‘I couldn’t tell you, not having been there myself,’ replied Kenton, reaching towards the tin ashtray balanced precariously on the gas fire.
‘So, detective.’ Bradley cleared his throat behind the reception desk. ‘What exactly is your point?’
Kenton pulled out his notebook and thumbed to the page he wanted. He continued, ‘The witness statements of two pensioners said both attackers were about six foot in height. The third witness, a Mr Nugent of Seaview Avenue, directly indentifying the brothers in his statement, described them, and I quote, as “Little Steve Taylor and his runt of a brother”.’
‘Every Tom, Dick or Harry is six foot to an old biddy,’ Jennings said. ‘How could they be sure?’
‘How could Mr Nugent be sure, when both men were wearing masks?’ Kenton countered.
‘Stockings.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Kenton turned to the senior man behind the desk.
‘They were wearing ladies’ stockings.’ Bradley smirked, but said nothing more, adjusting his elbows on the hatch sill.
‘The point still stands,’ insisted Kenton.
‘But, detective,’ Bradley said flatly, ‘money was found in their home, which they couldn’t account for.’
‘Yes, I know that, but it doesn’t quite add up?’
The local police were convinced they had their men, and would not be swayed. After a futile ten-minute conversation, Kenton left before he lost his temper. He stood in the biting cold outside Mersea police station and cupped his hands to light another cigarette. Blast! He was so annoyed by his encounter with Bradley that he’d clean forgotten to ask for his help in locating the key witness, Kevin ‘Ted’ Nugent, an elusive figure who had not been seen since giving his statement to Jennings last week. The arrest of the Taylor brothers, it seemed to Kenton, had been one of convenience. They may well be dodgy, but if they didn’t commit this crime then two very violent men were still at large. According to the clerk of the small sub-post office, the men had assaulted two elderly customers with their rifle butts simply because they were not quick enough to step aside.
Kenton heard the door creak behind him. The old sea dog in the fisherman’s jersey emerged into the cold, chuckling to himself.
‘Care to share the joke?’ Kenton asked caustically, his voice in the semi-darkness alarming the old boy, who stood and stared blindly into the shadows. Kenton stepped forward and joined him beneath the lantern. ‘What’s your name, sir?’
‘You don’t think I did the post office, does you, boy?’
Kenton approached the man at close quarters, backing him up against the Police sign. ‘What do I think? I’ll tell you,’ he hissed in his ear. ‘I think you, sir, and your ilk are in for a wake-up call. Think you can do what you like out here? Well, not any more. This is 1983 not 1883.’ He stepped back to appraise the old man, who was somewhat startled by Kenton’s outburst. ‘And that’s why I’m here,’ Kenton said, more to himself than the old man.
‘Okay, okay,’ said the local. ‘I’m just a fisherman, from the port down there, like.’
‘You don’t say,’ Kenton said, breathing heavily. ‘And what business did you have with Sergeant Bradley in there? Let me guess: he’s your cousin and you were thanking him for the Christmas jersey?’ He heard they were all interrelated out here.
‘Close – nephew. But there’s no Christmas jersey.’
Kenton decided not to tease the old chap any more. Better to have him on side.
‘No, I dropped in on me way down to the boat – we’re out tonight.’
‘Out?’
‘Fishing.’
‘Of course; cold night for it.’ Kenton’s anger had evaporated as swiftly as it had risen. You could barely find a more stereotypical sea dog. ‘I’m new around here. Tell me, is there much of a fishing community on the island?’
‘A fleet of about twenty boats – beamers, crabbers and skiffs.’
‘Good fishing?’
The man began to elaborate on how hard things were. Kenton wasn’t really listening but nodded in all the right places and at the end replied, ‘Very interesting. Well, I must try the local catch one day.’ He turned to go, but then stopped dead. ‘Hey, you seem to know everyone. Know anything about this chap Ted Nugent? Lives off Seaview Avenue, though he’s not been seen for a week.’
‘Aye, I know Ted. He’ll be on t’boat.’
‘Boat?’
‘Seaview Avenue is his mother’s ’ouse. ’E lives on matey’s ’ouseboat, down on the ’ard. I’ll show ya; it’s on me way.’
