Blackwater (DI Nick Lowry) (27 page)

Thursday, 6 January, 1983

-52-

9 a.m., Thursday, West Mersea

Lowry indicated left and took the next turning, on to an avenue that led to the sea. The overnight snowstorm had passed and the roads had already been cleared, and there were plenty of people about. But Lowry’s mind was not on the state of the roads or the extremities of the weather. Jacqui was bothering him about her pal, Trish – the woman had disappeared, apparently. From where he was standing, this was a blessing, but Jacqui wasn’t having him dismiss it lightly; the woman had not returned to work and was not at her home in the Dutch quarter – he was a policeman, it was his job to do something. Trish had no next of kin to speak of, and Jacqui was worried. Lowry’s anger had simmered silently as he heard her out. He’d decided to let things ride until he got through Greenstead, and said he’d do what he could.

In the meantime, he was keen to find Nugent. Philpott was saying nothing and was, even if proved guilty, unlikely to snitch. He and Kenton had carved up the island and each was searching within their patch. There were only so many streets and, after thirty minutes, Lowry drove past a white XR3 with a roof rack, just as Kenton had described, on an empty avenue leading down to the esplanade. Lowry slowed the Saab to a crawl, and yes, there was his man, hard at work on the upstairs windows of a grand, detached Edwardian house, his shock of blond hair standing out even at a height. A window cleaner driving a boy-racer Escort? Not the most obvious choice of utility vehicle. He parked several doors down and walked slowly back to the house. It was eerily quiet, not a soul in sight.

‘Oi, sunshine, you’ve missed a bit!’ he hollered up towards the man, who was wearing faded denims.

‘Fuck off!’ came the terse reply.

‘Say that again?’ Lowry stepped up to the ladder and gave it a hearty shake.

‘Oi!’ Nugent rattled down the aluminium frame. ‘What d’you think you’re playin’ at?’

‘Remember me?’ Lowry flashed his badge. Nugent paused on the bottom step, water sloshing over the rim of his bucket.

‘Now what?’

‘We just want to chat with you again.’ Lowry turned as an old dear in curlers appeared at the frosted front door, and was just about to reassure her that everything was fine when he was suddenly drenched: lukewarm water gushed down the back of his collar and the inside of the orange plastic bucket obscured his vision. Before he could recover, a violent thump flattened the bucket against his nose, sending him flying backwards into the snow.

‘You all right dear?’ the woman in curlers inquired.

Startled, he sat up and tugged the plastic bucket off his head.

‘Where’d he go?’

She pointed to the white XR3, which at that instant thundered out a belch of exhaust fumes. ‘I won’t be tipping
him
 . . .’ the woman mumbled.

Lowry hurtled towards the car, which surprised him by reversing to meet his charge. Rather than try to evade it, he launched himself at the vehicle’s boot. His sportman’s agility served him well; he leapt on to the car, his toes catching the rear bumper and his hands reaching for the roof-rack bars. Nugent braked abruptly, throwing Lowry forward, his knees catching the spoiler. He managed to scramble further on to the car before it screeched forward.

Nugent swerved erratically up Seaview Avenue, trying to shake Lowry off. If only the fool had slowed down, Lowry would’ve got off gladly, but instinct made him cling on for dear life. At the top of the avenue, Nugent took a right turn at speed. Lowry was close to being flung off but was still clinging on as the XR3 span out of control, colliding with a VW camper van. Lowry scrambled over the roof and punched Nugent’s windscreen with the base of his fist. The driver’s door opened. Pivoting round, Lowry grabbed the shock of blond hair and yanked upwards, causing Nugent to howl.

‘I haven’t done nothing!’ he rasped.

The oncoming flash of an orange sports car caught the corner of Lowry’s eye as he tightened his grip on the window cleaner’s hair and gazed at the puce face beneath him.

‘No? You left pretty sharpish. What about your ladder?’

Kenton stepped in, pulling Nugent round and pushing his face hard against the windscreen.

Lowry lowered himself off the roof. He brushed his hands and straightened his tie. Reaching for his comb, he turned and was surprised to see a crowd of people of all ages. Where the hell had this lot sprung from?

