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

thought of it as she sat next to him now in the car, looking at her pale hands in her lap in unnoticed embarrassment. She wished he’d turn the radio on. All the PCs she partnered on patrol would put music on, which meant she could avoid conversation without the silence being uncomfortable.
    As a teenager, Gabriel’s height and striking looks had caused her to stand out at school, where, at the end of the sixth form, she had been spotted by a model-agency scout who was doing the rounds. At first, the horror of being the centre of attention appalled her, but then she rationalized that she wouldn’t have to speak, just listen and look pretty for the camera. And, for all her self-doubts, there was no denying she was beautiful. She thought modelling might give her confidence and act as a counterpoint to her natural awkwardness and shyness. Everything was fine at first, and she earned decent money – catalogues to start with, eventually graduating to the catwalk. But it all went horribly wrong one autumn in Rome, when a collection was badly received. The designer threw a hissy fit, calling her performance into question. A humiliating critique of her appearance and poise led her to believe that the failure of the show was her fault. In an instant, all the good modelling had done to improve her self-esteem was shattered. She caught the next flight home and, six months later, under the guidance of her aunt, she had started to train for the police force, where she thought she might do some good. Her natural shyness might have been a problem, but she found that the uniform provided a barrier of anonymity and at the same time gave her authority. The young constables were easy enough to deal with – there was harmless flirting and the odd wolf whistle, but that was it. She was older than most, and generally taller, too, and working with them didn’t trouble her. But Lowry was different – he put her on edge – or it wasn’t that exactly; he’d scarcely paid her any attention. Come to think about it, that was it: he didn’t pay her any attention whatsoever. It was that she found different.
    Lowry pulled the car into a cul-de-sac off Hospital Road, at the back entrance to Essex General, which housed the morgue in its basement. The bright winter morning didn’t make the Victorian building any less imposing. ‘Okay. I’ll go downstairs,’ he said. ‘You nip across to the accident ward and check that our boy hasn’t gone anywhere, then come and find me.’
    ‘Gone anywhere?’
    ‘Been transferred to Abbey Fields,’ Lowry explained. WPC Gabriel looked confused. ‘The army takes care of its own,’ he added.
    ‘But the military hospital has been shut for years!’
    ‘It’s only officially closed – to the public, that is. Some wards are still functional. Then there’s the unit at the Military Correctional Training Centre – the Glasshouse – which can provide emergency care. That’s tricky to get into, too, even for us.’
    ‘Oh, I didn’t realize it was so . . . complicated,’ she said.
    Once they were inside the building, Gabriel took the broad tiled passageway through to the wards and Lowry the stairs to the basement.
    It took Gabriel a good five minutes to get from one side of the hospital to the other, only to be greeted by a rude and steely matron who informed her that Private Jones had been wheeled out that morning by his uniformed colleagues. When asked where to, the woman, who wore a grey bun so tight it looked painful, said sharply, ‘It’s the army. We don’t ask.’

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    10.15 a.m., Saturday, Colchester General Hospital, morgue
    Lowry could smell the sea on the body.
    ‘Could it have been a propeller?’ he asked.
    ‘Yes. It’s possible. Though quite a size.’
    The recovery of the missing tennis shoe suggested that the body had come in on the tide. They’d run checks from as far north as Harwich to as far south as Deal in Kent and no emergencies at sea had been reported. ‘How big?’
    Dr