She leapt back in surprise: a nurse?
-55-
2.20 p.m., Thursday, Great Tey
The two women embraced, sobbing, in the Lowrys’ front room. The tall WPC stood at a respectable distance, her face lined with concern. Lowry, always a figure of calm and composure, was visibly surprised by the turn of events and hung back awkwardly, unable to speak. The chief himself, standing there in the middle of the room, still in his Crombie, was not sure what to do now that they’d arrived.
Sparks, initially jubilant in his recovery of Patricia Vane, had decided to grant the woman’s request to see her best friend, Lowry’s wife, before moving on to Queen Street. As a divorcee living alone in the Dutch quarter, it was a reasonable request. Also, Sparks was keen to see Lowry’s reaction to what could only be described as an extraordinary situation, and ordered the inspector to meet him at his own house.
And it was extraordinary indeed. Where he had been expecting to find a ton of class-A drugs, he instead discovered a thirty-two-year-old nurse shackled to the boat’s toilet. This job never ceased to amaze him.
The woman at the centre of it all, Trish Vane, was remarkably composed, considering she’d been cooped up inside a houseboat lavatory for the best part of two and a half days, ‘ . . . though I could hear the gulls, and smell the sea . . .’ she was saying.
‘Why would he want to kidnap you?’ Sparks asked, not for the first time.
‘She doesn’t know,’ Lowry’s wife replied stonily. Both women were in nurses’ uniform. ‘Give her time. Come on, let’s get a coffee.’ She gestured to Gabriel to join them.
Sparks noticed that Jacqui avoided her husband’s gaze. He considered her for a moment, something he’d never really done on the times he’d previously met her. Fond of women as he was, a colleague’s wife was not his concern. Elfin – not his type, anyway. She was pale, so pale; almost translucent. She looked more washed out than her pal, who he’d just sprung. Something very odd was going on here. The Vane woman had said she’d been out with Jacqui on Saturday night; they’d had quite a time of it, apparently. That was odd in itself – he knew Jacqui had been assaulted in the town centre that night; what the hell had she been doing, out caning it? What had he missed? Very, very odd . . .
The women left the room, leaving the two men alone. Sparks stepped over to Lowry, who was staring out of the patio doors. ‘Peculiar. This is my definition of a peculiar situation,’ he said in a low voice, thinking of the balling out he had given Gabriel earlier in the week. ‘We’ve known each other a long time . . .’
Lowry nodded, not altering the direction of his gaze.
‘And so, if there was anything I should know, you’d tell me?’ He paused. ‘Because, from where I’m standing, the fact that a nurse ends up on a houseboat owned by a military police captain, cuffed to a toilet cistern, after a harsh night out with your missus, is fucking peculiar.’
‘There’s no denying that.’ Lowry could feel the chief’s eyes burning into him. On the surface he was calm, but inside he was in turmoil. Trish. Jacqui’s Trish, kidnapped. He had to remain level-headed. It had to be connected to Saturday night. Was Oldham linked to the murders on Greenstead, too? Lowry fought to keep events separate in his mind, even though he sensed that everything was connected, in a way he couldn’t yet fathom. Cigarette smoked drifted under Lowry’s nose as Sparks lit up. Lowry braced himself.
‘What the fuck’s going on out there?’
‘I’m sorry?’ Lowry said. Sparks’s eyes were on the garden.
‘That.’ He jabbed the glass. ‘An up-ended Workmate and timber all over the place. Some sort of DIY experiment?’
‘Something like that.’ Lowry was disturbed that Sparks had careered off down a path of investigation on his own, and without consultation. He accepted that the chief missed getting his hands dirty, but this seemed random. Rash, even. Gabriel re-entered the room and asked if they wanted coffee. Lowry shot her a glance as both declined: unreadable – God only knows what she was thinking.
‘Freddie Cowley’s death is a game changer. He’s the mastermind, arranges the deal, but he has to come back here to the UK? Why? To check the delivery went through? And then to discover what? That his gang’s about to get screwed over, and then he ends up dead himself? There has to be a key player coordinating this, between civilians and army.’
