Blackwater

  ‘Not many idiots try and sail a dinghy in these conditions. Must be a good force seven . . . Wait! Look!’ Barnes cried.

  Gabriel craned her neck and was lashed with spray in return. She couldn’t see a thing.

  ‘Look right out there – just a speck!’

  Sure enough, amidst the grey turmoil was a dot of white. And that was all, just a dot. The PC scrambled to the wheelhouse.

  The launch adjusted its course and accelerated powerfully, almost throwing Gabriel to the deck. The hull of the vessel rose sharply, then slammed down with such force she felt the thing may split in two, shattering her with it. Again the boat surged upward. She braced herself as her feet slid on the wet deck, and as they traversed the swell, she quickly realized that this first violent movement wasn’t going to be a one-off. If she was going to be sick, the moment had passed; she was now too busy keeping herself upright.

  ‘What have we here?’ the PC shouted in her ear excitedly. He must’ve been all of eighteen, and very keen. The boat slowed and she realized she’d had her eyes closed. The motion eased to a queasy side-to-side rocking. Before them was a sailing dinghy, with no sign of crew. The main sail flapped angrily. ‘Right – let’s see if we can grab it with this.’ He produced a long wooden pole and leaned cautiously over the side. Sergeant Barnes helped steady him.

  ‘Gotcha!’ the PC exclaimed, and tugged the dinghy in. The noise of the loosened sail was deafening. ‘Keep hold!’ the young policeman yelled to Barnes, before leaping over the side and into the captured boat with a coiled rope. Spray stung Gabriel’s cheeks as the smaller vessel crashed against them. The policeman disappeared under the sail to fasten the rope, then tossed it back to Barnes, yelling something they couldn’t make out.

  ‘He knows his stuff!’ Barnes almost screamed with admiration as the younger policeman lowered the sail, the smaller boat rising and falling in the rough swell.

  Once the sail was stable, Gabriel noticed a shape in the bottom of the boat, covered by a tarpaulin. Her heart raced. As the PC went about busily securing the rigging, the shape began to move, and Gabriel nudged Sergeant Barnes. A very pale man raised himself into the storm. Gabriel couldn’t help herself: she went rigid with fear as a corpse-like man struggled to his feet. Though she knew she was in no danger, the figure in front of her was so shocking in appearance she felt she might vomit in panic and scrabbled back hastily to allow Barnes room to help the skeletal Felix Cowley on board.

  5 p.m., Colchester town centre

  When a drenched, fragile WPC Gabriel returned to Queen Street, a gentle wave of relief washed over Lowry. The young woman had obviously found the experience draining – she looked exhausted – but the recovery of Felix Cowley from the Blackwater had a more effusive effect on Sparks, who was positively jubilant. This was a major result. Cowley wasn’t in great shape. He had narrowly avoided pneumonia. Unable to get much sense out of him, they heeded medical advice to let him rest overnight – but in the Queen Street cells. The loss of Philpott from the General Hospital was still on their minds, and Sparks was adamant. However, Lowry had ordered the duty PC to move the electric heater to Cowley’s side of the barred door to at least try to keep him warm; after all this hassle, he didn’t want him expiring overnight. Having overseen the PC grudgingly move the heater, he and Sparks then left the station, and it was with lightened moods that the pair made their way through the town centre on foot as the first snow of the year began to fall.

  ‘I gather you had coffee with the ACC,’ Sparks said casually, his breath catching in the streetlight as they made their way towards the old city wall. The uneven cobbled pavement was slippery in places as the snow began to settle on patches of ice. Their footsteps, which at first echoed along the glistening alley, were soon muffled as the snow grew heavier.

  ‘I did. How do you know?’ Not that it was a secret.

  ‘I know someone in the police. Sneaky bastards have eyes everywhere.’

  Lowry didn’t respond. Instead he asked, ‘Are you sure you’ve got time for this?’

  ‘Of course. Besides, I think it does good to show my face on the streets every once in a while – show ’em who’s the daddy.’

  ‘Jeez, you watch too much telly.’

