by James, Henry
Lowry paid for the drinks. ‘All right.’ He’d not spoken to her since their conversation the night before and was not particularly keen to say any more to Sparks. Instead, he signalled to the waifish girl behind the bar and asked, ‘Lester in?’
Sparks’s good humour had evaporated as swiftly as it had arisen. When, thanks to Granger, he’d first got wind of this tête-à-tête between the ACC and Lowry, he’d hardly minded at all, but now, on hearing Lowry’s oblique response, he was furious. Talking about him? Modern? What the fuck was Merrydown on about? Now he’d stopped to think about it, why was she talking to Lowry like that, behind his back? Not that he didn’t trust Lowry – he did – but her? No chance. She hadn’t got to where she was by being Felicity Kendal. She was not to be trusted. Indeed, she had, only this afternoon, called Sparks to warn him about her niece, Gabriel. And though Merrydown was sweetness and light about the whole thing, and apologized that he was kept in the dark about the connection, it was still underhand. Sparks was going to mention it to Lowry, but now thought better of it . . .
He grabbed his drink from the bar and took in his surroundings. He used to listen to the odd jazz record once upon a time and he knew this place from his days as a DC in the sixties – his glory years. A desk job wasn’t what he’d signed up for, but that’s what it had become, and although the sports that he engaged in compensated to a degree, it didn’t quite replace life on the streets. ‘This place hasn’t changed,’ he said, nodding to a leathery old goat at the far end of the bar. ‘He was in here when this was my patch, in sixty-seven. Don’t think he’s moved. Certainly hasn’t shaved.’
Lowry raised his glass and took a swig. The low ceiling caused both of them to stoop. ‘Not much of a stage,’ he said, indicating the far end of the bar, where a skinny, long-haired youth was messing with a snare drum.
‘You don’t need a big stage with jazz, Nick. There’s no need to strut about like they do with that crap you’re into – the music does the job for you.’
‘Didn’t know you were into jazz, chief—’
‘Evening, gents.’ A man so skinny that it was a wonder a turtleneck was made that would fit as snugly as the one he sported had drifted over. ‘Superintendent, welcome. It’s been a while.’
‘Lester,’ Sparks acknowledged. ‘There’s been a mishap.’
‘Derek.’ He nodded, tutting. ‘Shocking business.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’ Lowry asked.
The club manager waved a cigarette indolently. ‘Thursday. He was supposed to be here on Sunday – but he didn’t show up.’
‘How did you hear about what had happened?’ Sparks asked.
‘I can’t recall – was it in the paper?’
‘Did you not inquire as to his whereabouts? He’s in the house band – didn’t you wonder why he hadn’t turned up?’ he persisted.
‘How does one ever hear anything?’ the man half replied, his attention drifting towards the guy fiddling with the snare drum, who had been joined by a short black man with a trumpet.
Sparks was out of the habit of being dicked about. He was sure Lester Pink had a drugs habit. What it was, he had no idea, but there was no way a man could be this skinny without poisoning his body with something. Maybe he was on it now, which would explain his disrespect. He downed his drink and muttered to Lowry, ‘See if you can jog his memory – or, if not, unsettle it.’
Sparks marched over the trumpet player. ‘Evening,’ he said.
The musician gave a cursory nod but then carried on chatting to the man at the snare drum.
‘Oi, Satchmo,’ Sparks said politely. ‘May I have a word?’ They both stopped what they were doing and stared at him.
‘Armstrong played the cornet,’ the black guy said.
‘I’m sorry? What did you say?’
‘I said –’ he paused – ‘Armstrong predominantly played the cornet.’
‘Did he? Did he really?’ Sparks looked at the low, yellow ceiling as though in thought, tapping his foot playfully as he did so, then stared at the man straight and said, ‘Well, I don’t give a fuck whether he blew down Liberace’s bone flute.’ With a sudden jerk, he shoved the trumpeter against the back wall. Due to his small size, this didn’t require the effort Sparks put in, and the push caused several framed photographs of hallowed jazz musicians blowing earnestly to shatter.
