by Keith Nixon
“You’ve got resources; make sure they’re directed where I need them. Call me with everything, no matter how small.” Jake popped open the passenger door. Carslake watched as the initial scene reversed itself — Jake returning to his car and driving away.
When Jake had gone, Carslake got out of his car. He needed to clear his head. He crossed the car park, buffeted by the wind, heading for the derelict church. Inside, the breeze lessened, whistling through columns of brick and the windows where glass had once been. It sounded to Carslake as if someone familiar were speaking to him. Carslake stood still and listened.
“Why?” They said. “Why?!”
Carslake’s heart hammered against his rib cage, his breathing quickened. It felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the space he stood in. “Tom? Is that you?” His voice shook.
“Why?!”
Maybe not Gray’s boy, maybe it was the others. The ones he’d never met but had helped sully him forever. Something brushed across Carslake’s face. It felt like somebody breathing on him. He backed up against the wall, twisting his head from side to side, trying to see into the shadows. He almost pissed himself there and then. The wind increased, plucking at his clothes. Carslake’s scalp itched, as if someone were running their fingers through his hair.
Carslake fronted up, as he always did. Shouted at them, though there was no strength in his words. But the wailing grew until he could stand it no more. He turned and ran.
Chapter 13
“Your tie isn’t straight,” Underwood said to Gray.
He shrugged. “I doubt they’ll be that bothered. I’m not the star turn.”
They stood in the front reception area of the station. A knot of reporters was outside, talking to each other or on phones. Earlier, from an upstairs window, he’d watched vans and cars arrive, disgorging the journalists.
Underwood checked her watch. “Time to go.”
“Remember, you’re here for moral support,” whispered Hamson. She squeezed his arm and smiled. Gray nodded. He held the door open for her, as Underwood hadn’t bothered, and they walked out.
There was the immediate click of photos being taken and shouted questions from the assembled men and women of the press.
Underwood held up her hands, then pushed them down as if she were squeezing the noise into a box too small to contain it. Gray noticed Noble at the back of the pack.
“Quiet down please, ladies and gentlemen,” said Underwood. “DI Hamson will read out a brief statement. There will be no time for questions.” Underwood waved Hamson on. Reporters held phones out to record her words, cameras clicked again.
“Earlier today, the body of a twenty-six-year-old local man, Regan Armitage, along with two currently unidentified males, was found on a beach between Broadstairs and Ramsgate. One of the unidentified males had been stabbed. Although the post mortem is yet to be carried out, it’s likely he died from his wounds.
“We believe another person escaped the scene. A man was discovered hiding in a beach hut at Dumpton Gap, but he fled. This man may be able to provide vital information to aid our investigation and we are making an appeal to find him. Miss Underwood has a photo of him and will hand out copies.”
“Is it true that you’re currently investigating the murder of Regan Armitage?” asked someone, a female by the voice.
“The investigation is ongoing, and I cannot comment on operational specifics.”
“Could this man you’re trying to track down be the murderer?” asked the same person.
Underwood stepped in before Hamson could answer. “I said no questions at this time.” Underwood glared at the offending reporter who appeared totally unaffected by her gaze.
Hamson headed back indoors.
Noble appeared at Gray’s side. Gray got a waft of Chinese food — Noble’s offices were above a takeaway in the New Town area of Margate, a five-minute walk away.
“She’s hardly endearing herself to my colleagues,” said Noble.
“That’s a common trait in Miss Underwood,” said Gray.
Noble pouted. “This could have been my exclusive if you’d have just bent the rules a little.”
“I’d bet a day’s pay you put the story out anyway.”
“It would be a disservice to my profession if I lied, therefore I will maintain a stoic silence.”
“Which would make a change, Will.”
“Anyway, all this is small beer compared to the other stuff I’m working on. When it comes out …” Noble shook his head. “Turmoil. Your lot will be really busy clearing up the mess.”
“What mess?”
