Read Online Blackwater (DI Nick Lowry) by Henry James - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Henry James
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four, then, what the hell, she’d sneak in another hour or so in bed. Tonight was going to be a big one, so she might as well get all the rest she could. She yawned, took the kettle off the hob and went back upstairs to bed with a smile.
-10-
3.30 p.m., Saturday, Beaumont Terrace, Greenstead Estate
Boyd was totally wired. He’d never felt more alive. Drugs – the magic, the sheer fucking magic of drugs. He sat, now with Stone’s headphones on, at the badly marked kitchen table dusted with white powder. The Walkman was blasting out some jazz shit – correction: jazz funk , as Stone kept repeating – Level 47 or something. If he heard the twat dribble the word ‘fusion’in his face one more time, he’d garrotte him with the headphone cable. It was shite, even on drugs. He pressed the fast-forward button and got up from the table.
He looked at the other two, who were burbling inanely at each other over a card game. A half-bottle of Johnny Walker now stood empty between them. Boyd felt suddenly restless. Philpott had long since disappeared; why or where, Boyd couldn’t recall. Jesus, being cooped up like this was doing his head in. He stared through the grimy window at the bright day outside. He was thirsty as hell. Time had skipped on, and he couldn’t believe they were stuck there until Freddie returned with their readies, as this bloke Philpott reckoned he would. Philpott. Where the hell was he?
Heaven 17 burst on to the Walkman and Boyd found himself frantically drumming his fingers on the stainless-steel draining board. ‘(We Don’t Need This) Fascist Groove Thang’ – yeah, this was better, much better! The industrial pounding resonated through his skull, and the song’s strange lyrics whizzed around his head,repeating over and over and over again until it became too much. Fucking twelve-inch remixes! He tore off the headphones. ‘I’m going out to get a drink,’ he announced.
But first another line. He picked up the combat knife from the worktop and carved a slice of whizz from the mound on the table. It felt like more than speed – it had a strangely potent kick to it. It must be quality stuff, and no doubt whoever it belonged to would take a very dim view of them helping themselves. But it was such a small amount surely no one would notice. How much had they done – a couple of quid’s worth each? He spliced a finger’s length and hoovered the lot with a rolled pound note.
A1! Top dog! He felt magnificent. Felix and Stone were still blathering at one another, paying him no attention. That was it – he couldn’t resist it. He was taking the shit with him. He carved off a sizable wrap into the curled note, folding it as quickly as he could, but it seemed to take forever. But the pair were still oblivious, and he smiled as he tucked the drugs into his jeans and slowly made his way towards the back door, a warm surge rushing through him and making him feel unsteady. He stopped on the threshold, suddenly uncertain. He didn’t know the local terrain. Perhaps it was best if they stuck together. A bolt of paranoia hit him with the cold January air.
‘Oi, you two,’ he said. ‘Fancy a drink?’
4.02 p.m., Queen Street HQ
Lowry placed the receiver back in its cradle. It was just gone four o’clock and already dark outside. At his back he felt the damp creeping in; a single-pane window was the only thing between him and the freezing afternoon.
He glanced at the young DC opposite, head down, his attention once more on paperwork. Lowry’s mind turned over the phone conversation he’d just had with his wife. Did he care that their plan to spend New Year’s Day night together had been shelved? He hated forced jollity, but he loved his wife and wanted to spend time with her. He kicked himself – he should make more of an effort. It wasn’t the same as New Year’s Eve, granted, but it would have been a nice start to the year. He remembered the last time they saw in the New Year together, at
-10-
3.30 p.m., Saturday, Beaumont Terrace, Greenstead Estate
Boyd was totally wired. He’d never felt more alive. Drugs – the magic, the sheer fucking magic of drugs. He sat, now with Stone’s headphones on, at the badly marked kitchen table dusted with white powder. The Walkman was blasting out some jazz shit – correction: jazz funk , as Stone kept repeating – Level 47 or something. If he heard the twat dribble the word ‘fusion’in his face one more time, he’d garrotte him with the headphone cable. It was shite, even on drugs. He pressed the fast-forward button and got up from the table.
He looked at the other two, who were burbling inanely at each other over a card game. A half-bottle of Johnny Walker now stood empty between them. Boyd felt suddenly restless. Philpott had long since disappeared; why or where, Boyd couldn’t recall. Jesus, being cooped up like this was doing his head in. He stared through the grimy window at the bright day outside. He was thirsty as hell. Time had skipped on, and he couldn’t believe they were stuck there until Freddie returned with their readies, as this bloke Philpott reckoned he would. Philpott. Where the hell was he?
Heaven 17 burst on to the Walkman and Boyd found himself frantically drumming his fingers on the stainless-steel draining board. ‘(We Don’t Need This) Fascist Groove Thang’ – yeah, this was better, much better! The industrial pounding resonated through his skull, and the song’s strange lyrics whizzed around his head,repeating over and over and over again until it became too much. Fucking twelve-inch remixes! He tore off the headphones. ‘I’m going out to get a drink,’ he announced.
But first another line. He picked up the combat knife from the worktop and carved a slice of whizz from the mound on the table. It felt like more than speed – it had a strangely potent kick to it. It must be quality stuff, and no doubt whoever it belonged to would take a very dim view of them helping themselves. But it was such a small amount surely no one would notice. How much had they done – a couple of quid’s worth each? He spliced a finger’s length and hoovered the lot with a rolled pound note.
A1! Top dog! He felt magnificent. Felix and Stone were still blathering at one another, paying him no attention. That was it – he couldn’t resist it. He was taking the shit with him. He carved off a sizable wrap into the curled note, folding it as quickly as he could, but it seemed to take forever. But the pair were still oblivious, and he smiled as he tucked the drugs into his jeans and slowly made his way towards the back door, a warm surge rushing through him and making him feel unsteady. He stopped on the threshold, suddenly uncertain. He didn’t know the local terrain. Perhaps it was best if they stuck together. A bolt of paranoia hit him with the cold January air.
‘Oi, you two,’ he said. ‘Fancy a drink?’
4.02 p.m., Queen Street HQ
Lowry placed the receiver back in its cradle. It was just gone four o’clock and already dark outside. At his back he felt the damp creeping in; a single-pane window was the only thing between him and the freezing afternoon.
He glanced at the young DC opposite, head down, his attention once more on paperwork. Lowry’s mind turned over the phone conversation he’d just had with his wife. Did he care that their plan to spend New Year’s Day night together had been shelved? He hated forced jollity, but he loved his wife and wanted to spend time with her. He kicked himself – he should make more of an effort. It wasn’t the same as New Year’s Eve, granted, but it would have been a nice start to the year. He remembered the last time they saw in the New Year together, at
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