The Secret Dawn

by Solomon Carter

  “Mr Reville must have been unhappy at carrying the business like that. Were you unhappy?”

  “Oh, Brett was unhappy. But he’s entitled to be unhappy, isn’t he? He was working four jobs and only getting paid for one. Sabine and Grant were just content to sit back and watch. Emily never had to do anything except pout for her Instagram feed, but hey, she wasn’t actually on the payroll. That’s her prerogative. She’s a freelance. She can do what she likes. But if Brett had been able to take control of the business, I think hers was one marketing cost we’d reduce by a big margin.”

  “Meaning you’d cut her out?”

  “No. Not completely. But we wouldn’t let the girl think that GDS is a magic cash machine. It hasn’t been that way for some time.”

  “Then the business is in trouble?”

  “You might say that. Or you might say the business isn’t in trouble but is just very badly managed. From the top end. Given authority and access to the budgets, I think Brett and I could have managed to turn the ship around.”

  “From what? Bankruptcy?”

  “I don’t think it’s quite that bad. But the cash flow issue was never addressed. We’re owed money all the time. But without someone chasing these big clients, they would be happy to let us go to the wall so they could hold onto what they owe us.”

  “I see. And this problem came from Grant Dawn being so hands off?”

  “As the MD – the man in charge, yes, yes it did. But at least he kept it ticking. Now, with him gone, and Sabine totally unwilling to discuss our options going forward… I really do fear the worst.”

  “The worst?”

  “That Sabine will simply let the business wither and collapse while she… while she does whatever she does.”

  Palmer raised an eyebrow.

  “I best not say anything more on that.”

  Palmer waited until the woman once again felt obliged to speak. She gave Palmer a conspiratorial look.

  “Sabine has been known to enjoy the odd glass of wine. Or the odd bottle. If you get my drift.”

  “I think I do,” said Palmer. “So I take it you’ve asked Mrs Dawn if you could take over the business?”

  “I visited her to offer my sympathies, along with Brett. And, when we were there, Brett offered to take care of the business on a temporary basis – maybe with a view to taking it on permanently – to buy it off her – once Sabine realised she was better off without it. Brett could make it work eventually.”

  “And you pitched this to Mrs Dawn?”

  “In passing. But I didn’t pitch it. Brett did. Brett’s the one with the business skills, the experience. I’m just the administrator.”

  “And how did Mrs Dawn take Brett’s suggestion?”

  “Like a mouthful of soap! She was damned rude, if you ask me. But then we have to excuse the woman, don’t we? She’s just had a very great shock and I don’t know what I’d be like if I was in her shoes. Besides, I guess it was the wine doing all the talking. Her front room was completely littered with empties.”

  “Hmmm,” said Palmer. “You’re in a relationship with Mr Reville, aren’t you?”

  The woman blushed and issued a thin laugh.

  “As it happens, yes, we are together. But that really has nothing to do with this. If we weren’t an item, I would still have supported Brett’s idea about taking the reins. He runs the business with my help. He’s the main driver, and that’s how it’s been for a long time. I think he deserves a crack at taking this forward, before Sabine lets the whole thing run into the ground.”

  “You think that could happen?”

  “Running the business into the ground? Who knows? If Sabine doesn’t see sense it’s a distinct possibility. She might sell it to the wrong man or make a bad decision and let it fold because of the cash flow issue. I told her we could fix all of that if she gave us the authority.”

  “And she refused?”

  “Point blank. She refused even Brett’s gift, the sympathy card, chocolates, flowers, everything. She just sat there drinking her wine and told Brett she would never ever sell the business to him or anyone else. She said it was Grant’s business and that she wanted to keep it for him. Which pretty much means she won’t be rebranding it any time soon either.”

  “Rebranding?”

  “That name. GDS. Grant Dawn Social. It’s a bit old and clunky. It’s an albatross around the neck of the business. It needs to be modernised to one of those one-syllable affairs.”

  “And I suppose Mr Reville has a good idea what it should be called?” said Palmer, sipping her tea to suppress her cynicism.

