"Here's that list you were after."
Tom accepted the piece of paper from Alan, casting a cursory eye over it. There were more than a dozen names on the list. He raised it towards Alan and smiled.
"Thank you for this. We'll be back at some point tomorrow."
"If you must," Alan said, sighing dismissively.
Tom found himself irritated and fixed his eye on Alan who stood his ground. Just as before, he seemed not to be in the least bit bothered being under Tom's watchful gaze. "Yes, we must."
He headed for his car without looking back to see if Alan was watching him leave. He scanned the list of names wondering if one of them might be close enough to Billy Moy to know what he was up to in his personal life. So far, everyone he'd spoken to had a strong view on Billy, where he lived, who his family were and what he was both good and bad at but, crucially, no one seemed to know him at all.
Unlocking the car, he hesitated as his mobile rang and he answered it, looking over at the retreating form of Alan Finney walking back to the house. It was Tamara Greave.
"Hey, Tom. Where are you at the moment?"
There was an edge to her tone but he couldn't determine what it meant.
"I'm still out at the Finneys' place. I'm just leaving now."
"Right. Can you meet me in Hunstanton, down on the seafront?"
"Yes, of course. Why?"
"You'll not believe it," she said, "but something has come in on the tide."
Chapter Nine
Tom continued straight over at the roundabout on South Beach Road, Hunstanton town centre being off to his right. Where the road skirted the holiday park's static caravans, curving around and back towards the funfair on the seafront, he took the left turn and drove in the opposite direction. The sea defences here protected dozens of homes in the holiday park as well as the line of brick-built residences set further back from the beach, but in the event of a severe storm front striking the coast all of them were low lying enough to be at severe risk of flooding.
The road narrowed as Tom reached the town's boundary, becoming a cracked and broken concrete surface before petering out to little more than a dirt track accessing the holiday homes beyond. These structures were predominantly built on stilts or raised plinths, offering not only better views of the seafront but also protecting them from the potential flooding. The police presence was visible at one of these plots and Tom pulled in through the five-bar gate and parked alongside the liveried vehicle nearest to the entrance.
The constable on duty at the gate greeted him as Tom got out of the car, directing him towards the beach. To the side of this plot was a dilapidated caravan which looked barely serviceable and as Tom drew closer to the bank running up to the sea wall, he spied a dozen or so concrete squares in the ground. They were anchor points for the brick pillars to be erected later and form the base for the house. Grass was growing over and around them. It would appear the preparation for this particular building project had begun but had been halted some time ago.
Looking up and down the line of holiday homes situated between the first line of sea defences and the second earthen bank behind him on the far side of the track, each was in a varied state of repair. Some houses were substantial, modern with aluminium windows and crisp cladding lining the exterior, whereas others looked ready to collapse if a suitable gust of wind struck them. That was deceptive, however, because many of these properties had stood up to the ferocious coastal battering that came their way on a frequent basis, apparently doing so for many years. There seemed to be an acceptance by many of the owners that their location was precarious, a place to be enjoyed when the weather was pleasant but the inevitability that one day it could all be reclaimed by the sea meant they chose not to invest in the buildings too heavily. It was a sensible decision in Tom's mind. He could remember the sea breaching these defences on numerous occasions over the years.
Clambering up the steep bank, Tom could see the activity on the beach beneath him. The tide was out and half a dozen figures were milling around the scene. He stepped onto the promenade and then dropped down onto the sand beyond it moments later. Tamara saw his approach and came over to greet him.
"A dog walker found it about an hour ago," she said, glancing past Tom and gesturing towards a man sitting on the sea wall, a dog calmly lying at his feet, accompanied by a uniformed officer who was making notes as they talked to one another. Tom fell into step alongside her as they crossed the beach heading towards the groyne.
