Blackwater (DI Nick Lowry)

by James, Henry

  ‘No, I’m not surprised,’ Lowry said.

  ‘I don’t want to go back. I want to go home.’

  ‘Is that what you were doing in Fingringhoe? Trying to call home?’ They’d matched some prints from the phone box to Cowley, who must’ve been under their very nose when Lowry had tried to get into the tower.

  ‘I don’t know who I called,’ he replied, puzzled.

  ‘How could you not know who you called?’ This was going to be painful. Felix Cowley had been sectioned at the age of sixteen with severe psychological disorders, not helped by the fact that he’d seen his mother burn alive in a cottage in St Osyth. If anyone should avoid dabbling with recreational drugs, it was this lad. God knows what was going on inside that head.

  ‘I want to go home.’ Cowley’s eyes were glazed like those of an alcoholic twice his age: slightly bulbous and held in place by a jelly-like film. Home would be Brightlingsea. The file indicated next of kin to be a father and a brother.

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ Lowry said diplomatically, ‘but first let’s get these questions answered, to help find Jason.’

  ‘I want the lady.’

  ‘What lady?’

  ‘The police lady what give me the blanket.’

  Lowry turned, surprised, to look at the stout, silent WPC on the door. ‘What, her?’

  ‘No – the one on the boat. She gave me a blanket, too, but the man with bad breath and a beard took it away.’

  Gabriel and Barnes.

  ‘Constable, see if WPC Gabriel is available,’ Lowry said over his shoulder.

  ‘Tell me, while we wait for the lady to come, about being at sea in the dark. Must have been scary?’

  Cowley frowned and tried to roll his eyes, but couldn’t for some reason and blinked rapidly instead. ‘Jason was so cross. We’d got lost in the fog and it was so cold. Soooo cold. And then the mud! We had to walk forever, carrying the stuff across the mud.’

  ‘I’d have thought a couple of local lads like yourselves would know the way from Brightlingsea . . .’

  ‘We started out from Brightlingsea, out of the estuary – where we met, well, you know, out in the sea, a bigger boat. I don’t know nothing about it, though.’

  ‘I believe you, honestly,’ Lowry said, watching the boy squeeze his cigarette tightly between thumb and forefinger. This lad was an innocent, just a mule, he was sure of it, but he was all they had. ‘But c’mon, how can you tell me you made a telephone call and didn’t know who you were calling – did you just have a number?’

  Cowley fumbled inside his denim jacket. A wallet? Somebody had slipped up on the front desk. From inside the leather pouch, which had certainly seen better days, he pulled a creased slip of paper, carefully unfolded it and passed it to Lowry. Two numbers. One Colchester – Greenstead, probably – and one longer number with a code Lowry didn’t recognize. ‘Saturday’ was scrawled across the top.

  ‘It says here Saturday. You called on Monday.’

  ‘We got lost.’

  ‘Okay. Between getting lost on Mersea and the time of the phone call, can you tell me what you were doing, where you were?’

  ‘’Ouse in Colchester.’

  ‘When you got there, how many people were at this house?’ Lowry reached across and picked up the wallet. Inside was a familiar-looking green document – a driving licence.

  ‘One bloke.’

  ‘Called?’ he prompted. The name on the damp licence was Jason Boyd.

  ‘Del, or Derek.’

  ‘That it?’

  ‘No, later, a geezer in his thirties turned up, called Jamie. That’s when it all started to go wrong.’

  Bingo. Kenton had already called Lowry to relay his conversation with the obliging Pond about Jamie Philpott. But just to be sure: ‘This Jamie – light-brown or blondish hair, late thirties, skinny, long sideburns, about five foot ten?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess.’

  ‘So, Jamie turns up; then what?’

  ‘We were waiting to be paid so we could spilt and get home. When the door goes, we think it’s . . . it’s someone with our money. But it’s this Jamie bloke. It’s him that cracked open the gear. We were knackered, too, you know; hardly slept. Bored of waiting.’ He rubbed his filthy forehead. ‘Seemed like a good idea, you know, a little dab. Next thing I know, I’m here.’

  ‘You must recall something of what happened in between? That’s one hell of a gap, between Saturday afternoon, in a kitchen on the Greenstead Estate, to Tuesday morning, floating in a gale off the North Sea.’

