Blackwater

  ‘You need to tell me what’s going on. Otherwise, I’ll have to tell your father.’ If this didn’t budge him, nothing would. She knew he’d hate his dad to become involved in any problems he was having at school. As a little lad, he’d been proud to have a policeman as a dad but, lately, Jacqui thought, it seemed that Nick’s profession was beginning to cause difficulties; nothing concrete – more what was unsaid than what was said. The school was rough, she knew, from stories she’d heard from the girls on the ward.

  ‘It’s nothing – got trampled playing rugby, in the scrum. That’s all.’ He rubbed the back of his neck, attempting to add his story some credibility. She remained doubtful.

  ‘Look at me, Matty.’ He shot her a glance. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  She took his hands and studied his palms, which were covered in coloured splodges. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Paint.’

  ‘Oh, the model plane.’ She knew he’d been at it off and on since his birthday in September. Enormous box and what seemed like thousands of pieces. ‘Spitfire, is it?’

  ‘Stuka. Nearly done.’

  ‘That’s it, a Stuka. Well, you’ve certainly stuck with it!’ She smiled, her cheesy joke producing just the hint of a grin on his face. He was a determined little soul, her son. Jacqui then pondered her husband’s resolve; Nick had announced an intention to pack up ciggies and boxing. It was hard to imagine him without either; both habits were as much a part of him as the wings were to her son’s model plane.

  6.05 p.m., Police Social Club, Queen Street

  ‘The giving up smoking has been a triumph then!’ Sparks smirked, puffing on a panatella. Lowry shrugged without comment and bent his cigarette end double in the enormous bar ashtray. In his penguin suit, the chief looked more menacing than usual, he thought.

  Lowry was waiting in the dingy basement bar for Kenton to return from Mersea. His quiet drink and pause for thought had been interrupted by Sparks, who was on his way to a function. The chief suddenly reached over and clapped Lowry heavily on the shoulder, causing him to splutter. ‘Let’s hope you display the same tenacity in giving up boxing, eh?’ The chief exploded in a great guffaw at his own joke, causing two young officers to look up from their pool game.

  Lowry was sure Sparks had been drinking upstairs alone already, not just because of this boisterous outburst but because he never normally came in the social club. And the rank and file hated him being in here. A tense hush had fallen on the room when he walked in.

  ‘Phyllis, two doubles, please,’ Sparks chirped, not taking his eyes off Lowry.

  ‘I can’t,’ spluttered Lowry. ‘Jacqui’s going out. I’ve got to be home by six thirty.’ Where the hell was Kenton?

  ‘Nonsense, you can stay for one more.’

  ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘One more.’ Sparks pushed him back down in his seat. ‘Listen, I’ll let you off boxing tomorrow, but you have to come and watch – check out the Beard’s new talent.’

  Lowry was taken aback by Sparks’s magnanimity; he hadn’t expected to get off this lightly. ‘All right, it’s a deal.’ He smiled in relief.

  ‘But, next week, I want you back in the ring. No point chucking you in now for a pummelling, which you’ll undoubtedly get, as I guess you haven’t trained over Christmas.’ Sparks blew an enormous cloud of smoke into Lowry’s face, causing him to wince in irritation.

  ‘No chance. I’m finished with that.’

  ‘Come on, don’t be such a big poof about it.’ Before Lowry had a chance to protest further, Sparks was off on another tack. ‘Now, tell me about the peculiar circumstances of Private Daley’s death.’

  Lowry didn’t miss the jibe at WPC Gabriel. Not for the first time, he was appalled by Sparks’s derision of the women in the force. He took the Scotch from the tiny bar, which this evening was ably manned by the station’s cleaner, Phyllis. She was a huge, round-faced woman who perspired profusely, her brow too close to the spotlights above the bar.

  ‘I’ll advise Gabriel to use a less loaded term in future.’

  ‘You do that. Until we know more, it’s still an accident, nothing more, right? But it would be handy to know how it happened and who was involved – must be a couple of hard bastards. Take it you’ve not been in touch with the other soldier?’

  ‘We’re chasing it up.’

  ‘Never mind; it was an accident!’ Sparks boomed. ‘Forget about it.’

