by Keith Nixon
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 learnt 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.
“But he was my son.” Jake raised the paper, scrunched it up, “I am not comforted. I am angry, I am vengeful! I will find out who was involved in my son’s death and I will deliver justice. Whoever you are, I will hunt you down. This I swear.” Jake dropped the paper onto the floor and returned to hi
s seat. He stared resolutely forward, ignoring the chatter which erupted after a moment’s shocked silence.
“Oh my God,” whispered Natalie. But Gray wasn’t listening. Instead he was keeping his attention on McGavin who leaned forward and placed a reassuring hand on Jake’s shoulder.
Villers bent down to retrieve Jake’s poem from the floor, folded it, and put it inside her jacket. She used the pulpit for apparent support, not quite sure what to say at this unusual turn of events. Her mouth opened and closed several times as she fought for words.
Eventually, Villers gathered her wits and spoke loudly in an attempt to restore order, “At this point we will spend a minute or two remembering Regan’s part in our lives, the good times and the sad times, the funny times, the special times. When you are ready then please move through to the memorial garden.” Villers hastily opened the doors, propping them back by locking them top and bottom, and exited herself. It seemed she couldn’t get out fast enough although no one else moved, perhaps too keen to witness the next spectacle, whatever it might be.
Jake stood, giving the signal for the mourners to depart. Keeping his back turned to everyone, Jake crossed to his son’s coffin.
“Excuse me,” said Gray to Natalie.
“Of course, sorry.” Natalie headed for the main doors and the car park.
As Gray neared, Jake stretched out a hand, placed a palm on the wooden surface of the coffin, where his son’s head would be. Only when Jake’s hand dropped away did Gray speak. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” replied Jake though he didn’t turn around. “You’ll be coming to the wake at Seagram’s then. Join me in a toast.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“It wasn’t a question.”
Gray was in a dilemma, go or not? Hamson had warned him of getting too close to Jake, and here he was, considering going.
“There’s free booze.”
“I’m on the wagon.”
“There’s free orange juice.”
“I’m not supposed to …”
“To what?” Now Jake twisted at the waist, brought eyes to bear on Gray. “Speak to me?”
“Something like that.”
“Times like these are when you need your friends.”
“Then as a friend let me advise you not to make threats in public.”
“It was a fact, not a threat. So what?”
“Let me and my colleagues do our jobs.”
“And when your son disappeared, did you sit back, and let someone else take control?”
Gray was on thin ice. He’d carried on looking for Tom, regardless of what else was going on around him. “All I’ll ask is that if you learn anything share it with me before you do something about it.”
“Deliver a swift justice, you mean?”
“Your words, not mine.”
Jake stared at Gray for a moment. “See you at Seagram’s.” Then he left.
***
Natalie was standing in the car park, smoking an e-cigarette as was all the rage these days. Gray smelt strawberry mint. The exodus was in full flow. Cars streaming away from the crematorium, creating a localised traffic jam as they attempted to turn right across the busy road, back to Margate.
“That was … unique,” said Natalie.
“A new one on me,” said Gray. “Are you a friend of the family?”
Natalie shrugged. “I just wanted to be here.”
Gray wondered why. There was no apparent connection between her and the Armitages.
“What about you? Here in an official or unofficial capacity?”
“Both.”
“What about the wake? Or is it straight back to the station for you?”
“I wasn’t intending to. You?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think I’d be entirely welcome. Can I get a lift back to the Lighthouse? It’s only round the corner from Seagram’s. I got the bus then walked here, and now my feet are killing me.” Natalie leaned against a car, removed a shoe, and massaged a foot to emphasise the point. “I’d really appreciate it.”
Gray felt like he couldn’t say no, though for some reason part of him screamed to do so. “Sure,” he said.
An old couple stopped beside Gray. “Excuse me,” the man said to Natalie. “That’s my car you’re leaning against.”
“Sorry,” said Natalie. She put her shoe back on and moved out of their way.
“I’m over here,” said Gray.
“That was awkward,” she whispered.
He unlocked his car, motioned for Natalie to get in. Gray started his engine and pulled out of the spot. He paused while Regan’s funeral cortege passed by. Jake stared at Gray, seeing Natalie. His expression hardened, and he turned away. Gray pulled out and followed the black limousine.
The few miles of the journey occurred in silence. As Gray drove towards Margate he could see a pall of grey smoke rising over the town. When they reached the Lighthouse Natalie thanked him again, got out of his car, and went inside without a backward glance.
