by James, Henry
‘Wish that were possible, but it just so happens that our difficulties overlap.’
‘Eh? How so?’
‘One of your bloody robbers was found dead inside the Greenstead house.’
‘Eh?’
‘We found two handguns at his flat, one of which matches that used in the robbery.’
‘There you go, then. No harm done. Progress.’ It was said in a tone of voice that mimicked authority – how he imagined County would speak.
The door creaked as PC Jennings brought in a tray of coffees.
‘But,’ continued Dodger, ‘the Taylor brothers are wrong ’uns, and deserve to be banged up.’
‘Christ, man, you can’t go around just banging people up willy-nilly any more. You know that, Dodger.’ Sparks reached for the least chipped mug. ‘So that’s it – you couldn’t file your report because Kenton wouldn’t brush the post-office robbery under the carpet? And is that really the only reason you didn’t want to properly investigate? Paperwork?’ he said disbelievingly. ‘What was all that nonsense about hassling the locals?’
‘Aye, your men have been picking on one of our boys. Lowry pulled him into Queen Street nick, then he said the youngster was watching him on Monday. Jennings, what’s his name?’
‘Nugent, sarge.’
‘Aye, that’s him. Ted Nugent.’
‘So what’s his problem?’ Sparks asked. The name prickled; he was that friend of Stone’s – from the Candyman.
‘He claims harassment.’
‘But he hasn’t been charged – or am I missing something?’
‘He’s on parole – a bit panicky,’ the lanky policeman said.
Sparks grunted. It was hard to make out the features of the young PC in the dim light. Jennings – yes, this was the lad he had in mind for football. ‘What position do you play? Bet you’re out on the wing?’
‘Football? Yeah, in me day, I’ve—’
Sparks cut him off. ‘Good, good, well, Granger will be in touch. Anyway, the lad on parole: why the jitters?’
‘Maybe he thinks you’ll collar him for the post-office job if the case against the Taylors falls through,’ PC Jennings replied.
‘Well, the situation has changed – we have Stone in the frame, for one thing – but we still have a bandit at large. I think we might have another word with the fellow with the nervous disposition.’
‘I don’t think that’s necessary, sir. We can pull him in.’ The young policeman looked at his superior, but Bradley was preoccupied with examining his fingernails. The second Jennings had been drawn in, the Dodger appeared to switch off. Old age again, Sparks thought grimly.
‘Nonsense. Given we might have got the right man this time –’ Sparks glanced pointedly at Bradley – ‘we should have a word with someone with form in that area. What does Mr Nugent do by day?’
‘Odd-job man; this and that,’ said Jennings.
‘He’s a window cleaner, too,’ Bradley added.
‘A window cleaner?’ Sparks rose. ‘I’ll have our boys pull him in so it doesn’t unsettle community relations.’ The young policeman was about to protest, but Sparks silenced him with a raised palm. ‘No need to thank me. We’re used to this sort of thing.’
‘Grateful,’ the Dodger said, standing, ‘an’ no hard feelings about the post office. Makes a change that it ain’t someone on the island ripping the place off!’ he guffawed.
‘Well, quite,’ Sparks said, regarding Bradley with distaste. ‘Now, on to important stuff: I’ve heard there’s a new place that’s opened up on the front that sells quality seafood. Where exactly is it?’
4.15 p.m., Fingringhoe Ranges
The firing ranges were now sealed off. The high, green all-clear flags, now invisible in the dark, had police tape flickering beneath them in the chill evening air. It had stopped snowing. But it was the barking dogs that upset the tranquility of the place, disturbing the wintry silence. Lowry thought it was all a waste of time: the drugs were no longer here – there were traces on the floor of the shed, but it had been a holding place only. Besides, it was too dark now; a couple of feeble arc lamps running off a portable generator barely illuminated the area beyond the hut. Dogs or no dogs, anyone venturing beyond the circle of light would soon get lost on the marshes.
They’d caught Sparks on the way back from Mersea, and Lowry was pleased to see him on the scene to witness their result.
‘I suppose even the military police need to keep their eye in,’ Lowry suggested to the chief.
Sparks, in a flat cap and Crombie, looked at the ground, lost in thought. The possible complications of the captain of the MPs being mixed up in drug smuggling caused his shadowed brow to crease heavily.
‘Don’t get too excited – I’m telling you, it’s not a phone number,’ Sparks said.
‘How d’you know? Hello, he’ll be able to tell us.’ Lowry gestured towards a soldier with a large moustache who was crunching towards them across the snow.
‘I say, what the bloody hell is going on here!’ called the soldier. He was dressed in combat fatigues and wearing a beret.