-12-
4.35 p.m., Saturday, Queen Street HQ
Lowry stood next to Sparks at the front of the large ground-floor meeting room, facing handful of reporters, mostly from the local press, but some from Chelmsford, and an odd bloke with a pipe. Still in overcoats, they formed a sad little huddle and looked rougher than usual; a week of festive overindulgence had taken its toll on lives already lived in a punishing arena of booze and cigarettes. Several had hacking coughs which, thirty years ago, would have landed them in a TB sanatorium.
Sparks’s plan had paid off. He’d brushed over the ‘unfortunate, accidental death’ of the soldier in Castle Park before announcing that they’d discovered a corpse on the Strood and, just as he’d hoped, the press were far more interested in a mutilated stranger floating in on the tide than in a soldier jumping off a wall. Special Branch had been no help; until ‘the headless German’ could be identified, neither they nor Interpol was interested. Lowry listened abstractedly as his superior warmed to his subject, no doubt relieved to have averted any awkward questions about Private Daley. It wouldn’t take much to shatter the delicate peace between the military and civilian factions of the town.
‘Now, I shall pass you over to Inspector Lowry, who will be happy to answer any questions.’ Sparks winked at him as Lowry took a step forward. The questions came thick and fast:
‘How big would the boat have to be to mutilate a man beyond recognition?’
‘How far could the body have floated?’
‘How—’
‘Gentleman! Ladies!’ Lowry halted the questions. ‘One at a time, please.’ He pointed to a female hack at the rear of the room whose hand was raised. ‘Young lady at the back,’ he said.
‘Sticking with New Year’s Eve, if you don’t mind,’ she began.
Sparks’s shoulders tensed noticeably. All eyes were on the stocky woman with oval glasses asking the question.
‘Chief Sparks, in a press statement the previous day, had referred to the serviceman’s death as resulting from a squabble with local lads in the high street.’ Lowry heard Sparks’s angry intake of breath; he hadn’t quite said that. ‘Isn’t nine o’clock a bit early for drunken brawling?’
Before Lowry had a chance to compose a response, Sparks had barged in front of him. ‘I never said there was “brawling”. I said we suspected accidental death in the aftermath of a quarrel – a bit of horseplay.’
‘Was it a fight between squaddies and townies, then?’ A local hack had woken up.
‘The soldiers involved have no visible injuries that would be consistent with having been in a fight,’ replied Lowry.
‘How do you define “horseplay”?’ the woman persisted. ‘And why were things getting heated so early in the evening?’
‘Most teenagers are in the pub by midday, ma’am,’ Lowry countered.
‘So it was a drunken brawl?’
And so it went on, back and forth, the press asking difficult questions and Lowry ducking each of them as he would left hooks in the ring.
*
Afterwards, Sparks stood in the corridor, fuming. He glowered at Lowry, who had been joined by a tall WPC.
‘Who the fuck was she?’ Sparks barked.
‘No idea. Not local.’
‘I know she’s not fucking local, henc
e the smart-alec questions – it would’ve just washed over those cretins from the Gazette; most of them were too hungover to hold a pencil. Just wait until I get hold of the Beard – he’d better hand that kid back, or I’ll . . .’
Sparks became aware of the blonde WPC hovering next to Lowry. The one who jacked in the Littlewoods catalogue modelling, or whatever it was, for the force. Strange move, if ever there was one. And now she was lingering silently like a spare part while he argued with Lowry: a passive stance to which he took exception. ‘Yes, constable, and you are here because . . . ?’
‘WPC Gabriel was there on New Year’s Eve – she came to the park with me this morning,’ Lowry answered. ‘I told you about it.’
‘And what do you think happened, WPC Gabriel?’ Sparks demanded, with barely suppressed contempt.
‘I think there’s something peculiar about it, sir, same as Inspector Lowry does.’
‘Peculiar?’ He wanted decisiveness and action, not vague conjecture. ‘What do you mean, girl?’ The girl, and she wasn’t much more than a girl – about twenty-one or twenty-two – became nervous and couldn’t get her words out.
