Blackwater (DI Nick Lowry) (15 page)

-29-

2.30 p.m., Monday, Abbey Fields, Colchester

Lowry knew enough of the military police routine to know that if he waited around in the right place for long enough he could snag the captain of the Red Caps. Screened by poplar leaves in the warmer months, the grey Victorian headquarters, usually so severe, was starkly revealed by the winter landscape. And it wasn’t just the trees that were bare; the entire military district seemed deserted. The wide open playing fields, usually fraught with activity, with red-faced corporals hollering as panting new recruits jogged around the perimeter, lay empty. Only a solitary runner could be seen, in the middle distance, sprinting across crisp grass, through the line of leafless poplars. Lowry had trained on these fields many times, hence his familiarity with the area.

He’d parked close to Flagstaff House, the austere military police HQ, and, although he’d been there only ten minutes, it felt longer. He was used to long stints of sitting in the car, but not without cigarettes. After his early relapse, he was determined to give kicking the habit another shot. But if his irascible commander was a test of will – one that he’d failed so easily – it was nothing compared to a January afternoon alone in the car as the light began to fade. The thought of nicotine, and the comforting glow of a cigarette end, nagged at his patience. He forced his mind instead to think about amphetamines and the traces of speed found on the Greenstead Estate.

The toxicology report had confirmed high levels of the drug compound in the bloodstream of the two dead men. In Lowry’s experience, the one reliable thing about drugs was that if you took a particular substance – speed, say – you knew how it would make you feel. Take too much of something and you overdosed, but, in general, if you knew what you were taking, then the outcome was predictable. Lowry’s own tender years of popping pills and bopping along to the Small Faces in dingy local clubs attested to this. However, the effects of this unknown cocktail seemed dangerously unpredictable. Could it really send people crazy and turn them into homicidal maniacs, as Sparks was inferring? Lowry remembered rumours from the Vietnam War, about the Americans having used experimental drugs on troops to turn their men into fearless killing machines. But they was far-fetched and unsubstantiated . . .

Just as Lowry’s feet were beginning to numb in the footwell of the Saab, Oldham materialized between the Doric columns framing the entrance to Flagstaff House. He pattered down the steps and headed unwittingly towards Lowry’s parked car. Right, sonny Jim, Lowry thought, it’s time we turned the tables.

Waiting until Oldham was practically upon him, he sprung the door open forcefully, almost hobbling the military man.

‘Captain Oldham, I beg your pardon. Nearly had you there!’

‘Detective Inspector Lowry.’ Oldham’s eyebrows converged angrily beneath his peaked cap. ‘You nearly had my kneecap. What are you doing here, anyhow?’

Lowry pulled his donkey jacket tighter as he stood tall against Oldham. ‘I’m after the Beard,’ he lied.

‘Oh, about the boxing. Congratulations on your victory, by the way.’ Oldham wasn’t remotely interested in the bouts and forbade any of his own command to take part; he would know about last night’s result, but probably wasn’t aware of Lowry’s retirement.

‘It’s not about that, actually.’

‘Oh?’ Oldham straightened his cap.

‘The soldier who survived the fall – Private Jones – appears to be bound for the South Atlantic, which is a nuisance.’ Lowry tutted. ‘He’s the key witness. If there’s to be an inquiry, it’ll be compromised. I’m here to outline the ramifications to the brigadier.’

‘An inquiry? Wasn’t it an accident?’

‘Yes, but that argy-bargy in the town the other night has escalated the situation. But I’m sure it’s not your concern,’ Lowry added dismissively. He paused for it to sink in, watching for a reaction, but Oldham gave nothing away, so he pressed on. ‘Seeing as you’re here, perhaps you might help with another inquiry?’

The Red Cap commander was reluctant to speak and looked to be considering making an excuse. Lowry observed his fine, almost Slavic features and olive complexion and wondered at his background. Balkans, perhaps . . .

He tried another tack: ‘It would certainly placate Sparks if you could help with our other problem.’

‘Of course.’ Oldham exhaled deeply, a cloud of condensation visible in the air. ‘What is it?’

