by Keith Nixon
Gray shooed the birds away. “At one time or another Jake has owned pretty much every commercial property in the area. Mainly guest houses, bed and breakfasts, bedsits. Cheap digs that these days cater for the unemployed and underprivileged.”
Hamson eyed Gray through curling smoke. “Low rent? Like for immigrants?”
“Precisely for immigrants.”
“Coffee’s ready,” interrupted the proprietor. Gray collected the two steaming mugs and brought them back to the table.
“You wouldn’t think there’s much profit in it,” said Hamson.
“The government pays, so there’s plenty of money. He also owns a pub and the nightclub, Seagram’s.”
“I’ve had a few nights there. Seagram’s is the opposite end of the scale, certainly not low rent given the prices at the bar.”
“I wouldn’t know, Von, I’ve never been in.”
“They cater for the London set. And the pub?”
“The Mechanical Monkey.” Upmarket and respectable — also did good food and wasn’t far from where Jake lived. Gray and Jake drank in there many times when they were teenagers. Funny how the world turned.
“I’ve never heard of Jake until today,” said Hamson.
“Unlikely you would have. But a decade ago he was infamous.”
“Why?”
“He’s always sailed close to the wind. Buildings he owned had a tendency to burn down at the most opportune moments.”
“And he got away with it?”
“There was never any clear evidence of wrongdoing, just rumours. The last apparent accident was about the time Tom disappeared. Some people died.”
“Were you involved in the investigation?”
“I wasn’t really in the right frame of mind, but I read about it afterwards.” Odd how after years of suppression recently he could discuss Tom without feeling so uptight. “The blaze took out a large guest house called Sunset. It transpired the building was blocking a development opportunity for an out of town company. Worse, Jake was apparently involved with them. He got an insurance payout and saved the expense of knocking the building down, allegedly. Seagram’s is there now. I’d show you the original newspaper article. If I still had it.” The article had been in a pile of documents Hamson confiscated from Gray.
“Sorry.”
“Doesn’t matter. History. Anyway, Jake had been a flamboyant character, happiest when on the front page of the local rag. The big fish in the small pond. He had a colourful private life too. Three marriages, three kids, three divorces. His last wife up and left him around the same time as the Sunset guest house fire, took the youngest child, a daughter. The two boys — Regan and Cameron — stayed. Her departure was different to the prior two. It was her choice, not his. The divorce and all the negative publicity around the fire hit Jake hard. He disappeared from view.”
“He’s a recluse?”
“Not as such, just departed the limelight.”
The burger was ready as Gray’s mobile rang. He recognised the number, sighed. He could ignore it, though he knew the caller would just keep trying until he picked up. Hamson collected the food while Gray answered.
“No comment,” said Gray. He took a chunk out of the burger, chewed, and swallowed. The food stuck in his throat. He coughed, trying to clear the blockage.
The person on the other end gave a wheezing laugh. “There never is, Sergeant Gray,” said William Noble, ex-editor-in-chief of the local newspaper, the Thanet Echo, now the overseer of a blog grandly called Thanet’s Voice. He’d been around forever, knew everyone and, worst of all, was tenacious. “I’m calling about the bodies.”
“What bodies, Will?”
Hamson frowned at Gray. He mouthed “Noble” and her scowl deepened.
“Come, come Solomon, spit it out. Someone will eventually, so why not you?”
“I’ve no idea what you’re referring to.”
“I hear of three corpses found on the beach. All drowned.”
“If you say so.” Gray was glad Noble didn’t have all the details.
“No statement to make at all, Sergeant? I’ll quote you as a source close to the police. We’ll keep names out of it, of course.” Noble laughed once more.
“Nice try, but no cigar this time.”
“Ah well, had to give it a go. Almost impossible to get a scoop these days. See you at the protest march later?”
“What march?”
“Where have you been hiding the last few weeks? The attack on social care by the government and the impact it’s having on service provision like the NHS can’t be allowed to go on! We’re demonstrating through Margate.”
“I doubt I’ll be able to make it.”
“Knew you’d say that. It’s only a little thing.”
“Good luck.” Gray disconnected, his mind on the fact that Noble would have the story on his blog soon, if not already.
“What did he want?” asked Hamson.
“Fishing. Interesting coincidence, though. Noble and Jake have history too. After the Sunset fire Jake sued over some articles Noble had run. Jake won, the Thanet Echo closed and Noble was out of a job.”
“Small world we live in.”
Gray nodded. “Suppose we’d better go.” He swallowed a mouthful of coffee and grabbed the burger. He had a huge bite of the bread as he unlocked the car. Hamson cringed at the sight. “What? A man’s got to eat.”
Chapter 6
“He lives here?” asked Hamson as Gray turned through a gap between high flint walls. What had been terraced houses along a narrow thoroughfare looming over the car, became a spacious static mobile home estate.
“He has to live somewhere.”
“In a caravan?”
“Your observational skills do you proud, Von. Though strictly it’s a mobile home.”
“It’s a caravan.”
Gray belched. “Sorry.” His stomach grumbled. He’d begun to feel ill on the drive over. “Not sure about that burger.”
“I told you.”
