by Keith Nixon
The vessel rocked when McGavin stepped aboard. Khoury followed. He went over to where his brother Najjar had been stabbed, and bent down. The deck was scrubbed clean, no sign that someone had died there. When he turned around, McGavin was at the cabin door and Dave still on the pontoon, watching him.
McGavin unlocked the cabin and entered. Dave waited until Khoury followed. Stooping, Khoury went inside, his heart thumping. He wondered if he’d ever step out into the fresh air again alive. Then again, what was the purpose of existence without his family?
The interior was dimly lit by the spotlights outside, spilling in through netted portholes. It was cosy, just as he remembered. A tiny kitchen and table on either side of the gangway and further back a sleeping area. McGavin struck a match and held it to the wick of a hurricane lamp which hung on a strut overhead. The oil caught and McGavin blew out the match. He checked his watch.
“Sit down,” he said. “I’ll make us a cuppa while we’re waiting on Larry.” He opened a cupboard, took out a tea caddy, and put it on the work surface. He reached back inside and rummaged around. “Ah, there we are.”
Three bags of white powder and a hammer joined the caddy.
***
It was another half an hour before Larry arrived. Khoury was alerted by a sudden tilt and footsteps on the hull. His tea was half-drunk, gone cold. He was seated, facing the cabin door, McGavin standing nearby while Dave manned the galley kitchen, near the entrance.
Larry entered the cabin. He paused on the threshold, surprised to see Khoury. His eyes flicked to Dave. Khoury felt a surge of anger at the sight of his brother’s murderer.
“You all right, Frank?” he asked.
“Come in,” said McGavin.
Larry moved inside. Dave pulled the door to and stood in front of it. The space felt very constricted now.
“What are we going to do with him?” asked Larry.
“We?” said McGavin. “There’s no we any more, Larry. You’ve been very stupid. The police know all about you. Which means they’re coming to me.”
“Sorry, I—”
“And there’s this.” McGavin held up the powder. “Selling drugs on the side?”
Larry gulped. Khoury could see his Adam’s apple bobbing. Khoury was puzzled. Larry appeared to be in trouble, McGavin dealing with one of his own. “I’m just making a bit of extra money,” said Larry.
“And running immigrants?”
“Two birds, one stone.”
“More like three in this case. All you were supposed to do was deal with Regan.”
“If everything had gone to plan you’d never have known.”
“And that’s supposed to make me feel better about it?”
Larry swallowed, clearly realising the stupidity of his admission. “Frank, I’m sorry. What can I do to make amends?”
“Nothing.”
“I’ll take the boat and disappear, how about it?”
“Good idea.” McGavin nodded.
Without warning, Dave raised a claw hammer and struck Larry on the head. Larry tumbled to the floor as his legs gave way. Dave dropped the hammer, bent down, and rolled Larry over. Larry’s breath was ragged. Khoury clenched his fists, his earlier foreboding rushing back.
Dave took a knife from a pocket. Khoury recognised it as his own. Dave held the knife out towards Khoury. Khoury didn’t move, wondering if he were next. Coming to terms with what he was here for. Larry raised a hand, but Dave batted it away.
“Come on,” urged Dave, gesturing with the knife once more. “Don’t you want your revenge?”
Khoury decided he had no choice, it was clear he was going to die when it was over for Larry. Part of him was glad. Khoury accepted the weapon and stood over the wounded man.
“Please,” whispered Larry. His eyes pleaded with Khoury, tears ran down his cheeks.
But Khoury was bereft of sympathy because, as his father used to say, when the calf falls, the knives come out. This man had killed his brother and probably his friend. He plunged the blade into Larry’s chest over and over again until he was panting with the exertion. This is for Najjar. This is for Shadid. Covered in blood, Khoury paused. This is for the life I will never be able to offer my family.