“Scoop of the century, Sol. So I’m keeping that one to myself. You’ll know when it happens. Besides, you have dubious friends.”
“Who?”
“See you around.”
Noble turned and walked away, lost in the mix of bodies and leaving Gray with more unanswered questions.
Chapter 14
Now that night had fallen, Khoury felt he could move around the town a little easier. The loss still burned in his heart. He was making his way back to the Lighthouse Project, the place his dreadlocked benefactor had pointed out to him earlier, only a few minutes from the shop where Khoury had acquired his new belongings. The polluted illumination of Dreamland was in front of him and beyond it the high rise of Arlington House bullied the skyline. A few lights twinkled from behind curtains.
As had become a habit, Khoury glanced over his shoulder. The pavement was empty except for the orange cast of intermittent sodium lamps. A fox paused as it crossed the road, spotting Khoury. When car headlights came around the corner, the animal burst into motion and was quickly lost to sight. As the vehicle passed by, Khoury turned his face away. The car drove on without slowing.
The building he wanted was a white-washed house in a terraced row identical to its neighbours except for the sign above the door which stated “Lighthouse Project Outreach Centre”. Beside the words was a depiction of a lighthouse. Beneath the title was a strapline, “Shining out a light for the homeless”. A yellow glow spilled out from the front door like its own beacon.
Steps reached up to the front door from the pavement. Khoury walked up them and entered. Within was a hall and a couple of doorways, ahead and to the right. The walls were plain; the floor varnished boards. Khoury glanced inside the nearest room. It was a reception area where a young woman, wearing faded denim dungarees, stood. Her dark hair was tied back. She had a name printed on a badge pinned to her chest which said “Rachel”. She was heavily pregnant.
“Hello,” she said, bright and alert.
Khoury didn’t reply. Words didn’t matter.
Rachel smiled. “We don’t bite, and there’s no need to tell me anything unless you want to. Including your name.”
Khoury remained mute.
“Do you understand me?”
He nodded.
“We offer a bed for the night or there’s hot food or both, depending on your preference. You can take a shower too or a bath. We don’t want any trouble so no drug taking on site and no fighting. If either rule is broken, you’ll be asked to leave. Did you understand all that?”
Khoury nodded again.
“Good. I’m Rachel.” She tapped her badge. “Come find me if you need anything. Here’s a blanket and a towel. Go back the way you came, turn right along the corridor, and you’ll find everything out there.”
“Okay.”
Rachel grinned this time.
Khoury took the bedding, turned around, and followed his feet. Out the back, he entered a larger-than-expected room with rows of benches aligned vertically. To the rear was a long table at ninety degrees to the benches, covered with a plastic sheet. On top was a large urn, a pile of paper bowls, and plastic spoons. Behind the tables were a young man and a grey-haired woman, also wearing badges. Kelvin. Natalie. The smell issuing from the urn made Khoury’s stomach lurch into life.
Khoury went further inside. Off to one side was another area with rows
of beds, half of them filled with snoring people. To the other was a small kitchen area. He made his way over to the table.
“Vegetable soup,” said Kelvin. “Would you like some?”
“Yes.” Khoury kept his head down, not making eye contact with Kelvin or the woman.
Kelvin picked up a paper bowl and ladled a couple of dollops of soup in before handing it to Khoury. Natalie passed over a plastic spoon and a serviette. Khoury carried the bowl over to a table, put down the towel and sat. He poured some water from a jug into a plastic cup, took a sip. The water was tepid.
He turned his attention to the soup. Purely out of habit, Khoury dug around with the spoon first, searching for anything which shouldn’t be there. Then he ate, his hunger overcoming his trust issues. It was decent enough, warm and filled with chunks of root vegetables. As soon as the first mouthful hit his stomach, he realised quite how hungry he was and devoured the lot, head low as possible over the food and shovelling it in at speed. When finished, he was back, holding out the bowl for Kelvin. Only partway through his third helping did Khoury’s appetite began to sate.
