by Keith Nixon
“Depends.” Kelvin shrugged. “Different reasons.”
“What about you?”
“At first, it was to get out of the house. It’s difficult getting a job round here. Really, I just wanted to help people who can’t always help themselves.”
“How long has Rachel worked at the Lighthouse?”
“Nearly a year, long enough to know she’ll stay. Most people come in for a short stint, struggle with the late nights, the sometimes-difficult subjects, and throw the towel in. Not Rachel. She’s determined.”
“What about Natalie?”
“Haven’t a clue, probably forever. She never speaks about herself. You know she lives in the flat above?”
“No.”
“Well she does. So she’s here all the time, keeping an eye on things, talking to our guests, making sure the staff are okay, ranting at the council to get more funding. She never stops, but it’s always about others. Natalie’s very caring. But if we go out for a drink she refuses the invite every time.”
“Sounds like a saint.” Another shrug from Kelvin. “What about the man they were looking for. Do you remember him?”
“It was the one in the newspaper; the guy you’re looking for.”
“Are you sure?”
Kelvin nodded. “The two men, they had a photo.”
“What do you mean?”
“A photo they were comparing our guests with. I found it screwed up on the floor.”
“Where is it now?”
Kelvin pulled a piece of paper out from a pocket. “I thought you might want it.”
Gray took it. The print was wrinkled and creased where it had been folded and screwed up. Gray was taken aback. The print was of Khoury from the CCTV Fowler had grabbed. Where had they got this from? It wasn’t an image the police had released to the press.
“Did you recognise either of them?” asked Gray.
Kelvin didn’t immediately answer, chewing his lip instead. Gray let him think. “It’s why I stepped back.”
“Who was it, Kelvin?”
“He’s called Larry.”
“Muscles, shaven head?” asked Gray. “Larry Lost?”
“That’s him.”
Gray could understand why Kelvin had been intimidated. Larry Lost was known locally as “Loser”. A down-at-heel crook who worked on the door of equally down-at-heel establishments. He was too risky for nightclubs, when there was usually a heady mix of the small hours and large amounts of alcohol. After a series of insalubrious incidents, none of them would touch him. He was bad for business.
So that just left pubs and, of those, only the arse-end places where it didn’t matter if someone with limited self-control started swinging as long as the fight was over and the trouble dispersed before the cops turned up. If they bothered at all.
Loser was Frank McGavin’s man. McGavin was the local crime boss who ran everything illegal in Thanet, although the police had been unable to make any accusation against him stick.
“What about the other one?”
“I didn’t recognise him.”
“What did he look like?”
“Black guy, dreadlocks and a beard.”
“Would you mind coming down to the station and looking over some photos?”
“Do I have to?”
Chapter 23
Back at the station, Gray showed Kelvin several photographs. The third was Larry Lost.
“That’s him,” said Kelvin.
“Are you sure?”
Kelvin nodded. Gray kept showing Kelvin photos but none appeared to be Larry’s accomplice.
“Sorry,” said Kelvin eventually.
“That’s okay. You’ve been very helpful anyway. If you can wait here I’ll get someone to take a statement.”
“Then can I go? Natalie asked me to keep an eye on the Lighthouse while she’s out.”
“We’ll get through it as fast as possible.”
“I hope so.”
Gray found a uniform to take care of Kelvin before he went looking for Hamson to bring her up to date. In the incident room, Hamson was standing before the murder board, the team ready for a briefing.
“Perfect timing, Sol. Mike has gathered some valuable information everyone needs to be aware of.” Hamson nodded at Fowler. He stepped forward. Gray leaned against the wall at the back of the room.
“I’ve managed to piece together Regan Armitage’s final movements. First, I reviewed the council-maintained cameras to plot his general direction that evening, working backwards from Seagram’s. Once I’d figured out his route, uniform followed up with visits to establishments with CCTV to collect any additional footage. And we got this.”