Incredibly, Larry still struggled. He seemed to have the heart of an ox. Khoury raised his arms high and plunged the knife into Larry’s stomach, as Larry had done to Najjar. Khoury leaned down on the handle, twisting the blade at the same time. Larry groaned, his face distorted into a grimace of agony, head tilted back and straining. His fingers weakly scraped at the hilt. Khoury stared into Larry’s face until he heaved a last breath and his eyes went blank. Khoury let out a huge breath.
“Feeling better?” asked McGavin.
Khoury didn’t answer, he sat back on his haunches and stared at Larry’s corpse. Khoury felt a calmness wash over him. He’d done what he needed — his vengeance was complete. He felt nothing for Larry, not pity, not hate. He was an empty shell now. And he suspected he was next.
“Dump him,” said McGavin.
Dave took hold of Larry’s clothes at the shoulders and dragged him outside. Khoury heard a splash as the corpse hit the water. Dave re-entered the cabin, picked up the hammer, and brought it over to Khoury.
“Take it,” instructed McGavin. Khoury knew what they intended, though nothing mattered anymore. Khoury opened his fingers and allowed Dave to put the hammer in his palm. He closed his fist around it. There was blood and matted hair at the other end.
“See? That wasn’t so hard. You can let go now.” Khoury did so. Dave placed the hammer on the floor, just inside the door.
“Come on,” said McGavin, pulling Khoury to his feet, a hand clamped around his arm. Khoury felt Najjar and Shadid either side of him. They would be with Khoury until the end.
Larry was floating next to the Etna, face down.
“I’ll return Natalie’s car,” said Dave.
McGavin handed the keys over.
Out on the jetty the sun was just rising, still nobody around. Khoury didn’t care what was next. He enjoyed the warming rays on his face while McGavin led him away.
Chapter 31
When the taxi began to move, Gray wound his watch forward an hour. The journey so far had thankfully proven uneventful. When he’d awoken this morning his throat still felt raw so he’d avoided eating. A drive to Dover, loading, a slow crossing of the North Sea, unloading, and a queue at Border Control, all on an empty stomach.
The whole way across, while the train whipped through the tunnel beneath the waves Gray hoped his sickness wouldn’t occur again. He reflected that Tom had taken this same route, though on the water rather than below it. Gray was following in his footsteps, just far too late. He didn’t trust himself to drive on the wrong side of the road, so he’d parked up on the French side and called a taxi.
The distance from the Eurotunnel terminal to Calais centre was short in comparison to the crossing and soon the taxi was pulling up at the Commissariat de Police on the corner of Place de Lorraine.
After handing over a few euros to the driver, Gray grabbed his briefcase and exited. The car was moving as soon as he closed the door. The station was a plain brown-brick building of a basic architecture which was typical of what he’d seen so far in Calais. No imagination had gone into the Post War construction. All the station’s ground-floor windows were barred, two doors, in and out. A huge tricolour flapped overhead.
As Gray entered, he passed a uniformed cop talking on a mobile who paused briefly and eyed him. In the reception area, the décor was as uninspiring as the outside. He waited at the front desk until an administrator, a young woman wearing severe glasses, was available.
Gray showed his warrant card. “Bonjour. I’m here to see Inspector Morel. He’s expecting me.” Which wasn’t true. He hadn’t been able to reach Morel.
“Will he know what it is concerning?” she said.
“Yes.”
“Okay, I will find him. Wait one moment, please.”
“Merci,” said Gray, now two thirds of the way through his back catalogue of French words. However, the administrator was already talking down a phone and missed his attempt at entente cordiale.
The woman covered up the mouthpiece with a hand. “Inspector Morel has no knowledge of your visit.”
“I assure you, we communicated by email.” Gray’s message from yesterday had gone unanswered. “Inspector Morel sent me some files. I need to speak to him about them.” He dug around in his bag for the paperwork and placed them on the desk before the administrator. She picked the pages up and flicked through them, then returned her attention to the phone, spoke briefly, and held the receiver out to Gray.
“Hello?”
