Blackwater (DI Nick Lowry)

by James, Henry

  ‘Gone anywhere?’

  ‘Been transferred to Abbey Fields,’ Lowry explained. WPC Gabriel looked confused. ‘The army takes care of its own,’ he added.

  ‘But the military hospital has been shut for years!’

  ‘It’s only officially closed – to the public, that is. Some wards are still functional. Then there’s the unit at the Military Correctional Training Centre – the Glasshouse – which can provide emergency care. That’s tricky to get into, too, even for us.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t realize it was so . . . complicated,’ she said.

  Once they were inside the building, Gabriel took the broad tiled passageway through to the wards and Lowry the stairs to the basement.

  It took Gabriel a good five minutes to get from one side of the hospital to the other, only to be greeted by a rude and steely matron who informed her that Private Jones had been wheeled out that morning by his uniformed colleagues. When asked where to, the woman, who wore a grey bun so tight it looked painful, said sharply, ‘It’s the army. We don’t ask.’

  -8-

  10.15 a.m., Saturday, Colchester General Hospital, morgue

  Lowry could smell the sea on the body.

  ‘Could it have been a propeller?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. It’s possible. Though quite a size.’

  The recovery of the missing tennis shoe suggested that the body had come in on the tide. They’d run checks from as far north as Harwich to as far south as Deal in Kent and no emergencies at sea had been reported. ‘How big?’

  Dr Robinson pushed back his spectacles to rest on his crown. ‘Big enough that the curvature of the blade would give a straight cut, like this.’ He moved his hand in a chopping motion. ‘All propellers are contoured to enable them to slice the water efficiently and thus propel the vessel forward.’

  ‘Or to slice a body.’

  ‘Quite. And it has happened before.’ He nodded. There had, over the years, been numerous boating accidents in the estuary – drownings, people knocked off boats, drunk fishermen clowning around, even a waterskier run over.

  ‘This fellow hadn’t been dressed for the sea though,’ said Robinson, prodding the Green Flash tennis shoe sitting on top of the clothes placed to one side in a steel tray. ‘The jeans and shoes are branded, but the polo top and jumper have labels I am not familiar with.’

  Lowry took out the tennis shoe and Levi jeans. Inside the polo top, he couldn’t make anything out other than made in Indonesia, but on the jumper label, above a large L he read Größe/Size. ‘Germany? Wonder what he was up to?’

  There was nothing to give a clue to his identity. The trouser pockets had yielded only loose change and a cigarette lighter – no wallet or driver’s licence.

  ‘Well, dressed like this, he wouldn’t have survived more than a few minutes in the North Sea at this time of year. Not enough water in the lungs to suggest he drowned first. You’ve found the other shoe, I gather. Presumably, it came loose in the sea, the sock on this foot was almost off . . .’

  ‘Wait a sec. These coins.’ Lowry pushed them around in the holding dish with a pen, ‘These are German marks. Interesting. What about the stomach contents? Wonder where he had his last meal.’

  ‘Well, let’s take a peek.’ Robinson ran his hands though his thick grey hair and rolled up his sleeves.

  Lowry appreciated his eagerness but couldn’t confess to sharing it. He watched him select a scalpel. ‘Any amount of time in the water will soften the flesh – see? Like butter . . .’

  WPC Gabriel appeared in Lowry’s peripheral vision. ‘Ah, there you are. Jones still there?’

  ‘No, he’s gone.’

  ‘Oh. Where’ve you been, then?’

  ‘I . . . I, err, was just finding my way across the hospital—’

  ‘How interesting,’ the pathologist suddenly remarked to himself.

  Lowry swung back to see the doctor excitedly examining a blueish foot.

  ‘This man suffered from terribly calloused feet.’

  Hardly earth-shattering, Lowry thought. ‘What about his stomach?’

  ‘Patience, dear fellow, patience,’ he murmured. ‘You’ll have my report by the evening, I promise. Call me at six.’

  11.30 a.m., Queen Street HQ

  Sparks flipped open the bulging manila folder of briefing notes, left for him by Sergeant Granger on Friday evening. As was his habit on Saturday mornings, he was in his office at the top of the Queen Street HQ, taking stock of the week’s cases.

