by James, Henry
‘Stephen, I . . .’ Lowry was suddenly pulled back into the room at the reminder of his wife’s connection with what had happened.
Sparks held up his hand. ‘Say no more – in case you regret it. Let me finish: Jacqui was out; Sergeant Barnes saw the altercation in the high street and witnessed Jacqui and her pals going off to party against your advice, charged on adrenalin, no doubt, or on something else. I think they must have seen something that placed them in danger. A woman’s scarf was found outside Beaumont Terrace; there’s every possibility it belonged to her or one of her friends. I trust you’ve not yet seen the evidence?’
‘I . . .’ Sparks was offering him a way out, without lying. Lowry bowed his head with embarrassment. Now that it was out in the open, the situation his wife had landed them in embarrassed him intensely.
‘Very good.’ The chief patted him on the shoulder. ‘At this point in time, we need not concern ourselves with fine details. Let’s just say these young ladies are caught on the periphery, but it’s close enough to warrant one of them being kidnapped by the murderer.’
For the first time, the possibility that it could have been Jacqui who was kidnapped crossed Lowry’s mind, but, for all that implied, it did not mute his sense of humiliation. ‘Why?’ he said uncertainly, to no one.
‘Who the fuck knows? When you’re messing with that sort of drug, anything can happen. But we’ll ask him politely – at first, at least.’ Lowry met his stare. ‘I’m bringing Oldham in.’
‘We’ll need to tread carefully,’ Lowry said as Sparks turned to go. ‘Get this wrong and all kinds of hell will break loose.’
-56-
4 p.m., Thursday, West Mersea
Kenton crossed the high street and walked a short way along East Road. Despite Lowry’s insistence on urgency, he was desperate for some air before seeing his Mersea police colleagues again and had taken a stroll in the near-dark along the esplanade.
Visiting Cowley’s father earlier that afternoon had troubled him. The old man had affected nonchalance, proclaiming he had always known his eldest had been up to no good since quitting the army. However, beneath the surface, Kenton could see the hurt. When he described how Freddie had stayed no more than half an hour to leave his passport for safe keeping before hunting out Derek Stone, the old man’s disgust at the lowlife Stone was a thin veil for the pain he was feeling. Kenton had wished to inquire after Felix, but hadn’t been able to bear being in the Brightlingsea council house any longer.
He took a deep breath and pushed open the heavy door to the police station. He wasn’t terribly keen on being in this particular building too long either. Inside, PC Jennings stood behind the reception desk and, in the small office beyond, Kenton could just make out the bulky form of the station sergeant.
‘Afternoon,’ he said jauntily. He was determined to get on with these chaps.
‘Not that bleedin’ robbery again?’ Jennings asked.
Kenton didn’t want to rile them immediately, so shook his head. ‘No, no. It’s about the body found on the Strood last weekend.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’d like a word with the fella who came across the body.’
‘Eh? That were me,’ Jennings said. ‘I saw you there, remember? I know it was dark ’n’ all.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Kenton stepped closer to the wooden hatch. ‘I know, I do remember. But the chap in the motor who reported it, who hit the poor devil on the causeway: who was that?’ Kenton was close enough to discern a shaving rash troubling the young officer’s neck.
‘Oh, I don’t think he left a name.’
‘No name?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Can you check, please?’ Kenton thought the PC must be simple. Jennings unbuttoned his uniform breast pocket and pulled out his notebook. Licking his thumb, he placed it on the counter and flicked through the pages.
‘Nothing, mate. Sorry.’
‘What about the car? Can you remember what type of car it was?’
‘Nah, I didn’t make the car out. It’s pitch black on that road in the middle of the night.’
Even Bradley was stirred by this dismal lack of standard information. He came to stand at the lad’s shoulder.
‘You would have picked the call up here on Friday: you’d’ve been here – on call.’ He winked at Kenton. ‘Friday and Saturday nights we’re open twenty-four hours. Check the incident book. ’Ere, budge over.’
