by James, Henry
‘What about Jasper?’
‘He’s wearing a coat, so will be fine outside. C’mon.’
They left the park. Wondering where this would lead, she looked at the crisp ground and was reminded of the bright morning a few days before, when she’d watched Lowry on the bandstand, surveying Castle Park. He’d not so much as mentioned the case to her since, and she wondered again at his silence on the road this morning.
Lowry ushered Philpott into the back of the car, taking the dog lead. He nodded for her to get in the front. She frowned; he pointed to the driver’s side. He moved round the back of the Saab, after shutting Philpott in.
‘Right,’ Lowry said, climbing in. ‘I’ll just trap Jasper’s lead in the door here, all right, Jamie?’
‘Be quick about it. I don’t want to be seen with the likes of her in the middle of the flaming village.’
‘Sure, sure.’ He slammed the door. ‘Start her up, WPC Gabriel; get the blower on.’
She did as he said and turned the heater up.
‘Right, Jamie, ol’ fruit.’ He clasped the younger man’s shoulder. ‘Were you, or were you not, at number four Beaumont Terrace on Saturday morning?’
‘What? I thought this was about that punch-up?’
‘In good time. But before we get to that – where were you at that time? Down on the Greenstead Estate trying to pick up a bit of whizz?’
‘I’m not ’aving this.’ Philpott tried to open the door. ‘I’ll be on the horn to Sparks if you don’t—’
‘WPC Gabriel, pull out.’ She turned round to make sure she’d heard right. Lowry was perfectly calm. Philpott was a vision of panic. ‘WPC Gabriel, if you will. Slowly, though. We want our little friend outside to keep up, at least at first.’
‘Eh?’ Philpott exclaimed in alarm. ‘You bastard, Lowry!’ Philpott rattled the door handle again, gripped by anger.
‘No use, Jamie: child-locked, I’m afraid.’
Gabriel reversed the car tentatively. Lowry surely wouldn’t kill the man’s dog, would he? Jamie Philpott clearly thought otherwise; he’d gone quiet and now sat sullenly in his seat.
‘Now, I’ll ask again: were you, or were you not, on the Greenstead Estate on Saturday?’
-46-
1 p.m., Wednesday, Queen Street HQ
‘I don’t buy that for one minute,’ Lowry muttered.
He and Kenton were in the corridor outside the interview room where Philpott was being held. Kenton had returned from Mersea empty-handed, having failed to find Nugent. To be fair, the island was small and Kenton knew no one there, and this, along with the handicap of him avoiding the governing police presence, who by rights should point him in the right direction, made his chances of locating Nugent practically nil. So, in an attempt to appear not totally useless, Kenton had tried to bamboozle Lowry with his theories about the murders. He was convinced that the deaths of Private Daley and of Stone and Boyd in Greenstead were directly related. The premise was simple: Stone had chased the soldiers across the park in connection with a drugs feud and, as retaliation, he himself had been murdered, along with Boyd. Kenton had read of similar drug-related killings in South London.
But Lowry remained unconvinced.
‘Why not?’
‘A flake pothead like Stone chasing a pair of six-foot soldiers across town? What’s the worst he’d do if he caught them – give them a blowback?’
‘What if he was armed? Stone had a gun – he pulled an armed robbery.’
‘No.’ Lowry refused to be swayed. ‘Derek Stone couldn’t run for a bus, let alone up and down Castle Park. Whoever it was those boys were scarpering from, it wasn’t some stoner who would’ve tripped on his shoelace before getting to the end of the high street. Forget that theory for now.’ Lowry peeked through the glass panel of the door at the bruised and unshaven Philpott. ‘Let’s see how this man trips up.’ He pushed the door open.
As they entered the interview room, Lowry turned to Kenton and pointedly said, ‘Pond’s story figures – very useful; we’re a step closer.’
‘What’s that you said about Pond?’ Philpott said.
‘I’m sorry,’ Lowry said, pulling up a chair, ‘I wasn’t talking to you.’
Philpott didn’t pursue it, but Lowry knew a loose line like that would play on his mind. Tony Pond was higher up the food chain than he was, and therefore more valuable to the police. Philpott watched Kenton writing something in his notebook.
