Blackwater (DI Nick Lowry) (19 page)

Standing in the pitch-black hallway, the answering machine blinked red at him from the telephone table. He remembered that the phone had rung earlier – West Mersea police, maybe? There were two messages. The first was the dentist. Could he come first thing tomorrow morning, at eight forty-five? There’d been a cancellation. Great. Next was a tired-sounding Trish. Tired and, yes, anxious. Hell, let her be anxious, the mess she’d led them into. He flicked the phone the V and followed his wife up to bed.

Tuesday, 4 January, 1983

-37-

6.15 a.m., Tuesday, Dutch Quarter, Colchester town centre

Frost sparkled on the roof of the Mini under the street lights’ weak glow as Trish Vane scraped away the ice on the windscreen. Cold shards flew off, catching her eye. God, how she loathed early shifts in winter; it would be at least another three months before she left for work in daylight on an early. No matter how long she’d slept, it still felt like going to work in the middle of the night. She couldn’t endure another year of this hell. Though she probably would.

The exhaust spluttered intermittently while the Mini’s feeble heater did its best to thaw out the car’s damp interior. ‘That’ll have to do,’ she said to herself, giving up on clearing the screen completely and jumping inside the car. Slamming the stick into reverse, she realized she hadn’t done the rear window. Sod it, she thought; there was nothing there to crash into. Flying out of the drive and roaring forward, she found she could still barely see and grabbed her scarf from the passenger seat and started rubbing frantically at the wet interior glass. Flicking the wipers on and over-revving, she clumsily knocked the gear stick into third, still clutching the scarf.

‘Jesus Christ, women drivers!’ said a hoarse voice behind her. Her heart froze, not unlike the crystals spraying before her eyes. ‘Keep driving, there’s a good girl,’ said the voice, and she felt something cold against the nape of her neck, which she could only imagine was the nose of a gun. Foot trembling on the clutch pedal, Trish drove the car timidly out of the back streets.

‘Where now?’ She had reached the junction on North Hill.

‘Wherever you’ve stashed it.’

‘Stashed what?’ Trish said this with conviction, but knew, somewhere within her, it had something to do with Saturday night. Christ, what on earth had she done?

9.15 a.m., Queen Street HQ

‘Nothing. A big fat zero.’ Sparks slammed the desk, sending a flutter through the pages of his morning report, which detailed the previous evening’s incidents and arrests. Kenton flinched in his peripheral vision, but the object of his outburst – Lowry – did not. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re playing at, having those berks poncing up and down the Blackwater in the middle of the night? I have to pay those blighters overtime!’

‘He might still be on the mainland, then,’ Lowry mumbled. He’d at least had his tooth fixed.

‘Might he?’

‘Both smugglers come from Brightlingsea. Cowley may have tried to get back there from Fingringhoe, across the channel. And from there
—
’

‘What, after killing his partner, Boyd? He’d still head home?’ Kenton asked.

‘We can’t be certain that he’d head there – or that he even killed Boyd and Stone, at this stage – but he was seen at the Fox, and Boyd’s mother said Cowley was simple, so
—
’

‘Well, let’s hope so,’ the chief said. ‘Clumsy to have lost him, in any case. That’s the second man you’ve lost in as many days,’ he remarked, casually this time. ‘Anyway, glad you got your tooth fixed before tonight.’

‘It’s only temporary.’ Lowry put his hand to his jaw, then asked, ‘Why, what’s happening tonight?’

‘Ladies’ night, remember, at the Queen’s Head?’

‘Not going.’

‘Course you are.’

‘I’m not. Is that all? I’ve a briefing to do, so if you don’t mind . . .’ Lowry rose to go.

‘You’re really not going? We always go together.’ Sparks was crestfallen. Something
really
must be up with Lowry; he knew it. Giving up boxing and smoking, and now the Lodge.

‘Not on a Tuesday night, I’m too busy. Besides, the food is awful there.’

Sparks pulled his creaking chair up to the desk. The food was poor, but so what? It was part of the tradition. He felt a twinge in his gut at the prospect of yet more rich seasonal fare. He stretched back on the chair to alleviate the grumblings in his stomach. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘toddle off to your briefing.’ They both turned to go. ‘Not you, Kenton. Wait here a sec.’

Sparks rubbed his abdomen – maybe he should skip tonight, too? – and stared down at his desk, a manila file catching his eye. ‘Oh, yes, Lowry, that reminds me – your dead German; the autopsy’s done. Stomach contents: turkey.’

Lowry, who was already at the door, asked, ‘Do Germans eat turkey over Christmas?’

-38-

9.30 a.m., Tuesday, Queen Street HQ

Lowry wandered back down to the main office. The Dodger had found nothing in the estuary, Felix Cowley was still at large, and all that was on Sparks’s mind was ladies’ night? God, that was the last thing he needed – he wanted Jacqui as far away from Sparks as possible. Besides, he had plans. There was a meeting of the Colchester ornithologists tonight, and a lecture on raptors; Doug Young, the ranger from East Mersea, had told him about it. But he was damned if he was about to share that with Sparks. He may as well announce he’d taken to wearing women’s underwear.

He put the autopsy report to one side on his desk – turkey or not, the German was low priority – and instead tried to focus on the briefing meeting and on coordinating resources to find Cowley. And on whether there was a connection between Boyd, Cowley, Stone and the now-elusive Pond. The garage that Boyd had worked at on the Clacton Road was one of Tony Pond’s concerns. Pond, Pond, Pond: he was always turning up, like a bad penny. It was about time Lowry tried to get hold of him again, find out what his game was. As he sat down and flicked through his tatty Rolodex, the phone trilled.

‘Yep.’ He scribbled the number of the garage on a Post-it note.

‘Detective Inspector Lowry?’ a silky, clipped voice asked.

‘Speaking.’

‘Merrydown here.’ The assistant chief constable. ‘I’m in town later this morning and I wondered if we might meet.’

‘Of course.’

‘Super. I’ll see you in the Old Library café at eleven.’ And she was gone. It was the first time she’d ever telephoned him and, unsurprisingly, he hadn’t recognized her voice – it had been so formal and polite; she had even omitted her Christian name, as a man would do. What could she want with him? Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. It was a nuisance, in any case – he wanted to get on to Pond, and it was already gone half nine, and he had a briefing . . .

-39-

10.15 a.m., Tuesday, Queen Street HQ

Kenton returned to the CID office with two coffees. Bizarrely, after Lowry had left the chief’s office, Sparks had unexpectedly asked the young DC whether he was free to attend a Masonic ladies’ evening. He even suggested Kenton take Gabriel, having seen the WPC in attendance at the fight. Kenton had declined, claiming truthfully the lack of appropriate attire and short notice, but he was nevertheless touched to have been asked and said next time, for sure. With Jane, imagine that! He placed one coffee before Lowry, who looked puzzled.

‘Thank you,’ Lowry said, taking his coffee. ‘Did Uniform have any joy looking for the car round Stone’s place?’

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.’