Bradley elbowed Jennings aside and pulled forward the large desk ledger. Kenton was pleased that the sergeant was proving agreeable. ‘Now, where are we? January one.’
Kenton wondered how they filled their days as the mainly blank pages flicked by. Small community stations like this one – their days must be numbered.
‘There’s bugger all there!’ Bradley exclaimed to his junior colleague.
Jennings shrugged his lanky frame. ‘I was in a hurry – it’s not every day a body washes up on the road. I dashed out sharpish.’
‘’E ’as a point. Last one were ’74 – a fisherman by the name of Munson . . . got tangled in a net and swept overboard. Or were it Moore?’
‘Err . . . we’re straying from the point. Can you talk me through exactly what happened that night, from when the call came through?’
‘It weren’t a phone call – there’s no phone on that road. A driver came by the station and said the fella in front of him had skidded on something in the road. Looked to be a body. So I went down, and there he was, headless on the side of the causeway.’
‘You say, “there he was” – could you see him on your approach?’
‘Yep. Just lying there like a sack of spuds in the fella’s headlights.’
‘If you could see him, how come the motorist that hit him didn’t?’
‘The tide was still partly over, but as it starts to ebb, people drive down the centre of the causeway, over the camber in the road. He and the first fella drove down the middle. He caught it on his near side.’
‘It’d be about six inches of water,’ Bradley commented, opening the side door and joining Kenton in the tiny reception area, ‘and, what with the spray, he’d more than likely not have seen the body.’
‘What sort of speed was he travelling at?’
‘They all tonk along that causeway, even in the dark, depending on the water level, to avoid stalling. What’s the fuss? Ain’t ’e reckoned to be a German fisherman or summat that got ripped up by the propellers?’
The discovery that the body was that of Freddie Cowley had not been made public, but Kenton decided to tell them something of what they’d found out. There was a chance it could prompt sharper thinking, although he doubted it. ‘We believe the man – an Englishman – was murdered and then dumped on the road. So we need to interview the gentleman who found the body.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘We know the body was moved, for sure.’
Bradley looked at his subordinate with what Kenton hoped was disappointment, and said, ‘Come on, lad, give the CID a hand.’
‘I’ve told all I can, sarge,’ he said plaintively. ‘I got down there about twelve thirty and radioed the desk at Queen Street, and then shut the road, while I waited for assistance. I parked across the road on the Colchester side, and stood on me Jack Jones, halting traffic, waiting for Colchester police to turn up.’
‘And how long was that?’
‘About twenty minutes.’
‘And what was the driver doing – the man whose name eludes us – while you were standing on your Jack Jones?’
‘He was sitting in his car until Uniform from Queen Street turned up. It were bloody freezing. I’m sure he gave them a statement.’
Bradley shrugged apologetically. ‘Try Colchester Uniform,’ he said.
4.40 p.m., Queen Street HQ
Once his initial outrage had subsided, Oldham appeared stoic and came without a fight, looking impeccable in his uniform. Lowry assumed it was down to his military training. He was escorted from
Abbey Fields and brought to Queen Street to be questioned over the double murder at Greenstead and the kidnap of Patricia Vane. He was not as yet accused of Freddie Cowley’s murder, which was still under investigation. Indeed, there were many gaps and unknowns, high among them what had happened to the drugs – were they still on the marshes? And there was no evidence of the cash; a drug deal that went wrong would usually throw out money somewhere. But a timeline was slowly forming, and Sparks was sure all would flush through once charges were pressed. And there he was, the captain of the military police, immaculately presented in dark green uniform and red-banded cap, refusing assistance down from an unmarked Commer van. Lowry and Sparks observed from across the road, outside the haberdasher’s. Sparks, though bold, was nervous, and had opted to witness Oldham’s arrival at a distance – on the lookout, as he put it. For what, Lowry was unsure. Military vigilantes? The press?
‘What have you said to the Beard?’ Lowry asked, his toes beginning to feel the cold again.
‘Haven’t told him yet. See what Oldham has to say for himself first.’