  And then he lapsed into silence. This could mean he was considering the situation, or it could mean he’d simply had too much to drink. Senior policemen had a lot of official engagements at this time of year, and Sparks was of the view that a constant level of alcohol in the bloodstream was the best way to deal with the season, not unlike the smallpox vaccine. After a moment or two he sighed and ground out his cigar in the large ashtray. He spoke in a low voice.

  ‘Personally, I don’t give a stuff what Jones has to say. I know I was a bit pissed off this afternoon, but, you know, if the Beard is playing silly buggers over the death of one of his own men, who cares?’

  A fresh-faced uniformed officer appeared at Sparks’s side.

  ‘Understood?’ the chief said to Lowry before sliding off his stool, clasping the shoulder of the young PC in order to steady himself. ‘My carriage awaits. Think yourself lucky that you’re going home – I have to face Merrydown at Chelmsford town hall.’ Sparks grimaced and straightened his bow tie. ‘What a life,’ he added woefully. And, with that, he was gone.

  ‘You will give a stuff, if Merrydown has anything to do with it.’ Lowry remained at the bar and nudged Phyllis for a top-up before he hit the road. ‘Right, Kenton,’ he said to himself, ‘I’m afraid I can wait no longer. Hope you’re enjoying your evening with the Dodger.’

  -14-

  6.50 p.m., Saturday, Great Tey

  ‘You’re late,’ Jacqui admonished as Lowry skulked into the house. She didn’t really give a fig that it was ten to seven – the taxi wasn’t booked until seven, anyway – but finding fault with Nick was a useful way of assuaging her guilt about her affair with Paul.

  ‘Sorry, it was Sparks. He, um . . .’ Lowry was clearly shattered, she could see that, but, nevertheless, she couldn’t help herself.

  ‘Huh? Don’t mumble, Nick. I can’t hear a word you’re saying.’

  Trish sashayed into the hallway. ‘Hi, Nick,’ she purred, stepping up and kissing him lightly on the corner of his mouth. ‘Catch any baddies?’ Trish Vane was one of Jacqui’s oldest friends – they’d known each other since school – and was an outrageous flirt. Cute and curvy, Trish was very attractive to men, and had, a couple of years back, confided when drunk that she fancied Nick. Jacqui had laughed it off but was secretly proud that Nick still had that allure. She’d even teased Nick about it once, back then . . .

  ‘Right, we’re out of here. Maybe you should . . .’ She was on the cusp of saying, ‘spend some quality time with Matthew,’ but halted herself in front of Trish. Her son was in the lounge watching television.

  ‘Should what?’

  The doorbell went. ‘Nothing; it can wait. That’ll be the taxi.’

  Lowry stood there, not sure what to say.

  ‘There’s some macaroni cheese left over in the fridge you can reheat.’ Jacqui unhooked her handbag from the banister. ‘Oh, one thing. That young soldier, he wanted to talk to you again.’

  ‘Really? What about?’

  ‘He didn’t say. But when he discovered his pal was dead, he had some sort of fit and had to be sedated,’ she said sharply.

  ‘A fit?’

  ‘Yes, a fit.’ Jacqui was on the doorstep.

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  ‘He was in shock, Nick. His friend was dead.’

  ‘But did he say anything?’

  ‘He was shouting, I don’t know what . . . Jesus, Nick,
his best friend had just died.’

  ‘Wait – this is important. He’s a soldier, Jacqs – news of a pal’s death wouldn’t usually require sedation. I mean, those boys have just fought a war—’

  ‘I just said, I don’t know. The boy was in shock. Damn it! You’re so fucking insensitive!’ She spat the words out and slammed the door.

  Lowry stood alone in hallway. Her unexpected flare-up had taken the last of his energy. He moved to the lounge; Matthew had left the room.

  On hearing the door slam, his son had taken himself off upstairs. He would be thoroughly absorbed in the intricacies of Second World War dive-bomber markings by now so, for the first time today, Lowry could relax in his own company. He switched the oven on and slid the macaroni cheese in. Any resentment about not spending the night with his wife had been swiftly despatched by her razor-sharp tongue; he was grateful for the peace and quiet, intent on a night off from Colchester and all those who populated her, living or dead.

