Blackwater (DI Nick Lowry) (31 page)

7.15 p.m., Queen Street HQ

Oldham had been released.

Jennings and Philpott now swallowed all the attention. The latter was raving in the furthest interview room, his voice echoing down the corridor. Lowry pulled the door shut and took a last look through the glass at Jennings. The man caught his eye. Wrapped in a blanket, his pale face was indignant and said, ‘I’m as good as you.’ And Lowry thought, Yes, you probably were; it was a shame his intelligence had not found a better outlet. Jennings had hidden all this time working under the Dodger, and Lowry wondered what drove a man like him to crime. Surely it was more than frustrated ambition? He couldn’t help but think that, if Jennings had had a more capable number two, he would have inflicted some major long-term damage and gone undetected for some time, above and beyond the blood of the last week. He could have got away with killing Freddie Cowley, too, probably, if it weren’t for Philpott’s insanity on Sunday night at Greenstead.

Lowry blew his nose; he felt the onset of a cold. He had business to attend to home, but Jacqui had just started a rota of nights; it would be the briefest of interludes – make sure Matt didn’t go to bed too late – with no time for a proper conversation. And he needed time to think how to approach the situation. But if he wanted to catch her before she left for work tonight, he’d have to leave Queen Street no later than eight.

Corporal Quinn was still in custody, and probably feeling abandoned now his chief had been freed. Lowry took advantage of all the commotion to slip down to the cells and run a scenario past him.

He presented Quinn with the facts as the police interpreted them: Daley, Jones, Quinn and Cowley had imported one hundred kilos of amphetamines from Germany. Freddie Cowley had arranged the deal. Quinn had avoided much of the trouble by being in the Glasshouse on New Year’s Eve for some minor offence (which had possibly saved his life; otherwise, it might have been him at the bottom of the wall at Castle Park), so, with less of the heat on him, Lowry hoped he might cooperate.

‘Patrick Jennings did not know who Freddie’s contacts were, this side of the channel; Freddie wouldn’t tell them, and so he was killed for protecting you lot. Admirable, don’t you think? But the question remains – Daley and Jones; who chased them?’ he asked as they sat alone in a cell.

‘I dunno,’ Quinn said. He looked tired.

‘The witnesses – one, the girl from the video shop; you know who I mean – said they were meeting people from out of town. Were they dealers? What was the plan? Where were they going to sell it?’

Quinn frowned. ‘There were no dealers. They were looking for those boys from Brightlingsea, you know that . . . and no plan, neither – it was just for us and our mates.’

Lowry didn’t believe it for one minute. There might have been no dealers, but he reckoned on some kind of distribution within the army – possibly nationwide, given the quantity. But there was one question he needed an answer to: the financing.

‘So, no money changed hands at Beaumont Terrace?’

‘No money was ever to change hands – we’d bought it outright, with our active-service bonus. The plan was to ship it halfway from Germany and get some local boys who knew the water to bring it in.’

‘So, if it’s just for you, why were two of your gang chased across town, ending in the death of one of you?’ Given the subsequent course of events, Lowry believed there had to be a connection.

Quinn scratched his cropped ginger scalp. ‘Freddie was staying with that scumbag, Stone – he should never have let him in. It was contained until then, but then Stone came into some money and wanted a piece of the action. We thought, why not? But he couldn’t keep it to himself and told that smartarse, Philpott. And then Stone kept asking about the deal,’ he continued. ‘Like you, he thought there was somebody else.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘He thought we were middlemen. After Felix and Boyd landed it, he thought we were going to sell it on . . . but Boyd was a day late – nobody knew where they’d got to – and then what happened happened at Castle Park.’

‘Okay, and who else would know? It wouldn’t be Philpott who chased them across Castle Park.’

‘No way. Jones and Daley wouldn’t run from no one, ’cept maybe the Red Caps.’

And then it clicked. ‘Do the Red Caps ever operate in civvies?’

‘Aye, for covert ops, so as not to attract attention, but you can always spot them a mile off. Solid hard bastards.’

