by Keith Nixon
“She’s inside,” said Cameron. He looked to the Club House at the sound of breaking glass. “I think I’ll leave Jake to it for now.”
“I’ve a couple more questions for you, Cameron.”
“Shoot.”
“Do you work for your father as well?”
“Yes, although I earn my keep, at least.”
“And you live here too?”
“No, I don’t have one of these wonderful abodes. I manage the site for Jake. If I was here all the time it would drive me mad, and it wasn’t me Jake needed to keep an eye on. I have one of the flats on Marine Esplanade in Ramsgate. I surf and jet-ski so it’s the perfect location. When I’m not working I’m out on the water.”
Hamson stepped out of the mobile home. “I’ve had a quick look around,” she said, taking off her blue nitrile gloves. She stuffed them in her pocket. “Can’t see anything obvious.”
“Forensics can do some deeper digging.” Gray turned to Cameron. “Thanks for your time, Cameron, and again, our condolences.” Gray shook Cameron’s hand. He and Hamson headed back to the car.
“We might as well go straight to the mortuary,” said Gray. “Jake said he’d be over shortly. Otherwise, by the time we reach the station we’ll be leaving again.”
“Good idea.”
Gray started the engine and reversed out of the spot. Cameron was still leaning against his brother’s caravan, watching them as they drove out through the high walls.
“Did you learn anything else from Jake?” asked Hamson.
“Not much.” Gray told her what he had said.
“You two, though,” said Hamson after a moment’s pause.
“What?”
“You were like old bloody mates.”
That was about right.
Bloody mates.
Chapter 7
Adnan Khoury walked quickly, head down, avoiding the few people he saw, sticking to the shoreline. His progress brought him into a built-up area. A road sign said Margate. Buildings meant people, which was good and bad. In the distance he could hear shouts, whistles, and chants. He passed a lifeboat station, the doors open, a boat on a trolley. A man in yellow oilskins wiping his hands onto a cloth didn’t give Khoury a second glance.
He carried on for a few hundred yards before pausing at the edge of a harbour, an inner bay protected by a long concrete arm. Here the town opened up. Margate had a shabby appearance. Before him, was a road lined with pubs, cafés, restaurants and, beyond, an amusement park called Dreamland, which seemed to be mainly bright, flashing lights even though it was mid-morning. Then a tall block of flats which loomed like a dirty iceberg.
Now he could see what the noise was about. A protest march making its way along the road. Lots of people, banners held high, words Khoury couldn’t read. Somebody at the front on a megaphone, chanting. The line stretched on back down the sea front. Dotted periodically were fluorescent yellow jackets and uniforms; apparently the police.
Khoury headed along the harbour arm, away from the march. At the far end was a bench. He sat down. While Khoury waited, he thought about his brother Najjar and friend Shadid. What had happened to them after Khoury threw himself off the boat and swum for shore? Najjar had been stabbed, that much he knew.
He could have lost it there and then. The grief he’d been bottling up for the last few hours threatened to spill over. A moan escaped his lips. Khoury glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone had heard. He was alone. Khoury allowed himself a few moments to think about Najjar. He rocked back and forth, arms across his chest, head bowed. Tears ran down his cheeks.
The irony of it all. Najjar had been the kind-hearted brother, always with a good word for people, a helping hand. Khoury was the black sheep. He’d needed to leave Syria. Najjar only came along to protect him, Shadid too, as a family favour. Khoury was desperate to speak with his wife — to see how his little girl was handling her chemo treatments. It had been a week since they’d last spoken. He supposed they were still in hospital. At least they were safe while he was away. And soon, they could join him in England, or that had been the plan.
For now, all he wanted to do was scream. But it wouldn’t do well to draw attention to himself. There would be people after him.
Khoury had to acquire the basics — clothes, food, money — and soon. He needed somewhere to sleep, too. If it was to be the streets, he needed the means.