Fiona Williams was kneeling alongside the body as Tom cast an eye over it. He could see why the dog walker had assumed it was a seal. Tom could see it was a man and he was dressed in black jeans and wore a dark T-shirt beneath a black thigh-length leather jacket. By the look of it he had been brought in on the tide and then snagged on the groyne as the water receded. He was facing away from the promenade, strands of seaweed disturbed from the sea floor were caught in his hair, wrapped around the head and draped across the side of the face along with wet sand clinging to both clothing and skin.
Tom moved to his left to get a better look. There was substantial damage visible to the upper body and the left side of the head. Tom grimaced at the sight of it. Dr Williams noticed his reaction.
"Yes, made quite a mess of him didn't they?" she said glumly, looking between him and Tamara standing a couple of steps behind him.
Tom nodded. The man's face – the undamaged part – was pale, veins visible beneath the skin and the latter appeared to have a green tinge to it. Tom thought he looked to be in his late thirties judging by the lack of greying to his hair although it was possible it could be dyed. In contrast, the man's face looked lined, as if he was well travelled, making him appear older. He had a silver stud earring in his left ear-lobe and Tom could see extensive tattooing protruding from the neckline of the T-shirt. His footwear caught Tom's attention, leather boots with a large heel, larger than Tom would ever consider wearing. They were a style statement but he hadn't seen boots like those before. Maybe he was too out of touch with fashion.
"How long has he been in the water?" Tom asked.
Fiona Williams thought about it, screwing her face up. "Four, maybe five days at a push I would say." She looked up and met Tom's eye before looking out to sea. "The temperature of the water has slowed the decomposition. This sea has possibly helped you here. The bloating one would expect with the build-up of gases within the body as bacteria speeds up decomposition would usually have brought him to the surface sooner, but this hasn't happened yet." She looked back at the body. "In warmer climates he would no doubt have bobbed to the surface within a day or so but in this case I can see signs that the North Sea's critters have already set to work on him, crabs and the like, so I reckon he's been on the seabed for much of that time. The tidal current has brought him ashore. Lucky for you really," she said, screwing up her nose as she spoke. Tamara offered her an inquiring look. "I've sailed these waters since I was a child and I dare say he would probably have washed up on some continental beach in northern Europe in a few months' time, if at all, with much of his organic tissue missing, had he not come ashore here and now."
"What do you think did that to him?" Tom asked, tracing a finger in the air and indicating the damage to the chest. The doctor slowly rocked her head from side to side, pursing her lips.
"It is hard to say," she said, her brow furrowing. "Looking at it, I would imagine it is post mortem, likely after he'd already gone into the water judging from the preservation of the tissue. If I had to guess, and I stress it is a guess, it could be the result of an impact with a large, blunt surface."
"In the water?" Tom asked. She nodded, looking thoughtful. "That would be… a collision with a boat or something like that?"
"I would say that is quite likely, yes. However, if you want me to suggest a cause of death, then I would look here," she said, encouraging the two of them to come closer as she leaned over the body, indicating the head. "Do you see this injury," she pointed to a wound above th
e hairline. It was difficult to see through the matted hair with the detritus of the seabed clinging to it, and therefore make out the detail. "I think this is separate. It looks like a puncture wound to me."
"Caused by what?" Tom asked.
The doctor shrugged. "It looks deep. I don't think it's a blade as far as I can tell because the wound is too circular which is why I described it as a puncture wound rather than a cut. If it was a knife then one would expect the width of the incision to be wider, and indeed narrower – like a slit – as the blade went deeper into the brain."
"How deep is it?"
"I can't tell you that, I'm afraid. You'll have to wait for the pathologist to carry out their examination."
"Okay. Is there anything else you can tell us?"
"I can give you the cursory observations," she said, eyeing the body up and down. "A male, likely in his early to mid-thirties and seemingly in good physical health judging from his athletic build and muscle definition. Somehow, I doubt he'll turn out to be a local fisherman."