‘If you think that’s wise.’ It struck Lowry as spectacularly foolish; if he wanted the regimental commander’s support, why not communicate with him from the start? It seemed to Lowry that Sparks had been impetuous, caught up in the heat of the moment.
‘Wise? Who has time to be wise in a situation like this?’ Sparks said sharply, sensing disapproval. ‘Oldham was in Germany with the rest of them, remember. C’mon.’ They crossed the road and entered the building, passing two uniformed constables at attention on either side of the door.
A further two uniforms had been posted outside the interview room. This indicated more about Sparks’s state of mind than he was prepared to let on. He must be fearful of reprisals, thought Lowry. If this got out, it would make the national news.
‘Evening, Captain Oldham. Thank you for cooperating and helping us with our inquiries,’ Sparks said coolly.
‘Ha. Is that what you call it? Practically strong-arming me into a vehicle.’ He spoke in his usual clipped tone, betraying nothing. ‘May I ask what I am supposed to have done?’
‘In the first instance, abduction.’
‘Abduction?’ A ripple of confusion passed over the captain’s face.
‘Yes, abduction. We’ll come on to the serious stuff later on.’
‘Drug trafficking, you mean?’ The smaller man edged his chair back and crossed his legs. ‘Yes; that, I get. A natural assumption. The firing ranges were used to hide drugs and I was the last to sign in before the end of the year. You neglected to mention this yesterday because you were – how do you say? – “building your case”. Testing me for my reactions.’
Sparks waved this remark away, circling Oldham, who sat neatly at the crooked interview table.
‘Too subtle for me, captain.’ Though of course Lowry knew that had been exactly what he was playing at. ‘No, hard facts are all I’m interested in.’
‘Enlighten me, please?’
‘A nurse was found handcuffed to the lavatory in your boat.’
Oldham glanced at Lowry in surprise. Lowry winked back.
‘A nurse? Forgive me, Chief Sparks, but what use would I have for a nurse in matters concerning drug trafficking?’
‘You tell me, sonny Jim.’
Sparks placed his knuckles on the edge of the table, which moved awkwardly underneath his weight. He puffed furiously on an Embassy that hung from his lips.
‘Words fail me,’ Oldham said.
‘We have two dead bodies on a council estate in Colchester, captain,’ Lowry said. ‘Miss Vane had been in contact with the men on the night prior to their death.’
‘I see. Does the young lady in question know me?’
Lowry took one of Sparks’s cigarettes, waiting for the chief to elaborate. He wasn’t sure what to make of the captain. Given the gravity of the accusations, he was remarkably unruffled; if anything, he was faintly amused.
-57-
5 p.m., Thursday, Queen Street HQ
Dejected, Detective Constable Daniel Kenton straightened his tie and tidied his hair with his hands. He had departed Mersea flummoxed and disheartened. What would Lowry have done differently? He felt his inexperience keenly. And now, as if he wasn’t feeling insecure enough, he faced the prospect of interviewing his boss’s wife’s best friend. Sparks had briefed him to keep it low key, and to have no other officer present. This was ‘fact-finding only’. But despite the reassuring words, the tension in the chief’s voice had made Kenton nervous. With a deep breath, he pushed open the interview-room door.
Patricia Vane had changed her clothes and now sat, her hair tied back, in jeans and a baggy white cardigan with the sleeves pushed back to the elbow, as was the fashion. She was a few years older than he was, and good looking – the sort of woman he’d be terrified to approach in a pub for fear she’d laugh in his face. He pulled up a chair and folded over a new page in his notebook. His brief was to ascertain information on the kidnapper. The woman sat calmly, playing with a pink lighter on the table. He watched her turning it over and over. There was chafing around her wrists.
‘Would you like someone to look at that?’ he asked.
She touched the red inflammation, which marked a very pale forearm. ‘No, it’s okay.’
‘I hear they were police handcuffs,’ he remarked. ‘I wonder where he got hold of them?’
‘The back of the car,’ she said, sipping her coffee. ‘They’re . . .’ She looked away.
