Blackwater (DI Nick Lowry) (12 page)

Monday, 3 January, 1983

-22-

8.15 a.m., Monday, Maldon Road, West Colchester

‘Have a great day, Matt.’

Lowry’s son did not reply, nor lift his gaze from the Saab footwell. It was too dark to make out the boy’s expression, but it didn’t take a CID inspector to deduce that the lad was not as keen to be dropped at his friend’s house as he had been when it was first suggested, before the weekend. It was back to school tomorrow, and Nick thought Matthew would enjoy some company of his own age, having so far spent most of the break in his bedroom or with his grandparents.

‘Why do you have to leave me here so early?’ he complained.

‘I need to get to work. Sorry, Matt.’

‘You’re always at work.’

‘Busy time of year, I’m afraid.’

‘And Mum’s always in bed.’

Lowry felt a pang of guilt. Jacqui had returned to bed yesterday as soon as he and Kenton had shot off to Mersea, leaving Matthew to his own devices all day. Okay, so she’d been at Trish’s after the attack . . . but had she really needed to stay out that late? He glanced at his son, who was fiddling with his duffel bag. He and Jacqui had to talk; he couldn’t allow things to lumber on like this – he knew this was a symptom of something far more complicated. He replayed her reaction when he had pulled her to her feet in the street, there in front of half of Queen Street. He’d let things slide for too long. And, at the very back of his mind, he wondered why it had been Jacqui, out of the four friends, who had been singled out.

Lowry returned to the present. ‘Have a great day, mate,’ he called, realizing too late he’d repeated himself.

Matthew grunted and forced the heavy door of the Saab open and climbed out.

‘Matt . . .’ Lowry reached across but the car door slammed on him. He sat and watched the boy tramp, head down, bag weighing heavier on his shoulder than it really should, towards the detached house of his best friend. It saddened him to see his boy start the new year this way; he had thought getting the boy to pack a football in his duffle bag would get him in the spirit. When Lowry was young, each year had given him the chance to excel in yet another sport, and there was the added bonus that it got him out of the house, away from the screaming and shouting. He should spend more time with Matt. Maybe he could take him birdwatching? He held out little hope that Jacqui would get into it, but his son might. He swung the car round clumsily and made for Artillery Street.

Lowry returned to Stone’s flat for a second look alone, undisturbed, before Forensics arrived at nine, pulling on some gloves as he entered. The living-room curtains had been drawn and pale winter light fell on an array of throws and rugs which looked Middle Eastern. The room looked bleaker by day than it had under artificial light, despite the various ethnic knick-knacks and cushions. It was musty and smelt of stale cigarettes. Lowry didn’t linger, passing instead into the main bedroom. Curled photographs on a cheap dressing table showed a young, uniformed Derek Stone with short back and sides – a far cry from the corpse in the Greenstead bathroom with his shoulder-length permed hair and tracksuit. On the wall above the dressing table was a creased poster of Chet Baker and Stan Getz: musicians from another era. As a proud photo from his sprucer days indicated, Stone was a military bandsman. His personal effects were slight: records scattered on the floor, an ashtray bursting with roaches, rizla papers, matches, empty Scotch bottles. However, the chest of drawers could have belonged to another individual entirely with its neat piles of crisply folded T-shirts and jumpers. Even the socks and underwear looked as if they’d seen an iron. That’s the army for you, Lowry thought.

He moved across to the bed – a camp bed, also impressively neat, the
Jaws
duvet cover pulled taut – and knelt down beside it, sliding the albums on the floor to one side. He found a rucksack and, behind that, a shoebox, which he pulled out. Inside were nylon stockings. He removed a handful to reveal a revolver, a semi-automatic and some cartridges. Still wearing gloves, he examined the revolver: a Webley; without a doubt, it was an ex-army service revolver. The other weapon, the Browning, too. He replaced the guns underneath the stockings and returned the box to its hiding place behind the rucksack.

The second bedroom was empty but for a bare mattress and a limp Rucanor sports bag. Lowry peeked inside but found nothing. There was a Spurs mug by the mattress. He picked it up and sniffed: tea. A cuppa with milk could grow mould within a week – at a guess, this was three, four, maybe five days old.

