Burn the Evidence

by Keith Nixon

“Not entirely.”

  Morel held up a hand. “I do not blame you. I have children, and I would go to the ends of the Earth to protect them. What can I do?”

  “Could you search your records for any information on children brought through Calais around then?”

  Morel pursed his lips. “That will not be easy.”

  “Please?”

  “May I keep the photograph?”

  “I can do better than that.” Gray handed over a file. “These are some of his details.”

  The Frenchman flicked through the documents. “More than ten years you say?”

  “I know, it’s a long shot.”

  “But we have to try, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  Morel checked his watch again. “Let me drive you to the Eurotunnel terminal,” said Morel.

  “You’re busy, I can get a taxi.”

  “My car is just here. It is not much out of my way, and I’m happy to.”

  “Thanks.”

  Morel raced Gray along the roads in a stop-start process of rapid acceleration and sharp braking. He drew up outside the terminal a merciful few minutes later.

  “Thank you, Jacques,” said Gray. He held out a hand. Morel took it and shook.

  “You are more than welcome. Call me if you need anything else.” Morel handed over his business card. “My mobile number is on there. Then you have a better chance of catching me.”

  Gray got out, and Morel screeched away.

  While Gray waited to board he considered his morning’s work. In terms of the Regan case Gray hadn’t learned a great deal more from Morel. However, it appeared there was nothing to know. Regan was anonymous in Calais. There seemed to be no connection between him and people smuggling. So what was his link to the immigrants?

  Most importantly though, Gray now had a contact in France, someone who maybe cared and seemed to want to help finding Tom. The investigation to find his missing son was back on again.

  And tomorrow he had a funeral to attend.

  Chapter 32

  Gray picked up the voicemail when he turned his phone back on. The train was emerging from the tunnel back in the UK, and he had a signal again. He rang Hamson from his car.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked. A seagull squawked overhead.

  “Not great, thanks for asking.”

  “I’m sorry to do this but I need you here. Larry Lost has been found.”

  “Ha ha, very funny Von.”

  “He’s dead.”

  Gray swore. “How? Where?”

  “He was stabbed and dumped in Ramsgate harbour. When can you get here?”

  “I’ll be as fast as I can.”

  “Thanks.”

  ***

  Gray parked outside the maritime museum on the Ramsgate harbour, just beyond the stone needle monument. He showed his warrant card to a uniform on the perimeter cordon and ducked underneath the tape. He made his way to the tightest concentration of people and found Hamson there, blowing on a steaming polystyrene cup.

  “You took your time,” she said, peeling away from the conversation she’d been having.

  “What do we know?” asked Gray.

  Hamson tilted her head to say “follow me” and led Gray through a gate in a fence which ran around the harbour edge. He stepped onto a wooden pontoon which bobbed gently underfoot. Hamson took him to the end and along a spur. She stopped beside the Etna.

  “The owner of another boat found Larry floating face down out there.” Hamson pointed towards the middle of the harbour, a channel which the boats would navigate to make their way in and out. “He called us straight away.”

  “How long had he been immersed?”

  “Clough reckons at least half a day. He probably drifted very slowly out. Divers are down there now, searching the bottom.”

  “Was he dead when he went in?”

  Hamson shrugged. “You know what Clough’s like, he’s not keen to commit either way. But it’s a safe bet. Larry had had the back of his head smashed and multiple stab wounds. We found the hammer inside the cabin, next to the door.” She pointed at the Etna. “You should take a look inside.”

  Gray put on overshoes and nitrile gloves given to him by one of the SOCOs working aboard. Hamson didn’t follow, she’d seen it already. The cabin area was cramped. Gray crouched at the entrance. There was just about enough room for three SOCOs to work in the galley if they were careful.

  There was no need for Gray to go any further. Blood was everywhere, a particularly large pool just beneath him. It smelt like a butcher’s shop. SOCOs had put metal plates down on the deck so they could walk back and forth without disturbing the evidence. The place where the hammer had been found was identified with a yellow plastic marker. Leading from the pool to Gray, was a wide smear which continued to the gunwale.