  ‘C’mon, Nick, what did she want? What did you talk about?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘Me? What the fuck did she want to know about me?’ They turned off at Sheregate Steps; they were steep and treacherous on an evening like this. The number of people who had come a cropper navigating their way down these slippery stones was one of Colchester’s least noble statistics.

  ‘Whether I thought you were “modern”.’ Lowry stopped outside a dark wooden door within an enclave, halfway down the ancient passageway. Even during the daytime, most would pass the Candyman jazz club and remain unaware of its existence.

  ‘“Modern?” What the fuck does that mean?’ Snow had settled on the chief’s eyebrows.

  ‘Beats me. Shall we?’ They stepped inside. The place was darker than the alley they’d just left, and the cigarette smoke clawed at their throats, causing an involuntary cough from both, hardened nicotine addicts as they were. ‘What’re you having?’

  ‘Better take it easy – I’ll be driving through those pissy lanes later. Vodka tonic,’ Sparks said, wincing in the smoky gloom.

  ‘Two large vodka tonics, love. I thought you were looking forward to ladies’ night?’

  Sparks shrugged and surveyed the scene around him. ‘You blowing me out has taken the wind out of my sails somewhat. Would’ve been nice to see Jacqueline, too. How is she?’

  Lowry paid for the drinks. ‘All right.’ He’d not spoken to her since their conversation the night before and was not particularly keen to say any more to Sparks. Instead, he signalled to the waifish girl behind the bar and asked, ‘Lester in?’

  Sparks’s good humour had evaporated as swiftly as it had arisen. When, thanks to Granger, he’d first got wind of this tête-à-tête between the ACC and Lowry, he’d hardly minded at all, but now, on hearing Lowry’s oblique response, he was furious. Talking about him? Modern? What the fuck was Merrydown on about? Now he’d stopped to think about it, why was she talking to Lowry like that, behind his back? Not that he didn’t trust Lowry – he did – but her? No chance. She hadn’t got to where she was by being Felicity Kendal. She was not to be trusted. Indeed, she had, only this afternoon, called Sparks to warn him about her niece, Gabriel. And though Merrydown was sweetness and light about the whole thing, and apologized that he was kept in the dark about the connection, it was still underhand. Sparks was going to mention it to Lowry, but now thought better of it . . .

  He grabbed his drink from the bar and took in his surroundings. He used to listen to the odd jazz record once upon a time and he knew this place from his days as a DC in the sixties – his glory years. A desk job wasn’t what he’d signed up for, but that’s what it had become, and although the sports that he engaged in compensated to a degree, it didn’t quite replace life on the streets. ‘This place hasn’t changed,’ he said, nodding to a leathery old goat at the far end of the bar. ‘He was in here when this was my patch, in sixty-seven. Don’t think he’s moved. Certainly hasn’t shaved.’

  Lowry raised his glass and took a swig. The low ceiling caused both of them to stoop. ‘Not much of a stage,’ he said, indicating the far end of the bar, where a skinny, long-haired youth was messing with a snare drum.

  ‘You don’t need a big stage with jazz, Nick. There’s no need to strut about like they do with that crap you’re into – the music does the job for you.’

  ‘Didn’t know you were into jazz, chief—’

  ‘Evening, gents.’ A man so skinny that it was a wonder a turtleneck was made that would fit as snugly as the one he sported had drifted over. ‘Superintendent, welcome. It’s been a while.’

  ‘Lester,’ Sparks acknowledged. ‘There’s bee
n a mishap.’

  ‘Derek.’ He nodded, tutting. ‘Shocking business.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw him?’ Lowry asked.

  The club manager waved a cigarette indolently. ‘Thursday. He was supposed to be here on Sunday – but he didn’t show up.’

  ‘How did you hear about what had happened?’ Sparks asked.

  ‘I can’t recall – was it in the paper?’

  ‘Did you not inquire as to his whereabouts? He’s in the house band – didn’t you wonder why he hadn’t turned up?’ he persisted.

  ‘How does one ever hear anything?’ the man half replied, his attention drifting towards the guy fiddling with the snare drum, who had been joined by a short black man with a trumpet.