Fowler bent down, clicked a mouse and an overhead shot from a camera played on the large television screen. The video was a collection of clips meshed together, each time-stamped and organised consecutively, displaying Regan moving around Margate, from pub to bar to pub, the night he disappeared. The footage was grainy and indistinct at times, much sharper in others, some in monochrome, or in colour depending on the quality of the equipment.
“Initially,” said Fowler, “there’s not a great deal to interest us. Regan was by himself for most of the evening. He says hello to some people, shares a joke, but when transiting between pubs it’s a solo affair.” Fowler jumped forward through the video to illustrate his point. “Each place he visits, Regan stands eyeing the crowd. Usually for a few minutes; never more than a quarter of an hour.”
“He’s looking for somebody?” said Gray.
“Maybe, but who? It’s when Regan gets to Seagram’s that it becomes more intriguing.”
Fowler let the scene play itself out. The time stamp read 22.32. An external shot from some distance, and at least one floor up; Regan skirting the long queue and going straight in. The view switched to the interior; Regan walking past the ticket booth. Then in black and white along a dimly lit corridor towards the camera; the perspective distorted at the edges by the fisheye lens before the view switched to him moving away and towards bright, strobing lights.
The time display jumped forward to 23.39. In reverse, Regan heading towards the camera, the nightclub lights at his back. He wasn’t alone. The lens flared repeatedly as the strobing lights from the dance floor spilled out, making it difficult to distinguish his companion. When the viewpoint shifted to the nightclub entrance hall, Regan’s partner was clearly a woman in a revealing dress and hair cut into a shoulder-length bob.
External once more; Regan staggering as he exited. The woman steadied Regan, helped him stay upright. One of the bouncers glanced at the pair, but returned his attention to the queue.
Fowler paused the playback. “That’s the last we can find of Regan on any camera. He just disappears. No one sees him again until he washes up on the beach, hours later, dead.”
“Thanks, Mike,” said Hamson. “The key question is, ‘who’s the woman?’ She might be the last person to see him alive. Sol, can you go down to Seagram’s with Mike and interview the staff. We need an identification, if possible.”
“We’ll go this evening,” said Gray.
“Okay.”
“Drinks on the house, hopefully,” said Fowler.
“I’ve got some other information,” said Gray. “Turns out Khoury stayed the night at a local refuge, the Lighthouse Project on Belmont Avenue. And there were two men trying to find him during the early hours. They had this.” Gray held out the photo of Khoury. “It’s our photo, not the one we released to the press.”
“Who the hell gave them that?”
There was silence in the room.
“One of the men was Larry Lost,” said Gray.
“Loser? You’re sure?”
“I’ve just had the witness pick out his mug shot.” Gray checked his watch. “Right now, Loser will either be in bed or working.” There was always a pub open somewhere in Thanet, if you fancied getting hammered.
“Find him.”
Chapter 24
Khoury had sp
ent half the day watching the Lighthouse Project, waiting for her return. Earlier, he’d walked the area, getting to know the backstreets and alleys; potential escape routes should he need them. He noticed quite a few people hanging around with seemingly little to do, standing on street corners, leaning against lamp posts, sitting on the steps of houses watching the world go by.
Nobody paid them any attention and vice versa. Khoury soon understood why. A number of facilities similar to the Lighthouse Project, with signs above the door, peppered the area. Despite this, he felt exposed and took to walking a little, pausing a little, following a circuitous route.
Last night, Khoury had left the Lighthouse at a run, keen to put distance between himself and the police, all the while keeping an eye out for Larry and his friend. He saw neither them nor the law. He grabbed a couple of hours’ sleep in a shop doorway, until he was woken, stiff and freezing, by a passing bin lorry. He was still cold and getting hungry.
He halted a hundred yards away from the Lighthouse and sat on a wall. As his backside was growing sore, the front door opened. Two men stepped outside. One he recognised as Kelvin, the other, a tall, grey-haired man he hadn’t seen before. He moved like police. They walked down the steps and turned towards the seafront. Khoury considered following them, but it was Natalie he needed to see. A few minutes later, he walked up the steps to the Lighthouse and knocked. No one answered. He went back to his route.
