Bad Sons (Booker & Cash Book 1)

by Oliver Tidy

  I broke the silence before it degenerated from comfortable to its opposite. ‘What are your intentions?’

  ‘Honourable.’

  ‘For today, I mean.’

  ‘For now, I just want to see the place. To be honest, I’ve woken up really struggling with this as a concept. The cold light of day and all that.’

  ‘I thought you might. Is that why you haven’t involved Sprake?’

  ‘Who says I haven’t?’

  ‘I do. If you had, I wouldn’t be getting a free drive out to Dungeness.’

  She allowed herself a smile. ‘True. Yes, it’s why I haven’t involved my DI.’

  ‘What do you think you can learn just from driving past the place?’

  ‘Probably not much, but I’ve got to start somewhere.’

  We didn’t talk much the rest of the way. I pointed out a couple of places to her, memories of my childhood: where the old landfill site used to be that we would pick through as boys looking for treasure in other people’s trash; the hotel that was once a sanatorium for the mentally ill; my old school where I failed at everything; the pub where I used to get drunk as a minor. She didn’t seem particularly thrilled with the guided tour.

  Dungeness was enjoying fine weather and looked the better for it. A huge tent of blue sky with a distant mountain range of pure white clouds rising up in the west.

  An enormous cargo ship was an impressive sight as it made its way around the point.

  The occasional abandoned vehicle lay disintegrating into the shingle outside the shanty town shacks with their higgledy-piggledy shapes and unregulated, uncontrolled, mostly unsympathetic exteriors. Imaginative uses for old car tyres and unwanted household items littered front ‘gardens.’ If one could shield one’s eyes from the intrusive blot dominating the shingle-scape that was the aging nuclear facility, and if one could avert one’s gaze from the non-biodegradable wind-blown detritus of people’s lives that had escaped their rubbish bins, their cars and their consciences as it lay caught on and fluttering against the various hardy indigenous plants and grotesque man-made obstacles that dotted the beach, the area could almost be described, if seen through narrowed unfocussed eyes, as picturesque. If Romney Marsh ever needed an enema, Dungeness is where they’d stick the tube.

  As we crossed over into the twilight zone, Jo made an observation: ‘This is different.’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  She gave herself a few minutes to take in the ‘scenery’.

  ‘Could do with a tidy up, maybe.’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  She sent me a sideways glance.

  ‘Don’t you like it out here?’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  ‘You’re sounding like a broken record.’

  I smiled at her and opened my mouth to repeat myself.

  The look she gave me said don’t.

  She asked me for directions. There was only one. Keep going.

  When we rounded the bend at the pub I sat up in my seat. ‘About a quarter of a mile up on the right. It’s set back off the main road behind a five-bar gate.’

  ‘Where’s the main road?’

  ‘We’re on it.’

  We cruised past and she had a good look. There was no van in evidence. I directed her on to where I had turned around the day before. She pulled off the road on to the well-worn verge. We sat looking out over the big lakes, a haven for birds and twitchers.

  Without warning, she reached across me, brushing my thigh, and I thought my luck had changed. Instead she took a pair of expensive and powerful-looking binoculars from the glove box.

  ‘Where can we get a view of the back of the place at a safe distance?’

  I suggested we drive back past and try one of the small dead end roads that led off Coast Drive. We might get a better look from one of those.

  We did that and five minutes later we were parked up again and she had her binoculars trained on the three buildings.

  ‘There’s no one there.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘It all looks locked up. There is no vehicle.’

  ‘There could be someone inside.’

  She was sounding like she was thinking about taking a closer look and that made me anxious.

  She said, ‘I’m going to take a closer look.’

  ***

  40

  ‘Before you fully commit to that course of action, can I ask you a couple of questions?’

  She sat back in her seat and folded her arms. ‘What?’

  ‘I can understand why you need to have a look, to satisfy yourself, but what if someone’s there? Or what if they come back when we’re snooping around? These are people that might have killed, probably have killed.’

  ‘For a start, we are not going for a look. I am. You will stay well clear. If there is someone there I will identify myself and ask some questions and then I’ll have a look around. If there is no one there and they come back, I’ll deal with it the same way. I am the police, in case you’d forgotten.’

  I thought she was being naive. ‘I know you are, but at the risk of repeating myself, they are probably murderers and logic suggests that murderers are apt to fight to preserve their liberty when they outnumber the law in a desolate spot. Sheep and lambs.’

  ‘That’s where you come in. Any sign of trouble you phone the number I’m going to leave with you and explain things.’

  I sighed heavily, resigned to her foolishness. ‘What about not alerting them to a police interest?’

  ‘I still would rather not. I hope I can get out there, see what I need to and get back without alerting anyone to anything.’

  It wasn’t much of an answer but it was the only one I was getting.

  She dug out a pen and paper and, after looking through the phone book of her mobile, scribbled down a number. She handed it to me and I had to take it.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘DI Sprake.’

  ‘And what if he doesn’t answer, doesn’t want to talk to me, or doesn’t believe me?’

