by Keith Nixon
“But he was my son.” Jake raised the paper, scrunched it up, “I am not comforted. I am angry, I am vengeful! I will find out who was involved in my son’s death and I will deliver justice. Whoever you are, I will hunt you down. This I swear.” Jake dropped the paper onto the floor and returned to his seat. He stared resolutely forward, ignoring the chatter which erupted after a moment’s shocked silence.
“Oh my God,” whispered Natalie. But Gray wasn’t listening. Instead he was keeping his attention on McGavin who leaned forward and placed a reassuring hand on Jake’s shoulder.
Villers bent down to retrieve Jake’s poem from the floor, folded it, and put it inside her jacket. She used the pulpit for apparent support, not quite sure what to say at this unusual turn of events. Her mouth opened and closed several times as she fought for words.
Eventually, Villers gathered her wits and spoke loudly in an attempt to restore order, “At this point we will spend a minute or two remembering Regan’s part in our lives, the good times and the sad times, the funny times, the special times. When you are ready then please move through to the memorial garden.” Villers hastily opened the doors, propping them back by locking them top and bottom, and exited herself. It seemed she couldn’t get out fast enough although no one else moved, perhaps too keen to witness the next spectacle, whatever it might be.
Jake stood, giving the signal for the mourners to depart. Keeping his back turned to everyone, Jake crossed to his son’s coffin.
“Excuse me,” said Gray to Natalie.
“Of course, sorry.” Natalie headed for the main doors and the car park.
As Gray neared, Jake stretched out a hand, placed a palm on the wooden surface of the coffin, where his son’s head would be. Only when Jake’s hand dropped away did Gray speak. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” replied Jake though he didn’t turn around. “You’ll be coming to the wake at Seagram’s then. Join me in a toast.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“It wasn’t a question.”
Gray was in a dilemma, go or not? Hamson had warned him of getting too close to Jake, and here he was, considering going.
“There’s free booze.”
“I’m on the wagon.”
“There’s free orange juice.”
“I’m not supposed to …”
“To what?” Now Jake twisted at the waist, brought eyes to bear on Gray. “Speak to me?”
“Something like that.”
“Times like these are when you need your friends.”
“Then as a friend let me advise you not to make threats in public.”
“It was a fact, not a threat. So what?”
“Let me and my colleagues do our jobs.”
“And when your son disappeared, did you sit back, and let someone else take control?”
Gray was on thin ice. He’d carried on looking for Tom, regardless of what else was going on around him. “All I’ll ask is that if you learn anything share it with me before you do something about it.”
“Deliver a swift justice, you mean?”
“Your words, not mine.”
Jake stared at Gray for a moment. “See you at Seagram’s.” Then he left.
***
Natalie was standing in the car park, smoking an e-cigarette as was all the rage these days. Gray smelt strawberry mint. The exodus was in full flow. Cars streaming away from the crematorium, creating a localised traffic jam as they attempted to turn right across the busy road, back to Margate.
“That was … unique,” said Natalie.
“A new one on me,” said Gray. “Are you a friend of the family?”
Natalie shrugged. “I just wanted to be here.”
Gray wondered why. There was no apparent connection between her and the Armitages.
“What about you? Here in an official or unofficial capacity?”
“Both.”
“What about the wake? Or is it straight back to the station for you?”
“I wasn’t intending to. You?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think I’d be entirely welcome. Can I get a lift back to the Lighthouse? It’s only round the corner from Seagram’s. I got the bus then walked here, and now my feet are killing me.” Natalie leaned against a car, removed a shoe, and massaged a foot to emphasise the point. “I’d really appreciate it.”
Gray felt like he couldn’t say no, though for some reason part of him screamed to do so. “Sure,” he said.
An old couple stopped beside Gray. “Excuse me,” the man said to Natalie. “That’s my car you’re leaning against.”
“Sorry,” said Natalie. She put her shoe back on and moved out of their way.
“I’m over here,” said Gray.
“That was awkward,” she whispered.
He unlocked his car, motioned for Natalie to get in. Gray started his engine and pulled out of the spot. He paused while Regan’s funeral cortege passed by. Jake stared at Gray, seeing Natalie. His expression hardened, and he turned away. Gray pulled out and followed the black limousine.
The few miles of the journey occurred in silence. As Gray drove towards Margate he could see a pall of grey smoke rising over the town. When they reached the Lighthouse Natalie thanked him again, got out of his car, and went inside without a backward glance.
Gray drove the rest of Belgrave Road. Out of curiosity at the junction he turned towards the New Town rather than to Seagram’s. He slowed and looked along the pedestrianised shopping area. A few hundred yards along were a couple of fire engines and an ambulance. Gray bumped the car up a kerb, stuck on the hazard lights, and followed the blue flashing lights.
Chapter 34
Carslake found Jake at the bar, alone in a cast of many, empty stools either side. Carslake took one of them.
“What’ll you have?” asked Jake.
“As you’re paying, a single malt.”
Jake offered a thin smile to Carslake and said to the barman hovering a few feet away, “Get him the good stuff.”