He returned to the main living space. The room’s stuffy odour was cloying. Instinctively, he made for the large windows that looked out on to the street, but he doubted they’d been opened since the summer, and he wasn’t going to open them now. They were badly smeared from the outside, as though someone had started cleaning them but given up halfway. It was time for him to get going. He would leave the firearms for Forensics to discover. There was nothing unusual in finding revolvers such as a Webley in the homes of ex-servicemen, though, more typically, they’d be in a display cabinet rather than under the bed, beneath ladies’ undergarments and alongside live ammo.

9.30 a.m., Queen Street HQ

The murders on the Greenstead Estate had put a spin on the Bank Holiday – bringing all the senior members of the force in.

‘
Ex
-army, you say?’ Merrydown’s stress on the ‘ex’ was loud and clipped, causing Sergeant Granger to wince as he placed a coffee in front of her. Granger was supremely hungover – Sparks even caught a whiff of alcohol from across the desk – having got drunk after the fight. The ageing sergeant, having been forced out of retirement and back into the ring, received a severe hiding from a younger, fitter opponent, and chose to obliterate the experience in the Grenadier pub, which always had a lock-in after such events. Fortunately, Merrydown seemed not to notice – perhaps that fine Roman nose of hers filtered out unpleasant aromas emanating from the riff-raff.

‘Yes, ma’am, he was made redundant in 1980,’ Lowry, sitting next to her, answered.

Merrydown twitched her nose.

Sparks reached across the desk to grab his coffee. ‘Yes, it’s true, the army do give redundancies. There are fifteen regiments in Colchester, and each has a band. But the army’s cutting back; there’s little use for them. Other than for display purposes and doubling as stretcher bearers in conflict, they’re not up to much; they’ve spent more time standing in for striking dustman and the like during the last decade than playing music.’

Lowry looked at him doubtfully. Sparks had a tendency to show off his dubious knowledge of the military in front of the ACC.

But it seemed to be enough to impress Merrydown, who said, ‘Hmm, really? Well, it’s a relief, I suppose, given you already have one dead
active
soldier on your hands.’

Lowry went on to give details of the scene at the Greenstead house: the traces of drugs in the kitchen, the lack of a murder weapon. The chief placed his rancid coffee back on his desk and winced in disgust as Granger exited the office. His trusty batman had been intoxicated even before he’d turned up to the boxing match last night, and, the state he was in now, he couldn’t even make a decent coffee. He turned to the assistant chief constable, who held her coffee cup affectedly, her little finger out as she listened intently to Lowry. Sparks wondered about her: posh and clever, she was always one step ahead of him. He never knew what she was thinking. The kohl eyeliner, which on Saturday he’d found alluring and exotic, like someone in an advert for Turkish Delight, only added to her mystery. He hadn’t reached such a senior rank without having a certain acumen in judging human nature, but the ACC unnerved him.

‘So, Stephen, what do you think?’ she asked.

‘A third man was at the house, as there were three plates out,’ Sparks said, catching on quickly. ‘And the evidence would indicate that the dead men knew their attacker – there was no sign of a struggle.’

‘Well, get on it.’ Merrydown crossed her legs, running her hands down a navy skirt, and sighed. ‘A drug-related double murder is the last thing we need.’

‘Drug-
fuelled
, without a doubt,’ corrected Sparks, reaching for his cigarettes, ‘but not necessarily drug-
related
– that’s different. Colchester doesn’t have a drug problem.’

Lowry glanced at him in that sceptical way he always did whenever he made a bold statement.

‘Stephen, don’t be so defensive. You know as well as I do that the county is awash with amphetamines.’

‘Awash? I know they’re back, but we’ve just carried out a full clean-up operation the length of the Colne. Successful raids of barges moored at Wivenhoe and Rowhedge have closed down avenues into town and the university.’

‘I’m not interested in floating hippies dispensing pot to students,’ Merrydown said sharply. ‘This is a different matter altogether.’

It was no use him interjecting. Merrydown had turned her attention back to Lowry and was now patronizing him with well-worn facts about speed now being the drug of choice. Since the recession had hit, use of amphetamines had been on the up: you got more for your quid and the buzz lasted longer than cocaine, which had fallen out of favour as the middle classes tightened their belts. And since amphetamines had been banned on prescription in the US only two years ago, there was plenty of stuff still flying around among chemists in the know. Speed had always been here, to a degree, even in the police force, until six or seven years ago. Sparks had no need of it himself, but had known it got his staff through shifts back then, and hadn’t questioned it. After all, his father had been in the Battle of Britain and had always maintained that the RAF only won because our boys had a better grade of whizz than the Luftwaffe.

‘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 second-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.