by Keith Nixon
“Yes,” replied Gray.
“Join the queue.”
“Why’s that?”
“Someone always is.” The man shrugged.
“So why answer the door now?”
“It’s obvious you’re a copper, even through the peephole.”
“Does Larry cause you any bother?”
“Not really. Looks scary, but get talking to him and it’s pretty clear he’s a mess. Is he in trouble?”
“I just want to speak to him in connection with an incident.”
“What incident?”
“Confidential, sir.”
“Like that, is it? I get it. He usually leaves a key under the carpet. Excuse me, would you?”
The man waved at Gray to move. The only way to create room was for Gray to drop down a couple of the steps. Once he had done so the neighbour bent over, peeled back a corner of the carpet. There, in the dust motes, was a key. The neighbour grinned at Gray like their numbers had come up in the lottery.
Gray closed the door on his newfound friend, who was craning to look inside so much he was in danger of falling flat on his face. Where Larry Lost was best described as large, the flat was the opposite.
About six feet out from the wall which met the landing, the roof descended at an angle. So everything which needed height was towards the right and vice versa. The kitchen was in the back corner. Opposite was a bed, and crammed in between was a single armchair and the television. The floor was polished boards with several rugs intermittently spaced.
The angular roof line turned back into vertical about three feet from the floor. Inset periodically were small hatches, Alice-in-Wonderland-like. Gray crossed to one of the cupboards. He bent down and popped the door open. A rug on the floor got in the way of its swing and he had to shift the carpet a few inches as a result.
Disappointingly there wasn’t a portal to another place; no bottle marked “Drink Me”, just clothes on hangers. He shut the door, resisted opening up again several times to see if the inside changed. It didn’t.
A couple of Velux windows cut into the roof-provided light. One was open a crack. No danger of getting burgled this high up unless maybe by a seagull. The walls were bare except for the television and a photo of a boat.
As well as being small, the flat was surprisingly neat and tidy. Gray had expected a mess. Pigeon-holing Larry accordingly. He had been wrong.
The search took all of five minutes. Gray found a small bag of cannabis in the bedside cabinet. He looked out the window at the view over the adjacent roofs and towards the sea. He went back to the photo and looked at the boat. It was clearly moored in Ramsgate harbour. The Royal Yacht Club and the Smack Boys building behind were distinctive. Gray couldn’t see a name. He took a photo with his camera.
He called Hamson. “Larry’s not here.”
“Found anything incriminating?”
“A bag of weed.”
“Get yourself to Seagram’s, Sol. Larry will turn up.”
“I’ve got another lead I’m going to follow.”
“Oh?”
“Larry owns a boat.”
“I wouldn’t have seen him as the seafaring type.”
“Maybe he’s the type who sails to France in the dead of night?”
Chapter 26
Gray drove inland, taking the dual carriageway past the defunct Kent International Airport rather than the less direct coastal route. It took just over twenty minutes to complete the journey. He went as far round Ramsgate harbour as he could, and parked by the footbridge. He was facing the Ramsgate Home for Smack Boys at the foot of Jacob’s Ladder, a set of stairs which gave access from the clifftop high above, next to the Sailors’ church, both built in the late 1800s. The smack boys were apprenticed to fishing boats and the building was where they stayed when not at sea.
He pulled out his phone and compared the angle at which he was currently standing with the photo on Larry’s wall. He was too far over. He crossed the metal footbridge, which could be swung out of the way when ships needed access to the harbour, and checked the perspectives several times until it seemed about right. Then he focused on the boats in the immediate area. Eventually he saw one which was similar. But, a metal fence and a gate with a keypad blocked the jetties off from public access.
He tried the gate. Locked. He stared through the fence, but saw no one who he could ask to let him through. He turned around. Above him was a tower, glass around the circumference. The harbour master’s office. His role was to keep a constant eye out for marine traffic and monitor it.
Gray walked over to the building. The lower floor was toilets and showers for those moored here. He found the office door and went inside, took the stairs. The view from the top was superb. Sea on one side, the bobbing ships on the other.
“Can I help you?” A bearded, bald-headed man who appeared to be in his fifties and wearing a naval uniform was frowning at the intrusion. He was holding a huge pair of binoculars he’d been using to scan the waterways. Gray pulled out his warrant card.
“I want to gain access to one of the boats moored here.”
“Which one?”
“I don’t know the name.” Gray showed the harbour master the photo of Larry’s boat.
“Ah, the Etna.” The harbour master introduced himself as Captain Eadie.
“Do you know anything about the Etna’s movements?”
“She comes and goes at all times of day and night. There’s no routine to it.”
“Do you know the owner?”
“Larry? I see him around.”
“What’s the code for the keypad?”
“1805. Battle of Trafalgar.”
“Thanks, I’ll only be a few minutes.”
“I can keep a good eye on you with these.” Eadie grinned and showed Gray the binoculars.
Gray made his way back outside again. At the keypad he tapped in the numbers. The magnetic lock powered off with a heavy clunk. Gray pushed on the gate, went through, and let it close behind him. The Etna was almost at the end of the jetty. Gray glanced around the exterior, not much to see.