‘I’m after information pertaining to an ex-bandsman, a Lance Corporal Stone, made redundant in 1980; he played the
—
’

‘I’m sorry,’ he interrupted, relief in his voice. ‘Once someone’s out of the army, there’s nothing I can help you with. There are simply thousands of ex-serviceman that pass through Colchester.’

‘Of course, but pointing me in the direction of the dead man’s regiment, with a word from you to cooperate, might speed things along.’

‘Dead, you say?’

‘Throat slit from ear to ear.’ Lowry usually kept such information to himself, but Oldham was unlikely to tell the
Gazette
, and a few honest details might just prompt him to cooperate.

‘What was his regiment?’

Lowry pulled out his notebook and gave the captain all the information he had. Oldham’s tone changed, and he adopted a helpful air, describing to Lowry exactly where he should go. He even explained the rationale for the cutbacks in military bands and why Stone’s job had been axed; the resources required for the Falklands had resulted in job losses on the military fringe (Lowry already knew this from Sparks, of course, but feigned interest). He jotted down the regiment details with a blunt pencil and thanked the captain. As he opened the Saab door, he felt Oldham touch him lightly on the elbow.

‘The accident at Castle Park – I’m surprised that an inquiry is to be held. You think it suspicious?’ he asked, with what appeared to be genuine concern.

‘We think it was an accident,’ replied Lowry, ‘but it would be helpful to find all of those involved, to see if they’re in any way responsible for the mayhem on Saturday night.’

‘I see. I’m sorry about Private Jones, then; his unavailability certainly doesn’t help matters.’ Oldham gave Lowry a grave nod of farewell before moving off at a fast clip.

2.35 p.m., Queen Street

Sparks strode back up the road. He’d been to the fruit-and-veg stall at the bottom of the road, opposite the Mersea roundabout. He didn’t have to go and buy fruit – the canteen was adequate – but, after a raft of meetings, he’d felt suffocated up there in his garret. Sparks certainly prided himself on loving his job, but there were aspects he found stifling. Meetings and paperwork got to him, the more so when progress was slow and answers were lacking, as they had been today. But he’d decided that a more hands-on approach would remedy that. Get out from behind the desk and get stuck in, that was his plan. Lord knows they needed an extra pair of hands and a brain as sharp as his. Plus, he loved these streets.

Already he felt better for some air. He pulled a Granny Smith from its paper bag and demolished it quickly. He’d say this for Colchester: the fresh produce was superb, provided you stuck to the local independent shops that thrived here. Keeping a sound constitution was a passion of his. He might drink like a fish, but he ate healthily and heartily, and the busier he was, the hungrier he grew.

And he loved to be busy. For him, a certain level of crime was desirable and necessary; it allowed him to exert authority and to justify the existence of his Queen Street HQ. So long, that is, as they got results. Merrydown’s words – ‘worst in the county’ – played constantly on the periphery of his mind. And this latest crisis – potentially lethal drugs – was the last thing he wanted on his watch. As the day wore on, and the facts sank in, he’d started to fret about the real possibility of drugs coming through West Mersea. Had he been too complacent? There’d been no real issue with class-A drugs since the 1970s. Then, along came the recession and the decline in the use of cocaine, and as a result the coastguard was less active. Had they taken their eye off the ball?

Ahead of him in the street was the blonde WPC, the one he’d assigned to help Lowry.

‘Constable!’ he called. She turned, her nose red with cold.

‘Sir.’

‘Good to see you at the fight last night,’ he remarked. ‘Some say women have no place ringside, but not me. If you’re man enough to be on the force, then why not?’

‘How about inside the ring, sir?’

Sparks studied her face for clues as to whether this was a joke, but she remained staring dead ahead. He found her inscrutable, just like Merrydown. What was it with women in the police? Why were they so bloody difficult? ‘Well, this is the 1980s – anything is possible,’ he said, in a mildly patronizing tone, eager to change the subject. ‘So, how are you finding rubbing shoulders with CID?’

