Blackwater (DI Nick Lowry) by Henry James Page A

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