"What if," Eric said, flipping the photo and holding it up, "these are our Musketeers?"
Tom inhaled deeply. "Empson, Beaty, Fysh… makes three."
"And whoever is holding the camera makes four," Cassie said.
Tom nodded, looking to his left as Empson's body bag was zipped up ready for transportation to the Home Office pathologist. "You're asking the right question, Cass, what on earth is going on here?"
"This is too weird," Eric said, shaking his head.
"We need to find David Fysh," Tom said, looking at both of them.
"Yeah. I hope he's still alive?" Cassie replied.
Tom sighed. "Fysh, Empson and Beaty are linked. The only one we have access to," he looked at the gurney currently being removed from the beach house, "is Beaty, so let's start there. He knows more than he's letting on. He has to. Eric, you're with me. Cassie, I want you to follow up on Empson, how did he get home, who, if anyone, saw him and put a call into his employers. See if you can find out why he might have been travelling back here yesterday? Is it a holiday, planned… anything you can find out."
Cassie looked at her watch. "Any idea what time it is in Nigeria right now? Mind you, we don't even know if that's where he was based."
Tom nodded. "Tonight, is looking like a late one, so make your calls to loved ones," he said, taking out his phone and walking away from the others to call Alice.
Eric grimaced. "Becca's not going to be happy with me."
"Shouldn't worry, Eric. You've been off sick for months, so she'll probably be glad to be rid for a couple of hours!"
She was being tongue in cheek and Eric knew it. He laughed.
Chapter Twenty-Five
It was nearing nine o'clock when Tom and Eric pulled the car into the kerb on Cliff Parade in Hunstanton. The wind was whipping in off the sea, buffeting them so hard as they got out that Tom had to use his strength to brace the door, stopping it from slamming against him. The cloud cover was such that nothing of the sea was visible to the naked eye, aside from pinpricks of light dotting along the horizon, passing ships seeking calmer water by hugging the coast as they tracked north.
Greg Beaty's house was in darkness. There was no traffic about, a few of the neighbours' homes had lights on but everything was quiet apart from the roar of the sea hammering against the cliffs barely a hundred feet away and below them.
"Do you think he's in?" Eric asked.
"Let's find out," Tom said, imagining he would be. On his first visit he didn't leave with the impression that Greg Beaty had much of a social life. Even if he chose to venture out, with his condition, he'd find it tricky. They made their way up the drive and Tom rang the doorbell several times. With the interior lights off, it was quite possible Beaty would be asleep. He spoke of how his daily pattern didn't really correspond with what most people would consider a normal life; his routine largely determined by his physical health.
Tom was about to ring again when the veranda lights flickered on and a face appeared behind the obscured glass of the front door.
"Who is it?"
"Police, Mr Beaty. DI Janssen."
He heard the door unlock. It cracked open. A bleary-eyed Greg Beaty peered through the gap, his eye line slightly above the security chain. The look of recognition crossed his expression and the door closed again, the chain sliding clear. He smiled weakly at Tom as the door opened.
"Sorry, I'm a little… out of sorts." Beaty ran a hand through his hair, as lank and greasy as it had been on Tom's first visit.
"No problem," Tom said. "I appreciate it's an odd hour for a visit."
"What time is it anyway?" Beaty asked, backing up to allow Tom and Eric space to enter. Tom noticed he was only on one crutch tonight. Eric closed the door, the sound echoing in the hall with its wooden floors and blank walls, where there was nothing to dampen the noise.
"Nine-ish," Tom said. "How have you been?"
"Ah… same old, same old. Sick of my own whinge, so I won't bore you with it," Beaty said, turning and heading towards the living room. He flicked on a couple of lights as he entered before heading to his customary seat by the window. He stopped, looking over forlornly at the wood burner and its fading orange glow, the embers were dying out. Eric entered the room and saw the wood burner, looking at the basket of woods alongside it.
"I could get that going again for you, if you like?"
"I'd appreciate that, thanks," Beaty replied. "I feel the cold terribly these days. What with all the pills I throw down my throat and all my muscle spasms… I really feel it."
