‘Evening, Captain Oldham. Thank you for cooperating and helping us with our inquiries,’ Sparks said coolly.
‘Ha. Is that what you call it? Practically strong-arming me into a vehicle.’ He spoke in his usual clipped tone, betraying nothing. ‘May I ask what I am supposed to have done?’
‘In the first instance, abduction.’
‘Abduction?’ A ripple of confusion passed over the captain’s face.
‘Yes, abduction. We’ll come on to the serious stuff later on.’
‘Drug trafficking, you mean?’ The smaller man edged his chair back and crossed his legs. ‘Yes; that, I get. A natural assumption. The firing ranges were used to hide drugs and I was the last to sign in before the end of the year. You neglected to mention this yesterday because you were – how do you say? – “building your case”. Testing me for my reactions.’
Sparks waved this remark away, circling Oldham, who sat neatly at the crooked interview table.
‘Too subtle for me, captain.’ Though of course Lowry knew that had been exactly what he was playing at. ‘No, hard facts are all I’m interested in.’
‘Enlighten me, please?’
‘A nurse was found handcuffed to the lavatory in your boat.’
Oldham glanced at Lowry in surprise. Lowry winked back.
‘A nurse? Forgive me, Chief Sparks, but what use would I have for a nurse in matters concerning drug trafficking?’
‘You tell me, sonny Jim.’
Sparks placed his knuckles on the edge of the table, which moved awkwardly underneath his weight. He puffed furiously on an Embassy that hung from his lips.
‘Words fail me,’ Oldham said.
‘We have two dead bodies on a council estate in Colchester, captain,’ Lowry said. ‘Miss Vane had been in contact with the men on the night prior to their death.’
‘I see. Does the young lady in question know me?’
Lowry took one of Sparks’s cigarettes, waiting for the chief to elaborate. He wasn’t sure what to make of the captain. Given the gravity of the accusations, he was remarkably unruffled; if anything, he was faintly amused.
-57-
5 p.m., Thursday, Queen Street HQ
Dejected, Detective Constable Daniel Kenton straightened his tie and tidied his hair with his hands. He had departed Mersea flummoxed and disheartened. What would Lowry have done differently? He felt his inexperience keenly. And now, as if he wasn’t feeling insecure enough, he faced the prospect of interviewing his boss’s wife’s best friend. Sparks had briefed him to keep it low key, and to have no other officer present. This was ‘fact-finding only’. But despite the reassuring words, the tension in the chief’s voice had made Kenton nervous. With a deep breath, he pushed open the interview-room door.
Patricia Vane had changed her clothes and now sat, her hair tied back, in jeans and a baggy white cardigan with the sleeves pushed back to the elbow, as was the fashion. She was a few years older than he was, and good looking – the sort of woman he’d be terrified to approach in a pub for fear she’d laugh in his face. He pulled up a chair and folded over a new page in his notebook. His brief was to ascertain information on the kidnapper. The woman sat calmly, playing with a pink lighter on the table. He watched her turning it over and over. There was chafing around her wrists.
‘Would you like someone to look at that?’ he asked.
She touched the red inflammation, which marked a very pale forearm. ‘No, it’s okay.’
‘I hear they were police handcuffs,’ he remarked. ‘I wonder where he got hold of them?’
‘The back of the car,’ she said, sipping her coffee. ‘They’re . . .’ She looked away.
‘They’re . . . ?’
‘Detective Inspector Lowry’s . . . Jacqs lent them to me. For a bit of fun. You know?’
‘Oh.’ He didn’t ask her to elaborate. ‘Okay. Let’s proceed. Could you talk me through the last couple of days – starting with when you left for the hospital in the morning. Did you see your abductor?’
‘No.’
‘Can you tell me anything about him?’
‘He was rough.’
‘Rough? You mean the way he manhandled you?’
‘No. Well, yes, he shoved me about a bit, but I didn’t put up much resistance – he had a gun at my neck. His hands were rough, calloused. And there was a familiar smell about him. Perfume, hair spray or gel. Cheap.’
