Free Blackwater (DI Nick Lowry) by Henry James Page A

rather than use his affectionate nickname, ‘Dodger’.
    ‘About the body on the Strood, will it be?’ replied Bradley, his huge forearms barely contained by the reception hatch.
    ‘No, it’s about the post-office robbery on the 27th.’
    ‘Oh?’ The burly sergeant raised a set of fearsome bushy eyebrows. ‘But that were resolved. Steve Taylor and his brother did it.’
    ‘He says he didn’t do it, and — ’
    Bradley guffawed. ‘They all say they didn’t do it! You’ll get used it after a few years.’
    Kenton ignored the remark. ‘And the witness statements don’t match.’
    ‘Really?’ Bradley was unmoved. Kenton felt a blast of chill air as the door opened behind him.
    ‘Evening, all.’
    ‘Ah, Jennings. The detective here is querying your collar of the Taylor boys for the post-office job.’
    Jennings removed his helmet and regarded Kenton suspiciously before stepping towards the fire. He and the fisherman exchanged greetings. Kenton was conscious of being an outsider, but he was convinced that the locals’ complacency blunted their instincts, whereas his remained heightened. Seven hundred pounds was taken, bad enough for a provincial island community, but far worse was the violence accompanying the robbery, which left two bystanders in hospital.
    ‘Had those Taylor boys bang to rights, sarge. Money was hidden under the bedroom floorboards.’ The two officers and the fisherman laughed ruefully together at the robbers’ blunder. ‘Didn’t even take it out of the bags!’
    ‘See,’ Bradley affirmed. ‘Caught red-handed.’
    ‘Not really.’ Kenton shifted uncomfortably on his feet. The sergeant and the officer eyed the CID man, who cleared his throat and lit a cigarette. ‘Money, in post-office bags, was found on the premises at a flat on Buxton Road, that’s correct. But that is circumstantial — ’
    ‘Why’d they leg it when we turned up if they weren’t guilty?’ Jennings jumped in. Bradley nodded approvingly at his junior.
    ‘I couldn’t tell you, not having been there myself,’ replied Kenton, reaching towards the tin ashtray balanced precariously on the gas fire.
    ‘So, detective.’ Bradley cleared his throat behind the reception desk. ‘What exactly is your point?’
    Kenton pulled out his notebook and thumbed to the page he wanted. He continued, ‘The witness statements of two pensioners said both attackers were about six foot in height. The third witness, a Mr Nugent of Seaview Avenue, directly indentifying the brothers in his statement, described them, and I quote, as “Little Steve Taylor and his runt of a brother”.’
    ‘Every Tom, Dick or Harry is six foot to an old biddy,’ Jennings said. ‘How could they be sure?’
    ‘How could Mr Nugent be sure, when both men were wearing masks?’ Kenton countered.
    ‘Stockings.’
    ‘I’m sorry?’ Kenton turned to the senior man behind the desk.
    ‘They were wearing ladies’ stockings.’ Bradley smirked, but said nothing more, adjusting his elbows on the hatch sill.
    ‘The point still stands,’ insisted Kenton.
    ‘But, detective,’ Bradley said flatly, ‘money was found in their home, which they couldn’t account for.’
    ‘Yes, I know that, but it doesn’t quite add up?’
    The local police were convinced they had their men, and would not be swayed. After a futile ten-minute conversation, Kenton left before he lost his temper. He stood in the biting cold outside Mersea police station and cupped his hands to light another cigarette. Blast! He was so annoyed by his encounter with Bradley that he’d clean forgotten to ask for his help in locating the key witness, Kevin ‘Ted’ Nugent, an elusive figure who had not been seen since giving his statement to Jennings last week. The arrest of the Taylor brothers, it seemed to Kenton, had been one of convenience. They may well be dodgy, but if they didn’t commit this crime then two very violent men were still at large. According to the clerk of the small