‘Now, Derek Stone. Know him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes, he plays with us. He hasn’t been turning up. Turns out he was murdered.’
‘Did he take drugs?’
‘Erm . . . occasionally.’
Sparks shoved him hard against the wall.
‘Hey, man,’ came a soft voice, followed by a tap on his shoulder. ‘There’s no need for that.’ It was the drummer.
‘Come here,’ Sparks beckoned, as if to confide in him. As the man leaned forward, Sparks spun and deftly headbutted him on the bridge of the nose. The drummer toppled and Sparks felt momentarily stunned. The trumpeter, still in his grip, had gone limp against the wall, pulling Sparks forward. He was trying to whisper something.
‘Sorry, son – didn’t catch that?’
‘He’d gone to score – Del had – on Saturday night. He’d gone to score on Saturday night.’
‘Fab.’ He yanked the man upright. ‘Anything else? Any girlfriend? Who’d he hang out with?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’ Sparks squeezed the man hard again. ‘Wait; he had a mate who’d drop by – Ted.’
‘Ted? Ted who?’
‘Nugent. Comes from Mersea. Bleached-blond hair. You’re hurting me.’
Satisfied, Sparks released him and marched back to the bar, where Lowry and Lester Pink had been watching the display. ‘That’s bang out of order, Mr Sparks,’ Pink protested, seeming now to have been roused from his dreamland. Sparks squared up to him and he instantly shrunk back.
‘The trouble is, Lester, people ponce about. Call me old-fashioned, but I believe that if a policeman, especially a senior one such as myself, asks for information, he’s entitled to an answer.’ Sparks gestured towards the musicians, where the trumpeter was fussing over the drummer, who was still lying on the floor. ‘Not a load of arse. Know what I mean?’
‘We done?’ Lowry said, and placed his empty glass purposefully on the bar. They left in silence.
Sparks was irritated by Lowry’s lack of comment. As the cold night air punched his lungs outside on the cobbled street, he said, ‘Was that “modern” enough for you?’
-42-
6.30 p.m., Tuesday, Queen Street
Lowry said goodnight to Sparks on the station steps. He watched his superior march off at a brisk pace in a swirl of snow and disappear round the back, towards the car park. Sparks’s slapping about of the trumpet player was his second violent display in under a week. Lowry was not averse to violence here and there, where necessary, but he couldn’t help but think that Sparks’s behaviour was unwarranted. Neither the musician nor Corporal Quinn had deserved it, and both were easy targets. Maybe the chief was beginning to feel his age, and irrational bursts here and there were a means to reassert his authority before it was too late.
‘Maybe it’s not me who’s having a mid-life crisis,’ he said to the shadows.
Still, they had made progress, tactics notwithstanding. It appeared that Derek Stone was small time. He’d gone to score on New Year’s Eve, and ten grams of speed was hardly a major haul requiring a beach landing. No, he was of little interest – even less now he was dead – whereas Ted Nugent was suddenly very much back in the frame, having seen Stone the night before he was murdered. He doubted there could be two people with the same moniker. The trouble with crims on parole was that they could never seem to untangle themselves from the fraternity net . . .
Sparks’s Rover pulled out from the side of the building and a pale palm waved from inside. Lowry crossed the road and made his way up towards the high street. He thought back to Kenton, g
rumbling at Sparks’s remark, when he first started, that he looked like Dennis Waterman (which had offended Kenton deeply) – and, ironically, how Sparks’s conduct at the Candyman had been a beautiful reenactment of 1970s policing, as portrayed in The Sweeney. He’d have to bung Pink a score to compensate for lost clientele: a bunch of students had witnessed the whole thing and fled in horror . . .
As he walked down East Hill, his thoughts turned to his next destination: Aristos nightclub. He’d considered telling Sparks about Jacqui’s involvement in the case but had decided against it after his little outburst in the jazz club. It would only cloud the issue further. And, anyway, as Lowry kept telling himself, the scarf was found in the garden, which meant she may never have even entered the house.
