barnes affirmed that he would take immediate action.
Lowry stepped close to the board to consider Stone’s photo. ‘This info also tells us that Stone wasn’t expecting trouble that night on Beaumont Terrace. Which supports my theory that he was a minor figure in all this – if he thought he was in danger of getting his throat slit, he’d have gone prepared, and taken the Browning.’
Kenton knew this, but there were grunts of approval in the room. Gabriel looked particularly impressed, he thought.
‘Right, this other man, Boyd, worked at a car dealership three days a week and as a fisherman out of Brightlingsea the rest of the week, which involved some night work. This man lands a vessel at Mersea Island on New Year’s Eve – with one accomplice, presumed to be Felix Cowley, who is still at large, and a cargo of drugs on board – and plans to meet Derek Stone here.’ He jabbed at the south-west corner of Colchester on the map.
A uniform came through and handed him another photograph.
‘This is the third man, Felix,’ Lowry said, holding the photo up for all to see. ‘He left Brightlingsea port on Friday morning with Jason Boyd, on a small boat with an outboard, bound for where, we do not know, to come back to a deserted Mersea beach late that same night with unknown quantities of amphetamines. The landlady at the Fingringhoe Fox confirms that this was the man who visited her pub yesterday afternoon.’
Lowry was now in full flow. He commanded the entire room’s attention and drew everybody in. An imposing presence, smartly turned out in a pristine white shirt and dark, slender tie – always the same outfit – he made everyone around him feel vaguely underdressed; even those in uniform made a point of adjusting their navy ties and collars. And Lowry had a spark to him today that Kenton had not seen in his short time here. When the pressure mounted, the experienced inspector was fully engaged, and his enthusiasm was infectious.
‘We need to widen the net. Felix is likely to be running scared. There are only a limited number of ways out of here.’ Here, Lowry circled the marshes on the map with his finger. ‘I’m confident he’ll pop up soon enough. But, remember, it’s by no means certain that Felix is the murderer; he knew Jason Boyd well, they were close – and he’d have had easier opportunities to make off with the drugs, if that was his intent, than to wait until he got to Greenstead – so I want a refocused effort on discovering what happened on that Sunday in Colchester. We have no idea of how big a consignment of the drugs was brought ashore, but the amount must’ve been sizeable – nobody would bother with getting two men, a boat and a Land Rover to move a ten-quid wrap.’
‘Yes,’ Kenton interjected from the back of the room. ‘And as the sighting of Felix Cowley indicated, he was travelling light – meaning whatever was smuggled in is still out there somewhere.’
Lowry winked at him from the other end of the room, something he’d never done before. Kenton was relieved he’d been let off the hook for failing to advise Barnes to mobilize Uniform but at the same time he felt he was being patronized. And Miss Prim was still standing there contentedly, as though her elevated status were perfectly natural. Orders were issued to sweep the East Hill area of town again, door to door – the route from The Way to the Raj to Beaumont Terrace on Greenstead Estate – and then everyone was dismissed.
Kenton waited as Uniform filed out. To his relief, Gabriel exited with her uniformed colleagues. Lowry signalled for him to wait behind.
‘Sir?’ he said, when they were the only two left in the room.
‘I need you to have a word with Tony Pond,’ said Lowry.
‘I thought you knew him well, guv?’
‘Yes, but I’ve been called away unexpectedly.’ Kenton couldn’t read his expression; Lowry was usually open about his movements. Maybe it was personal? His boss continued: ‘I’ll give you his home number, but he’s more than likely at his showroom on Clacton Road, though it’s more like a field . . .’
‘Not Racing Green?’
‘That’s the place. Go there and see what more you can get out of him about Boyd. And while you’re there, chuck these at him, too –’ he reached into his jacket – ‘to jog his memory.’ He passed over two photographs. ‘Tell him we don’t think for one moment he chased those lads, but the time for being mysterious is over. Find out how he knows them. And if he proves difficult, mention we know from the concierge at the George he’s been lying.’
-40-
11.10 a.m., Tuesday, Old Library Café, off the high street
Where was she? He could ill afford time out for coffee, even for s
omeone as important as the assistant chief constable herself. He’d left a note at the front desk, so that if there were any developments they knew where to find him and to fetch him immediately. He sat in the corner of the empty café by the window, mulling over the direction he’d given at the briefing. The key was to catch Cowley, he knew that. There was every chance that, if the lad was as simple as Joanne Boyd had made out, then he would try for home. So his decision not to rake the land by helicopter had turned out to be the right one – he’d avoided alerting the entire marsh that a manhunt was in progress. But they had to pick him up soon – there was nowhere for him to go.
