by Keith Nixon
“We need to be at the station as soon as.”
“I know.” Gray lowered his window. He could hear whistles and shouting. He popped open his door and got out. Several other motorists were standing beside their cars too. There was a thick line of people walking past the bottom of Belgrave Road, many holding flags and banners. A few drivers performed a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn and swung back the way they’d come.
Gray bent down and stuck his head inside the car. “It must be the protest march Noble mentioned.”
“What protest march?”
“Apparently it’s to do with the squeeze on social services or something.”
“And you knew about this?”
“Vaguely.”
“Christ, we could have come in via Cliftonville and avoided all this. Do you know what route they’re taking?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“We can’t sit around here all day. Dump the car somewhere and we’ll walk.”
A space had opened up in front of Gray. He manoeuvred until he could bump the car up the kerb and out the way. He locked up once Hamson was on the pavement and they got walking. A little further on, there was a knot of people gathered outside a house. As they neared, a portly man sporting a shock of white hair and goatee with pince nez glasses perched on his nose stepped forward and blocked their way.
It was William Noble. “You made it then!” he said.
“Just passing through,” said Gray.
“You need to stay; this is an important issue which will affect everyone eventually. Services are getting squeezed all over the place.” Noble pointed at the house, a large and intricate gold ring glinted on his index finger. A sign above the doorway named it as the Lighthouse Project, a drop-in centre for the homeless. “It’s just the start, I’m telling you. We have to draw the line, right here, right now. They’re trying to close this place down, build houses or shops on it.”
“Who is?”
“The corporate machine.” When he saw his answer was too obtuse for Gray, Noble clarified, “A London mob called Millstone Property Developers.”
“Never heard of them.”
“Oh, they’re everywhere. Like most companies, it’s profit first, people third.” Noble turned away, returning with a placard. “I’ve got a spare.”
“I can’t,” said Gray. “I need to get going.” Hamson had barely paused for the interruption and was fast receding. “Got to go, Will.”
Noble put an arm out and stopped Gray. “I heard one of the dead was Regan Armitage.”
“I can’t comment.”
“Call me when you can.” Noble let go.
Gray caught up with Hamson at the intersection of Belgrave Road and the esplanade. He was amazed to see so many people. It was noisy too; repetitive chanting and ear-piercing whistles. The line wound up the hill and away from them. While Gray stood observing, someone pushed a leaflet into his hand. It was a flier about the impact of the proposed closures.
After a pause, Hamson impatiently forced her way through the crowd. Gray shoved the paper into his pocket and followed, ignoring the complaints of those she barged out of her way.
“Bloody do-gooders,” said Hamson once they were on the other side and free.
“That’s democracy for you,” said Gray.
***
Mike Fowler was seated at his desk in the detectives’ office when Gray and Hamson arrived, Carslake at Fowler’s shoulder. The CCTV footage was frozen on a wall-mounted TV screen and ready to go.
“Where have you been?” asked Fowler.
Hamson held up a hand. “Don’t.”
She positioned herself to leave a gap for Gray between herself and Carslake.
“Get started, Mike,” said Carslake.
“I picked up the footage from the Broadstairs Town Hall,” said Fowler. “There isn’t any CCTV on the beach, just along the clifftop, in the town, and on the jetty itself.”
Fowler clicked the mouse button and the scene began to play. The perspective was across Viking Bay, back towards Dumpton Gap. Cliffs in the distance, sea to one side, sand to the other. A canoeist was battling the surf, and on dry land somebody was throwing a stick for a dog. The picture quality was poor: grainy black and white.
“Where are we looking?” asked Carslake.
Fowler stood up and tapped the screen. “Here, the central figure.”
In the expanse, moving with unpractised difficulty along the shoreline, was a figure. The person stayed right against the water’s edge, head down, growing in size as the distance shortened. At the foot of the jetty the man paused and glanced around, clearly deciding which route to take.
The esplanade led around between a pub called the Tartar Frigate and the old harbour building, a double-storey wooden construct, tilted over from hundreds of years of being battered by the wind. The other way was a steep hill to an old portcullis and back into town.
The man began walking again, drifting out of sight momentarily as he passed under the camera. The shot cut as they switched between perspectives. Now he was moving away from them. The man turned left and disappeared out of sight behind a toilet block — tall terraced houses in the background.
“Where did he go?” asked Hamson.
“Watch,” he said. After a minute or so the man reappeared. “He went to the public toilets.” The man was obscured from the lens once more. Another shot revealed him walking quickly through the car park behind the harbour building and receding along the esplanade. Fowler paused the footage. “No more cameras.”
“In all likelihood, he headed our way then,” said Gray.
“Certainly looks like that,” said Hamson.
“Pity we don’t have a better picture of him.”
“Maybe we do,” said Fowler. He sat down, hit a few buttons, and a close-up of the suspect popped up on screen. “I pulled this from the Tartar Frigate. They’ve got good quality lenses.”
There was an image of their target, a side-on view of a man with dark skin, a beard, and a prominent nose. It wasn’t great, though it was enough to go on. Fowler passed over a handful of printouts.
