Blackwater

  ‘I beg to differ,’ Sparks said, leaving the chesterfield sofa and pacing across the Persian carpet towards Oldham’s desk. ‘You assume, because your signalling system is second nature to you, that all and sundry are aware of its significance, but I assure you the rest of the world, myself included, consider the Fingringhoe ranges a no-go zone.’

  He let that sink in for a moment, and toyed with a small ivory buddha on the captain’s desk. The information Gabriel had obtained behind their smug olive-green backs had convinced him they had the military by the balls, and thus he found himself curiously calm and confident.

  ‘Traces of amphetamines on MOD land cannot be ignored. That, along with two of your men reputedly on the lookout for drugs on New Year’s Eve. It doesn’t look good.’ He replaced the buddha in a different spot. My, how the tables had turned, he thought, since the young private had died.

  ‘Ha. If what you’re suggesting was correct, there would be no need for our men to stalk the high street, would there? They could just shoot up in the observation post on the marshes!’ Oldham exclaimed. Sparks detected anger below the surface.

  ‘Now, James, we mustn’t be flippant about this,’ Brigadier Lane interjected. ‘If there is even the slightest evidence of drugs in the ranks, we must address it. Stephen, what can we do to help?’

  The chief had said nothing about Oldham’s name appearing on the range chalkboard; he first wanted to gauge his reaction to a little heat. So far, he seemed only mildly irritated, with a dash of contempt for his commanding officer.

  ‘A thorough search of the barracks would be a start,’ replied Sparks, ‘and instant recall of Private Jones, wherever he might be.’

  ‘Yes, but first let’s be clear,’ said Lane. ‘Are you suggesting the traces of substances on the marshes are related to the death of Private Daley and the civilian deaths at Greenstead?’

  ‘The traces in the observation post will be compared with those found at the house in Greenstead, which will give us our answer.’

  ‘But what about Daley and Jones?’ the brigadier asked. ‘I must confess I’m slightly baffled and inclined to agree with Captain Oldham – if my men were involved in drug trafficking, why would they attempt to procure amphetamines in Colchester High Street?’

  ‘There are four thousand soldiers here: who says we’re talking about the same men? But since you mention the Castle Park incident, we have a further request. WPC Gabriel?’

  Until now, Gabriel had remained silently by the door. Oldham shot her a piercing glance; she had been to see him only yesterday afternoon.

  ‘We’d also like to interview Private Frederick Cowley, previously of 7th Parachute Regiment. We want you –’ and here she looked at Oldham directly – ‘to find him for us.’

  ‘Who is this man?’ Lane asked.

  ‘He was in the Falklands with Quinn, Daley and Jones,’ replied Gabriel. ‘They were in the same unit. Frederick Cowley exited the army in July.’

  ‘I can’t help you,’ Oldham said. ‘The army does not keep a record of the whereabouts of every ex-servicemen. The bandsman, of whom the inspector was inquiring, was different – I can’t recall the name, but he had stayed—’

  ‘Stone – who had stayed in Colchester,’ Sparks cut in. ‘Ex-soldiers often make their home where they were posted. 7 Para have only been here since September. Where were they before?’

  ‘Why, Germany, of course,’ said Lane. ‘Osnabrück.’

  ‘Germany?’ Sparks frowned.

  ‘Precisely,’ said Oldham. ‘As if we can keep tabs on every damn soldier that’s served in the regiment.’

  ‘Am I missing the significance of this fellow, other than that he served in this unit?’ The brigadier was struggling to keep up.

  ‘Freddie Cowley’s brother was one of the drug couriers,’ Sparks said sharply.

  Lane turned sternly to Oldham. ‘Come, come, James, we must have something on the fellow? Would the chap’s medical records help you identify him? We can have them in a jiffy, I’m sure.’

  *

  ‘Good work, Gabriel,’ Sparks complimented her, waving Freddie Cowley’s medical record at her as they exited the building. ‘Very good work.’

  She nodded. Sparks himself had risen in her estimation – she liked the way he handled the military commanders with such confidence, even on their own turf. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Sparks was flicking through the medical report.

