Hogarth sighed and stared at his own silent telephone. It was time to stop kicking the can down the road. If PC Heybridge had come out of hibernation, Hogarth needed to keep him sweet.
He sighed and picked up the phone and hoped he wouldn’t say anything wrong. The case was beginning to feel like a hot pan of greasy spaghetti – far too hot to touch and about to spill the messy contents all over the floor. But if anything did spill, it would have to be cleaned up fast. Hogarth had to hope PC Heybridge would play nice.
Thirteen
DS Palmer tracked down Yvette George at the bottom end of Southend High Street. She found the woman looking frail and forlorn, trudging away from the corner door of Costa Coffee clutching a burgundy takeaway cup in her hand. The woman’s head was tilted down to the pavement. Her walking seemed disjointed and slow, as if she was out of step with the rest of the world. It was to be expected. Bad news had thrown her world out of kilter. The usual Sunday hubbub flowed around her, as if she was a rock in the middle of a stream. Palmer felt a hint of pity. Everyone had their own cross to bear. Yvette George was a prim woman in a dull job on modest pay, who had fallen for the wrong man. And now he was dead, suddenly ripped out of her life. Palmer knew the liaison officer had already given her the news, so the business of shock had already been dispensed with. But that wouldn’t make asking questions any easier. It never did, especially when the death was still so recent. Palmer walked towards the corner of Alexandra Street and crossed to intercept the woman’s meandering.
“Miss George! Yvette George!” called Palmer. The redhead looked up as if snapped awake from a dream. Palmer waved at her, and George obliged with an unnecessary polite smile. The smile of the servile administrator had been practiced so many times even raw grief couldn’t break the habit’s spell.
“You found me, then,” said Miss George. Palmer had called ahead and arranged the meeting. It was George who’d said she needed to get outside, that she couldn’t stand to stay at home a moment longer. Not many hours before their meeting, Yvette George and Brett Reville would have been together in her flat. Now he was gone. Grief could be all consuming, claustrophobic, and unpredictable so the woman was entitled to do what she liked. Yet Palmer had also noticed the walk from her flat to this end of town would have taken George right past the stencilled door of her weekday office. It may not have meant anything at all, but Palmer noticed all the same.
“You’re aware I’ll need to ask you some quite sensitive questions?”
The woman pulled her red hair from her face and looked at Palmer with understanding. Her eyes were bright and shiny – fresh from tears, guessed Palmer.
“Yes, it’s too busy in the coffee shop. I need some air. Maybe we could talk in the gardens by Royal Terrace. There are some benches around there.”
“Whatever you like, Miss George,” said Palmer.
They walked down towards the seafront end of the high street, where the paved landscaped ground gave way steeply, first to a sculpted Mediterranean style garden – which had lately declined into a weedy mess – before a tall arrow-capped observation tower rose from ground level, looking out to the estuary and the long, straight line of the pier. The line of the pier jutted a mile and more into the water almost continuing the high street’s direction. Same line, same angle, stretching through the water, reaching for but falling miles short of the Isle of Grain and Sheerness in the distance. The two women turned left onto Royal Terrace, where the town took on a Victorian aspect. There was a glossy black wrought iron fence on one side, marking off the start of the old-style cliff gardens, with tall period buildings on the other side of the street. Some of them looked neat, clean, and proud. But one or two were shabby and colourful enough to have fitted in a holiday snap of old Havana. Palmer was tired. Another day was almost done, a pre-booked weekend off altogether lost in working, and it felt as if the pressure had only just begun.
There were two empty benches tucked behind the iron fence at the top of the gardens. George led the way and sat down. They settled themselves, briefly glancing through the tall trees which lined the slope down to Pirate Dan’s theme park and the rippling water beyond.
“I’m very sorry for your loss, Miss George,” said Palmer.
“Of course you are. And thank you. That’s two of the most important men in my life gone in the space of a few days. I can barely believe it.”
