by Keith Nixon
Larry shook the restraining hand away, tossed the phone on the floor, and stalked out, Dave in his tracks. Rachel apologised for disturbing everyone’s sleep, but most were already unconscious again. As altercations went, it was minor. No punches had been thrown. Natalie and Rachel followed the two men, presumably to ensure they did actually leave.
Khoury slipped his boots on, rose, and went into the eating area. Only Rachel was there, one hand on her head, the other on her belly. She looked startled when she saw Khoury.
“Can I see?” asked Khoury.
She passed over the piece of paper. It was a photo of him, not great quality but clear enough to be recognisable. Khoury scrunched the paper up into a ball and dropped it onto the floor.
“We can help,” said Rachel.
Khoury shook his head. He could only help himself, the way it always had been. He returned to his bed, collected his coat, and pulled out the knife. Back in the refectory, Rachel looked down at the blade, then back up to Khoury. She stepped backwards.
Khoury pushed past Rachel, making her stumble. Where had the two men gone? He rushed for the front of the house. Natalie was on the pavement, arguing with Larry. He was standing beside a car, the passenger door open, engine idling.
“Leave,” she said. “Before the police get here. We’ll talk later.”
Larry looked like he had something else to say, but he got inside the car, and it was moving before he had the door closed. Khoury dashed down the steps, but the car was going too fast for him.
Khoury took a couple of steps back towards Natalie. He wanted to know more about Larry, this man who had probably killed his friends. Clearly, Natalie knew something, knew Larry. But he heard a siren. Blue flashing lights rounded the corner from the seafront. Khoury turned and dashed in the opposite direction, anger blooming.
Close — he’d been so close. He knew where to start looking now, though. He’d be back. For Natalie.
Chapter 17
The office of Thanet’s Voice was in Margate’s New Town, above a Chinese takeaway in the pedestrianised shopping area. The entrance was down an alley, a black door behind two large blue bins on wheels. A large extractor fan blew hot air. The alley reeked of stale food and piss.
The door yawned open. Immediately inside was dimness and a set of stairs. Gray fumbled around until he felt a light switch and flicked it on. Noble was lying face down at the top of the stairs, his head and one arm hanging over the uppermost step. It didn’t look good for him. Noble’s face was covered in blood, one eye swollen.
Gray ran up and knelt down beside him. He put his ear next to Noble’s mouth. His breath washed in and out. Gray was hugely relieved.
“Will, it’s me, Sol. I’m here.”
Noble’s only reply was a groan.
“I’ll call you an ambulance. Hang on.”
Gray picked up Noble’s phone from where it had fallen from his hand and dialled 999. He gave Noble’s torso a quick check over. Noble groaned when Gray felt his chest. Maybe a cracked rib? It looked like he’d taken a good kicking from someone. Gray decided it wasn’t wise to move Noble into the recovery position. Doing so might make things worse. Next, Gray called the station and asked for some uniforms to be sent down.
Satisfied he couldn’t do any more for Noble, Gray took a quick look around. There were three doorways off the landing. Directly behind Noble was the office. It was a mess. Paper strewn everywhere. Drawers dragged out, files all over the floor. An assault on Noble and a hasty search for something. But what?
When Gray went back onto the landing to check on Noble again he found him leaning upright against the wall, his eyes closed.
“Stay where you are,” said Gray. He crouched; put a hand on Noble’s shoulder. “The ambulance will be here in a few minutes.”
“I’m all right.” Noble pushed Gray weakly away. “I don’t need anyone.” Noble ruined his own diagnosis by leaning over and vomiting down the stairs. When there was no more to throw up, Noble sat back up again, wiped his mouth, and grinned weakly. “Okay, maybe I do. They didn’t find it, though.”
“Find what?”
“Hello?” A call from the bottom of the stairs. “Ambulance.” Two paramedics at the bottom of the stairs.
“Here,” said Gray, standing.