Gray parked beside a Rolls Royce with a private licence plate — Jake’s. Gray wouldn’t be bothering to lock his car. In comparison to the Rolls it was too old and crap. Before they got out, Gray put a restraining hand on Hamson’s forearm. “Don’t rise to anything he says.”
She frowned. “Why?”
“He’ll attempt to pull your strings. King-sized arsehole, remember?”
“Worried he’ll set me on fire?”
“More the other way around.”
Hamson snorted.
Despite appearances, this was prime real estate. It possessed a fantastic view over the U-shaped Pegwell Bay into which the Great Stour River emptied. When the tide turned it did so with vengeance, the North Sea receding for at least a mile and exposing a huge expanse of mud, giving a window of a couple of hours for a handful of industrious men to dig for lugworms, the last few of a dying trade.
On the far side of the bay were the chimneys and buildings of the old Pfizer industrial site, mainly mothballed now. Atop the tip of the sweep, Deal Pier stretched out, beyond which was the port of Dover, hidden from view. The static homes provided a decent income too, Gray would bet. And Jake owned the whole site.
It took Gray a moment to remember which home was Jake’s before he led Hamson to a green rectangular box. Wooden blinds obscured the systematically spaced windows. A reasonable-sized garden of grass and flower borders extended all around it, enclosed by a waist-high, white-painted wooden picket fence.
Hamson leaned over and made a show of peering intently into the garden. “Pity,” she said.
“What is?” Gray knew he shouldn’t ask.
“No gnomes.”
“Such a stereotypical attitude from an officer of the law.”
“What do you expect?”
Gray walked up a couple of steps and rapped on the caravan’s frosted glass door. Within seconds it opened — outwards. He moved back to avoid being struck. Above Gray stood a casually dressed young man, brown hair
tousled, unshaven. Not quite as good-looking as his recently deceased brother. This was the other son, Cameron.
“Is your dad in? I need a word.”
“Who are you?”
“An old friend.”
Cameron laughed. “Jake doesn’t have any friends.”
Jake? “Your dad will want to see us.”
“Is everything okay? You don’t look well.”
“Your father, please.”
Cameron shrugged. “Sure.” He stepped outside and closed the door behind him. “Excuse me.” Gray and Hamson parted and Cameron slid through.
He led them to what was the original building, once a farm by the look of it. A single-storey lean-to, set mostly to glass, was propped against the red stone wall. It possessed an uninterrupted view of the bay through sensibly aligned mobile homes.
Cameron pointed. “The Club House. You’ll find Jake inside.”
“Where are your toilets?” asked Gray. He was going to throw up any moment.
“There.” Cameron nodded to a door beside the Club House. Gray ran. He barely managed to get inside a stall before he voided the contents of his stomach. He flushed a couple of times, then went to the sinks and laid his forehead against the wall-mounted mirror until his head stopped spinning.
He turned on the cold tap, washed his hands and face, dried them. Unsteadily, he left the toilets. Hamson was outside the door.
“You look awful,” said Cameron who’d stuck around to keep Hamson company.
“I’m feeling better now.”
“Told you that place was a hygiene nightmare,” said Hamson. “Are you ready for this?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
Cameron opened the door for them. Basically, the Club House was a bar, with Jake its only patron. He was sitting in t-shirt and shorts at a table, feet up on a chair opposite, reading a newspaper. It was warm because of all the glass. The cane furniture with floral cushions would suit a conservatory. An empty cup sat on a pine table in front of Jake. He ignored them and focused on the article.
“Jake,” said Cameron. “Some people are here to see you.”
“Will I ever get you to call me Dad?” asked Jake, keeping his eyes down.
Cameron smiled and shook his head.
“Hello, Jake,” said Gray.
Now Jake lifted his head. His face split into a wide grin. He stood, dropped the newspaper into his vacated seat and crossed to Gray. “Solomon Gray, as I live and breathe.” He took Gray’s hand and squeezed. Just a little too hard. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks.”
Jake was a short man, no more than five-and-a-half feet. Both Gray and Hamson stood head and shoulders above him. He was broad with it too, given to muscle rather than fat. Jake clearly kept himself fit. His stomach was flat, and his arms bulged.
“How many years has it been?”
“I don’t want to think about it.”
Jake let go of Gray. “And DI Hamson as well,” he said, shaking her hand now. “I knew today would be a good one as soon as I woke up.”
“I don’t believe we’ve met before, Mr Armitage.”
“I make it my business to know all the movers and shakers in Thanet, even if it is from afar. Sit down and take a load off. What would you like to drink?”
“Orange juice,” said Hamson.
Jake manoeuvred himself behind the bar which was another strip of pine, heavily lacquered, parallel to the windows. There were a couple of handles to pump beer and a limited row of optics on the wall — gin, whisky, brandy. Gray took his coat off; it was like a greenhouse in here.
“Can you make mine water?” asked Gray.
“Not drinking, Sol?”
“I’ve been cutting back.”
Jake slapped his forehead. “Of course, stupid of me. After your troubles a few months ago. It was all over the papers.”
“I’m on duty.”
Jake nodded. “Fair enough.” He turned to his son. “Cameron?”
