Blackwater (DI Nick Lowry) (4 page)

-6-

9.35 a.m., Saturday, Colchester Road, West Mersea

A deep blue winter sky stretched above the marshland, out of which a blinding low sun burned off the remainder of the mist and gave definition to the filling estuary.

‘Bright one, eh, Jace? Could do with some shades!’ Felix remarked, flicking down the sun visor as the Land Rover trundled down the East Mersea Road to hook up with the main island artery that would take them on to the Strood and across to Colchester.

Boyd filtered into the road they’d been unable to use the night before, behind a dingy trailer. The mudflats glistened in the early-morning light like cooling chocolate. ‘Wonder what that’s all about?’ he said to himself as they passed a man in a trench coat, surrounded by several uniformed police, examining the wooden guardrail.

Whatever it was it had pushed them back further. Boyd wouldn’t admit it to Felix, but this delay worried him. Last night, when they’d picked up the Landy from the barn where they’d left it, he’d shrugged off his concerns, especially after the ordeal of bobbing around on the Blackwater for hours. All he’d wanted was to get on dry land. Even getting turned back by the police seemed a blessed relief at the time. Now, in the cold light of day, things took on a different perspective. They were late. New Year’s Eve had been and gone without the bang many had expected them to deliver, and Jason Boyd was feeling decidedly edgy.

9.45 a.m., Castle Park, Colchester

The castle was a two-minute walk up from Queen Street police station into the centre of town. Colchester town centre, like all old settlements, sat on a rise, and the castle to the east commanded an unbroken view of the northern suburbs beyond its grounds. On the plateau surrounding the keep itself were elegant Victorian gardens, shaped within ornate ironwork and with careful topography. The northern edge boasted a large bandstand that was still used throughout the summer. Lowry jumped up on to it for a better view. The sharp sunlight caused the light dusting of frost on the manicured grass to sparkle. The grounds below sloped dramatically down to reach the border of the north wall, which was a Roman construction, part of the original settlement, which was shallow on this side but masked a treacherous twenty-foot drop on the other. Anyone who chose to run headlong down this steep incline on a dark icy night must’ve been pretty determined. Your average pub brawl could get nasty, reflected Lowry, but it would have to be pretty extreme to induce anyone to take this kind of kamikaze path.

He didn’t have long to assess the situation – he needed to be at the mortuary in half an hour to discuss the headless corpse with Robinson, the pathologist – so a quick perusal would have to do. He didn’t fancy trying to run it himself.

‘Inspector!’ a WPC called up to him. ‘Inspector Lowry, I have the groundsman here. Wanting to know if he can go.’

‘Right.’ He hopped down. A man of about sixty in a park keeper’s uniform shrugged apologetically at Lowry. ‘Sorry, guv. I have to sort out the park before opening the gates.’

‘Sure. Thanks for letting us in,’ smiled Lowry. ‘Tell me, do you often get intruders in the park?’

‘Occasionally, in the summer. We sometimes find beer cans and the like. It’s probably teenagers.’

‘If you were to come from the pub, the Golden Lion, how would you get in?’

‘Over the west wall.’

‘And is it difficult to get over?’

‘Not really. I could manage myself if I ’ad to, so no problem for a pair of soldiers.’ He scratched the back of his head, pushing his grey cap forward. ‘Tragic, what happened.’ The WPC had filled him in on the soldier’s death.

Lowry nodded in agreement but said nothing.

The man continued, ‘Do you want me to show yer the wall?’

‘No, thanks, the constable here will manage.’ The groundsman nodded and hurried away towards the castle.

‘He didn’t want to hang around,’ Lowry said to the WPC, who’d been on duty the night the soldier fell and at the scene shortly after.

‘No,’ she agreed, moving off briskly towards the lower park. ‘I’ll show you where I found them.’

‘Whoa, there!’ Lowry said hastily, almost grabbing the sleeve of her uniform. He wanted to run the show here. ‘Let’s start from the west wall, or thereabouts, and follow the route they would have taken.’