Gray drove the rest of Belgrave Road. Out of curiosity at the junction he turned towards the New Town rather than to Seagram’s. He slowed and looked along the pedestrianised shopping area. A few hundred yards along were a couple of fire engines and an ambulance. Gray bumped the car up a kerb, stuck on the hazard lights, and followed the blue flashing lights.
Thirty Four
Carslake found Jake at the bar, alone in a cast of many, empty stools either side. Carslake took one of them.
“What’ll you have?” asked Jake.
“As you’re paying, a single malt.”
Jake offered a thin smile to Carslake and said to the barman hovering a few feet away, “Get him the good stuff.”
“Yes, Mr Armitage.”
“Look at this lot.” Jake nudged his chin at the reflections in the mirror behind the bar. “Drowning their sorrows. It’s not them who’s lost a son.”
People were stuffing their faces with Jake’s food, consuming alcohol in eye-watering quantities. Mostly it appeared opportunistic. The chance of a free feeding and watering being literally grabbed with both hands.
“They’ve lost a friend, though.” Carslake thought of Cameron. “And one of them a brother.”
“Friends,” snorted Jake. “I don’t even know who half of them are.” Just then, a couple came over and offered Jake condolences. He acknowledged them with a brief nod.
The whisky arrived in a heavy tumbler. “Ice or water, sir?” asked the barman.
“Just a splash of water, please.”
The barman dribbled in some water and handed Carslake the tumbler. He raised the glass towards Jake.
“A toast. Here’s to Regan. May he be at peace.”
“Slainte,” replied Jake. They clinked glasses and drank. The whisky slid down too easily.
“Want another?” asked Jake, crooking his finger at the barman who was obviously there to service Jake and nobody else.
Carslake was tempted but said, “I’m driving.”
“You can walk back to the station from here.”
“Turning up pissed wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“That Inspector. Hamson, is it? She keeping an eye on you?”
“She’s one of the good ones.”
“A taxi back home then. Your car will be safe enough here.”
“I’ll take the orange juice. Plenty of ice this time.”
“Another for me too.” A double whisky with a pint of lager. “No matter how hard I try I can’t seem to get drunk. And I’ve been trying very hard for some time now.”
The soft drink arrived and Carslake took a sip.
“Do you believe in God?” asked Jake.
Carslake wasn’t surprised. He decided on honesty for once. “No and I never have.”
“Me neither, though I’m beginning to wonder now.”
“Oh?”
“Whether all this is retribution from on high.”
Carslake didn’t have an answe
r for Jake, nobody did.
“You look like shit, my friend.” Frank McGavin sat at a bar stool, leaned around Jake, and nodded at Carslake. “Good to see you.”
Carslake raised an eyebrow, said nothing in reply.
“Have one with me,” said Jake.
“That’s why I’m here,” said McGavin. Carslake was surprised to hear him order gin.
When the drink had been delivered to McGavin he raised his glass in a toast. “To loss. May it make us stronger.”
Jake reciprocated, uttered no words of his own. Carslake didn’t pick up his glass.
McGavin shook his head ruefully. “I can’t believe it. He was too young.” He placed a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “You have my best wishes. And call me, at any time, day or night, should you need anything. I mean anything. The police have their uses but I can be more effective.” McGavin winked at Carslake.
When McGavin had disappeared into the crowd, Carslake said, “Frank McGavin, should I be worried?”
“McGavin likes to make out we’re friends.”
“Are you?”
“This sounds very much like you’re questioning me, Chief Inspector.”
“Maybe I am. You should be careful who you keep close.”
“I told you, it’s nothing.” Jake had another large drink.
Carslake didn’t know how to respond. “I’d better be going.” He stood up. “Again, my condolences.”
Carslake left Jake staring at the slowly melting ice cubes in his glass.
Thirty Five
What had been the offices of Thanet’s Voice was now blown-out windows and blackened bricks. It appeared the fire had been mainly confined to Noble’s residence. The buildings either side – a charity shop and a cash converter – and the Chinese takeaway below were largely untouched. The smell of smoke was thick in the air.
Gray stood aside as a fire engine drove away, leaving one remaining on site. At the cordon, Gray showed his warrant card, asked for whoever was in charge. The uniform pointed towards a fireman clad in fluorescent gear standing in the shadow of the engine with two of his colleagues. Gray walked over and introduced himself.