Blackwater

  ‘Never mind,’ she said, as if giving up, then, ‘Are you any closer to resolving the New Year’s calamity with the soldier?’

  This caught him out; he thought he’d successfully glossed over it. ‘We think there were outsiders involved.’

  ‘Ah. That’ll mean no more outbursts in the high street, then.’

  ‘I think not, ma’am. But we are still investigating what happened at Castle Park.’

  ‘Hmm . . . You must be at a stretch, what with the murders in Greenstead?’

  She produced a pack of cigarettes and extracted one with long, elegant fingers. Lowry scratched the back of his neck.

  ‘We’ve drafted in a WPC.’ It was all he could think to say.

  ‘A woman?’

  ‘They usually are.’

  She arched an eyebrow. ‘Whose idea was that?’

  ‘Chief Sparks’s.’

  ‘So how’s it working out?’ She appeared genuinely interested.

  ‘Terrific – they’re getting on like a house on fire.’ He was rapidly losing patience. ‘Tell me, ma’am, why did you wish to see me?’

  She sipped her coffee delicately. ‘When a town is experiencing as many difficulties as this one, I feel it prudent to open channels with those on the ground and find out what’s really going on.’

  ‘I see.’ She was questioning Sparks’s ability to handle the situation. ‘Well, I’m always here.’ He tried a smile.

  ‘Christmas is a funny time,’ she said, oblivious, ‘especially for the services, spending time away from home. I had a brother stationed in Germany. He married a local girl . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘Really? Tell me, what do they do eat there for Christmas? Turkey?’

  Merrydown gave him a blank look. Lowry, about to explain further, was distracted by an urgent rap on the window. It was a young PC. Lowry beckoned him inside. ‘You’ll have to forgive me, ma’am,’ he said.

  ‘Not at all. I’m intrigued.’

  The PC burst through the café, blurting. ‘They’ve found him, sir!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Fella in a boat in the Blackwater, sir. Sergeant said I was to tell you immediately.’

  ‘Quite. Ma’am?’ Lowry waited for permission to leave.

  ‘Of course, and thank you; you’ve been very helpful.’

  Lowry rose, not knowing in what way he possibly could have been. As he reached the door, she called out from their table: ‘Goose, inspector. Goose is traditional.’

  11.20 a.m., Clacton Road

  ‘We spoke yesterday evening.’

  ‘Mr Kenton, was it?’ A stocky man wearing a black overcoat, who reminded Kenton more of a bouncer than a second-hand car salesman, made his way across the frozen field crowded with gleaming Fords and Vauxhalls. Chances are he’s both, Kenton thought, losing his hand in the huge sheepskin glove offered him.

  ‘Yes, that’s me.’

  A sharp wind sliced through the forecourt bunting. Beyond the fluttering pennants there was a Portakabin, inside which another man in a suit marched back and forth, a telephone receiver in one hand and its cradle in the other. This man was the main reason Kenton was here, but not the only one; he had bitten the bullet and come to Racing Green Autos in order to trade in the Spitfire.

  ‘Yeah, sorry about that – I’ve only just started working ’ere.’

  Kenton turned his attention back to the car salesman before him. In his mid-fifties, the squat gent sported a sculpted grey bullet-head haircut and, between the lapels of his overcoat, a bright paisley tie (one not dissimilar from his own, he was dismayed to realize).

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The gaffer’s an old pal – he was short of staff when a couple of his regulars were no-shows.’

  ‘A couple?’

  ‘Two fellas from Brightlingsea.’ The salesman clasped his gloved hands. ‘Bit parky still, ain’t it? Now then, it’s a Spitfire, right?’

  ‘Yep,’ Kenton said, keeping one eye on the Portakabin. ‘Here she is.’

  ‘Cor, bit on the bright side, ain’t it?’ He whistled.

  ‘It’s topaz orange,’ Kenton said defensively.

  ‘You’re telling me.’ He started to pace around the car, tutting. He lifted the broken roof limply.

  ‘I mentioned the roof on the phone . . .’

  ‘You did, son, you did. That’s easily fixed round back. But that colour . . .’

  ‘What about the colour?’

  ‘What was you hoping to trade it for again?’

