Blackwater (DI Nick Lowry) by Henry James Read Free Book Online

Still, that’s what they were being paid for: the risk. That’s what middlemen do. Fuck . . .
    The door opened a crack.
    ‘At fucking last,’ said a voice with a wide Essex accent from behind the chain guard.
    ‘Freddie?’ Boyd asked, unconvinced.
    ‘Freddie? No, Freddie ain’t here.’ The door opened more fully. It was Stone. Jesus. In his twenties, thin, with a mesh of permed hair, Derek Stone looked like a typical casual with his white Tacchini tracksuit, but he was in fact some sort of musician and played in a jazz club. ‘Come on through,’ he said, stomping off down the narrow hallway, beckoning with a hand raised behind him. Why wasn’t Freddie here? Boyd hesitated. Stone was okay, but he was weird . . . He wasn’t happy about this. But before he had a chance to consider their position, Felix had gone in too.
    ‘Any chance of a brew?’ he said cheerily, following Stone. ‘I’m parched.’
    Boyd looked incredulous as his partner disappeared gaily down the hallway. He had no option but to follow. They were led into a spartan kitchen at the back of the house.
    ‘So where’s Freddie?’ Boyd asked.
    ‘He’s not here,’ Stone said. ‘He was here at seven o’clock last night, as arranged. You’re well late. So I’m here instead.’
    ‘So, you got the money?’ Boyd demanded, dumping the rucksack on the lino floor. ‘Here’s the gear.’
    ‘It ain’t here.’
    ‘What’s the score, then?’
    Stone plonked the kettle on the hob. ‘We were giving you up for lost. Thought you’d been nicked. So we were about to split – lucky you turned up, like. We’ll get you yer readies, but you’ll have to wait.’
    ‘Who’s “we?”’
    ‘Philpott – he’ll be along in a bit,’ he said, leaning against the kitchen units, his arms folded across his chest.
    Philpott? Who the fuck was he?
    ‘You’re mighty late, ain’t ya?’
    ‘Yeah, well . . . we ran into difficulty, but we’re here now. It’s all there.’
    At least Stone was here, someone they knew. Freddie had mentioned bringing him in to help out.
    ‘Yeah, you’ll have to wait,’ Stone repeated needlessly. Was he trying to wind Boyd up?
    ‘So we were late – big deal!’ Though he knew it was a big deal: New Year’s Eve was New Year’s Eve. He had to front it out. ‘Have you checked out the state of the North Sea lately? Why isn’t the money here? You’re fucking here, aren’t you? So where’s our fucking cash?’
    Stone made a placatory gesture. ‘Look, you’ll get your money. I need to go and make a call. Sit down and make yourselves at home.’
    Boyd looked around. This wasn’t anyone’s home – it was a squat, an empty house used for dealing. As if Freddie’d’ve hung around here.
    Stone slipped a denim jacket on over his tracksuit.
    ‘Where you off to?’ Felix asked.
    ‘Told you, I need to make a call, to see about your cash . . .’ Stone smiled, and said, ‘So, yeah, calm down, man, job done. Take a breather, eh?’
    ‘Okay, okay,’ said Boyd. ‘Have you got any grub? I’m famished.’ He was beat. He pulled out a chair from under the kitchen table.
    ‘No, mate, sorry, but don’t worry. Just wait here while I make a couple of calls. Everything’ll be fine.’
    Now it was a couple of calls. Boyd was too exhausted to argue.
    10.05 a.m., Southway, Colchester
    WPC Jane Gabriel had felt awkward in Castle Park with the CID inspector. She was shy and reserved around authority figures – even with the aunt whose idea it had been that she join the police force (and she was family). When Lowry had asked for her ‘immediate response’ on finding Private Daley at the foot of the castle wall, he had been searching for a clue, a suggestion as to what had happened, anything to form a picture, to confirm it had been an accident. And what had she said? ‘It was very dark.’ She had answered honestly, and hadn’t been able to think of anything more to say, anything that could help. She felt herself blush at the