by Keith Nixon
“My boss called and told me to speak to you. She said Miss O’Shea was involved in an altercation with a man, possibly a person of interest in a case we’re investigating.”
“I’m the manager of the Lighthouse Project on Belgrave Road. We provide a refuge for the homeless. Rachel is a volunteer.”
“I know it. Not the easiest of places to work, I imagine.”
“Sometimes, no. But I enjoy it.”
“It’s under threat though?”
Natalie scowled. “Bloody developers are after us, yes.”
“Have you had any trouble previously?”
“There’s sometimes a few scrapes, it’s the nature of the beast. But nothing like this.”
“What happened?”
“Two men came in, looking for someone. Rachel discovered them out the back in the dormitory, shining a torch into the faces of sleeping guests.”
“How did they gain access?”
“Kelvin let them in.”
“Who’s he?”
“Another volunteer. If we weren’t short of people I’d get rid of him.” An angry expression crossed her face. “The fact is they shouldn’t have been there. It’s against the rules.”
“Why?”
“We try to provide a safe and secure environment for our sleepers. It’s tough out on the streets.”
“What time did this happen, precisely?”
“Just after 1am.”
“Did you know them?”
She shook her head.
“Can you describe them?”
“Locals, by their accents. Big guys, not pleasant at all. Not homeless by how they were dressed; too smart and they wore aftershave.”
“You were brave to stand up to them.”
“It was Rachel, really. I just called your lot. You get used to dealing with difficult people and situations. They weren’t pleased. I followed them outside to ensure they left.”
“Does this happen very often? Someone trying to find people?”
“Yes, unfortunately. Usually family members looking for a runaway. But they’ve left home for a reason and don’t want to be located. It’s our job to be impartial.”
“How did Rachel end up needing to be hospitalised?”
“I don’t really know. I was outside when it all happened, showing the two men off the premises. One of our guests ran past me into the street and kept going. I went back in and found Rachel on the floor. Kelvin was looking after her. He’d already called an ambulance; the police came pretty much straight away. We’ve been in here ever since. The baby’s all right though, thank God.”
“What did the man look like? The one they were looking for.”
Natalie passed Gray the newspaper. On the front page was a picture of their mystery man from the earlier press conference. “It was him. Look, I’ve got to get back in to Rachel. Is that everything you need to know?”
“What about the baby’s father?”
“He’s working. He’ll be here soon. I really need to be with Rachel.”
“Of course, I’m sorry I’ve kept you for so long. Thanks for your help. I’ll send someone over to take a formal statement and show you some photos when you’re feeling up to it. Perhaps you’ll recognise the men.” Gray handed over his business card. “In case you remember anything else.”
Natalie put the plastic cup down on the table and left. When Gray walked passed Rachel’s room the door was closed.
His phone beeped; a text message. It was from Noble. It said, “I’m out. Meet me later.”
“Where and when?” tapped out Gray.
“Tonight English Flag.”
Gray groaned. The place was a dump. But at least he might learn why Noble had been beaten.
Chapter 21
Mike Fowler was like a cat, waiting to pounce the moment Gray sat down. He dropped a file in front of Gray.
“French police have responded,” said Fowler, almost purring, leaning over Gray’s desk. “We’ve got a name for our mystery man. Adnan Khoury. And they’ve identified the other corpses too.”
“That was remarkably fast,” said Gray, taken aback. “Clearly, for once, they weren’t on strike.”
“Seems not.” Fowler, in his enthusiasm, missed the joke. Gray had to admit to himself it was a lame one anyway.
Hamson joined them, greeting Gray. She sat on the corner of the desk, one leg swinging. “Something to go on, at last,” she said. “How did it go at the hospital?”
Gray updated them with brief details from the post mortem and his subsequent conversation with Natalie about Rachel’s altercation with Khoury.
“He’s still in town then,” said Hamson.
“So it seems. Interesting that rather than running away from his pursuers, Khoury went after them with a knife.”
“Yes.”
Gray opened the file.
“Don’t expect much,” said Fowler. He and Hamson left Gray to it.
Gray started up his PC. There would be emails waiting, reports to file, the usual stuff. But his interest was in the French information. Even though Fowler had prepared him, Gray was disappointed by the scant data.
There was barely a page for each, comprising names, photos, country of origin. The other two appeared to be named Najjar and Shadid, all were from Syria. Najjar was the stabbing victim. An addendum stated that the French police believed there was a high probability that the names were false identities. And there were fingerprints for each of them.
There was no chance of obtaining records from their apparent homeland — Syria was more concerned with civil war and unrest than law and order. The only credible data was their temporary location in Calais (now out of date, of course) and the crimes they’d been accused of committing on French soil — robbery and indecent assault.
All had been residents in the area on the edge of Calais called the Jungle. A mix of temporary and semi-permanent accommodation where refugees, mainly men, sheltered while trying to cross into Britain — whose welfare system, the apparent wealth of employment, and its liberal attitude made it a magnet for migrants.