  He sighed as he struggled to make out Lowry’s spidery handwriting. Why the devil couldn’t he use a typewriter? The body washed up on the Strood did not particularly trouble him, as long as it was just that – ‘washed up’ – and not anyone he need worry about from his own district. And if Lowry was not too finicky, as he could sometimes be, they could forget about it in a week or so . . . but the incident at the castle was another matter. He had plenty of time to work out his angle. He knew it was protocol to notify County in Chelmsford, but he’d be damned if he’d allow them to interfere on this one; he knew how to deal with military – they did not. As it happened, he would see Merrydown, the assistant chief constable, tonight at a gala dinner in Chelmsford, but he’d defer any shop talk until Monday morning. Yes, he’d buy himself some time and deal with any consequences later; no need to make an evening with his prim superior any more unpleasant than it would undoubtedly be.

  He felt an icy draught from behind him and went over to check the sash window. It was closed as far as it would go, leaving a gap you could post a letter through. Why the hell could they not modernize this creaking relic of a building? He gave up on the window, annoyed by the glare of an unexpected morning sun, and glanced below to see two army jeeps trundle across St Botolph’s roundabout, going south towards the garrison, where several thousand men would know that one of their number was dead.

  There was a light rap at the door.

  ‘Come,’ he said absently.

  ‘Morning, sir.’

  Sparks spun round upon hearing the welcome voice of Granger. ‘Granger, good news, I hope?’

  ‘No news, but I do have the fixtures for tomorrow night.’

  ‘Aha, yes!’ Sparks clapped his hands in anticipation and relieved Granger – reliable heavyweight and three-times champion, now retired – of several sheets of foolscap. The worry about the dead soldier was parked in an instant: boxing – and it was the first fight of the year – was a military concern of a different kind. ‘So what has that pompous bastard got to offer us this year, eh?’

  He scanned the names impatiently. The Colchester Services league operated four broad categories: bantam, welter, middle and heavy – not strictly WBF, as it ignored the extremities at either end of the weight scale, since neither force had suitable candidates. There were a few new names in the lower bands, some of which he recognized, having been tipped off that they were promising by a uniformed recruit who socialized with military NCOs. Then he came to the middleweight category. One name was missing.

  ‘Where’s Lowry?’

  ‘Sorry, sir?’

  ‘Inspector Lowry – he’s not on the fixture.’

  Granger looked at the chief in surprise. ‘Why, he’s retired, sir.’

  ‘“Retired”? How do you mean, he’s retired?’

  ‘I guess for the usual reason people retire. Too old?’

  ‘I know what the bloody word means, Granger.’ Sparks gave him a withering look and tossed the papers on the desk. ‘I don’t care if he’s due a telegram from the fucking queen. Nobody retires unless I say so.’

  11.45 a.m., Beaumont Terrace, Greenstead Estate

  Jason Boyd checked his watch. What time had he made the call – ten, ten thirty? Shit, he didn’t know. Freddie was nowhere to be found, according to Stone, but a bloke called Philpott was supposed to sort them out. He looked across at Derek Stone, who was long since back and sitting at the kitchen table, smoking and nodding his head along to the tinny buzz from a Walkman. What did he l
ook like? A football casual. The country was awash in brightly coloured shell suits: a nation taken over by deranged clowns, like this wally opposite him.

  ‘How much longer we stayin’ ’ere, Jace?’ Felix asked anxiously, spinning an empty mug on the Formica worktop. Boyd ignored him. They had no alternative but to sit tight – what else could they do? They could hardly take the gear back to where it came from . . . God, he felt exhausted – he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep for days; though they’d got into the Dog and Pheasant all right, he’d spent the remainder of the night awake, fretting about today. ‘How much longer, eh, Jace?’ Felix repeated. Stone was tapping his feet in time with the muffled music. ‘Eh, Jace?’

  Boyd lunged at Stone and yanked off his headphones, catching the corner of the ashtray, which went spinning across the table and clattered noisily to the floor. ‘Stop that, all right! Tapping your goddamn feet!’