  ‘The Mark 2 Capri.’

  He shook his head woefully. ‘I can’t go any more than a monkey.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  The cabin door opened and out came a man in a suit with piping on it – Tony Pond.

  ‘Five hundred nicker.’

  ‘Is that all? You’re having me on.’

  Pond stood on the steps, adjusting his cuffs.

  ‘The colour’s your problem, innit? Girls’ colour, and the birds ain’t got the readies.’

  Kenton ignored the stocky man and made his way across the forecourt to prevent Pond climbing into a white XJS. ‘Mr Pond, might I have word?’

  Pond held his up his hand. ‘I don’t dabble in the day-to-day – Mr Palmer is my man on the forecourt.’ The bullet-head beamed behind him.

  ‘I’m sure that’s so,’ Kenton acknowledged, ‘but it’s Mr Palmer’s predecessor I’m interested in.’ He held up his ID.

  ‘Ah, of course. I didn’t recognize you.’ Pond frowned and scratched the back of his neck. His impressive handlebar moustache appeared to move independently as he spoke. ‘You’d better come in, then.’

  Inside the Portakabin, Kenton laid two photos on the cheap desk while Pond poured coffee into polystyrene cups.

  He turned and froze, the cups steaming in his hands. ‘Those two, er, gentlemen, have never worked here,’ he said.

  Kenton leaned over the desk, and feigned having made a mistake. ‘Oh, how clumsy of me. This is a different investigation.’ He scooped up the pictures of Private Jones and Private Daley, all the time watching Pond’s reaction.

  ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ Pond’s sudden outburst of swearing was accompanied by him dropping, or throwing, a scalding coffee over Kenton’s legs. ‘Shit, I’m so sorry! I scalded myself . . . Shit, shit! Here.’ He fumbled with a tea towel. Kenton mopped away the liquid as pain began to throb across his thighs. He tried to compose himself.

  ‘Now, where were we?’ asked Pond.

  Kenton sensed he’d been out-manoeuvred; spilling the coffee had been a diversionary tactic.

  ‘Your employee, Jason Boyd—’

  ‘Yes, terrible what happened to him. I heard the news.’ He relieved Kenton of the tea towel and wiped his own heavily ornamented fingers. ‘We reported him missing, you know?’

  ‘Yes, we’re aware of that.’ Kenton sat down on one of the plastic chairs, to make it plain he had no intention of leaving. ‘That’s why I’m here. When was the last time Boyd and . . . ?’

  ‘Cowley. He just washed the cars. They were expected here on the Saturday. I left it a day, thinking they were likely to be hungover, but when I still couldn’t get hold of them on Monday, I called Boyd’s old dear. I’ve said all this already.’

  ‘Of course, of course. But there’s something else,’ Kenton said, unable to stop fidgeting; his legs were wet and uncomfortable: ‘We – I mean myself, Chief Sparks and Detective Inspector Lowry – know you’ve got a history of small-time drug-dealing. So, bear with me, this is just routine question—’

  ‘Ha! This shit on the Greenstead Estate?! That’s a far cry from selling a bag or two of weed to students.’ Pond rocked back on his far grander chair on the other side of the desk.

  ‘Drug dealing is drug dealing: it’s the contacts rather than the contents a jury will be int
erested in.’

  ‘Stop fucking with me, boy.’ Pond lit a cigarette and fixed Kenton with a scathing stare. ‘So, what’s the plan – you’re going to arrest me? On the basis of what? After all those years you’ve ignored the weed floating by under your very nose – something I’ve never been nicked for. How’s that going to look to a judge?’

  Kenton hated this sort of misplaced smugness. Sparks and Lowry had allowed this minor collusion to fester; for how long, he had no idea. On some level, he felt it would serve them right if it all came crashing down. There was a whiff of corruption there, as with the Mersea post-office job – the kind of thing Kenton couldn’t abide.

  ‘Times change. The pressure is on from County,’ Kenton said loosely, in a manner that suggested it wasn’t worth the energy to argue; there were far greater forces at work. ‘This is a big deal. Nobody’s safe when we’re faced with an incident on this scale.’