The Jungle had been a constant source of tension between the UK and France and was rarely out of the news. The Calais residents hated it too. Travel through the area to the ports became harder and harder. Night time was particularly hazardous with trucks and cars regularly stopped and boarded. About a year ago, the French finally had enough and shut the Jungle down and dispersed the refugees. It wasn’t clear where they were supposed to have been sent.
At the back of the report was a final page stating the details for a contact in the Calais police, Inspector Jacques Morel. Sounded like a mushroom to Gray. He thought about what Carslake had told him yesterday. Tom had been seen on the way through Dover to Calais. Maybe Morel could help here as well?
Two birds, one stone. Gray picked up the phone and tapped in the numbers. Someone had even helpfully provided the international dialling code. The connection was made and the single tone vibrated in Gray’s ear.
“Oui?” A woman’s voice. Then an intelligible rattle of vowels and consonants Gray was unable to decipher.
Gray asked for Morel, adding a s’il vous plait at the end.
The woman switched to accented English. “Who is calling?”
“Sergeant Gray, with Kent Police in the UK.” The two police forces spoke a lot, particularly the coastal divisions.
“He is not here right now.”
“When will he be back?”
“Sorry, I do not know. Would you like to leave a message?”
Gray sighed, left his details, said au revoir and, frustrated, ended the call.
“Unable to reach Morel?” said Fowler.
“Yes.”
“Join the club. Neither could I or Yvonne.”
Gray had an idea. The witness to Tom’s disappearance was a few miles outside the Dover ferry port. Carslake had said he’d arrange for Gray to see them so he could combine that with a trip to France.
A couple of minutes on his desktop showed him
the Calais police station was in the town centre and that there were plenty of tickets available on the Dover ferry. The sooner he went, the sooner he could be in Dover.
He entered his credit card details. A mouse click confirmed he’d bought a ticket which would be sent to him electronically.
Minutes later, he found Hamson at the murder board in the incident room. The section had been updated to include Khoury’s name and details.
“I called Morel,” said Gray. “I couldn’t reach him.”
“Surprise, surprise.”
“I think I should go over there, see the inspector for myself.”
“You’ve got be joking, Sol. No free holiday for you.”
“We need to know what we’re dealing with. The dossier gives us nothing other than a name.”
Hamson paused, thinking about it. “I don’t disagree, but we’re short on manpower right now, and I’m not convinced you’ll learn much more anyway. Everything French police had was on those pages. So, it’s a no. I need you here, helping with the case.”
“There’s other stuff going on, Von.” Gray could feel his anger growing. He was fighting to keep his voice even.
“Ma’am or boss please, Sergeant. And it’s still a no.”
“I’ll talk to Carslake if I have to.”
“Go ahead. I doubt he’ll be any more willing than me.”
“Okay.”
“Seriously?” Hamson appeared ready to say something else but gritted her teeth instead. Gray left the incident room, Hamson trailing just behind. He went upstairs, walked straight past Sylvia, knocked on Carslake’s door, and entered without waiting. The room was dominated by a large window overlooking the North Sea. Carslake was seated at his desk, silhouetted by the back lighting. He was talking on his mobile. He frowned at the intrusion. Gray stood before his desk, Hamson beside him, her arms crossed. Carslake ended the call and put his mobile down.
“Bloody wait for me to say you can come in next time, Sol,” said Carslake.
“I want to go to Calais to see the French police about Khoury, the missing man.”
“I know who he is. DI Hamson has been keeping me up to date. Why?”
“The information we have from them is useless. I’m sure knowing more will help us track him down.”
Hamson stepped in. “Sir, this is a waste of time. I’ve already refused DS Gray’s request because the loss in time travelling to and from France versus the potential benefit is minimal. Having his focus here is the best use for him.”
“Sounds perfectly reasonable to me. So why are we having this conversation?”
“Because DI Hamson said I could take it up with you,” said Gray. “And here I am, taking it up with you.”
Carslake sighed. He waved for Gray and Hamson to be seated. “Go on, Sol. Tell me why I should override a senior officer’s order.”
“Because she’s wrong.” Hamson sucked in a breath. Gray could feel her anger, but he ignored her; there were bigger issues at stake. Tom issues. “Tom went through Calais, and I want to meet the witness.”
“Ten years ago, Sol. The trail is cold.”
“I have to try, Jeff. You told me I could meet the witness.” Frustration was now creeping in. Why wouldn’t either of them understand?
“What’s going on?” asked Hamson.
“Somebody saw Tom being taken on a ferry to France.”
Carslake stood up and stared out the window. Gray struggled to keep quiet, to let Carslake consider.
Eventually Carslake said, “It’s a no to France.”
“I’ve already booked a ticket on the first ferry crossing tomorrow morning!”
“Then you’ll have to get a refund!” Carslake sat down. “Look, I know you’re disappointed but Yvonne is correct. You’re best used here.”
“This is bullshit, Jeff!”
“You forget who you’re talking to, DS Gray.”
The atmosphere was brittle. Gray realised he’d gone too far, though he wouldn’t be apologising. “What about the witness?” he said. “I have to see him.”
“I’ve already said I’ll arrange it. Now get out of here, both of you.”
Dismissed, Gray left the office, Hamson on his heels. She stopped him at the top of the stairs.