Tom smiled wryly, looking at the clothing again. The man looked more likely to be on a night out at a club rather than on a ship at sea. Falling, or jumping from a passing ferry was possible, even potentially explaining the possible collision with the hull of a vessel but the puncture wound was intriguing. He couldn't fathom how such an injury could happen.
"In your opinion, could this be accidental?" Tom asked, already forming his own answer in his head.
"Hard to rule anything out at the moment," Dr Williams said, her brow furrowing. "I can't think of how that head wound in particular could be accidental, but that is speculation on my part."
"I'm thinking the same," he replied, glancing at Tamara who nodded.
"Well, I'm finished," Dr Williams said, standing up and stepping back with a sigh. She looked at Tom and Tamara in turn with a half-smile. "If the two of you could see your way clear to not giving me another dead body for a day or two, then I would be grateful." She looked at the body again, shaking her head. "The poor chap."
"We'll see what we can do," Tom said and the doctor smiled again before departing. He dropped to his haunches alongside the body, cupping his chin with his hand before looking up at Tamara, frowning. "Forensics had better get a move on," he said, eyeing the water. "It'll not be long before the tide comes back in. Anyone been through his pockets for an ID yet?"
"No, but you can," Tamara said. "They've done the camera work."
Tom donned a set of gloves and manoeuvred himself into a better position, bracing himself on the damp, rotting wood of the slippery groyne beside him as he lifted the man's jacket to get access to the pockets of his jeans. The material was sodden and gently patting them front and back revealed nothing. The leather jacket was unbuttoned with no zip, a cut designed for style rather than practical protection from the weather. He patted the inside lining and there was something in the inner breast pocket. It felt slim but firm and substantial. He carefully reached in and withdrew the item. It was a burgundy passport.
Tamara had an evidence bag ready for him to place it into. Despite spending several days in the water it was still in good condition. He looked at the front, not recognising the crest. He read it softly aloud but with difficulty, "Eiropas Savieniba Latvijas Republika."
"Latvia?" Tamara asked.
He looked up, nodding. Tom opened the passport, aware that the internal pages would not have fared as well as the plasticised exterior. He gently thumbed through, but he found very few stamps. Latvia, as an EU country was also a signatory of the Schengen Agreement and travel within the European Union didn't require the stamping of passports.
"What's his name?" Tamara asked as Tom reached the photographic identity page at the end. He frowned.
"Wrong question," he said, raising his eyebrows and turning the passport towards her and holding it open for her to see. She sighed as she saw the picture of a female brunette looking back at her. "Who is he in relation to her?" Tom asked, looking at the photograph. The woman wore her hair to just below her jawline in a bob, her eyes were large and round, her cheekbones high and finely sculpted. She was an attractive young woman. "Sasha Kalnina," he said aloud. Checking her date of birth, he did a quick calculation in his head. "Twenty-seven years old, born in Riga."
He placed the passport in the evidence bag and sealed it before passing it back to Tamara as he went through the dead man's remaining pockets. He found another internal pocket that was zipped and he opened it, withdrawing a roll of notes and a folded piece of colourful paper. The notes were tied with an elastic band. Tom gently removed the rubber band. The notes were in sterling, recent issue, and therefore undamaged due to their being made from thermoplastic polymer. He smiled at Tamara, "They say these things are virtually indestructible." A cursory count revealed it to be roughly a thousand pounds’ worth of notes in mixed denominations. He held them up for Tamara to see.
"Well, I don't think he fell from a passing ferry," she said. "Not carrying that amount of cash. What was that in his pocket along with the money?"
Tom unfolded the paper. It was an A4 size flyer, a promotional leaflet advertising a musical variety show. He passed it to her. She read it and her eyes widened as she, too, realised it was a forthcoming performance at Hunstanton's very own Princess Theatre.
"Anyone matching his description reported missing in the last week or so?" he asked.
Tamara shook her head. "No, I thought of that. I had Cassie run a check as soon as I got down here and saw him."