He stepped aboard; momentarily caught out by the rocking motion he wasn’t used to. Despite living by the sea for years he never spent any time on it. He tried the door which would give him access to the cabin. It was locked. The door was wood with some round glass panels at the top. He tapped the glass. It felt thin. Access would be easy. But if he did discover any evidence it would be inadmissible in court — no search warrant
He stepped off onto the jetty again and went back to his car. He always carried nitrile gloves in the boot. He grabbed a pair, along with a couple of evidence bags, and went back to the Etna. As he went back on board, he looked up at the harbour master’s office. Eadie wasn’t in sight. Gray didn’t want to be caught.
Gray pulled on the gloves, drew his coat sleeve over his fist, and hit the glass with his knuckles a couple of times until it cracked. Once more and he had a break. He picked out the shards, reached through, and felt around. His fingertips brushed the knob of a Yale lock. Standing on his tiptoes, Gray was just able to get a grip. He twisted and the door popped open.
Inside was a cramped cabin, dimly lit as curtains covered the portholes. He put the glass shards down on a work surface. Using the torch on his phone, he first went through into the bedroom at the back. He returned to the galley kitchen. On the bottom shelf of a cupboard, which otherwise contained crockery, he found a tool box.
He lifted out the top drawer, which held a hammer and several screwdrivers. Beneath an oily rag were three ziplocked plastic bags of white powder. He picked one up. He opened the bag but couldn’t identify the contents, and he wasn’t keen to test some on himself. He poured some into an evidence bag, resealed the bag, and returned the rest of the powder to where he’d found it.
Before leaving, he moved the glass shards onto the floor, just inside the galley. Back on deck he shut the door behind him, peeled off the gloves, and made his way along the jetty.
“Not this time.”
“Better luck in the future.”
When Gray was inside his car, he put the evidence bag beneath the passenger seat and checked his watch. He had time.
***
Finding a parking spot outside the hospital was never easy so Gray put his car in the area reserved for the medical staff. His phone bleeped as he was applying the handbrake. It was Noble, suggesting a time to meet. Gray put him back by an hour as it overlapped with when he would be at Seagram’s, interviewing the staff with Fowler.
Clough was in his cubbyhole office. Gray dropped the evidence bag onto the pathologist’s desk. “Can you identify this?”
Clough eyed the bag before picking it up, seeking an explanation from Gray by his expression. When he didn’t get one, Clough opened the bag, took a careful sniff. “Odourless. Wait here a minute.” He left his office and was soon back with a small white cardboard box. He closed the door, put the box on the table, and pulled out a plastic cylinder about ten centimetres tall. He popped a cap off one end, withdrew an ampoule, opened this too before placing it upright on the desk.
He folded a piece of paper, scooped a little of the powder out of the evidence bag, and poured it into the ampoule. Inside the vial was a clear liquid; it began to darken as soon as the powder hit. He let the colour develop for half a minute before comparing the shade against a chart which he removed from the white cardboard box.
“Ketamine,” he said.
“Are you certain?” asked Gray.
“Ninety-nine per cent. That’s the accuracy of these kits.”
“Thanks.” Gray picked up the plastic bag, resealed it, and put it back into his pocket. He left Clough. There was another place he might be able to find Larry. Gray had some more questions to ask him now.
However, Larry would have to wait. Gray had to get to Seagram’s; otherwise Hamson would crucify him.
Chapter 27
Seagram’s was on the edge of the Old Town, not far from the station and only a few minutes’ walk from the Lighthouse Project.
The posters started a couple of streets away from the club. Gray hadn’t really noticed them before. None of the offers appealed to him. Cheap drinks — double shots for one pound. Ladies nights — free entry for women but men had to pay. Over 30s nights and under 16s afternoons. With the pubs now able to open for extended hours they could behave as mini-nightspots themselves, which meant Seagram’s was operating in a congested market.
When Gray reached the club the doors were shut: no bouncers, no queue. Also, no Fowler. Gray sent him a text asking where he was.
Gray rattled the doors. He stepped back, looked towards the CCTV. It was at the end of the building, large lenses mounted high for perspective and behind cages for protection. The cameras wouldn’t miss much of anything.
His phone rang. Jake.
“We’re closed.”
“Even to me?” said Gray.
“Depends. Is this a social visit?”
“I was hoping to speak to your staff,” said Gray. “About Regan.”
“What about him?”
“He was here the night he disappeared. Someone might know something.”
“Of course, no problem. Give me a moment to come down.”
By the time Gray had returned the mobile to his pocket the door was swinging back on its hinges, Jake’s face a white oval in the darkness. Gray stepped inside, Jake making way, shutting the door behind him.
There was the cash booth on one side, the corridor on the other. Along a few feet was the other CCTV camera. Gray looked up and down the area, recognising the perspective from Fowler’s footage.
“You couldn’t have picked a better time, actually,” said Jake. “We’re getting ready to open so most of my employees are in. Do you want to use my office?”
“Thanks. DS Fowler’ll be here shortly.”
“I remember him. I’ll get someone to bring him up when he arrives.”