Sparks nodded forcefully. ‘Oldham, it’s got to be Oldham – bumping off all the civilians involved in getting the drugs on to the shore.’ The chief looked around for an ashtray. There weren’t any – Lowry had chucked them all in the garage when he’d packed in smoking. ‘Maybe it’s connected to that soldier’s death on the castle wall, too. A reprisal, or turf war – call it what you like. I know we thought this before . . .’
Lowry slid open the French doors, took the butt and flicked it on the lawn. ‘Why would he kill Freddie? His own man from Germany, who winds up in the back of a getaway car used to rob a post office by two men keen to buy what he brings ashore?’ Lowry asked.
‘Possibly Oldham was behind the post-office job too,’ Sparks guessed, then paused, before continuing, ‘though you’ve yet to explain: how did Freddie end up on the Strood?’
‘He was mutilated and dumped to make it look like an accident at sea, with the body being washed in on the tide. But I’ve sent Kenton back to Mersea. The pathologist’s report raises questions regarding the discovery of the body.’
‘Questions?’ Sparks frowned. ‘Like what?’
‘It might be nothing, but the body was hit by a car travelling at speed that night, but there are no signs of impact on it. I want to check out the car driver who discovered Cowley.’ He stared out at his own back garden and the ridiculous, up-ended Workmate.
Lowry had been reluctant to dispatch Kenton to Mersea again – he’d much rather have gone himself, but Sparks had demanded that he return home, for what was indeed truly a ‘peculiar’ turn of events. He still couldn’t quite believe that Trish had been locked up in a houseboat. He shook his head. He had to focus.
‘Fred Cowley was back in the country the day before the robbery, and was staying with Stone in Artillery Street,’ Lowry continued. ‘His father confirmed this and handed over his son’s passport to Kenton. He must have been killed the day after his return.’ Jacqui re-entered the room, accompanied by Gabriel, who was clutching a mug. Lowry followed his wife’s movements with detachment and said, ‘Philpott and Nugent are both guilty as hell for the robbery – could they be working with Oldham? Is that what you’re suggesting? I can’t see them working together, and I don’t have Oldham as getting his hands dirty turning over a post office.’
Sparks shook his head. ‘Not necessarily as a hands-on armed robber, but I’m more and more convinced he’s the mastermind. Stone was in on the drugs deal and part of the robbery and is ex-army – and he was putting Freddie Cowley up in his flat on Artillery Street. The Cortina can be traced to Stone and Philpott, both of whom were at the house on Greenstead. Cowley’s body was, we believe, in the Cortina. And Freddie Cowley can be traced back to Oldham and the rest of that unit in Germany.’
‘Why kill him?’
‘Money and drugs – a fatal combination. But maybe it was unintentional? Cowley fixes the deal in Germany, flies back here, has a disagreement with Oldham on the houseboat, there’s a scuffle . . .’
‘Cowley goes overboard, off the houseboat – at high tide,’ Lowry said, considering the idea. He knew the water came up that far; the park ranger had told him as much. ‘That explains why the body is wet. Oldham hacks him apart so he can’t be identified – the doc reckons the arm went because Cowley had a military tattoo; an army man would recognize its significance – shoves him in the boot and gets him dropped on the causeway at high tide so it looks like an accident, by whom, we’re not yet sure . . .’
There was a pause. Lowry noticed that Sparks had switched his attention to Trish and Jacqui, who were
now perched on the sofa and speaking in hushed tones to Gabriel. ‘You haven’t said so, but I know that Jacqui was out and about on Saturday – the night of the riot.’
‘Stephen, I . . .’ Lowry was suddenly pulled back into the room at the reminder of his wife’s connection with what had happened.
Sparks held up his hand. ‘Say no more – in case you regret it. Let me finish: Jacqui was out; Sergeant Barnes saw the altercation in the high street and witnessed Jacqui and her pals going off to party against your advice, charged on adrenalin, no doubt, or on something else. I think they must have seen something that placed them in danger. A woman’s scarf was found outside Beaumont Terrace; there’s every possibility it belonged to her or one of her friends. I trust you’ve not yet seen the evidence?’
