Read Blackwater (DI Nick Lowry) for Free Online Page B

but started to rise again towards the far corner, where the soldiers had fallen. The ruined wall was as low as four feet in places and as high as twenty in others, though this was not apparent from the castle side, as the contour of the grounds swept up to meet the ruins. You could only work out the true height from the other side, where a footpath ran along the base of the wall.
    A brick wall ran down the east side of the hill and cut the Roman north wall off at the point of the greatest drop. A large oak tree was situated at the apex of the rise, masking the drop behind it. Lowry crouched at the edge and looked at the path below. It would be like jumping out of a first-floor window: dangerous but survivable. Perhaps.
    He stood up to meet his colleague’s pale blue eyes.
    ‘Funny place to make your escape, wouldn’t you say?’ he asked.
    The woman, who he now noticed was taller than him, removed her cap, revealing short, bleached-blond hair. ‘Is it? If you’re running in a blind panic, would you notice? Would you stop to think?’
    ‘In a blind panic, I guess not.’
    ‘I’m just surprised they didn’t break their necks on the way down,’ she said.
    ‘These boys have seen active service in the Falklands. I guess their training equipped them for it.’
    ‘So, if they’re such brave soldiers, why were they so scared of a bunch of lads from the pub?’
    ‘Seems a reach, I admit.’ He started back towards the castle. ‘But most people are frightened of something, no matter how tough they are.’

-7-
    10 a.m., Saturday, Beaumont Terrace, Greenstead Estate
    Boyd swung the Land Rover left off the main road, looking for an address he’d memorized three nights ago.
    ‘Keep your eyes peeled for Beaumont Terrace. All these council places look the same and it’s easy to miss the poxy road name. It’s like a goddamn maze.’
    And this one was a labyrinth. On the east side of Colchester, the Greenstead Estate was the biggest in the area and still growing. Not that Boyd knew it personally; it was by reputation only: dealers claimed it had all the makings of a junkie’s mecca.
    ‘Right. At fucking last.’ He sighed wearily.
    ‘Houses look smart – which is more than you can say for the motors,’ Felix said, eyeing a Hillman on bricks. ‘Sure this is the right place?’
    ‘Hmm. These houses may be pretty new, but most of the people inside haven’t got two pennies to rub together.’ He grimaced. ‘London overspill. They shove ’em down here, but to do what?’ And though the knackered Land Rover was a good ten years older than most of the rusting jalopies lining the street – even those without wheels – he was conscious that it might attract attention, being more at home on a farm, so he parked a couple of doors up from their destination.
    ‘Come on,’ said Boyd. He popped open the Land Rover door and made his way towards the house across the empty concrete drive. A sharp bang made him jump.
    ‘Jesus, Felix, don’t slam the door like that! You trying to tell every bastard in the street we’re here?’ Boyd occasionally forgot how dim his partner was, until Felix did something to remind him. Why Fred had insisted that Jason have him tag along was beyond him. If they got caught because of this wally, well . . . He pressed the doorbell, but of course it didn’t work so he rapped on the patterned glass, nervously looking behind him as the rattle echoed in the street. The seconds passed slowly; no movement from within.
    They were late and they hadn’t been able to get hold of their contact – he’d tried calling from the Dog and Pheasant. He didn’t expect an answer last night, being New Year’s Eve, but did think he’d have better luck this morning, but no. What should they do? Boyd drummed his fingers on the door frame. Fuck. Fuck. What were they going to do with a hundred kilos of gear? Hiding such a quantity, keeping it dry and out of harm’s way, not to mention avoiding the police . . .