by Keith Nixon
“You all right?” asked Fowler.
“Fine, thanks.” Gray swallowed repeatedly which helped a little.
“Good, don’t want you dying on me. I’ve enough paperwork to deal with.”
Fowler squatted down to get a closer look at the cadaver, habitually stroking his nicotine-stained moustache as he ran his eyes over the man. Fowler wouldn’t really be interested in what he saw; it was simply a mechanism to break the conversation. Not that Gray cared. He and Fowler were at opposite ends of the spectrum when it came to immigration. However, xenophobia was like a virus, more and more people catching the disease, openly voicing views similar to Fowler’s.
Recently there had been a change in the smugglers’ strategies. The obvious tactics, like shoving a group of migrants into the back of a lorry and driving it through a major port, such as Dover or Folkestone, was over. These routes were too well monitored. So, starting a few months ago, the process had shifted to using small boats; ferrying handfuls of refugees at a time onto out-of-the-way beaches. It was impossible for the authorities to patrol everywhere.
Gray knew, because he’d looked it up online via the Ordnance Survey, that the UK mainland coast stretched to over 11,000 miles. An impossible task to keep an eye on every potential landing spot, even before the police force had been hacked back by the Tory government’s austerity measures.
But there were easier places to land than Thanet. Like Deal, just along the coast between here and Dover, where there was an extensive stretch of shoreline, miles long, mostly shrouded in darkness, rarely patrolled. And there were no cliffs. It still had a small fishing population, therefore the coming and going of boats at night wasn’t going to raise alarm. It was perfect.
“I’m turning him over,” said Fowler, seeking permission from Gray as the senior of the pair, yet not. Photographs of the body in situ had already been captured by a Scene of Crime Officer. Fowler took out a pair of nitrile gloves from a pocket and pulled them on before he flipped the corpse.
The dead man’s eyes and mouth were open in an apparent scream. Gray had seen enough bodies to know the cause was nothing so melodramatic, simply a slackening of the muscles. He appeared to have Middle Eastern descent, going by his skin colour. The beard was pretty typical too. A search of his pockets by Fowler revealed nothing. He stood, began to say something, but was interrupted.
“Sarge!” A shout from one of the uniforms, jabbing urgently at the diminishing tide line. Gray reacted first, Fowler much slower, far less interested.
A uniform was knee-deep in the surf, holding another corpse; floating, half submerged and face up. He was familiar. Without pause, and careless of a soaking, Gray waded into the sea; his suspicions confirmed as he closed in on the body. He was no immigrant. Gray knew this man and all too well.
“Get him ashore,” said Gray. He pulled his mobile out to make a call.
There was trouble ahead.
***
By the time Detective Inspector Yvonne Hamson arrived, the receding tide had released a third corpse. She brought more cops, more Scenes Of Crime Officers, more activity. She had become the Senior Investigating Officer; the case belonged to her now.
Hamson was nearly six foot. In heels she was almost as tall as Gray. Today she wore trainers. Usually, Hamson was elegant, well dressed, aware of her appearance. But pressures in her private life were taking their toll.
As Hamson walked down the beach, Fowler retreated to the foot of the chalk cliffs. Wafts of white clouds showed he was smoking, taking a break. Hamson and Fowler kept their distance from each other, their relationship to colleagues seemingly frosty, the reality anything but. Only Gray knew Fowler and Hamson were having an affair, as Fowler and his wife had split up but weren’t yet divorced. It was a secret Gray had to keep because Hamson had confided in him and him alone.
The increased importance of the investigation also brought Brian Blake, the Crime Scene Manager, to the locus. The SOCOs were his to command, and Blake never missed a prominent event.
Hamson turned her back on Fowler and Blake, dismissing them. “Are you sure it’s Regan Armitage?”
“He looks a little worse for wear after his immersion, but it’s definitely him.” The body was battered and bruised, various abrasions on his face, clothes ripped. He lay on his back, eyes closed, mouth open.