That didn’t sound like Oldham or any of Daley’s unit. Hair product was not standard issue, as far as he was aware.
‘Did you hear him speak? Any accent?’
‘From round here. Essex.’
‘Do you think you’d recognize this man if he came through the door now?’
Her eyes flicked anxiously to the interview-room door.
‘Nah.’ She fumbled with a crumpled pack of menthol cigarettes.
‘Is there any reason you can think of why someone might want to kidnap you?’
‘My ex, to get his own back.’
‘Really? His name?’ Kenton sat poised.
‘Nah,’ She shook her head. ‘Andy’d not do that,’ she said, sadly he thought.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive . . . Jacqs will tell you. Have you spoken to her?’
Kenton felt uncomfortable at the mention of Jacqui Lowry. An image of the inspector’s wife in a kimono flashed across his mind.
‘Not yet,’ he replied cautiously. ‘Let’s keep the focus on what you yourself remember over the week. Anything strange happen in the hospital recently, say?’
‘Okay, well, I don’t remember anyone on the ward – I was tired, you see. Shift work.’ She smiled wanly. ‘Anyway, why would any abductor appear publicly like that?’
‘Okay, maybe not on the ward; think – where else have you been?’
She tapped the lighter on the table. ‘Saturday night.’ She paused. ‘Has Nick – sorry, Detective Inspector Lowry – told you about Saturday night?’
‘Only that you went nightclubbing.’
He was aware they’d not made eye contact. She reached for a cigarette.
‘Yes, we did . . . It’s possible he – whoever it was – might have been at Aristos. I’m sorry, but my memory of the night is very hazy.’ Then, looking at him directly, she said, ‘What we do for the sake of a good night out, huh?’
5.30 p.m., Colchester CID, Queen Street
‘All the men in question were in barracks on the morning of the kidnap!’ Lane barked down the phone. ‘What the dickens does Sparks think he’s doing?’
‘But Captain Oldham is not stationed at the cavalry barracks,’ Lowry argued.
‘This is the British Army, goddamn you – we know where every bloody soldier is at all times!’
Lowry held the receiver away from his ear. He knew this wasn’t entirely true, as a lot of men lived off barracks, but now wasn’t the time to cross-question the brigadier.
‘I understand your consternation, brigadier, but a woman was discovered bound and gagged in the captain’s houseboat.’
‘I don’t care if Princess Diana herself was strapped to the prow naked! I shall be on the phone to the chief constable!’ And with that he slammed the phone down.
Kenton glanced over. ‘Sounds like he took that well.’
Lowry got up and read Trish Vane’s statement, taken by Kenton. There was nothing in it that remotely implicated Oldham or his soldiers: workman’s hands, local accent, cheap scent. Headless Freddie Cowley in the morgue was all that was on his mind. He just couldn’t see Oldham using Philpott or Nugent.
‘You’re not convinced, are you?’
‘About Oldham, no,’ Lowry confessed. ‘And the brigadier has added another layer of doubt. If you think about it, anyone could access those boats. Security is non-existent, especially as Oldham’s is only occupied p
art-time. And there are plenty of people who would hold a grudge against a military police captain . . .’
‘Derek Stone, for example?’
‘Possibly, but he’s dead. I bet if we probed deep enough in the military police files we’d find a catalogue of ex-servicemen with grudges.’
‘But that avenue of inquiry is currently closed to us.’ Kenton thumbed downwards: Sparks had incarcerated Oldham below and was personally interrogating the man.
‘Yes, for now, but I suspect not for long. I imagine it’s only a matter of minutes before Lane gets hold of Merrydown. But if we rule Oldham out, where do we find our man?’
‘Maybe a stalker; she’s very pretty? Maybe someone she met at the nightclub on Saturday night?’
‘Maybe. Maybe. Everything is maybe. What news on Mersea?’
‘A blank, I’m afraid.’
‘You what?’ Lowry said, surprised. ‘Did you tell those clots the reason we need to see this man, ask them for the name of the driver who hit Cowley’s corpse?’