9.35 a.m., Mersea Police Station, East Road

Nugent’s dramatic reluctance to come quietly and answer a few questions left little doubt in Lowry’s mind as to the man’s guilt in the post-office job: he must have been the one who drove Philpott and Stone back to Colchester. But how he’d managed a double billing as both witness and getaway driver was a detail Lowry was keen to learn. Whether all three of them knew what had been held in the boot of the Cortina, he couldn’t say.

In the first instance, Lowry decided to take Nugent to the local nick on East Road to get any local knowledge Bradley might have on the man, if necessary, before heading to Queen Street.

‘An XR3 seems an odd choice of vehicle for a window cleaner?’ Lowry said, apparently randomly.

Nugent looked suitably put off balance by the question.

‘Missus said you’d been round,’ Bradley added. ‘Ain’t seen you at it before.’

‘I ain’t no winda cleana . . . I’m minding me brother’s business; his patch is north Colchester – New Town. He’s gone to Marbella for a month and asked me to do his round. Busy time of year – lot of people take time off, so you can earn a couple of extra quid in the run-up to Christmas, like. So, as he went in the van, I ’ad to get a roof rack and, as I’d forked out on that, thought I might as well skim round Mersea.’

New Town, Artillery Street, where Stone’s flat was: Lowry remembered the state of the window. ‘Didn’t make a good job of your pal Derek Stone’s windows, did you? All smeary, as I recall. When did you have a crack at them? Surprised you’d have the time, what with turning over the post office.’

‘Look – I didn’t ask for this, you know; it all happened . . . by mistake. Honest.’

‘I can’t wait to hear,’ Bradley said. ‘You’re the bleedin’ witness!’

‘I’m on parole, ain’t I?’ said Nugent, as if this explained everything.

‘What’s that got to do with the price of fish?’ the sergeant spluttered. ‘You damn near ran the inspector over.’

‘So you admit you were a party to the robbery?’

Nugent nodded.

Lowry was relieved the man had the sense to admit defeat on that front, at least. ‘But Ted, how could you be a witness to your own crime?’

‘The post-office clerk said I was the last served, yeah? Which is true, but I was on me way out as the other two came in – right by the door
—
’

‘So you were keeping an eye out?’

‘Exactly. I’d give ’em both the all-clear as I left, though God know’s what I’d’ve done if I’d seen a rozzer – thrown meself at their mercy, probably. Can I pinch a smoke?’

Lowry slid him the packet.

‘And so I was the first one out the door.’

‘And everyone would be looking for two men, not three.’

‘Now that you mention it . . . yeah.’

‘And this third man, you claim you don’t know him?’

‘Yeah. He slid in the back of the motor.’

‘Weren’t you curious?’ Bradley asked.

‘At first, yeah; once I was in, like, on the job, I wanted to know who I was dealing with.’

‘And what did Stone say?’

‘“Best you don’t know, mate – you know me, and look where it got ya.”’

‘Can’t argue with that,’ Lowry agreed.

‘Look, I didn’t want to get involved in this shit . . . my share’s still in the glove box of the Cortina, if you don’t believe me.’

Ted Nugent’s story was first class. On his first morning minding his brother’s window-cleaning round, he had started on Artillery Road. Armed with a list of regular customers, there was one that particularly attracted him – the hairdressing salon under Derek Stone’s flat, which was full of pretty young girls. He decided to start with this one.

His brother Eddie had passed on little in the way of professional tips, but there was one thing he had said: if it’s a two-storey building, start at the top; that way, if water slops on to the panes beneath, it doesn’t mess up glass that has already been cleaned. But Ted hadn’t realized there was no connection between the salon on the ground floor and the flat on the first floor. Lowry could imagine him now, parking his ladder in front of the salon and grinning at the dolly birds inside, then ascending to the first floor to be faced with a doped-up Derek Stone in the middle of an argument and wielding an automatic pistol.