It took about twenty minutes for the demonstrators to pass. His stomach rumbled. He was starving. Only some stale biscuits in the last twenty-four hours. Luckily Khoury was wiry, not an ounce of fat on him; he didn’t need to eat a great deal to survive.
Once the protesters were just a trickle and the police had gone, Khoury made his way to the road which ran parallel with the sea front. A long line of cars followed in the march’s wake. Pedestrians on the pavements went about their business. None gave him even a first glance.
Margate reminded Khoury of Calais, where there was also a brooding sense of acceptance between locals and immigrants. He’d blend in here, for sure.
He wandered the pedestrianised shopping area, getting a feel for the immediate surroundings. He stole an apple from a fruit and vegetable shop, picking it up from a tray as he passed. When he was down to the core, his hunger awoken rather than satisfied, he selected his first target, a cheap clothing store. He entered through large, heavy doors and mooched the racks of low cost garments. He was pleased to see there weren’t any electronic tags.
First, he picked up a jacket, something long and heavy with a hood. When he was sure no one was looking he slipped it on, alert and ready to run. No alarms were raised. Emboldened, he carried on with his spree, picking up some pants and socks. Upstairs was a food section. He put a few easily concealed items in his pockets; high-energy chocolate bars and drinks. Finally, just before leaving, he lifted a hoodie from a coat hanger and concealed it beneath the coat.
Holding the hoodie under his jacket he was almost on the street when a hand fell on his shoulder.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Khoury turned. A man, frowning at him, dressed normally, not a guard in a uniform. Khoury couldn’t reach his knife; it was tucked away below what were now several layers of clothes. He tried to shrug the hand off, but the man gripped the coat tighter, spun Khoury ninety degrees and pulled him around the corner, away from the store.
“You were lucky you didn’t get caught,” said the man. Khoury had the chance to properly look at him. He was young, blonde hair twisted into dreadlocks. He wore a camouflage army jacket covered in badges and Doc Marten boots.
“You’re new here, right?”
Khoury’s understanding of English was good. In his past life back home he’d been a language teacher in adult education.
Khoury nodded. What was going on?
The young man sighed. “Look, you need to keep your head down.” He dipped into Khoury’s pockets, pulled out the chocolate bars, put them back in again. “Getting done for this isn’t worth it. You’ll be on a boat and back to France for less. I haven’t got much myself, but here you go.” He held up a five-pound note. “Have you got anywhere to sleep?”
Khoury shook his head but didn’t take the cash, dubious as to how the young man would expect him to earn it. But the young man stuffed the note into one of Khoury’s pockets.
He said, “There’s a place called the Lighthouse Project. They’ve got beds and food. Would you like me to show you where it is?”
“Yes.”
“Follow me.”
The young man led Khoury out of the alley, turned, and walked up the slope towards the centre of town. They’d only gone about a hundred yards when Khoury stopped dead. The television in the shop window had caught his eye.
Not wanting to believe what he was seeing, Khoury went up to the window, bumping into a passer-by in the process, sending her bags spilling to the ground. Khoury barely noticed.
He pressed his palms up against the glass as the camera view pan
ned over a building in ruins. Massive slabs of shattered concrete and twisted metal. Clearly it had once been a large construction, now reduced to rubble.
“What’s the matter?” asked the young man, standing by Khoury’s side. Khoury ignored him.
A legend appeared on the screen, revealing the location as a children’s hospital in the rebel-held Idlib province. The Syrian regime, supported by the Russians, had been indiscriminately attacking rebel-held facilities.
Khoury sagged to his knees. There was only one children’s hospital in Idlib. It was where his daughter was being treated. Laila. She would be dead. His wife, too. There was no way she would have left his daughter’s side. They were dead, both of them. Khoury was alone. Tears flowed down his face. He felt a hand fall on his shoulder.
“Bastards,” said the young man.
Something hardened inside Khoury then. His people had suffered so much. He stood, cuffed away the tears. “Please take me to the refuge,” he said. The young man stared at Khoury for a long moment before he nodded.