‘Tell me, Quinn, why were you detained on New Year’s Eve?’ As Lowry asked, he could hear footsteps approaching down the basement aisle. He wouldn’t get his answer now, tonight, from Quinn. But that didn’t matter. He knew the answer. He stood to pre-empt the PC now standing at the door. ‘Ah, constable, about time. We need to let the corporal here return to base.’

Quinn looked up, surprised.

‘Thank you for your time, Corporal Quinn,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Try and keep out of trouble, eh?’

Friday, 7 January, 1983

-59-

8.30 a.m., Friday, Great Tey

‘But Jacqui, don’t you see, it’s because you’re unhappy that you’re so reckless?’

‘Not now, Paul. I just started on nights. I need to go to bed.’

She twirled the telephone cable, listening to Paul plead with her as she sat on the bottom stair in the empty house. He repeated the same line, or variations of it, over and over – that she pursued these stupid, childish antics because her marriage was unfulfilling. Was he right? She didn’t really care; she’d just been having a giggle with her mates. It was pointless Paul saying that if she thought about it ‘deep down’ she’d feel differently: she felt how she felt. Besides, Trish had had an unhappy marriage, got divorced; that hadn’t changed her ‘antics’. And it was her, poor Trish, that was kidnapped, not Jacqui – in fact, she wondered if her marriage to Nick had saved her from that horror somehow . . . Then there was Nick. Nick had arrived home just before she left for her shift last night. He said that he’d be home when she woke up this evening for a proper conversation that was long overdue. She needed to get herself into gear; he sounded serious.

Paul was still going on: ‘You have to leave Nick.’

‘I don’t
have
to
do anything, Paul.’

‘But I love you, Jacqui. I
really
love you.’

She didn’t love him back – it was just a laugh, a bit of fun, and something to give the endless night shifts a kick. ‘Oh, you’re so sweet, Paul. Really . . .’

And, as she said this, she knew she had to end it. Love was not fun.

9.30 a.m., Queen Street HQ

Sparks scratched his chin thoughtfully. What a week. He topped up his coffee with Scotch. After the week they’d had, to his mind, it was perfectly okay to drink alcohol after breakfast and he needed a nip before facing the press. Even when victorious, the Colchester chief suffered from nerves. He wished Lowry was at his side.

Lowry was bracing Oldham over the Castle Park incident. Sparks had asked him to stop for a pint afterwards, when the press had been dealt with, but Lowry had tried to duck out, pleading family matters (and, in fairness, who could blame him?), but it was approaching the first game of the new year and Sparks reckoned he could persuade him to see the U’s train the day beforehand. There was cause for celebration, after all: they had solved three murders in under a week! And although there were still some loose ends – they had no idea where the drugs were, for one – Lowry was convinced he could get Oldham to square things with Lane, thus allowing Sparks to save face over the arrest. (Lane would then phone Merrydown and explain it was all a misunderstanding.)

Merrydown. Sadly, there was no escaping her. They were due to have dinner on Monday evening to discuss a shake-up at West Mersea. Dodger Bradley would certainly have to retire. Shame; Sparks liked the old toad. He might be crap at paperwork, but in his day he’d been a damn fine policeman.

He took a sip of his laced coffee as he pondered the afternoon’s Division 3 football. Shame about young Jennings, too, with his long legs – would have made an excellent winger. The police had now traced phone calls from the West Mersea cottage to Germany. Whatever disagreement had taken place, it had been enough to prompt Freddie to get on a plane and meet Jennings. He hadn’t realized it would be the last trip he ever made.

Sparks didn’t know Jennings and cared little what happened to him. No, the big surprise was Jamie Philpott, who had killed Boyd and Stone. The fight with Quinn had sent the man crazy – paranoid and psychotic, according to the doctors, for Jamie Philpott was entering a plea of insanity. After doing a bunk from Colchester General, he had indeed holed up with his mother for a spell, but after refuelling on more powder, he had taken it upon himself to return to Greenstead on Sunday evening. There, the domestic simplicity of two men jabbering away over a curry sent delusional signals of conspiracy pulsing through his temporal lobes. He was convinced they
were plotting against him. Philpott waited until one man went to use the toilet. He picked up a combat knife and killed one while he ate, and then followed the other upstairs to the bathroom.