Her eyes remained stony as she responded. ‘I’ve just interviewed Private Jones’s alibi – the girl he claimed both he and Daley were in the pub with on New Year’s Eve, before the accident.’ She stopped on the station steps. ‘She says they were meeting people from out of town – London, maybe. To do what, she didn’t know.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘That’s what she said.’

Sparks smiled. If folk from outside Colchester were responsible for Private Daley’s death, then the feud between squaddies and locals was over, and his life became more manageable. Excellent. ‘After you,’ he said jovially, ushering the woman into the station. He’d call the Beard straight away. It was progress of a kind.

-30-

2.55 p.m., Monday, Colchester High Street

Lowry sat in the Saab outside the George Hotel, trying to make himself heard by Sparks over the radio. The line wasn’t great.

‘I said, I’ve just seen Derek Stone’s old sergeant,’ he repeated. ‘And now I’m outside the George to check out Pond’s story about the scuffle outside.’

‘All right. I was just saying – hold on.’ There was a thud, and a burst of muffled conversation. ‘
What? You what?
Lowry, I have to go – the Beard is raging down the phone.’ And with that Sparks snapped off, leaving only a static hum.

Lowry wanted to check the George’s hotel register and talk to the staff. It was a long shot, but maybe these out-of-towners had stayed there overnight, or at least stopped in for a drink. Meanwhile, he had a lead on Lance Corporal Derek Stone. The regimental sergeant major of Stone’s old battalion had been very helpful, thanks to Oldham having a word. Stone had found a new job of sorts, as resident musician at the Candyman, a jazz snug on Sheregate Steps. The seedy little bar built into the old Roman wall on the south side of town was not far away but wouldn’t be open for some time yet.

He entered the gloomy foyer and approached the front desk.

*

‘New Year’s Eve, you say?’ The dusty, waistcoated concierge flicked through the register. Thick-rimmed Eric Morecambe spectacles slid down the bridge of his nose, catching on bulbous, veined nostrils. ‘Three fellas? Together?’

Lowry realized how unlikely this sounded. ‘They may not have stayed over – perhaps just used the bar?’ That, too, sounded improbable, given it was New Year’s Eve and the George was hardly a kicking nightspot.

The old man frowned and pushed back his glasses. Lowry was sure he was the same concierge who’d been on the desk when he and Jacqui had spent their wedding night here ten years ago, before flying off to Spain for their honeymoon. The musty decor hadn’t changed either.

The concierge sighed and shrugged. ‘It was New Year’s weekend. We were fully booked.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Lowry resignedly, already assuming this line of inquiry was hopeless. He surveyed the dismal array of decorations; the tired rows of tinsel did little to lift the gloom of the lung-red wallpaper and drab maroon carpet.

‘The rooms are mainly booked out to couples – men and women. Although there was –’ he looked a little embarrassed – ‘one middle-aged gentleman down from Norwich with his “son”.’

Lowry rolled his eyes. ‘No, forget it. Thanks.’ He turned to go.

‘Shame about those two young lads at the castle,’ the old man croaked.

‘Yes . . .’ Lowry swung round. ‘Wait – you didn’t happen to see them, did you?’ Uniform had spent the last two days sweeping the high street for witnesses. He’d strangle someone if they’d missed the George.

‘Yes, I saw them. There was an argument going on in the street when I finished me shift that night. Two young lads with crewcuts and a dapper gent. Recognized the blond lad in the
Gazette
.’

‘Did you not tell the police?’

‘Been off the last two days. Thought nothing of it. Only saw the paper today, like.’

‘Okay,’ Lowry said calmly. ‘I don’t suppose you remember what the man they were talking to looked like?’

‘As a matter of fact, I do. He had a fancy jacket and a handlebar moustache. These two young fellas were shouting at him.’

‘What about?’

‘Didn’t stop to listen. Figured it was none of my business. But then the dapper gent, seems he’d had enough, and I saw him jab the blond one in the chest, like that.’ And he mimicked a feeble prod with his index finger.

‘And then what?’