‘All right, I did pick up some gear from the Greenstead Estate. What of it?’
‘Who tipped you off to it?’
‘Derek Stone.’
‘Ah, yes, Mr Stone. We’ll get to him in a minute.’
Lowry might not reckon on Philpott as a murderer but he wouldn’t put turning over a post office past him.
‘Now, let’s start from the beginning. Saturday just gone. New Year’s Day.’
Philpott sighed and reached for Lowry’s cigarettes. His eyes were glassy, and he had a tendency to flinch, almost a tic; Lowry’d not noticed it before. ‘Okay, okay. Saturday morning, I bowl along to Beaumont Terrace.’
‘With Derek Stone?’ Kenton asked sharply.
‘Nah,’ Philpott said, not looking at Kenton. ‘I’d not seen Del since the night before.’
‘Was he there already?’
‘Yeah – if you let me talk, I’ll bleedin’ tell you, won’t I?’ He dragged on the cigarette contemptuously. ‘I got there, and Del and the couriers – the guys who brought it in – were all there.’
‘Just them?’
‘Yeah – three of them, sitting round the kitchen table, bored. The two lads were anxious, waiting to be paid off. There’d obviously been a fuck-up of some kind.’
Lowry slid photos of Cowley and Boyd towards Philpott, who grunted in recognition.
‘So how long did you stay?’ Kenton asked.
‘I told you already, all I wanted was my gear, for personal use . . . but they wouldn’t let me have it first off. I could tell they were on the verge of taking a dip themselves, so I twisted their arm, like, an’ we had a line. They loosened up a bit after that, so I chucked them a twenty and took my lot.’
‘What happened next?’
‘Things began to liven up. We all went out to the Rose and Crown for a quick pint, and then I left ’em to it and shot off up the town centre.’
‘And?’
‘That’s it. Enda story. They were off their nuts, and I was pretty perky myself.’ The man’s eyes were darting everywhere; Lowry detected anxiety. ‘Can I go now?’ Lowry wondered if he was on a comedown.
‘Going back to the house: when you first entered, how was the mood?’
‘“How was the mood?” What sort of gay question’s that?’
Lowry stepped up to the table. ‘I mean, Jamie, how were they? On edge? You knew the two men were the couriers, and they were still there. Did that not strike you as odd?’
‘How the fuck do I know what they were doing there?’ The swelling round Philpott’s cheek squeezed his eye shut when he raised his voice.
‘Have a guess?’
‘Waiting for Father Christmas? The Easter Bunny?’ He eased his chair back from the table. ‘But I’d imagine they might be waiting to get paid so they could bugger off? Wouldn’t you?’
Lowry had had enough. Why on earth Sparks had let this eel continue to slip and slide around them and the town all this time was beyond him. But Philpott’s time was coming to an end. He just wanted to circle him once more before springing the post-office robbery on him.
‘Did you try to sell speed to Quinn?’ Kenton asked.
‘ . . . No.’
‘But you went in the pub, with the intent of selling?’
‘Eh? Why d’you say that? I went round there to get my own wrap, and that was all.’
‘How do we know what you bought? You might be dealing,’ Lowry said.
‘Leave it out.’ He snatched up the Player’s irritably. ‘Besides, I still got it on me.’
&nb
sp; Philpott chucked the cellophane bundle on the table. Lowry picked up the wrap and tossed it in his hand. There was more than a few nights’ personal use here, by his reckoning. What was he doing, going for a stroll in the park with a dog, with this on him? He had to be on it still; his mind was still under the influence of the drug; he wasn’t thinking straight. And, given however much he had in his system now was making him as irritating as hell, it didn’t take a genius to figure how insufferable he’d have been on Saturday night when he was completely wired. And it wouldn’t take much to provoke someone into laying the little bastard out, let alone a lunk like Quinn . . .
‘Why bunk out of the hospital?’ he asked finally.
‘Why—?’
‘Someone out to get you?’ Kenton reasoned.
‘Fuck off, Gaylord.’
