his superior stride out of the office on his way to visit Sparks at the top of the building. He examined the lenses. They looked clear enough, although he felt they were constantly smudged. Maybe a trip to the opticians was in order; he’d not been since college.
Kenton had been at Colchester for a mere three months. An outstanding graduate, he had been fast-tracked through the force; after just a year in uniform he had already realized his dream to join CID. This was no easy task for one so young, and it was especially surprising that he’d been accepted at Colchester division. As a rule, Sparks turned his nose up at educated types with little on-the-job experience, but Kenton knew the real reason he’d had such a smooth ride – his college boxing record.
He breathed on the lenses again and rubbed vigorously. Although he’d prefer not to spend his spare time getting the crap punched out of him, it did keep him fit and, to be honest, he had nothing better to do. But Lowry’s decision to quit had surprised him. Kenton, though proudly his own man, was surreptitiously in awe of his senior officer – a man very different from himself; a man he would never think of as a role model. It was difficult to pinpoint why exactly. On the surface, the DI was to him the coolest, sharpest chap in the building. It was strange the effect he had. Lowry was not remotely fashion conscious; indeed, sartorially, Kenton’s boss was in another era entirely – but it was the way he carried it off, perhaps, and his manner, so self-effacing, never bragging or boasting about his successes, be it in the ring or on casework. Everything was done in a matter-of-fact, orderly fashion, without fuss. Yes, now that Lowry had quit the ring, Kenton had started to have misgivings himself, and he might well have jacked it in, too, had the subject not proved such a good conversation starter. When he’d caught the eye of the tall, attractive blonde WPC in the canteen queue the other day, she had asked if he was a boxer and expressed an interest in coming to the opening bout at the cavalry barracks. It had taken him by surprise: he could hardly believe that the girl who was the talk of the locker room – and known for being aloof – had spoken to him. If excitement about this year’s opener could penetrate even her ice-cool exterior, then it was something worth being involved in. And it was true: the station was well and truly abuzz with talk of this year’s contest and the age-old rivalry between the police and the army. It was a great tradition. But the fight and WPC Gabriel were tomorrow night, and today he had Mersea Island to contend with . . . He looked down once again at the barely legible handwritten police report on his desk. He squinted at the paperwork in front of him.
Kenton had yet to work with the island police, but he’d heard they were a law unto themselves and had operated as they did since the 1950s. It was run by a character out of a Dickens novel, Sergeant ‘Dodger’ Bradley, a curmudgeonly policeman on the cusp of retirement (hence ‘coffin dodger’) who refused to move with the times. Bradley was of the old school, where paperwork – if any were produced – remained on the island. Scant attention was paid to the new ruling on County remittances through Colchester. As the wind rattled the sash windows, Kenton was inclined to think Colchester itself hardly had the feel of a station firmly in the later half of the twentieth century.
*
‘But I’m too old.’
Sparks frowned at his detective inspector. ‘Bollocks,’ he replied.
‘But I am,’ said Lowry wearily.
‘Listen to yourself. Cooper was thirty-six when he fought Bugner.’
‘He lost.’
‘Pah!’ Sparks batted away the objection. ‘The referee was a wanker, everyone knows that. But, win or lose, you must agree it was close?’
‘It was close.’
‘And how old was Bugner?’ He waited for an answer, though he didn’t need to ask – they’d spoken of
Kenton had been at Colchester for a mere three months. An outstanding graduate, he had been fast-tracked through the force; after just a year in uniform he had already realized his dream to join CID. This was no easy task for one so young, and it was especially surprising that he’d been accepted at Colchester division. As a rule, Sparks turned his nose up at educated types with little on-the-job experience, but Kenton knew the real reason he’d had such a smooth ride – his college boxing record.
He breathed on the lenses again and rubbed vigorously. Although he’d prefer not to spend his spare time getting the crap punched out of him, it did keep him fit and, to be honest, he had nothing better to do. But Lowry’s decision to quit had surprised him. Kenton, though proudly his own man, was surreptitiously in awe of his senior officer – a man very different from himself; a man he would never think of as a role model. It was difficult to pinpoint why exactly. On the surface, the DI was to him the coolest, sharpest chap in the building. It was strange the effect he had. Lowry was not remotely fashion conscious; indeed, sartorially, Kenton’s boss was in another era entirely – but it was the way he carried it off, perhaps, and his manner, so self-effacing, never bragging or boasting about his successes, be it in the ring or on casework. Everything was done in a matter-of-fact, orderly fashion, without fuss. Yes, now that Lowry had quit the ring, Kenton had started to have misgivings himself, and he might well have jacked it in, too, had the subject not proved such a good conversation starter. When he’d caught the eye of the tall, attractive blonde WPC in the canteen queue the other day, she had asked if he was a boxer and expressed an interest in coming to the opening bout at the cavalry barracks. It had taken him by surprise: he could hardly believe that the girl who was the talk of the locker room – and known for being aloof – had spoken to him. If excitement about this year’s opener could penetrate even her ice-cool exterior, then it was something worth being involved in. And it was true: the station was well and truly abuzz with talk of this year’s contest and the age-old rivalry between the police and the army. It was a great tradition. But the fight and WPC Gabriel were tomorrow night, and today he had Mersea Island to contend with . . . He looked down once again at the barely legible handwritten police report on his desk. He squinted at the paperwork in front of him.
Kenton had yet to work with the island police, but he’d heard they were a law unto themselves and had operated as they did since the 1950s. It was run by a character out of a Dickens novel, Sergeant ‘Dodger’ Bradley, a curmudgeonly policeman on the cusp of retirement (hence ‘coffin dodger’) who refused to move with the times. Bradley was of the old school, where paperwork – if any were produced – remained on the island. Scant attention was paid to the new ruling on County remittances through Colchester. As the wind rattled the sash windows, Kenton was inclined to think Colchester itself hardly had the feel of a station firmly in the later half of the twentieth century.
*
‘But I’m too old.’
Sparks frowned at his detective inspector. ‘Bollocks,’ he replied.
‘But I am,’ said Lowry wearily.
‘Listen to yourself. Cooper was thirty-six when he fought Bugner.’
‘He lost.’
‘Pah!’ Sparks batted away the objection. ‘The referee was a wanker, everyone knows that. But, win or lose, you must agree it was close?’
‘It was close.’
‘And how old was Bugner?’ He waited for an answer, though he didn’t need to ask – they’d spoken of
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