The woman’s voice wavered. She pulled the white lid from her coffee cup and sipped, then put the lid back on. “I can’t even get my head around how or why this would have happened… none of it makes sense. It all just feels so cruel. And now the business will never, ever survive. Who’ll run it now? Sabine? As if that were possible.” She shook her head, answering her own question. With Grant gone, Brett gone… there’ll be no business. And I don’t know what I’ll do… or how I’ll cope…”
“I know this is very hard for you right now, but I still need to ask you some questions. We’re trying to understand what happened to Brett.”
Yvette’s head snapped around to face Palmer. Her eyes flared. “So am I! Don’t you think I need to understand what happened to him?!”
Palmer kept her voice level and calm. “Yes, I’m sure you do. So if you could answer a few questions, we’ll find out a lot faster. Okay?”
“Grant killing himself in one of those stupid old cars, that made sense. It was awful, but it made sense. But this doesn’t make any sense at all…”
Palmer watched the woman’s face as her eyes suddenly glazed in thought. She wondered what the woman was thinking. She waited a moment in case she volunteered to speak. But she didn’t.
“Doesn’t make any sense?” said Palmer.
Yvette George looked at her. “No. How can it? Brett was in the prime of his life. He was ready to wait until Sabine saw the light and gave him control of the business. Next thing, I know she would have sold it to him, and he would have been set for life. We both would. But now all that’s gone up in smoke. Why?!”
“Please. That’s why we need to talk, Miss George.”
The woman nodded and looked down at her coffee.
“I know you’ve got a job to do,” said George, quietly.
Palmer waited one polite moment and launched into a question. “You say Brett was in the prime of his life. How old was he? I’d say he was fortyish?”
“Forty-three, nearly forty-four.”
“Mid-forties then, and a little overweight. It looked as if he was enjoying a Mars bar when he died. I’m guessing he didn’t exactly have the healthiest of lifestyles…”
“Come on, detective. Have you looked around this town? Who around here lives a healthy lifestyle? No one. And are they all dropping dead? Not at all. Brett liked his food. That’s all.”
But George’s eyes flicked away again, as if there was still a background worry in her mind. Palmer paused and considered her approach. She wanted to know what the woman was thinking. Yvette George was the amenable type, but if Palmer pushed too hard in an unwanted direction, there was a chance the woman would pull down the shutter and walk. Grief made people volatile.
“When I left you and Brett earlier it looked like you were about to have brunch together. What time did he leave?”
“Yes, we had a late breakfast, read the paper together, relaxed a little, and then Brett said he needed to go and prepare a few things for work tomorrow. He was always working, either in his head or at the office, or on his phone. That’s just how he was. The job mattered. That was where he was so different to Grant.”
“So, he left – about what time? Two? Three?”
“Probably two pm. Perhaps a shade earlier.”
“And he was due to come back?”
“Yes. That was the plan. We were due to have dinner together in the evening, and a night in front of the telly with a bottle of red. It had become our Sunday routine.”
Palmer nodded.
“Did he tell you what work he was about to do. Where he was going? You’ll be aware that we found
him at Clarence Road car park?”
“I know,” she said, sipping again. “That makes sense. It’s one of the nearest car parks to the office.”
She watched as Yvette George drifted off again. There was every chance it was down to grief, remembering a kiss, a kind word, or perhaps a final argument, but Palmer couldn’t afford to leave it to chance. There was too much riding on the outcome of the investigation to give in to compassion. She had to push.
“What is it, Miss George?”
The woman looked at her, a defensive look in her eye. “Excuse me?”
“I can see you’ve got something on your mind, I can see that.”
“Don’t you think I’m entitled to have something on my mind? Brett’s dead. My boyfriend is dead!”
“Yes… and there’s a chance he may have been murdered. You just suggested his health couldn’t have been a cause. If not, what could have caused his death? We have to consider all options. Murder is one of those options.”
The woman looked at Palmer wide-eyed. “You’re serious?”
“I’m afraid so, Miss George.”
