by Keith Nixon
“Please try and remember. Any detail could help us find him,” said Gray.
Mrs Emerson huffed. “Average height, brown skin, dark curly hair, bearded, and aggressive.”
“Did he speak?”
“No. He just came at me when I discovered him. I backed away, and he ran past. I told Philip to stop him, but he was useless.”
Philip, the partner, scowled at her sleight, though held his tongue. Gray didn’t blame him for not tackling a knife-wielding stranger, but clearly his wife did. Blake’s arrival saved Gray from making any comment.
“What have we got here then?” asked the Crime Scene Manager. Gray explained the situation while a SOCO cordoned off the hut and got to work.
Blake was clearly unnerved by the hovering Mrs Emerson, who wanted her space back as quickly as possible. So much so he quickly cleared out of her hut, leaving one of his men to the inspection process; lifting fingerprints, bagging the clothes and life jacket.
“I feel sorry for the husband,” said Blake who was keeping Gray between him and Mrs Emerson. Hamson had made herself scarce to call Carslake again.
“Usually people get the partner they deserve,” said Gray.
Gray remained implacable under Blake’s stare.
“Anything?” asked Gray.
“Lots of prints. The small ones are easy to discount, clearly from kids. The rest we’ll match against the parents. Whatever’s left may be our man. However, Mrs Emerson says they have friends and family in and out of here all the time. ‘Like a hotel’ apparently. So it won’t be easy.”
It never was. Every job was an uphill battle as far as Blake was concerned.
“You’ll pull it off though, Brian.”
It was meant as mockery though Blake took it entirely at face value and responded with a stiffer spine and an appreciative grin.
“Where did Yvonne go?” asked Blake.
“Trying to find a mobile signal.”
“Impossible here, the chalk blocks everything.”
Blake missed the fact that Gray had been able to get through to him not so long ago. Hamson had promised Gray food if he managed Blake on her behalf.
“Well, give her my best, would you?”
“It would be my pleasure, Brian.”
“Bloody gold dust these beach huts. Council charges a fortune for them yet the waiting lists are huge. I’ve been on it for years.”
“I can’t see what the fuss is all about. They’re just sheds.”
“It’s Charles Dickens’ fault, you know.”
“What is, Brian?”
“Thanet’s tourism, the boom and bust. You know he discovered Broadstairs walking here from Ramsgate? He would have passed the very beach those corpses washed up on.”
Thankfully, Gray’s mobile rang before Blake could give him more of a social history lesson, and again disproving Blake’s assertion that mobile calls were impossible here. Gray answered, nodding a half-hearted apology at Blake.
“Morning, Sol.” It was the boss, Carslake. “How’s the beach?”
“Bracing.”
Carslake’s barking laugh was mercifully brief. “Just calling to get your thoughts on the bodies.”
“Hasn’t Yvonne filled you in?”
“I’d rather talk to a proper detective first.”
Gray winced. Relations between Hamson and Carslake, never good to start with, had deteriorated further. She was running out of allies – given her interpersonal skills, she hadn’t that many people on her side to start with. Gray gave Carslake a brief rundown of the situation and their latest findings.
“Such a pity about the boy,” said Carslake when Gray had finished. Regan had to be well into his twenties. Hardly a boy. “What’s next?”
“The death knock.”
Carslake sighed. “Give Jake my condolences, would you?”
“Of course.”
“Hang on; I’ve got another call coming in. Hamson again. Better take it this time.” The line went dead before Gray could reply.
Gray put his phone away. He handed his business card to Mrs Emerson, said goodbye to Blake, then made the climb up the relatively short, though steep, incline to the road above. He was huffing by the time he reached the peak. Hamson was leaning against his vehicle, cigarette in one hand, mobile in the other. She nodded to indicate she’d seen him. By the time she finished talking the cigarette was done too.
“Just bringing Carslake up to date,” she said. Gray didn’t tell her he’d done exactly the same. Things were complicated enough already. “How did it go?”