‘She means we’re investigating it,’ said Lowry, stepping in.
‘What, the pair of you?’ But Sparks didn’t wait for an answer – he had to call Lane. He could see the headlines now: Brawl with Townies Leaves Soldier Dead, or some such sensational stuff. Next they’d have crazed squaddies marauding through the streets on a quest for revenge, beating the hell out of the local riff-raff. ‘Have you seen the other one again – Jones?’
‘I’ve been in contact with the garrison, sir,’ said WPC Gabriel, attempting to regain composure. ‘Someone is coming back to us about it this afternoon.’
Sparks glared at her, then at Lowry. ‘Sort it out, eh, Nicholas?’
*
The pair of you. Lowry pondered the chief’s words. It seemed they were a pair, he and WPC Gabriel, for now at least. Sparks had left them loitering together in the corridor, having marched off angrily. The chief in a temper could do nought to sixty quicker than a Ferrari. The woman looked visibly shaken by his outburst. For someone so enthralled by women, Sparks displayed not a flicker of decorum around them. Lowry immediately regretted having sent Kenton off to Mersea – if the story of the squaddie’s death flared up, he would need him. He checked his wristwatch: four fifty-five. The squaddie’s death would make the local radio news this evening, he was sure of that. But then Lowry had never believed they could cover up this accident. It would have come out sooner or later, once the post-Christmas and New Year fug had dispersed.
‘Who did you speak to at the garrison?’ he asked WPC Gabriel.
She pulled her notebook from her breast pocket. ‘A Captain Oldham.’
Oldham, the military police captain: the Red Cap supremo himself.
‘What did he say?’
‘That he’d look into it and get back to me.’
Lowry looked at his watch again. ‘Okay, we’ll give him an hour. If he hasn’t called back by then, we’ll chase him up. What time does your shift finish?’
‘Err – nearly an hour ago, actually.’
Normally, he would be keen to get to know a new partner when they were thrown together on a case, so he briefly considered asking her to stop for a drink. He just as quickly thought better of it. Of course she wasn’t his partner. And women made him uneasy at close quarters. Platonic friendships were a minefield – seeing numerous colleagues end up in trouble had convinced him of that. Attraction always got in the way. But he was equally firm in his belief that it helped if you could trust who you’re working with, and to trust a person you had to know them to some degree. Take Kenton, for example. He might yet kill them both in his death trap of a car but, essentially, Lowry trusted him, and that could only come about through shared confidences. Even within their brief partnership of three months, a bond of sorts had been created, and Lowry knew how useful an understanding colleague could be when you found yourself in a tight spot. He regretted this accidental union with Gabriel; it was so much easier to work with a man.
Lowry looked away from the pale blue eyes that were staring at him fixedly. ‘Okay, thanks for your help,’ he said kindly, then walked off, leaving her in the passageway.
4.50 p.m, Coast Road, West Mersea
Kenton wished the fisherman had accepted a lift in his car. Instead, he’d been obliged to walk the mile to the port while the old man wheeled a squeaking bicycle. The chilly walk wasn’t completely without merit, however, as the fisherman had regaled Kenton with tales about all the characters on Mersea Island. Kenton’s favourite so far was a Victorian pastor who had composed famous hymns and written gothic novels about the island in the vein of the Brontës – fascinating, especially for a history graduate. Nevertheless, time was pressing on.
‘Is it much further?’ he asked.
The old chap shook his head. ‘Nearly there,’ he wheezed.
As they rounded a corner, Kenton for the first time could smell the sea. To his right were grandiose Victorian houses, austere in the darkness, while to his left all was black – the great expanse of the estuary was swallowed up by the incoming night. The road leading down to the harbour was punctuated with street lamps casting weak orange halos of light.
‘Right, I’ll leave you to it,’ the fisherman said, mounting the old bike, which gave a creak. ‘Just carry straight on. The boat you’re looking for is Ahab’s Revenge.’
‘There doesn’t seem to be much life down there,’ Kenton said dubiously.
‘Look for the letterbox and you’ll find the walkway to the boat.’ And with that, he freewheeled off, wheels stinging the road as he went.