They walked to the north-east corner of the castle. The east wall below them was within view, beyond a row of poplars. The distance the lads would have covered was, he reckoned, a good five hundred yards – all downhill.

‘Is the death suspicious, sir?’

‘Call me Lowry, please.’ The ivy-clad wall was about chest height, easy enough to vault. He turned to his colleague. ‘It’s sensitive. The military connection makes it sensitive.’

She stood a little way away, underneath the poplars.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s follow their trajectory. Lead on.’

Lowry almost lost his footing on the slope; the ground was frozen solid. The frosted grass slipped like silk against the soles of his leather shoes. The tall WPC was ahead of him, looking rather ungainly as she tried to keep her balance.

‘Jesus,’ he said under his breath. ‘Tell me the sequence of events again. You arrived on the scene at what – just after nine p.m.?’

‘Yes.’ She didn’t slow down or turn to address him, forcing him to try to keep up. ‘My unit was on patrol, and a passerby had found Private Jones clinging at the gate on Ryegate Road, yelling for help from inside the park. The other one – I forget his name – we couldn’t see him from the road. It’s dark in here at night.’

‘Was Jones intoxicated?’

‘Drunk? I don’t think so – I didn’t really ask if he’d been drinking, to be honest. He was in a lot of pain and was whisked off as soon as the ambulance arrived.’

‘Of course. The gate on Ryegate Road was locked?’

‘Yes. I climbed over. WPC Walker remained in the car.’

‘And what was your immediate response on arriving on the scene?’

The WPC paused. She looked at the frosted grass. ‘It was very dark. The path was unlit. I found the other soldier at the bottom of the wall about two hundred yards down the path. He was seriously hurt. Unconscious.’

She and Lowry meandered cautiously across the park until they reached the perimeter, where they followed the Roman wall to their left. The ground had levelled out but started to rise again towards the far corner, where the soldiers had fallen. The ruined wall was as low as four feet in places and as high as twenty in others, though this was not apparent from the castle side, as the contour of the grounds swept up to meet the ruins. You could only work out the true height from the other side, where a footpath ran along the base of the wall.

A brick wall ran down the east side of the hill and cut the Roman north wall off at the point of the greatest drop. A large oak tree was situated at the apex of the rise, masking the drop behind it. Lowry crouched at the edge and looked at the path below. It would be like jumping out of a first-floor window: dangerous but survivable. Perhaps.

He stood up to meet his colleague’s pale blue eyes.

‘Funny place to make your escape, wouldn’t you say?’ he asked.

The woman, who he now noticed was taller than him, removed her cap, revealing short, bleached-blond hair. ‘Is it? If you’re running in a blind panic, would you notice? Would you stop to think?’

‘In a blind panic, I guess not.’

‘I’m just surprised they didn’t break their necks on the way down,’ she said.

‘These boys have seen active service in the Falklands. I guess their training equipped them for it.’

‘So, if they’re such brave soldiers, why were they so scared of a bunch of lads from the pub?’

‘Seems a reach, I admit.’ He started back towards the castle. ‘But most people are frightened of something, no matter how tough they are.’

-7-

10 a.m., Saturday, Beaumont Terrace, Greenstead Estate

Boyd swung the Land Rover left off the main road, looking for an address he’d memorized three nights ago.

‘Keep your eyes peeled for Beaumont Terrace. All these council places look the same and it’s easy to miss the poxy road name. It’s like a goddamn maze.’

And this one
was
a labyrinth. On the east side of Colchester, the Greenstead Estate was the biggest in the area and still growing. Not that Boyd knew it personally; it was by reputation only: dealers claimed it had all the makings of a junkie’s mecca.

‘Right. At fucking last.’ He sighed wearily.

‘Houses look smart – which is more than you can say for the motors,’ Felix said, eyeing a Hillman on bricks. ‘Sure this is the right place?’