  ‘Jesus, man, you only had to—’

  ‘Shut the fuck up, okay? Where’s this Philpott geezer with our money?’

  Stone straightened his tracky top and lit another fag. ‘He’s on his way, man, on his way . . .’

  But Boyd wasn’t listening. The adrenalin he’d been running on had dissipated now they’d come to a grinding halt. ‘Where’s the coffee?’ he demanded, throwing open the cupboards that lined the kitchen walls. They yielded nothing apart from a packet of rice and a box of Frosties. ‘Does anyone actually live in this house? I need a coffee bad.’

  ‘Ain’t none. No one lives ’ere; empty council place – a doss house. Got tea though? Or a lager – Special Brew?’

  Boyd slumped dejectedly against the fridge and lit a cigarette. He was low on fags, too. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed in weary resignation.

  ‘Wonder what it’s like, you know, the gear?’ Stone asked, fiddling with the controls on his Walkman. Felix glanced at Boyd, his eyes dark through lack of sleep.

  ‘Never you mind,’ Boyd snapped.

  ‘All right,’ Stone said, slipping his headphones back on, ‘but if it’s what I think it is, and it’s a pick-me-up you’re after . . .’

  A rap on the door.

  ‘There you go.’ Stone leapt up to open the back door and let in a skinny middle-aged bloke with short hair and long sideburns.

  ‘Jesus, who the hell are you?’

  ‘Now, now,’ Stone placated, shaking his perm out of his eyes. ‘This is Philpott.’

  ‘All right, mate?’ Philpott thrust out a knobbly hand. He was in his late thirties or early forties, and looked worn, but hard.

  Boyd took an instant dislike to him. ‘You got our cash?’

  The man seemed not hear and, instead, spying the dirty green rucksacks slumped in the corner, made his way over to them.

  ‘Freddie’ll be along with the money soon,’ he said and, impressively, picked one up single-handedly, ‘but, in the meantime, let’s check that the merchandise was worth the wait, eh?’

  -9-

  Midday, Saturday, Queen Street HQ

  As Lowry jogged up the stairs to the first floor he pondered on the headless corpse in the morgue; if it was a German national, what was the correct course of action to take? Although there was no ID, the foreign currency was a good enough reason to think it. He figured that he was duty bound to notify Interpol and should do so before they issued a statement to the press. He crossed the cramped main office. The 1970s partitioning of the Victorian room was a design eyesore, but it did afford CID some privacy at the front of the building, along with the benefit of the huge sash windows. Although freezing cold in winter and like a greenhouse in summer, Lowry far preferred the sunny space he shared with Kenton to the dingy inner section.

  The pair nodded perfunctorily to each other as Lowry pulled out a small wooden chair and joined Kenton at the rickety desk. It was a standing joke that the furniture in their section had come from a school fire sale – it was certainly small enough, and just about fitted in the restricted space. From his desk tray Lowry took out a sheet of foolscap and wrote: The Strood: body. He chewed on his pen. There was precious little to add. Severely calloused feet: it meant something to the good doctor on a technical level, probably to do with the effect of salt water, but nothing to Lowry. In desperation, he scribbled, Uncomfortable shoes? Likes walking?

  He stretched back in the chair. He decided he ought to consult with Sparks on what action to take.

  ‘Gaffer in?’ he asked Kenton, who was typing.

  ‘Yes, and he’s not happy,’ Kenton replied, not looking up.

  ‘He’s never happy,’ Lowry said nonchalantly. He stretched across to his colleague’s side of the desk and swiped a Wombles mug, swigging from the contents. Lukewarm. But he downed the rest of the coffee regardless: he needed it. The years when he could easily run on four hours’ sleep for several nights were over. Was it age? Or packing up the fags?

  ‘You should go up, guv, seriously, before the press meeting.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here,’ Lowry replied. ‘But what’s he fretting about? Is it the headless corpse or the dead soldier?’

  ‘Neither.’ Kenton lifted his gaze from the paperwork on his desk.

  Lowry looked perplexed.

  ‘It’s the boxing.’