  “What do you think?” asked Hamson when he returned.

  “Appears he was stabbed in the galley, then dragged out and thrown overboard.”

  “Agreed. We found glass on the floor and a mug with a half-drunk cup of tea. So it appears somebody broke in and awaited Larry’s arrival. There’s fingerprints we’re analysing.”

  A mass of bubbles broke the water’s surface and Hamson’s flow. One of the divers rose up. In his hand he held a knife.

  Chapter 33

  It had been a long twenty-four hours. Gray had managed to grab a little sleep, then he was up again and into the station for an early briefing. Gray felt a shadow of himself. The hammer had been a major discovery. However, it was what forensics didn’t find that was troubling — the ketamine was gone, though Gray had to keep this to himself. He could hardly admit to an illegal search of what was a major crime scene a few hours later.

  Hamson held the floor, giving a brief update on the latest findings, and doling out the actions. “Early evening yesterday, Larry Lost, a known associate of Frank McGavin, was found face down in Ramsgate harbour. Early indications are, he was hit on the back of the head with a hammer then stabbed, before being dumped overboard. We found both murder weapons, one inside the boat, the other in the water.

  “Based on findings by forensics, it appears someone waited for the victim to turn up on his boat before attacking him. A mug of tea was found. The fingerprints on the mug match those on the knife and hammer. They belong to Adnan Khoury.

  “We also know that Larry was looking for Khoury. Larry, and another as yet unidentified male, searched the Lighthouse Project two nights ago. It appears Khoury got to Larry first.

  “Additionally, we’ve received the test results from the blood analysis on Najjar and Shadid. Neither showed any signs of ingesting ketamine, meaning it was Regan alone who’d taken the narcotic.

  “Turning to actions. Mike, as Sol is going to Regan’s funeral, you get the PM on Larry. CCTV needs checking out around the harbour. What time did Khoury arrive? How did he get there?” A DC volunteered for the work.

  “What about the blue wig?” asked Gray. “Any progress in tracking down anywhere that sells hairpieces locally?”

  “Mike?” said Hamson.

  “Several places deal with rugs, but not the type we’re looking for. There’s nowhere on Thanet applicable. I even tried the joke shops and fancy dress shops. Nothing.”

  “Did you go any further afield?” asked Gray.

  “There’s Independence Hair in Canterbury but they don’t do blue.”

  “Nowhere else?”

  “Do you want me to call every shop in the bloody country?” implored Fowler.

  “It could have been bought over the internet,” said Hamson.

  “Which would be near impossible to tackle.”

  “Mike’s right, Sol. Looks like this is a dead end at the moment.”

  “What about the CCTV from Seagram’s? Have you had chance to look over it again?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Let’s move on,” said Hamson. She handed out several more items before Gray could excuse himself, head to the toilets, and put his tie on, ready for
the funeral.

  ***

  The funeral director’s was on the edge of Margate. Gray's old double-breasted suit wasn’t robust enough to keep out the chill. It was the required black, however. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. The temperature had to be low because this was where the bodies were stored. Or, more accurately, displayed, in the chapel of rest: some old stable buildings constructed of stone, out the back away from the office and across a courtyard.

  The last time he’d done this it was to say goodbye to Nick Buckingham. Different room, different mortician, same objective.

  Regan lay in a coffin located in the centre of the square room, raised up on trestles, angled slightly so the head was above the feet. Arrangements of yellow blooms in the corners and plain brick walls painted white gave the space a sterile touch. Lilies again.

  The coffin itself was a money-no-object affair constructed of burnished timber, something like oak, a dense, high-quality wood; six gold handles; and an inscribed gold plate atop the lid, which itself was propped up against a wall because the casket was open for now.