  ‘I’m telling you, that gear was lethal.’ Cowley looked at the wallet, which seemed to be a trigger. ‘Jason wouldn’t have let ’is guard down if it wasn’t for that nuclear whizz. That’s his wallet.’ Cowley had a faraway look, as if trying to reach into a childhood memory rather than recall a drugs binge on a council estate at the weekend. Then he snapped his head back. ‘Left it behind with me in the curry place. Jason would normally never do that.’

  It was unclear whether he meant leave him or the wallet.

  ‘How did you get left behind? Weren’t you just collecting a takeaway?’

  ‘Went for a leak. I came out and they’d gawn. The Indian bloke was waving Jace’s wallet at me . . . I couldn’t work out which direction they’d gone in . . . It’s not like I don’t know Colchester – I do, like – but when it’s dark and you’re on stuff, you know . . . you get . . .’

  ‘Disorientated?’

  ‘That’s it. Disorientated.’

  ‘But when was this? Sunday?’ he prompted.

  ‘Yeah, maybe . . .’ But he looked vacant; he had no idea.

  ‘You went to a nightclub on Saturday – remember dancing? Under the glitter ball?’

  ‘Yes! We did, on Saturday – well raring, we were!’ It was as though a switch had been turned on. ‘After doing a couple of lines, Jace gets up and says he’s off for a drink – thirsty, like – and we all pile out with him. Can’t remember much, but you’re right, we ended up in a club . . . yes, and then went back to the house – that would be Saturday, all right.’

  ‘So, you, Jason, Stone, Philpott, got back to the house in the early hours of Sunday morning?’

  ‘Yeah, but not Philpott; he peeled off somewhere . . .’ That much was true. Jamie had had his hands full in the high street.

  ‘So, was it just the three of you, or was there anyone else?’ He knew he was leading the man and cringed as he awaited his response, especially as a WPC was present.

  ‘There were two birds with us, walking up the road.’ Cowley scrunched up his face. ‘They were making a hell of a racket.’

  Lowry tensed; he heard the WPC shift on her feet. He had to ask. ‘These women, were they in any way connected to Stone?’

  ‘Nah, just a couple of tarts.’

  ‘They returned to the house with you?’

  ‘Nah, couple of prick-teasers; got as far the front door, then changed their minds. Stone tried to drag ’em in, there were a bit of a skuffle out the front of the house, then they cleared off.’

  ‘And what did you do then – go to bed?’

  He rubbed his eyes. ‘I wish. Nah, we were up until it got light – then I must’ve conked out. Then . . . then I remember waking up and being starving. Everyone was hungry. But we were knackered, though . . . so we just got straight pissed.’

  ‘Drinking?’

  ‘Yeah – booze, to make us sleep. A couple of Special Brews.’

  ‘Why didn’t you eat?’

  ‘’Ad nothing, did we? That ’ouse was empty. All the shops was shut, being Sunday . . . so we had to wait for the Indian to open. Later.’

  ‘So you had nothing at all until then?’

  ‘Apart from beer and then some whizz when we woke up, to get us moving a bit.’

  Lowry looked the man in the eyes. He was amazed that he was in one piece. The human constitution at that age was incredible.

  ‘Time?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you, but it was dark by the time we le
ft the ’ouse – must’ve slept most of the day, I s’pose. Had the fear a bit, by then, too . . .’

  ‘I can imagine. Who else were you with when you went for the curry? Jamie?’

  ‘No, Jamie had disappeared up to the high street after we tucked into the gear . . . the night before, I think . . .’ He scrunched up his face in thought. ‘Or did he come back . . . ? It’s all so fuzzy.’ He clasped his face with his dirty hands. ‘That shit was weird.’

  ‘Weird in what way?’

  ‘I ain’t, like, good with words. But one minute you feel great, like you could climb a mountain, and the next you’re just in a different world . . . or it’s like everybody else is in it and you’re looking in on them. In an instant, like.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Then you get the fear like you’ve never had and just want to hide.’

  ‘Sounds grim. I—’

  ‘But then someone says something and you’re back on a high – like switching on a light, and you just want to dance and laugh. For a while, before –’ he tapped his head slowly. – ‘before the gaps – like massive black ’oles. In me memory, like. Can’t remember a friggin’ thing.’