“Sergeant Gray, how may I help you?” Morel’s accent was thick. He pronounced Gray’s name “Gree”. In the background was an idling engine, raised voices, and an occasional gust of wind.
“It’s about the bodies which washed up on our shores.”
“Pardon?”
“Khoury, Najjar, and Shadid. You sent their files to me.”
“Yes. You have them. Why are you here?”
“I was hoping you could fill in the blanks, Inspector Morel.”
“Blanks? Ha! Of those there are many, Monsieur Gray. But I am a busy man.”
“So am I, inspector. I came all the way from the UK to see you. I’m only here for a few hours before I get the train back.”
“That was your decision.”
“I would very much appreciate some of your time.”
“It is not so far, the UK.”
Gray said nothing, waited.
“Okay, I will give you a few moments. Although you will have to come and find me.”
“Thank you. Where are you?”
“The Jungle, or what is left of it.”
“I’ll be with you soon.” Gray wasn’t going to give in. He handed the phone back to the administrator and asked her if she could order a taxi for him.
“It will be here shortly,” she said.
***
The driver took Gray to the remnants of the Jungle on the eastern side of the Eurotunnel terminal and Calais itself. Gray had taken a circuitous route to find his man.
There was a small number of dull canvas constructions and a knot of people nearby. The group was composed of two opposing parties: immigrants and social workers, remonstrating with a handful of police, and several men in suits, probably local officials. Behind them, a bulldozer stood idling, its bucket pointed at the tents. A man sat in the bulldozer cab, chin in his hand, clearly bored. Beyond was a wire fence.
“Is this it?” asked Gray.
The driver nodded.
“Are you sure?”
“Oui!” Irritation was creeping into the driver’s voice now.
Gray paid and got out, hearing shouting over the noise of the traffic running over the motorway above him. He made his way over, stepping carefully through rubbish strewn everywhere, trying to avoid the worst of the mud and puddles.
He hovered on the edge of the crowd, unnoticed, watching as a broad-shouldered man sporting an impressive moustache and glasses broke away from the group and walked over to the digger — unseen by the group intent on the slanging match. He crooked a finger at the man in the cab who leaned down, listened, and nodded. The driver, upright again, closed the cab door, revved his engine, and set off, aiming for the tents.
The arguing crowd paused; pointed fingers held in each other’s faces. They looked over at the digger as it approached the tents, the migrants futilely waving their arms, trying to stop its progress. The argument forgotten, the disparate groups of protestors and police alike, dashed over, but too late. The driver ignored any protests and flattened one tent after another. The man with the moustache calmly walked back towards Gray while the two groups began rowing once more.
When the man was a few feet away Gray stopped him. “I’m looking for Inspector Morel.”
The man didn’t reply immediately, looking Gray up and down. Then he said, “Monsieur Gray?” Gray nodded. “I am Morel.” He stuck out a meaty hand for Gray to shake. “Call me Jacques. I am not keen on formality. My office said you were coming over.”
“Then you must call me Solomon. What was all that about with the JCB?”
Morel sighed, the humour dropping away from his face. “A few months ago we cleared the Jungle and put a fence around it. We put the immigrants onto buses and moved them around the country. There were ten thousand of them at the time. And nearly a hundred more arriving every day, swelling an already big problem.
“Well, they keep coming back, trying to rebuild their shanty town. My men have to keep closing them down. The ones arguing,” Morel nodded to the dejected group standing to one side with the immigrants, “they are social workers. But I have no choice. Orders are orders. Their town cannot be rebuilt.”
“It sounds like an impossible task.”
“Maybe.” Morel brightened. “Come, let’s get a coffee, talk about why you are here.”
Morel led Gray back to a police car, the Frenchman careless of where he stepped as he sensibly wore wellington boots. Morel pointed to the passenger side, as Gray was about to get into the wrong side out of habit. In a couple of miles, Morel pulled into a petrol station and parked beside a truck. The sign on the wall outside said “Autogrill”. Morel cut through the service area, past the tills, and outside onto a sunny terrace, crammed with people and tables, which faced fields.