Gray moved out of the way to allow the paramedics access to Noble.
“Nothing major,” said one to Gray after they’d given Noble a quick check over, “but we’ll take him to the hospital, just to be sure.”
Noble crooked a finger at Gray. “We need to talk.”
“When you’re better.”
“Tomorrow,” said Noble. “I’ll call you.”
Uniform arrived then; two constables.
“You took your time,” said Gray.
“Sorry, sir, there’s an incident at the Lighthouse Project.”
The constables shifted to one side while the paramedics helped Noble to his feet and supported him during the descent. Gray followed. Then the medics put Noble on a stretcher and loaded him into the back of the ambulance. The doors closed and the ambulance drove away, watched by a couple of faces standing in the takeaway’s window.
“Come with me,” said Gray to the DCs. He entered the takeaway. The odour of Chinese food was much stronger inside, the smell always reminded Gray of sweet and sour sauce, the red stuff that quickly congealed on balls of an unidentified meat surrounded by a light golden batter. The crackle of hot oil in a pan and the scraping of metal on metal as an unseen chef in the back cooked was the only sound. Three men stood in the narrow space between the door and the metal-topped counter. They stared sullenly at Gray. A white carrier bag rested on the metal surface. From the shape of it there was clearly a takeaway within.
Behind the counter, a large, handwritten menu was nailed to the wall. Beneath it, a short Asian woman wearing an apron blinked at Gray through thick glasses. She’d been trying to disappear out the doorway into the kitchen but stopped now. As if Gray would only see her if she moved.
He showed his warrant card and said, “A man has just been assaulted. Did any of you see anything?” He received blank looks in return from all.
“Somebody must have seen something,” said Gray. Still nobody offered a response. “Right, I’ll be taking you all down the station for further questioning.” Gray turned his attention to the woman. “You’ll have to close down for the night.”
“Fuck’s sake, mate, what about my food?” The man who’d spoken appeared the youngest of the three. He wore black leather, and his bottom lip was pierced with a small silver ring. He pointed his thumb at the carrier bag. “It’ll go cold.”
“Tell me what you saw. Then you can go.”
“All I saw was you walk past, then the ambulance and cops arrive.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah. None of us have been here long. It’s a takeaway. Fast food, you know? Maybe it was you who beat up that bloke?”
The man glared at Gray. “Give your name and contact details to my colleagues here; then you can be on your way, all of you.”
Gray turned to the Chinese woman. “Did you see anything?” She shook her head. “Do you know the man who lives above?”
“No.”
“Nobody walked past? You didn’t hear any noises from above.”
He got a shrug in reply then, “You all look same to me.”
Chapter 18
Dr Ben Clough’s hands always felt cold. After every time they shook hands, Gray had to fight the urge to rub his own together to warm them up again. He couldn’t figure out if it was a genetic thing with Clough or whether it was because he spent the majority of his time in the mortuary where the temperature was kept permanently low.
Clough was the silent, considerate type. He was a runner — another solitary pastime — pounding the streets out of hours. At some point, Gray would ask his advice on the mundane matter of exercise, though at a more appropriate time.
Gray had driven over to the hospital, rather tha
n head into the station, setting off before the beginning of his shift in order to beat the traffic. Thanet was a maze of indirect, restricted routes which had a tendency to bottleneck at the slightest opportunity, making the journey half an hour rather than ten minutes. Clough was an early starter, too.
The pair sat in the pathologist’s tiny, airless office. A desk, a couple of chairs, a pair of filing cabinets, and it was full.
“I made a start as soon as I could,” said Clough. “I thought it prudent.”
“Fine with me.” Gray didn’t like watching a corpse being dissected. “Any revelations?”
“Best I show you.”
Clough led Gray to the storage area. The air was several degrees cooler, and Gray could see his breath fog. There were many small metal doors set into the wall in rows, floor to ceiling. Clough undid the latch on one at waist height. Cold spilled out, and Gray shivered involuntarily. The pathologist tugged on the gurney inside and Regan’s shrouded corpse was silently revealed, the bed moving on well-oiled runners.
