him and went over to check the sash window. It was closed as far as it would go, leaving a gap you could post a letter through. Why the hell could they not modernize this creaking relic of a building? He gave up on the window, annoyed by the glare of an unexpected morning sun, and glanced below to see two army jeeps trundle across St Botolph’s roundabout, going south towards the garrison, where several thousand men would know that one of their number was dead.
There was a light rap at the door.
‘Come,’ he said absently.
‘Morning, sir.’
Sparks spun round upon hearing the welcome voice of Granger. ‘Granger, good news, I hope?’
‘No news, but I do have the fixtures for tomorrow night.’
‘Aha, yes!’ Sparks clapped his hands in anticipation and relieved Granger – reliable heavyweight and three-times champion, now retired – of several sheets of foolscap. The worry about the dead soldier was parked in an instant: boxing – and it was the first fight of the year – was a military concern of a different kind. ‘So what has that pompous bastard got to offer us this year, eh?’
He scanned the names impatiently. The Colchester Services league operated four broad categories: bantam, welter, middle and heavy – not strictly WBF, as it ignored the extremities at either end of the weight scale, since neither force had suitable candidates. There were a few new names in the lower bands, some of which he recognized, having been tipped off that they were promising by a uniformed recruit who socialized with military NCOs. Then he came to the middleweight category. One name was missing.
‘Where’s Lowry?’
‘Sorry, sir?’
‘Inspector Lowry – he’s not on the fixture.’
Granger looked at the chief in surprise. ‘Why, he’s retired, sir.’
‘“Retired”? How do you mean, he’s retired ?’
‘I guess for the usual reason people retire. Too old?’
‘I know what the bloody word means, Granger.’ Sparks gave him a withering look and tossed the papers on the desk. ‘I don’t care if he’s due a telegram from the fucking queen. Nobody retires unless I say so.’
11.45 a.m., Beaumont Terrace, Greenstead Estate
Jason Boyd checked his watch. What time had he made the call – ten, ten thirty? Shit, he didn’t know. Freddie was nowhere to be found, according to Stone, but a bloke called Philpott was supposed to sort them out. He looked across at Derek Stone, who was long since back and sitting at the kitchen table, smoking and nodding his head along to the tinny buzz from a Walkman. What did he look like? A football casual. The country was awash in brightly coloured shell suits: a nation taken over by deranged clowns, like this wally opposite him.
‘How much longer we stayin’ ’ere, Jace?’ Felix asked anxiously, spinning an empty mug on the Formica worktop. Boyd ignored him. They had no alternative but to sit tight – what else could they do? They could hardly take the gear back to where it came from . . . God, he felt exhausted – he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep for days; though they’d got into the Dog and Pheasant all right, he’d spent the remainder of the night awake, fretting about today. ‘How much longer, eh, Jace?’ Felix repeated. Stone was tapping his feet in time with the muffled music. ‘Eh, Jace?’
Boyd lunged at Stone and yanked off his headphones, catching the corner of the ashtray, which went spinning across the table and clattered noisily to the floor. ‘Stop that, all right! Tapping your goddamn feet!’
‘Jesus, man, you only had to — ’
‘Shut the fuck up, okay? Where’s this Philpott geezer with our money?’
Stone straightened his tracky top and lit another fag. ‘He’s on his way, man, on his way . . .’
But Boyd wasn’t listening. The adrenalin he’d been running on had dissipated now they’d come to a grinding halt. ‘Where’s the coffee?’ he demanded, throwing open the cupboards that lined the kitchen walls. They
There was a light rap at the door.
‘Come,’ he said absently.
‘Morning, sir.’
Sparks spun round upon hearing the welcome voice of Granger. ‘Granger, good news, I hope?’
‘No news, but I do have the fixtures for tomorrow night.’
‘Aha, yes!’ Sparks clapped his hands in anticipation and relieved Granger – reliable heavyweight and three-times champion, now retired – of several sheets of foolscap. The worry about the dead soldier was parked in an instant: boxing – and it was the first fight of the year – was a military concern of a different kind. ‘So what has that pompous bastard got to offer us this year, eh?’
He scanned the names impatiently. The Colchester Services league operated four broad categories: bantam, welter, middle and heavy – not strictly WBF, as it ignored the extremities at either end of the weight scale, since neither force had suitable candidates. There were a few new names in the lower bands, some of which he recognized, having been tipped off that they were promising by a uniformed recruit who socialized with military NCOs. Then he came to the middleweight category. One name was missing.
‘Where’s Lowry?’
‘Sorry, sir?’
‘Inspector Lowry – he’s not on the fixture.’
Granger looked at the chief in surprise. ‘Why, he’s retired, sir.’
‘“Retired”? How do you mean, he’s retired ?’
‘I guess for the usual reason people retire. Too old?’
‘I know what the bloody word means, Granger.’ Sparks gave him a withering look and tossed the papers on the desk. ‘I don’t care if he’s due a telegram from the fucking queen. Nobody retires unless I say so.’
11.45 a.m., Beaumont Terrace, Greenstead Estate
Jason Boyd checked his watch. What time had he made the call – ten, ten thirty? Shit, he didn’t know. Freddie was nowhere to be found, according to Stone, but a bloke called Philpott was supposed to sort them out. He looked across at Derek Stone, who was long since back and sitting at the kitchen table, smoking and nodding his head along to the tinny buzz from a Walkman. What did he look like? A football casual. The country was awash in brightly coloured shell suits: a nation taken over by deranged clowns, like this wally opposite him.
‘How much longer we stayin’ ’ere, Jace?’ Felix asked anxiously, spinning an empty mug on the Formica worktop. Boyd ignored him. They had no alternative but to sit tight – what else could they do? They could hardly take the gear back to where it came from . . . God, he felt exhausted – he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep for days; though they’d got into the Dog and Pheasant all right, he’d spent the remainder of the night awake, fretting about today. ‘How much longer, eh, Jace?’ Felix repeated. Stone was tapping his feet in time with the muffled music. ‘Eh, Jace?’
Boyd lunged at Stone and yanked off his headphones, catching the corner of the ashtray, which went spinning across the table and clattered noisily to the floor. ‘Stop that, all right! Tapping your goddamn feet!’
‘Jesus, man, you only had to — ’
‘Shut the fuck up, okay? Where’s this Philpott geezer with our money?’
Stone straightened his tracky top and lit another fag. ‘He’s on his way, man, on his way . . .’
But Boyd wasn’t listening. The adrenalin he’d been running on had dissipated now they’d come to a grinding halt. ‘Where’s the coffee?’ he demanded, throwing open the cupboards that lined the kitchen walls. They
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