  ‘Use your judgement. Nine, nine, nine, if you have to. Anything else? We’re wasting time.’

  I shook my head. She decided to leave the car where we were and give herself a longer trek across the stones rather than park the vehicle up at the gate that led down to the buildings. If they did return it would be better for me not to be in their way, she said. It was the first thing she had said in the last ten minutes that I agreed with.

  She left the binoculars with me, checked her torch and pockets and then grabbed her jacket off the back seat – despite the nice day, it wasn’t summer – and left me alone to my nervous vigil.

  I got out of the car to stand beside it for a better view and so I could calm my nerves with nicotine. I watched her straddle the low wire fence that ended the road we were on and start crunching her way to some answers. I followed her with my naked eyes and then the binoculars as she got further away.

  Owing to the lack of vegetation and buildings, I had a fairly good uninterrupted view in both directions of the main road, which was helpfully higher than the shingle by a couple of feet. There was little traffic and not a white panel van in sight. I realised I was anxious and my palms were sweating. There was good reason for that.

  The bungalows were approximately two hundred metres away. Jo leant into each stride as her weight would have shifted the stuff she was walking on. Walking on uncooperative shingle wasn’t a lot of fun at the best of times. I hoped she wouldn’t have to make a run for it. I hoped there was no one there. I hoped that no white panel vans suddenly loomed out of the distance. I hoped it was all locked up and she’d be back in ten minutes.

  Through the binoculars I saw her arrive. She walked around each building in turn, stopping, presumably, when she thought she might be able to see inside. She never stayed at any of the steel-shuttered apertures for longer than a couple of seconds. My phone rang, making me start. It was her.

&nbs
p; ‘Anything?’

  ‘Nothing. I can’t see shit past any of these sheets of metal. The plate over the door on the end one looks like it’s been fixed with some idea of semi-permanence. It doesn’t sound like anyone’s in there and it doesn’t look like anyone’s coming back soon.’

  I was scanning the road again as we spoke. In the distance I saw something approaching that turned my insides to mush – a white vehicle, larger than a car, heading her way down the Lydd road. I panicked. ‘Get out of sight. Someone’s coming.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I can’t see from here, can I?’

  ‘Foot or road?’

  ‘Sorry, road. From Lydd direction. It’s a white van.’

  I flicked the glasses to her position and saw she had taken my advice.

  ‘How far?’

  ‘Close and coming fast. Wait.’

  I could hear the rattle of the diesel engine then and probably so could Jo. I couldn’t breathe and I couldn’t speak as it closed on the turn-off to the bungalows.

  ‘Well?’ Now she sounded agitated.

  The van shot past the turning and with the better view of its side I could understand it wasn’t my greatest fear realised. It was just another white van. It was a wake-up call though.

  ‘All clear on the road. Come back.’

  ‘I am.’

  I didn’t take my eyes off her. She did one last quick recce. I saw her stoop to pick something up and then she was on her way back. I didn’t take my eyes off the road.

  I only fully relaxed when she was back in the car. She was holding something.

  ‘What’s that?’

  She held it out to me. Before I took it I understood what it was: a plastic pipe connector.

  ‘It was on the shingle by the back door of the nearest bungalow.’

  I confirmed what she already suspected. It was clean and new looking. No indication it had been lying around outside for any great length of time. She held out something else then.

  ‘The place is littered with these and they look like they haven’t been there long either.’

  I took the dog-end and turned it slowly around in my fingers, trying to read the maker’s name: Gauloises. Instinctively, I put it to my nose and inhaled. I’d smoked them before. A long time ago. The French cigarette has a distinctive harsh tang and a smell that would prompt a memory – a bit like cat piss. I was searching for confirmation of something.

  ‘I didn’t say anything before, but I’d swear the giant who carried me over his shoulder from the van to the barn was no stranger to this brand. It was on his clothes.’

  She didn’t question me about it. Not much point really. But it suggested something and so did she: ‘Maybe they were French.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be beyond the realms of possibility, given everything we know.’

  ‘Everything we think we know.’

  I sat corrected. ‘Well, the coupling certainly lends weight to what I’ve suggested.’

  She drummed her slender, ringless fingers lightly on the steering wheel, staring out straight ahead. She gave the impression of deep and concentrated thought before saying, ‘It does.’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘It looks to me like whoever was there has properly secured the place up again. There’s a new-looking padlock arrangement on the back door of the third place, which looks enough to keep out casual interest, but the metal sheet has also been fixed firmly with big-headed screws like on the window openings. That doesn’t suggest to me anyone is coming back soon.’

  ‘Perhaps with Flashman dead and the attention that has brought they’ve decided to retire until things quieten down. That would be the wise thing to do after all, wouldn’t it? And if he was their expertise with the pump and it’s not been fixed then they’re screwed until they can find a replacement.’

  She was nodding, but she didn’t look happy about it. ‘I suppose so. It would put the mockers on our murder investigations.’

  She started the car, turned us around and drove away the way we had come. We were both quiet, considering our own thoughts.