  “As a matter of fact, he does. He always has such good ideas. Brett wanted to call it Fresh Social, Fresh for short.”

  Palmer didn’t think the name better at all. It sounded like a campaign for a new detergent.

  “I see… Just a couple more questions, Miss George. Do you or anyone else in the business have reason to have been unhappy with Mr Dawn in any way?”

  “Unhappy?”

  “Yes. You’ve already outlined the reasons why the business wasn’t quite working like it should…”

  “That didn’t mean we were unhappy with Grant. Just unhappy with the blockages to success. The lack of cash was becoming a problem. Unless we were given a free hand, the business was eventually headed for the rocks.”

  “But it wasn’t enough of a problem to make you or Mr Reville angry in any way?”

  “Angry? What are you getting at? I don’t get angry. Upset, yes, but never angry. Look. This was a tragic accident. It’s no one’s fault. Surely you can’t be implying that—”

  “I’m not implying anything, Miss George. I’m looking at the situation and learning the background. “

  “Brett is a good man. Hard working, undermined, yes, but still good.”

  “Point taken,” said Palmer. “And we’ll be talking to Mr Reville in due course. I just have a couple more questions then I’ll leave you to the rest of your day.”

  Yvette George nodded and sipped her tea.

  “Grant Dawn had an accident in an old Ford Capri.”

  “Yes,” said Miss George. “He liked old cars.”

  “Did you or Mr Reville know much about his hobby with cars?”

  “Before the accident? A little. He tried to keep it secret, but he liked to boast about his adventures too much for that. It was obvious about the Capri. Why? Were there many others? He kept a garage or something somewhere, as I recall.”

  “So he didn’t discuss it, then?” said Palmer, ignoring the question.

  “No. He didn’t. He’d become a bit distant in the last few weeks.”

  “Any reason for that do you think?”

  “No. It was just a part of Grant’s general trend, I think.”

  Palmer nodded. “And you don’t know where he kept the Capri?”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  Palmer nodded, logging the facts.

  “Last question. Not long before the accident, I’m informed Mr Dawn withdrew a lump sum from the business as part of his planned rebrand. Or at least that’s what we’ve been told.”

  “Yes… that came out. But I don’t know why anyone would take out a lump sum like that – in cash – for any reason. If anything’s fishy it’s that. And then he goes missing? That’s the bit people should be focusing on if this turns out not to be an accident. Where did that money really go? And why did Grant disappear so soon after it went?”

  “Have you got a theory on that, Miss George?” said Palmer, looking her in the eye. “Sounds like you might.”

  “A theory? No. Not as such. But I am upset about it. If this business does go down, you can bet that money could have saved it. That’s what’s fishy to me.”

  “And if you were to elaborate… which direction would I look if I wanted to know more about that money?”

  “You’re pushing me to say things I’d rather not. But here it is. Sabine Dawn. The truth is she’s a nasty piece of work. I didn’t want to say it,
but there it is. She’s selfish, spiteful, and greedy and always has been since I very first met her. You meet her for yourself and see what you think. I dare say your first impression won’t be too different from mine.”

  The woman’s eyes flared but then she caught herself and turned sheepish. Palmer put her cup down. “It’s okay, Miss George, there’s no need to be concerned. Thank you for your time, and the tea. I’ll be off then.”

  Yvette George didn’t complain. She escorted Palmer down the hallway towards the front door but before they reached it, a key was turned in the front door, and in came a thickset man with short hair, a stubbly chin, and a severe, strained looking face. He stopped in the porchway and blinked at Palmer, before he glanced at Yvette George.

  “Mr Reville?” said Palmer.

  “Yes?” he said.

  The man was holding a thick Sunday tabloid in his hands, a pack of bacon and a six pack of eggs.

  “DS Palmer, Southend Police,” said Palmer. “I’m one of the officers looking into Mr Dawn’s accident. We’ll be wanting to speak to you in due course…” She looked at the food and paper in the man’s hand and decided she’d pushed hard enough for a Sunday.

  “I’ll leave you to your brunch, shall I?”