  Regan was dressed in a white open-neck shirt and tan chinos, hands clasped across his chest. He appeared to be asleep, a peaceful expression on his face, which had been well tended by the undertaker. No outward sign of Clough’s intrusion during the post mortem. There was a hint of colour on the cheeks, and the lips were upturned in a suggestion of contentment. Ruffled white silk lined the interior.

  “It’s time,” said the undertaker standing in the doorway behind him.

  “It’s always somebody’s time,” replied Gray.

  ***

  The crematorium was located on the long, straight Manston Road which connected Margate with the old air force base, now renamed Kent International Airport, except nothing took off from its runway anymore, and even back when it had, “international” just meant Jersey. Yet another failed local business venture where only weeds were successful.

  The crematorium itself was braced by St Mildred’s Catholic school and the local refuse tip. Across the road were cabbage fields and the Margate skyline.

  Gray indicated, turned into the crematorium, and wound his way along the twisty tarmac drive. Usually parking was a challenge, and cars could often be found shoved all along the narrow route. The legitimate spaces filled quickly because services ran in succession. As one finished and the mourners filed out the back, a new lot headed in through the front.

  Today was a rarity; the parking spaces were mainly empty. Which probably meant an older person’s life was currently being celebrated. As you aged, fewer people were willing and able to see you off. Friends and family tended to whittle away over the years. That would not be the case for Regan. His would be a throng. It usually was for the young.

  Gray picked a spot adjacent to the drive, backing into the gap so he was facing the right direction, positioned to minimise the queuing on the way out. He locked the car and made his way over to the low-slung, single-storey red-brick-built crematorium over which tall chimneys towered.

  Double doors of wood and metal led into a hallway, offices left and right. In front, duplicate doors allowed access to the auditorium. However, they were firmly closed. Standing a few feet away, Gray could clearly hear the service underway. He retreated outside once more.

  If he had been smoking still, now would be the perfect time to light up, to obtain that fleeting internal warmth. Instead, Gray made a circuit of the building and entered the memorial garden at the rear. There were bouquets and flower arrangements, fresh and dewed. This was the exit, the final act in the funereal process where the attendees would be funnelled, manoeuvred by the crematorium staff like shoppers being managed through a retail experience, the route to follow, subtly obvious.

  The path was a dogleg of flagstones leading from the building to the car park via budding rose bushes and brass plaques to the dead. Gray idled in the garden for a few minutes, examining the floral displays and reading the panels. The hum of organ music and voices in song floated out; a hymn Gray recognised but could not name. Then it too petered out, leaving the sound of a plane flying overhead.

  Gray was considering retracing his steps when the doors sprung open. A besuited man stepped into the garden, closely followed by an old lady in black. She stopped, stared at Gray in surprise. He was an interloper. Gray retreated. The car park had begun to fill.

  Gray found the auditorium was open now. The echoic expanse contained some of Gray’s fellow mourners. Rectangular in dimension, a central aisle cut through parallel rows of benches. There were wide margins either side for standing space. At the fore, a kind of stage was towered over by high, stained-glass windows. To the right, at an alignment of approximately one o’clock, was a pulpit; and at three o’clock, doors of identical design to the others. This was the exit into the gardens, squaring Gray’s circular journey.

  The architectural scheme was all things to all people. Subtly ecclesiastical, sufficient to appeal to the God-fearing, while suitably unadorned to appease the agnostics. This wasn’t a church but it could be a place of worship, if so desired. Gray took a spot at the back at the end of the bench, the point furthest from the pulpit. He wasn’t here to grieve; he was here because Jake had asked.

  What was initially a trickle of people, soon became a biblical flood. The available seats filled from forward to back, with just the very front row left vacant for immediate family. All bore downcast expressions. No celebration of life, this. Carslake entered. He took a spot halfway down.