It was one hell of a start to the year. A radio in the background warned of snow. The weather couldn’t make up its mind what it was doing. Correction: it was always bloody freezing; the sky was just somewhat inconsistent in what it had on offer. He’d felt a sharp wind funnelling down the high street on his way here. A coffee machine let off steam, cutting off the broadcaster. He stared glumly down at his black coffee. He still had Jacqui to worry about – but the worry alternated with anger.
The door to the Old Library café opened and in walked a tall, elegant woman in a fur coat. Lowry stood and gave a slight wave. The ACC raised a hand in response and smiled.
‘Ma’am.’ Lowry nodded as she came over. She was fractionally taller than him, something he’d not noticed until he’d helped her out of her coat, which must have cost more than his monthly salary.
‘Morning, inspector,’ she said lightly, as informally as it was possible to be when addressing someone by rank. Such officiousness was fine by him; authority was authority, it was simpler that way. (Sparks didn’t count.) Merrydown had always been resolutely official and as straight as the pleat in the navy skirt she now ran her fingers along. The coat had thrown him, though – she always wore a beige mackintosh when she was at the creaking Queen Street offices. The waiter, who’d been borderline rude to him, was at her side in an instant. The woman who held sway over the county’s boys in blue had a certain aura.
‘Busy start to the year for you Colchester lads, isn’t it?’ She smiled again, revealing perfect teeth.
‘I was just thinking the same myself,’ he admitted.
‘How are things? Moving forward?’
‘Progress is being made.’ He took this as his cue and cleared his throat, then summarized the major cases, painting as positive a picture as he could. Merrydown was easier to impress than Sparks; her expression suggested she was pleased with the progress they had made since her visit the previous morning. She inquired about the background of the Brightlingsea men, and he veered between sketchy and knowledgeable, and she didn’t ask about the fighting on Saturday night. Sparks believed that her concern in a case was driven by the airtime it was given: the punch-up had failed to make the grade, whereas the murder at Greenstead had made it on to the national channels, and he assumed, for want of a better reason, that it was why she’d requested the meeting. He mentioned that they were after Pond and Philpott, mostly to see if these men were on her radar, but as he talked on, Lowry had a vague sense she wasn’t listening; her eyes darted here and there, and she gave several flicks of her hair. He grew self-conscious and started gesticulating with his hands to make a point – something he seldom did, even before an audience – then decided to quit while he was ahead, and finished by commending Sparks’s grasp of the situation. He knew it would pay to do so.
‘Ah, yes, Chief Sparks,’ she said sharply. ‘How is the lord of Queen Street?’ She looked Lowry in the eye for an instant.
‘He’s . . .’ Lowry paused. ‘He’s well.’
‘Is he going to marry that girl?’
‘Antonia? Why, yes – soon, I believe.’ Unusual question, Lowry thought. ‘Have you met?’
‘Yes. Briefly.’ She stirred her coffee slowly, her attention on the swirl in the cup. Where this was going?
‘Do you think Chief Sparks is modern in his outlook?’
This was a trap, he was sure. ‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ he said.
She looked up from her cup. ‘In his approach to policing?’
‘As modern as the rest of us. His are the ways we know.’ His tone was deferential. He would not be drawn into whatever game she was playing.
‘Yes, of course,’ she said, unimpressed. ‘You’ve only ever been at Colchester.’
That wasn’t correct, but he remained silent, then asked, ‘Is it something specific I can help with?’
‘No, it’s nothing specific. They tell me you’re very bright. I thought you might have a view, perhaps, on how Colchester division fits into the modern world. Is it abreast of current thinking?’
Lowry had no idea who ‘they’ might be. ‘We’re aware of developments in the law, such as the Justice Act passed last year, if that’s you mean? The treatment of young offenders—’
‘Never mind,’ she said, as if giving up, then, ‘Are you any closer to resolving the New Year’s calamity with the soldier?’
This caught him out; he thought he’d successfully glossed over it. ‘We think there were outsiders involved.’
‘Ah. That’ll mean no more outbursts in the high street, then.’
‘I think not, ma’am. But we are still investigating what happened at Castle Park.’
