squaddies. Red Caps tried to intervene and have made it ten times worse. We need all hands on deck.’
‘Excellent. Sparks?’
‘He’s at a ball in Chelmsford.’
‘Of course he is.’ He rubbed his stubble wearily. That was right: Sparks was getting his nuts squeezed by Merrydown at some official shindig.
‘Okay, give me fifteen minutes. I’ll have to bring Matthew. Jacqui’s out.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Not your problem.’ He replaced the receiver, slipped on his shoes and donkey jacket and dashed upstairs. He crept quietly into his son’s room, not wishing to startle him, and gently shook his shoulder, but Matt didn’t stir. Lowry picked up the extra blanket at the foot of the bed, pulled back the covers and wrapped it around his son before lifting him, with some difficulty, off the bed. He was small for his age but a dead weight when fast asleep.
Carefully, he made his way down the stairs and out of the front door. He lay the sleeping boy in the back of the Saab and shut the car door as quietly as he could, saying softly, ‘Another night in the cells for you, son. Sorry.’
10.15 p.m., North Hill, Colchester
Jacqui downed her drink and slid the empty glass across the bar. She felt free and on top of the world. The barman gave her a wry smile. He was a bit of all right, she thought. She and Trish had met up with two other girls, and the four of them had decided to try the new ‘wine bar’, Tramps, on Middleborough, at the bottom of North Hill. Duran Duran was on a bit too much and a bit too loud, and there were mirrors everywhere, which Jacqui could do without, but apart from that it was okay: smart without being poncey. The only downside was the ten-minute trudge up to the high street; a real pain in heels.
‘What shall we do now?’ Trish asked loudly.
‘Go back up to town!’ said Trish’s sister, Emma, who was flushed and glassy-eyed. ‘It’s dead in here.’
‘Agreed?’ asked Trish.
‘S’pose so,’ replied Jacqui reluctantly, eyeing the barman. ‘We’ll be back, though!’ she exclaimed as she jumped off her stool.
The fourth woman, Kerry, was a friend of Trish’s but also a staff nurse on Constable Ward. Jacqui had a sense that Kerry was being slightly off with her. Did she know about Paul? Possibly. Well, fuck it, Kerry was clearly no angel herself, given that she’d been chatting up some fella in tight slacks for the last ten minutes. He was dressed smartly, but the shaven head and muscular build suggested that he was a soldier.
‘The trouble with the no-jeans policy is that it’s harder to separate the wheat from the chaff,’ she smirked to Trish. ‘Any old scumbug or squaddie can slip on a pair of Farah’s.’
‘And what’s wrong with that?’ came a Northern accent from behind her. Jacqui turned to see the fella Kerry had been flirting with bearing down on her. A squaddie, no doubt about it.
‘Why, nothing, hon.’ She smiled. ‘It’s just harder to find a bit of rough, know what I mean?’
-15-
10.20 p.m., Saturday, Chelmsford Town Hall
Sparks was bored. He could handle consecutive nights out pretty well on the whole, but this charity gala banquet stuffed full of Essex bigwigs in penguin suits was tedious beyond belief. They were in the draughty town hall, which had all the atmosphere of an aircraft hangar, and some old duffer across the table was dribbling into Antonia’s face. She looked non-plussed.
They’d had only the starters but already his cummerbund was giving him gyp. It was going to be a long evening. The imminent arrival of Assistant Chief Constable Merrydown should have been enough to keep him on his toes, but too much booze had taken the edge off. The ACC herself had been delayed; why, he didn’t know. Someone from the town hall was burbling in Sparks’s ear about whether the police should be armed: a subject he could handle on autopilot.
The seat on Sparks’s right remained empty as the main course was finally brought out. Merrydown
‘Excellent. Sparks?’
‘He’s at a ball in Chelmsford.’
‘Of course he is.’ He rubbed his stubble wearily. That was right: Sparks was getting his nuts squeezed by Merrydown at some official shindig.
‘Okay, give me fifteen minutes. I’ll have to bring Matthew. Jacqui’s out.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Not your problem.’ He replaced the receiver, slipped on his shoes and donkey jacket and dashed upstairs. He crept quietly into his son’s room, not wishing to startle him, and gently shook his shoulder, but Matt didn’t stir. Lowry picked up the extra blanket at the foot of the bed, pulled back the covers and wrapped it around his son before lifting him, with some difficulty, off the bed. He was small for his age but a dead weight when fast asleep.
Carefully, he made his way down the stairs and out of the front door. He lay the sleeping boy in the back of the Saab and shut the car door as quietly as he could, saying softly, ‘Another night in the cells for you, son. Sorry.’
10.15 p.m., North Hill, Colchester
Jacqui downed her drink and slid the empty glass across the bar. She felt free and on top of the world. The barman gave her a wry smile. He was a bit of all right, she thought. She and Trish had met up with two other girls, and the four of them had decided to try the new ‘wine bar’, Tramps, on Middleborough, at the bottom of North Hill. Duran Duran was on a bit too much and a bit too loud, and there were mirrors everywhere, which Jacqui could do without, but apart from that it was okay: smart without being poncey. The only downside was the ten-minute trudge up to the high street; a real pain in heels.
‘What shall we do now?’ Trish asked loudly.
‘Go back up to town!’ said Trish’s sister, Emma, who was flushed and glassy-eyed. ‘It’s dead in here.’
‘Agreed?’ asked Trish.
‘S’pose so,’ replied Jacqui reluctantly, eyeing the barman. ‘We’ll be back, though!’ she exclaimed as she jumped off her stool.
The fourth woman, Kerry, was a friend of Trish’s but also a staff nurse on Constable Ward. Jacqui had a sense that Kerry was being slightly off with her. Did she know about Paul? Possibly. Well, fuck it, Kerry was clearly no angel herself, given that she’d been chatting up some fella in tight slacks for the last ten minutes. He was dressed smartly, but the shaven head and muscular build suggested that he was a soldier.
‘The trouble with the no-jeans policy is that it’s harder to separate the wheat from the chaff,’ she smirked to Trish. ‘Any old scumbug or squaddie can slip on a pair of Farah’s.’
‘And what’s wrong with that?’ came a Northern accent from behind her. Jacqui turned to see the fella Kerry had been flirting with bearing down on her. A squaddie, no doubt about it.
‘Why, nothing, hon.’ She smiled. ‘It’s just harder to find a bit of rough, know what I mean?’
-15-
10.20 p.m., Saturday, Chelmsford Town Hall
Sparks was bored. He could handle consecutive nights out pretty well on the whole, but this charity gala banquet stuffed full of Essex bigwigs in penguin suits was tedious beyond belief. They were in the draughty town hall, which had all the atmosphere of an aircraft hangar, and some old duffer across the table was dribbling into Antonia’s face. She looked non-plussed.
They’d had only the starters but already his cummerbund was giving him gyp. It was going to be a long evening. The imminent arrival of Assistant Chief Constable Merrydown should have been enough to keep him on his toes, but too much booze had taken the edge off. The ACC herself had been delayed; why, he didn’t know. Someone from the town hall was burbling in Sparks’s ear about whether the police should be armed: a subject he could handle on autopilot.
The seat on Sparks’s right remained empty as the main course was finally brought out. Merrydown
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