  ‘Freddie Cowley’s dead.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Gabriel said, surprised.

  ‘Roughly six foot two, twenty-four years old, lived in Germany?’

  He tapped his foot on the pavement and regarded the military buildings behind them, austere in their silence. ‘Goose is traditional . . . not turkey.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Something Lowry said. And the body discovered on the Strood had German currency on it and was around the right age, too.’ Gabriel didn’t know how to respond; she wasn’t familiar with the case. Sparks read her confusion. ‘Don’t worry, no need to trouble our friends back there until we’re sure. With or without dental records, we can approximate his height – the doc can estimate the head length – and even shoe size will confirm. Ring this through to Lowry and Robinson, at the lab. Funny, we thought he was German because of his clothing and some loose change. But who else would eat a turkey Christmas dinner abroad before returning to the UK, other than an ex-pat?’

  ‘How does this tie in, sir?’

  ‘If the man on the Strood is Freddie, then there’s a connection between the drug traffickers and Daley – the Castle Park lad.’ Sparks was looking earnestly at WPC Gabriel, who was marginally taller than he was. ‘I figure they were trying to smuggle a ton of drugs in from the Continent, using their ex-servicemen pals to source the gear. It’s all tying up . . . though the timing of this chap’s demise puts a different spin on things.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Because we were working to the theory that the boys were killed at Greenstead because they were a day late delivering. Kenton’s conversation with Pond makes this seem plausible – the whole town was waiting to get loaded . . .’

  ‘But Freddie Cowley was dead before the men landed with the drugs.’

  ‘Exactly!’ His suddenly raised voice made Gabriel start. ‘Which indicates a rival gang. Making this whole mess even more complicated.’

  ‘The army boys seem pretty close, sir. Even Stone was ex-army. How would anyone else know? Why would they let anyone else in? They’re a tight-lipped lot.’

  The chief was still looking at RMP HQ. He exhaled deeply through his nose, the condensation giving him the fleeting appearance of a dragon at rest after blasting out fire.

  ‘It’s such a shame. They were all so young,’ she said finally.

  He wasn’t sentimental, but she had said something that was confirmation enough for his line of thought. ‘You know, I think we’re missing a link . . . or perhaps a chain of command? Putting Cowley’s death aside for a moment, you’re right. These are just boys who are used to following orders . . .’

  ‘You think there’s more senior military involvement, sir?’

  ‘It would make sense. Tight-lipped – that’s Oldham all right. When Lane announced the Paras were stationed in Osnabrück, how did Oldham react?’

  ‘I thought he bristled slightly.’ She looked squarely at the chief as he stepped closer.

  ‘Bristled. Exactly.’ Across the road, half a dozen men in military green marched briskly by. ‘The Beard told me that Oldham has a houseboat on West Mersea. Uses it at the weekends.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. We were gassing about food. This may surprise you, but myself and Lane do get on damn well usually, above and beyond the sparring in the ring. Anyhow, Oldham had told him of a new fish place that had opened up near the port and sold the finest oysters, just beyond the hous
eboats.’

  ‘That’s funny,’ Gabriel replied.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Detective Constable Kenton told me that the night he was attacked snooping around the houseboats he heard piano music. The captain was playing the piano when I visited yesterday.’

  ‘Piano music? Are you sure? Kenton never mentioned it to me.’

  ‘One hundred per cent. He didn’t mention it at Queen Street because he was too embarrassed. Having been knocked down, he thought, if he said he’d heard music, people would laugh all the more.’

  She watched Sparks contemplate the soldiers marching past. She couldn’t tell whether he was listening, but then he turned his back on the grand building they had just left and said abruptly, ‘Right, this is what we’re going to do.’

  As they walked towards the chief’s Rover, Sparks laid out their next move. Although flattered that he’d taken her into his confidence, and feeling sucked in by his enthusiasm, which she hadn’t felt with either Kenton or Lowry, she was slightly disturbed that the boss of Queen Street had decided to take matters into his own hands in such a direct fashion. She sat next to him as he dictated into the car radio precise instructions to have Captain Oldham placed under surveillance for twenty-four hours with immediate effect, and to advise immediately if he left the barracks.

