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

sub-post office, the men had assaulted two elderly customers with their rifle butts simply because they were not quick enough to step aside.
    Kenton heard the door creak behind him. The old sea dog in the fisherman’s jersey emerged into the cold, chuckling to himself.
    ‘Care to share the joke?’ Kenton asked caustically, his voice in the semi-darkness alarming the old boy, who stood and stared blindly into the shadows. Kenton stepped forward and joined him beneath the lantern. ‘What’s your name, sir?’
    ‘You don’t think I did the post office, does you, boy?’
    Kenton approached the man at close quarters, backing him up against the Police sign. ‘What do I think? I’ll tell you,’ he hissed in his ear. ‘ I think you, sir, and your ilk are in for a wake-up call. Think you can do what you like out here? Well, not any more. This is 1983 not 1883.’ He stepped back to appraise the old man, who was somewhat startled by Kenton’s outburst. ‘And that’s why I’m here,’ Kenton said, more to himself than the old man.
    ‘Okay, okay,’ said the local. ‘I’m just a fisherman, from the port down there, like.’
    ‘You don’t say,’ Kenton said, breathing heavily. ‘And what business did you have with Sergeant Bradley in there? Let me guess: he’s your cousin and you were thanking him for the Christmas jersey?’ He heard they were all interrelated out here.
    ‘Close – nephew. But there’s no Christmas jersey.’
    Kenton decided not to tease the old chap any more. Better to have him on side.
    ‘No, I dropped in on me way down to the boat – we’re out tonight.’
    ‘Out?’
    ‘Fishing.’
    ‘Of course; cold night for it.’ Kenton’s anger had evaporated as swiftly as it had risen. You could barely find a more stereotypical sea dog. ‘I’m new around here. Tell me, is there much of a fishing community on the island?’
    ‘A fleet of about twenty boats – beamers, crabbers and skiffs.’
    ‘Good fishing?’
    The man began to elaborate on how hard things were. Kenton wasn’t really listening but nodded in all the right places and at the end replied, ‘Very interesting. Well, I must try the local catch one day.’ He turned to go, but then stopped dead. ‘Hey, you seem to know everyone. Know anything about this chap Ted Nugent? Lives off Seaview Avenue, though he’s not been seen for a week.’
    ‘Aye, I know Ted. He’ll be on t’boat.’
    ‘Boat?’
    ‘Seaview Avenue is his mother’s ’ouse. ’E lives on matey’s ’ouseboat, down on the ’ard. I’ll show ya; it’s on me way.’

-12-
    4.35 p.m., Saturday, Queen Street HQ
    Lowry stood next to Sparks at the front of the large ground-floor meeting room, facing handful of reporters, mostly from the local press, but some from Chelmsford, and an odd bloke with a pipe. Still in overcoats, they formed a sad little huddle and looked rougher than usual; a week of festive overindulgence had taken its toll on lives already lived in a punishing arena of booze and cigarettes. Several had hacking coughs which, thirty years ago, would have landed them in a TB sanatorium.
    Sparks’s plan had paid off. He’d brushed over the ‘unfortunate, accidental death’ of the soldier in Castle Park before announcing that they’d discovered a corpse on the Strood and, just as he’d hoped, the press were far more interested in a mutilated stranger floating in on the tide than in a soldier jumping off a wall. Special Branch had been no help; until ‘the headless German’ could be identified, neither they nor Interpol was interested. Lowry listened abstractedly as his superior warmed to his subject, no doubt relieved to have averted any awkward questions about Private Daley. It wouldn’t take much to shatter the delicate peace between the military and civilian factions of the town.
    ‘Now, I shall pass you over to Inspector Lowry, who will be happy to answer any questions.’ Sparks winked at him as Lowry took a step forward. The questions came