by James, Henry
Kenton squeezed past the rotund Mersea sergeant, who appeared reluctant to retreat across his own threshold.
‘Morning, Mrs Bradley.’ The sergeant’s wife, dressed in a pink overall, reminded Kenton of a school dinner-lady. She nodded sternly from the large kitchen.
‘Suppose you’ll be wanting a cuppa?’ she said, in a tone suggesting this would put her out immensely but also that she would be offended if he refused.
‘That’ll be grand, Mrs Bradley, thanks. Nippy outside.’ From the ceiling hung spider plants spilling from macramé pots, and at the far end of the house there was a conservatory which housed several large weeping figs.
‘Lovely kitchen,’ he ventured.
‘Don’t make yourself too flamin’ comfortable,’ Bradley snapped, his shoulder resting on the kitchen door-jamb. ‘I presume there’s a reason you’re ’ere?’
‘There’s been an incident on the Greenstead Estate – a murder. We think those involved might have come from here. We’re looking for the owner of a blue Land Rover.’
Bradley grunted. ‘A Land Rover? Every other motor’s a Land Rover on East Mersea, and between ’ere and Colchester, for that matter.’
‘This one’s an old one: thirty years or so. Plus, it had a tow hook. I was thinking it might’ve come from the boatyard.’
‘Sounds more like a farmer’s to me,’ said Bradley dismissively.
‘The vehicle has traces of seaweed on the wheel arches.’
Bradley raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘Jennings pulled in a couple of drunk young fellas over the holiday, trying to launch a speedboat on the Strood at high tide for waterskiing. Bloody mad, this time of year.’
Kenton looked at him expectantly. But it took a stern glare from his wife for him to act.
‘All right, all right, I’ll call him.’ He wandered off into the hallway, scratching his backside. Mrs Bradley shook her head woefully, pouring him a tea.
‘Sooner he retires the better. Though what I’ll do with him, heaven knows.’
‘Loves the job, eh?’ Kenton remarked. Mrs Bradley just tutted and got up from the kitchen table, busying herself with a mountain of laundry that was spilling out of the machine. Then Kenton had an idea. ‘I was just over the road, as it happens, before coming here. I noticed a young blonde lady leaving one of the houses. She drives a white sporty Ford?’
‘That car ain’t hers,’ barked Mrs Bradley. ‘That no-good boyfriend of hers, Kevin Nugent – it’s his.’
‘Kevin Nugent?’ he said disingenuously.
‘Yes,’ she puffed. ‘Everyone knows him as Ted.’
‘And what about Mrs Nugent?’
‘He’s trying to push her into a home, I reckons.’
‘What does Ted do?’
‘He’s an odd-job man – painting, decorating, messing around on boats and generally getting up to no good.’
‘Who’s up to no good?’ demanded Sergeant Bradley, who had appeared in the doorway, buttoning a blue uniform shirt.
‘Ted Nugent,’ said his wife.
The Dodger shot a glance at Kenton. ‘Aye, I heard youse been troubling him. I’ll be on to Sparks if our witness is being harassed.’
‘Inspector Lowry says he’s unreliable,’ Kenton replied, uncomfortable at being reprimanded, especially by a man in a state of semi-undress.
‘I’ll second that,’ the sergeant’s robust wife added.
‘Don’t you go starting to meddle; it’s not your place,’ Bradley said. Kenton wasn’t sure if this was directed at Mrs Bradley or at him.
The ageing sergeant continued the business of buttoning his shirt, muttering about the weather and asking Kenton how bad the fog had been, but making no mention of his call to Jennings. It occurred to Kenton that he might be going senile. Just as he was thinking this, Mrs Bradley prompted loudly, ‘What about the Land Rover?’
The Dodger looked momentarily lost, and then said, ‘Oh, aye. Jennings turned back an old Land Rover matching that description on New Year’s Eve. It was after that body washed up.’
11.30 a.m., Colchester CID, Queen Street
Lowry sat deep in thought, poking with his tongue the hole where his front tooth should be. Before him on the desk blotter was an array of squiggles and descriptions of the three men who, on Sunday evening, at around seven p.m., had bought a takeaway from the The Way to the Raj, at foot of East Hill.