  He flipped the top off a Pils bottle and pressed play on the VCR. Time to catch up on The Gentle Touch. He wasn’t a big TV-watcher, preferring the grander atmosphere of the silver screen, but, like most coppers, he had an addiction to telly cops, and to Jill Gascoine in particular. For Lowry, she was the sexiest woman on the planet. Even her dodgy outfits couldn’t dampen his obsession. He thought shoulder pads were the single most unflattering aberration in fashion history (but then, what did he know about fashion? He still favoured suits cut to 1964 styles). Even worse was the current fad for permed hair, which had even crossed over to blokes. Jill had dark, wavy hair, which he assumed was naturally curly, but even if it was permed he didn’t care – she was perfect, like a Venus or a Diana. Needless to say, he kept these thoughts to himself. He could just imagine the ridicule if he shared them at the station, and he had to keep some things sacred from Kenton. As the titles rolled, accompanied by the soporific, siren-like music, he put his feet on the pouffe and took a swig from the bottle of beer.

  After the first episode, and having eaten his pasta, he paused the machine to check on his son upstairs. He found the boy was reading in bed. Lowry complimented his son on his progress with the Airfix kit, before wishing him good night and switching off the bedroom light. Lowry then watched a further episode, by which time he felt he was restored enough to engage with his new passion: birds. This required an element of reading around the subject – when best to see them, and so forth – so he went off to bed with Tony Soper’s Bird Table Book. The Lowrys’ house had a deep back garden that backed on to farmland; he was confident he could lure a few species on to a bird table and maybe to use a feeder. Like many things, it made sense to start at home.

  But just as he put his foot on the first step of the staircase, the telephone rang. It was ten fifteen, so it could only be Queen Street on the other end. His mind switched on, instantly rushing back through the day, and fuck! He realized he’d clean forgotten to call Robinson for his report on the body on the Strood. He padded slowly in his socks towards the small table in the hallway, hoping the phone would stop. Of course, it didn’t.

  ‘Lowry.’

  ‘We need you in, I’m afraid, inspector.’ It wasn’t the pathologist but the tired voice of Sergeant Barnes.

  ‘Why? What’s up?’

  ‘It’s kicking off in the high street.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Fighting – townies and squaddies. Red Caps tried to intervene and have made it ten times worse. We need all hands on deck.’

  ‘Excellent. Sparks?’

  ‘He’s at a ball in Chelmsford.’

  ‘Of course he is.’ He rubbed his stubble wearily. That was right: Sparks was getting his nuts squeezed by Merrydown at some official shindig.

  ‘Okay, give me fifteen minutes. I’ll have to bring Matthew. Jacqui’s out.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Not your problem.’ He replaced the receiver, slipped on his shoes and donkey jacket and dashed upstairs. He crept quietly into his son’s room, not wishing to startle him, and gently shook his shoulder, but Matt didn’t stir. Lowry picked up the extra blanket at the foot of the bed, pulled back the covers and wrapped it around his son before lifting him, with some difficulty, off the bed. He was small for his age but a dead weight when fast asleep.

  Carefully, he made his way down the stairs and out of the front door. He lay the sleeping boy in the back of the Saab and shut the car door as quietly as he could, saying softly, ‘Another night in the cells for you, son. Sorry.’

  10.15 p.m., North Hill, Colchester

  Jacqui downed her drink and slid the empty glass across the bar. She felt free and on top of the world. The barman gave her a wry smile. He was a bit of all right, she thought. She and Trish had met up with two other girls, and the four of them had decided to try the new ‘wine bar’, Tramps, on Middleborough, at the bottom of North Hill. Duran Duran was on a bit too much and a bit too loud, and there were mirrors everywhere, which Jacqui could do without, but apart from that it was okay: smart without being poncey. The only downside was the ten-minute trudge up to the high street; a real pain in heels.

  ‘What shall we do now?’ Trish asked loudly.

  ‘Go back up to town!’ said Trish’s sister, Emma, who was flushed and glassy-eyed. ‘It’s dead in here.’

  ‘Agreed?’ asked Trish.

