Blackwater

  She quickly ascended the steps and entered into a brightly lit atrium. Underneath glinting candelabra were lush red walls adorned with exotic animal heads, the spoils of empire. A neat little man in green behind a desk ticked her name off a register and ushered her to sit down. Nestled in a comfy armchair, she looked up at the painting on the wall opposite: an imposing figure in a pith helmet, one foot resting on an enormous tiger. Somewhere in the building a piano was being played – Mozart, if she wasn’t mistaken. People say the police live in their own world, but it was nothing compared to the armed forces; they lived in another place and time entirely, or so it seemed to her.

  ‘WPC Gabriel?’ A uniformed man in olive with a bright red belt and highly polished shoes addressed her politely. ‘Come this way, please.’ They marched down an oak-panelled corridor towards the piano music. The soldier stopped at an open door and gestured for her to enter. It was not so much an office, more of a large sitting room, like something from a period drama on the television. At the far end, sitting at a grand piano, was Captain James Oldham, head of Colchester’s military police force. His playing was beautiful. It was difficult to imagine that someone capable of performing such delicate music was responsible for such a brute presence of force in the town. She drifted closer, not wishing to interrupt his playing. Gabriel noted his thinning hair and balding pate.

  ‘Can I assume, WPC Gabriel, that this meeting has nothing to do with arranging a liaison committee?’

  His question caught her unawares but still didn’t quite break the spell of his playing. ‘That’s wonderful,’ she couldn’t help saying.

  ‘Do you know it?’

  ‘Mozart.’ She’d not played in ages. ‘A sonata. Eight?’

  ‘Very good. You must play?’

  ‘Not in ages,’ she said, feeling apologetic for reasons she couldn’t fathom. ‘It’s not an easy piece, from what I recall.’

  ‘Mozart is very difficult to play, even for one who’s left-handed.’ He span round on the stool. ‘One has to be so very light.’ He examined a well-manicured hand, but then, catching himself, glared up at her with eyes of watery grey that betrayed nothing of what went on behind them. ‘Well?’

  ‘I’m here regarding Corporal Quinn.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He smiled. ‘I suppose that could be construed as a “liaison” issue. Though of what interest he is to you now, I can’t possibly imagine.’

  ‘Just a matter of routine.’ She relaxed slightly. ‘He claims to have been locked up on New Year’s Eve. Can you confirm this?’

  ‘New Year’s Eve? Why are you interested in where Quinn was then? The punch-up was the night after.’ Oldham had soft-looking tan skin; she wondered if he might be foreign.

  ‘Yes,’ she said hesitantly, ‘but he subsequently harassed a member of the public over his concern for Private Jones, the soldier who—’

  ‘I know who Private Jones is, thank you. But I fail to see the connection.’

  ‘They were in the same platoon, were they not?’

  He smiled at her fixedly. ‘This member of the public – can you enlighten me as to who it was?’

  She sensed he was niggled. ‘I will if you can confirm that Quinn was incarcerated on New Year’s Eve.’

  He raised himself from the piano stool. ‘I don’t happen to know off the top of my head.’

  ‘But you could find out easily enough.’ She indicated the shiny telephone that sat on an ornate octagonal table.

  ‘Very well.’ He picked up the receiver and placed an index finger in the dial. She looked away, thinking it rude to watch, and reviewed the elegant room. It was indeed from another era. The walls were lined with oil paintings, though not of a military nature; many were seascapes. On top of a cabinet was a stuffed bird of some description. Ghastly. Probably shot. It seemed that, if they weren’t shooting men, the military must shoot the wildlife to relieve the boredom, especially in foreign climates, as indicated by the tiger painting in the atrium.

  ‘Yes, he was,’ Oldham said, bringing back her attention.

  ‘Excellent . . .’ She made to go.

  ‘And who was it that Quinn was at odds with, in the town? This member of the public?’

  ‘Oh, we suspect it was over a girlfriend.’ She didn’t think she needed to give a name; it’d not mean anything to Oldham.

  ‘A girl. It often is.’ He said, unimpressed. ‘Though not on Saturday night. The chap in the Lamb? Philpott, I think his name was.’

  Gabriel was uncertain what to say; she was growing acutely aware that Captain Oldham knew far more about what went on in town than she did.

  ‘Yes, it was Jamie Philpott.’ She wanted to leave.

  ‘And what does Mr Philpott do with himself when he’s not sparring with members of Her Majesty’s armed forces?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t really comment, sir. However, I can confirm he’s helping us –’ she hesitated and then said – ‘with another matter.’

  ‘“Another matter”,’ he repeated slowly, as though weighing up the words. ‘I see. I think that concludes our business.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain Oldham.’

  ‘My pleasure – anything in the spirit of cooperation,’ he said. ‘And take up the piano again – I’m imagining you’d be rather good.’

  -50-

  3.30 p.m., Wednesday, Mersea Police Station, East Road

  ‘Well, Dodger, none of us are getting any younger.’ Sparks stretched his legs, the wooden chair twingeing underneath him. Bradley sat on the other side of the hearth in the small back room of the East Road police station, twiddling his thumbs across his expansive girth. They were practically in darkness, except for the fire, which spat feebly.

  ‘Age has nothing to do with it; you’d have to be mad to want to be out in the Blackwater in the middle of the flamin’ night, this time of year.’

  ‘Water under the bridge now – we got one of them off Brightlingsea.’

  The Dodger grumbled. Sparks hoped his days on the force wouldn’t end like this. There wasn’t much between them if you thought about it – six, seven years?

  ‘Now then, where’s your December incident report? Merrydown has been breaking my balls about crime stats – and poor though they are, at least Colchester’s were submitted promptly. Yours aren’t even in.’

  ‘Aye, well, that’ll be your fault.’

  ‘My fault? How the bloody hell is it my fault?’

  ‘Your boy hassling us over the post-office job after Christmas.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I tried calling you to get him to back off so we could get on with our business, but you failed to intervene, and he wouldn’t let it lie.’

  Sparks stood up to light a cigarette. ‘You should’ve spelt it out, Dodger, rather than making cryptic phone calls. I’ve a lot on my plate – I’ve got a house full of bodies on a council estate—’

  ‘Ahh, well, that’s none of my business. I can’t file me bleedin’ reports with your mob sticking their oar in; you stick to yorn and we’ll keep to ours.’

  ‘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 another 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 o
f 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.