Sparks was surprised that Philpott had it in him to murder, and found it equally unlikely that a pasting from a giant Irishman could send a man mad, even if he was whizzing like an Apollo rocket. It was one thing to have taken leave of one’s senses when the incident happened, fully loaded, but then to spend a night at his mother’s, in Tiptree, craving revenge on his pal and a simpleton from Brightlingsea? But that’s what had happened. Still, not his problem: the lunatic had confessed, leaving Sparks with nothing to worry about. That was drugs for you. The phone disturbed his thoughts.

‘Sparks.’

It was the front desk. ‘There’s a doctor here to see Detective Inspector Lowry.’

‘He’s not expected back until midday.’

‘I’ve said that, sir. The gentleman said he’d wait. I said not to . . .’

It would be about Kenton, no doubt – truncheoned across the jaw last night. He might be a crafty bugger in the ring, but every time they let him loose outside, somebody took a swing at him.

‘All right, send him up.’ Poor sod might have concussion. He could ill afford to be a man down this early in the season. Lowry had better shake himself out of this no-fighting nonsense, with Kenton idling in the General. He folded the
News of the World
and topped up his coffee again.

In less than a minute, there was a rap at the door.

‘Come.’

In walked a handsome blond fellow with a gingerish beard. Well-built, broad shoulders.

‘Ah, doctor, sit down. Can I interest you in a snifter?’

The man frowned and hesitated before pulling up the chair. ‘Err . . . no, I won’t, if it’s all the same to you.’

Sparks replaced the cap on the Teacher’s. ‘I always thought you chaps started at dawn,’ he joshed. ‘Now, how is he? He’s used to receiving a stray right hook or two, so he needn’t take a week off because of a poke with a truncheon.’ Sparks smiled.

The doctor looked baffled. ‘I’m sorry, but who are you talking about?’

‘Detective Constable Kenton, champion boxer. I assume that’s why you’re here?’

‘No, no, Chief Sparks.’ The doctor grimaced. ‘I’m after your birdwatching inspector.’

‘Ha!’ Sparks boomed. The Scotch had made him rather jolly. ‘I fear you have the wrong police station – we have no one fitting that description here!’

‘Detective Inspector Nicholas Lowry – he’s CID, I believe.’

‘Why, yes, but
—
’

‘It’s about his wife. I’m in love with his wife.’ And with that, the doctor put his head in his hands and sobbed.

‘Well, I’ll be damned.’ Chief Sparks slumped at the desk, stunned. ‘He’s become a bloody twitcher.’

-60-

9.50 a.m., Friday, Abbey Fields, Military Police HQ

Oldham sat at the piano, his back to Lowry as he entered the captain’s office. The DI had little knowledge of classical works but, whatever the piece, it was pleasant on the ear.

‘Very nice, captain.’

‘Ah, Detective Inspector Lowry, I wondered when you might show,’ he remarked over his shoulder.

‘Were you expecting me?’

‘Yes, I figured it was your turn this time.’

‘This time?’

‘As opposed to your hot-headed chief, hungry for a collar.’

Lowry settled into the leather chesterfield. He was in no hurry. The piano playing ceased, and Oldham brought the lid down gently. Rising, he asked, ‘Sherry?’ It was a bit early in the day, but it had been a long week for them both.

‘Love one – thank you.’

Oldham placed a coaster neatly on the edge of the antique octagonal table next to Lowry before handing him a crystal schooner. Here was a precise man who would not tolerate disorder, or untidiness, in any shape or form.

‘Of course, you won’t be able to prove anything.’

‘Of course,’ Lowry agreed, and swallowed the fino in one. He could drink this forever. ‘But an admission would be sporting on your part.’