  Having had the toxicology report from Sparks, Lowry was not surprised to hear this. He asked what had happened after he’d got left at the curry house, and Cowley managed to recall that he’d tried for a taxi to Fingringhoe. For reasons unconfirmed, the taxi had dropped him in the middle of nowhere, possibly near Donyland Woods, where he spent an uncomfortable night – here, his eyes grew wide – with only horrific hallucinations to keep him company. At dawn, he felt safer and thought he might’ve slept for a few hours.

  ‘But if you live in Brightlingsea, why not get a taxi home?’

  He scratched his grubby head. ‘There was only a quid in Jace’s wallet. That wouldn’t get me home, so I reckon I thought I might get to Fingringhoe and take me dad’s old boat across the channel,’ he said uncertainly.

  ‘In the dark?’ Lowry asked, incredulous.

  ‘Dunno what I was thinking, do I?’

  There was a light rap on the door. Lowry gestured for the WPC to answer it. Gabriel was outside in the corridor. He would leave her with Cowley – she had fished him out of the water; maybe she’d squeeze something more out of him now – while he focused on catching Philpott. It was beginning to seem like all of Colchester’s lowlife knew of this shipment . . . Just how much of this stuff could there be out there?

  Lowry explained to Gabriel what he knew so far. He spoke softly in her ear, so close he was almost touching. He felt her twitch. ‘And be cautious. If you play your cards right, you can prise information out of him he doesn’t know he has. Forget the drop, where they picked up the gear – that’ll be over his head – focus on what went on in Greenstead. Play dumb about the murders for now. He knows more than he thinks.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Okay. Easy does it.’

  *

  Felix looked the blonde woman opposite in the eyes. They were pale blue and couldn’t meet his. Nevertheless, he preferred her to the mod policeman. She mustered a smile and then busied herself with his file. His file: that was a joke. But he’d use it, goddamn it, to save himself getting banged up – rather Severalls than Chelmsford or, worse, fucking Broadmoor.

  ‘Do you think you’re unwell, Felix?’ the WPC asked kindly.

  He knew he wasn’t right, sometimes. ‘Err . . . Well, I’ve taken some funny stuff, which has left me feeling a bit peculiar, miss.’

  ‘But surely not since you’ve been in here? We pulled you out of the water yesterday afternoon?’

  ‘It was right odd stuff. Never had the like.’

  ‘Did you take much?’

  ‘Can’t rightly remember. Only took it because we were bored waiting for the pick-up.’

  ‘Do you know who you were waiting for?’

  He hugged the blanket tightly. ‘No, I don’t know anything. Jason don’t trust me with important stuff.’ That much was probably true. Even now, in this freezing police station, Cowley marvelled at how little he really knew. They all said in Brightlingsea he wasn’t right in the head since his mother died. Maybe he wasn’t – how would he end up here, like this, otherwise? He wiped his nose on his sleeve. The one thing he knew he mustn’t do was mention Freddie. Jason had said that, and Freddie himself had said that – and, anyway, Freddie said to always do as Jason said. Jason would always look after Felix no matter what . . . But then, where was Jason, and Freddie, for that matter?

  ‘Where’s Jason?’ he asked.

  The lady policeman frowned, creasing her pale, smooth forehead. She looked sad.

  ‘I can’t say for now, I’m afraid.’

  Her change of expression triggered a ripple of anxiety in Cowley, which quickly began to build. Her use of the word ‘afraid’ had pierced his fragile mind. It was as if he’d been told how to feel.

  ‘My pills.’

  ‘Pills?’

  ‘Took ’em out when I emptied me pockets. I need them.’ Not having them increased his anxiety.

  The woman stood up. She was tall. ‘I’ll get them for you, Felix. Don’t worry.’ She smiled down like a kind goddess. ‘Is there anything else I can get you?’

  ‘Some pencils?’

  ‘Pencils?’

  ‘I like to draw. Calms me down.’

  -44-

  10 a.m., Wednesday, Queen Street HQ

  ‘Sit down, sit down,’ Sparks commanded, smoking a cigarette behind the desk on which his feet rested. The chief’s trousers had slipped up his calfs, revealing a dense matt of wiry hair. Kenton, wishing to distance himself from such a view, leaned back as far as he could on the wooden chair. Sparks was reading something intently in his lap.

