‘What? I’m only ten minutes late,’ Jacqui whispered, sidling up to her.
‘Not that,’ she hissed back. ‘I need to talk to you.’
‘What?’
‘Excuse me, sister, I need the loo. It’s urgent!’ Trish clutched her elbow and hustled Jacqui out of the nurses’ station, grabbing something as she went. Jacqui was barely out of her coat.
‘Jesus, Trish, what the hell’s the matter with you?’
‘In here, quick!’ Trish ushered her into the Ladies. ‘Look at this.’
She thrust the Gazette under Jacqui’s nose. Two Butchered after Drug-fuelled Frenzy screamed the headline. Jacqui’s pulse quickened as she read the article.
‘It doesn’t name them. It might not be—’
‘Oh, come off it – it says Greenstead Estate.’
‘But this was last night – it was Saturday we were out with them.’
‘And Sunday morning. It’s got to be them. Mid-twenties. Drugs. Jacks, we were fucking there!’
‘Were we?’ Then a chink of reality forced its way into her consciousness. ‘I can’t . . .’
‘Can’t what?’
‘Can’t really remember.’
‘I’m with you on that.’ Trish sighed, ‘Whatever that gear was, it was powerful stuff, all right. I still don’t feel myself.’
‘Me neither – flashbacks all the time. I can’t remember anything after we left the club.’ She hadn’t tried to remember was nearer the truth; she’d blocked it out, and every time she did think about it, she felt nauseous, like the time in the car with Paul yesterday (and even that meeting felt like it might not have happened).
‘Imagine what those boys were on – they were racing faster than flamin’ James Hunt when we met them.’
Jacqui returned to the article to be greeted by her husband’s name, then looked up to see Trish eyeing her.
‘What are you going to tell Nick?’
-28-
2 p.m., Monday, Queen Street HQ
Kenton stood in the corner of the chief’s office next to Granger. Lowry was in front of them, patiently explaining to Sparks his theories on the Greenstead murders and the drugs coming in from Mersea. It was patently obvious he did not like the situation. Smuggling was difficult to police on this coastline, and they thought they’d stamped it out, or so Kenton had heard.
‘Okay,’ Sparks said sharply, ‘let’s assume that this is the case. Focus on finding the bloody stuff and the maniac that did those men in Greenstead. That’s our priority now.’ He levelled his stare at Kenton. ‘Stop poking about with the post-office robbery; you’ve discredited their witness – bravo. So now let them get on with it. I don’t want the Dodger bleating down the phone at me again.’
Sparks ground out his cigarette and glowered at the three men in the room. A pulse throbbed at his temple: the tension was palpable, and they were each personally responsible for the turn of events. ‘These drugs –’ he picked up a manila folder and flapped it on the edge of the desk – ‘they aren’t your run-of-the-mill amphetamines.’
‘No?’
Kenton glanced at Lowry as he sat back down, calmly adjusting his Sta-Prest trousers as he crossed his legs. The inspector was at ease, perfectly calm. Oddly, the more intense Sparks grew, the calmer Lowry became, and vice versa. It occurred to Kenton that he’d never witnessed the two of them overheated about something at the same time. It was either one or the other; they were never both angry at once.
‘No.’ Sparks flipped open the folder. ‘What we appear to have is a mix of amphetamine and lysergic acid diethylamide – LSD, or acid, to give it its street name – and something as yet unidentified.’
Lowry leaned forward, his interest piqued. ‘Are you kidding?’
‘Nope. There’s not enough here to try out on a human guinea pig –’ here, he gave Kenton a surreptitious glance: clearly, it would’ve been him – ‘but the chemist reckons that in the compound the effects are unpredictable and dangerous.’
‘How dangerous?’ Kenton asked uncertainly.
Sparks torched the end of another cigarette with a heavy desk lighter, and shrugged. ‘The lab boys are cautious: mildly aggressive to psychotic behaviour, depending on the level of intake.’ He exhaled. ‘Could mean bloody anything – they’re just covering their arses.’ He tossed the folder on the desk. ‘Oh, and memory loss or blanks are practically a dead cert with this shit.’
