Free Blackwater (DI Nick Lowry) by Henry James

shuffled into the house. ‘Brrr! Quick, in, out of the cold! I’m just going up to get my slippers.’ Jacqui sighed and pushed the door shut, then hurried upstairs. The parquet flooring was freezing. Returning downstairs, she discovered the three of them lingering in the cheap modern kitchen, unsure what to do with themselves. This sort of behaviour annoyed Jacqui. Her parents were here at least twice a week; they might flick the kettle on. She was surprised to see Matthew hanging around, though – usually, he scarpered up to his room, nose in a comic or fingers sticky with Airfix glue. Jacqui rustled the lad’s chestnut hair and smiled wanly at her son as she filled the kettle herself.
    ‘Sit down, Dad,’ she said.
    Her father was old before his time; he’d never really been right since the stroke. She took down cups and saucers from the cupboard.
    ‘Let me do that,’ her mother interjected. ‘You pop some clothes on.’
    ‘It’s fine, Mum. I’ve started now. How was last night?’ The question was directed at her son, who was slouching against the kitchen units. Christmas holidays this year had been a trial; with both her and Nick working, Matt had been sent from pillar to post. It can’t have been that much fun. The boy had the sulky demeanour of a teenager already. But he was still very slight; he had has mother’s delicate features and, as yet, no sign of his father’s build.
    ‘It was fun, that Rod Hull does make me laugh. Awful journey back though. Your father could hardly see in that fog.’
    Jacqui thought Matt had outgrown the likes of Rod Hull and Emu, but her mother had insisted. Next year they must try harder; maybe there was a friend he could stay with.
    ‘. . . won’t stay long, Brief Encounter is on later.’
    ‘Hmm, really? That’s not much fun,’ said Jacqui absently, and moved to hug Matthew and muss up his hair. It was almost down to his shoulders. A haircut was long overdue.
    ‘Eh?’ Her mother lifted the kettle off the hob. ‘It’s a classic. If I ever came across a doctor like Trevor Howard, your father better watch out . ’
    ‘The chance’s of that are . . .’ Her voice trailed off.
    At the back of her son’s neck, Jacqui noticed a large yellow blemish, and rubbed it with her thumb, causing the boy to pull away from her. Instinctively, she clung all the more, and a tussle ensued until he bolted from the kitchen.
    ‘He’s had a whale of a time,’ her mother said, frowning.
    Jacqui didn’t believe this for one minute, but she had to balance any maternal guilt with her work at the hospital and the patients’ needs. Christmas was, and always had been, a difficult time for the Lowrys, a time when their dysfunctionality shone through. She sighed. What child would choose a nurse for a mother and a policeman for a father?

-11-
    4.25 p.m., Saturday, East Road, Mersea Island
    Kenton pulled up outside West Mersea police station. The ancient-looking police lamp above the entrance to the 1950s building glowed grubbily in the cold, damp air. He’d just come from Seaview Avenue, the address he’d been given for the witness to the post-office robbery, but had found no one home. The station was open though, and the rattly door knob yielded to the twist of his wrist. Stepping over the threshold into the tiny reception room, he had the sense of walking in on a private conversation. Behind a reception hatch, an elderly, red-faced man in uniform paused mid-sentence, while, on the visitors’ bench, a whiskery old man in a fisherman’s jersey sat smoking a pipe. Both stared at him.
    ‘Afternoon,’ Kenton said tentatively. The man on the bench shifted position, but Kenton declined the unspoken offer to sit down. Beside the bench was a gas fire with half of its elements out, which explained why the room felt barely heated. ‘Sergeant Bradley, I wonder if I might ask you a few questions.’ Kenton had never met the Mersea chief sergeant before and felt obliged to address him formally