“What the hell was he doing out here?”
“Dying, clearly.”
“You’ll make a fine detective one day.”
Regan was the tearaway son of prominent and wealthy local businessman, Jake Armitage, a man who divided opinion. Regan was handsome, aloof, arrogant. Popular with a few, disliked by many, just like his old man. Born into privilege and pre-disposed to make sure everyone knew it. As a kid he’d regularly been in trouble and known to the police. Even now, well into his twenties, he remained a familiar face in the cells.
“What about the other two?” asked Hamson.
“One appears to have drowned, one probably not.”
“Why probably not?”
“Best you see.”
Gray led Hamson along the shoreline, bypassed one corpse, stopped at the furthest. He crouched down and pointed.
Hamson, bending at the waist, said, “A stab wound. Puts a different complexion on the situation.”
“Perhaps they fell out on the final leg, got into a fight, ended up overboard?”
“Maybe.”
Blake sauntered over. Crime Scene Manager was a title which aptly fitted his role. An overseer, rather than a do-er. “Delegate” was his middle name. He’d dropped a little weight recently and tidied himself up, but male model he was not.
“We’re pretty much done here,” said Blake. “Not a lot to reveal.” It wasn’t surprising that evidence was thin. Water had a cleansing behaviour when it came to crime. There might be value in a fingertip search of the beach above the tideline, though Gray wasn’t hopeful.
Hamson nodded sharply, keeping communication to an absolute minimum as usual. Blake, job done, gladly retreated.
Gray shoved his hands into his pockets, raised the obvious point. “Jake Armitage will need to be told.”
“I suppose you mean by me.” Nobody liked delivering a death knock.
“By us. Jake is old-school arsehole. He’s not what you’d call a people person. I’ll even drive.”
“You’re all heart.”
“Sure, just don’t tell anyone.”
“Nobody would believe me anyway. I’d better give Carslake an update.” Detective Chief Inspector Jeff Carslake was her immediate boss. Hamson dialled but couldn’t get through. She didn’t seem particularly bothered. “I’ll try again later.”
As they began the long trek back to the car, staff from the coroner’s office arrived to remove the cadavers in readiness for Ben Clough the pathologist’s slice-and-dice post-mortem routine.
Gray would prefer to watch a body being cut up rather than visit Jake Armitage. However, you didn’t always get what you wanted.
Chapter 4
A woman with a couple of kids hanging off her legs was standing like an edifice on the corner of the concrete esplanade scrutinising Gray and Hamson as they made their way along the beach.
When they reached the top of the slipway the woman spoke.
“Excuse me, are you with this lot?” She pointed to a disorderly array of police cars and Scene of Crime vans, parked in front of a line of beach huts which followed the curvature of the cliff in the space where deck chairs would usually be located.
“Yes,” said Hamson.
The woman introduced herself as Mrs Fiona Emerson. She was tall and thin with a pinched face and wore a loose-fitting flowery dress. Her greying hair was tied up, and sunglasses rested on her head just beneath the bun. A short, balding man, wearing, of all things, a knitted tank top, hung back. Far enough away to stay out of it; close enough to react should he be called forward. Gray assumed he was the partner.
“We’re investigating a serious incident further down
the beach,” said Hamson.
“Oh, I couldn’t care less about that.” Mrs Emerson dismissed someone else’s misfortune with an imperious wave. “I rang you people earlier. We’ve been waiting.”
“What about?”
“We were confronted by a man with a knife.”
Gray immediately pricked his ears up at this. He glanced at Hamson. By her expression she felt the same interest. The call must have got lost in all the recent activity. “When was this?”
“Less than a quarter of an hour ago. We usually arrive early to get a good space on the sand. I found the locks smashed off our beach hut and a man inside sleeping on the floor.” Mrs Emerson pointed towards her hut.
The subject of her concern was a small pile of clothes on the floor. Next to them lay a fluorescent yellow life jacket. It appeared someone had survived the landing.