*
‘Well, that explains his bad mood, I guess.’ Kenton flicked back his hair as they descended the tight staircase from the chief’s office to the main office. ‘With good cause – this is another matter altogether.’
Lowry remained quiet. He preferred not to discuss Sparks’s behaviour. Whatever the disputes between himself and the chief, he didn’t want to generate disrespect for Sparks in the recent recruits. However, the fact was that Sparks did not like the unknowable – it was as simple as that. Murder, he could deal with – even the possibility of West Mersea being the new gateway to drug pedlars’ paradise. But present him with an unquantifiable problem – like untested drugs – and he panicked. Lowry opened the door to CID, to be greeted by a surly WPC, who handed him a manila envelope and strode off downstairs without another word. Everyone was chippy today, it seemed. The envelope read Artillery Street. ‘I’m sorry?’ he said, realizing Kenton was still talking.
‘Those drugs,’ Kenton said. Lowry turned to him and was taken aback by his large, pink paisley kipper tie. Somehow, he’d not noticed it.
‘That your dad’s?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The tie.’
Kenton held it between thumb and forefinger. ‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘Bit early in the year for something that loud.’ They entered the kitchenette. Lowry jiggled the kettle. Empty. ‘The drugs? Doubt they’re lethal – who’d ship in a ton of drugs that’d kill the user? Wouldn’t be good for repeat business.’
‘But this stuff sounds really dangerous.’
Lowry lit the hob. ‘Everything has the potential to be dangerous. It’s a matter of understanding. New variations of drugs are always popping up. Just because our boys can’t fathom the compound with their chemistry set, doesn’t mean it’s anything special. Sparks was right – maybe we should try some?’
Kenton’s young face was intent.
‘But not today.’ Lowry spooned Nescafé into the mugs. ‘This’ll do for now. Now, forget about drugs for an instant. Sparks brought up the post-office robbery.
‘Yes.’
‘Why did he do that?’
‘I . . . I told Bradley you’d discredited their witness. You know – Nugent – you said yesterday—’
‘Yes. Yes.’ The kettle began to whistle. ‘And so Bradley called the chief – odd.’
Kenton scratched the back of his neck nervously. ‘I wasn’t rude to him – I mean, he wasn’t too happy when I turned up at the house, because the station was shut, and his wife was—’
‘I’m not worried about that.’ Lowry poured water into the mugs. ‘Something just occurred to me – I don’t suppose you recall what firearms the gunman who did the post office used?’
‘A semi-automatic and an old service revolver.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes; I’m very familiar with the paperwork. But the chief just said to leave—’
‘Let me worry about him. How sure of the authenticity of the statement are you – given the track record so far?’
‘It’s from the clerk’s statement. He had the barrels shoved in his face, so I reckon he was pretty sure.’
‘Good.’ Lowry slid the paperwork on to the kitchen worktop and lay it out, mindful of a mousetrap next to the sugar bowl. ‘There were shots fired?’
‘Two. In the ceiling.’
‘The two guns found at Derek Stone’s were
a semi-automatic and a service revolver. Get the striation marks matched to these. I didn’t mention it up there, as there was no need bringing the Mersea robbery into it yet, given the dodgy statements—’
‘Bloody hell!’ Kenton beamed. ‘Result!’ A wave of jubilation flooded through him: this was down to his persistence. Fine-tooth combing the Mersea report had kept the case in everyone’s mind.
‘Maybe,’ Lowry replied, less exalted.
‘What are you doing, then?’
‘The garrison – see if they can shed any light on Derek Stone.’