  Pond leaned forward across the desk, his face contorted with menace. ‘Do you really think if I was involved I’d call Boyd’s old dear when he’d not turned up for work? Of course she’s going to call you lot.’

  Kenton remained unruffled, picturing how he imagined Lowry would play it. ‘I don’t know what you’d do, Mr Pond, but anyone wrapped up in this mess should consider their options very carefully.’ He rose to leave.

  ‘I’ve heard about you, college boy. You’ve got no idea how things work in this town. Next time, tell Sparks to send me the organ grinder, not his monkey.’

  ‘The organ grinder says to let you know we’ve spoken to the concierge at the George.’ He peered out of the Portakabin window. Pond’s salesman was gushing around a young woman who looked to be interested in the Capri he himself was after. ‘I am indeed only the messenger, but this won’t go away. Next time, it won’t be me asking nicely. Good morning to you, Mr Pond.’

  ‘All right, all right. Come back here a minute.’ Pond lit a cigar.

  Kenton paused.

  ‘But don’t take me for a fool, all right? Those pictures. The men in the pictures.’

  ‘The two soldiers?’

  ‘Yes, the two soldiers – of course they are – I spoke to Lowry about them.’

  ‘But you never said you yourself had seen them – we know you saw them because the concierge at the George spotted you,’ Kenton pointed out.

  ‘And why’s that, do you think?’ He sighed. ‘To avoid having dicks like you banging on my drum, perhaps?’

  Kenton waited for more.

  ‘Look, the way it works is I throw the rozzers the odd snippet, show them I’ve got me ear to the ground. But I don’t want to be bothered by ’em unless it’s absolutely necessary.’ He glanced out of the window. ‘It’s bad for business.’

  ‘Well, let’s just say that this time it is necessary.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do. Daley and Jones – you know them?’

  ‘Know them, no. But I do know who they were after.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Boyd and Cowley.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Ooh, could it be for a good shag up the arse?’ he jeered. ‘What do you think? Drugs. It was New Year’s Eve and they wanted to score, just like everybody else.’

  Kenton sat down. ‘Why did the soldiers ask you about them?’

  ‘One of them had looked at a motor here; he recognized me.’ Pond rubbed a dark jaw, and puffed on his cigar. ‘They knew Jace and Felix worked for me. On Friday night, I bumped into them outside the George, and it was all this “Where’s fucking Jason?” stuff.’ He held his hands up theatrically.

  ‘What sort of mood were they in?’

  ‘Pissed off. Frantic. I’d guess they were buying on behalf of half the garrison, given the anxious looks.’

  ‘So when you realized Boyd and Cowley were missing, what did you think had happened?’

  Pond held up his hands in defeat. ‘I’m not involved, right? But I’m guessing that it’s either Boyd or Cowley dead in Greenstead, along with Stone?’

  ‘You know Stone?’ Stone’s name was the only one that had been made public. But Derek Stone was unknown to the police. The fact that Pond knew of him was a surprise.

  ‘By name only.’ Pond lightly stroked the tip of his moustache. ‘Jamie mentioned him.’

  ‘Jamie Philpott?’

  ‘The very same; so I figure, given the blood at Greenstead, it’s only a matter of time before you lot work out those two worked here, so I’m waving my hand in the air and saying they’re missing, all right?’

  ‘Wait – how did you know that Boyd and Cowley were selling drugs? Did Boyd confide in you?’

  ‘Nah. Jamie asked me if I wanted in on a big deal. He said there was a delivery due New Year’s Eve – a pal of his at the Candyman had tipped him off. Jamie P. wouldn’t have the wherewithal himself, you understand. And then when Boyd and Cowley asked for the 31st off work, I grew suspicious. I asked Felix what they had planned. He said a fishing trip. Not the sharpest tool in the box, that one.’

  ‘Weren’t you interested in a cut, even then?’

  The Portakabin shook in a gust of wind. They both looked up as the roof stirred uncomfortably.

  ‘I’m an honest businessman,’ said Pond plainly. ‘Besides, I’m not interested in new-fangled party drugs.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘What they were flogging. Philpott and I used to do a bit of weed back in the day – before your time – but nothing like this sort of shit.’

  ‘What about him, then – Jamie Philpott?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s wrapped up in this with Stone?’