Chapter 8
Standing in the mortuary viewing room, Solomon Gray understood how Jake was feeling. Hollowed-out cheeks, pallid skin, and haunted eyes were just the outward, visible display of the gut-wrenching sense of loss. Gray knew because he’d felt exactly the same when he stood above the body of his ex-wife after she’d committed suicide.
However, there was one critical difference. Jake was about to view his dead child. There could be nothing worse for a parent. At least Gray hadn’t had to suffer that.
Yet.
Gray believed that Tom was still out there somewhere, waiting to be found. He hadn’t received the solid, irrevocable proof that Tom was deceased, the way Jake was about to. Tom would be on the edge of tipping into adulthood now. Seventeen. Maybe unaware of his background, except perhaps for a few, nagging memories that clung to his subconscious like a fading dream.
Cameron was here, as a crutch for his father; and the pathologist Ben Clough, to gain official confirmation of the identity of the corpse.
And, of course, Regan, stretched out on a gurney, a distinct form beneath a white sheet.
“Are you ready?” asked Clough. He stood by Regan’s head, Jake further down at chest height, Cameron parallel to his father on the other side of his half-brother, Gray at the bottom of the gurney where he could see both of the Armitages’ expressions.
Jake visibly drew in a breath, his chest swelling. He exhaled, nodded. Delicately, Clough pinched both sides of the sheet between finger and thumb and peeled the shroud off the corpse. Clough exposed face and shoulders. Naked, pallid skin, bloodless lips, eyes closed.
Regan was calm in death. Though Gray imagined his last moments were anything but. Being thrust underwater by successive waves, thrashing, hunting for air. The searing pain across his lungs and heart as they starved of oxygen. Perhaps at the end, the relief was blessed.
More often than not, bereaved relatives viewing a loved one collapsed as grief overtook them. Not Jake. His stance stiffened; he stood taller, stronger when he laid eyes on his son, whereas Cameron remained expressionless.
Jake turned to Clough. “It’s him.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” said Clough.
Jake took a step forward. He raised a hand as if to stroke his son’s face, then drew it back and, before Gray could stop him, slapped Regan on the cheek, following up with another strike. Cameron and Gray leapt forward at the same time. Cameron reached Jake first, and got an arm around a shoulder. Jake shook him off and managed to strike Regan again. Gray and Cameron took a grip of Jake, barging him backwards like they were in a rugby match until he was against a wall. He was strong though, and fought against them.
“Dad!” shouted Cameron. “Stop it!”
“He’s an idiot!” shouted Jake.
“Calm down, Jake,” said Gray.
Clough, after initially freezing in surprise at the turn of events, covered up Regan with the sheet once more and slid the gurney back into the wall. As soon as he did so, Gray felt Jake’s muscles relax.
“Are we done?” asked Gray.
Jake nodded. “Sorry, I don’t know what came over me. You can let go.”
“Get him out of here,” said Gray to Cameron, who nodded.
When the Armitages had left, Clough said, “Well, that was a first.”
“Good thinking, getting rid of the body.”
“I didn’t know what else to do.”
Gray let go of a lungful of air, felt himself relax too. “When’s the PM?”
“Tomorrow, first thing.”
Gray said his goodbyes, left the suite, found Hamson hovering by a vending machine. She folded up the packet of crisps she’d been eating and shoved it into a pocket. Cheese and onion, he reckoned by the smell. At least she didn’t lick her fingers.
“How did it go?” asked Hamson.
Gray fell in step beside her and told her what happened.
“Really? I’ve never heard of that reaction before.”
“That’s what Clough said.”
“I may put you down for the PM.”
“Great.”
“No need to thank me.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
Hamson’s phone rang at the car which was parked right in front of the entrance. She handed Gray the keys while she spoke. He unlocked and got inside, waiting for her. He didn’t have to wait long.
“That was Mike,” she said, joining him in the car. “Says he’s got some CCTV we need to see.”