“Good job, Mike,” said Carslake and patted him on the shoulder. “Can you send copies of everything to my office please, Yvonne? Top brass are all over this, and I need to brief them accordingly.”
“Of course, sir,” said Hamson.
Carslake left the room.
At his desk, Gray took the flier out of his pocket and glanced over it. A handful of inflammatory statements studded with exclamation marks, some photos of rough sleepers, and people in hospital. On the back the company Noble had mentioned, Millstone, got another mention and not a positive one. They were being blamed for profiting by others’ misfortunes.
“Sol,” said Hamson. “Incident Room, now. We’ve got work to do.”
Gray threw the leaflet in the bottom drawer of his desk and followed Hamson.
Chapter 11
The incident room was buzzing, the activity centred around the murder board in the rectangular, high-ceilinged space. The board summarised all the pertinent information for clarity.
The same facts and suppositions would also be stored on the HOLMES2 database, an acronym for the second iteration of the “Home Office Large Major Enquiry System”. But during a major investigation the online data quickly became large and unwieldy, difficult to see the detail in the morass of information being added by multiple people. Too many strands to focus on. The board was the concise fulcrum around which the investigation would rotate. Everything relevant to the case in one place, a visual aid.
Otherwise, the incident room was sounds and movement. Ringing phones, cops talking to one another, talking to potential witnesses. Sifting, analysing, testing. Gray threaded through the desks, heading for the board.
Gray stood beside Hamson. He recognised Fowler’s surprisingly neat script, all curves and loops, which crabbed down delineated columns. There were sections for each victim, possible motives, possible offenders, murder weap
on. So far, the victims were marked only by their photographs and the legend “Unidentified”. Three faces, all in death. At least one murdered.
Regan Armitage’s section was brimming with facts and several suppositions. In comparison, the segment reserved for the beach hut intruder was empty except for Fowler’s CCTV photo which he stuck up.
“We need to find this guy,” said Hamson, tapping the mystery man. “He could be the key.”
“Heads up, Von,” said Fowler.
Gray turned. The station’s Press Officer, Bethany Underwood, had entered the room. She was tall, skinny, and had frizzy bleached-blonde hair, thinning because she’d applied the chemicals too often. Underwood always seemed to be running on the edge, tense and stressed. She glanced around, spotted Hamson, and made her way straight over.
“We’ve got a problem,” she said when six feet away. Underwood always got straight to the point.
“Oh?” said Hamson.
“Your case, I’m getting calls from the papers and TV, more and more of them. All wanting an update. Carslake’s in my ear too. What shall I tell them?” Underwood glanced at the photos of the dead men. She began to chew at a nail, saw Fowler watching and quickly dropped her hand.
“I’m just about to carry out a briefing. Why don’t you stay and listen, then we can talk after?”
“Okay, thanks.” Underwood moved away, distancing herself from the victims. She stood by the large television screen.
“Everyone,” said Hamson. She remained before the murder board and raised her voice. “Can I have your attention, please?”
Hamson allowed the noise to fall to a level where she could speak, rather than shout. A DC remained on the phone, quietly finishing a call.
“As you all know, this morning we found the body of Regan Armitage on a beach. He appears to have drowned. We also discovered two other men, one stabbed. The other appears to also have drowned, seemingly after a failed attempt to cross from France in a people-smuggling exercise. It is highly probable that another man survived the trip. This man was found sleeping in a nearby beach hut.”
Hamson tapped the photo on the board, and it flicked up onto the TV screen so everybody could see. Heads turned towards it. Hamson continued, “It is critical we find him. he may be our key. Get his description out to uniform; I want everybody looking for him. And send pictures of the unknowns over to Interpol and French police. Let’s see if we can get a match on them.”
“Already done,” said Fowler.
“Good, thanks, Mike. Now, Regan Armitage.” Hamson pointed to his section on the board. “What was he doing in the last few hours of his life? Where had he been? Was he with anybody? We believe he was at Seagram’s later in the evening. Again, we need to check CCTV. Cause of death has to be established for certain. Sol, you get the post mortem.
“Now, I don’t need to tell any of you that this is a high-profile case. The son of a well-known local businessman, dead under mysterious circumstances. The media is already onto it, so are the powers that be. So, bring me everything and anything you find. Okay?” Hamson got nods from around the room. “Right, everyone, back to work.”
Hamson made her way over to Underwood who, if anything, appeared more anxious. En-route, Hamson was stopped by a DC in his second year at CID, still keen and young. They engaged in an animated discussion frustrating Underwood even more. Hamson stretched out a hand, touched the DC on the arm before she carried on. The DC went bright red, glanced around the office and turned a further, deeper shade of embarrassment when he clocked Gray and Fowler watching him.
“Someone needs to have a chat,” said Fowler. “Warn him off.”
Gray knew what that meant. The DC would be subjected to Fowler’s cigarette-ash breath in his face as he loomed over the love-struck younger man and gave him the benefit of his wizened knowledge. It wasn’t something Gray wanted to experience.
“I’ll talk to him,” said Gray.
“Why?”
“He’s more likely to listen to me.”
Fowler snorted, but seemed to accept the offer. “By the way, I was thinking. We should go out for a drink, just you and me. Like the old days.”