‘Hmm. These houses may be pretty new, but most of the people inside haven’t got two pennies to rub together.’ He grimaced. ‘London overspill. They shove ’em down here, but to do what?’ And though the knackered Land Rover was a good ten years older than most of the rusting jalopies lining the street – even those without wheels – he was conscious that it might attract attention, being more at home on a farm, so he parked a couple of doors up from their destination.

‘Come on,’ said Boyd. He popped open the Land Rover door and made his way towards the house across the empty concrete drive. A sharp bang made him jump.

‘Jesus, Felix, don’t slam the door like that! You trying to tell every bastard in the street we’re here?’ Boyd occasionally forgot how dim his partner was, until Felix did something to remind him. Why Fred had insisted that Jason have him tag along was beyond him. If they got caught because of this wally, well . . . He pressed the doorbell, but of course it didn’t work so he rapped on the patterned glass, nervously looking behind him as the rattle echoed in the street. The seconds passed slowly; no movement from within.

They were late and they hadn’t been able to get hold of their contact – he’d tried calling from the Dog and Pheasant. He didn’t expect an answer last night, being New Year’s Eve, but did think he’d have better luck this morning, but no. What should they do? Boyd drummed his fingers on the door frame. Fuck. Fuck. What were they going to do with a hundred kilos of gear? Hiding such a quantity, keeping it dry and out of harm’s way, not to mention avoiding the police . . . Still, that’s what they were being paid for: the risk. That’s what middlemen do. Fuck . . .

The door opened a crack.

‘At fucking last,’ said a voice with a wide Essex accent from behind the chain guard.

‘Freddie?’ Boyd asked, unconvinced.

‘Freddie? No, Freddie ain’t here.’ The door opened more fully. It was Stone. Jesus. In his twenties, thin, with a mesh of permed hair, Derek Stone looked like a typical casual with his white Tacchini tracksuit, but he was in fact some sort of musician and played in a jazz club. ‘Come on through,’ he said, stomping off down the narrow hallway, beckoning with a hand raised behind him. Why wasn’t Freddie here? Boyd hesitated. Stone was okay, but he was weird . . . He wasn’t happy about this. But before he had a chance to consider their position, Felix had gone in too.

‘Any chance of a brew?’ he said cheerily, following Stone. ‘I’m parched.’

Boyd looked incredulous as his partner disappeared gaily down the hallway. He had no option but to follow. They were led into a spartan kitchen at the back of the house.

‘So where’s Freddie?’ Boyd asked.

‘He’s not here,’ Stone said. ‘He was here at seven o’clock last night, as arranged. You’re well late. So I’m here instead.’

‘So, you got the money?’ Boyd demanded, dumping the rucksack on the lino floor. ‘Here’s the gear.’

‘It ain’t here.’

‘What’s the score, then?’

Stone plonked the kettle on the hob. ‘We were giving you up for lost. Thought you’d been nicked. So we were about to split – lucky you turned up, like. We’ll get you yer readies, but you’ll have to wait.’

‘Who’s “we?”’

‘Philpott – he’ll be along in a bit,’ he said, leaning against the kitchen units, his arms folded across his chest.

Philpott? Who the fuck was he?

‘You’re mighty late, ain’t ya?’

‘Yeah, well . . . we ran into difficulty, but we’re here now. It’s all there.’

At least Stone was here, someone they knew. Freddie had mentioned bringing him in to help out.

‘Yeah, you’ll have to wait,’ Stone repeated needlessly. Was he trying to wind Boyd up?

‘So we were late – big deal!’ Though he knew it was a big deal: New Year’s Eve was New Year’s Eve. He had to front it out. ‘Have you checked out the state of the North Sea lately? Why isn’t the money here? You’re fucking here, aren’t you? So where’s our fucking cash?’

Stone made a placatory gesture. ‘Look, you’ll get your money. I need to go and make a call. Sit down and make yourselves at home.’

Boyd looked around. This wasn’t anyone’s home – it was a squat, an empty house used for dealing. As if Freddie’d’ve hung around here.

Stone slipped a denim jacket on over his tracksuit.