‘They’re . . . ?’
‘Detective Inspector Lowry’s . . . Jacqs lent them to me. For a bit of fun. You know?’
‘Oh.’ He didn’t ask her to elaborate. ‘Okay. Let’s proceed. Could you talk me through the last couple of days – starting with when you left for the hospital in the morning. Did you see your abductor?’
‘No.’
‘Can you tell me anything about him?’
‘He was rough.’
‘Rough? You mean the way he manhandled you?’
‘No. Well, yes, he shoved me about a bit, but I didn’t put up much resistance – he had a gun at my neck. His hands were rough, calloused. And there was a familiar smell about him. Perfume, hair spray or gel. Cheap.’
That didn’t sound like Oldham or any of Daley’s unit. Hair product was not standard issue, as far as he was aware.
‘Did you hear him speak? Any accent?’
‘From round here. Essex.’
‘Do you think you’d recognize this man if he came through the door now?’
Her eyes flicked anxiously to the interview-room door.
‘Nah.’ She fumbled with a crumpled pack of menthol cigarettes.
‘Is there any reason you can think of why someone might want to kidnap you?’
‘My ex, to get his own back.’
‘Really? His name?’ Kenton sat poised.
‘Nah,’ She shook her head. ‘Andy’d not do that,’ she said, sadly he thought.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive . . . Jacqs will tell you. Have you spoken to her?’
Kenton felt uncomfortable at the mention of Jacqui Lowry. An image of the inspector’s wife in a kimono flashed across his mind.
‘Not yet,’ he replied cautiously. ‘Let’s keep the focus on what you yourself remember over the week. Anything strange happen in the hospital recently, say?’
‘Okay, well, I don’t remember anyone on the ward – I was tired, you see. Shift work.’ She smiled wanly. ‘Anyway, why would any abductor appear publicly like that?’
‘Okay, maybe not on the ward; think – where else have you been?’
She tapped the lighter on the table. ‘Saturday night.’ She paused. ‘Has Nick – sorry, Detective Inspector Lowry – told you about Saturday night?’
‘Only that you went nightclubbing.’
He was aware they’d not made eye contact. She reached for a cigarette.
‘Yes, we did . . . It’s possible he – whoever it was �
�� might have been at Aristos. I’m sorry, but my memory of the night is very hazy.’ Then, looking at him directly, she said, ‘What we do for the sake of a good night out, huh?’
5.30 p.m., Colchester CID, Queen Street
‘All the men in question were in barracks on the morning of the kidnap!’ Lane barked down the phone. ‘What the dickens does Sparks think he’s doing?’
‘But Captain Oldham is not stationed at the cavalry barracks,’ Lowry argued.
‘This is the British Army, goddamn you – we know where every bloody soldier is at all times!’
Lowry held the receiver away from his ear. He knew this wasn’t entirely true, as a lot of men lived off barracks, but now wasn’t the time to cross-question the brigadier.
‘I understand your consternation, brigadier, but a woman was discovered bound and gagged in the captain’s houseboat.’
‘I don’t care if Princess Diana herself was strapped to the prow naked! I shall be on the phone to the chief constable!’ And with that he slammed the phone down.
Kenton glanced over. ‘Sounds like he took that well.’
Lowry got up and read Trish Vane’s statement, taken by Kenton. There was nothing in it that remotely implicated Oldham or his soldiers: workman’s hands, local accent, cheap scent. Headless Freddie Cowley in the morgue was all that was on his mind. He just couldn’t see Oldham using Philpott or Nugent.
‘You’re not convinced, are you?’
‘About Oldham, no,’ Lowry confessed. ‘And the brigadier has added another layer of doubt. If you think about it, anyone could access those boats. Security is non-existent, especially as Oldham’s is only occupied part-time. And there are plenty of people who would hold a grudge against a military police captain . . .’
‘Derek Stone, for example?’
‘Possibly, but he’s dead. I bet if we probed deep enough in the military police files we’d find a catalogue of ex-servicemen with grudges.’