Stone, spotting Nugent, had gestured with the gun for him to descend and enter the flat. So down he went, ignoring the girls and taking the stairs up, to face a gun barrel and the penalty for stumbling across two men planning an armed robbery. Nugent confessed he knew Stone; if he hadn’t, he’d have made a run for it. It’s a small world, he said dolefully; they both went to the Candyman. The argument Nugent had witnessed from the ladder was about the getaway driver – or the lack of one, until then. Nugent claimed he was coerced into the job but admitted there was a ton in it for him. He claimed to have protested vigorously, terrified of the chance of getting caught, and the threat to his parole.

‘Honest, that’s the way it is,’ Nugent pleaded. ‘Like I said, me spilt’s still in the motor. Have you found the car?’

‘The car.’ Lowry made to get up.

Nugent gazed after him.

‘Yes. Time for you to identify the vehicle, and for us to move you from the island. Lowry nodded to Sergeant Bradley. ‘Dodger, it’s been a pleasure, as always, but I’m afraid it’s time for you to say cheerio to Mr Nugent.’

-53-

10 a.m., Thursday, Queen Street HQ

Gabriel tapped her chipped nails lightly on the worn desk, and looked at her long, thin fingers. The piano – funny, she thought; that was second time this week it had come to mind. Oldham might be slightly terrifying, but he played beautifully. What made him say he thought she would be good? It wasn’t as if he’d any cause to flatter her; on the contrary, to him, she was an annoyance. Maybe she’d get an opportunity to ask him, though. Sparks had just requested she accompany him to the barracks this morning, for what he phrased as a ‘matter of supreme diplomacy’. Whatever that might entail, she had no idea, but as Lowry and Kenton were out already, it would be her going.

She stared, not for the first time, at the photo of Lowry’s wife. She was attractive – too good for him. Lowry, she thought, was plain – neither handsome nor ugly – whereas the woman she saw in the photograph had fine, angular features, not dissimilar to those of Audrey Hepburn. What was it she’d said on the phone? ‘All that’s gone on’? What had she been alluding to?

‘WPC Gabriel.’

She looked up from her desk to see a very young officer, clutching a fax.

‘For you.’ He gingerly handed over the floppy sheets. She laid the papers out before her and flattened them with a wooden rule. The top one was an official HM Forces cover sheet. She looked nervously about her, but of course nobody here would know or care what she had on her desk.

Before her was a list of individuals who made up Company B, 7th Parachute Regiment. On leaving Oldham’s office, she had asked the man on the desk in the foyer for a full list of men in Jones’s and Daley’s platoon who had seen active service in the summer of 1982. She hadn’t asked Oldham’s permission to request the information but she had relayed the request to the desk corporal as if to suggest the captain had sanctioned it. Sneaky, but not illegal, and why would Captain Oldham withhold such a request anyway, other than purely to be unhelpful?

Besides, the police already had a list of those soldiers who had comprised Company B, provided by the brigadier shortly after the incident at the castle. She had that here in front of her. What she’d now received was an active-service log: the company as it was at the time of the Falklands conflict. The first thing she noticed was that the company had originally been based in West Germany. Not that this held any great significance for her; what she was after was the change in personnel. At the bottom there was an addendum listing the names of those – two of them – killed in action. Private Jones’s friend, who worked in the video store in Crouch Street, had mentioned that some of their close-knit group had since left the army. By comparing the two lists, she would be able to identify the soldiers in question.

The lists were alphabetical: Adams, Allcott, Brookes, Cowley
 
. . . Cowley? Cowley hadn’t been in the army – not
their
Cowley, in any event. The initial was
F, though. Wait, she had Felix’s medical report – it had mentioned a brother as next of kin . . .

12.20 p.m., Abbey Fields, Military Police HQ

‘It means nothing,’ Oldham said calmly. ‘Anyone can access that place, and a fool could work out the flag system – a green flag means no firing, red means duck. There was no firing over the entire Christmas period. It means nothing.’

Sparks followed Oldham’s gaze towards Lane, who was perched on the piano stool. The brigadier was perturbed and in need of reassurance from the MP chief. Sparks was starting to see the Beard in a different light; his reliance on the military police to keep order and control wasn’t something Sparks had fully appreciated until now. Oldham held the real power.