One of the three was Derek Stone.
The curry house, purporting to be Colchester’s oldest (there were at least three which laid claim to this honour), was owned by Shehab, an obstreperous Bengali. However, Shehab knew his clientele, and in his opinion none of the men was military, and only Stone was local. Lowry replayed the conversation he’d had earlier that afternoon back in his mind.
‘Him I see before –’ Shehab had prodded Stone’s photo – ‘many times.’
‘What about the other two?’
‘Not local. But Essex boys.’
‘How do you know they weren’t local?’
‘I know.’
‘Army?’
‘Not army.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Not army hair. But not women’s hair, like him.’ He meant Stone.
‘And why do you think they’re not local – if they know him, and are from Essex?’
‘Mr Lowry, sir, I know this country and the customers of this town,’ he’d said, his short beard jutting out proudly. And then, indignantly, ‘Much swearing at prices, but not from the one with woman’s hair. He knows there many cheap places. No need to come here and shout. I say as much.’
Shehab had a reputation for being a bit pricey. ‘Essex boys. Silly people,’ he’d said. ‘Pig farmers. One pay and wander off, leaving wallet. I give to dopey friend.’
Lowry switched on the Sony Walkman he’d found at Beaumont Terrace, presumably Stone’s, as it was covered in his fingerprints, and plugged in the headphones. Some awful electronic music with brash vocals filled his ears; not what he’d expected a jazz saxophonist to be into. He turned the volume down.
Colchester was awash with Stone and his type: exservicemen, aimlessly drifting around town. The first place to start would be with Stone’s service record, but those were classified. The best route was a chat with Oldham, to see what he knew or was prepared to say.
Lowry looked up and was startled to see WPC Jane Gabriel standing before him on the other side of the desk. He hadn’t heard her come in with the headphones on. He pressed the pause button.
‘Sorry, am I interrupting something?’
‘No, not at all.’ He smiled.
‘Oh . . .’ She put a hand to her mouth. Lowry was momentarily confused, then remembered his missing tooth.
‘Sorry to give you a fright.’
‘Are you okay?’
Lowry waved it off. ‘Sure.’
Gabriel smiled faintly. He noticed that, although she was nicely turned out, the uniform hung off her shoulders and the collar gaped at her slender neck; she was skinny as a rake.
‘We’ve not been able to question Jamie Philpott.’
It was said with such discomfort and awkwardness that it made Lowry cringe. The chief, ever mercurial in his decision-making, had, he felt, made a mistake in assigning Gabriel to him. She looked so bashful standing there, unsure how to hold herself. He signalled for her to sit down, attempting to put her at ease.
‘Why?’
‘He’s not at home.’
‘Not at home,’ Lowry repeated. ‘No matter; we’ll place his address under surveillance. Don’t worry, not you – we’ll get Plain Clothes to do it.’ Then, in what he hoped was a friendly tone, he said, ‘So you’re a boxing fan?’
‘I . . . I was intrigued. To see what all the fuss was about.’
‘Did it live up to expectations?’
‘Frankly, I found it all rather unpleasant.’ Her expression changed to one of dry antipathy. Lowry raised an eyebrow; so, there was an assertive edge to her he’d not yet seen. ‘Well, maybe next tim
e you should ask to be taken somewhere more appealing, like the cinema. That film with the alien that looks like a potato seems popular . . . Anyway, the chief says you’re to assist CID, given the dire straits we’re in. Are you happy to do that?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Good. Welcome aboard – it’s a blast.’ He stood up and reached over to the coat stand for his donkey jacket. ‘I’m off to meet DC Kenton on Mersea Island. I wonder if you might have a word with one of the girls Jones claimed he was with before the accident. A Miss . . .’ He scrabbled for his notebook.
‘Lesley Birch, Papillon Road.’
‘That’s her.’
‘I’ve tried three times. No response.’
‘Have you talked to the neighbours?’
‘To confirm she’s the occupant, yes.’
‘What does she do?’
‘I’m sorry . . . ?’