  Sparks was out of the habit of being dicked about. He was sure Lester Pink had a drugs habit. What it was, he had no idea, but there was no way a man could be this skinny without poisoning his body with something. Maybe he was on it now, which would explain his disrespect. He downed his drink and muttered to Lowry, ‘See if you can jog his memory – or, if not, unsettle it.’

  Sparks marched over the trumpet player. ‘Evening,’ he said.

  The musician gave a cursory nod but then carried on chatting to the man at the snare drum.

  ‘Oi, Satchmo,’ Sparks said politely. ‘May I have a word?’ They both stopped what they were doing and stared at him.

  ‘Armstrong played the cornet,’ the black guy said.

  ‘I’m sorry? What did you say?’

  ‘I said –’ he paused – ‘Armstrong predominantly played the cornet.’

  ‘Did he? Did he really?’ Sparks looked at the low, yellow ceiling as though in thought, tapping his foot playfully as he did so, then stared at the man straight and said, ‘Well, I don’t give a fuck whether he blew down Liberace’s bone flute.’ With a sudden jerk, he shoved the trumpeter against the back wall. Due to his small size, this didn’t require the effort Sparks put in, and the push caused several framed photographs of hallowed jazz musicians blowing earnestly to shatter.

  ‘Now, Derek Stone. Know him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes, he plays with us. He hasn’t been turning up. Turns out he was murdered.’

  ‘Did he take drugs?’

  ‘Erm . . . occasionally.’

  Sparks shoved him hard against the wall.

  ‘Hey, man,’ came a soft voice, followed by a tap on his shoulder. ‘There’s no need for that.’ It was the drummer.

  ‘Come here,’ Sparks beckoned, as if to confide in him. As the man leaned forward, Sparks spun and deftly headbutted him on the bridge of the nose. The drummer toppled and Sparks felt momentarily stunned. The trumpeter, still in his grip, had gone limp against the wall, pulling Sparks forward. He was trying to whisper something.

  ‘Sorry, son – didn’t catch that?’

  ‘He’d gone to score – Del had – on Saturday night. He’d gone to score on Saturday night.’

  ‘Fab.’ He yanked the man upright. ‘Anything else? Any girlfriend? Who’d he hang out with?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’ Sparks squeezed the man hard again. ‘Wait; he had a mate who’d drop by – Ted.’

  ‘Ted? Ted who?’

  ‘Nugent. Comes from Mersea. Bleached-blond hair. You’re hurting me.’

  Satisfied, Sparks released him and marched back to the bar, where Lowry and Lester Pink had been watching the display. ‘That’s bang out of order, Mr Sparks,’ Pink protested, seeming now to have been roused from his dreamland. Sparks squared up to him and he instantly shrunk back.

  ‘The trouble is, Lester, people ponce about. Call me old-fashioned, but I believe that if a policeman, especially a senior one such as myself, asks for information, he’s entitled to an answer.’ Sparks gestured towards the musicians, where the trumpeter was fussing over the drummer, who was still lying on the floor. ‘Not a load of arse. Know what I mean?’

  ‘We done?’ Lowry said, and placed his empty glass purposefully on the bar. They left in silence.

  Sparks was irritated by Lowry’s lack of comment. As the cold night air punched his lungs outside on the cobbled street, he said, ‘Was that “modern” enough for you?’

  -42-

  6.30 p.m., Tuesday, Queen Street

  Lowry said goodnight to Sparks on the station steps. He watched his superior march off at a brisk pace in a swirl of snow and disappear round the back, towards the car park. Sparks’s slapping about of the trumpet player was his second violent display in under a week. Lowry was not averse to violence here and there, where necessary, but he couldn’t help but think that Sparks’s behaviour was unwarranted. Neither the musician nor Corporal Quinn had deserved it, and both were easy targets. Maybe the chief was beginning to feel his age, and irrational bursts here and there were a means to reassert his authority before it was too late.

  ‘Maybe it’s not me who’s having a mid-life crisis,’ he said to the shadows.