Finally satiated, Khoury sat back. He considered having a shower. However, he realised he wasn’t alone at the table. That in itself wouldn’t be unusual, this was a hostel, after all, but the two other men were focused solely on him. They sat on either side a couple of feet away. Once they had Khoury’s attention they shifted along to fill the gap so Khoury was hemmed in.
“Hungry little boy, aren’t we?” said the first man. He had a beard, bad teeth, and one milky eye. The other, also bearded, with long, straggly hair stayed silent, glaring.
During his travel across Europe Khoury had learned to sense when trouble was near. This time his instincts had failed him. The air was thick with menace. Kelvin and Natalie were tending to the lengthening queue of homeless people. Khoury had to deal with this but not back down. He remembered Rachel’s no fighting rule. It wouldn’t do to be ejected.
“You’re new here.” The man with the milky eye stated the obvious. “Where are you from?”
Khoury said nothing.
One Eye smiled. “Don’t matter if you speak or not, we can tell you’re foreign just by looking at you. Ain’t that right, Jez?”
Jez nodded stiffly.
“Let me tell you how it’s going to be, my friend,” continued One Eye. “You can stay here tonight. Get your head down, your belly full. We’re not total bastards. But tomorrow, you move on, you don’t come back. This place isn’t for your type. Understand?”
“Is everything all right?” It was Natalie, from the food queue. She was standing right behind them. She was older than Rachel, her hair tied up in a similar fashion. She wore dungarees too.
“Everything’s fine, little lady,” said One Eye with a huge grin. “Just getting to know our new friend here.”
Natalie visibly bristled. “Two things, Mr Hardwick. It’s Natalie or Miss Peace, not little lady or any other derogative term you may wish to use. Secondly, you know the rules. Any abuse or violence will result in you losing access to the hostel. Based on your past behaviour that would be for a week, again. Do you remember?”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad we understand each other. Enjoy your evening.” Natalie smiled sweetly and headed back over to the food bar.
“Bitch,” muttered Hardwick under his breath. He turned back to Khoury. “Where were we in our little chat before her rude interruption? Oh yes, me telling you how it will be. The thing is, my friend, you and yours are a problem. A big, never-ending one. There are too many of you. Services are stretched, meaning less for the rest of us. If we keep letting everyone in, there’ll be no space left. We were born here, you’re an incomer. Understand?”
Khoury nodded. In his country, Khoury’s attitude would be to eat Hardwick for lunch before Hardwick ate Khoury for dinner. But Khoury couldn’t get the first blow in; he needed somewhere to sleep tonight so he had to let it go.
Hardwick patted Khoury on the face, said, “Good boy. I knew you were bright. There’s a place more suited for your kind across town. The old Nayland Rock Hotel, you can’t miss it. Go there tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“Just in case you have second thoughts though: if you use this place again, I’ll break your legs. Okay?”
Hardwick stood and left, trailed by Jez.
“Lights out in fifteen minutes,” said Natalie.
Khoury made his way to the sleeping area. There were ten rows of cots, laid out close to each other, a narrow channel down the centre. Most were filled already with snoring men. A few men sat and talked together in low voices, pausing for a moment to eye Khoury before they returned to their conversation. A huge fart rent the air from someone over to his right.
There was a free cot against the far wall. He walked through the sleeping men. They were all white. No wonder he’d been targeted by Hardwick. Khoury lay down, removing only his boots, and wrapped himself up in a blanket. Back to the wall and facing the room. Eventually, if he was lucky, he might fall into a restless sleep.
Chapter 15
Gray grabbed a beer from the fridge and his laptop from a bag, dragged open the floor-to-ceiling French window onto the balcony, and sat in the solitary wooden seat.
For a moment, he thought about what Carslake had told him. Had Tom really been taken to Europe? If so, why? Where the hell was he now? The trouble was, Gray was powerless. In the UK, at least Gray could have spoken to colleagues. They would probably have helped a fellow officer, even if they hadn’t known each other. But in a foreign country? And in a foreign language? The challenge was immense, but the new lead was huge. For the first time in ages he had a path to follow.