‘I said that it was now murder, but didn’t say why. They had no record of who he was.’
Lowry rubbed his temples. ‘But Jennings was there when we turned up.’
‘I know; he didn’t log the call.’
‘What exactly did Jennings say?’
‘He said Queen Street Uniform might have details.’
‘And do they?’
‘No.’
‘Did Jennings know what type of motor it was?’
‘No. He said it was too dark. He’s a pretty low-watt bulb.’
‘What?’ Lowry said, amazed, and then it all fell into place. He had it. ‘Bollocks. Nobody’s that fucking stupid.’ He picked up his donkey jacket. ‘Come on – quick.’
‘Where are we going?’ Kenton said.
‘Records. For Jennings’ home address.’ Lowry span round. ‘By way of the cells and a final word with Mr Nugent, and then to Mersea for one last trip.’
‘Last trip. That I’d like to believe – I’m sick of the place. Why? You’re on to something?’
‘Maybe.’ Lowry smiled faintly. He knew that, if he was right, they didn’t have much time.
-58-
5.35 p.m., Thursday, basement cells, Queen Street
‘Now then, Ted, what if I told you that the person you saw through Derek Stone’s window was the last person you’d expect to be skulking around a low-rent flat in New Town?’
Nugent looked up sullenly from the bunk. He’d been downstairs for nearly four hours – long enough for a musty bodily odour to fill the tiny cell. Kenton had no idea where this line of questioning was heading, and stood back, leaning against the cell bars. Lowry nodded to dismiss the duty PC and sat down on the bunk next to Nugent. He pulled out a pack of Player’s Navy Cut.
‘Don’t know what you mean – barely know the geezer.’
‘All right, let me be more precise. I’m suggesting you saw someone who could influence your parole in a dubious situation.’
This remark grabbed his attention. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Nugent repeated, his tone stiffening.
‘Okay, let me spell it out for you. And you – you try and think clearly before you answer, because time is running out. Your parole is screwed, anyway, but let’s see if you can limit the damage. Listening?’
‘I am.’ The man’s composure had changed. He was no longer the cocky little handyman caught out. Here was a man with his freedom on the line.
‘When you were up your ladder on Artillery Street, you saw another face you recognized, one more troubling than a druggy no-hoper like Stone . . . the face of a man usually in uniform. A policeman.’
Nugent turned to face Lowry, then shot Kenton a look.
‘I don’t know who to trust,’ Nugent said quietly.
‘Trust me,’ Lowry said.
‘Ha! Right.’ Nugent shook his head.
‘It’s you we’re talking to, not Jamie – you’re safe. I give you my word.’
A man with few alternatives, Nugent sighed. ‘Most of what I’ve said is true, like. Minding the window-cleaning round and that. I never wanted to get mixed up in all this. Imagine, first job I do and there in front of me is Stone waving a shooter around, shouting at that Mersea copper and Jamie Philpott.’
Lowry thought of the smeared window again. He could envisage the scene. ‘Carry on.’
Nugent hesitated. He needed reassurance.
‘I promise you’re safe.’ Lowry shucked him another cigarette, taking one himself.
‘PC Patrick Jennings is yer man,’ said Nugent in a voice barely above a whisper. ‘He planned the post-office job and was after the drugs drop.’
‘How?’ Kenton crouched down.
‘Jamie and Derek Stone had heard from a soldier pal of Stone’s. Jamie is Jennings’ cousin.’
‘Jennings is bent?’ Kenton hissed, barely containing his naïve surprise.
‘And the rest. Jamie had been bragging how he and Pond had had safe conduct, like, from your mob, for years with the weed . . . The temptation was too much.’ Nugent nodded. ‘Especially when ’e ’eard it was coming in through his patch, Mersea. They thought they could muscle in there.’
‘What did they want exactly, Jennings and Philpott? Drugs? Money?’ Lowry asked.
‘Not the drugs; they ain’t set up for distributing a hundred kilos of speed. It was the money. The post-office cash was to buy Stone a way in, cash down, like, but it also gave him the power over the others. And although Jamie remained on the outside, he was still in Jennings’ pocket. The only problem was they weren’t sure exactly when the stuff was arriving.’
