Blackwater (DI Nick Lowry) (10 page)

Sunday, 2 January, 1983

-18-

9.15 a.m., Sunday, Great Tey

Jacqui drifted across to the French doors, which opened on to the back garden and a small patio, and placed her trembling, hospital-scoured fingers against the glass. She was trying to put last night’s events into order in her head but she couldn’t seem to do it; jumbled images of dancing and fighting cascaded through her frazzled brain. She knew she’d taken something, and that she hadn’t been to sleep, but she couldn’t account for where she’d been at certain points of the night. She felt acutely removed from reality. One minute she was fine; the next, a cold paranoia crept over her. The crisp sunlight stung her eyes as she tried to focus on the curious scene in the garden – her husband hunched over a seldom-used Black and Decker Workmate
and staring in concentration at a strip of wood. The lawn was a sea of sawdust
.

She turned to her son. ‘What’s Dad doing?’

‘Making a bird table.’ Matthew’s eyes didn’t lift from his Atari game.

‘A what?’ she croaked, shielding her eyes from the morning light. Nick’s breath was visible as he muttered, or cursed, to himself. Must be freezing out there, she thought.

‘Or a bird feeder or something. I dunno – here.’ Matthew patted around the sofa until he found a book, which he tossed on to the carpet. Catching her bare feet on fallen pine needles from the sorry-looking Christmas tree, Jacqui crossed the room to pick up the book with birds on the cover
. S
he flicked through the pages, not sure what to make of it.

What on earth is going on in your head, honey? she thought, almost affectionately, and started to laugh.

Just then a volley of shrill curses came from the garden as Lowry kicked over the Workmate and launched a piece of timber to the far end of the garden. Even Matthew looked up in astonishment. ‘Why did he do that?’ he asked. But before Jacqui could formulate an answer, the doorbell rang.

Lowry sucked on his injured thumb. Shit, that hurt! Just when he’d thought his fingers were too numb with cold to feel anything, too. He smiled at his son, who was staring at him dolefully from inside the patio doors. Jacqui was there, too, looking pale as a phantom and with a look of amusement on her face which irritated him.

He patted his jeans for a cigarette, then remembered yet again that he’d given up. Shit. Jacqui was gesturing languidly at him. He could barely bring himself to speak to her – worry had distilled into anger over a sleepless night. Why, after the ordeal she’d been through, she had decided to stay around at Trish’s till the small hours, God only knew. He felt as if he’d not slept a wink for worry, and when eventually he’d heard a taxi purr outside, he’d been instantly paralysed by inertia. After she’d stumbled up the stairs and into the bedroom, he’d hugged the eiderdown, unable to speak to her, and feigned sleep.

Now, he examined his thumb in the cold, squeezing it to see if the blood would ooze out from under the nail. These hands were only any good for punching, he ruminated, flipping the lid shut on his tool box. Anything requiring a modicum of skill or delicacy and he fell at the first hurdle. Fuck it. A robin chattered gaily from the garden fence a few feet off. ‘You can fuck off, too!’

‘Is that the way one communicates with nature, guv?’

‘If “one” has nearly lost a thumb for his trouble, then, yes.’ Lowry regarded the impeccably dressed Kenton, in his newer sports jacket, a white shirt and tie. Overall, an impressive display for a Sunday, if it weren’t for the black eye. ‘But you, perhaps, should focus your efforts on learning to work effectively with island communities before troubling yourself with the wildlife.’

Kenton reached his hand up self-consciously to his eye. ‘I could’ve drowned, you know.’

‘But you didn’t.’ Lowry opened the French doors and slipped his shoes off before entering the house. ‘The Dodger has had complaints about intruders creeping around the houseboats yesterday evening, and one of his men pulled you out of the mud.’

‘Can’t remember much more than the incoming tide.’ Kenton followed Lowry into the kitchen. ‘I was soaked.’