-29-
2.30 p.m., Monday, Abbey Fields, Colchester
Lowry knew enough of the military police routine to know that if he waited around in the right place for long enough he could snag the captain of the Red Caps. Screened by poplar leaves in the warmer months, the grey Victorian headquarters, usually so severe, was starkly revealed by the winter landscape. And it wasn’t just the trees that were bare; the entire military district seemed deserted. The wide open playing fields, usually fraught with activity, with red-faced corporals hollering as panting new recruits jogged around the perimeter, lay empty. Only a solitary runner could be seen, in the middle distance, sprinting across crisp grass, through the line of leafless poplars. Lowry had trained on these fields many times, hence his familiarity with the area.
He’d parked close to Flagstaff House, the austere military police HQ, and, although he’d been there only ten minutes, it felt longer. He was used to long stints of sitting in the car, but not without cigarettes. After his early relapse, he was determined to give kicking the habit another shot. But if his irascible commander was a test of will – one that he’d failed so easily – it was nothing compared to a January afternoon alone in the car as the light began to fade. The thought of nicotine, and the comforting glow of a cigarette end, nagged at his patience. He forced his mind instead to think about amphetamines and the traces of speed found on the Greenstead Estate.
The toxicology report had confirmed high levels of the drug compound in the bloodstream of the two dead men. In Lowry’s experience, the one reliable thing about drugs was that if you took a particular substance – speed, say – you knew how it would make you feel. Take too much of something and you overdosed, but, in general, if you knew what you were taking, then the outcome was predictable. Lowry’s own tender years of popping pills and bopping along to the Small Faces in dingy local clubs attested to this. However, the effects of this unknown cocktail seemed dangerously unpredictable. Could it really send people crazy and turn them into homicidal maniacs, as Sparks was inferring? Lowry remembered rumours from the Vietnam War, about the Americans having used experimental drugs on troops to turn their men into fearless killing machines. But they was far-fetched and unsubstantiated . . .
Just as Lowry’s feet were beginning to numb in the footwell of the Saab, Oldham materialized between the Doric columns framing the entrance to Flagstaff House. He pattered down the steps and headed unwittingly towards Lowry’s parked car. Right, sonny Jim, Lowry thought, it’s time we turned the tables.
Waiting until Oldham was practically upon him, he sprung the door open forcefully, almost hobbling the military man.
‘Captain Oldham, I beg your pardon. Nearly had you there!’
‘Detective Inspector Lowry.’ Oldham’s eyebrows converged angrily beneath his peaked cap. ‘You nearly had my kneecap. What are you doing here, anyhow?’
Lowry pulled his donkey jacket tighter as he stood tall against Oldham. ‘I’m after the Beard,’ he lied.
‘Oh, about the boxing. Congratulations on your victory, by the way.’ Oldham wasn’t remotely interested in the bouts and forbade any of his own command to take part; he would know about last night’s result, but probably wasn’t aware of Lowry’s retirement.
‘It’s not about that, actually.’
‘Oh?’ Oldham straightened his cap.
‘The soldier who survived the fall – Private Jones – appears to be bound for the South Atlantic, which is a nuisance.’ Lowry tutted. ‘He’s the key witness. If there’s to be an inquiry, it’ll be compromised. I’m here to outline the ramifications to the brigadier.’
‘An inquiry? Wasn’t it an accident?’
‘Yes, but that argy-bargy in the town the other night has escalated the situation. But I’m sure it’s not your concern,’ Lowry added dismissively. He paused for it to sink in, watching for a reaction, but Oldham gave nothing away, so he pressed on. ‘Seeing as you’re here, perhaps you might help with another inquiry?’
The Red Cap commander was reluctant to speak and looked to be considering making an excuse. Lowry observed his fine, almost Slavic features and olive complexion and wondered at his background. Balkans, perhaps . . .
He tried another tack: ‘It would certainly placate Sparks if you could help with our other problem.’
‘Of course.’ Oldham exhaled deeply, a cloud of condensation visible in the air. ‘What is it?’
‘I’m after information pertaining to an ex-bandsman, a Lance Corporal Stone, made redundant in 1980; he played the—’
‘I’m sorry,’ he interrupted, relief in his voice. ‘Once someone’s out of the army, there’s nothing I can help you with. There are simply thousands of ex-serviceman that pass through Colchester.’