“Get Blake,” said Hamson unnecessarily. Gray was already digging his mobile out of a pocket to place the call to the Crime Scene Manager. While they waited for him to arrive, Hamson took a closer look inside the hut, leaving Gray with Mrs Emerson.
“Originally from London,” she said. “Moved to Broadstairs for the quiet life.” She delivered the last comment with a distinct tinge of sarcasm, as if the intruder was Gray’s fault.
“What did he look like?” asked Gray.
“A foreigner,” she shrugged.
Gray waited for more. Mrs Emerson obviously felt as if this was enough of a description. “And?”
“What?”
“Height, skin colour, accent? Anything distinguishing?”
“For God’s sake, I don’t know! He was just a man!”
“Please try and remember. Any detail could help us find him,” said Gray.
Mrs Emerson huffed. “Average height, brown skin, dark curly hair, bearded, and aggressive.”
“Did he speak?”
“No. He just came at me when I discovered him. I backed away, and he ran past. I told Philip to stop him, but he was useless.”
Philip, the partner, scowled at her sleight, though held his tongue. Gray didn’t blame him for not tackling a knife-wielding stranger, but clearly his wife did. Blake’s arrival saved Gray from making any comment.
“What have we got here then?” asked the Crime Scene Manager. Gray explained the situation while a SOCO cordoned off the hut and got to work.
Blake was clearly unnerved by the hovering Mrs Emerson, who wanted her space back as quickly as possible. So much so he quickly cleared out of her hut, leaving one of his men to the inspection process; lifting fingerprints, bagging the clothes and life jacket.
“I feel sorry for the husband,” said Blake who was keeping Gray between him and Mrs Emerson. Hamson had made herself scarce to call Carslake again.
“Usually people get the partner they deserve,” said Gray.
Gray remained implacable under Blake’s stare.
“Anything?” asked Gray.
“Lots of prints. The small ones are easy to discount, clearly from kids. The rest we’ll match against the parents. Whatever’s left may be our man. However, Mrs Emerson says they have friends and family in and out of here all the time. ‘Like a hotel’ apparently. So it won’t be easy.”
It never was. Every job was an uphill battle as far as Blake was concerned.
“You’ll pull it off though, Brian.”
It was meant as mockery though Blake took it entirely at face value and responded with a stiffer spine and an appreciative grin.
“Where did Yvonne go?” asked Blake.
“Trying to find a mobile signal.”
“Impossible here, the chalk blocks everything.”
Blake missed the fact that Gray had been able to get through to him not so long ago. Hamson had promised Gray food if he managed Blake on her behalf.
“Well, give her my best, would you?”
“It would be my pleasure, Brian.”
“Bloody gold dust these beach huts. Council charges a fortune for them yet the waiting lists are huge. I’ve been on it for years.”
“I can’t see what the fuss is all about. They’re just sheds.”
“It’s Charles Dickens’ fault, you know.”
“What is, Brian?”
“Thanet’s tourism, the boom and bust. You know he discovered Broadstairs walking here from Ramsgate? He would have passed the very beach those corpses washed up on.”
Thankfully, Gray’s mobile rang before Blake could give him more of a social history lesson, and again disproving Blake’s assertion that mobile calls were impossible here. Gray answered, nodding a half-hearted apology at Blake.
“Morning, Sol.” It was the boss, Carslake. “How’s the beach?”
“Bracing.”
Carslake’s barking laugh was mercifully brief. “Just calling to get your thoughts on the bodies.”
“Hasn’t Yvonne filled you in?”
“I’d rather talk to a proper detective first.”
Gray winced. Relations between Hamson and Carslake, never good to start with, had deteriorated further. She was running out of allies — given her interpersonal skills, she hadn’t that many people on her side to start with. Gray gave Carslake a brief rundown of the situation and their latest findings.
“Such a pity about the boy,” said Carslake when Gray had finished. Regan had to be well into his twenties. Hardly a boy. “What’s next?”
“The death knock.”