“Might have found some fingerprints. I’ve called the station, told them to get legs out on the street, see if we can find our mystery man.”
“Easier said than done,” said Hamson. “Particularly if he gets to Margate.” There was a large population of immigrants in the town and the description they had wasn’t much to go on. “And Blake?”
“I did enough to earn my bacon.”
“Makes a change,” said Hamson. It seemed like she meant it.
Five
From the driver’s seat, Gray wound down the passenger window and locked it open with the press of a button. Hamson glared at him. Gray preferred her indignation to the lingering stench of cigarette. The outcome of no longer being a smoker: love had turned into loathing.
In comparison, Hamson was smoking more than ever. Too much, Gray thought. She seemed to permanently have a lit cigarette between her fingers whenever they were away from the office. She was often to be found standing outside the station, puffing away. However, he kept his opinion to himself. It wasn’t worth an ember in the eye.
In the ensuing flinty silence, they crossed the border from Broadstairs into Ramsgate. He followed Victoria Parade, houses one side, the coastline the other, until it became Wellington Crescent, a switchback hill which carried the road down to sea level. They passed a waterfall which was, as usual, more foam than flow because some local joker had again dumped a bottle of washing up liquid into the cascade.
Gray turned off at the bottom of the hill, driving past bars and restaurants which looked out onto yachts bobbing in the harbour. A hundred yards along, he pulled into a parking spot. There were a couple of bollards; otherwise it was a straightforward plunge into the still, black waters for the unwary or incompetent.
As Gray got out of the car he felt bile rise in his throat. He swallowed it down, coughed.
“Are you okay?” asked Hamson.
“Just indigestion,” he croaked, a searing in his throat and chest.
“Again?”
“It’s all this healthy living, Von.”
“You should get it looked at.”
“I’m fine.” Gray led Hamson to their destination. Between a tall stone needle erected to commemorate Prince Albert, and the shut-down casino, stood a bright and shiny Dreamliner caravan, now converted into a burger van.
The proprietor, a curly haired young man, was leaning over a hot plate. He glanced up at Gray’s arrival, stopped flipping meat patties. “What can I get you?”
“A burger, a bacon roll, and two coffees,” said Gray.
“What about the diet?” asked Hamson.
Gray had been trying a health kick recently, although sticking to it had proven much harder than he’d thought it would be. “I can have a day off every now and again, can’t I?”
“Some of us have willpower. Just the drink for me.”
“You sure?”
“Very.”
“Cancel the bacon roll then.”
The proprietor nodded, told them to take a seat and handed over a small piece of paper with a number printed on it, even though there wasn’t a queue.
“Can I get a cup of milk?” asked Gray.
“Of course.” The man got a mug from beneath the counter and poured some from a plastic bottle. Gray swallowed the cold drink. It immediately soothed the pressure in his chest.
Hamson was sitting at one of the tables on the pavement. It was pleasant in the sunshine. Gra
y joined her, scattering a handful of pigeons and a seagull which were getting as near as they dared, on the hunt for any scraps of food.
“I can’t believe you’re eating here,” said Hamson as she lit up. “It looks like a hygiene nightmare. And a burger, at this time of day.”
“I’ve a cast-iron constitution.”
Hamson snorted then blew smoke from her nostrils. “Tell me about Jake Armitage.”
Gray shooed the birds away. “At one time or another Jake has owned pretty much every commercial property in the area. Mainly guest houses, bed and breakfasts, bedsits. Cheap digs that these days cater for the unemployed and underprivileged.”
Hamson eyed Gray through curling smoke. “Low rent? Like for immigrants?”
“Precisely for immigrants.”
“Coffee’s ready,” interrupted the proprietor. Gray collected the two steaming mugs and brought them back to the table.
“You wouldn’t think there’s much profit in it,” said Hamson.
“The government pays, so there’s plenty of money. He also owns a pub and the nightclub, Seagram’s.”
“I’ve had a few nights there. Seagram’s is the opposite end of the scale, certainly not low rent given the prices at the bar.”