  ‘In the meantime, let’s you and I check out these houseboats.’

  ‘Check them out?’

  ‘Yes. I’m very curious about Captain Oldham’s weekend retreat. And leaf through this and radio Lowry en route.’ He slapped Cowley’s file at her midriff. ‘Let’s go.’

  -54-

  1 p.m., Thursday, Hythe Hill, New Town, near Artillery Street

  Lowry watched Kenton open the Cortina boot from inside the Saab as he listened to Gabriel reel off Freddie Cowley’s stats over the radio. It sounded as though they had their unidentified man; Robinson would need to confirm but, on the face of it, the headless corpse washed up on the Strood was Felix Cowley’s brother Freddie. He remembered that the Green Flash tennis shoe had been a size ten, the same size as Private Frederick Cowley. Lowry was impressed with Gabriel’s discovery. Though how she’d arrived at the connection was not altogether clear, nor was why she was now in a car with Sparks, heading for Mersea.

  He watched Nugent’s silent protests at Kenton beyond the windscreen, but his mind was on the military involvement as he now saw it: ex-servicemen sourcing drugs on the Continent and shipping them over here through civilian couriers, then on to . . . who? Who were they for, ultimately? The men who had chased the two soldiers at Castle Park? But that was at the end of the deal, when things had already gone badly wrong. To answer the question he’d need to go back further, and Freddie Cowley ending up on the road across to Mersea was his starting point.

  Kenton and Nugent plodded back across the frozen mud. There was snow in the air again. Lowry wound down the window.

  ‘I niver looked in the boot; I ain’t got a clue what went in the boot. Honest.’ Nugent’s weathered face looked pleading.

  ‘Ted, you have to be the most honest bank robber in the land.’

  The forensic evidence pointed to there having been a body in the boot, at some point – and now Lowry was sure it had been Freddie Cowley. ‘Take Ted back to Queen Street,’ he said to Kenton. The morgue was five minutes away across town. If there were any clues to be had, it would be from the corpse of Freddie Cowley itself.

  1.20 p.m., Colchester General Hospital, morgue

  Lowry watched as they slid the shrouded body of Frederick Cowley on to the steel table. ‘The situation has changed,’ he said.

  ‘So I gather.’ Robinson’s spectacles slid down his nose as he laid out the corpse.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t call you back, it’s just that—’

  ‘No need to apologize, inspector, I know you’ve been busy; as indeed we all have.’ The affable doctor indicated two white-shrouded gurneys behind him.

  ‘I did see the report about pooling blood which suggested that the body had rested on a firm surface and that the man was not killed at sea.’

  ‘Such as lying in the boot of a car?’ Robinson smiled knowingly.

  ‘Yes. News travels fast.’

  ‘Good to know. One always takes pride in one’s evaluation.’ He whipped the sheet back with such exuberance that Lowry half expected the body to have disappeared, as in a magician’s trick.

  ‘You’ll know then that the man was a soldier, hence the calloused feet.’

  ‘Yes . . . However, you feel I may have missed something.’

  ‘Not at all, doc. I fear we were at fault. The body was indeed found on the Strood; however, we failed to mention that it was hit by a car. So I want to check for impact marks.’

  ‘Clearly, there are none,’ the doctor said firmly.

  ‘How do we know until we’ve looked?’ Lowry crouched level with the trolley and started to examine the grey torso.

  ‘I have looked, inspector. I have examined the body fully and, were there any impact wounds, I would have noticed them.’

  Lowry was somewhat perplexed, but said politely, ‘Of course – thorough fellow that you are.’

  ‘What speed was the vehicle travelling at?’

  ‘I don’t know, to be honest, but the policeman who answered the call said he thought the car was travelling at speed. On that road, could be forty miles per hour? Fifty?’