  *

  DC Daniel Kenton removed his spectacles to wipe the lenses, watching the blurred shape of his superior stride out of the office on his way to visit Sparks at the top of the building. He examined the lenses. They looked clear enough, although he felt they were constantly smudged. Maybe a trip to the opticians was in order; he’d not been since college.

  Kenton had been at Colchester for a mere three months. An outstanding graduate, he had been fast-tracked through the force; after just a year in uniform he had already realized his dream to join CID. This was no easy task for one so young, and it was especially surprising that he’d been accepted at Colchester division. As a rule, Sparks turned his nose up at educated types with little on-the-job experience, but Kenton knew the real reason he’d had such a smooth ride – his college boxing record.

  He breathed on the lenses again and rubbed vigorously. Although he’d prefer not to spend his spare time getting the crap punched out of him, it did keep him fit and, to be honest, he had nothing better to do. But Lowry’s decision to quit had surprised him. Kenton, though proudly his own man, was surreptitiously in awe of his senior officer – a man very different from himself; a man he would never think of as a role model. It was difficult to pinpoint why exactly. On the surface, the DI was to him the coolest, sharpest chap in the building. It was strange the effect he had. Lowry was not remotely fashion conscious; indeed, sartorially, Kenton’s boss was in another era entirely – but it was the way he carried it off, perhaps, and his manner, so self-effacing, never bragging or boasting about his successes, be it in the ring or on casework. Everything was done in a matter-of-fact, orderly fashion, without fuss. Yes, now that Lowry had quit the ring, Kenton had started to have misgivings himself, and he might well have jacked it in, too, had the subject not proved such a good conversation starter. When he’d caught the eye of the tall, attractive blonde WPC in the canteen queue the other day, she had asked if he was a boxer and expressed an interest in coming to the opening bout at the cavalry barracks. It had taken him by surprise: he could hardly believe that the girl who was the talk of the locker room – and known for being aloof – had spoken to him. If excitement about this year’s opener could penetrate even her ice-cool exterior, then it was something worth being involved in. And it was true: the station was well and truly abuzz with talk of this year’s contest and the age-old rivalry between the police and the army. It was a great tradition. But the fight and WPC Gabriel were tomorrow night, and today he had Mersea Island to contend with . . . He looked down once again at the barely legible handwritten police report on his desk. He squinted at the paperwork in front of him.

  Kenton had yet to work with the island police, but he’d heard they were a law unto themselves and had operated as the
y did since the 1950s. It was run by a character out of a Dickens novel, Sergeant ‘Dodger’ Bradley, a curmudgeonly policeman on the cusp of retirement (hence ‘coffin dodger’) who refused to move with the times. Bradley was of the old school, where paperwork – if any were produced – remained on the island. Scant attention was paid to the new ruling on County remittances through Colchester. As the wind rattled the sash windows, Kenton was inclined to think Colchester itself hardly had the feel of a station firmly in the later half of the twentieth century.

  *

  ‘But I’m too old.’

  Sparks frowned at his detective inspector. ‘Bollocks,’ he replied.

  ‘But I am,’ said Lowry wearily.

  ‘Listen to yourself. Cooper was thirty-six when he fought Bugner.’

  ‘He lost.’

  ‘Pah!’ Sparks batted away the objection. ‘The referee was a wanker, everyone knows that. But, win or lose, you must agree it was close?’

  ‘It was close.’

  ‘And how old was Bugner?’ He waited for an answer, though he didn’t need to ask – they’d spoken of this fight many times before. Bugner was one of several bare-chested fighters, along with Henry Cooper and stars from his own police team, whose framed portraits adorned the walls of the chief’s attic office.

  ‘Twenty-one.’

  Sparks nodded, then decided to try a change of tack. ‘Listen, Nick,’ he soothed, ‘maybe you just need to have a rest, take a break?’

  ‘I’m fine – I just fancy doing something different . . . I—’

  ‘I’ve got it. Perhaps you’re going through a mid-life crisis?’ Of course, that was it! He remembered those years vividly himself – that difficult, restless transition into middle age, full of regret and self-doubt. Sparks reached for his Embassy, pleased to have found a logical explanation.