‘Go on.’
‘Jennings leaned on Stone to find out when the gear was coming in, but his pal wouldn’t say . . . so Jamie, who turns out to be a bit of a headcase when wired, squeezed him, but all he managed to get out of him was New Year’s. But when that wasn’t enough, Jennings sent Jamie round to Del’s flat to confront Freddie Cowley, and they fell out, good and proper.’
Now Kenton could see the picture. ‘Fell out? It was a little more than that.’
‘I dunno what happened exactly. Jennings overstepped it, thought he could slice a wedge for providing safe conduct across the island, or some crap like that, I dunno . . . I only know what happened next. They knew when it was coming in – roughly – but not where or who with, or where it was going. And with Cowley out of the way, they weren’t going to find out any time soon. But they knew it had to come off the island.’
‘Ingenious,’ Lowry said. ‘Who else, other than a copper, could check everyone’s comings and goings from the island? Even better, close the road, and, while they’re at it, dispose of a body under everyone’s nose.’
‘I don’t know nothin’ about that. Promise me I’m in the clear? I ’aven’t hurt anyone.’
‘You have my word,’ Lowry said. ‘We’ll have you out of here just as soon as we tidy up some loose ends. When was the last time you spoke to either Jennings or Philpott?’
‘Jennings, when I called him to get you off my back. Fat lot of good that did. And Jamie gave me the finger as he left, just now.’
‘As he left?’ Lowry said.
‘About an hour ago – I assumed you’d moved him.’ He looked from one of them to the other. ‘You don’t think I’d be dumb enough to gabble away with him in the next cell, do you?’
‘Of course not.’ Lowry feigned a smile. He thought Jamie must be upstairs with a solicitor. ‘We’ve got to run. Now, Jennings – any idea where he lives?’
‘End terrace on that row of fishermen’s cottages behind the yacht club – off Coast Road – right past the harbour, looking across the Blackwater.’
Lowry beckoned to the duty PC. ‘One more thing: does the name Oldham ring any bells?’
‘Oldham? Who’s he? A druggy?’
/> 5.45 p.m., Sparks’s Office, Queen Street HQ
Sparks was listening hard to the woman on the other end of the line. He locked on to the blonde WPC opposite him. He’d forgotten her name.
‘Let him go,’ the voice said.
Sparks didn’t answer.
‘Hello? Sparks, are you there?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘You have no evidence. Has it not occurred to you that you’re being played with? Someone wants you to believe the army’s behind the whole thing.’
‘But there are traces out on the ranges. Oldham had—’
‘I’m well aware of that!’ The nasal rasp stopped him in his tracks. ‘Let him go. Philpott’s fingerprints were found at the house, which is more than can be said of Oldham’s. You can’t place him anywhere other than at the ranges, where the drugs happened to be; place him somewhere he shouldn’t have been and then I’ll listen. In the meantime, charge Jamie Philpott. You’ve nothing to lose.’
Sparks just couldn’t credit Philpott as the ringleader, knowing him as he did. But if that’s what she wanted, so be it. They had him banged up downstairs for the armed robbery, anyway.
‘You cannot imagine the shitstorm it would cause if the captain was wrongly charged. How is he?’
Who gives a toss? thought Sparks, but instead he replied, ‘Stoic, ma’am.’
‘Well, let him go immediately.’
Sparks looked again at the WPC opposite.
‘Tell Lowry to charge Philpott with murder,’ he said blankly. She didn’t respond. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Uniform took Philpott away, sir, at Sergeant Bradley’s request.’
5.50 p.m., Colchester Road
Lowry floored the Saab out of Colchester. He didn’t have time to wait for back-up. West Mersea had requested Philpott for questioning the minute Kenton had left the island: the Dodger had put the call in. The desk sergeant hadn’t thought to check with CID and, in a very slim window of time, Jennings had convinced the old fool that Jamie was the driver who had hit the body on the Strood, and thus facilitated his escape.