‘Sporting? As in “a sporting chance?” That has no meaning for me, inspector. There are rules and regulations; a code of practice. That is my law, the army’s law. Our jobs are not dissimilar.’

Lowry made for the decanter and helped himself. ‘Yes, of course. But your rules fall within my community, and when people get hurt, then it’s my concern.’

‘Are you seriously telling me you’ve never had to bend your own regulations for the good of the whole –’ a slight pulse became visible at Oldham’s temple – ‘such as when you see the fabric of your community under threat?’

‘I’m not doubting your intentions,’ Lowry said, meeting his gaze, ‘but I need to hear your account, and then we’ll say no more about it.’ He was careful in his phrasing – ‘account’, rather than ‘confession’.

‘Very well.’ Oldham clasped his fingers behind his back and stood behind the large desk, perhaps to feel in command. ‘In Germany, a number of men were caught dealing in illegal substances. Corporal Frederick Cowley was under surveillance long before he left the army, and the German police kept an eye on him following his exit from the forces. It was they who alerted me to the drug trafficking. A new type of recreational drug was being made in central Europe – as I’m sure you’re aware, it was a German who invented LSD. Anyway, we intercepted correspondence from Cowley to Daley.’

‘So why not arrest them?’

‘We made a deal with the German police to catch them – we knew who and when but not where, which made it difficult; we had to follow them, and civilian clothes disguise a military policeman only up to a point. When Daley and Jones paused in the high street outside a hotel, a civilian told them they were being watched, and that’s when
—
’

‘When they ran for it.’ Thanks to a shifty Tony Pond, who clocked the military police surveillance.

‘Correct. And nobody was more surprised at the outcome than me. Whether they fell or jumped, I have no idea.’ He sat, elbows on the desk, fingertips now forming a triangle. Lowry waited for more.

‘The unit in pursuit reached the bottom of the hill but, on hearing cries of pain, retreated. There’s little more to say, other than that we expected them to make a deal on New Year’s Eve. When they didn’t, we thought they’d slipped through our fingers. We didn’t know about the hold-up with the delivery.’

‘Why was Quinn out of the picture?’

‘Ah, well, Corporal Quinn is not as daft as he makes out. He smelt a rat, so we had to detain him just to make sure he understood on which side his bread was buttered.’

‘I see. So that would explain why he was rather fractious the following night. And why you turned up in person following the disturbances.’

‘Yes, it all grew rather emotional.’

‘I’m surprised you let him out again.’

‘It wouldn’t do not to, having pulled Jones from your clutches . . . and though, ostensibly, Quinn may appear a loose cannon, he follows orders. After a quiet word, we let him out, needing eyes and ears on the street, given what subsequently happened at Greenstead.’

‘We’ll get to that in a minute,’ Lowry said, savouring the fino.

For the first time, everything slotted into place. The couriers had arrived late and there was nobody there to receive the shipment with Daley dead, Quinn detained, and Jones AWOL. A picture formed: Derek Stone minding the house, clueless, not sure what to do, with Jennings breathing down his neck, and Philpott making a nuisance of himself.

‘Jones disappearing did raise eyebrows,’ Lowry agreed, ‘but I wrote that off to bureaucracy.’

‘And it very easily can be. Best bet, though – young Jones would have cracked under pressure. Knowing Daley had died, the cat would be out of the bag in no time that the military police had chased his friend to his death.’

There, he’d said it.

‘So where is he really?’

‘Oh, he really is Falklands-bound.’

Lowry was satisfied with Oldham’s frankness; the conversation would go no further.

‘And is it true that a policeman was responsible for the murders?’

‘Indirectly, yes.’

‘What a state of affairs,’ Oldham said without conviction, leaving the desk and helping himself to a refill.

‘Of course, had Daley, Jones and Quinn been at the house to collect, two lives may have been spared,’ Lowry said. Freddie Cowley would still have been doomed, but Lowry believed the other two would have lived.