‘Where you off to?’ Felix asked.

‘Told you, I need to make a call, to see about your cash . . .’ Stone smiled, and said, ‘So, yeah, calm down, man, job done. Take a breather, eh?’

‘Okay, okay,’ said Boyd. ‘Have you got any grub? I’m famished.’ He was beat. He pulled out a chair from under the kitchen table.

‘No, mate, sorry, but don’t worry. Just wait here while I make a couple of calls. Everything’ll be fine.’

Now it was a couple of calls. Boyd was too exhausted to argue.

10.05 a.m., Southway, Colchester

WPC Jane Gabriel had felt awkward in Castle Park with the CID inspector. She was shy and reserved around authority figures – even with the aunt whose idea it had been that she join the police force (and she was family). When Lowry had asked for her ‘immediate response’ on finding Private Daley at the foot of the castle wall, he had been searching for a clue, a suggestion as to what had happened, anything to form a picture, to confirm it had been an accident. And what had she said? ‘It was very dark.’ She had answered honestly, and hadn’t been able to think of anything more to say, anything that could help. She felt herself blush at the thought of it as she sat next to him now in the car, looking at her pale hands in her lap in unnoticed embarrassment. She wished he’d turn the radio on. All the PCs she partnered on patrol would put music on, which meant she could avoid conversation without the silence being uncomfortable.

As a teenager, Gabriel’s height and striking looks had caused her to stand out at school, where, at the end of the sixth form, she had been spotted by a model-agency scout who was doing the rounds. At first, the horror of being the centre of attention appalled her, but then she rationalized that she wouldn’t have to speak, just listen and look pretty for the camera. And, for all her self-doubts, there was no denying she was beautiful. She thought modelling might give her confidence and act as a counterpoint to her natural awkwardness and shyness. Everything was fine at first, and she earned decent money – catalogues to start with, eventually graduating to the catwalk. But it all went horribly wrong one autumn in Rome, when a collection was badly received. The designer threw a hissy fit, calling her performance into question. A humiliating critique of her appearance and poise led her to believe that the failure of the show was her fault. In an instant, all the good modelling had done to improve her self-esteem was shattered. She caught the next flight home and, six months later, under the guidance of her aunt, she had started to train for the police force, where she thought she might do some good. Her natural shyness might have been a problem, but she found that the uniform provided a barrier of anonymity and at the same time gave her authority. The young constables were easy enough to deal with – there was harmless flirting and the odd wolf whistle, but that was it. She was older than most, and generally taller, too, and working with them didn’t trouble her. But Lowry was different – he put her on edge – or it wasn’t that exactly; he’d scarcely paid her any attention. Come to think about it, that was it: he didn’t pay her any attention whatsoever. It was that she found different.

Lowry pulled the car into a cul-de-sac off Hospital Road, at the back entrance to Essex General, which housed the morgue in its basement. The bright winter morning didn’t make the Victorian building any less imposing. ‘Okay. I’ll go downstairs,’ he said. ‘You nip across to the accident ward and check that our boy hasn’t gone anywhere, then come and find me.’

‘Gone anywhere?’

‘Been transferred to Abbey Fields,’ Lowry explained. WPC Gabriel looked confused. ‘The army takes care of its own,’ he added.

‘But the military hospital has been shut for years!’

‘It’s only officially closed – to the public, that is. Some wards are still functional. Then there’s the unit at the Military Correctional Training Centre – the Glasshouse – which can provide emergency care. That’s tricky to get into, too, even for us.’

‘Oh, I didn’t realize it was so . . . complicated,’ she said.

Once they were inside the building, Gabriel took the broad tiled passageway through to the wards and Lowry the stairs to the basement.

It took Gabriel a good five minutes to get from one side of the hospital to the other, only to be greeted by a rude and steely matron who informed her that Private Jones had been wheeled out that morning by his uniformed colleagues. When asked where to, the woman, who wore a grey bun so tight it looked painful, said sharply, ‘It’s the army. We don’t ask.’