by Keith Nixon
“Do you have any proof?”
“Beyond seeing them at social events together over the years? No, just whispers from contacts. Carslake’s clever.”
“If you’re going to throw accusations like that around you’d better be sure you have the evidence, Will.”
“We’re just talking, Sol.”
Gray let it pass. “What happened at your offices yesterday?”
“I was minding my own business when two men came in. They said I had something they wanted.”
“What?”
“That was just the problem, they didn’t say at first. You know how I am, kindly soul and all that, I’ll do anything for anyone.” Gray managed to keep his face restrained. It wasn’t more than a minute since Noble had failed to commit to helping Gray. “When I said I hadn’t a clue what they wanted they locked me in the cupboard and began turning the place over. I’m thinking they’re going to kill me. Anyway, after they’d busted the place up good and proper they let me out into fresh air. I nearly died in there, I tell you.”
“Poisoned by your own atmosphere?”
“Now you’re just being rude.”
“And?” prompted Gray.
“I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was like a hurricane had torn through the office, turned everything upside down. Bastards. I told them so too. They asked me again if I had it. And when I said, again, that I had no idea what they were talking about, this time they told me. Millstone.”
“Millstone?”
Noble nodded. “The property developers. We talked about them the other day.”
“We did?”
“Jesus, Sol! Outside the Lighthouse. They’re the ones trying to tear the town down.”
Gray remembered now. He had the protest leaflet still in his desk drawer at the station. “Oh, yeah.”
“I had a bit of a search around the office, pretending to look and that was when it all went a bit pear-shaped.”
“Why?”
“Because I went for them. Managed to get a couple of knuckles on a chin. I was doing all right until his mate hit me. I went down like a sack of spuds, Sol.” Noble put a hand to the back of his head, touched the bandage gently. “One made a call while I was on the floor. Told someone they couldn’t find it and asked if they should finish me off. I nearly shit myself. I thought, this is the end of me. The person on the other end must have said no cause they left, and I got in touch with you.” Noble eyed Gray balefully. “Eventually.”
“Who did they call?”
“No names were used.”
“Tell me about Millstone.”
“Not much to say really,” said Noble with a shrug, “as there’s not much to find. Believe me, I’ve tried. They’re newly formed, no apparent trading history, no accounts yet. The company address is in Jersey. Offshore, invisible. All this talk of increasing transparency.” Noble shook his head. “Really, it’s a sham. Big businesses paying little to no tax. Evasion versus avoidance? They’re one and the same as far as I’m concerned. We should all pay what we can, Sol.”
“No argument from me.”
“One thing I do know, Millstone have got Jake Armitage in their sights. They want him out. Margate’s becoming big business, and it seems Millstone, whoever they are, are after a major share of it.”
“Did you recognise who attacked you?”
Noble nodded. “Larry Lost and some guy with dreadlocks.”
“They keep turning up.”
“Frank McGavin wants in on the act as well. He’s moved into property. The new fish restaurant on the Broadstairs seafront? It’s McGavin’s.”
Gray raised an eyebrow, McGavin was changing his tactics. Property and restaurants. Very upmarket.
“Jake is being squeezed, Sol. Between Millstone and McGavin. I’d bet it’s not a pleasant place to find yourself.”
“Is this the story you said you were working on? The big one?”
“I’m saying nothing.” Noble grabbed hold of Gray’s forearm. “I owe you one.”
“Think of me as your guardian angel, Will.”
“There was one other thing which stuck in my mind. When they were on the phone Larry mentioned Sunset.”
“What does that mean, Will?”
“I think he was referring to the guest house fire.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Me neither. I thought I’d mention it. Just watch yourself with all this, all right? Remember what I said about Carslake. It’s for you only.” Gray wondered what Noble meant about Carslake and the part all this played in an increasingly complex puzzle.
“I’d better be going, Will. Thanks for the information.” Gray stood up. He felt dizzy. Outside, the pub door swinging shut behind him, Gray’s stomach began to lurch. He ran for the rear of the pub, a car park, and threw up against the wall, heaving until there was no more.
Gray stood, bent at the waist, hands on thighs, trying to get his breath back. He hoped he’d be well enough to catch the train tomorrow morning. At least when he rang Hamson to complain of an illness he wouldn’t be lying.
Thirty
Khoury jolted awake when the car door closed. He sat up; blinked the sleep out of his eyes. It was dark outside. A streetlight nearby cast a weak yellow hue which barely illuminated the pavement beneath.
There was a man sitting in the passenger seat next to him. A big man, wearing a sharp suit. His head was shaven to the skin. Which puzzled Khoury as he’d locked the doors before he drifted off. The man grinned at him, though there was no humour, just brilliant-white teeth. Through the windscreen Khoury saw a second man, with familiar dreadlocks, sitting on a bollard staring directly at him. He was one of the men who’d been searching for him at the Lighthouse. Dave.
“I hear you’ve been trying to find an associate of mine,” said the man in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead, not bothering to look in Khoury’s direction. Khoury wondered if he could get to his knife quickly. The man’s hands rested on his thighs. He wore gloves. The sight of them turned Khoury’s guts to ice. No fingerprints. “You’re looking for Larry? Is that right?”
Khoury nodded.
“I’m Frank, by the way,” he finally turned to face Khoury. “Frank McGavin.”
Khoury saw no one else outside besides Dave. The harbour master’s office, which had a seagull’s-eye view of the immediate area, was dark. He was alone with these two.
“It’s just us,” said McGavin, seemingly reading Khoury’s mind. “But Larry’ll be joining us shortly. He’s on his way over now. To meet us on his boat.”
“Why?”
“Thought I’d help a fellow human being.” McGavin smiled. He opened the passenger door and got out. Dave stood and began to walk over, his dreadlocks swinging. When Khoury didn’t move, McGavin leant back inside and said, “Come on, then.”
Dave opened Khoury’s door. The only sound he could hear was of the waves beating against the outer wall, and the slap of ropes against masts in the wind. With a sense of foreboding, Khoury exited.
“Arms out,” said Dave. He was wearing gloves too. When Khoury didn’t comply, Dave lifted Khoury’s arms so he was standing like a scarecrow. Dave patted him down, found the knife in an inside pocket, and removed it.
McGavin headed towards the harbour. Dave closed the car door and gave Khoury a shove so he followed McGavin, falling into step a few feet behind. McGavin stopped at the security gate in the fence. He tapped four numbers into the keypad. The gate unlocked with a metallic clunk, and they were inside the inner marina.
McGavin walked along the pontoon with purpose, like he belonged here. The boat was three sections along, at the end of a spur off the jetty. McGavin paused beside the boat for a moment, took in the lines. Khoury didn’t need to read the name on the rear to know what it said. The Etna, Ramsgate.
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 th
ere. 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.
Thirty One
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.
“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.