‘What were you doing down there?’ Lowry rinsed his hands under the tap. Sparks had called him at the crack of dawn to lambast him about Kenton: ‘The last thing I need right now, Lowry, is that old codger laughing at me down the blower because he’s had to rescue a CID man from the mud – know what I mean?’

‘A fisherman told me that the witnesses from the post-office job might
—
’

‘Fisherman? What are you doing fraternizing with fishermen? And if you go further afield to interview witnesses, do it in daylight – don’t creep around in the pitch black. No wonder somebody took a swing at you.’

‘Hello, boys.’ Jacqui sauntered in, dressed in a kimono. She smiled at Kenton and gave Lowry a peck on the cheek. He softened; his anger was already waning. She was all right, and that was all that mattered.

‘Morning, Mrs Lowry,’ said Kenton rather formally.

What a well-brought-up boy, thought Lowry.

His wife made to push down the plunger on a cafetière. ‘Coffee, anyone?’ She seemed jittery and twitchy and it looked like coffee was the last thing she needed. Why she insisted on getting so loaded after finishing a string of nightshifts was beyond him. it might release stress, but she wasn’t twenty-five any more and her recovery speed wasn’t what it used to be.

What was more, Lowry could see that his young colleague looked uncomfortable that Jacqui wasn’t fully dressed. Her kimono was starting to ride up her thigh.

‘I’ll do the coffee – you get dressed,’ he answered with a sigh.

*

Lowry’s wife waved from the doorstep, still wearing her kimono.

‘Dunno what’s got into her,’ Lowry mumbled, sinking down into the Spitfire’s bucket seat.

Kenton didn’t comment. The boss had never discussed his relationship with his wife, for which he was glad. The vision of Jacqui Lowry in her slinky robe was imprinted on his mind. He’d met her a few times, and had always found her attractive, but today took the biscuit – she’d looked like a slightly dishevelled 1950s movie star, and he’d found himself tongue-tied. The word at Queen Street was that Lowry was old before his time and that his younger wife was maybe too much for him. Kenton had never stooped to join in the gossip and had thought the suggestions unfair, but he had to admit it was disconcerting to find Lowry, a man not yet forty, building bird boxes on a Sunday morning while his sexy wife slid around the house in a nightdress. He reversed the Triumph through a cloud of exhaust, its engine roaring.

‘Sorry.’ Kenton winced.

Lowry said nothing. Smoothing his Brylcreemed hair, he reached for the hip flask Kenton kept in the glove compartment, and snuggled down into the seat as Kenton floored the Spitfire on to the main road.

-19-

10.50 a.m., Sunday, Colchester

Sparks hated waiting. He stood outside the worn, white, timber-framed chapel on Military Road, convinced that Brigadier Lane was doing this to annoy him. He strode the grass impatiently until he remembered he was in the cemetery, and that his irritable trudging may not be appropriate.

Voices from within the chapel rose in a close harmony; the service was taking place for the dead private. He lit a cigarette. He glanced at the clock, high on the wall: nearly eleven o’clock. The chapel was a strange building, a huge barn of a place better suited to Dorothy’s Kansas than to housing hundreds of servicemen in prayer. Lane could have invited him to the service as a sign of solidarity instead of having him loiter around outside like some ne’er-do-well. He was the bloody police chief superintendent, after all, goddamnit. Feeling distinctly bad-tempered, he was on the brink of getting into the car and leaving when there was movement in the barracks chapel and a long line of men in green uniforms started to file out.

Sparks himself was in civvies and sporting a tan leather blouson. He’d avoided wearing uniform so as not to draw attention to himself, but it proved pretty pointless, given that they all seemed to recognize him and glared as they walked past. Now he felt naked.

‘Ahh, there you are, Sparks.’ Lane and his adjutant, a brawny, red-haired officer, marched across.

‘Morning, Lane.’

‘And what a fine one it is. Let’s take a stroll. That’ll be all, thank you, Major,’ he said to his adjutant. The other man saluted and fed into the stream of uniformed bodies on the quadrangle. Lane forged ahead, striding past what Sparks knew to be the gymnasium, the venue for tonight’s sparring. As Sparks caught up with him, he turned. ‘Now, what do you think could have sparked this tiff?’

