by Keith Nixon
Gray had watched the changes happening with a question mark in his mind and doubt in his gut, often asking himself why people were so keen to see the past eliminated? And McGavin was getting in on the act.
“It’s not an act,” said McGavin, sat a table to the rear of the restaurant facing inwards so he could see everyone and everything. McGavin waved Gray to a seat opposite, where he would see nothing and no one besides McGavin. A waiter brought another seat for Hamson. “Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat?”
“Yes,” said Gray.
“On me.”
“Definitely not,” said Hamson.
“Too much like a bribe?” McGavin winked at Hamson.
“It’d stick in my throat, Frank,” said Gray. “I’m not ready to die.”
“Pity, our TripAdvisor ratings are pretty good, and rising. We’ll soon be number one in the area.”
“It’s a surprise to see you as a restaurateur. Not your usual style.”
“And what’s my usual style, Sergeant Gray?”
“Drugs, prostitution, gambling …”
“That’s slander. Everyone’s got to eat.” McGavin smiled. “Speaking of which, you don’t mind if I carry on? Mediterranean fish stew, you know.”
“Be my guest.”
“I think it’s you that’s my guest.” In between dipping a spoon into the bowl in the correct manner, sideways and pushing away from himself McGavin said, “How can I help you both?” He ruined the image of refinement by slurping.
“One of your employees, Larry Lost.”
“Loser? He doesn’t work for me. Not for quite a while. What’s happened to him?”
“He’s dead.”
“Comes to us all, eventually,” shrugged McGavin, no apparent impact on his appetite as he kept plunging the spoon. “How did he pass on?”
“Drowned.” They were keeping the multiple stab wounds and crushed skull confidential for now.
“Nasty.”
“We believe Larry was involved in the illegal transportation of immigrants from Europe,” said Hamson.
“Really? I’m surprised. Alcohol and women were more his downfall.”
“When did you last see him?”
Stew depleted, McGavin sat back and thought. He shook his head as, seemingly, his memory wouldn’t play ball. “I don’t know. A month? Maybe more? Our paths rarely crossed.”
“I find that surprising. Thanet’s a small place,” said Gray. “And you two go back years.”
“We do, you’re right. Old mates; went to school together. It was me that gave him his nickname. Loser was useless at everything he did.”
“Kind of you.”
If McGavin detected the sarcasm in Gray’s words he made no sign. He raised his hand to catch a waiter’s eye. A young man trotted over.
“Yes, Mr McGavin?”
“Take this away.” McGavin pointed at the bowl. “And keep a better watch on things, son. Be ready to look after clients rather than staring out the window at passers-by.”
“Sorry, Mr McGavin. It won’t happen again.”
“You’re right, it won’t.” McGavin flicked his fingers as if breezing away a fly. He returned his attention to Gray.
“Why did you two part ways?” asked Hamson.
“He’d been screwing up even more than usual, and I was moving into new lines of business which didn’t really suit him.”
“What new lines?” asked Hamson.
McGavin opened his arms to mean the restaurant. His expression showed he thought Hamson was stupid. “He came by a few times, kept asking for his job back until he stopped one day. I think he was pissed off at me. I heard he’d started working for someone else.”
“Who?”
McGavin shrugged. “No idea. But they were welcome to him.”
“You don’t seem particularly cut up that an old mate, as you put it, is dead,” said Gray.
“Is that a crime?”
“I suppose not. Just a little unusual.”
“Well pardon me for not being as banal as you’d like.”
“Have to hand it to you though, this place is nice.”
“I’m rather proud.”
“Do you own it?”
“Why is that anything to do with you, Sergeant?”
“Call it context.”
McGavin smiled. “The property is leased, actually. The business rates are exorbitant. Crazy, given we’re helping the struggling local economy.”
“That’s the trouble with tax.”
The waiter interrupted them. He stood beside McGavin holding a plate.
“Are we done here?” said McGavin. “I’ve a rather fine hake fillet I’d hate to go cold.”
Gray pushed back his chair, suddenly needing fresh air. Hamson rose too. “I’ll come and find you if I’ve further questions.”