Jake led Gray deeper into the club. The corridor opened up onto equally dim expansive dance floor. Illumination along the floor, some soft lighting in the ceiling, but little else. Jake strode forward. Gray hung back, his eyes firmly on where he was treading.
At the rear of the floor and through another set of doors Jake pointed to some stairs marked “Private, No Entry”. Jake started the climb.
“Do you have any problem with drugs here?”
“Why do you ask?” Jake didn’t turn around or pause.
“Nothing specific.”
“Good, because I’d be all over anyone who dared to shift any product in my establishment.”
“Glad to hear it.”
***
Fowler turned up ten minutes later and apologised for being late with no explanation offered as to why. Gray was seated on one of the two sofas in Jake’s office that faced each other across a coffee table. Fowler placed himself on the same sofa and they agreed that Gray would ask questions while Fowler observed reactions and took notes.
The process began with the bouncers. Seagram’s employed eight of them, but Gray was only interested in the pair who’d been working the front door the night Regan disappeared. They came in together. One was bulky in the way you’d expect a wrestler to be, the other was wiry and tough with quick eyes, the look of a boxer about him.
The wrestler was called Sam, the boxer Nigel.
“Yeah, we remember him, don’t we, Sam?” Nigel’s accent was West Country. Sam nodded, eyes roving the room.
“Arriving or leaving?” asked Gray.
“Both. He went in on his own, left with a woman.”
“Could you describe her?”
“Blue hair,” said Sam. He was a local. Nigel nodded.
“Anything else about her?” asked Gray.
The bouncers looked at each other, back at Gray. They shrugged.
“Height, weight, build, what she was wearing?”
“Not really,” said Nigel. “Just remember the hair.”
“Yep,” said Sam. “It was blue.”
“Did you see her entering the club?”
“No,” said Nigel after a few moments’ thought. “But we were busy. And there’d been some bother to sort out.”
“But you recall her leaving?”
“’Cos she was with Mr Armitage. There’s always somebody with him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Liked the girls. It was a mission.”
“Yeah, conquests,” said Sam.
“You admired that trait in Regan?”
“Who wouldn’t say no to a free bit of skirt?” said Nigel. “Perk of the job, right?”
“Is it?”
Nigel shrugged.
“Did Regan have any enemies?” asked Gray.
Nigel and Sam looked at each other again, then back to Gray in what seemed to be a habitual cross reference. “No,” said Nigel.
“No friends neither,” said Sam.
Gray didn’t get anything else meaningful from the bouncers and let them go after a few more questions. It was the same with the young woman who’d been on the ticket booth; she’d been too busy dealing with guests to notice Regan at all.
“He’s part of the furniture,” she’d said, pulling a face but not elaborating why.
Next Gray spoke to the front of house and bar staff. None had engaged with Regan directly that night. To a person, they were complimentary, said he was a nice guy, always had a word for them, no freebies, paid for everything, expected nothing, and tipped well. To all intents and purposes Regan seemed to be the perfect customer.
Gray got a return for his efforts on interview number six. A tattooed guy, more ink than skin, settled into the seat opposite. Tunnel earrings which stretched the lobes into large hollows, short, spiky hair shaved to the skull at the sides. He wore a t-shirt to best show the markings off — colour up the arms and on hi
s neck. The fabric concealed plenty of muscle too. He looked like he could handle himself.
“Ray Quigley,” he said when Gray enquired. “Bar manager. Used to be on the doors, worked myself up to senior management.” He puffed his chest out.
“Did you see Regan on Saturday night?”
“Yes and I served him, like I always do.”
“Always?”
Quigley nodded though didn’t elaborate.
“What time was this?”
Quigley shrugged. “Hard to say.”
“Make a guess.”
“Early, we’d only just got really going. Time flies, we get very busy. It’s all I can do to keep up with the punters. Before you know it, midnight has been and gone and we’re closing up. I get maybe fifteen minutes off for a smoke.”
“When?”
“Eleven if I’m lucky, as long as I’m not dealing with any problems.”
“Such as?”
“Stupid staff, usually. Short-changing the customers, particularly the pissed ones. They think no one’ll notice. Quick way to make a bit of extra cash.”
“Did you see Regan before or after your smoke break?”
A sigh from Quigley, though he paused. His eyes glanced up and left as he accessed his memory. “Before.”
“So what time?”
“Ten? Ten thirty?”
“That’s as specific as you can be?”
“Afraid so.”
“Do you know all your customers?”
“A lot of them. Margate’s a small town; we’re the best night spot. Clean as a whistle, virtually no trouble, plenty of fun. We get regulars, regularly. And he’s the boss’s son.”
“Did you see Regan with anyone?”
“He was alone when he came to the bar.”
“What was he drinking?”
“Estrella Reserva. We bring it in just for him.”
“You don’t sell it to anyone else?”
“We’re not allowed to.”
“Who tells you not to?”
“Him. Regan. We ran out once. He was …” Quigley clamped his jaw. It was clear to Gray the bar manager knew he’d said too much.
“He was what?”
“Fine,” mumbled Quigley. “No problem at all.”