"No problem," Eric said, moving over to reignite the flames.
Beaty looked at Tom, hesitating. "Do either of you want a drink? A cup of tea, beer or something."
"No, thank you," Tom said. Eric glanced back over his shoulder, shaking his head and Beaty nodded, dropping himself into his armchair. Leaning his crutch against the small nest of tables next to his seat, he reached forward to a case of beer cans at his feet, withdrawing one and popping the ring pull as he righted himself and sinking back into his seat with a forceful exhale.
"What brings you here so late?" Beaty said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. In the soft light of the lamps, Beaty cut a pained figure, easily looking far older than his years. Tom couldn't help but think the alcohol on top of the cocktail of medications he seemed to be on couldn't be very good for him. There was also a faint odour lingering in the room that was unmistakably cannabis.
"We wanted to ask you about your associations past and present.”
"At this time of the night?" Beaty took a swig from his can. "Must be serious," he said with an easy smile. It looked artificial.
"You've lived here a long time, haven't you?"
Beaty rocked his head from side to side. "Pretty much all my life, on and off, in and around this area, yeah. I mean, I lived with my dad in London for a year or so when I was young and I’ve moved around a fair bit with work and stuff but the Norfolk coast has always been where I call home. I thought we’d already discussed that?"
"Must have a lot of friends?"
"One or two, yes." Beaty grinned, looking slightly perplexed. "Doesn't everyone? Why do you ask?"
"Harry Empson?"
Greg Beaty's eyes narrowed and he formed an O with his lips, slowly drawing air through them. Eric handed Tom the evidence bag with the book inside. Beaty's eyes followed the exchange.
"Yeah, I know Harry. We were at school together."
"Close?"
"Have been…" Beaty said coolly. "On and off, you know?"
Tom held up the bag so Beaty could see the contents, not that he thought they were in doubt. Tom could tell Beaty recognised his own book.
"When was this published?"
"Last spring. Where did you get that copy?"
Tom ignored the question, putting the bag down on the sofa next to him. "And when did you last see Harry?"
Beaty shrugged, looking out of the window with a focussed expression. He sniffed, looking back to meet Tom's eye. "Probably around then or later, summer maybe? I'm not sure. Harry isn't around much these days. He works abroad."
"Right. What does he do?" Tom asked, feigning total ignorance.
"He works for a charity. In Africa. Helping rural communities do… stuff," he said, waving a hand in the air and then lifting his beer with the other. He took a long swig, but his eyes never left Tom's. "Why do you ask?"
"I'm afraid I have some bad news, Mr Beaty. A body was found this evening at an address in Heacham. We believe it is that of Harry Empson."
Beaty's mouth fell open but other than that, he remained rock still.
"It looks like a suicide."
Beaty shook his head, his forehead creasing. "Not Harry. I don't… I mean, he wouldn't. What's he doing back here? I didn't think he was due back—" He stopped short of finishing the sentence, instead drinking more from his can. "Are you… sure?"
Tom nodded. "We believe so." He turned and picked up the book. "This copy has a handwritten dedication.
We found it at Harry's house on the seafront."
"I gave it to him," Beaty said, nodding and looking straight ahead, cupping his beer can with both hands in his lap. "Last year. I hadn't seen him for some time and then he got in touch."
"When was this?"
Beaty took a breath, raising his eyes to the ceiling. "Um… September, October, I think. Yeah, around then."
"So, you saw him after spring or summer then, didn't you?" Tom said, fixing him with a stern look. Beaty held it for a moment and dipped his head in acknowledgement of the contradiction.
"I'm sorry, Inspector. I–I get confused sometimes. It's my medication."
"Easily done, Mr Beaty, but perhaps you need to think before answering further—"
"Am I being accused of something here? Because, if so—"
"We have reason to believe that Harry's death was not self-inflicted, so I think you should bear that in mind."
Beaty's shoulders sagged, his lips parting. "You think… someone… killed him?"
"Can you think of a reason someone, anyone, might want to do harm to your friend, Harry?"