“I fully appreciate how important Tom is to you. But why don’t you try working with me rather than attempting to steamroller your way through whatever obstacle’s in front?”
“Yes ma’am.”
Hamson stared at Gray for a few moments before she spun on her heel and headed back to Carslake’s office.
Gray would be going to France, and he would be seeing the witness.
Chapter 22
Gray went to the detective’s office to collect his coat. He expected Hamson and Carslake would talk, then she would find Gray and attempt to justify herself all over again. He couldn’t be bothered with it.
The Lighthouse Project was little more than half a mile away and there was no point in driving. Gray turned up his collar and got walking. There was a choice of routes — sea shore or residential. He decided on urban, so he turned right out of the station up the incline of Fort Road.
A few hundred yards along was the faded relic of the Winter Gardens, a popular entertainment venue of decades past, cut into the soft chalk cliff. Opposite, he turned into the narrow thoroughfare of Trinity Square.
The junction was overlooked by what had once been four-storey family houses for the middle class with superb sea views, but were now divided up into flats for people who probably never saw each other. It wouldn’t have surprised Gray if Jake owned most of them. Off the main drag were less grandiose terraced houses but they too hadn’t escaped being turned into multi-residence properties. The population density around here had dramatically increased over recent years.
Trinity Square itself was no longer. Maybe at one time it had been a pleasant space of green. Now it was the revenue-generating, ash-coloured, concrete-and-white lines of a car park. Here, another idea occurred to Gray. It would mean some subterfuge and he wouldn’t be able to see the witness, but at least he could make it to France unhindered by Hamson and Carslake.
He pulled out his mobile and made a call while he carried on by corner shops, a pub, and the lawyers who’d handled both his dead wife’s last will and testament and his recent property trades. All things to all people, living and deceased. By the time he reached the law courts, Gray was connected to an operator at the ferry company he’d originally booked with. He cancelled his ticket.
As he progressed along the border of the New Town, Gray called Eurostar. He could get a ticket on the first train out. It meant an extremely early start and a much higher price than the ferry, but the journey time was only thirty minutes. He could be back much faster. As he turned into Belgrave Road, he received confirmation of the reservation. He thanked the operator and ended the call.
The Lighthouse Project was just beyond the point where the two lanes of traffic split to pass either side of a row of houses. Gray paused. Above the entrance to the shelter was a small, hand-painted sign, black on a white background, a crude depiction of a lighthouse, probably the one at North Foreland on the edge of Margate, the last in the country to be operated by a human keeper. All were monitored via computer now, the cottages in the grounds given over to holidaymakers.
A handful of steps led to the wood-panelled front door, which was closed, bay windows either side of the entrance, sash picture windows on the next floor which needed a lick of paint or three. Net curtains blocked the view inside. Gray trotted up the crumbling sandstone steps, avoided the rusting railing. There was clearly no money in charity.
He rang the bell. It made no sound. Either the batteries were dead or the chime was out the back. It was a pity places like the outreach centre had to exist. A poor indictment of society. His second, louder thump was answered by a tall, young, skinny man.
“We’re closed right now,” he said.
Gray showed his warrant card. “I’m looking for
Kelvin.”
“Why?”
“I understand there was an altercation here last night. I interviewed Miss Peace earlier.”
“Oh. That’s me. You’d better come in.” He opened the door wide, allowing Gray to step into a grubby hallway with several doors off it. There was an odour of man inside which Kelvin seemed used to. Unclean man. Body odour, unwashed clothes. Stale food.
Kelvin led Gray through the hall and into a back room; a refectory, judging by the benches and tables. There was a bedroom area off to one side. The smell was stronger here. Gray switched to breathing through his mouth. Kelvin, oblivious to the stench, headed into a small kitchen separated from the public area by a farm-style door, the ones which split in the middle, denying entry while allowing interaction.
Kelvin held up a jar of instant coffee. Gray declined. Kelvin made himself one, using hot water from a stainless steel urn and milk from a bottle he sniffed first. Kelvin pointed Gray to a seat at the first of the tables back in the refectory.
“I never asked what your surname is,” said Gray.
“Askew. My mum always said it was a good name for a detective.”
“Okay.”
“Do you get it? Ask you?”
“Very good, Kelvin. Tell your mother it’s funny.”
Kelvin’s face fell. “I can’t. She died last year.”
Gray felt pressure behind his eyes, like someone was gently pushing with their thumbs. He recognised it as sadness. Sadness for a woman he’d never met. “My condolences, Kelvin.”
“You weren’t to know.” Kelvin forced a smile. “What can I do for you?”
“When I interviewed Natalie she said you let two men through.”
Kelvin’s face collapsed. “I wish I never had.”
“Natalie intimated they paid you. Is that correct?”
“God, no! Why would she say that? I was just scared. I should have stood up to them like Rachel did. Maybe now it would be me lying in a hospital bed. I bet that’s what Natalie would prefer.”
“You don’t like Natalie?”
“She’s decent enough.”
When Kelvin offered no more, Gray decided to change tack briefly, see if he could come at this in a direction more palatable to Kelvin. “Why do people volunteer?” he asked.