“I’ll leave you to it,” he said.
“Nonsense, stay. Anything our good friends here have to say I’m sure you can hear.” Jake’s tone left no room for argument.
“Sparkling water, then.”
“I’ll join you, I think.” Jake leaned beneath the bar and came back with a bottle of orange and two large bottles of water. They went onto a tray, along with four glasses and a bucket of ice.
“I told you, sit down!” said Jake with a grin as he carried the tray over. “You there, Sol. And this one is for you, inspector.” Jake directed them to a comfortable seat and a stool respectively, giving Gray a place to his right looking outwards towards the sky and Hamson to the left, facing the bar. Cameron took an armchair.
“So this isn’t a social visit, then?” said Jake.
“No,” said Gray.
“What, then? Somebody died?” Jake grinned.
There was a pause.
“Yes,” said Hamson eventually.
“Regan. We found him earlier this morning,” said Gray.
“This is a joke, right?”
“No, Mr Armitage. Sadly, it isn’t,” said Hamson.
“Is it true, Sol?”
“It’s true,” said Hamson.
Jake twisted, stuck a finger out at Gray. “I asked him, not you.”
Gray said, “I’m sorry to say it is.”
“You have our condolences,” said Hamson.
“Keep your fucking sympathy,” snarled Jake.
“It’s not DI Hamson’s fault,” said Cameron who had tears in his eyes.
Jake glared at Cameron momentarily, nodded and turned to Hamson. “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.”
Cameron stood up, went to the bar, grabbed a whisky bottle and a tumbler. He brought both back to the table, poured Jake a large dram and passed it to him. “Drink this, Dad.” Cameron poured one for himself too. “I can’t believe he’s gone.” Cameron sat back down, still holding the whisky bottle.
Jake took the glass and sank the measure in one, grimacing with the taste. Gray knew Jake well enough that he wouldn’t want to show emotion in front of a cop. “What happened?” asked Jake.
“We’re not sure yet, the investigation has only just got under way,” said Hamson.
“Don’t screw around. Just give it to me.”
Hamson told Jake the basics. Jake didn’t speak for a while afterwards, his forehead creased with a frown. “I don’t get it,” he eventually said. “Regan hated the sea. Even as a kid he was scared of it.”
“It appears he was running migrants,” said Gray.
“Migrants?” Jake shook his head. “That makes no sense.”
“What did Regan do for money?”
“He worked for me, sort of. He’s listed as a director of the business though it’s a largely pointless role. He never actually came to work; it just meant I could pay him something. He wasn’t good at holding down a job. Never saw the sense in hard work for commensurate reward. He expected success to come to him, rather than the other way around.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Yesterday afternoon. Regan lives here, on site. I saw him park his car, then head to his place. Then he left again, later on.”
“What time?”
“About six. He was done up for one of his usual Saturday nights out. Regan always hit the town on the weekend.” Jake paused for a moment. “Listen to me; I’m already talking about him in the past tense.”
“I know this is difficult, Jake, but do you know where he would have gone?”
“Not really, but he typically ended up at the club.”
“Seagram’s?”
“Yes.”
“Was he there yesterday?”
“I didn’t see him, but that doesn’t mean anything. I’m always busy, particularly at the weekend.”
“Do you have CCTV?”
“Of course.”
“Do you mind if we send someone by to pick up the recordings?”
“No problem.”
“We’ll need to take a look around his caravan.”
“Do whatever you need to.”
“What about you, Cameron? When was your last sighting of your brother?”
“Half-brother. Same father, different mother. Same as Dad — here, yesterday.”
“Why doesn’t Cameron show you Regan’s home now, DI Hamson?” asked Jake, butting in.
Hamson appeared only too pleased to leave. Cameron left the whisky behind.
When the door was closed, Jake said, “You need to keep her in line, Sol.”
“She’s my boss. We operate to a different set of rules than you. We always have.”
“I remember, that was part of the problem.”
Gray held his tongue. The pair had been friends at school, Jake the firebrand, Gray the hanger-on. As they’d grown up, Gray developed a law-abiding persona, whereas Jake stayed true to his roots. When Gray joined the police the two drifted further apart.
“I don’t understand any of this, Sol. It makes no sense at all. Find out, will you? I’ll make it worth your while.”
“It’s my job, Jake. I don’t want your money.”
“Of course, I keep forgetting.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Touché.”
“One other thing. Someone will need to identify the body.”
“Christ.” Jake ran a hand over his face. “This isn’t what I expected my day to consist of.”
“Sorry, Jake.”
“Not your fault.”
“When can you come down?”
“Just give me half an hour, okay? I’ll require some further fortification.” Jake raised the whisky glass.
“Get Cameron to drive you. It wouldn’t be good to be arrested for drunk driving.”
“In the scheme of things I couldn’t give a shit, Sol.”
“I’d better get going.”
At the door, Jake stopped Gray. “Thanks for being here. I won’t forget.” There were tears in his eyes.
“You never do.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Here. In case you need anything.” Gray passed over his card.
Gray closed the door softly behind him. He wound his way between the rows of caravans until he found Cameron propped up against one, arms crossed.