“But who in the world would want to kill Brett?”
“I don’t know. That’s a question I should probably ask you.”
She let the question hang in the air as George’s eyes narrowed. Palmer moved on.
“Would you say Mr Reville was the easiest person to know? Was he easy to get along with?” said Palmer.
“It sounds like you’ve already made up your mind about that,” said George. “Brett just spoke his mind. If he upset you before, sorry, but that was Brett’s way. He was often a very loving, kind and gentle man. But what with business the way it was, he was under extreme pressure. He’d been snappy lately, that’s all. It was stress, but he was a good man.”
“An ambitious man, too, so I hear,” said Palmer. “Do you think he could have upset anyone… in particular?”
Palmer waited as George landed on the implication of her words. She met Palmer’s eyes.
“Do you mean, Sabine?” said George, slowly. “Sabine was grief stricken when we went to see her and I guess I know how that feels now, don’t I? Divine justice, maybe… who knows?” The woman sighed and hugged her coffee with her hands. “We were giving her a day to think about our suggestion of taking over the business but we both felt it was worth asking again. She’d had a day to think about it, hadn’t she? And we guessed she might have sobered up since our visit. Brett hoped she’d see sense this time.”
“He went to see her again?”
“Yes. It wasn’t supposed to be public knowledge. But seeing as everything’s changed, I guess you should know.”
Palmer remembered the presence of the PI’s photograph. The photo which allegedly showed Brett Reville with his hands on Sabine Dawn’s arm. She wondered if Yvette George knew about the Saturday meeting, but had to be subtle about it.
“Since Grant went missing, how many meetings has Brett had with Sabine?”
“Two. Yesterday morning and then earlier on this afternoon.”
“They didn’t meet yesterday afternoon then?” said Palmer.
“What? No. I just told you,” said Yvette, with irritation. “They met today.”
Palmer pursed her lips and nodded her head. She wondered if it was a crucial detail.
“Were they ever friendly, Sabine and Brett? Ever close at all?”
“Those two?” said Yvette, incredulous. “They weren’t enemies. But they were never friends.”
Yvette George looked up at Palmer. Her eyes were full of emotion.
“You know, now I think about it, Sabine Dawn might have been the very last person to see Brett alive...” Her bottom lip trembled. Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh no. Oh my God. You don’t think…”
Palmer shifted in her seat “Please. Don’t jump to any conclusions. What time do you think they met?”
“I don’t know. But Brett left my flat before two… and your colleague called me about what happened… just after four…”
A gap of two hours. Palmer knew any meeting would have lasted a lot less than that. From what she had gathered from Hogarth and Simmons, Grant Dawn had left the Paglesham lock-up at one pm and he’d reported sighting Reville’s body to Hogarth at two forty. Which left a window for Brett Reville and Sabine Dawn’s second meeting at some time between two and two forty. It was a very tight schedule, which made it almost probable that the meeting was connected to the man’s death. Palmer felt a tingle down her back. They finally seemed to be closing in on a suspect. And if it was Sabine Dawn, then Grant Dawn could well have been the woman’s first target. Taking out a wealthy, and quite possibly annoying, husband was an obvious move. The most obvious motive being a life insurance policy… if Dawn had had one… or laying claim to the whole financial empire. But killing Brett Reville? By any analysis, taking out Reville had to be overkill. Killing Reville undid any planning put into creating Grant Dawn’s death through sabotage. It brought the spotlight of a murder hunt right back into play. It was a bad move, pure and simple. To Palmer’s mind, if Sabine Dawn was the killer, then her hand must have been forced. But what had Reville done to warrant being killed? Probably much more than Yvette George could ever know.
Palmer felt the woman scanning her face, trying to read her thoughts but Palmer preferred to remain inscrutable. There were more questions to ask. Questions about the missing one hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Questions as to why the business was flying high in terms of paying clients yet struggling with day-to-day cash flow. But with the revelation of the timing and the new meeting, Palmer wasn’t inclined to waste further time. The minutiae could come later.