  For what felt like an age, neither spoke. The chief’s expression was obscured by his leather soles, propped on the desk, but Kenton could hear him suck on his cigarette. The street noise never made it this high, and Kenton realized how peaceful it must be up here, and with a view, too. Sparks made a noise that might have been a chuckle. Kenton thought that, finally, some acknowledgement was coming his way for his casework, or perhaps it was another pat on the back for his bout on Sunday. It couldn’t possibly be about Lowry this time, could it? After a while, Sparks stubbed out his cigarette and sighed loudly.

  ‘Where do you see the future of the police heading, son?’

  This question struck him has unusual. The chief was not one for small talk, not with the likes of him, anyhow. Promising.

  ‘Err . . . I hear word of computerization in the Met and the West Country. I suspect that may influence how we collate information and forensics—’

  ‘Eh?’ Sparks poked his head to one side, appearing from behind his shoes. ‘What are you on about, son?’

  ‘I thought, when you asked about the future, you meant—’ he said, confused.

  ‘No, no, no. Computers? Only children and bearded freaks have time for that nonsense. Besides,’ he leaned across to the electric heater at the side of the desk, ‘I think getting some fucking central heating in this godforsaken rotting building is higher on the priority list. No, I’m talking about men.’

  Kenton looked at him blankly. Sparks’s interest in men usually only extended to their ability to thump each other.

  ‘Guys like you and me. Lowry, even.’

  It seemed an odd remark: the three of them had zero in common other than all being policemen that liked to box, and even there, one, of late, had decided to hold binoculars rather than to punch anyone. He had no idea what the chief was on about.

  ‘Sorry, guv, I’m not with you.’

  Sparks took his feet down and tossed a copy of Asterix and the Secret Agent on the desk – the source of his chuckling.

  ‘Look at women. They wanted equal pay, they got it; they want equal opportunities, they’ve got that in spades – we’ve even got one running the fucking country. How the fuck that ever happened will remain a mystery – that, people will ponder for all eternity. What next? A black guy in number ten?’
He shook his head and tutted.

  Kenton nodded his head dumbly.

  ‘Well, think on it; it’s a fact.’

  Kenton nodded again.

  ‘So, in addition, there’s a type of woman who will use her feminine assets to progress her career in any way she can.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘What I mean is – I’ll be direct – have it off with the boss, or –’ he shot Kenton a meaningful look – ‘someone in a position of power.’

  ‘Sorry, sir, I don’t see where this conversation is heading,’ Kenton said, confused.

  Sparks held an authoritative finger in the air. ‘Alternatively, if the woman’s a bit of a . . . you know –’ he flopped his hand about – ‘but still ambitious, she might try and fuck you over instead.’

  ‘Sir, please can you explain? I’m lost.’

  ‘Very well. WPC Gabriel has made allegations against you.’

  ‘Allegations? What do you mean, “allegations”?’ Kenton paled.

  ‘Wait a minute; what’s the term she used?’ As Sparks scrabbled around among the papers on his desk, Kenton sat shell-shocked; he couldn’t begin to understand what was being suggested. ‘Allegations’ sounded formal. What had she said?

  ‘Harassment?’ Sparks looked up at him doubtfully.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  The chief frowned. ‘I’m not sure it really means anything – a form of discrimination, perhaps? But this is the police force, so it doesn’t apply.’ He reached for his cigarettes, belatedly offering Kenton one before adding, ‘Ordinarily.’

  ‘How so?’ said Kenton, dizzy and still uncomprehending. Was he in trouble or not?

  ‘The police force is a man’s arena, and as such any woman prepared to play in this world has to be prepared to take a few punches, much like inside the ring.’ Kenton’s heart jerked at the recollection of Gabriel watching him fight. ‘Figuratively, of course – we can’t go knocking them around; that would be wrong.’ He paused. ‘But, ordinarily, the odd grope, an arse squeeze on a night out, is acceptable.’

  Sparks didn’t elaborate on whether the woman in question should be complicit in such behaviour, but Kenton felt sure he was about to find out. This whole thing was ridiculous.