The club was not open tonight, but he’d called ahead and requested that the staff who’d been on duty on Saturday night open up for him. Two sirens shot past as he walked into the reception of the Colne Hotel, beneath which sat Aristos. A clerk guided him through some double doors and downstairs to the club, where a curly-haired man in a black open-necked shirt greeted him and flicked on all the lights.
‘Of course, the main entrance is outside the hotel. The way you came in is strictly for VIP guests,’ the manager, Stu, said. ‘Over there’s the main bar.’ He pointed towards a raised oval bar on the other side of the dance floor. The bar, shrouded in darkness, was ringed by chrome barstools. Nightclubs were not the sort of place Lowry frequented, but even to his untrained eye, this place was straight out of 1977. ‘So, the guys you’re talking about were sat there, right in the middle. It was pretty early. They were, like, some of the first in.’
‘Was this them?’ He held up pictures of Jason Boyd and Felix Cowley.
‘That’s them. There was another dude who came on his own, chatted, then split. Much later.’
‘This him?’ Lowry held up a picture of Stone.
‘Not sure . . . It was dark, and, like I say, he wasn’t here long.’
‘Look at it closely?’
‘Wait a sec. I know this guy – he plays horn at the Candyman?’
‘He did. Was he here?’
‘Yeah, yeah, he was here later, after the birds had joined them.’ Lowry baulked at the description, knowing it included Jacqui.
‘And what sort of mindset were the men in?’
‘They were loaded, all right.’
‘How did they behave?’
‘Like people off their faces do: really chatty, arms waving everywhere – not out of control, though; sort of hyper-excited.’
‘Any aggressive behaviour?’
‘No.’
‘What were they up to? Mixing with the crowd when it filled up?’
‘Nah, they kept to themselves. Just sat there yakking at each other until these birds turned up.’
So, not actively selling, just using, thought Lowry.
‘So, they just sat there?’
‘They were rooted to the spot until the ladies dragged them up on to the dance floor.’
‘And then?’
‘I watched them briefly. The men were all over the place – almost comical – completely on a different planet. The chicks were in time. There was this cute, dark one who was quite a mover. But then I lost them as the place started to fill up.’
Lowry surveyed the club. It had an expansive floor space with a capacity of several hundred. He started to picture Jacqui gyrating in the middle with another man, but stopped himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her on a dance floor – probably a Masonic do such as the one Sparks was attending tonight – although he had no doubt she was the woman the barman was referring to.
‘Was Stone a regular?’
‘Nah – not his scene. And neither were the other two you showed me; this place wasn’t their sort of groove. And they weren’t exactly choice clientele either.’ He flicked a tiny piece of lint from the sleeve of his pristine shirt. ‘We’d just relaxed the dress code to drum up a bit of business, otherwise these chancers would never have got through the door.’
Lowry moved on to the empty dance floor.
‘How late were they here until?’
‘I couldn’t tell you, but the lights come on at ten to two.’
‘You shut at two.’
‘Two, that’s right, else we have your mob down on us – but the dregs can still be in here at twenty past.’
Dregs, Lowry thought with a heavy heart. A fragment of a scene twirled in his head: Jacqui draping her scarf around the neck of now-dead Jason Boyd. He snapped his mind shut.
‘Thank you, you’ve been more than helpful,’ he said, and left, hoping not to have to enter the club again for a long time.
7.45 p.m., Abberton village hall, south of Colchester
Lowry arrived late for the lecture and sat at the back of the draughty village hall. He tried to shut out all the events of the last few days and engage with what the man standing at the front was saying about peregrine falcons.
‘Of course, it could be dismissed as nature’s strange irony that such a powerful hunter should have the most fragile of eggs. But no, this is not nature’s doing, it is man’s. Agricultural pesticides continue to kill and damage our wildlife. DDT has been banned for nearly ten years in the United States, yet here it is still widely used.’
Doug Young, the park ranger, spoke eloquently about the challenging circumstances Britain’s raptors faced. A slide of a magnificent falcon with its grey, noble head was replaced by a chart showing a complex table of chemicals. Lowry shifted in his seat. He had come here to find beauty and peace, but instead it was turning into a forensics lecture.