  ‘S’pose so,’ replied Jacqui reluctantly, eyeing the barman. ‘We’ll be back, though!’ she exclaimed as she jumped off her stool.

  The fourth woman, Kerry, was a friend of Trish’s but also a staff nurse on Constable Ward. Jacqui had a sense that Kerry was being slightly off with her. Did she know about Paul? Possibly. Well, fuck it, Kerry was clearly no angel herself, given that she’d been chatting up some fella in tight slacks for the last ten minutes. He was dressed smartly, but the shaven head and muscular build suggested that he was a soldier.

  ‘The trouble with the no-jeans policy is that it’s harder to separate the wheat from the chaff,’ she smirked to Trish. ‘Any old scumbug or squaddie can slip on a pair of Farah’s.’

  ‘And what’s wrong with that?’ came a Northern accent from behind her. Jacqui turned to see the fella Kerry had been flirting with bearing down on her. A squaddie, no doubt about it.

  ‘Why, nothing, hon.’ She smiled. ‘It’s just harder to find a bit of rough, know what I mean?’

  -15-

  10.20 p.m., Saturday, Chelmsford Town Hall

  Sparks was bored. He could handle consecutive nights out pretty well on the whole, but this charity gala banquet stuffed full of Essex bigwigs in penguin suits was tedious beyond belief. They were in the draughty town hall, which had all the atmosphere of an aircraft hangar, and some old duffer across the table was dribbling into Antonia’s face. She looked non-plussed.

  They’d had only the starters but already his cummerbund was giving him gyp. It was going to be a long evening. The imminent arrival of Assistant Chief Constable Merrydown should have been enough to keep him on his toes, but too much booze had taken the edge off. The ACC herself had been delayed; why, he didn’t know. Someone from the town hall was burbling in Sparks’s ear about whether the police should be armed: a subject he could handle on autopilot.

  The seat on Sparks’s right remained empty as the main course was finally brought out. Merrydown had yet to show. A waiter materialized and promptly topped up the wine – at least they kept it flowing freely, which was something. He gestured for the waiter to fill the glass at the place next to him.

  ‘Yes, I quite understand the concern – the increasing flow of automatic pistols from the Continent is a problem. God help us if they ever build a tunnel,’ said Sparks airily as he picked up his absent neighbour’s glass and drank heavily. ‘Although we’d be overrun with rabies before anything else.’

  While the elderly windbag responded with more drivel, this time about ‘ghastly Europeans’, he glan
ced across the hall, and there she was, a familiar slender woman in her mid-forties with chestnut hair, elegantly gliding across the room. Sparks drank hastily from his boss’s glass, but Merrydown was in no hurry, stopping at every table to say a few words and bestow her immaculate white smile, which complemented an almost Mediterranean complexion and Roman nose.

  Sparks had mixed feelings about his superior. He considered her, in his own words, ‘a ball-breaker of the highest order’, but she was also fiercely intelligent. As a man of average intellect and questionable devotion to his job, these qualities alone should’ve struck the fear of God into him but, on the contrary, he rose to the challenge: the competitor in him was constantly striving to stay one step ahead . . .

  ‘Ma’am, there you are.’

  ‘Stephen, sorry I’m late.’

  He rose, gesturing obsequiously for her to sit down before retaking his own seat. She eyed the empty glasses. ‘I see you’ve started without me.’ She smiled. ‘I don’t blame you. These things can be rather a bore.’

  Sparks apologized and summoned the waiter to refill the glasses once more.

  ‘Now, then.’ She again smiled that immaculate white smile. Her dark kohl eyeliner seemed too exotic by far for the police, let alone for Chelmsford town hall. ‘What’s been going on?’

  ‘Nothing, ma’am. Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘That’s not what my spies tell me.’

  ‘Spies?’

  ‘Colchester is an important town. The military are, as you know, regarded as heroes. I hope the accident in Castle Park is not going to present problems.’

  ‘Certainly not, ma’am. I know how to handle the military.’

  ‘Yes, I’m aware of that – but there’s more to good relations than boxing bouts.’

  Her dismissive tone confirmed to Sparks that she had no idea what she was talking about.

  ‘Of course there is, ma’am; but it’s a different world to . . .’ He gesticulated towards the candlelit hall.