  Again it was me who broke the silence: ‘I know nothing is certain in this, but if we accept this operation is how it looks then whoever is behind it intended it to be something massive.’

  ‘We’ve already talked about that.’

  ‘I know. I’m just recapping. If they have closed down this end of their operation albeit temporarily until the dust settles it doesn’t mean they will have done the same the other end, does it? They wouldn’t have much reason to suspect that anyone knows what they’re proposing and how.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So there might still be somewhere to investigate.’

  ‘The French connection?’

  I shot her my favourite line from the film. My accent was lousy.

  She was driving quite fast but she looked at me for a very long second. I’m not sure she understood what I was doing.

  I gave up. ‘Yes. The French connection.’

  ‘No. Not for you, at least. I think it’s time that I took what I have to my governor. If they want to pursue it then it will be taken out of my hands and the jurisdiction of Kent police. That means you’re out of it. Clear?’

  ‘And what will you tell them?’

  ‘Everything we have learned and discussed.’

  ‘Which actually doesn’t amount to anything concrete, does it?’ I was testing her again. I didn’t want to be out of it and I’d rather she kept it between us for the moment. ‘Don’t you think they might just laugh you off? You said yourself it’s like something Enid Blyton could have written.’

  ‘What are you trying to do?’

  I took a deep breath. ‘I’m trying to find answers for my relatives’ deaths and then see those responsible brought to justice. I think the best way I can do that is myself. And I need to do something about it for my own reasons and my sanity.’

  ‘So what? You’ll go swanning over to France and wherever this pipeline, if it still actually exists, is supposed to be located and start poking about?’

  ‘That sounds exactly like what I could do.’

  She made a face. ‘God preserve us from well-meaning citizens.’ It wasn’t nastily put.

  ‘What’s to lose?’

  ‘Time, the advantage, my job, your life.’ That came out quickly. But I sensed that once again she either wasn’t so sure of the reception her claims might elicit with the hierarchy or she wanted to have more information for when the time came.

  And then I had another of my bright ideas: ‘If you don’t trust me, you could always come with me.’

  ***

  41

  If she had proposed skinny-dipping in the April sea Jo could not have surprised me more with her remarkable and swift agreement to my frivolous suggestion. I didn’t question her on it. I didn’t want to spoil the moment or risk her thinking like a police officer. We were grasping the nettle of uncertainty without a dock leaf in sight and I, for one, felt both motivated and excited at the prospect.

  There was the time factor to consider and the need for independent mobility the other side of the Channel. We agreed it would be best to take a car and leave at the earliest opportunity. It was good to be in agreement with her, and on two matters. I reflected with a sense of relief that Sprake had not insisted on having my passport in case I should flee back to Turkey.

  We drove back to the shop. I went on the Internet and secured us and our transport – last-minute tickets for the Channel Tunnel train service.

  For those who don’t know, the Channel Tunnel runs under the seabed to link England with France. It is the longest international tunnel in the world, the second longest railway tunnel and it is a little over thirty-one miles in length. Vehicles drive aboard the train near Folkestone – a short drive from Dymchurch – and roll off again at Coquelles, Calais.

  The Channel Tunnel is a truly amazing feat of engineering and very convenient for those in a hurry or wishing to avoid the risk of seasickness.
<
br />   I printed the tickets, collected my passport and a warm jacket, grabbed a horribly old and probably very out of date road atlas of France that had been gathering dust in the shop for as long as I could remember, and I was ready.

  Jo had made some phone calls, the content of which she didn’t see the need to share with me. No problem. All we had to do then was to drive to her place so she could collect her passport and change into something ‘more comfortable’. Her words.

  By the time she was spraying the loose surface all over the car park, accelerating away from my home, we had a little over two hours before the train departed. We’d be cutting it fine.

  We drove to where she lived in Hythe. I was more than a little interested to see where Jo made her home. If she had any feelings about revealing where she lived to me she didn’t share or show them.

  She drove into an estate of purpose-built flats and took a numbered parking space outside an ugly, functional, squat building ranged over four floors. She didn’t invite me in. I was glad I had my atlas to read and a timepiece to monitor the ticking away of our valuable minutes.

  As a veteran of two marriages and a small number of lesser relationships of varying durations, I was no stranger to a woman’s idea of a ‘quick change of clothes’. My spirits were understandably low then as I sat wasting time.

  With only a view of the communal bins to distract me from my reading material, I bent to the task of finding a route from the Channel Tunnel exit to Ambleteuse in the Nord-Pas-de-Calais region of northern France – the settlement strongly associated with the PLUTO operation according to the website I’d looked at.

  The atlas pre-dated the Channel Tunnel. Not good. I checked the sea for artist’s impressions of sea monsters. There were none. Better. I traced a route down the French coast on a highway unimaginatively named the D940. The drive from the rail terminal at Coquelles to Ambleteuse should take us less than an hour.

  I was considering whether there might now be a quicker, more direct route when Jo appeared at the door rattling the handle. I glanced at my watch – eight minutes. Impressive.