  ‘You’d have to ask him that.’

  ‘We can’t,’ Kenton said, vexed.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He’s disappeared.’

  Pond considered this for a moment. ‘Has he, indeed? Maybe he managed to cut himself a slice of the action? He’s been hanging out at the Candyman off his nut on something a fair bit since the good Chief Sparks brought a halt to the dope coming in through the Colne; dipping into the jazz scene up in town – amphetamines, coke: you name it, he’ll try it.’

  ‘Jamie took a pasting on Saturday night.’

  ‘So I heard on the grapevine. Hmm.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just thinking . . .’ He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. ‘If half the garrison was intent on getting loaded on New Year’s Eve, but instead of them being able to score, one of their procurers ends up dead in Castle Park, they’d be pretty narked to see ol’ Jamie the following night, mincing around, touting some gear?’ Pond let out an enormous cloud of cigar smoke, which filled the top half of the Portakabin. ‘Colchester ain’t such a big place. There’s not that much gear pinging around.’

  ‘I suppose that makes sense. They might think he was mixed up in it somehow.’

  ‘Too bloody right. I reckon they might’ve lynched him. I’d say he’d got away pretty lightly with a thumping, wouldn’t you?’

  Kenton’s mind was whirling. ‘Bloody hell,’ was all he could think to say.

  ‘I should say so. Can I ask, if you don’t mind, how much gear there was at Beaumont Terrace?’

  The police still had no idea. The drugs hadn’t been there, but ‘substantial’ was what everyone at the station was thinking. Pond took Kenton’s silence to mean he wouldn’t say.

  Pond continued: ‘One imagines it was a lot. Any idea where it is?’

  The young detective couldn’t help but shake his head ever so slightly.

  ‘To be honest, I’m not surprised you’ve got problems.’

  ‘Do you think Private Daley’s death is related to this drug deal?’ Kenton couldn’t help asking.

  Pond shrugged. ‘You’re the policeman, aintcha?’

  -41-

  11.45 a.m., Tuesday, Brig
htlingsea port

  Gabriel ran down the jetty, the collar of her raincoat flapping against her cheek as she went. Barnes was lumbering along behind her. She hadn’t noticed just how windy it was on her charge to get down here, which had seemed to take for ever, through endless narrow lanes – but she felt it now, all right.

  The police launch was buffeting against the tyre bumpers in a petulant sea. The captain offered up his hand, which she took gratefully, and stepped awkwardly into the boat. A PC dispatched from Brightlingsea constabulary was already on board, arms wrapped around his greatcoat.

  ‘What are your sea legs like?’ the pilot asked as she climbed down.

  ‘Sea legs? Will I need them?’ she asked uncertainly. Gabriel couldn’t remember ever having set foot in a boat before.

  ‘Reckon so.’ He grimaced through chapped lips. ‘It’s whipped up a good ’un.’

  The young PC looked distinctly unhappy. Gabriel took slow, cautious steps towards the prow of the boat.

  ‘Wow.’ Before her was a scene both frighteningly dramatic and piercingly beautiful. The sea glowed bright beneath a sharp, low sun, which was gradually being swallowed by a huge bank of dark cloud tumbling in from the east. She shielded her eyes with gloved hands. The clouds moved slowly but steadily, as though made of iron, pushed by the ferocious wind. She couldn’t remember a sky having such a spectacular array of colour; bands of blue, purple and orange stretched across the horizon, slowly compressed by the darkness above, their edges alight.

  The boat gave a jolt and they were off. She took a few awkward steps back and gripped the stern as they moved out into the estuary. The sunlight and colour abruptly disappeared as the cloud sealed the edges of the horizon. Now she could appreciate the true strength of the wind; the white horses racing across the sea become perilously visible. Not that a visual aid was needed; her face stung with cold and spray as they gained momentum.

  ‘This is not going to be fun,’ the PC next to her shouted. The craft banked portside, and she felt her stomach turn. Oh, my heavens, was she going to be sick? ‘Keep your eyes out front and it won’t seem so bad,’ her companion added kindly.

  Gabriel tried to stay focused, but all the beauty was gone, replaced with an endless, grey, hostile wall of water. ‘How the hell will we find him in this?’