“I wouldn’t know, Von, I’ve never been in.”
“They cater for the London set. And the pub?”
“The Mechanical Monkey.” Upmarket and respectable – also did good food and wasn’t far from where Jake lived. Gray and Jake drank in there many times when they were teenagers. Funny how the world turned.
“I’ve never heard of Jake until today,” said Hamson.
“Unlikely you would have. But a decade ago he was infamous.”
“Why?”
“He’s always sailed close to the wind. Buildings he owned had a tendency to burn down at the most opportune moments.”
“And he got away with it?”
“There was never any clear evidence of wrongdoing, just rumours. The last apparent accident was about the time Tom disappeared. Some people died.”
“Were you involved in the investigation?”
“I wasn’t really in the right frame of mind, but I read about it afterwards.” Odd how after years of suppression recently he could discuss Tom without feeling so uptight. “The blaze took out a large guest house called Sunset. It transpired the building was blocking a development opportunity for an out of town company. Worse, Jake was apparently involved with them. He got an insurance payout and saved the expense of knocking the building down, allegedly. Seagram’s is there now. I’d show you the original newspaper article. If I still had it.” The article had been in a pile of documents Hamson confiscated from Gray.
“Sorry.”
“Doesn’t matter. History. Anyway, Jake had been a flamboyant character, happiest when on the front page of the local rag. The big fish in the small pond. He had a colourful private life too. Three marriages, three kids, three divorces. His last wife up and left him around the same time as the Sunset guest house fire, took the youngest child, a daughter. The two boys – Regan and Cameron – stayed. Her departure was different to the prior two. It was her choice, not his. The divorce and all the negative publicity around the fire hit Jake hard. He disappeared from view.”
“He’s a recluse?”
“Not as such, just departed the limelight.”
The burger was ready as Gray’s mobile rang. He recognised the number, sighed. He could ignore it, though he knew the caller would just keep trying until he picked up. Hamson collected the food while Gray answered.
“No comment,” said Gray. He took a chunk out of the burger, chewed, and swallowed. The food stuck in his throat. He coughed, trying to clear the blockage.
The person on the other end gave a wheezing laugh. “There never is, Sergeant Gray,” said William Noble, ex-editor-in-chief of the local newspaper, the Thanet Echo, now the overseer of a blog grandly called Thanet’s Voice. He’d been around forever, knew everyone and, worst of all, was tenacious. “I’m calling about the bodies.”
“What bodies, Will?”
Hamson frowned at Gray. He mouthed “Noble” and her scowl deepened.
“Come, come Solomon, spit it out. Someone will eventually, so why not you?”
“I’ve no idea what you’re referring to.”
“I hear of three corpses found on the beach. All drowned.”
“If you say so.” Gray was glad Noble didn’t have all the details.
“No statement to make at all, Sergeant? I’ll quote you as a source close to the police. We’ll keep names out of it, of course.” Noble laughed once more.
“Nice try, but no cigar this time.”
“Ah well, had to give it a go. Almost impossible to get a scoop these days. See you at the protest march later?”
“What march?”
“Where have you been hiding the last few weeks? The attack on social care by the government and the impact it’s having on service provision like the NHS can’t be allowed to go on! We’re demonstrating through Margate.”
“I doubt I’ll be able to make it.”
“Knew you’d say that. It’s only a little thing.”
“Good luck.” Gray disconnected, his mind on the fact that Noble would have the story on his blog soon, if not already.
“What did he want?” asked Hamson.
“Fishing. Interesting coincidence, though. Noble and Jake have history too. After the Sunset fire Jake sued over some articles Noble had run. Jake won, the Thanet Echo closed and Noble was out of a job.”
“Small world we live in.”
Gray nodded. “Suppose we’d better go.” He swallowed a mouthful of coffee and grabbed the burger. He had a huge bite of the bread as he unlocked the car. Hamson cringed at the sight. “What? A man’s got to eat.”