Offended, Kenton looked at Lowry, willing him to react. Lowry sighed. ‘As you know, two people were murdered in Beaumont Terrace on Sunday night, in the very house you’d visited. So –’ he leaned forward and, with a clenched fist, jabbed a prominent index knuckle into Philpott’s worn forehead; the villain jolted back in surprise and pain – ‘can’t you get it into that thick head of yours that doing a bunk like that would make you the prime suspect?’
‘Wha—?!’ the man bleated, rubbing his head in surprise and shock. ‘I was – shit, that hurt – I was round my old dear’s! If I was a murderer on the run, I reckon I’d’ve gone a bit further than bleedin’ Tiptree! Where’s Sparks? He’d not let you shove me about like this—’
‘I think Sparks would be more than happy to shove you about himself, given you robbed the Mersea post office on 27 December with Derek Stone.’
‘Wha—? How?’ He appeared genuinely startled.
‘Oh, come on, Jamie.’
Lowry was about to tap him on the forehead again but was distracted by an urgent-sounding rap on the door.
‘Right.’ He turned to Kenton. ‘Get a blow-by-blow account of where he was the week between Christmas and New Year.’ There was something about this creep that made Lowry uneasy, but he was too wound up to think clearly now, so he just added, ‘And Jamie, think about it – the sentence for armed robbery versus the sentence for armed robbery and murder.’
He moved across the room and edged the door open to greet an excited PC.
‘A car, sir; we’ve found a car!’
-47-
1.45 p.m., Wednesday, Hythe Hill, New Town, near Artillery Street
A blue Ford Cortina sat amidst snow-crowned builders’ debris on a patch of wasteland across from Artillery Street. A skimpily dressed girl of seventeen or so with peroxide-blond hair stood next to the car with a WPC. An icy wind flapped a torn bag of cement; you couldn’t tell whether the area was up for development or had been abandoned for good.
‘This is Kerry, sir; works in the salon. Remembers the man in the flat above asking where he could park a car.’
‘The man who lived there didn’t know where to park his car?’
‘He didn’t own the car, sir; it was for his friend.’
Lowry looked at the girl, who was shivering. She managed a smile. ‘When was this?’
‘Between Christmas and New Year.’
‘Did you get a look at his friend?’
She nodded her head emphatically. ‘Yeah, was the winda cleaner from the week before.’
‘Are you sure? What did the window cleaner look like?’
‘Tanned, blond hair; untidy – could do with a trim.’
The car, a blue ’76 Cortina with a vinyl roof just visible under an inch of snow, had seen better days, and looked quite at home next to a rusting cement mixer. The vehicle was unlocked.
Lowry slipped into the passenger side. The seat was pushed halfway back. The inside of the vehicle, though grubby, seemed free of any trace of its occupants. He opened the glove box, and found a post-office cloth bag holding a bundle of used notes. He thumbed through the cash: one hundred quid . . . and the boot popped open behind him. He stretched his arm across to the driver’s seat; it was slid back further than the passenger seat, suggesting that a taller man than Stone, who was of average height, had been at the wheel.
‘Guv! Guv!’ The WPC was at the door. Lowry turned, the low sun causing him to blink. ‘Come and have a look at this.’
On the rim of the boot was what was unmistakably a blood smear, dried to dark brown around the latch.
‘Nothing else in there apart from a few strands of straw or hay.’
Lowry leaned into the boot. It smelt damp. He removed a glove and dabbed the dark carpet. Wet. He smelt his fingers.
‘Blood?’
‘Seawater. And that’s not hay, it’s salt marsh.’
2 p.m., Balkerne Gardens
Chief Sparks walked briskly past Jumbo, a lofty Victorian water tower and one of the landmarks of Colchester, towards the Balkerne Gate. He had heard Lowry out but, having already put two and two together, he was keen to talk to Brigadier Lane, so had put the call in to Flagstaff House. He was determined to be more proactive and not rely so much on those below him in the pecking order. Not that he didn’t trust Lowry – he did – but Lowry could be ponderously slow at times and there were some things only he could deal with: the Brigadier, for one.
Lane had suggested they meet in a pub called the Hole in the Wall: a dank, dingy affair next to the Balkerne Gate. It was allegedly the oldest pub in Colchester and, as the name suggested, was built into the ancient city wall. Sparks entered and saw Lane already at the bar, scrutinizing the brandy selection. The view of his profile afforded his companion the full splendour of his huge beard. Sparks thought it repellent for a man to have such a quantity of facial hair; it couldn’t be hygienic.