‘Who knows, inspector?’ The captain returned to the piano. ‘And if there’d been no fog, half the armed forces would be high as a kite. It’s still my view that it was the involvement of civilians that caused bloodshed at Beaumont Terrace.’ Oldham placed the sherry glass delicately on the piano, assuming the matter closed, and resumed playing.

And then Lowry made his final move.

‘Of course, you know why it ended that way, with two men dead?’ The piano stopped as abruptly as it had started.

‘I have not the faintest idea, nor do I care.’

‘But you do know the drugs were never recovered.’

The captain turned on the stool with an impressive air of polished patience.

Lowry continued. ‘On Saturday night, Jamie Philpott runs into Corporal Quinn at the other end of town, having visited Beaumont Terrace. A conversation takes place before the fight. Quinn discovers the whereabouts of the shipment and passes the information on.’ Lowry paused, purposely not saying where. ‘The next evening, while the occupants are out to fetch a curry, the rucksacks disappear from Beaumont Terrace. Philpott returns to discover this and, after nearly two days observing these hopeless tossers, finally cracks and kills the remaining two men, thinking he’s been shafted.’

‘I see,’ Oldham said. ‘And the drugs . . . ?’

‘Taken out of circulation, destroyed.’

‘Hmm, for the best, wouldn’t you say?’ He looked on archly, wanting to confirm they were on the same page.

Lowry nodded. ‘The marshes?’

‘It should be easy to move about unseen on one’s own territory, but it appears that the military are not the only ones to use binoculars.’ He stood and picked up a gold cigarette case from the piano. ‘That men have time to traipse about looking at
birds.
’ He winced as he lit the cigarette. ‘I mean, can you believe it?’

‘Doesn’t bear thinking about.’ Lowry couldn’t help but smile. Oldham’s men had obviously stumbled across Doug Young, looking for his peregrines, while trying to dispose of the drugs. Two large rucksacks of amphetamines couldn’t just be binned – they’d obviously had to have been parked in the hut, until Doug and his birds had gone. Oldham passed the cigarette case.

‘Can I be frank?’ he said, proffering a lighter.

‘Please.’

‘I must admit, I was in hot water.’ He smiled for the first time. ‘Heavens, I’d clean forgotten we’d been out on the marshes taking pot shots before Christmas – and there’s my name chalked up for all to see. Have to hand it to you chaps, how the devil did you catch on to the ranges?’

Too coy to admit to being one of those who traipsed about looking at birds, Lowry said, ‘We had a telephone number we thought might be a military field line, which put you in the frame. But if it was, it was incomplete, and the brigadier
—
’

‘Do you have it on you? May I?’

Lowry reached inside his suit pocket. ‘Be my guest.’

‘Thank you, and talking of the brigadier, it goes without saying he’s completely in the dark about the aforementioned situation.’ Oldham scrutinized the scrap of paper. ‘This is indeed a phone number.’

‘Oh, really? We assumed there must be a number missing at the end, but we tried every permutation and came up with nothing.’

‘There is indeed a number missing, but it’ll be in the middle – an old army trick. There should also be a zero at the front for the international code. For, correct me if I’m wrong, but this is a German phone number.’

Cowley’s contact number in Germany, of course. Less a digit, should it fall into the wrong hands – in this case, the hapless brother. The contact would be out there now, in Europe, wondering what the hell had happened. Lowry tipped what remained of his sherry down his throat. That was for someone else to worry about. He left the number with Oldham, suggesting he may wish to make inquiries, and said goodbye. Lowry knew the system well enough to know that no good would come of divulging what he’d confirmed this morning. Besides, he rather liked the captain; he was a brave and principled man. He rose. A swift trip to Colchester General to check on the wounded Kenton, then . . . then what? Jacqui wouldn’t be up until five. He was determined to have it out with her; he’d thought it through overnight. He’d been compromised, and refused to accept that sort of behaviour. And Matthew; he needed to talk to his son. That bruising . . . So, in the meantime, what? Watching the U’s run around Layer Road with Sparks? It would be a break, and maybe go some way to reassure the station chief that Lowry wasn’t losing the plot completely.