‘I . . .’ Sparks was offering him a way out, without lying. Lowry bowed his head with embarrassment. Now that it was out in the open, the situation his wife had landed them in embarrassed him intensely.
‘Very good.’ The chief patted him on the shoulder. ‘At this point in time, we need not concern ourselves with fine details. Let’s just say these young ladies are caught on the periphery, but it’s close enough to warrant one of them being kidnapped by the murderer.’
For the first time, the possibility that it could have been Jacqui who was kidnapped crossed Lowry’s mind, but, for all that implied, it did not mute his sense of humiliation. ‘Why?’ he said uncertainly, to no one.
‘Who the fuck knows? When you’re messing with that sort of drug, anything can happen. But we’ll ask him politely – at first, at least.’ Lowry met his stare. ‘I’m bringing Oldham in.’
‘We’ll need to tread carefully,’ Lowry said as Sparks turned to go. ‘Get this wrong and all kinds of hell will break loose.’
-56-
4 p.m., Thursday, West Mersea
Kenton crossed the high street and walked a short way along East Road. Despite Lowry’s insistence on urgency, he was desperate for some air before seeing his Mersea police colleagues again and had taken a stroll in the near-dark along the esplanade.
Visiting Cowley’s father earlier that afternoon had troubled him. The old man had affected nonchalance, proclaiming he had always known his eldest had been up to no good since quitting the army. However, beneath the surface, Kenton could see the hurt. When he described how Freddie had stayed no more than half an hour to leave his passport for safe keeping before hunting out Derek Stone, the old man’s disgust at the lowlife Stone was a thin veil for the pain he was feeling. Kenton had wished to inquire after Felix, but hadn’t been able to bear being in the Brightlingsea council house any longer.
He took a deep breath and pushed open the heavy door to the police station. He wasn’t terribly keen on being in this particular building too long either. Inside, PC Jennings stood behind the reception desk and, in the small office beyond, Kenton could just make out the bulky form of the station sergeant.
‘Afternoon,’ he said jauntily. He was determined to get on with these chaps.
‘Not that bleedin’ robbery again?’ Jennings asked.
Kenton didn’t want to rile them immediately, so shook his head. ‘No, no. It’s about the body found on the Strood last weekend.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’d like a word with the fella who came across the body.’
‘Eh? That were me,’ Jennings said. ‘I saw you there, remember? I know it was dark ’n’ all.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Kenton stepped closer to the wooden hatch. ‘I know, I do remember. But the chap in the motor who reported it, who hit the poor devil on the causeway: who was that?’ Kenton was close enough to discern a shaving rash troubling the young officer’s neck.
‘Oh, I don’t think he left a name.’
‘No name?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Can you check, please?’ Kenton thought the PC must be simple. Jennings unbuttoned his uniform breast pocket and pulled out his notebook. Licking his thumb, he placed it on the counter and flicked through the pages.
‘Nothing, mate. Sorry.’
‘What about the car? Can you remember what type of car it was?’
‘Nah, I didn’t make the car out. It’s pitch black on that road in the middle of the night.’
Even Bradley was stirred by this dismal lack of standard information. He came to stand at the lad’s shoulder.
‘You would have picked the call up here on Friday: you’d’ve been here – on call.’ He winked at Kenton. ‘Friday and Saturday nights we’re open twenty-four hours. Check the incident book. ’Ere, budge over.’
Bradley elbowed Jennings aside and pulled forward the large desk ledger. Kenton was pleased that the sergeant was proving agreeable. ‘Now, where are we? January one.’
Kenton wondered how they filled their days as the mainly blank pages flicked by. Small community stations like this one – their days must be numbered.
‘There’s bugger all there!’ Bradley exclaimed to his junior colleague.
Jennings shrugged his lanky frame. ‘I was in a hurry – it’s not every day a body washes up on the road. I dashed out sharpish.’
‘’E ’as a point. Last one were ’74 – a fisherman by the name of Munson . . . got tangled in a net and swept overboard. Or were it Moore?’
