Blackwater

Lowry looked across the ring to catch sight of a flurry of banknotes changing hands. They ran three bouts per contest, starting with the lighter-weight fighters, usually the younger, untried lads. The betting on them was lively – speculative and sometimes lucrative.

  ‘Gary here is from the cadets.’ Sparks clasped the lad by the shoulder and thrust him forward. ‘Might not look much, but he’s hard as nails.’

  Lowry held out a hand and wished the boy luck. The boy in turn shot Sparks a quick look, as if for permission to take his hand. Lowry could see the apprehension in the kid’s eyes. ‘First fight?’ he asked.

  ‘First proper fight, yeah.’ The inflection on the word ‘proper’ said it all. Tussles in the corps were all the action he’d seen – and they would be nothing compared to tonight.

  ‘And his opponent?’ Lowry asked Sparks.

  ‘Over there, by the far corner.’ Sparks jerked his chin towards the other side of the ring, where a tall, acne-ridden youth surrounded by green uniforms was just visible between the ropes. The army lad had the height and therefore the reach, but a long neck, too; land a square punch and his brain would spin. If their boy could keep moving, he stood an even chance.

  ‘Gary’s quick,’ Sparks said, as if reading Lowry’s mind. Gary was puffing into his gloves, zoning out, focusing – just as Sparks would’ve told him. No emotion, no feeling, all mental resources funnelled into the physical delivery, the perfect punch: that was the chief’s philosophy. Lowry could feel himself being swept up in the excitement of the fight. He surveyed the enormous gym: there must be close to five hundred men jostling in here, at least seventy-five per cent of them based on the barracks. He couldn’t detect any unusual undertones in the atmosphere; if there was bitterness about the death of the para and the disturbance of the previous evening, it was well masked. A roar of excitement went up as the two youngsters climbed into the ring, and Lowry was carried forward by the crowd moving closer to the ringside.

  In the absence of a microphone, the referee hushed the crowd by holding a bell above his head before introducing the combatants. The police cadet was unmoved by the enormous cry of support for the gangly army boy. Sparks had trained him well, Lowry mused, glancing at the commander, who was now hanging on the ropes. Kenton had appeared behind him in shorts and robe. And wait . . . Who was that with him? A shock of blond hair caught the light. Was it . . . ? Yes, it was the tall WPC who’d shown him the scene of the crime at Castle Park. Lowry felt a stirring of emotion akin to . . . what? Jealousy? No, surely not – he was glad the boy had a date – but did it have to be . . . Suddenly, the bell rang and a roar went up – they were off. Sparks’s man threw caution to the wind and steamed in, pummelling his opponent. The army lad, surprised, staggered back. Cries of outrage went up. Lowry caught sight of the Beard, raging puce on the other side of the ring, and laughed. It was hard not to enjoy the atmosphere.

  Then Lowry felt a tug on his sleeve and turned to see a solemn constable. The man had the cold on him still. ‘Sorry to disturb you, inspector,’ he said, almost shouting.

  ‘What is it?’ Lowry said loudly, knowing that whatever it was signalled the end of his evening. But he couldn’t hear anything the lad was saying. ‘Speak up!’ he cried, still trying to follow the fight, which was getting tasty.

  ‘Murder!’

  The word scorched Lowry’s ear, taking him firmly away from the ring.

  -21-

  8.10 p.m., Sunday, Beaumont Terrace, Greenstead Estate

  Lowry stood back from the house, as was his way, taking in everything on the periphery of the crime scene before approaching the immediate vicinity of a death. There was sleet in the air, which was caught in the car’s revolving blue roof lights. The houses on this terrace had only recently been built and were much newer than the cars that lined the streets. Vehicles often told him a lot about an area and, unsurprisingly, there was nothing newer than a K plate here, and there was even a tatty Land Rover predating both alphabetical plate systems just up from the house he was heading to.

  Greenstead was already the borough’s biggest housing estate, and they were still building – hadn’t stopped since the mid-1950s. Lowry knew this part of town too well, having lived just a few streets away as a teenager.

  ‘More new ’ouses. These ones can’t have been up more than five minutes, and already they’re killing each other in ’em. Bleedin’ east-end trash.’ The young constable held open the garden gate, grimacing against the sleet. Lowry didn’t know him and met his comment on the residents with silent disapproval. He gently pushed open the front door, and a carpet of mail greeted him. This was probably a rental property. He remained outside on the doorstep a moment longer.

  ‘Who made the call?’

  ‘Bloke next door – smelt gas from the kitchen. He was in the shed fiddling with his homebrew – the smell must’ve wafted across the fence.’