  The doctor shook his grey head, his forehead concertinaed as he frowned over his glasses. ‘Very, very unlikely. What type of vehicle was it?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Well, assuming it’s an ordinary saloon, for the driver to get more than a jolt it would have had to have hit the body above here.’ He indicated the thighs. ‘You’ll have experienced enough RTAs to know that a half-ton car can pass over a shin or arm without fuss.’

  Lowry wasn’t quite convinced of the assessment ‘without fuss’, but that wasn’t the point. ‘So you’re saying there would be bruising at least from here to here.’

  ‘Almost certainly.’

  Robinson flung the white sheet back over the body as theatrically as he’d removed it.

  ‘Unusual,’ was all Lowry could say.

  ‘Yes. I’d have a word with the driver, if I were you.’

  1.25 p.m., West Mersea

  The houseboats rested in the grassy mud two hundred yards from the road and were accessed by narrow wooden footways. Gabriel felt fraudulent. Despite special dispensation from Sparks, she was pretty sure she shouldn’t be doing this. Even if she were CID, she was pretty sure she shouldn’t be doing this.

  Sparks knew that Oldham had not left the barracks; his quarters had been under discreet observation. The chief had been dismissive with Gabriel. ‘If there’s nothing there, there’s nothing there. But look at the facts: he’s been obstructive – didn’t he fob you off and let Private Jones out of the country? He was on the ranges, and he knew, like Lowry said, that it offered a vantage point over the Colne estuary to see any escaping vessel. And didn’t Oldham pull Quinn out of Queen Street damn quickly – for fear the boy would speak out, maybe?’

  One footway led straight to Ahab’s Revenge. A breeze disturbed the grasses and tickled the mast riggings further off towards the port itself. The vessel Gabriel was to search was the neighbouring one – but on which side? Damn. To the right was a deep-hulled craft that looked imposing. She couldn’t see a name on it. It was sizeable, grand enough for Oldham: she could see large, double-fronted glass doors opening on to a spacious deck, but still she wasn’t convinced. She rounded the bow and passed along the length of the hull, dodging mud pools between tufts of grass. On the stern in ornate gold was inscribed the name Lily’s Fancy. That didn’t sound very Captain James Oldham. A weak sun sat beyond the channel, behind the old oyster sheds on the proud sandbanks. There was not a soul about. Next to Ahab’s Revenge on
the other side was a low-sitting, turn-of-the-century boat with a high-standing wheelhouse.

  Discreetly etched on the stern were the words Così fan tutte. This was the one. Deftly clambering a rope ladder across the transom, she slipped into the cockpit and below eye level. Underneath the wheelhouse was a small wooden hatch leading to the galley below. The hatch was not locked but fixed only by a latch.

  She flicked on a torch and shot the beam inside the galley but then switched it off – the sunlight through the portholes was enough. Gabriel could almost stand at full height, which surprised her, given how low the boat appeared from the outside. The decor was tasteful and elegant; books and gramophone records lined the wooden interior, with lush upholstery between the cabinets. The boat was impeccably tidy. She passed into the galley, which was adorned with cut glassware.

  It didn’t strike her as the home of a drugs mastermind. Through the kitchenette and past storage cupboards were two berths, one holding a three-quarter-size bed, which she searched under and around before riffling through the wardrobes, which delivered nothing. The smaller berth was fitted with bunks. She ran her fingers along the flimsy mattresses, looking for a discreet opening; again nothing. Gabriel was starting to perspire; it was stuffy. She had to get out. As she was leaving the smaller berth, a dull thud from the passageway made her jump. She opened one of the mahogany doors: it was a cupboard holding tins of food and blankets. The next one wouldn’t open: it was locked. She shook it with annoyance, and there again was a thud. Her heart beat fast – there was somebody in there. She put her ear to the door. She heard a faint groan, and then another thud, against the door, which caused her to lurch back. Had they locked themselves in? No, wait, there was an outside bolt at the very top, presumably to secure the door when the vessel was at sea. Without hesitation, Gabriel slid the bolt and released the door.