Gray drove slowly through the car park. When they were on the main road Hamson said, “What about Cameron?”
“He was controlled. He said and did nothing until Jake lost it.”
“The reaction of a grieving relative?”
“Maybe.”
Chapter 9
Then
Regan Armitage stepped back into the shadow of a shop entrance, warned by the shout.
“Rachel!”
A girl ran past on the other side of the road. A man and a woman stood on the top step of the Sunset guest house. The man shouted again. But Rachel, whoever she was, got lost in the gloom.
Regan stayed still; wondered if he should come back tomorrow. The point of arriving at this time of night was that everybody should be asleep. After a few minutes of indecision, he watched the pair go back inside. Another minute and the light in the downstairs bay window switched off. Regan breathed a sigh of relief. He leaned out from the darkness, looked up and down the road, saw no one. He decided to wait another quarter of an hour.
The minutes ticked slowly past, Regan expecting someone to happen by and ask him what he was doing. But no one did. When the time was up, Regan hefted the heavy backpack from the ground, the strap cutting into his shoulder. Quickly he walked the hundred yards or so to the guest house and turned into the dark, narrow alley which ran alongside it.
A wooden fence separated garden from alley. A few days ago, he’d loosened a couple of the boards. He bent over, got his fingers around the edge of the rotting wood. He was relieved when both came away easily. He shoved the backpack through and then, after a glance up and down the alley, followed it.
Regan found himself in a long, narrow back yard. Like the girl, he paused, listened. Nothing. No noise, no light spilling out of any windows. He smelt engine oil. Under a tarpaulin was an old motorbike. He carried the pack to the back door. He knelt down and nudged at a cat flap in the door. It moved freely. He quietly unzipped the pack and pulled out a plastic jerry can, the kind drivers use as emergency back-up. He unscrewed the cap; took a wooden lolly stick from an inside pocket, and wedged the flap open with it.
The cat chose then to exit, pushing its way out through the hole. It was a tight squeeze. The animal rubbed itself against Regan. He stroked it briefly before tipping the contents of the jerry can through the flap into the room beyond.
The petrol fumes were powerful. Got right up Regan’s nose. Felt like the gas was scraping his sinuses, making him f
eel giddy and nauseous at the same time. The cat didn’t like it either and backed away. Regan poured until the can was empty. Next, he pulled some rags out of the bag and laid them on the tiled floor.
Regan took his final tool. A brass Zippo lighter. It was a beautiful object; Regan flicked the wheel and the gas caught, producing a yellow flame. He lit a rag and, when it was burning, dropped the lighter inside. Immediately the flames expanded, a wave of blue rushing across the kitchen floor. For a moment, Regan watched — transfixed by the beauty — until, behind him, the cat hissed. Regan turned and saw the animal dive through the gap in the fence, back lit by the blaze. Alert now, Regan grabbed the backpack and hustled too.
In the alley, Regan glanced over his shoulder. He was shocked by how quickly the fire had taken. He could see the flames. He’d need to be quick. Walking as fast as he dared without bringing attention to himself he soon arrived at the phone box. The hinges squeaked as the door opened and closed. He lifted the receiver. His plan was to ring the fire brigade so the conflagration would be put out, but not so soon that the house itself could be saved. It would mean the guest house was out of business — which was the objective.
When Regan put the receiver to his ear, however, he heard nothing. He rattled at the contacts. Still silence. He looked down. The cord had been cut. The panic bloomed in his gut. There was no way he’d be making the call from here.
He left the phone box and began running …
Chapter 10
Now
The traffic in front of Gray slowed before it ground to a halt. He was most of the way along Belgrave Road, a tributary which connected with the Margate seafront and ran along the border of the Dreamland amusement park.
“What’s going on?” asked Hamson. They were less than a mile from the station now, just a few minutes’ stop-start drive under normal conditions.
“I’ve no idea,” said Gray. The car in front rolled forward a few feet then paused again. The road could be busy, but a dead halt was unusual.