by Keith Nixon
“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 providing 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.”
“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 photog
raph?”
“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.
Thirty Two
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.
Thirty Three
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 sto
ne, 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.