‘I beg to differ,’ Sparks said, leaving the chesterfield sofa and pacing across the Persian carpet towards Oldham’s desk. ‘You assume, because your signalling system is second nature to you, that all and sundry are aware of its significance, but I assure you the rest of the world, myself included, consider the Fingringhoe ranges a no-go zone.’

He let that sink in for a moment, and toyed with a small ivory buddha on the captain’s desk. The information Gabriel had obtained behind their smug olive-green backs had convinced him they had the military by the balls, and thus he found himself curiously calm and confident.

‘Traces of amphetamines on MOD land cannot be ignored. That, along with two of your men reputedly on the lookout for drugs on New Year’s Eve. It doesn’t look good.’ He replaced the buddha in a different spot. My, how the tables had turned, he thought, since the young private had died.

‘Ha. If what you’re suggesting was correct, there would be no need for our men to stalk the high street, would there? They could just shoot up in the observation post on the marshes!’ Oldham exclaimed. Sparks detected anger below the surface.

‘Now, James, we mustn’t be flippant about this,’ Brigadier Lane interjected. ‘If there is even the slightest evidence of drugs in the ranks, we must address it. Stephen, what can we do to help?’

The chief had said nothing about Oldham’s name appearing on the range chalkboard; he first wanted to gauge his reaction to a little heat. So far, he seemed only mildly irritated, with a dash of contempt for his commanding officer.

‘A thorough search of the barracks would be a start,’ replied Sparks, ‘and instant recall of Private Jones, wherever he might be.’

‘Yes, but first let’s be clear,’ said Lane. ‘Are you suggesting the traces of substances on the marshes are related to the death of Private Daley and the civilian deaths at Greenstead?’

‘The traces in the observation post will be compared with those found at the house in Greenstead, which will give us our answer.’

‘But what about Daley and Jones?’ the brigadier asked. ‘I must confess I’m slightly baffled and inclined to agree with Captain Oldham – if my men were involved in drug trafficking, why would they attempt to procure amphetamines in Colchester High Street?’

‘There are four thousand soldiers here: who says we’re talking about the same men? But since you mention the Castle Park incident, we have a further request. WPC Gabriel?’

Until now, Gabriel had remained silently by the door. Oldham shot her a piercing glance; she had been to see him only yesterday afternoon.

‘We’d also like to interview Private Frederick Cowley, previously of 7th Parachute Regiment. We want you –’ and here she looked at Oldham directly – ‘to find him for us.’

‘Who is this man?’ Lane asked.

‘He was in the Falklands with Quinn, Daley and Jones,’ replied Gabriel. ‘They were in the same unit. Frederick Cowley exited the army in July.’

‘I can’t help you,’ Oldham said. ‘The army does not keep a record of the whereabouts of every ex-servicemen. The bandsman, of whom the inspector was inquiring, was different – I can’t recall the name, but he had stayed
—
’

‘Stone – who had stayed in Colchester,’ Sparks cut in. ‘Ex-soldiers often make their home where they were posted. 7 Para have only been here since September. Where were they before?’

‘Why, Germany, of course,’ said Lane. ‘Osnabrück.’

‘Germany?’ Sparks frowned.

‘Precisely,’ said Oldham. ‘As if we can keep tabs on every damn soldier that’s served in the regiment.’

‘Am I missing the significance of this fellow, other than that he served in this unit?’ The brigadier was struggling to keep up.

‘Freddie Cowley’s brother was one of the drug couriers,’ Sparks said sharply.

Lane turned sternly to Oldham. ‘Come, come, James, we must have something on the fellow? Would the chap’s medical records help you identify him? We can have them in a jiffy, I’m sure.’

*

‘Good work, Gabriel,’ Sparks complimented her, waving Freddie Cowley’s medical record at her as they exited the building. ‘Very good work.’

She nodded. Sparks himself had risen in her estimation – she liked the way he handled the military commanders with such confidence, even on their own turf. ‘Thank you, sir.’

Sparks was flicking through the medical report.

‘Freddie Cowley’s dead.’

‘I’m sorry?’ Gabriel said, surprised.

‘Roughly six foot two, twenty-four years old, lived in Germany?’

He tapped his foot on the pavement and regarded the military buildings behind them, austere in their silence. ‘Goose is traditional . . . not turkey.’