“Yes, Mr Armitage.”
“Look at this lot.” Jake nudged his chin at the reflections in the mirror behind the bar. “Drowning their sorrows. It’s not them who’s lost a son.”
People were stuffing their faces with Jake’s food, consuming alcohol in eye-watering quantities. Mostly it appeared opportunistic. The chance of a free feeding and watering being literally grabbed with both hands.
“They’ve lost a friend, though.” Carslake thought of Cameron. “And one of them a brother.”
“Friends,” snorted Jake. “I don’t even know who half of them are.” Just then, a couple came over and offered Jake condolences. He acknowledged them with a brief nod.
The whisky arrived in a heavy tumbler. “Ice or water, sir?” asked the barman.
“Just a splash of water, please.”
The barman dribbled in some water and handed Carslake the tumbler. He raised the glass towards Jake.
“A toast. Here’s to Regan. May he be at peace.”
“Slainte,” replied Jake. They clinked glasses and drank. The whisky slid down too easily.
“Want another?” asked Jake, crooking his finger at the barman who was obviously there to service Jake and nobody else.
Carslake was tempted but said, “I’m driving.”
“You can walk back to the station from here.”
“Turning up pissed wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“That Inspector. Hamson, is it? She keeping an eye on you?”
“She’s one of the good ones.”
“A taxi back home then. Your car will be safe enough here.”
“I’ll take the orange juice. Plenty of ice this time.”
“Another for me too.” A double whisky with a pint of lager. “No matter how hard I try I can’t seem to get drunk. And I’ve been trying very hard for some time now.”
The soft drink arrived and Carslake took a sip.
“Do you believe in God?” asked Jake.
Carslake wasn’t surprised. He decided on honesty for once. “No and I never have.”
“Me neither, though I’m beginning to wonder now.”
“Oh?”
“Whether all this is retribution from on high.”
Carslake didn’t have an answer for Jake, nobody did.
“You look like shit, my friend.” Frank McGavin sat at a bar stool, leaned around Jake, and nodded at Carslake. “Good to see you.”
Carslake raised an eyebrow, said nothing in reply.
“Have one with me,” said Jake.
“That’s why I’m here,” said McGavin. Carslake was surprised to hear him order gin.
When the drink had been delivered to McGavin he raised his glass in a toast. “To loss. May it make us stronger.”
Jake reciprocated, uttered no words of his own. Carslake didn’t pick up his glass.
McGavin shook his head ruefully. “I can’t believe it. He was too young.” He placed a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “You have my best wishes. And call me, at any time, day or night, should you need anything. I mean anything. The police have their uses but I can be more effective.” McGavin winked at Carslake.
When McGavin had disappeared into the crowd, Carslake said, “Frank McGavin, should I be worried?”
“McGavin likes to make out we’re friends.”
“Are you?”
“This sounds very much like you’re questioning me, Chief Inspector.”
“Maybe I am. You should be careful who you keep close.”
“I told you, it’s nothing.” Jake had another large drink.
Carslake didn’t know how to respond. “I’d better be going.” He stood up. “Again, my condolences.”
Carslake left Jake staring at the slowly melting ice cubes in his glass.
Chapter 35
What had been the offices of Thanet’s Voice was now blown-out windows and blackened bricks. It appeared the fire had been mainly confined to Noble’s residence. The buildings either side — a charity shop and a cash converter — and the Chinese takeaway below were largely untouched. The smell of smoke was thick in the air.
Gray stood aside as a fire engine drove away, leaving one remaining on site. At the cordon, Gray showed his warrant card, asked for whoever was in charge. The uniform pointed towards a fireman clad in fluorescent gear standing in the shadow of the engine with two of his colleagues. Gray walked over and introduced himself.
“Marchmont,” said the fireman in response. He looked Gray up and down. “Been to a funeral?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“I was passing by. Have you been in yet?” asked Gray.
“Just about to. The blaze was set by the time we arrived. All we could do was put it out before it spread. What’s your interest?”
“The person who lives here has been involved in a case I’m investigating.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me, knowing William Noble,” said Marchmont.
“Can I take a look?”
“As long as you stay with me.”
Gray followed Marchmont down the alley. The door to Noble’s flat stood open. The vent which usually spewed out hot air from the takeaway was silent. The aroma of Chinese food was replaced by the stench of burned wood and plastic. Marchmont led Gray up the stairs. The Chief stopped Gray on the small landing. “This is as far as you go.”
Gray leaned inside the single room which opened off the landing. Gray coughed, the residual fumes getting into his lungs. On the far side of the space was another doorway to the second area. There were firemen in there too. The flames had scorched every surface.
“Can you smell that?” said Marchmont.
Gray sniffed. Clearly Marchmont expected Gray to detect something over the burning. “Petrol?”
“Well done, Sergeant.”
“So the fire was deliberate?”
“That would be my assumption.”
“Sir!” A shout from one of Marchmont’s men. He beckoned Marchmont from the back room. Marchmont disappeared inside for a few minutes. Gray stood impatiently, keen to know what they’d found. The Chief returned, a grim expression on his face.