‘That shed contains traces of illegal substances,’ Lowry replied. ‘The field telephone – we need to know the number.’
The soldier was having none of it. ‘Shed?! That is an observation platform, and what’s more it’s Ministry of Defence property, as is this entire area.’
‘Sergeant Barnes!’ Sparks called to the uniformed officer, who was issuing instructions to the dog handlers, who appeared to be having difficulty controlling their animals.
‘Sir!’
‘Deal with this gentleman, and find out the phone number.’ Turning his back obstinately on the army man, Sparks ushered Lowry towards his Rover. ‘How the devil did you find this place?’
‘I . . .’ Lowry almost let it slip about the Colchester Ornithological Society, but decided it could wait. Kenton, good man that he was, didn’t say a word either. ‘Last place anyone would look? Good view of the estuary. Just a hunch.’
‘Hmm, well, an excellent hunch. I doubt they’ll find anything in all this snow, though.’ Sparks indicated the German shepherds as he trudged back to the car. ‘Right, you two, a quick word. Shall we? Bit parky out here.’ He opened the Rover’s passenger door.
‘That’s a result,’ he said when all three were inside the car.
‘It was a holding place . . .’ Lowry said, from the rear seat. ‘Perfect, way out here.’
‘How do you figure that? The army are here all the time,’ Kenton said.
‘But only army. They do what the hell they like when they’re out of view of the rest of the world.’ The irony of what he said was not lost on him, out here on the marshes, bleak and exposed for miles.
Sparks turned round. ‘Let’s not jump to any conclusions, Lowry.’
‘I didn’t say a word.’
‘I know you think I’m a pussy when it comes to Lane, but I tell you, he is aware of the direction this is pointing, and now we have grounds for a direct approach to Oldham.’
Lowry, not wishing to argue, let the matter drop; he was less concerned about Oldham than with the blue Cortina. What had been in the boot of that car was what he cared about. ‘It looks like Jamie did the post office with Stone. He has no alibi for 27 December.’
‘Oh, silly boy . . . Why?’
‘Money for drugs,’ Kenton said simply.
‘Shame – could’ve told the Dodger. Just been over there to tick him off about his bloody records. This Ted Nugent you’ve been bothering—’
‘Wait—’ Kenton tried to interrupt.
Sparks held up a gloved hand in front of them. ‘Let me finish, son. It would seem to me he’s tied up somehow in this post-office job, and I get a distinct sniff that the Mersea mob don’t want us troubling him.’
‘You know, you might be on to something there,’ Lowry said. ‘I’d discounted him as just a flakey ex-con, but since finding out about the Stone connection, I’ve been thinking it’s worth anothe
r chat. Kenton was looking for him on Monday.’
‘Good, well, you have my blessing. I told the Dodger we’d pull him in, so you shouldn’t get any grief – gave them some old flannel about not upsetting the community. He’s been out cleaning windows, by all accounts.’
‘Windows?’ Lowry said.
‘Yeah, cleaned the Dodger’s place the other day. Why?’
‘No reason.’ That would be more than a coincidence, a getaway driver doubling as a window cleaner . . .
‘Why would anyone have their windows cleaned in January?’ Kenton asked, leaning forward between the seats.
‘On Mersea Island? I can think of two reasons. One, there are lots of retired folk with nothing better to do than inspect their domiciles for dirt. And, two, they’re a bunch of curtain twitchers, and for that you need clean windows. So, you two find him, and I’ll tackle the Red Cap Action Man. Any more questions?’
‘Yeah; what’s that god-awful smell?’ Lowry winced, lighting a cigarette. ‘It’s like something’s died in here.’
Sparks flipped open the glove compartment.
‘Winkle, anyone?’
-51-
6 p.m., Wednesday, Police Social Club, Queen Street
Kenton watched Gabriel dart out of the social-club bar, leaving a huddle of jeering uniforms behind. He turned back to his boss. Lowry was in good spirits: the forensics examination of the Cortina had not only confirmed traces of seawater and salt marsh in the boot but also mud mixed with blood. This news, however, had failed to lift Kenton’s spirits. He felt a strong urge to pinch one of Lowry’s cigarettes. He was out, but he wasn’t a fan of filterless.
‘It’ll pass,’ Lowry said, perched on the barstool next to him.
‘Changing the subject –’ Kenton turned to face his boss – ‘the chief has been very hands-on this week. Is that usual? I mean, shooting over to Mersea, telling us to chase up window cleaners and what have you?’
‘Didn’t I tell you to pick Nugent up on Monday?’ Lowry jettisoned cigarette smoke from the corner of his mouth.