Afterwards, Young came over to him as he was leafing through a collection of RSPB leaflets by the hall entrance.
‘Detective Inspector Lowry, I’m so glad you could make it. How did you find the talk?’
‘Unfortunately, I was late, Mr Young, and caught only the science.’
‘Ah, yes. It is rather depressing.’ He held his hands before him, fingers crossed, like a man of the church. ‘But it’s important to get the message out.’
‘Absolutely.’ He smiled. ‘But I’ve yet to see a peregrine and was hoping for some tips, rather than to discover that farmers are destroying their chances of rearing young.’
‘Of course. And you shall.’ He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. ‘We have a breeding pair not ten miles from here.’
‘Really? Where?’
‘Fingringhoe.’
‘I was there yesterday,’ said Lowry, surprised.
‘But not on the marshes, I’ll bet.’
‘No, the village. So, presumably, the marshes are out of danger, being away from farmland?’
‘Hmm . . . They’re not entirely hazard-free for the birds. As I’m sure you know, most of the vast area of marshland is part of the ranges.’
‘Yes, of course, the firing ranges – the army uses the land for shooting practice.’
‘Exactly.’
‘What do you do? Wait for the red flag to be lowered before entering?’
‘Not necessary. The range sergeant is a decent sort; he’ll call if they spot the birds making an appearance during operations, and at other times he lets us use the command hut – makes a perfect hide.’
‘A telephone call from the ranges?’
‘Yes, they have a line even out there.’
‘Is that so? Thank you, Mr Young.’
Wednesday, 5 January, 1983
-43-
9 a.m., Wednesday, interview room one, Queen Street HQ
Lowry looked at the pitiful excuse for a man sitting behind a worn wooden table in the otherwise empty interview room. He knew instinctively that this sorry specimen was not responsible for the mayhem over the last few days. Cowley sat, teeth chattering, in the same filthy clothes he’d been wearing when they pulled him out of the water yesterday morning. When quizzed, the duty PC assured Lowry that the heater had been on full blast throughout the night.
In the fa
r corner of the interview room, a bucket sat collecting droplets from a leaking pipe that ran overhead across the back wall. Sparks refused to have it attended to, presumably enjoying the idea that the dripping was a form of torture for suspects.
‘Get him a blanket, for Christ’s sake,’ Lowry muttered crossly to the WPC on the door. The first-floor room was bitterly cold – he himself had kept his scarf on.
He sighed and flipped open the buff folder which contained a medical record for Felix Simon Cowley. The individual before him was not a well man, by any stretch, and at first glance didn’t look capable of tying his own shoelaces. And judging by the paperwork in front of him, that might not be all he wasn’t capable of, for the medical report was from Severalls, the asylum to the north of the town, up on the Essex plains. However, Cowley did have some awareness of the situation: Gabriel had told Lowry the day before that the lad had confessed to smuggling drugs on to the mainland. He was vague on detail: from whom, and what, was still a mystery; all he could confirm was that they’d landed with two army rucksacks containing ‘stuff’ and a change of clothes. No mention of the two dead men had been made. They were middlemen, couriers.
‘Th-thank you,’ Cowley said, glancing up with wide, dark eyes at the WPC, who’d draped a coarse blanket across his shoulders.
‘Can you tell me why you’re here, Felix?’ Lowry asked, sliding a pack of Player’s across the stained table.
‘Where’s Jason?’
‘Jason? Was he with you?’
‘Yes. We went out on the boat, then—’ He stopped himself, hand over his mouth.
‘No, no, it’s okay to talk – we won’t hurt you. To help us find Jason, it’s better that you tell us all you know.’
Cowley took a cigarette with a filth-streaked hand. Lowry reached over to light it. Barely twenty years old, the wretch looked haggard and worn out. He drew deeply on the cigarette and then looked at the glowing tip and nodded towards the buff folder. ‘They never let me have them in there.’