‘Sir?’

‘Something Lowry said. And the body discovered on the Strood had German currency on it and was around the right age, too.’ Gabriel didn’t know how to respond; she wasn’t familiar with the case. Sparks read her confusion. ‘Don’t worry, no need to trouble our friends back there until we’re sure. With or without dental records, we can approximate his height – the doc can estimate the head length – and even shoe size will confirm. Ring this through to Lowry and Robinson, at the lab. Funny, we thought he was German because of his clothing and some loose change. But who else would eat a turkey Christmas dinner abroad before returning to the UK, other than an ex-pat?’

‘How does this tie in, sir?’

‘If the man on the Strood is Freddie, then there’s a connection between the drug traffickers and Daley – the Castle Park lad.’ Sparks was looking earnestly at WPC Gabriel, who was marginally taller than he was. ‘I figure they were trying to smuggle a ton of drugs in from the Continent, using their ex-servicemen pals to source the gear. It’s all tying up . . . though the timing of this chap’s demise puts a different spin on things.’

‘How?’

‘Because we were working to the theory that the boys were killed at Greenstead because they were a day late delivering. Kenton’s conversation with Pond makes this seem plausible – the whole town was waiting to get loaded . . .’

‘But Freddie Cowley was dead before the men landed with the drugs.’

‘Exactly!’ His suddenly raised voice made Gabriel start. ‘Which indicates a rival gang. Making this whole mess even more complicated.’

‘The army boys seem pretty close, sir. Even Stone was ex-army. How would anyone else know? Why would they let anyone else in? They’re a tight-lipped lot.’

The chief was still looking at RMP HQ. He exhaled deeply through his nose, the condensation giving him the fleeting appearance of a dragon at rest after blasting out fire.

‘It’s such a shame. They were all so young,’ she said finally.

He wasn’t sentimental, but she had said something that was confirmation enough for his line of thought. ‘You know, I think we’re missing a link . . . or perhaps a chain of command? Putting Cowley’s death aside for a moment, you’re right. These are just boys who are used to following orders . . .’

‘You think there’s more senior military involvement, sir?’

‘It would make sense. Tight-lipped – that’s Oldham all right. When Lane announced the Paras were stationed in Osnabrück, how did Oldham react?’

‘I thought he bristled slightly.’ She looked squarely at the chief as he stepped closer.

‘Bristled. Exactly.’ Across the road, half a dozen men in military green marched briskly by. ‘The Beard told me that Oldham has a houseboat on West Mersea. Uses it at the weekends.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. We were gassing about food. This may surprise you, but myself and Lane do get on damn well usually, above and beyond the sparring in the ring. Anyhow, Oldham had told him of a new fish place that had opened up near the port and sold the finest oysters, just beyond the houseboats.’

‘That’s funny,’ Gabriel replied.

‘Why?’

‘Detective Constable Kenton told me that the night he was attacked snooping around the houseboats he heard piano music. The captain was playing the piano when I visited yesterday.’

‘Piano music? Are you sure? Kenton never mentioned it to me.’

‘One hundred per cent. He didn’t mention it at Queen Street because he was too embarrassed. Having been knocked down, he thought, if he said he’d heard music, people would laugh all the more.’

She watched Sparks contemplate the soldiers marching past. She couldn’t tell whether he was listening, but then he turned his back on the grand building they had just left and said abruptly, ‘Right, this is what we’re going to do.’

As they walked towards the chief’s Rover, Sparks laid out their next move. Although flattered that he’d taken her into his confidence, and feeling sucked in by his enthusiasm, which she hadn’t felt with either Kenton or Lowry, she was slightly disturbed that the boss of Queen Street had decided to take matters into his own hands in such a direct fashion. She sat next to him as he dictated into the car radio precise instructions to have Captain Oldham placed under surveillance for twenty-four hours with immediate effect, and to advise immediately if he left the barracks.

‘In the meantime, let’s you and I check out these houseboats.’

‘Check them out?’

‘Yes. I’m very curious about Captain Oldham’s weekend retreat. And leaf through this and radio Lowry en route.’ He slapped Cowley’s file at her midriff. ‘Let’s go.’