  The low hum of discussion steadily increased as voices fought to be heard. Five minutes before the service was due to start, the auditorium was full to bursting; all the standing room taken. Even the hall outside was packed. Regan hadn’t been a popular person, the mourners would be here for Jake, to show respect because he was an important man with influence in local society. Gray frowned when Frank McGavin entered. Carslake noted him too, his eyes following McGavin’s progress.

  McGavin walked along the central aisle to the second row. A couple of men stood up, creating a gap for McGavin. They moved away towards the rear. His people, reserving a space for the dignitary.

  “May I?” Gray shifted his attention away from McGavin. It was Natalie from the Lighthouse, dressed in a dark, knee-length skirt, a white blouse which rode high on the neck, and a jacket which matched the skirt.

  Gray slid a couple of inches along the bench to allow Natalie to perch beside him. There wasn’t really the space. He felt hemmed in, sandwiched between Natalie and an older man he didn’t know, who frowned at the intrusion. He breathed in a faint wash of a flowery perfume from one direction and the musky odour of deodorant from the other.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Here on police business?”

  “Partially. What about you?”

  “Everybody knows the Armitages, right?”

  Before Gray could reply, a silence drifted across the auditorium. Everyone stood and turned to watch the coffin’s slow progress down the aisle. There were six pallbearers, including Cameron. Jake walked behind the coffin, his head raised, eyes forward, being strong outwardly, probably crumbling within.

  They carried the casket the length of the auditorium, then slowly levered it from their shoulders before lowering it onto a garlanded dais. Role completed, the bearers retreated, except Cameron who slipped onto the front row followed by Jake. The silence remained utter.

  At the pulpit stood a woman. Gray hadn’t noticed her enter. She must have done so while attention was on the procession. She was dressed in a dark blue trouser suit; dark hair tied back, no make-up, unremarkable in every way. She would not be upstaging the service.

  “Good morning everyone,” she said in a steady, clear voice. “On behalf of the family, I welcome you. My name is Caroline Villers. Today we have come together to celebrate the life of Regan C Armitage, cruelly cut short in tragic circumstances.

  “I have spent time with the family to better get to know Regan as we have only met in death. I learn
t that even though Regan’s time on earth was too short, it was filled with joy, and during which he had a positive impact on so many people’s lives. That the auditorium is full today is visual proof.

  “We are here to say goodbye, to express the love we all bear for Regan and the regard in which we held and still hold him. Regan was not religious and neither is his family, so I have been asked by Regan’s father, Jake, to conduct a Humanist ceremony. There is a poem which I felt was apt.” She paused a second before speaking out over the crowd, citing the verse from memory.

  There were some sniffles from the mourners, several tears too. Throughout the poem Jake nodded, the words obviously meaning much to him.

  “Regan was a son, a brother and, most of all, a friend,” continued Villers. “He was a man who enjoyed life and shared his time with many people. He was a son of Margate; born at the hospital just a few miles away and lived in the area his whole life, so it is fitting that he ends his time here too.” Another brief pause. “Now, Regan’s father, Jake, would like to say a few words.”

  Villers stepped back a few feet to allow Jake to take her place at the lectern. He pulled a sheaf of paper from his inside pocket, placed it on the pulpit, and spent a few moments smoothing it out while he composed himself. He eyed the coffin and spoke directly to his dead son while he read a poem.

  When he’d finished, Jake lifted his head up from the paper. His eyes made a sweep of the room of assembled mourners. The silence stretched. Some shifted in their seats as time moved on.

  “At times like this we are not supposed to speak ill of the dead. But none of you really knew Regan. He was a damaged boy who struggled to connect with people on anything more than a basic level. He was troubled and suffered bouts of depression. Many here, though, will be aware of Regan’s regular social events. You’ll think he was a bundle of fun.

  “It was a sham, though. Regan couldn’t connect with a cat. He did some terrible things over the years, which I, to my shame, shut my eyes and ears to.”

  Natalie turned her head to Gray and raised her eyebrows. He was one of several mourners shifting in their seats; a few even shaking their heads.