Six
“He lives here?” asked Hamson as Gray turned through a gap between high flint walls. What had been terraced houses along a narrow thoroughfare looming over the car, became a spacious static mobile home estate.
“He has to live somewhere.”
“In a caravan?”
“Your observational skills do you proud, Von. Though strictly it’s a mobile home.”
“It’s a caravan.”
Gray belched. “Sorry.” His stomach grumbled. He’d begun to feel ill on the drive over. “Not sure about that burger.”
“I told you.”
Gray parked beside a Rolls Royce with a private licence plate – Jake’s. Gray wouldn’t be bothering to lock his car. In comparison to the Rolls it was too old and crap. Before they got out, Gray put a restraining hand on Hamson’s forearm. “Don’t rise to anything he says.”
She frowned. “Why?”
“He’ll attempt to pull your strings. King-sized arsehole, remember?”
“Worried he’ll set me on fire?”
“More the other way around.”
Hamson snorted.
Despite appearances, this was prime real estate. It possessed a fantastic view over the U-shaped Pegwell Bay into which the Great Stour River emptied. When the tide turned it did so with vengeance, the North Sea receding for at least a mile and exposing a huge expanse of mud, giving a window of a couple of hours for a handful of industrious men to dig for lugworms, the last few of a dying trade.
On the far side of the bay were the chimneys and buildings of the old Pfizer industrial site, mainly mothballed now. Atop the tip of the sweep, Deal Pier stretched out, beyond which was the port of Dover, hidden from view. The static homes provided a decent income too, Gray would bet. And Jake owned the whole site.
It took Gray a moment to remember which home was Jake’s before he led Hamson to a green rectangular box. Wooden blinds obscured the systematically spaced windows. A reasonable-sized garden of grass and flower borders extended all around it, enclosed by a waist-high, white-painted wooden picket fence.
Hamson leaned over and made a show of peering intently into the garden. “Pity,” she said.
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“What is?” Gray knew he shouldn’t ask.
“No gnomes.”
“Such a stereotypical attitude from an officer of the law.”
“What do you expect?”
Gray walked up a couple of steps and rapped on the caravan’s frosted glass door. Within seconds it opened – outwards. He moved back to avoid being struck. Above Gray stood a casually dressed young man, brown hair tousled, unshaven. Not quite as good-looking as his recently deceased brother. This was the other son, Cameron.
“Is your dad in? I need a word.”
“Who are you?”
“An old friend.”
Cameron laughed. “Jake doesn’t have any friends.”
Jake? “Your dad will want to see us.”
“Is everything okay? You don’t look well.”
“Your father, please.”
Cameron shrugged. “Sure.” He stepped outside and closed the door behind him. “Excuse me.” Gray and Hamson parted and Cameron slid through.
He led them to what was the original building, once a farm by the look of it. A single-storey lean-to, set mostly to glass, was propped against the red stone wall. It possessed an uninterrupted view of the bay through sensibly aligned mobile homes.
Cameron pointed. “The Club House. You’ll find Jake inside.”
“Where are your toilets?” asked Gray. He was going to throw up any moment.
“There.” Cameron nodded to a door beside the Club House. Gray ran. He barely managed to get inside a stall before he voided the contents of his stomach. He flushed a couple of times, then went to the sinks and laid his forehead against the wall-mounted mirror until his head stopped spinning.
He turned on the cold tap, washed his hands and face, dried them. Unsteadily, he left the toilets. Hamson was outside the door.
“You look awful,” said Cameron who’d stuck around to keep Hamson company.
“I’m feeling better now.”
“Told you that place was a hygiene nightmare,” said Hamson. “Are you ready for this?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
Cameron opened the door for them. Basically, the Club House was a bar, with Jake its only patron. He was sitting in t-shirt and shorts at a table, feet up on a chair opposite, reading a newspaper. It was warm because of all the glass. The cane furniture with floral cushions would suit a conservatory. An empty cup sat on a pine table in front of Jake. He ignored them and focused on the article.