‘I searched high and low – every street. He wasn’t on the island. Maybe he’s expanding. But the chief—’
‘The chief is feeling the pressure. There’s a lot going on. It’s not that he doesn’t trust us, but sometimes things don’t happen fast enough for him. And remember the new broom at County is a female broom.’
‘Why does that present a problem?’ Kenton asked.
‘What do you say, Jack?’ Lowry addressed Sergeant Barnes, who was behind the bar, now resting two hairy forearms on the Double Diamond beer mats.
‘The chief is a man’s man.’ Barnes smiled.
‘What does that mean?’
‘What the sergeant is saying is the chief is terrified the nice posh lady is going dish him his comeuppance.’
‘Is one due?’
‘Not especially,’ Barnes said, ‘but we’ve been left to our own devices for many a year. All these newfangled things – faxes, computers, “memoranda” about improved communication – are vexing the guv’nor.’
‘You’re not wrong – “communication” to Sparks means Morse code from submarines, and no way does accountability come into it. That’s why we’re seeing him dashing about now.’ Lowry took a long swig of his drink. ‘That and four dead men in as many days, not to mention a ton of space speed on the marshes.’
A clack of balls fired behind. Kenton flicked back his hair and removed his glasses to wipe them. It was hot down here. He sort of got what they were saying. ‘You mean he has to prove himself?’
‘You might say that.’
‘Well –’ Kenton flipped his tie over a lens – ‘he might prove more efficient if he spent less time reading Asterix books.’
‘You’re wrong there, Daniel. We – well, Colchester – are the indomitable village.’
‘He’s right, you know. How’s your potion?’ Barnes pointed to his pint.
‘Ah. That’s where it’s from. I wondered what he was banging on about.’ Kenton had read Asterix but not in ages, and so hadn’t cottoned on. ‘And Colchester being a Roman town and fighting the army, I see . . . How funny.’
‘Talking of potions,’ Lowry said, playing with a cellophane bundle, which he had produced from nowhere. There was a dark glint in his eye that Kenton had not seen before.
‘Wonder what’s really in that stuff?’ he asked.
Lowry seemed lost for a moment, looking intently at the small packet lying on the bar towel in front of him. ‘Good question . . .’ And he removed the small package as deftly as he had produced it. ‘Who’s for another?’
Kenton, who had nothing on that evening, nodded his assent eagerly. Talk continued in a wide and varied way – theories expounded, rumours scotched and personalities assessed. Kenton hungrily took in all that Barnes and Lowry had to say on anything and everything, but before he knew it, it was late and the small bar was laden with pint glasses. Eventually, the young detective exited Queen Street into the cold, shrouded in the warm glow of camaraderie. Swerving up the slippery street, his head swimming, he felt good. He loved his job, the station, Colchester, his boss – everything – but none more so than Jane Gabriel.
8.35 p.m., a boat, Blackwater Estuary
Trish woke feeling woozy. Her head was heavy – very heavy. She must’ve been drugged. Her abductor had urged her to drink something that tasted similar to lemonade before she was gagged and hooded. She recalled him saying it was the last chance she’d have for a drink for a while. And then the hood went on and she was pulled out of the car. Her throat was parched now.
Every limb ached. She was seated, but her hands were cuffed above her, around a pipe, her fingers curled uncomfortably beneath a low ceiling. She was disorientated, and the more she came to, the more nauseous she felt. She kicked out with bound feet but met with resistance before she managed to straighten her legs. Wherever she was being held, it was in a confined space. Kicking out again, her bottom slipped off the chair – or was it a chair? The edge was curved, suggesting a lavatory. Jesus wept, she thought, I’ve been incarcerated in a toilet. And a small one at that. Suddenly, it came to her. A boat. She was on a boat. She could recall clambering up a ladder and smelling the sea. But now all she could make out was the damp-canvas smell of the hood.
She thought back to leaving for work – when? This morning? Yesterday morning? – and the gun behind her head. Why would anyone want to kidnap her? She’d not been harmed, and her kidnapper had not said much, other than encouraging her to drink the drugged lemonade. She could only imagine it had something to do with the fiasco in Greenstead on Saturday night. Maybe whoever it was thought she was a witness . . . God, she wished she’d gone home that night instead of out on the razz with Jacqs – as if they’d not had warning enough. Shit. Shit. Shit. She’d just tell whoever it was she’d not seen anything. For the first time in many months, she thought of her ex-husband, Andrew. Bet he’s snuggled up with that tart he ran off with. Huh. She started to cry. If he could see her here now. Not that she knew where the bloody hell here was.
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.