‘There was a kerfuffle, and some other fellas – big lads – came along, so the two soldiers scarpered. Just like that.’ He clicked dry fingers.

‘Did you get a look at the others?’

‘Nah. I didn’t hang around, like. I just wanted to get home for me tea.’

‘What time was this?’

‘About seven.’

Lowry tapped his pencil against his notebook. ‘When you say a “fancy jacket” – what do you mean? An overcoat?’

‘No, a jacket. Piping down the lapels, like him off the telly.’

‘Who? Doctor Who?’

‘No . . .’ The man’s face creased with the effort of trying to recall. ‘No, he were in something else first . . . Oh, can’t remember that neither. This other one, I couldn’t understand a word of it; me and the wife gave up on it.’

Lowry pondered for a second. ‘
The Prisoner
?’

‘Aye, that were it.’

There was only one man who dressed like that in Colchester.

‘And one more thing – how many big fellas were there?’

‘Three.’

He thanked the man for his time, and left the hotel. Before heading back to Queen Street he paused to consider two things. The first was curious and troubling. In his mind’s eye, the two soldiers had been pursued by a gang – perhaps four or five men. But the witness claimed there had only been three men. Why run? Would they not stand and fight? The second was more a matter of annoyance: the man in the suit with the piping sounded very much like the man who’d tipped him off in the first place. Tony Pond.

3 p.m.,The Fingringhoe Fox, Fingringhoe, five miles south of Colchester

What the hell?
What the fucking hell?
That was all Felix could think as he sat alone at the bar of the almost deserted pub. He could barely speak, nor stop his fingers from shaking; he sat with his hands firmly clasped, one over the other on the bar. He removed his left hand slowly to pick up his pint and straight away his right began to tremble as though he had the DTs. Plus, there were cuts and blood all over both hands. Blasted brambles. He was in the right place now, though; the phone box was there, just over the road. He drained his glass.

‘Another one, please.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Eh?’ He looked up to see the round, kindly face of the landlady.

‘I mean, you look washed out,’ she clucked. ‘A good night’s sleep is what you need.’

He scanned the bar furtively. There was only an old duffer at the far end and a dog, flat out on the floor under the bar stool. Keep it together, he said to himself. ‘Nah, I’m fine for one more. And another pack of Monster Munch.’

‘Another pack?’ She frowned.

In front of him were the twisted remains of three empty packets.
The biggest snack pennies can buy
. The TV ad flashed through his head. He was in the right place. Something was missing, but he
was
in Fingringhoe . . .

‘Yeah, one more, then I’ll be off.’ But off where? That’s right, to make the phone call. Gotta keep it together. That shit they’d taken – God knows what it was – it was giving him flashbacks. Flashbacks! You don’t get
them
from speed. This stuff had messed with his memory. He wasn’t even sure how long he’d been in the pub. One hour? Two? He did remember waking in the shack in Donyland Woods but was unclear on how he’d got there. And where was Jason? He had made it here on his own, having lost the others outside a curry house in Colchester. He shovelled a handful of crisps into his mouth. A curry. He’d kill for a curry right now. But that had been last night. Shouldn’t Jason be here by now? Where had he got to? Fucked if he knew. But he did know the time to call – that, at least, was written down for him; yes, that he did know.

‘There you go, luv,’ said the landlady, her brow creased with concern. He must look really rough. He glanced at the dog, which was now sniffing his feet, which he realized were covered in mud. The dog looked up at him. Its strange, floppy face, with flaps of skin hanging over a drooling jaw, was too unpleasant to countenance in Felix’s chemically unbalanced state. ‘Fuck off!’ he hissed. He absently scraped the mud off his shoes on to the bar stool as he suddenly recalled trekking through the woods last night to the abandoned shack. He clutched his head – what had happened to his train of thought? The woods – yes, that’s right, he remembered now – roaming around in the dark, off his knockers. The headache was coming back. He needed another line, to keep his focus; otherwise he’d go doolally. He finished the crisps and popped the bag.
The biggest snack pennies can buy
.
He started laughing.