Kenton walked on, his footsteps echoing. The damp sea mist moved gently across the estuary to greet him, not with the same density as when on the Strood that morning, but enough for moisture to sit on his overcoat and catch the dim gloaming of the street lights. A low white rail which had divided him from the darkness beyond stopped abruptly as the road levelled out. He paused under a street lamp in a pocket of wan copper light and looked seaward but could discern nothing save shingle and clumps of grass. Walking a little further on, he came across a cluster of letterboxes at waist height, just as the fisherman had said. And there it was, painted clumsily on the middle one: Ahab’s Revenge. The shingle to his left had given way to mud, and connecting with the pavement was a wooden gangway leading off into the darkness. Kenton blinked in the mist. Patches of light were vaguely discernible out there, so he stepped on to the narrow wooden planking and headed towards them. The smell of the coast hit his senses with greater force; it always made him think of seaweed and dead crabs, a throwback to his earliest childhood memories, when his mother had taken him on days out to Southend-on-Sea.
As he moved cautiously on, the unmistakable sound of a piano floated towards him on the cold air. ‘Mozart,’ he muttered to himself. The lights he’d seen from the pavement came into focus as soft red and pink rectangles. Houseboat lights. Under sparse moonlight, he could just about make out three hulls perhaps forty yards apart, resting on the muddy flats. The gangway led to the one in the centre, a large vessel with a dirty white hull and a two-storey white cabin.
He stopped at the end of the gangway, which had brought him alongside the cabin, level with a door. He could hear water but couldn’t see it. Did the tide come up here? There were no lights on, either inside or outside Ahab’s Revenge. God, it was eerie out here. He had just shaken the feeling off when the light on the opposite boat went out, plunging him into darkness. Brilliant, now he felt unnerved all over again. He knocked gently on the door in front of him, not expecting to get an answer when he called out, ‘Hello?’ but the vessel gave a creak, as if someone had moved inside it. Then he felt the wooden deck he was standing on rock, indicating that there was somebody else on it. ‘Hello, I . . .’ He started to address the darkness but, within seconds,
he was flat on his back on the freezing mud, his nose throbbing. Jesus, that hurt! He lifted his head briefly, thinking he could see stars. Sheering white sheets of light crossed his vision before he passed out.
-13-
5 p.m., Saturday, Great Tey
Jacqui Lowry admired her features, tilted in the mirror, as she released the hair crimpers. ‘Better,’ she said to the empty room, or perhaps to Bryan Ferry, whose voice was crooning out of the cassette player.
Replacing the tongs on the dressing table, she picked up her vodka and Coke and took a sip. ‘Much better,’ she said, and allowed herself an indulgent sway to ‘More than This’. She whipped up a can of hairspray from the dresser and shook it, then shut her eyes as she applied it liberally. The smell was overpowering, almost intoxicating. ‘Gah!’ she exclaimed. Once the spray cloud had dispersed and she’d taken another gulp of vodka, she opened her eyes wide.
‘Matthew!’ Her son’s reflection in the mirror took her by surprise. She felt embarrassed by his intrusion into her private, dreamy moment and turned on her stool, feeling annoyed. ‘You’re not a baby any more – you should knock before coming in.’
He frowned, puzzled. ‘Why?’
‘Because. Now, what do you want?’
‘Are you going out?’
‘Come here.’ She beckoned, holding out both hands. The boy was hesitant, but slowly approached, hand trailing along the wardrobe. ‘Now, let me see that mark.’ She said this kindly but firmly, and he acquiesced, allowing her gently to push back his hair to get a better look. There was no doubt about it: the mark was a fading bruise. It must’ve happened at least ten days ago, coinciding with the last days of term. What sort of bruise would last that long? She wasn’t the greatest mother, she knew that, but she couldn’t bear the thought of her son being harmed in any way. She studied him and noticed, not for the first time, an oppressed look about him, the same one she’d seen on the face of her brother, Kenny. What on earth was going on?
‘Want to talk about it?’ she said, reaching out to clutch his shoulders, as much to stop him from leaving as to comfort him. Predictably, he shook his head.