Clough lifted one corner of the white sheet to expose a wrist, leaving the rest of the body hidden. Gray bent closer to see what Clough was pointing to.
“Abrasions,” said Gray.
“Correct. And not just there.” Clough moved down the body, lifted back the adjacent corner, bringing a leg into view. “It’s the same on both wrists and ankles.”
“He was bound hand and foot?”
Clough nodded. “And these.” He folded back the sheet, keeping Regan’s face and half his body covered. There was bruising on the side of his ribcage, the marks livid.
“He was assaulted, probably kicked. By the arrangement of the discoloration I’d suggest he curled up into a ball to protect himself.”
“Cause of death was drowning?”
“His lungs were inundated with liquid, if that’s what you mean.”
“So, he drowned then, Ben.”
“You know how the process works?”
“They breathe water rather than air, which isn’t particularly good for them.”
“Very droll, but basically correct. The fluid obstructs the airway which causes asphyxia. Circulatory and respiratory failure occurs almost immediately.”
“Nice.”
“Quite. To be honest, it’s usually difficult to conclusively establish death by drowning. The lungs naturally fill if a corpse is submerged for any reasonable time, meaning the findings in any investigation are at best minimal.”
“Really?”
“Surprisingly, yes. There’s several signs to look out for.” Clough held a hand up in a fist. Gray was about to get a lesson. “One, a white froth at the nose and mouth.” Clough extended a finger. “But there was none. Possibly washed away in the surf. Two, the presence of weeds or stones grasped by the hands. Desperation at the nearing end. There were none — perhaps nothing could be grabbed? Three, foam in the lungs and air passage, which was present. Four, water-logged lungs, also a check, though as I’ve already said that’s entirely natural. Five, water in the stomach and intestines, ditto.” Clough raised his other hand in a fist. “Six, diatoms and maybe plankton in the tissues.”
Gray opened his mouth to ask the obvious question. Clough got there first.
“They’re algae found in water and they’re what can prove the evidence we need. The diatoms pass from the ruptured alveolar wall into lymph channels and pulmonary veins and then into the heart. Only a live body with circulation can transport diatoms from the water into organs in that fashion.”
“The heart pumping junk around the body?”
“Right. No pump, no diatoms where they shouldn’t be.”
“Bloody hell, Ben, are you going to tell me if you saw them or continue being far too clever for your own good?”
“Sorry, I get a bit carried away.”
Gray felt like screaming.
“Yes, there were diatoms.”
“And time of death?”
“Again, difficult to establish because of the body’s time in the sea. It’s effectively a huge heat sink. Could have been hours or days. Given the preserved nature of the cadaver I’d tend towards the former — limited time as fish food,” clarified Clough. “It’s usually the eyes that get eaten first. I also took a blood sample for analysis. Because I knew you’d be in a hurry I called in a favour, walked the sample over, stuck around and made a general nuisance of myself until I got the data.” Clough handed over a file. He did enjoy a degree of melodrama.
In this case it was warranted.
“Ketamine,” said Gray.
Clough nodded. “Enough to knock him out and make him compliant. Regan ingested the drug at some point prior to his immersion. And being in a relative state of helplessness would in all likelihood actively reduce the signs of drowning.”
“What about the other two?”
“I’ve yet to undertake the full post mortems. Outward appearances signpost similar drowning indicators to Regan in one. The knife wound in the other may or may not have been fatal. I won’t know for sure until I go inside later today.” Clough held up a hand; palm towards Gray. “And yes, before you ask, I’ve sent their blood samples away too, although I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for those. I can only work one miracle at a time.”
“That’ll do me, Ben.”
They shook hands once more. When Clough was out of sight Gray rubbed his palms together and only stopped to answer his phone. He checked the display. Hamson.