As the middle of the day approached, an old yellow VW Golf trundled by the Lighthouse and parked a hundred yards or so along. Natalie was behind the wheel. She looked tired and haggard. Khoury pushed off the metal fence opposite the Lighthouse and made his way over. Natalie didn’t notice him. She climbed the steps, fished around in her bag for her keys, and selected one from a decent-sized bunch.
While Natalie was turning the key, Khoury went up the steps. She glanced over her shoulder when his shadow fell. The door was already open a crack. Khoury pushed it wide and bundled Natalie through. She stumbled into the hall, tripping on the carpet, and fell onto her knees. The bag hit the floor and spilled its contents everywhere. Khoury kicked the door shut behind him.
Natalie rolled onto her backside, leaning away, hands on the floor, knees drawn up. Her expression changed with recognition. Fear crept into her face. Khoury looked down, feeling ashamed. This wasn’t what he’d had in mind when he imagined a new life in the UK. But he had to do this. For Najjar. For Shadid. For the family he would never see again.
“What do you want?” she asked.
Khoury pulled Natalie to her feet and guided her forward through into the refectory, then the kitchen.
“Food,” said Khoury.
Natalie blinked. She opened the fridge and pulled out a large, plastic tub. She put it on a work surface and peeled off the lid, the seal parting with a loud snap.
She spooned stew into a bowl, microwaved it for a couple of minutes, all the while keeping her eyes on him. His eyes darted nervously from the kitchen door, then back to Natalie. When the microwave pinged she took the bowl out and put the bowl on a table. Khoury indicated for her to slide onto one of the benches, then sat down to face her. He placed his knife on the table and ate quickly, glancing up at her with each slurp.
When he’d finished, he stood so he had the height advantage and dominance. He hated himself for frightening a woman. But if she thought he was dangerous, then she would cooperate. “Where is Larry?”
“Who?”
“Larry. He was here last night.”
“Do you mean Larry Lost?”
“Yes. Where is he?”
“I don’t know. He works in a couple of pubs. Why do you ask?”
“Write down the names.”
“I’ll need a pen and paper. They were in my bag, by the front door.”
“Get it, then.”
Natalie stood and went back into the hallway, Khoury right behind her in case she decided to make a dash. Natalie knelt down, swept fingers through her possessions on the floor, found what she wanted.
“Pass me your purse,” said Khoury.
Natalie handed it over. Khoury opened the clasp and took out the few notes she had in there. He stuffed them into a pocket and dropped the purse on the floor.
Standing again, she rested the paper against the wall, wrote an address, and passed it to him. He glanced at the details, which meant nothing to him, before putting the paper into the same pocket as the cash. Khoury wasn’t entirely satisfied, though. With Larry and Dave on his tail, and possibly the police, as well, he needed to minimise his movements, his exposure. “Anywhere else he might be?”
“I’ve told you all I know.”
A thought occurred to him. “Does he have a boat?”
“I think so.”
“Where?”
“Ramsgate, I would expect. It’s the largest anchorage in the area.”
Khoury remembered the words on the back of the boat when he’d thrown himself overboard. Etna and Ramsgate. A name and the port of registration. “I'm sorry, but I need your car.” He held out his hand.
Natalie bent down, scooped up a key on a fob, and dropped it into Khoury’s palm. He folded his fingers over it.
“You might warn your friend, Larry, that I’m coming for him.”
“He’s no friend of mine.”
As Khoury considered his options, there was a knock at the door.
“That’ll be Kelvin,” said Natalie.
Another thump at the door and then the letterbox rattled. “Can you let me in?”
“Why don’t I open up, and you just walk out of here?” Natalie asked Khoury. “There isn’t a way out the back. It’s the front or nowhere.”