‘Tiff? A shade more than a tiff, Brigadier, if you don’t mind,’ Sparks said stiffly. ‘What sparked it off was your man taking exception to a couple of local lads in the pub.’

‘Hmm, yes; Quinn. I know,’ Lane mused, his hands clasped behind his back.

‘He’s from the same battalion as the other two – the Paras – bit on the big side for the parachute regiment, but, yes, we know he’s one of them. So, given the obvious conclusions, I am here to insist we have no more of this retaliation nonsense.’

‘Is that what you think this is?’ Lane stopped in the middle of the quadrangle.

‘Well, don’t you?’ Sparks said, vexed.

The military man’s brow creased. It occurred to Sparks that, despite Lane’s concern on New Year’s Eve, he hadn’t perhaps considered the matter with any seriousness.

The chief leaned forward and said in a hushed tone, ‘I mean, come on,
really.
We can’t have people beating the crap out of each other in the town centre, can we? Your mob follow bloody orders, don’t they?’

Lane looked at him slyly, stroking his beard.

‘Well, don’t they?’ persisted Sparks. ‘I mean, the big worry is –’ he inclined his head conspiratorially – ‘that our recreational activities might come under the spotlight.’

‘How so?’

‘Our boxing bouts are reported in the
Gazette
. Suppose some smart arse decides the two are connected: “Sparring Paras not getting enough institutionalized violence in the barracks – resorting to the high street”, and calls to ban the Services cup – that sort of thing. Think about it – the implications for the social side if we don’t restore harmony to the streets.’

The other man considered his words. The boxing tournaments were of equal importance to both men.

‘Now, look here, Sparks, it takes two to tango. Seen the state of Quinn? Yes, of course you have – Oldham collected him from you. A bit of respect for the military might not go amiss. I don’t know how he ended up in that state, and I
—
’

‘And nothing.’ Sparks was beginning to lose his cool. ‘Put it this way: if a Red Cap so much as spits on the pavement in future, all of this will stop.’ He waved his arm, encompassing the whole barracks, when of course he only meant the gym. His raised voice had gathered an audience.

‘Do I have your assurance that you’ll catch those responsible for chasing my men across the park, resulting in an officer’s death?’ Lane responded stiffly.

Sparks tugged his blouson’s imaginary lapels. ‘I’m glad you brought that up.’

‘Oh, how so? Progress?’ Lane adjusted his cap and jutted his bearded chin forward, signalling approval.

‘The other kid – the one who jumped off the wall – was lying. And when we went to interview him again, we discover he’s been discharged from the civilian hospital.’ Sparks watched the Beard for a reaction. ‘I assume you have him squirrelled away back there.’ He jutted his thumb behind him. ‘The military hospital, Abbey Field.’

‘That’s shut, Chief Sparks. Now, wait a damn minute
—
’

‘Only to civilians.’ The frightful old place had officially closed a few years back. There were all sorts of stories – hauntings, the ghosts of nurses floating across the wards, poisonings – but, in Sparks’s view, these had all been invented to keep civvies away. ‘If you want this resolved, give me the kid back – he’s the only one who saw who attacked them, for Christ’s sake.’

‘I am not aware of Jones’s current situation, but I’ll look into it.’

Sparks looked at him doubtfully. ‘Scout’s honour?’

‘I give you my word.’

11 a.m., West Mersea

Kenton heard Lowry groaning as he got out of the car. His ears were bright pink. He was going to complain about the cold, Kenton knew it.

‘You know what they say at the station, Daniel, don’t you?’ said Lowry.

‘About what, guv?’

Lowry pulled out a comb and swept his hair back into place. ‘
They
,’ he said with emphasis, meaning the station, not himself: ‘
They
say you won’t fix the roof on purpose because you feel you need to prove yourself as a man. Because you’re embarrassed about the car.’