“Are you still at the hospital?” she asked.
“Yes, why?”
“We had a report of a disturbance last night at the Lighthouse Project on Belgrave Road. Seems like our mystery man was there.”
“Okay, I’m on my way.”
“Not yet. There’s a witness in the hospital you should speak to, if you can. Rachel O’Shea.”
Chapter 19
Then
It was the fire engine which brought Rachel back to the here and now. She withdrew from Cameron’s clinch.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
They sat side by side with their feet dangling over the water. Below her, the waves lapped at the Harbour Arm wall. Nearby, a couple of boats bobbed on the calm water of the anchorage. She preferred it when the sea was up and wild. When spray was in the air and there was the crackle of an impending storm. Tonight, though, everything was still.
The fire engine raced along the Margate sea front, blue lights briefly lost among the permanently lit, lurid display of Dreamland. The sirens wailed, even though there was no queue of cars to shunt out of the way. Rachel returned her attention to Cameron. It would be someone else’s tragedy; she couldn’t help.
When the second engine and a police car went in the same direction, Rachel broke off from Cameron again. She ignored his protests. The red stain of a blaze was clear on the black sky. She jolted inside when she realised the first fire engine had stopped near where she was staying.
She jumped up and ran as fast as she could, Cameron close behind her. She ignored his shouted questions. By the time she arrived, both fire engines were spraying water on the building. She paused, took in the sight: fire licking out of the first-floor windows, smoke billowing. The heat increased as she neared. She could feel it on her skin, a warm caress. A small crowd had gathered, watching behind a cordon, powerless to intervene. She ran over, couldn’t see her family there. She ducked under the tape and dashed to the burning house.
A policeman grabbed her round the waist before she’d advanced two feet. She struggled. He tried to calm her.
“My father and brother are in there!” she shouted.
“You need to stay back!”
The policeman let go, and Rachel fell into Cameron’s arms. A man wearing a crumpled suit came over. He was also police, he said. There was a bright flash, then another. Someone taking photos. The policeman left Rachel and Cameron with his colleague, whose name was Jeff, and went to talk to the cameraman.
Jeff led Rachel to the sea wall and made her sit dow
n. She held Cameron’s hand. The concrete was cold beneath her. Jeff took off his jacket which smelt faintly of smoke, and draped it around her shoulders.
The three of them watched the fire burn.
Chapter 20
Now
Gray was directed by a nurse to a private room off one of the many wards. Gray knocked lightly on the door.
“Come in,” said someone from inside.
He entered, closing the door behind him. Inside was the patient, a pregnant woman who lay on her back, seemingly asleep, dark hair spread across the pillow. Some monitors beside the bed bleeped intermittently. There was a bunch of flowers standing on the windowsill in a vase. Lilies. Beautiful to look at, not so great to smell. As if something had died and was in the process of rotting. Hardly ideal for a hospital environment of recovery and recuperation.
A grey-haired woman sat in a chair drawn up to the bed. A newspaper lay in her lap, and she was regarding Gray expectantly.
“I’m looking for Rachel O’Shea,” said Gray.
“She’s asleep,” said the woman, standing.
Gray introduced himself, showed his warrant card.
“May I?” Natalie held out a hand. Gray passed over his card. She examined it closely before handing it back. “I’m Natalie Peace. Rachel and I work together.”
“How is she?”
“Let’s talk outside. I read somewhere that unconscious people can hear conversations.” Natalie tucked the newspaper under an arm.
Just along the corridor was a small, square recess with seats bolted to the floor and a vending machine which Natalie fed some coins into. “Would you like something?” she asked.
He shook his head. Natalie pushed several times at the keypad, making a selection, and waited for the machine to dispense a drink. A few moments later, she held a small plastic cup in her hands, blowing on the surface, although Gray couldn’t see any steam rising. She took a sip and pulled a face.
“What do you want?” said Natalie.