  “Your investigating Grant’s accident, are you? Well? What’s there to investigate? I thought it was cut and dried.”

  Palmer tried to read the man’s little eyes, his guarded body language.

  “That may well be the case, Mr Reville. But we have to be sure.”

  “His car was found in the bloody river, wasn’t it? I’d already be pretty sure if I was you.”

  “Brett!” said Yvette. “The woman’s only doing her job.”

  “What?” he said. “Look. Okay. I’m sorry. This whole thing has left me a bit stressed out. That’s all.”

  Palmer couldn’t disagree.

  “Enjoy your afternoon,” she said as Reville got out of her way.

  “Think you’ll get to the bottom of this do you?” he said as she opened the door.

  “Yes, I’m sure we will.”

  “Good luck then. Because with Grant, frankly, I’ve been trying for years.”

  Palmer offered an enigmatic smile as she walked out and left the couple to their day. Brett Reville’s attitude had deserved a lot less than that.

  Eight

  Hogarth drove to the station, hoping to catch Palmer after her visit to Yvette George. His hangover had become thick and cloying, and pangs of guilt and self-recrimination attacked him like angry dogs snapping from a nearby fence. It was Sunday. The best day to suffer a hangover he supposed, but there was an urgent case on, and Hogarth decided to hope work at the station would provide him with a way to escape from his demons. But he’d forgotten about the broken vending machine and tried to slurp past the foul taste of the toxic coffee to get at the caffeine nectar beyond. The coffee by itself was enough to make him gag, but he pressed on until the cup was done. The station was even quieter than the day before. Today PC Matthews was out, and instead, Dawson and Rawlins were on duty with a few others, but Hogarth managed to slip past them with no more than a cursory greeting. He wasn’t in the mood for much else. From the look they gave him – either because of his creeping shame or his monumental hangover – he was radioactive. They stayed back and let him pass and he retreated into his CID cave and shut the door.

  He checked the case notes on the computer, looking for any updates from PC Heybridge and the coastguard. There was nothing about the missing body, and the workflow from the forensics collisions experts had been opened, but there was nothing in the file to suggest work on the Capri had been started. Heybridge and the others must have imagined it was an open and shut case. A simple accident, the victim was dead, end of story. They should be so lucky, but Hogarth couldn’t face dealing with the PC today. Let him have his day’s rest and start hounding him tomorrow.

  Hogarth’s phone buzzed and snapped him from an unpleasant reverie. He picked it up and saw a text from Simmons.

  “Think I should go and take a look at Grant Dawn? See if anything has changed?”

  What was likely to have changed?

  Hogarth considered Simmons meaning. Was he worried about keeping his old man sweet? Dads could have that effect on a child long into adulthood. Or was he interested in the bikini champion and flirt-happy Emily Flount. Probably not. Lately, Simmons had taken to hanging around PCSO Kaplan’s desk like a fly around the proverbial. His focus was elsewhere.

  So there was another meaning. Grant Dawn seemed the impulsive type. An over-grown wild-child, a rock and roller with old cars. Getting dragged into a case with conflict-of-interest and so many other potential pitfalls was a dangerous place to be. But at least the case was now a case – but what if Dawn did something else and changed the situation again? It seemed DC Simmons had his head screwed on – at least someone did. They needed to stay one step ahead of Dawn in order to prevent any mishaps which might make the case unravel, or give other officers cause to question things, to discover their involvement with the presumed-dead before he rose again. If Melford heard the truth, he would have had enough ammunition to target him for gross misconduct, next step dismissal. And all because of helping Simmons’ father. Not a good place to be.

  Hogarth texted Simmons back.

  “Good idea. Make sure he doesn’t do anything to undermine or damage the investigation before we get a hold of it. And keep away from Emily Flount. For your own good.”

  A moment later the return text came back.

  “Understood. Will do.”