“We have the choice of sitting or standing,” said Morel. “Do you mind if we sit? I’ve been on my feet all day so far.”
“Fine with me,” said Gray. They took a table on the edge of the terrace.
Morel handed Gray a menu.
“I’m not hungry, thanks,” said Gray. His stomach still wasn’t feeling great.
“Are you sure? The food is very good here.”
“Certain.”
Morel perused the menu briefly, made a choice, and headed over to a counter to place his order. When Morel returned, he pulled out a packet of cigarettes, offered one to Gray which he declined, and lit up. Morel drew deeply on the stick and exhaled. The smoke was strong, acrid.
A waitress arrived at their table carrying a tray. Her hair was shaven close to her skull and her fingernails were painted black. She placed an espresso before Morel who spooned in a measure of sugar and stirred.
“What do you want to know?” asked Morel when she’d gone.
“About Khoury, Najjar, and Shadid.”
“That is not easy. They were largely unfamiliar to us, Solomon. They kept their secrets well. It is not so unusual for people wanting a fresh start, to leave bad things behind. What we know was on the paper you received from me. I am sorry to say I have nothing more for you.”
“You assumed they were from Syria.”
“An educated guess,” said Morel. “But we are pretty good at working out country of origin now. We have had plenty of practice.” Morel laughed, although it was without humour.
“One of them, Khoury, had been accused of several crimes. Assault. Theft.”
Morel shook his head sadly. “I was trying to persuade the man he allegedly beat to give evidence against him.”
“Is he a local?”
“No, he lived in the Jungle too. He’s gone now, shipped out during the rehousing. Animals, turning on their own.”
“Does that happen a lot?”
“Who else are they going to take their frustrations out on?”
Lorry drivers and holiday makers, thought Gray.
“We had people undercover in the Jungle,” said Morel, “and all they picked up was tiny pieces of information. Our trio spent all their time together, not mixing, barely speaking to anyone unless they had to. They were close. That’s why we know so little. Then a few days ago they disappeared. We assumed they’d relocated to another area too.”
“Maybe the UK?”
Morel shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“And you had no thought of prov
iding us with this information?”
“How were we to know for sure?”
“It’s a decent assumption, though. With men like these, isn’t safe better than sorry?”
“The trouble is, Solomon,” said Morel flatly, “your government is only bothered by men like these, as you call them, when they become your problem. Most people I know have had nothing truly to do with the migrants. Usually they are just as frightened of us as we are of them. So many children separated from their parents. A long way from home and simply looking for a better life. They don’t want to be here either. Those three though, they were the wolves. But we should not condemn the whole migration movement on the basis of a few bad people.”
“Do you have access to any CCTV footage? To see how the men got out of the country?”
Morel snorted. “France is a liberal country so we spend very little time spying on our citizens. My men could investigate but it is best you assume we will not learn how and where they departed our shores for yours.”
Gray picked up his briefcase and took out a file. “Do you recognise this man?” He slid over photo of Regan Armitage.
Morel leaned over and studied the face briefly. He shook his head. “I have never seen him before. Who is he?”
“We found him washed up with the other bodies.”
“A smuggler then.” Morel shrugged.
“We don’t think so.”
“But you are not sure?”
“No,” admitted Gray. “What about this one?” It was an image of Larry Lost.
“Possibly. These men, though. They work in the shadows.” Morel checked his watch. “I do not have long either, so if you want to ask anything else, now is the time.”
Gray pulled out another photo. This time Morel picked it up, stared at the face for a long moment, and then raised his eyes to Gray’s gaze.
“That’s my son,” said Gray. “He went missing just over ten years ago.”
“I am sorry to hear that. What happened?”
“It’s a long story. However, some new information came to light recently that he transited through Dover to Calais.”
“Now I understand. This is why you are here.”