  Still, they had made progress, tactics notwithstanding. It appeared that Derek Stone was small time. He’d gone to score on New Year’s Eve, and ten grams of speed was hardly a major haul requiring a beach landing. No, he was of little interest – even less now he was dead – whereas Ted Nugent was suddenly very much back in the frame, having seen Stone the night before he was murdered. He doubted there could be two people with the same moniker. The trouble with crims on parole was that they could never seem to untangle themselves from the fraternity net . . .

  Sparks’s Rover pulled out from the side of the building and a pale palm waved from inside. Lowry crossed the road and made his way up towards the high street. He thought back to Kenton, grumbling at Sparks’s remark, when he first started, that he looked like Dennis Waterman (which had offended Kenton deeply) – and, ironically, how Sparks’s conduct at the Candyman had been a beautiful reenactment of 1970s policing, as portrayed in The Sweeney. He’d have to bung Pink a score to compensate for lost clientele: a bunch of students had witnessed the whole thing and fled in horror . . .

  As he walked down East Hill, his thoughts turned to his next destination: Aristos nightclub. He’d considered telling Sparks about Jacqui’s involvement in the case but had decided against it after his little outburst in the jazz club. It would only cloud the issue further. And, anyway, as Lowry kept telling himself, the scarf was found in the garden, which meant she may never have even entered the house.

  The club was not open tonight, but he’d called ahead and requested that the staff who’d been on duty on Saturday night open up for him. Two sirens shot past as he walked into the reception of the Colne Hotel, beneath which sat Aristos. A clerk guided him through some double doors and downstairs to the club, where a curly-haired man in a black open-necked shirt greeted him and flicked on all the lights.

  ‘Of course, the main entrance is outside the hotel. The way you came in is strictly for VIP guests,’ the manager, Stu, said. ‘Over there’s the main bar.’ He pointed towards a raised oval bar on the other side of the dance floor. The bar, shrouded in darkness, was ringed by chrome barstools. Nightclubs were not the sort of place Lowry frequented, but even to his untrained eye, this place was straight out of 1977. ‘So, the guys you’re talking about were sat there, right in the middle. It was pretty early. They were, like, some of the first in.’

  ‘Was this them?’ He held up pictures of Jason Boyd and Felix Cowley.

  ‘That’s them. There was another dude who came on his own, chatted, then split. Much later.’

  ‘This him?’ Lowry held up a picture of Stone.

  ‘Not sure . . . It was dark, and, like I say, he wasn’t here long.’

  ‘Look at it closely?’

  ‘Wait a sec. I know this guy – he plays horn at the Candyman?’

  ‘He did. Was he here?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, he was her
e later, after the birds had joined them.’ Lowry baulked at the description, knowing it included Jacqui.

  ‘And what sort of mindset were the men in?’

  ‘They were loaded, all right.’

  ‘How did they behave?’

  ‘Like people off their faces do: really chatty, arms waving everywhere – not out of control, though; sort of hyper-excited.’

  ‘Any aggressive behaviour?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What were they up to? Mixing with the crowd when it filled up?’

  ‘Nah, they kept to themselves. Just sat there yakking at each other until these birds turned up.’

  So, not actively selling, just using, thought Lowry.

  ‘So, they just sat there?’

  ‘They were rooted to the spot until the ladies dragged them up on to the dance floor.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I watched them briefly. The men were all over the place – almost comical – completely on a different planet. The chicks were in time. There was this cute, dark one who was quite a mover. But then I lost them as the place started to fill up.’

  Lowry surveyed the club. It had an expansive floor space with a capacity of several hundred. He started to picture Jacqui gyrating in the middle with another man, but stopped himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her on a dance floor – probably a Masonic do such as the one Sparks was attending tonight – although he had no doubt she was the woman the barman was referring to.

  ‘Was Stone a regular?’

  ‘Nah – not his scene. And neither were the other two you showed me; this place wasn’t their sort of groove. And they weren’t exactly choice clientele either.’ He flicked a tiny piece of lint from the sleeve of his pristine shirt. ‘We’d just relaxed the dress code to drum up a bit of business, otherwise these chancers would never have got through the door.’

  Lowry moved on to the empty dance floor.