“There’s a corpse,” he said.
“I need to see.”
“It’s not pretty.”
“I’ll survive.”
Marchmont led Gray through, pointing out where to put his feet. Crammed into the corner of the back room, by a window, was the charred remains of a person. By the size of the body it appeared to be Noble, but the white hair was gone, as was most of the clothes revealing blackened skin like a piece of chicken overcooked on a barbecue. The sight made Gray feel like throwing up. But he made himself go over. There was the gold ring. It was Noble for sure.
“I’ll get forensics,” said Gray.
Gray pulled out his mobile and went downstairs to make the call in the fresh air. Before he could do so his mobile rang. It was the custody sergeant, Morgan. “Got a lad in one of the interview rooms we’ve just arrested, says wants you.”
“Who is it?”
A pause while Morgan flicked over a page, the sound loud down the phone. “Ray Quigley, tattoos everywhere. Know him?”
“I’ll be there shortly. Look after Quigley for me, will you?”
“He isn’t going anywhere,” said Morgan and disconnected.
William Noble only had one more journey to make. To the mortuary. There was nothing more Gray could do.
Chapter 36
First, Gray went to his desk, took off his jacket, and hung it over the back of his chair. He sat down and pulled his keyboard over. He wanted to carry out some research into Quigley before they met. Five minutes, and he had what he wanted. Gray called Morgan and asked him to bring Quigley through from his cell.
When Gray entered the interview room, Quigley was staring at the table. He wouldn’t meet Gray’s eye. His body was folded in on itself, shoulders hunched. The impact of the folder onto the melamine surface made Quigley jerk. He wasn’t looking in the slightest like someone who wanted to be here.
Gray dragged out a chair, made the legs scrape. He sat down, hands in trouser pockets, open body language, in contrast to Quigley’s. He paused. Gray had all the time in the world whereas the pressure would be building on Quigley.
“What’s going on, Ray?”
Quigley didn’t acknowledge the question, kept his eyes downcast. Gray didn’t mind, he turned his attention to the file he’d brought in, flipped it open, and read. “Says here you’ve been charged with dealing Class A drugs. Pretty stupid as you’ve prior for possession, carrying cannabis.”
“That was for personal use.”
“Which is why you only got community service. Seems like you’ve moved up a league, though. Dealing now?” He fixed Quigley with a knowing look. “And it’s your second offence. Up to fourteen years if you get a judge with something to prove. We’ve been cracking down recently.” Gray closed the file. “Why did you ask for me?”
“I want to come to an arrangement. I’ve got information.”
Gray let the scepticism show in his face and voice. “Yeah, right.”
“I do!”
“I’m not in the drug squad.” Gray rose from his seat. “I’ll get one of my colleagues; they can manage you better than I can.”
“It’s about Regan.”
Gray paused, sat back down again. “Go on.” He was intrigued but suspected it would turn out to be nothing; that Quigley was desperate and would say anything to keep him here. “I’m listening.”
Quigley shook his head. “Not until you promise I won’t be done for dealing. No recordings, no solicitors. This is between me and you. Cos if this gets out I won’t be walking straight again. Ever.”
Gray sat back, thought about the proposition and about Quigley. In the silence, Quigley began to fidget. He blinked repeatedly and he appeared to be talking to himself, his mouth moving but no words to be heard. Panicking more about doing a stretch than whoever would take him out, Gray
assumed.
“I want to hear what you’ve got before I decide,” said Gray.
“I’m not happy about that.”
“That’s what’s on offer, Ray.”
It was Quigley’s turn to sit back and consider. He was talking to himself again, his leg jigging up and down rapidly. Whatever was inside was bottled up firmly. He was steeling himself. Getting ready for the battle ahead. The battle with his conscience.
“Okay, I’ll talk,” said Quigley eventually.
“I’m listening.”
“Regan wasn’t all he seemed.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. Nobody ever is, and his father said so openly at his funeral.”
“Not like this, though. I knew him pretty well. He was a right piece of work. We had to make sure he got looked after, had what he wanted, when he wanted it.”
“He’s the boss’s son, you said so yourself, I remember.”
“Sure, but there are limits, you know?”
“Such as?”
“He had to get served the moment he reached the bar.”
“Annoying, yes, though what does that matter? You said it was just a job.”
“Do you know how much shit I take for letting someone queue jump?”
“You’re not giving me anything here that’s of use, Ray.”
“He used the club to trawl for women.”
“And other men don’t?”
“We had a couple of incidents.” Quigley trailed off.
“Like what?”
Quigley stayed mute. Seemingly this was his Rubicon. Cross and there was no going back. Gray repeated his question.
“Trying it on with girls who were too drunk to say no. It got hushed up each time.”
“By who?” When Quigley didn’t answer, once more Gray asked, “By his father?”
“Regan’s mistakes had a habit of going away.”
“How?”
“The girls got paid off.”
“Do you know that for sure?”
Quigley shifted in his seat. “Not for sure, no. It was just something Regan said, about being untouchable.”
“Is there anyone who can corroborate your story?”