He shook his head emphatically. "No. Harry was a great guy. He's dedicated his adult life to helping people, helping them to improve their own lives. He hasn't got an enemy in the world as far as I know." He brought a closed fist up to his mouth, his eyes watering. "Dear God, poor Harry."
Tom took the photo that Cassie found in the book and reached over, handing it to Beaty. The man put his beer down on the table, wiping his nose with the back of his hand and held the image up and away from him.
"Sorry, I don't have my glasses on."
He scanned the image, his eyes lingering on it for a few seconds as he bit his lower lip. He slowly lowered it into his lap, keeping his eyes on it the whole time as he took a deep breath.
"That's from a long time ago," he said quietly. "Man, they look young in this."
"Can you tell us who is in the picture?" Tom asked.
"Erm… yeah, sure. Harry is on the right," he said, holding the picture up and pointing to the boy on the right with wavy hair hanging past his ears with a central parting. "And the one in the middle is Davy—"
"David Fysh?"
Beaty nodded. "Yeah, that's him."
"You're friends?"
"Not so much now, no." Beaty tapped the image gently on his thigh, lifting his eyes to Tom. "We were tight at school for a while but, well… you move on in life, don't you? I went to college, photography took over my life and I was never really about anymore. Same with Harry, really."
"How old were they in this picture, would you say?"
Beaty pursed his lips. "I'd say fourteen, fifteen… maybe."
"And the other boy in the picture, who is he?"
Beaty raised the photo again, staring at it intently for a few seconds. Lowering it, he handed it back to Tom.
"Sorry, I can't place him."
Tom nodded, accepting the image back. "Right, thanks." He looked at it himself briefly, then peered over it to see Beaty watching him warily. "You see, they all look pretty friendly, don't they?" Beaty shrugged. "And it's a small place where you all grew up. We checked your childhood addresses." Tom glanced at Eric.
"The three of you," Eric said, flicking back a page in his notebook, "David Fysh, Harry Empson and yourself, all lived within a mile radius of each other when you were teenagers."
Beaty nodded. "Sounds about right, yes. So what?"
"I grew up in Sheringham," Tom said, smiling. "It's a nice place to bring up kids – not that I thought so when I was growing up. We were bored as hell, me and my friends. Our parents would turf us out and we'd be off out on our bikes heading all over the place, only coming home when we were hungry."
"Or when it got dark," Beaty said, grinning.
Tom nodded. "The dedication in the book was made out to My fellow Musketeer."
"Yes, we gave ourselves that nickname," Beaty said, smiling.
"And how many Musketeers were there?"
Beaty was about to speak but Tom held up his hand and continued, "And bear in mind we'll be talking to David Fysh later as well."
It was a gamble on Tom's part. Either Beaty would be rattled at potentially having someone else contradict what he was about to say or Greg Beaty was in touch with his childhood friend, in which case he would know he'd dropped off the radar and might give that away.
Beaty laughed nervously, speaking quietly. "It was just a nickname."
"But here's the thing, Greg," Tom said. "When I was a kid, running with my friends in a small town, we knew everyone around us who was a similar age, or a year or two either side."
"I'm sorry, Inspector," Beaty said, his shoulders flinching upwards as he shook his head, smiling apologetically. "I don't know the kid. Or if I did, then I've forgotten. It was all a lifetime ago."
"Sadly, your friend's life is over." Tom fixed his gaze on Beaty, who looked decidedly awkward under Tom's scrutiny. “So, we would appreciate your help."
"I–I'd be delighted to help," he said, "and if I knew, I would say but… I'm really very sorry, b–but I can't help you."
Beaty picked up his beer can – realising it was empty – he swore softly before putting it back down and reaching for another.
"Perhaps you might want to go easy."
Beaty laughed. It was a bitter sound without genuine humour. "Yeah. I've heard that a lot in the past!" He pulled the ring and was sprayed with beer which he ignored, shaking the residue from his hand and taking a large swig, then licking his lips. He stared at Tom.
"Tell me," Tom said, "in all the conversations you had with Gavin Felgate, did he ever speak to you about your friendship with David Fysh?"