3.15 p.m., Police Social Club, Queen Street

‘I am not a number, I am a free man?’ Kenton repeated.

Lowry had opened up the social, and he and Kenton sat alone in the basement bar, contemplating a large, sweaty pork pie that was under a Perspex dome. The question was how long it had been sitting there, basking in the warm glow of the sunken bar lighting. Neither man had eaten today and this was all there was to be had.

‘Indeed.’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘
The Prisoner
. I never watched it, but I know for a fact that the Prisoner never had a handlebar moustache.’ Lowry picked up his pint. ‘But Tony Pond does.’

‘But that’s the chap who tipped you off in the first place.’

‘Yes. He mentioned three men from out of town arguing with our boys, but omitted to say he’d been arguing with Jones and Daley himself.’

‘So, the argument he mentioned – did he say what it was about?’

Lowry considered his answer. ‘No. People like Pond only ever help by degrees, but he knows I’ll be back for more if necessary.’

‘Do you have a theory on what it might’ve been about?’

‘Directions to Castle Park?’ Lowry quipped, and reached for the pork pie. ‘No, no, not yet . . . Of course, when I tried calling Pond again just now, there was no answer.’

‘Hence a restorative pint.’ Kenton beamed.

‘And some lunch,’ Lowry said, attempting to divide the pork pie with a plastic knife. The utensil flexed uselessly. Kenton felt his appetite slide.

‘Rock hard; like those Paras, so we’re led to believe. Why didn’t they stand their ground and fight it out? These guys are famed for their fearlessness. You don’t expect them to leg it down the high street at the first sign of trouble.’

Kenton laughed softly as his boss continued to fight with the obstinate slab of pie, finally succeeding in slicing it. He was genuinely excited by the course of events and the gradually unfolding mystery, and hoped to have a hand in solving it.

‘Ah, there you are!’ came a familiar bellow. The chief’s sudden entrance caused Kenton to dissolve into hiccups. ‘Got time to lounge around, eh?’

‘It’s my lunch.’ Lowry spoke through a mouthful of pie.

‘It’s gone three. What’ve I told you about the importance of regular mealtimes?’ Sparks tutted. ‘Hmm, just time for a fast large one.’ He went behind the bar and reached up to the optics.

Kenton looked at Sparks, taking in his five o’clock shadow and the sprinkling of dandruff on his navy pullover. The chief turned, clutching his drink. He was smiling, but not in a friendly way, Kenton could tell, even though he didn’t know him well enough to gauge all his moods. Sparks drank heavily from the glass then clunked the tumbler carelessly on to the bar and wedged himself between Kenton and Lowry.

‘Now then, Nick. Please explain something to me. Exactly why did you advise the captain of the military police that we’re holding an inquiry into Private Daley’s death, when the idea has never so much as been raised? And given that we’re supposed to be working
with
the
military, not against? Of all the people to lie to, that stiff
—
’

‘It was that stiff’s office who fobbed us off about Jones’s whereabouts. You can bet they didn’t even check.’ He brushed crumbs from his palms. ‘They hold us accountable, yet don’t lift a finger to help.’

‘All the same, don’t go making stuff up that only complicates matters.’

Lowry seemed unperturbed by Sparks’s outburst and remained sitting stoically on the bar stool.

‘And get that fucking tooth fixed – you look like Bill Sikes.’

‘Err, don’t you mean Fagin, sir?’ Kenton suggested.

‘You trying to be funny?’

‘I can’t get an appointment,’ said Lowry, wearily tossing a pound note on the bar for the drinks and the pie. ‘Hardly surprising when half the town has spent the weekend fighting – there’s probably a queue the length of the high street for missing teeth. I assume you told the Beard that those lads at Castle Park weren’t chased by locals
—
’

Granger burst into the bar, making a beeline for Lowry and cutting him short.

‘Sorry to interrupt, sir –’ he gave a cursory nod to Sparks – ‘but the landlady at the Fingringhoe Fox has called asking for Detective Inspector Lowry. Says it’s urgent. There’s a man in her pub, early twenties, covered in blood and clearly on something.’