The two men exchanged greetings.
‘I’m surprised you suggested this venue. Aren’t you worried about being seen fraternizing with the police by the rank and file?’
‘You won’t catch the men in here.’
‘Oh?’ Sparks looked around the bar. The clientele included a kid wearing a studded dog collar, a girl with pink hair chatting to an old bloke in a homburg, and two men sitting in the corner, holding hands. Shakin’ Stevens crackled on the jukebox. ‘Why not?’
‘It’s a gay bar.’
The police chief raised his eyebrows. He caught the eye of the barman, a plump fellow in a bow tie, and grinned in embarrassment.
‘You’re kidding!’ he hissed in the soldier’s ear as soon as the barman turned away. If there was one thing that unsettled him more than women, it was poofs.
‘Yes, I’m kidding,’ Lane said wryly. ‘This is an officers’ pub. The easiest way to deter the men from coming in here is to tell them it’s frequented by homosexuals. Then one can drink in peace.’
‘I see,’ Sparks acknowledged. ‘But this doesn’t seem classy enough for your officers.’ Though one of the town’s oldest pubs, it had always attracted the sort of crowd Lowry would call ‘alternative’; to Sparks’s mind, they were freaks.
‘I know what you mean, but the clientele are harmless – too obsessed with hair dye and music to care about anything else. But it serves jolly good ale, and this isn’t the only one – there’s also a bar on Queen Street, but I thought it best not to meet you there – a little too close to home, no?’ Lane took in a nostril of brandy and frowned before chugging it back. ‘With the one hand, we actively dissuade the men from certain pubs, and with the other, we pin a list of the same pubs in the officers’ mess. Keep the two classes apart and everyone’s happy.’
‘Segregation – good idea,’ Sparks said. ‘After all, it works in South Africa.’
‘Exactly,’ Lane confirmed.
As if to prove the point, the two men began an animated discussion about Sunday night’s fight. But although they were jovial, there were undercurrents; they discussed tactics but they both knew full well the army had taken a beating because one of their best fighters was dead. And while Sparks had been evasive with Lowry, he knew the writing was on the wall – there
was a drugs scandal developing and the military were in the frame, as much as he’d prefer to think otherwise.
‘I’ll come straight to the point, John.’ Sparks drew heavily on one of the brigadier’s panatellas. ‘There’s a possibility those two boys were mixed up in a drugs deal.’
Brigadier Lane looked dead ahead at the optics, his right eye twitching ever so slightly. ‘Preposterous,’ he blustered, causing spittle to catch on his beard. Sparks waited for him to continue, but the veteran soldier failed to elaborate.
Stubborn bastard, the chief thought. ‘I’m afraid things are pointing that way,’ he continued. ‘Don’t take it personally – they’re just kids. You’ve got to remember that, regardless of his uniform, the dead lad was – what? Nineteen?’
‘Eighteen,’ Lane said quietly. ‘Listen here, Sparks: there are no drugs in Colchester barracks.’ The small patch of hairless flesh visible on the brigadier’s cheeks had turned puce. For a moment, Sparks thought Lane was going to punch him. Let him try: the military man was overweight and out of condition.
‘Instead of huffing and puffing, Lane, you might try and help us with our inquiries. Produce the other lad, eh?’
‘Where’s your flaming evidence?’ the brigadier boomed, ignoring the request.
‘Your lads were seen in conversation with a shady individual well known to us. They were asking after two men who were selling drugs. An hour later, one of your men falls to his death in Castle Park. Two days later, one of the men they’re looking for has his throat slit. I think that’s good cause for you to be concerned, don’t you?’
‘I know nothing!’ Lane’s anger, Sparks thought, was not directed at him but at his own ignorance at what may have been going on. He touched the soldier lightly on the elbow.
‘I’m not suggesting you do, but the sooner we get to the bottom of this, the better for both of us, eh?’ Sparks unfolded a piece of paper and placed it next to the tin ashtray. ‘Is this a phone number? We think it may be a military line.’
Lane blinked and picked it up. ‘It could be an old field line,’ he said.