‘Why’s that, sir?’ he replied, but he knew what was coming.

‘An orange car with a 1300cc engine is, well – how can I put this delicately?’

‘Not a man’s car? Suitable only for hairdressers and ladies of leisure?’

‘You’ve heard, then.’

‘Well, they can say what they like. I think the car’s great. It’s a Triumph, and that’s the engine it was built with. And I’m not trying to prove anything to anyone.’ Kenton tried to sound defiant.

‘And you’re equally untroubled that everyone knows it was a present from Mummy and Daddy?’

That was different – he hadn’t known that was general knowledge. How had that got out? Lowry knew, but he’d not say, surely. Kenton had mentioned it to WPC Gabriel – she had asked him how he’d managed to afford it, and he, forgetting what’d he’d said to the other lads and eager to prove himself not well off, had said it was a gift, not realizing then that it probably sounded worse. The car had been a twenty-first-birthday present four years ago. At the time, he’d been over the moon. Driving a sports convertible was cool, especially at university, where it was a huge help when it came to girls. But now he was in the police force – more than that, the CID – and life was a whole different ballgame. Working roof or not, cruising around in an orange car given to him by wealthy parents was doing nothing for his image. The car would have to go.

The houseboat moorings had a totally different feel in daylight. Kenton observed that the hulls were elegantly decorated in pastel pinks and yellows, and that under the sharp January sun the area was almost worthy of a holiday brochure. He had difficulty relating this idyll to his experience of creeping around last night in the pitch black.

They mounted the wooden walkway. The moorings stretched along the hard and were well spaced out, each having its own domain within the tufted grass and gullies of saltmarsh.

‘This the one?’ Lowry, looking incongruous dressed in a donkey jacket and black Sta-Prest trousers and wearing wraparound shades, gestured towards a large cream hull reaching several feet over their head.

‘Yes . . . I think so.’ He could see its name,
Ahab’s Revenge
, running the length of the bow, so it must be, but everything looked so different from how it had last night. As they approached, a thick-set man with black curly hair under a woolly hat and a bristly chin resembling a sea urchin appeared by the hull.

‘Morning, sir. Would you be Ted Nugent?’

‘No, that’s me,’ said another man, who had popped up on the deck above them. He had bleached-blond hair and a tatty cardigan. ‘Who wants to know?’

‘Colchester CID.’

‘Aye, thought it might be. Weren’t me that clumped the young fella last night. I were asleep.’

‘We’re not here about that,’ Lowry said. ‘You were a witness to the post-office robbery last week?’

‘I were leaving there when it happened.’

‘You stated that it was the Taylor brothers?’

‘Err, yeah, it were them, I think.’

‘You
think
?’ Kenton interrupted. ‘Tell me, Mr Nugent, how certain are you?’

The blond man looked down at him quizzically from his lofty position on the boat.

‘As sure as I can be . . . in such circumstances. I said all I ’ad to say to the police up there.’

‘Tell me, sir. You know the Taylors?’

‘Aye.’

‘How tall would you say they were?’

He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. ‘I don’t rightly know.’

‘Roughly? Taller or shorter than yourself, say.’

‘Shorter, for sure.’ His companion nodded in agreement.

‘The other witnesses said the gunman was a big chap, like Detect
—
’ Kenton turned to indicate his boss, but Lowry was nowhere to be seen.

‘Your fella there, ’e’s round the stern with a pair of binoculars,’ said the dark-haired man. Christ, Kenton thought, this isn’t the time to go birdwatching. He walked furiously to the back of the boat.

‘Sir, it would be a great help if you could . . .’

Lowry turned his back to the marsh and flicked his shades down. ‘The light’s too sharp,’ he said, to no one in particular. ‘You know, a fellow the other side of the estuary might think he’s seen a totally different bird. Trick of the light.’