Khoury put his knife away, nodded at Natalie as the letterbox flapped once more. She took a couple of steps forward, undid the lock, opened the door wide, and stepped back against the wall to let Khoury pass. Kelvin was standing on the top step, looking bewildered and lost for words.
Khoury barged past him. Kelvin stumbled but didn’t react. Natalie grabbed Kelvin by the wrist and dragged him inside. When Khoury looked over his shoulder, the door was slamming shut.
Khoury walked up the street until he reached Natalie’s car. He got in, started the engine, and pulled straight out into traffic, ignoring the blare of a horn.
After a minute’s drive Khoury reached some traffic lights. They were red. He slowed, looked at the signs. One pointed towards Ramsgate. There was the pictogram of a boat.
When the lights turned green, Khoury followed the arrow and kept doing so until the harbour spread out before him. A huge rectangle of calm water dotted with yachts and motor boats was protected by two harbour arms which didn’t quite meet in the middle, leaving a small gap for the boats to head out the North Sea.
Khoury drove past a line of restaurants, looking for a space. He found one near a tall stone monument in the shape of a needle and a shiny silver burger van. He pulled in, switched off the engine, and looked at the various seagoing vessels. They were many, maybe even hundreds. Khoury didn’t bother to lock the car. He took a slow trip around the circumference, trying to recognise Larry’s craft.
He’d walked nearly all the way round by the time he spotted a possible candidate. He paused on a metal footbridge. The shape looked right. Long, low prow; and raked cabin, painted black. However, Khoury couldn’t take a closer look as the jetty was barred by a metal gate and high fence to the side of which was a keypad. He tried the gate anyway, just in case. Firmly locked.
There were two ways to get in. Either drop off the harbour wall into the water where there was no fence, or climb over it. The former meant a twelve-foot plunge and a bit of a swim, so Khoury wasn’t keen. He’d had enough of swimming. The latter meant awaiting darkness. Khoury decided on option two and returned to the stolen car.
Chapter 25
Gray pulled Larry’s address from the Police National Computer — a bedsit in a tall terraced house in Cliftonville on Northdown Road, once one of the most salubrious areas in Th
anet, but now one of the least.
Northdown Road, wide, busy, long, and possessing a run-down air, was the arterial route for traffic through Cliftonville. A line of shops ran along both sides of the street — charity places, takeaways, a bargain booze store, a cash converter, a pawn shop, a Polish supermarket, a few pubs, a Halal butcher’s, a Caribbean fruit shop.
Getting inside the building had proved ridiculously straightforward. Gray simply pressed the buzzer of one of the many flats on a keypad beside the front door. It unlocked without him even making an excuse to the occupant he’d disturbed.
Fixed to the wall inside, creating a minor obstruction, was a black-painted metal box with individual flaps for the mail. Each had a lock, though all could be opened up by putting a finger into the gap at the top and tugging downwards. The majority had various takeaway menus sticking out. A quick way of reducing the pile to be delivered. Larry’s was empty, even of junk mail. Gray moved past the box and closed the door behind him. The light level dropped dramatically. He flicked a nearby light switch. No change. The bulb overhead was dead.
The threadbare carpet was green and brown swirls. There were a couple of doors either side of the corridor, numbered one and two. Beneath the curve of the stairs were several bikes and a pushchair.
Floorboards creaked beneath Gray’s feet as he headed upstairs, the same carpet design stretching upwards. A job lot laid decades ago. Larry’s flat was in the eaves on the fourth floor, number eight. The landing was tiny with only a few feet of space with sufficient clearance above for him to stand upright. Gray thumped on the door. He listened for movement. Nothing. He knocked again. Still nothing.
He transferred his attention to number seven. The occupant opened up before Gray had even raised his fist. A man in his early twenties wearing matching black tracksuit top and bottoms, with a double white stripe on leg and sleeve. His hair was a shambles, bags under his eyes.
“You after Larry?” he said.