‘For a living? She might have gone to ground at the weekend, but it’s Monday now: pretty much everyone respectable is accountable for on a Monday. Work, college, job centre – chances are she’ll be at one of them. Go and find out.’
‘But it’s a Bank Holiday?’
The thought had not occurred to him; the holidays had blurred.
‘So it is. Give it one more try, anyway.’
And, with that, he left the office.
-25-
11.45 a.m., Monday, Queen Street
WPC Jane Gabriel was left smarting. Briskly, she exited HQ and hurried down the front steps, pausing to regain her composure in the biting air.
Being a Bank Holiday, Queen Street was deserted. Two PCs passed her on the station steps, giving her a cursory glance. It was then she realized – damn! – she had forgotten her cap. Never mind, she could quickly walk back home to New Town and get it. It wouldn’t take more than ten minutes.
Walking the length of the high street, she thought about the night before, regretting her decision to attend the fight. Maybe she should have liaised with her fellow female officers first? To be fair, though, she’d heard the WPCs gossiping feverishly beforehand about who was fighting, so she was a little surprised to turn up and find only a handful of women present, all of whom looked as if they were there under duress. Her mistake had been to ask DC Kenton, which she’d only done because he’d stood next to her in the queue at the canteen. She’d known he was competing – strange, because he looked more like an overgrown schoolboy than a boxer, with his wavy hair and old-fashioned clothes. She certainly hadn’t planned to spend the evening with him, drawing raised eyebrows from the many Queen Street supporters there. She’d even found herself holding a sweaty towel for him at one point.
Maybe that’s why Lowry had been short with her. Perhaps he considered her behaviour inappropriate. She’d caught his eye across that smoke-filled hellhole and seen what she’d thought was surprise, but maybe it had been disapproval. All in all, it had been a very unpleasant evening: two hours of primal roaring, followed by a dutiful drink with a sweat-covered Kenton, who, in his over-excited state, drank far too much and was oblivious to the fact that she was annoyed. It was the last time she’d be going there as his ‘date’, or anywhere else, for that matter.
Midday, West Mersea port, Mersea Island
Lowry thanked the coastguard for turning up and opening the lifeboat station. It was a voluntary service, and he’d had to rouse from his slumber the rosy-cheeked lad who was on call. He was a little the worse for a heavy night at the Victory, the huge pub opposite the boatyard, but keen to help nonetheless.
He thumbed through the crumpled logbook. ‘It’s been quiet – not much happening this time of year. Too flaming cold.’
‘Not pulled anyone out over the last week?’
‘Not that I can see.’
‘Vessels in distress, or lost?’
‘That’d be the harbourmaster more than us.’ The young lad looked apologetic. ‘Wait – here. January the first . . .’
Lowry stepped closer.
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ he said, disappointed.
‘What was it?’
‘A tender – it was found adrift in the channel. Empty.’
‘A what?’
‘A tender, like a dinghy – a small boat for carrying people or supplies and stuff to a larger boat. This one probably came untied from a yacht.’
‘Is it here?’
‘In the boatyard? Yeah, I guess . . . though I don’t know exactly where.’
‘Know where it was picked up?’
‘Yeah.’ He turned round and tapped a finger on the map behind him. ‘Roughly here.’
‘Would it be possible, if someone had, say, come ashore and left that boat on the mud, for the tide to carry it out again?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Am I right in thinking the shoreline varies between shingle and mudflats?’
‘Yes, below the tide line.’
‘Might you have a chart?’
‘Behind you.’
Pinned on the cabin wall was a detailed map of the estuary. The coastguard walked over and ran his finger along the shoreline, which was shaded variously yellow or brown.
‘We’re here,’ he explained, ‘and the mudflats start here.’
‘Okay. I think I might take a stroll in that direction along the beach. Where’s the best place to start?’
‘Take the Monkey Steps down to the beach, just back up the road there, about five hundred yards or so.’
‘Can I get all the way round to the country park on East Mersea? I’m meeting a colleague there.’
‘Cudmore Grove; that’s here.’ His finger travelled the length of the island’s shoreline from the westernmost to the easternmost tip. ‘It’s a fair old walk – good hour, I reckons.’
