yielded nothing apart from a packet of rice and a box of Frosties. ‘Does anyone actually live in this house? I need a coffee bad.’
‘Ain’t none. No one lives ’ere; empty council place – a doss house. Got tea though? Or a lager – Special Brew?’
Boyd slumped dejectedly against the fridge and lit a cigarette. He was low on fags, too. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed in weary resignation.
‘Wonder what it’s like, you know, the gear?’ Stone asked, fiddling with the controls on his Walkman. Felix glanced at Boyd, his eyes dark through lack of sleep.
‘Never you mind,’ Boyd snapped.
‘All right,’ Stone said, slipping his headphones back on, ‘but if it’s what I think it is, and it’s a pick-me-up you’re after . . .’
A rap on the door.
‘There you go.’ Stone leapt up to open the back door and let in a skinny middle-aged bloke with short hair and long sideburns.
‘Jesus, who the hell are you?’
‘Now, now,’ Stone placated, shaking his perm out of his eyes. ‘This is Philpott.’
‘All right, mate?’ Philpott thrust out a knobbly hand. He was in his late thirties or early forties, and looked worn, but hard.
Boyd took an instant dislike to him. ‘You got our cash?’
The man seemed not hear and, instead, spying the dirty green rucksacks slumped in the corner, made his way over to them.
‘Freddie’ll be along with the money soon,’ he said and, impressively, picked one up single-handedly, ‘but, in the meantime, let’s check that the merchandise was worth the wait, eh?’
-9-
Midday, Saturday, Queen Street HQ
As Lowry jogged up the stairs to the first floor he pondered on the headless corpse in the morgue; if it was a German national, what was the correct course of action to take? Although there was no ID, the foreign currency was a good enough reason to think it. He figured that he was duty bound to notify Interpol and should do so before they issued a statement to the press. He crossed the cramped main office. The 1970s partitioning of the Victorian room was a design eyesore, but it did afford CID some privacy at the front of the building, along with the benefit of the huge sash windows. Although freezing cold in winter and like a greenhouse in summer, Lowry far preferred the sunny space he shared with Kenton to the dingy inner section.
The pair nodded perfunctorily to each other as Lowry pulled out a small wooden chair and joined Kenton at the rickety desk. It was a standing joke that the furniture in their section had come from a school fire sale – it was certainly small enough, and just about fitted in the restricted space. From his desk tray Lowry took out a sheet of foolscap and wrote: The Strood: body . He chewed on his pen. There was precious little to add. Severely calloused feet : it meant something to the good doctor on a technical level, probably to do with the effect of salt water, but nothing to Lowry. In desperation, he scribbled, Uncomfortable shoes? Likes walking?
He stretched back in the chair. He decided he ought to consult with Sparks on what action to take.
‘Gaffer in?’ he asked Kenton, who was typing.
‘Yes, and he’s not happy,’ Kenton replied, not looking up.
‘He’s never happy,’ Lowry said nonchalantly. He stretched across to his colleague’s side of the desk and swiped a Wombles mug, swigging from the contents. Lukewarm. But he downed the rest of the coffee regardless: he needed it. The years when he could easily run on four hours’ sleep for several nights were over. Was it age? Or packing up the fags?
‘You should go up, guv, seriously, before the press meeting.’
‘That’s why I’m here,’ Lowry replied. ‘But what’s he fretting about? Is it the headless corpse or the dead soldier?’
‘Neither.’ Kenton lifted his gaze from the paperwork on his desk.
Lowry looked perplexed.
‘It’s the boxing.’
*
DC Daniel Kenton removed his spectacles to wipe the lenses, watching the blurred shape of
‘Ain’t none. No one lives ’ere; empty council place – a doss house. Got tea though? Or a lager – Special Brew?’
Boyd slumped dejectedly against the fridge and lit a cigarette. He was low on fags, too. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed in weary resignation.
‘Wonder what it’s like, you know, the gear?’ Stone asked, fiddling with the controls on his Walkman. Felix glanced at Boyd, his eyes dark through lack of sleep.
‘Never you mind,’ Boyd snapped.
‘All right,’ Stone said, slipping his headphones back on, ‘but if it’s what I think it is, and it’s a pick-me-up you’re after . . .’
A rap on the door.
‘There you go.’ Stone leapt up to open the back door and let in a skinny middle-aged bloke with short hair and long sideburns.
‘Jesus, who the hell are you?’
‘Now, now,’ Stone placated, shaking his perm out of his eyes. ‘This is Philpott.’
‘All right, mate?’ Philpott thrust out a knobbly hand. He was in his late thirties or early forties, and looked worn, but hard.
Boyd took an instant dislike to him. ‘You got our cash?’
The man seemed not hear and, instead, spying the dirty green rucksacks slumped in the corner, made his way over to them.
‘Freddie’ll be along with the money soon,’ he said and, impressively, picked one up single-handedly, ‘but, in the meantime, let’s check that the merchandise was worth the wait, eh?’
-9-
Midday, Saturday, Queen Street HQ
As Lowry jogged up the stairs to the first floor he pondered on the headless corpse in the morgue; if it was a German national, what was the correct course of action to take? Although there was no ID, the foreign currency was a good enough reason to think it. He figured that he was duty bound to notify Interpol and should do so before they issued a statement to the press. He crossed the cramped main office. The 1970s partitioning of the Victorian room was a design eyesore, but it did afford CID some privacy at the front of the building, along with the benefit of the huge sash windows. Although freezing cold in winter and like a greenhouse in summer, Lowry far preferred the sunny space he shared with Kenton to the dingy inner section.
The pair nodded perfunctorily to each other as Lowry pulled out a small wooden chair and joined Kenton at the rickety desk. It was a standing joke that the furniture in their section had come from a school fire sale – it was certainly small enough, and just about fitted in the restricted space. From his desk tray Lowry took out a sheet of foolscap and wrote: The Strood: body . He chewed on his pen. There was precious little to add. Severely calloused feet : it meant something to the good doctor on a technical level, probably to do with the effect of salt water, but nothing to Lowry. In desperation, he scribbled, Uncomfortable shoes? Likes walking?
He stretched back in the chair. He decided he ought to consult with Sparks on what action to take.
‘Gaffer in?’ he asked Kenton, who was typing.
‘Yes, and he’s not happy,’ Kenton replied, not looking up.
‘He’s never happy,’ Lowry said nonchalantly. He stretched across to his colleague’s side of the desk and swiped a Wombles mug, swigging from the contents. Lukewarm. But he downed the rest of the coffee regardless: he needed it. The years when he could easily run on four hours’ sleep for several nights were over. Was it age? Or packing up the fags?
‘You should go up, guv, seriously, before the press meeting.’
‘That’s why I’m here,’ Lowry replied. ‘But what’s he fretting about? Is it the headless corpse or the dead soldier?’
‘Neither.’ Kenton lifted his gaze from the paperwork on his desk.
Lowry looked perplexed.
‘It’s the boxing.’
*
DC Daniel Kenton removed his spectacles to wipe the lenses, watching the blurred shape of
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