Fowler’s offer caught Gray by surprise.
Gray wondered if this was Hamson’s doing. Fowler was peering at him expectantly. “Sure, just let me know when.” Gray wondered if they’d ever actually get around to it. Words and deeds …
“There’s a pub quiz coming up, how about that?”
“Sounds good.”
“Sol.” It was Hamson, beckoning him over. She was with Underwood. Gray joined them. Hamson looked Gray up and down. “Have you got a tie?”
Gray groaned. That meant only one thing, a journalist briefing.
“Why me?” asked Gray.
“Because you’re photogenic,” said Hamson.
“Bullshit.”
“Guilty as charged.”
Gray rubbed his stomach, making exaggerated circular movements. “I feel ill again.”
“Really.” Hamson sounded totally unconvinced. “This is important, Sol, and you’re my number two. We need to find the missing man. Bethany says the media is keen, so let’s use them, okay?”
“Okay,” said Gray, grudgingly.
“Thirty minutes enough?”
Gray nodded. “I’ll find my best bib and tucker.”
Before doing so, Gray headed off to find Carslake. He wanted to know more about the Dover witness who’d passed along the information on Tom, and Carslake hadn’t yet given him the details. He took the stairs two at a time. In recent weeks he’d altered a number of elements about his life, cutting back on the rubbish that went into his body and burning off calories through exercise. The latter wasn’t so difficult; he’d always preferred to walk instead of drive anyway. Reducing the alcohol and nicotine had been the tougher challenges to face up to. It had worked, though. The weight had been falling off.
“Afternoon, Sylvia,” said Gray to Carslake’s hoary administrator who he always made a point of being irritatingly sugar-sweet to. Sylvia barely acknowledged Gray, who was not her favourite person by any stretch of the imagination. Her false fingernails rattled at the keyboard. Each week she had her talons done. Typically in an unusual colour and decorated with some bling. This week was green with a silver arc across them. “Nice nails.”
“The DCI’s not in,” said Sylvia. She picked up some headphones from her desk, put the buds into her ears, and pressed the screen on her phone. Gray heard tinny music. He sarcastically waved at her and left.
Gray had some smartening up to do.
Chapter 12
DCI Jeff Carslake watched the other car pull up to his bumper in the rearview mirror. It parked so close that when Jake stepped out and walked over, Carslake could only see the lower half of his body. A rear door of the car Carslake had borrowed specifically for this meeting opened and in slid Jake. He quickly shut out the weather.
“All a bit melodramatic, isn’t it?” asked Jake. A gust hit the car, rocked it from side to side. The sky was black; rain on the way.
“Best no one is aware of this,” replied Carslake. “I learned from experience long ago to take the better-safe-than-sorry approach right from the outset.”
“Reculver, though. This place is the arse-end of beyond.”
Windswept was an understatement when describing the tiny seaside hamlet half an hour’s drive up the coast from the Ramsgate–Margate axis. Here, the buildings were set low to deal with whatever weather was thrown at them. Once, it had been a strategic location. The Roman fort, built two thousand years ago, on top of Iron Age defences, to guard the water channel before them, was just a grass-covered hump now. The only significant constructions were the pub and the twin towers of a ruined church slowly being consumed as the sea eroded the chalk cliff it stood above. Visitors were frequent here in the summer, when they could ride or walk the coastal path for uninterrupted mile upon mile. During an inclement spring they were, at best, rare.
“I’m
sorry for your loss,” said Carslake.
“Do you have any dead children?”
“No.”
“Then you wouldn’t have a clue what I’m going through and your apology is just words.”
“I can empathise.”
“I want your assistance, not your sympathy. How many years have I been paying you?”
“Don’t.” Carslake hated Jake shoving his corruption back into his face. He could just about live with himself otherwise, but Jake made it tough.
“What? You’re bent.” Jake leant forward, between the seats. “We’re not friends together here. I give you money, you look out for me. If you’re pissed off with me, I don’t care. Get it?”
“Yes.”
Jake sat back. “I had to learn about Regan from Solomon Gray, of all people.”
“I couldn’t warn you. The death knock had to be news.”
Jake ground his teeth. “My dead son, news. It’s all over social media. Even bloody William Noble is tweeting about Regan. I bet he’s loving this.”
“It’s the way the world works now.”
“Tell me the rest.”
“Are you sure you want to hear?”
“Just get on with it.”
Carslake adjusted his posture. He pulled his jacket tighter about him. It was cold. “Not much to say until after the post mortem tomorrow.”
“I want the report as soon as it’s available.”
“You’ll get it.”
Carslake explained what he knew about the case, to date. When he’d finished, Jake sat for a few moments, thinking.
“Something smells,” said Jake. “Regan out at sea; it doesn’t make sense. There was no need for him to be taking on a sideline. My business is healthy, and he had plenty of folding money to play with.”
Carslake shrugged.
“I want you to start digging,” said Jake.
“I already am. It’s my job.”
“No, I mean more than just getting reports to me. Investigating.”
“You’re making me sound like a proper policeman now.” Carslake couldn’t help but put the sarcasm into his tone. Jake didn’t seem to notice.