‘That’s all right, I’ve got time.’ Lowry thought it would be worth it, to get a measure of the coastline. ‘Tell me – comings and goings in and out of the estuary: how easy is it to move in and out unnoticed?’
‘That all depends.’
‘On what?’
‘Who’s looking – at this time of year, visibility is poor, so with the naked eye you can’t see a lot, even here in the harbour – let alone out there – but with radar the coastguard can easily cover this stretch of coast and spot pretty much anything bigger than a dinghy.’
Outside the lifeboat station, Lowry popped the Saab’s boot open. To his mind, the muddied clothes and trainers found in the back of the Land Rover told a story. He ran his thumb over the soiled denims; there were traces of salt up to the groin. He didn’t need a forensics expert to tell him that the owners had been wading across the mudflats off West Mersea. There was something else, though: a viscous, sandy-coloured mud that was unfamiliar. He took a closer look. It wasn’t from the arable fields of East Anglia; he’d never seen mud like it on the numerous occasions that some farmer or other had unearthed human remains. He closed the boot and surveyed the boatyard. It was deserted, the only movement a lacklustre breeze that seeped through the riggings of the boats, tickling the lanyards. It would take an earthquake to rouse this place out of season; a couple of figures tramping across the mudflats up the coast wouldn’t cause a ripple.
The Monkey Beach was so called because, in the eighteenth century, smuggler-hunting customs officers, insultingly nicknamed ‘monkeys’ by the locals, had their lookout post nearby. It was also the island’s primary tourist attraction, with its broad sand-and-shingle beach. Lowry descended the zigzag steps from the main road and passed an ancient wall, so skewed it looked ready to topple at any minute. He began a slow, plodding walk across the damp sand towards a breakwater in the distance, where the shingle would afford a firmer footing. Behind him were the harbour and the oyster sheds; to his left, the road, flanked by large Victorian houses; and to his right, the Blackwater, looming within a ghostly white mist.
Lowry played with his thoughts as he meandered along the beach. Given the state of the clothing and trainers in the Land Rover, the tide must have been out; low tide fell at mi
dday and, more significantly, at midnight. He was traversing the south side of the island, where the Blackwater drained into the North Sea. Though this wasn’t the only place there were mudflats, from the charts it looked the most obvious place to land.
12.05 p.m., St Marys, Colchester
WPC Jane Gabriel had discovered from a neighbour who had been putting out milk bottles on Papillon Road that Lesley Birch worked just round the corner at Videodrome on Crouch Street, and that the store was open today.
A bell rang as Gabriel entered the store. The place was empty apart from a man with sideburns and wearing a raincoat, furtively considering the top shelf, a row of Electric Blue and Emmanuelle, no doubt. Clocking her police uniform, he hastily grabbed something from the horror section and made for the desk. Gabriel walked to the counter and stood next to him; he had a blue card headed The Evil Dead in front of him. Never heard of it, she thought. A woman in her late teens with a dyed-black wedge haircut returned from the storage room behind the desk.
‘Seventy-five pence, please.’ She slid across a cassette. ‘Back tomorrow, before six.’ While the man rummaged in his coat for the money, she addressed Gabriel openly. ‘You look too cool to be a copper.’
‘And you look too smart to be serving raincoats on a Monday afternoon.’
The girl shrugged as the man deposited a pile of silver and left hurriedly. ‘I go to college on Tuesdays and Wednesdays.’ But she offered no more; she was confident enough not to feel compelled to explain herself, Gabriel assumed.
‘Recognize these men?’ She held out two passport photos of the servicemen.
Lesley Birch nodded sullenly.
‘Were you out with them on New Year’s Eve?’
‘Early on.’
‘Until what time?’
‘About seven.’ She pulled a Silk Cut from a pack on the counter and casually offered one to Gabriel, who declined and instead pulled out her notebook.
‘Where did you see them?’
‘In the Boadicea – centre of town, on Headgate.’
‘Jones said he was with you at the Golden Lion on the high street?’
‘No, he wasn’t with us. But that’s where we go – I am a student, after all.’