Kenton had no idea what he was talking about. He stepped aside as Lowry passed him on the walkway and addressed the men on the boat. ‘Tell me, Mr Nugent, why did you give your address as 192 Seaview when in fact you spend most of your time here?’

‘I’m not with you, sir.’

‘My colleague has had trouble getting in touch with you to corroborate your statement. I wonder why you’d leave details of an address that you wouldn’t be at.’

‘It’s no secret that I’m here. You found me right enough.’

‘Were you here last night?’

‘I was, for sure. Heard one fellow took a tumble.’

‘You must be aware it’s an offence to strike a police officer?’

‘Weren’t me, I tell ya. Can get all sorts round here at night. Anyway, he shouldn’t creep around like that in the dark, unannounced, like. Serves ’im right.’

Kenton made to move forward but felt his boss’s hand on his elbow. ‘Maybe. We can discuss it on the way to the station, perhaps, where you’ll review your witness statement of 27 December.’

‘No chance; I’m busy. Got to get this varnish on the boat while the weather’ll allow.’

Lowry paused for a second and looked across to the horizon. ‘Put it this way: you’re coming now, but you’ve a choice – either come as a witness or cuffed and under arrest.’

‘Under arrest? For what?’

‘For assaulting an officer.’

‘Yeah, right, I should coco – how? On what evidence?’

‘I saw you punch Detective Kenton, and I am here to make an arrest.’

‘It weren’t me, I tell ya!’

‘It was dark, I’ll grant you that, but who’ll know any different?’ Lowry made as if to go.

Nugent looked at Kenton, stunned. But it was as simple as that – a barefaced lie – and the man climbed down off the boat to join them on the wooden path.

Lowry walked slowly along the walkway, the boatman and Kenton following. Something was not right. Nugent’s witness statement definitely seemed dubious, but why would he make something up and risk getting himself in trouble?

They reached the road. ‘Oh, I forgot,’ Lowry said, ‘we don’t have a proper motor.’

They stared at the two-seater Spitfire. Kenton scratched the back of his head and looked away, embarrassed.

‘S’all right. I’ll walk,’ Nugent said.

‘What, ten miles to Colchester?’ Lowry said, surprised.

‘Colchester? Nobody said anything about Colchester.’ Nugent’s frown crumpled his weathered face. A small crucifix dangling from his right ear caught the light as he shook his head. ‘No way, mate. I thought you meant East Road nick.’

‘It’s shut on Sunday,’ said Lowry. ‘We’ll have to call a patrol car. Here, wait – where do you think you’re going?’ Nugent had started walking up the road. Kenton reached out and grabbed him firmly by the shoulder. The wiry man cringed under the DC’s grip.

‘I can’t go to Colchester.’

‘Why? What’s the problem? You’ll be back before the pubs open.’

‘It’s not that . . .’

‘Well, what? Spit it out.’

Nugent looked sheepishly around him, and then said quietly, ‘I got form, ain’t I.’

‘So your problem is what? You’re a reformed character, surely. As a witness . . .’

‘It’s one thing going to see Bradley and Jennings,’ he said quickly, ‘but I can’t be seen going down a nick the size of Colchester. I get seen, you know. People will think I’m a grass, won’t they?’

‘Hold on a sec. You testified that you’d seen the Taylor brothers do the job. How did you think that was going to pan out?’ Kenton asked.

Nugent looked blank. ‘It might’ve been them.’

‘“Might’ve been”?’

‘Maybe. Look, I don’t know.’

‘For somebody concerned about being seen as a grass, that’s quite a risk to take, especially when you’re not certain.’

‘Hmm . . .’ The man fidgeted, not knowing which way to turn.

‘You mentioned Bradley and Jennings. Did they put you up to this?’

‘The Taylor boys done something wrong is all I know. I ain’t no grass.’

Lowry could see that Nugent must have been put up to it. The local police were after the Taylors for whatever reason – some minor misdemeanour or other – and Nugent had obliged as a false witness. It was only Kenton’s diligence that had caught everybody out. ‘Are you on parole?’ he said after a moment.