‘Hmm . . . You must be at a stretch, what with the murders in Greenstead?’
She produced a pack of cigarettes and extracted one with long, elegant fingers. Lowry scratched the back of his neck.
‘We’ve drafted in a WPC.’ It was all he could think to say.
‘A woman?’
‘They usually are.’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘Whose idea was that?’
‘Chief Sparks’s.’
‘So how’s it working out?’ She appeared genuinely interested.
‘Terrific – they’re getting on like a house on fire.’ He was rapidly losing patience. ‘Tell me, ma’am, why did you wish to see me?’
She sipped her coffee delicately. ‘When a town is experiencing as many difficulties as this one, I feel it prudent to open channels with those on the ground and find out what’s really going on.’
‘I see.’ She was questioning Sparks’s ability to handle the situation. ‘Well, I’m always here.’ He tried a smile.
‘Christmas is a funny time,’ she said, oblivious, ‘especially for the services, spending time away from home. I had a brother stationed in Germany. He married a local girl . . .’ Her voice trailed off.
‘Really? Tell me, what do they do eat there for Christmas? Turkey?’
Merrydown gave him a blank look. Lowry, about to explain further, was distracted by an urgent rap on the window. It was a young PC. Lowry beckoned him inside. ‘You’ll have to forgive me, ma’am,’ he said.
‘Not at all. I’m intrigued.’
The PC burst through the café, blurting. ‘They’ve found him, sir!’
‘Who?’
‘Fella in a boat in the Blackwater, sir. Sergeant said I was to tell you immediately.’
‘Quite. Ma’am?’ Lowry waited for permission to leave.
‘Of course, and thank you; you’ve been very helpful.’
Lowry rose, not knowing in what way he possibly could have been. As he reached the door, she called out from their table: ‘Goose, inspector. Goose is traditional.’
11.20 a.m., Clacton Road
‘We spoke yesterday evening.’
‘Mr Kenton, was it?’ A stocky man wearing a black overcoat, who reminded Kenton more of a bouncer than a second-hand car salesman, made his way across the frozen field crowded with gleaming Fords and Vauxhalls. Chances are he’s both, Kenton thought, losing his hand in the huge sheepskin glove offered him.
‘Yes, that’s me.’
A sharp wind sliced through the forecourt bunting. Beyond the fluttering pennants there was a Portakabin, inside which another man in a suit marched back and forth, a telephone receiver in one hand and its cradle in the other. This man was the main reason Kenton wa
s here, but not the only one; he had bitten the bullet and come to Racing Green Autos in order to trade in the Spitfire.
‘Yeah, sorry about that – I’ve only just started working ’ere.’
Kenton turned his attention back to the car salesman before him. In his mid-fifties, the squat gent sported a sculpted grey bullet-head haircut and, between the lapels of his overcoat, a bright paisley tie (one not dissimilar from his own, he was dismayed to realize).
‘Oh?’
‘The gaffer’s an old pal – he was short of staff when a couple of his regulars were no-shows.’
‘A couple?’
‘Two fellas from Brightlingsea.’ The salesman clasped his gloved hands. ‘Bit parky still, ain’t it? Now then, it’s a Spitfire, right?’
‘Yep,’ Kenton said, keeping one eye on the Portakabin. ‘Here she is.’
‘Cor, bit on the bright side, ain’t it?’ He whistled.
‘It’s topaz orange,’ Kenton said defensively.
‘You’re telling me.’ He started to pace around the car, tutting. He lifted the broken roof limply.
‘I mentioned the roof on the phone . . .’
‘You did, son, you did. That’s easily fixed round back. But that colour . . .’
‘What about the colour?’
‘What was you hoping to trade it for again?’
‘The Mark 2 Capri.’
He shook his head woefully. ‘I can’t go any more than a monkey.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
The cabin door opened and out came a man in a suit with piping on it – Tony Pond.
‘Five hundred nicker.’
‘Is that all? You’re having me on.’
Pond stood on the steps, adjusting his cuffs.
‘The colour’s your problem, innit? Girls’ colour, and the birds ain’t got the readies.’
Kenton ignored the stocky man and made his way across the forecourt to prevent Pond climbing into a white XJS. ‘Mr Pond, might I have word?’
Pond held his up his hand. ‘I don’t dabble in the day-to-day – Mr Palmer is my man on the forecourt.’ The bullet-head beamed behind him.