Beaty held Tom's gaze, shaking his head. "No, not at all. Why would he? And Davy and me… we're not really close anymore anyway. Why would he?"
"You know Gavin Felgate was running a story on David's business dealings."
"Successful bloke, Davy."
"And not necessarily achieved legally," Tom said. Beaty looked at him sternly. "At least, that was the angle we believe Felgate was coming at it from."
Beaty smiled, shaking his head. "Doesn't sound like the Davy I know."
"But you're not friendly with him anymore, though, right?"
"Yeah, that's right. I'm not." Beaty looked away. "I guess people change, don't they?"
"Yes," Tom said. "In my line of work, I find people are full of surprises."
Chapter Twenty-Six
Greg Beaty closed the door on the detectives, locked it and slid the security chain into place before they'd set foot off the veranda. He switched the exterior lights out and hobbled back into the living room and the warmth of the fire. Entering the room, he switched off the lights, leaving the orange and yellow flickering light from the wood burner. It was the only light source aside from the glow from the streetlights on Cliff Parade.
Grimacing with every step, he hurried over to the picture window – as hurried as he could be – to observe the policemen departing. He was there in time to see them get into their car; the taller of the two, Detective Inspector Janssen, paused to look up at the house. Confident that he was only visible in silhouette form, Greg remained where he was. Moments later, DI Janssen got into the car.
That nagging sensation of fear – the familiar knot in his chest – was back, his breathing short and ragged. A few years ago, it was the unknown that spurred him on, that created the drive to take the risks and fuelled the adrenalin that he loved to experience. These days it was different. What was it that bothered him? When he was abroad there was a sense of lawlessness in the environment, a feeling that the here and now was all that mattered. Long-term vision was something the people around him didn't consider; it wasn't their role. They didn't need to.
Back home everything was different. He was different.
The policemen drove away and he felt relief. But they would be back. When, he didn't know but they would be back. Picking up his mobile phone he scrolled through t
he contacts and selected one. He leaned against the wall, listening to the ringing phone. His eye was drawn to the passing ships on the horizon, their lights blinking as their position shifted on the rise and fall of the waves. It must be rough out there tonight. The call transferred to voicemail and he swore softly, waiting for the automated message to finish. The beep sounded.
"Hey, it's Greg. Listen, things are really starting to get out of hand… the police have just left my place and… and they're saying Harry… Harry's dead, man! I didn't even know he was back in the country, did you? They're telling me it looks like a suicide but that it isn't. First, that journalist is sniffing around and… then he's dead. Now Harry…" He paused, realising he was starting to ramble which he was prone to do when he felt overwhelmed – another recent change in him he didn't care for – and in any event, the less he said on the telephone the better under the circumstances. "Look, you need to call me when you get this message or come over to the house. I know you didn't want to before b–but I'm not mobile. I'm stuck here." He stood in silence, half expecting, half hoping he'd hear another voice on the end of the line. "Look, just call me, yeah?" He took a deep breath. "Please," he said, hanging up.
Greg touched the mobile to his lips and shut his eyes, attempting to get a handle on his breathing. Tossing the mobile to his armchair, he made his way over to a sideboard beneath the window and with great effort, lowered himself down onto his knees, an action that sent shooting pains and muscle spasms from his left foot up through his body culminating in a surge of pain in his forehead. He winced, tears coming to his eyes. Bracing himself against the sideboard, he took controlled breaths until the moment passed, reassuring himself that it would do so soon enough.
Opening his eyes, he reached into the right-hand cupboard in front of him and came away with an old shoe box. Holding it between his arm and chest he lifted himself up and limped over to the fireplace where he sank down on the rug before the wood burner, the shoe box spilling to the floor and emptying its contents onto the rug. Cursing, he began gathering the pictures together, old photographs he'd kept for some unknown reason for all these years. Photographs he never intended to look at. For the first time in years, he allowed himself to look, thumbing through them slowly and smiling at the happy faces; young teenagers without a care in the world, their whole lives in front of them. He stopped on one in particular, holding it up to see the detail better in the dancing firelight.
A Dark Sin: Hidden Norfolk - Book 8 Page 18