  He squinted at the text message and felt a hint of dizziness. Hogarth rubbed his eyes to clear his vision. He needed a lungful of fresh air. He walked out into the office, keeping his head down as he passed the rows of desks. Thankfully Dawson and Rawlins were gone, and instead PC Yarrow was at his desk, focused on his paperwork. Hogarth sped past his back, walked towards the water cooler by the vending machines, filled one cup, downed it, then filled it again. He saw movement at the far end of the open office doors. He glanced at the porthole windows and caught a glimpse of Melford’s drawn face and heavy moustache. Melford was busy talking on his mobile, just outside by the reception. Hogarth downed the second cup of water and dropped the empty in the bin. He needed air, but Melford was blocking his route. He was pretty sure Melford rarely ever made it into the station on a Sunday. Long Melford’s job was thankless, heavy with responsibility, the management side tedious, and there was plenty of it. He was little more than a glorified drone serving other drones, but Melford was entitled to his day off. Yet here he was, looking as frazzled as ever. At present nothing about the man was adding up. Hogarth walked through the open plan office, ignoring Yarrow and paced to the entrance doors. He glanced through the porthole windows and saw Melford leaving the reception, walking out into the civic square beyond. Hogarth shifted on his feet and caught a glance of the man standing in the square opposite the civic fountain. The man had a hand on one hip, and his phone pressed against his ear. Hogarth walked out into the lobby and glanced at the police staff on reception. Moody Dave wasn’t in today. Instead it was the middle-aged blonde with the bun. And he couldn’t remember her name.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  The woman looked up.

  “Yes?”

  “I see DCI Melford’s busy on the phone again,” Hogarth spoke in a jovial, conspiratorial tone. He aimed for levity, and hoped he’d hit the mark. “Any idea what he’s gassing about now?”

  The woman eyes sparked with something. Suspicion maybe.

  “I wasn’t listening, but he walked out when it started to get heated. An argument with the missus maybe? He is here on Sunday afternoon, after all.”

  He couldn’t push any further without making the woman more suspicious and didn’t want to risk her telling Melford about his interest. Instead he nodded.

  “The old ball and chain, eh?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “I see the DCI as more of the ball and
chain type, don’t you…”?

  “No comment,” said Hogarth. He grinned at the woman as the telephone beside her started to ring. She hit a button on the side and took a call on her headset.

  “Southend Police Station?”

  Outside, Melford started walking along past the small reception windows. He was heading left towards the courthouse, or maybe around the back of the building to collect his car, which seemed much more likely. Hogarth’s brow crumpled over his eyes and he turned back towards the office doors. The woman on reception studied Hogarth’s face as he took off through the office. The reception officer’s frown matched Hogarth’s own, but soon faded as she continued with her call.

  “Calm down, sir. Of course we’re going to help you…” she said.

  Hogarth moved through the office at a pace. There was another way to the car park through the building. He ignored the main office, past his own office, then Melford’s door, the toilets, lockers and the cells. The hefty desk sergeant glanced up at him from his post, paperback novel in hand, and Hogarth moved on, marching past the empty interview rooms until he came to the changing rooms, the cleaning cupboards, then finally turned a corner to reach the back exit. He waited and watched through the dirty glass. The car park was mostly empty though most of the squad cars were in, along with the small loaner car, his own car and Melford’s gleaming executive piece. Hogarth waited, sure that Melford was coming his way. After a minute, Hogarth guessed he had been wrong. Maybe Melford had gone to get a bite to eat from town or had met someone for lunch. Damn it. He should have followed the man… Followed him? What the hell was he thinking? Palmer would have said he was getting carried away. But such measures were beginning to feel necessary. If Melford hadn’t acted so strangely, he wouldn’t have slipped into his office to steal that note, and he wouldn’t have been standing at the back door waiting to see if he turned up.

  There. Melford appeared. He came through the pedestrian gate, using his electronic security pass and slowed his pace as he headed to his car. Hogarth pulled out of sight behind the glass, edging behind a wall. He reached for the door latch, and with an achingly slow hand, he clicked the latch and pulled the door open. He held it just ajar and listened as hard as he could. Above the usual rush of Victoria Avenue’s endless traffic, he heard the man muttering. Every moment or two, the traffic broke long enough for Melford’s words to become audible.