“Thank you, Miss George. You’ve been very helpful,” said Palmer, shifting in her seat.
“Is that it?” she said. “You wanted to meet me, but you’ve only asked me about Brett’s dealings with Sabine?”
“Yes, and there will be more questions to be asked, I’m afraid, Miss George. But all in good time. Can I offer you a lift home?”
The woman shook her head. Palmer nodded, stood up, and got ready to leave.
“You’re sure?” said Palmer.
“I’d prefer to walk,” said the woman, turning her eyes to the estuary. “DS Palmer?” she added.
Palmer was about to turn away for the high street, but she turned back. She looked at the red-headed woman, big eyed and frail as she sat clutching her coffee.
“Sabine. You asked me about Sabine. You don’t think she had anything to do with this do you? With Brett’s death? With Grant’s accident too?”
“We’ll be talking to Mrs Dawn, Miss George. And don’t worry. If Mr Reville’s death was due to foul play, we’ll find whoever was responsible and bring them to justice.
“You think these deaths are linked, don’t you?”
Palmer offered the woman a sympathetic face. Yvette George was a woman lost, grasping at whatever comfort she could find.
“We don’t know,” Palmer replied. “But we’re going to find out. Speak soon, Miss George. Okay?”
The redhead nodded. “Yes. I suppose we will.”
Palmer turned away and walked along the neat fence-lined path towards the bottom of the high street. George watched her the whole way, noticing that DS Palmer’s pace increased with every step. By the time she turned the corner onto the high street, Palmer was walking at a very brisk pace. Certain Yvette George could no longer see her, Palmer dialled a number on her mobile phone and put the device to her ear. She was irritated to hear Hogarth’s number go to voicemail. Palmer blurted a breathy message.
“Guv? I’ve got some news I think you’ll want to hear.
Fourteen
PC Heybridge had been a laugh a minute – all twenty-seven of them, as counted by the phone on his desk. Every excruciating minute spent dissecting a tragic accident which Hogarth knew wasn’t in the least tragic because the alleged victim was alive and well. And Heybridge had been worryingly detailed in his analysis – no doubt because he an
ticipated DI Hogarth to be a typical ball-busting SIO. And since opening the PC’s report (sent attached to an email Hogarth received during his call) Hogarth began to see PC Heybridge in a new light. Heybridge had been out of contact all Saturday, not out of laziness, but from wanting to be seen as highly effective at his job. Heybridge’s mobile had been switched off so he could compile the incident report undisturbed. So he could speak to the few witnesses dotted around the wilderness of Paglesham and put his conclusions to paper in as compelling and comprehensive way possible. And now that Heybridge’s homework was all done, it was time to show off to teacher. Hogarth listened as he demonstrated all his due diligence in spades. The DI listened and made affirmative noises whenever it felt most appropriate. And whenever he felt Heybridge start to deviate from his preferred path – a simple joyride gone badly wrong – Hogarth quickly steered him back in the right direction. But it was the last part of their conversation which required the most careful steering of all. Subtle steering, with a cutting edge of authority.
“You know, sir,” said Heybridge. “There’s a chance this accident could be down to more than bad driving, of course,” Heybridge said in his gruff tone. “The Capri was thirty years old but a man of Grant Dawn’s wealth would have been able to keep the car up to a basic safety standard. Which would make this kind of accident far less likely, I’d say.”
“Now you’re just speculating, Heybridge. I can see where you’re coming from but guesswork is no good at this stage of the game. Stick with the evidence in front of you and you can’t go wrong.”
Hogarth bit his lip and waited for the man’s response.
“Uh, no… probably not,” said Heybridge. “But you can see I’ve done my best to establish the circumstances prior to the incident.”
“Yes, yes. I’ve looked at the report,” said Hogarth, using poetic licence for the scan-read he’d actually carried out. “And from what you’ve told me here, you’ve done very well. So far it does look very much like a tragic accident.”
The Secret Dawn Page 17