Carslake sighed. “Give Jake my condolences, would you?”
“Of course.”
“Hang on; I’ve got another call coming in. Hamson again. Better take it this time.” The line went dead before Gray could reply.
Gray put his phone away. He handed his business card to Mrs Emerson, said goodbye to Blake, then made the climb up the relatively short, though steep, incline to the road above. He was huffing by the time he reached the peak. Hamson was leaning against his vehicle, cigarette in one hand, mobile in the other. She nodded to indicate she’d seen him. By the time she finished talking the cigarette was done too.
“Just bringing Carslake up to date,” she said. Gray didn’t tell her he’d done exactly the same. Things were complicated enough already. “How did it go?”
“Might have found some fingerprints. I’ve called the station, told them to get legs out on the street, see if we can find our mystery man.”
“Easier said than done,” said Hamson. “Particularly if he gets to Margate.” There was a large population of immigrants in the town and the description they had wasn’t much to go on. “And Blake?”
“I did enough to earn my bacon.”
“Makes a change,” said Hamson. It seemed like she meant it.
Chapter 5
From the driver’s seat, Gray wound down the passenger window and locked it open with the press of a button. Hamson glared at him. Gray preferred her indignation to the lingering stench of cigarette. The outcome of no longer being a smoker: love had turned into loathing.
In comparison, Hamson was smoking more than ever. Too much, Gray thought. She seemed to permanently have a lit cigarette between her fingers whenever they were away from the office. She was often to be found standing outside the station, puffing away. However, he kept his opinion to himself. It wasn’t worth an ember in the eye.
In the ensuing flinty silence, they crossed the border from Broadstairs into Ramsgate. He followed Victoria Parade, houses one side, the coastline the other, until it became Wellington Crescent, a switchback hill which carried the road down to sea level. They passed a waterfall which was, as usual, more foam than flow because some local joker had again dumped a bottle of washing up liquid into the cascade.
Gray turned off at the bottom of the hill, driving past bars and restaurants which looked out onto yachts bobbing in the harbour. A hundred yards along, he pulled into a parking spot. There were a couple of bollards; otherwise it was a straightforward plunge into the still, black waters for the unwary or incompetent.
As Gray got out of the car
he felt bile rise in his throat. He swallowed it down, coughed.
“Are you okay?” asked Hamson.
“Just indigestion,” he croaked, a searing in his throat and chest.
“Again?”
“It’s all this healthy living, Von.”
“You should get it looked at.”
“I’m fine.” Gray led Hamson to their destination. Between a tall stone needle erected to commemorate Prince Albert, and the shut-down casino, stood a bright and shiny Dreamliner caravan, now converted into a burger van.
The proprietor, a curly haired young man, was leaning over a hot plate. He glanced up at Gray’s arrival, stopped flipping meat patties. “What can I get you?”
“A burger, a bacon roll, and two coffees,” said Gray.
“What about the diet?” asked Hamson.
Gray had been trying a health kick recently, although sticking to it had proven much harder than he’d thought it would be. “I can have a day off every now and again, can’t I?”
“Some of us have willpower. Just the drink for me.”
“You sure?”
“Very.”
“Cancel the bacon roll then.”
The proprietor nodded, told them to take a seat and handed over a small piece of paper with a number printed on it, even though there wasn’t a queue.
“Can I get a cup of milk?” asked Gray.
“Of course.” The man got a mug from beneath the counter and poured some from a plastic bottle. Gray swallowed the cold drink. It immediately soothed the pressure in his chest.
Hamson was sitting at one of the tables on the pavement. It was pleasant in the sunshine. Gray joined her, scattering a handful of pigeons and a seagull which were getting as near as they dared, on the hunt for any scraps of food.
“I can’t believe you’re eating here,” said Hamson as she lit up. “It looks like a hygiene nightmare. And a burger, at this time of day.”
“I’ve a cast-iron constitution.”
Hamson snorted then blew smoke from her nostrils. “Tell me about Jake Armitage.”