‘Err . . . we’re straying from the point. Can you talk me through exactly what happened that night, from when the call came through?’
‘It weren’t a phone call – there’s no phone on that road. A driver came by the station and said the fella in front of him had skidded on something in the road. Looked to be a body. So I went down, and there he was, headless on the side of the causeway.’
‘You say, “there he was” – could you see him on your approach?’
‘Yep. Just lying there like a sack of spuds in the fella’s headlights.’
‘If you could see him, how come the motorist that hit him didn’t?’
‘The tide was still partly over, but as it starts to ebb, people drive down the centre of the causeway, over the camber in the road. He and the first fella drove down the middle. He caught it on his near side.’
‘It’d be about six inches of water,’ Bradley commented, opening the side door and joining Kenton in the tiny reception area, ‘and, what with the spray, he’d more than likely not have seen the body.’
‘What sort of speed was he travelling at?’
‘They all tonk along that causeway, even in the dark, depending on the water level, to avoid stalling. What’s the fuss? Ain’t ’e reckoned to be a German fisherman or summat that got ripped up by the propellers?’
The discovery that the body was that of Freddie Cowley had not been made public, but Kenton decided to tell them something of what they’d found out. There was a chance it could prompt sharper thinking, although he doubted it. ‘We believe the man – an Englishman – was murdered and then dumped on the road. So we need to interview the gentleman who found the body.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘We know the body was moved, for sure.’
Bradley looked at his subordinate with what Kenton hoped was disappointment, and said, ‘Come on, lad, give the CID a hand.’
‘I’ve told all I can, sarge,’ he said plaintively. ‘I got down there about twelve thirty and radioed the desk at Queen Street, and then shut the road, while I waited for assistance. I parked across the road on the Colchester side, and stood on me Jack Jones, halting traffic, waiting for Colchester police to turn up.’
‘And how long was that?’
‘About twenty minutes.’
‘And what was the driver doing – the man whose name eludes us – while you were standing on your Jack Jones?’
‘He was sitting in his car until Uniform from Queen Street turned up. It were bloody freezing. I’m sure he gave them a statement.’
Bradley shrugged apologetically. ‘Try Colchester Uniform,’ he said.
4.40 p.m., Queen Street HQ
Once his initial outrage had subsided, Oldham appeared stoic and came without a fight, looking impeccable in his uniform. Lowry assumed it was down to his military training. He was escorted from Abbey Fields and brought to Queen Street to be questioned over the double murder at Greenstead and the kidnap of Patricia Vane. He was not as yet accused of Freddie Cowley’s murder, which was still under investigation. Indeed, there were many gaps and unknowns, high among them what had happened to the drugs – were they still on the marshes? And there was no evidence of the cash; a drug deal that went wrong would usually throw out money somewhere. But a timeline was slowly forming, and Sparks was sure all would flush through once charges were pressed. And there he was, the captain of the military police, immaculately presented in dark green uniform and red-banded cap, refusing assistance down from an unmarked Commer van. Lowry and Sparks observed from across the road, outside the haberdasher’s. Sparks, though bold, was nervous, and had opted to witness Oldham’s arrival at a distance – on the lookout, as he put it. For what, Lowry was unsure. Military vigilantes? The press?
‘What have you said to the Beard?’ Lowry asked, his toes beginning to feel the cold again.
‘Haven’t told him yet. See what Oldham has to say for himself first.’
‘If you think that’s wise.’ It struck Lowry as spectacularly foolish; if he wanted the regimental commander’s support, why not communicate with him from the start? It seemed to Lowry that Sparks had been impetuous, caught up in the heat of the moment.
‘Wise? Who has time to be wise in a situation like this?’ Sparks said sharply, sensing disapproval. ‘Oldham was in Germany with the rest of them, remember. C’mon.’ They crossed the road and entered the building, passing two uniformed constables at attention on either side of the door.
A further two uniforms had been posted outside the interview room. This indicated more about Sparks’s state of mind than he was prepared to let on. He must be fearful of reprisals, thought Lowry. If this got out, it would make the national news.