‘Of course, but pointing me in the direction of the dead man’s regiment, with a word from you to cooperate, might speed things along.’
‘Dead, you say?’
‘Throat slit from ear to ear.’ Lowry usually kept such information to himself, but Oldham was unlikely to tell the Gazette, and a few honest details might just prompt him to cooperate.
‘What was his regiment?’
Lowry pulled out his notebook and gave the captain all the information he had. Oldham’s tone changed, and he adopted a helpful air, describing to Lowry exactly where he should go. He even explained the rationale for the cutbacks in military bands and why Stone’s job had been axed; the resources required for the Falklands had resulted in job losses on the military fringe (Lowry already knew this from Sparks, of course, but feigned interest). He jotted down the regiment details with a blunt pencil and thanked the captain. As he opened the Saab door, he felt Oldham touch him lightly on the elbow.
‘The accident at Castle Park – I’m surprised that an inquiry is to be held. You think it suspicious?’ he asked, with what appeared to be genuine concern.
‘We think it was an accident,’ replied Lowry, ‘but it would be helpful to find all of those involved, to see if they’re in any way responsible for the mayhem on Saturday night.’
‘I see. I’m sorry about Private Jones, then; his unavailability certainly doesn’t help matters.’ Oldham gave Lowry a grave nod of farewell before moving off at a fast clip.
2.35 p.m., Queen Street
Sparks strode back up the road. He’d been to the fruit-and-veg stall at the bottom of the road, opposite the Mersea roundabout. He didn’t have to go and buy fruit – the canteen was adequate – but, after a raft of meetings, he’d felt suffocated up there in his garret. Sparks certainly prided himself on loving his job, but there were aspects he found stifling. Meetings and paperwork got to him, the more so when progress was slow and answers were lacking, as they had been today. But he’d decided that a more hands-on approach would remedy that. Get out from behind the desk and get stuck in, that was his plan. Lord knows they needed an extra pair of hands and a brain as sharp as his. Plus, he loved these streets.
Already he felt better for some air. He pulled a Granny Smith from its paper bag and demolished it quickly. He’d say this for Colchester: the fresh produce was superb, provided you stuck to the local independent shops that thrived here. Keeping a sound constitution was a passion of his. He might drink like a fish, but he ate healthily and heartily, and the busier he was, the hungrier he grew.
And he loved to be busy. F
or him, a certain level of crime was desirable and necessary; it allowed him to exert authority and to justify the existence of his Queen Street HQ. So long, that is, as they got results. Merrydown’s words – ‘worst in the county’ – played constantly on the periphery of his mind. And this latest crisis – potentially lethal drugs – was the last thing he wanted on his watch. As the day wore on, and the facts sank in, he’d started to fret about the real possibility of drugs coming through West Mersea. Had he been too complacent? There’d been no real issue with class-A drugs since the 1970s. Then, along came the recession and the decline in the use of cocaine, and as a result the coastguard was less active. Had they taken their eye off the ball?
Ahead of him in the street was the blonde WPC, the one he’d assigned to help Lowry.
‘Constable!’ he called. She turned, her nose red with cold.
‘Sir.’
‘Good to see you at the fight last night,’ he remarked. ‘Some say women have no place ringside, but not me. If you’re man enough to be on the force, then why not?’
‘How about inside the ring, sir?’
Sparks studied her face for clues as to whether this was a joke, but she remained staring dead ahead. He found her inscrutable, just like Merrydown. What was it with women in the police? Why were they so bloody difficult? ‘Well, this is the 1980s – anything is possible,’ he said, in a mildly patronizing tone, eager to change the subject. ‘So, how are you finding rubbing shoulders with CID?’
Her eyes remained stony as she responded. ‘I’ve just interviewed Private Jones’s alibi – the girl he claimed both he and Daley were in the pub with on New Year’s Eve, before the accident.’ She stopped on the station steps. ‘She says they were meeting people from out of town – London, maybe. To do what, she didn’t know.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘That’s what she said.’