Gray had settled into his new home faster than he’d expected. Perhaps it was the view; the uninterrupted seascape as far as the eye could see across almost one-hundred-and-eighty degrees of panorama. Perhaps it was the lack of garden to deal with — not a single piece of greenery — or that there weren’t any families around him anymore, reminding of what he didn’t have. Or maybe it was leaving the past behind. Ultimately, it didn’t matter what the cause was as long as the effect was acceptable. Other than Carslake and Hamson, he’d had no visitors since he’d moved in a month ago.
High panels either side of the balcony blocked him off from the neighbours. The upstairs balcony overhung, providing an element of shade on the sunniest of days. Below was the clifftop walkway to Viking Bay; beneath that, the sand and surf of Louisa Bay.
The location was as good as it got and the cost of the flat was accordingly high. Gray’s finances had stretched sufficiently because his old house was within the catchment area of the best local schools, a feature that parents were desperate to pay for and that estate agents ruthlessly promoted. In fact, two families had entered a bidding war to acquire his property. Gray had ended up getting ten thousand pounds over the asking price. So, although Gray had a mortgage again, it was manageable.
Also manageable was the beer, which disappeared far too easily, bottle empty before he realised. Once it was gone however, it was gone. His was a new start. While packing for the move, Gray had poured all the spirits down the drain. He’d scrunched up the final pack of cigarettes, a couple unsmoked.
Since then he’d been attempting no more than one beer and two coffees a day. He was exercising a little too, jogging on a treadmill in the spare bedroom, though he wasn’t yet at the point where he felt confident enough to go out on the street in plain view.
He missed the pub, the experience of enjoying a beer. He’d tried orange juice a couple of times, but it wasn’t the same. Boozers were for boozing in.
And for all the supposed benefits of taking up a healthier lifestyle, Gray sometimes felt unwell. The odd bout of constipation, an upset stomach from certain foods, a transgression as Hamson had pointed out. Gray put it down to irritable bowel syndrome as his body grumbled adjusting to his change in diet. Nothing disabling, more of an irritant. Being sick was new, though. And the fo
od sticking in his throat.
Gray dismissed the symptoms; they’d pass. He clicked the Facebook icon on his laptop. He’d only recently set up an account. There were only two people he’d consider friends, Carslake and Hamson, and he saw them most days. He wasn’t interested in connecting with other work colleagues or old school mates. There was a reason he’d drifted away from them and it would be staying that way. He’d joined Facebook because of his daughter, Hope.
Gray’s current objective, however, was Regan. He found his profile immediately. The main photograph was of a grinning, slightly younger Regan, seemingly in a pub, someone’s arm around his shoulders, the person’s face cropped out. The banner photo was a wide angle shot of the club, Seagram’s, lit up at night. Regan’s personal data was innocuous. He’d labelled himself as single, born in Margate, worked at Enterprise Associated Partners, his father’s company, his title of Director in capitals. The page’s structure shouted success and good times.
Regan’s timeline was awash with messages. A long scroll of posts unable to comprehend that Regan was gone, that he’d been taken too young, offering condolences to the family. Then quite a few who said good riddance to bad rubbish, and worse. Gray clicked on some of the friends who’d posted and took in their profile too. He couldn’t believe how much information people dumped into the public domain.
A buzz from within the flat interrupted Gray’s research. It was a call from the lobby. He picked up the entry phone.
“It’s Jake. Can I come up?”
Surprised, Gray paused a moment before he told Jake his flat number. Gray went onto the balcony and shut down the laptop. A few minutes later there was a knock on the front door.
“This is unexpected,” said Gray. “Come in.”
Jake stepped inside and glanced around. “I didn’t know who else to speak to.”
“The Samaritans?”
“I’m depressed, not fucking suicidal, Sol. It’s not in me.”