  ‘The back door was open?’

  ‘Yes. The kitchen hob was on full blast.’

  Lowry took a step inside the house. The building itself may have been relatively new, but already the carpet was dirty and the skirting boards scuffed. This house was nobody’s home, that was for sure.

  ‘Anyone been in the kitchen?’

  ‘Only me.’

  ‘Who let you in?’ Lowry regarded the body, slumped at the kitchen table, its head face down in a plate of food.

  ‘The front door was open.’

  For the first time, Lowry took a good look at the constable and saw that he’d been wrong to judge him earlier. He was terrified.

  The remains of an Indian takeaway on a tray sat in the pool of blood, which covered half the table. Lowry removed a glove and, with one arm across his donkey jacket to keep it clear, leaned over and took a sniff. Spicy.

  ‘Vindaloo,’ he said with satisfaction.

  ‘Sorry, guv?’

  ‘Curry – and a hot one. One I’m rather partial to.’ He looked around the messy kitchen and located what he was after – a brown paper bag. Wanting to be on his own, he strategically dispatched the constable to pick up the mail, reminding him to be careful and note the addressees and frank marks. Then he took the brown bag and pulled out a takeaway menu: The Way to the Raj. ‘Shehab’s,’ he murmured. He knew the place well enough to be on first-name terms with the owner. He placed the menu back in the bag and turned and scanned the work surface: there were two more dirty plates and several takeaway containers. Numerous Special Brew cans also littered the place, one on the floor by the deceased’s foot. And there was something else underneath the table. He bent and retrieved a rolled-up one-pound note. He regarded it for a moment then ran his gloved finger across a section of the table. A line of white powder crested his finger. He lightly took a dab with his tongue, and ran it over his teeth. The taste was familiar.

  Content that he’d committed a snapshot of the scene to his memory, he approached the body. Taking hold of a tip of each ear lightly in each hand, he lifted the head from the plate and sat the body back in the chair, revealing a slashed jugular. The arms of the body hung limply. He noted that the wall immediately behind the body was free of blood – no spray or marks. And there was only a neat puddle on the floor. He looked at the hands. They were grubby, with traces of mud and dirt, but no blood. Lowry was confident there had not been a struggle: the man had known his attacker, or perhaps had decided to top himself after one last, last binge, except there was no sign of the weapon.

  He was disturbed by a scenes-of-crime officer at the back door.

  ‘All yours.’ He gestured towards the dead man, who promptly slumped forward into the half-eaten curry.

  Out in the street, residents had gathered, aware that something was up. Lowry was buttonholed by a man in a dressing gown.

  ‘What’s going on?’ the man, in his mid-fifties, rasped in his ear.

  ‘A fatality, I’m afraid.’ Lowry watched for his reaction in
the light from the open doorway. The man was eager to know more – probably a neighbourhood busybody. Just the type the police love. ‘Tell me, sir – you strike me as an observant man – that Land Rover over there; who does it belong to?’

  ‘Land Rover? Bleeder’s taking up Mrs Fleetwood’s parking space. First noticed it yesterday evening.’

  ‘Thank you, and excuse me for a moment. If you saw anything out of the ordinary, have a chat with the constable there.’ He pointed to a marked Cortina, blue light rotating in the dark.

  ‘“Out of the ordinary”?’

  ‘You know,’ Lowry replied, fishing out a pocket torch from his donkey jacket. ‘Strange comings and goings, cars parked where they shouldn’t be, unfamiliar faces, that sort of thing.’ He walked over to the Land Rover.

  It was locked. Mud spray reached up to the door handle. He flashed the torch through a window, but he couldn’t see much. Crouching, he ran the light across the top of the vehicle’s dashboard. Then he examined one of the rear tyres. Something caught his eye and he reached forward to extract some kind of black thread hanging from the deep tread. He looked at it curiously, then flashed the torch up into the wheel arch.

  ‘Sir.’ The intrusion startled him.

  ‘Yes, constable. What is it?’

  ‘There’s another one upstairs.’

  ‘Another one?’

  ‘Person, sir. Deceased.’

  Lowry levered himself up from the cold road.

  The young PC had gone upstairs to relieve himself and discovered the second corpse. Lowry reflected that young officers often failed to search a crime scene properly – the shock of coming face to face with a gruesome corpse could render an inexperienced officer incompetent. It was understandable.

  Lowry followed the PC back into the house and up to the bathroom. The naked bulb hanging from the ceiling rose gave the all-white room a scorching glare that stung Lowry’s eyes. The victim, it seemed, had been attacked while he was on the lavatory. The features and fatal wound were hidde