Tom nodded. "We'll have to check back through recent passenger manifests entering the country and see if she's on one of them, ferry, airports," Tom said, disappointed not to find the deceased man's identity on his person. "With a bit of luck, he was travelling with her."
Tamara cast an eye out to sea. "At least we have something to go on. I just hope she's not going to wash up at some point as well."
"Now that would be a thing," he said, agreeing.
"How did you get on with the Finneys?"
Tom frowned again as he stood up, shaking his head. "Pretty much as I expected. Alan Finney was far more interested in some coursing that he says has been going on on his land as opposed to what happened to Billy Moy."
"Any help at all?"
"We'll see. Billy was doing work on the farm last week but I had the idea there was something going unsaid in that house though. But it was more to do with Ginette, Alan's wife."
"How so?"
Tom shook his head. "I don't know. Leave it with me. I got the impression from her that they threw work Billy's way because of some past familial affiliation between Ginette's family and the Moys. I'm hoping to track down Billy's brother today, deliver him the bad news. If it goes back far enough, maybe he'll be able to shed some light on it. Ginette Finney clammed up as soon as her husband arrived."
"Could it be related to his death, do you think?"
Tom bit his bottom lip. "I don't know but I can't see how as yet. It doesn't seem likely at the moment, to be fair. It was just one of those feelings you get."
"A copper's sixth sense?" Tamara said, the hint of a smile crossing her lips.
"Yes," Tom said, grinning at her. "Something like that."
"Great. Well, if it pans out, please could you give me next weekend's lottery numbers while you are at it?"
"I'll do my best," he said, stretching and flexing his shoulders before beckoning the crime scene techs to come over and continue their work. He had got everything he would from the body until it could be transported to the pathologist for them to get to work.
The two of them headed back to the promenade where the man who had discovered the body was still waiting patiently. They introduced themselves and the constable introduced him to them, a man by the name of Marcus Beasley.
"I couldn't believe it," Beasley said, shaking his head as he recounted how he'd found the body. "I didn't think Dave, here," he said, indicating the collie lying at his feet, "was going to start munching on a dead seal carca
ss but he is more than likely to roll in it." Tom found the notion of calling a dog Dave amusing, but didn't mention it. "He's done it before you know," the man continued. "Rolled in a rotting carcass he found on the beach. I was half a mile away and by the time I got there… well, I'll have you know it nearly brought the contents of my breakfast up the smell was so bad! It took two baths to get the stench off the bloody…" he looked at Tom and then Tamara before looking down at his feet. "Anyway, as I was saying… couldn't believe it." He looked up at Tom again, expressionless. "What happened to him, do you think?"
Tom shook his head. "Too early to say, I'm afraid."
"Terrible business."
"And you are confident you were the first to find him?"
Beasley nodded. "Yes, I believe so. I mean, no one is likely to walk away from that are they?"
Tom wanted to tell him that he'd probably be surprised at how many people would run away rather than get involved.
"And you didn't find anything else lying near the body or did you touch it at all?"
"No, certainly not. I pulled Dave away and called you lot. I left it well alone."
He seemed genuine enough and Tom couldn't see him as one to pick a dead man's pocket for a wallet. He had already given a statement to the uniformed officer and so Tom sent him on his way. He was more than happy to leave the scene.
"So," Tamara said, pursing her lips, "trawling through manifests it is."
"And let's not forget someone gets to go to the theatre," he said, holding aloft the evidence bag containing the flyer. "Maybe he bought tickets or is working on the production. That's a job for Eric when he comes back in tomorrow."
Tamara looked back to where the team were preparing to remove the body from the beach.
"Do you think he looks like the type to go to or work in a musical variety show?"
"Takes all sorts," Tom said with a smile as he withdrew his mobile from his pocket. "I just need to call home."
"I'll meet you back at the station," Tamara said, walking away.
To Die For: A chilling British detective crime thriller (The Hidden Norfolk Murder Mystery Series Book 9) Page 8