“If you see the Maître D’ on the way out I’m sure he’ll get you a nice romantic table for an evening.” McGavin smirked. “You make a good couple.”
Outside, Gray leant on the railings and took in the sea view. Hamson stood beside him.
“What an arsehole,” said Hamson.
“He’s a man who’s very convinced by himself.”
“It seems like Jake has some competition between McGavin and Millstone.”
“You know what, Von? It makes me wonder who really owns Millstone.”
Hamson’s phone rang. She answered, listened briefly, said a few words and disconnected. “That was Clough. The PM on Larry is about to start. I told him you’d head over.”
Thirty Nine
Clough, in greens, was up to his arms inside Larry’s chest cavity.
A microphone hung from the ceiling, near the pathologist’s mouth. He would be speaking into it intermittently, recording his observations, though Gray couldn’t hear as the speakers were switched off and there was a plate glass observation window between the theatre and waiting room.
The pathologist removed some organs from Larry, put them into the pan on a set of shiny scales, stepped back, and read the dial. The organs went into a dish beside Clough before he delved in once more.
The post mortem continued for nearly an hour. Part way through, just after Clough had used the bone saw (which Gray could hear, and it set his teeth on edge), he looked up and nodded at Gray briefly. When it was over, Clough exited the theatre via a set of double doors at the rear.
Eventually, after cleaning down and removing his scrubs, Clough joined Gray. “It’s been a busy day,” said the pathologist. “I put your boy here to the top of the queue. He didn’t drown.”
“No diatoms and plankton?”
“Well done. You remembered our lesson. Yes, diatoms and plankton only where they should be. Our Mr Lost had suffered extensive damage. Firstly, a fractured skull where he’d been hit by the hammer; not hard enough to kill but it would certainly have incapacitated him.”
Gray remembered the small cabin. Perhaps Khoury didn’t have the room to get a proper swing in?
Clough continued, “And then there were the knife wounds, eleven of them in all. A frenzied attack, I’d say. Loss of blood was acute. He’d have been in a lot of pain.”
“So he didn’t die quickly?”
“No, or easily.”
“Have you had chance to look at William Noble?”
“The burning?” asked Clough. Gray nodded. “Briefly. It most likely wasn’t the fire that killed him. The back of his head was smashed in too. I’ll have to open him up to be sure, but I’d bet on not finding any smoke inhalation in the lungs.”
Clough held out his hand, ready to make a wager.
“I’m not taking that,” said Gray.
“Spoilsport.”
***
Gray went back to his flat. After witnessing Larry being eviscerated he wanted some time by himself. While he cooked some pasta, he thought back to what McGavin had told him. Millstone appeared to be another common denominator, and he wondered what McGavin’s connection was. When the pasta was done, he
poured it into a bowl and carried it through to the living room. He sat at a table and booted up his laptop.
Having just bought and sold property, Gray broadly knew the ins and outs of the tortuous process; strictly speaking, his high-street solicitor had dealt with the detail. Gray had just been the cash machine. Perhaps commercial deals were different.
The police had access to the Land Registry where all details on property transfers since 1993 were held. Gray entered the restaurant’s address and tapped the enter key.
His search revealed that only months ago it had indeed been purchased by Millstone Holdings. Prior to then it was owned by Enterprise Associated Partners. Gray moved over to a search engine. He entered “Millstone Holdings” and thumbed the enter key once more.
171,000 search results were returned. Gray scrolled through several pages. The few relevant links pointed to another official government body, Companies House, where trading information on commercial ventures was held. Like the Land Registry the police had full and free access to the data.
However, the information on Millstone Holdings was as deep as McGavin’s stew. No trading history, no assets or liabilities, and the single director was someone called Fallon based at an address in Guernsey. Gray returned to the search engine and entered the address. Millstone wasn’t the only business registered there. The search engine spewed out page after page of details. It appeared that Millstone was a shell company. Another search revealed Fallon was a London-based lawyer.
EAP was a different matter. There was over three decades of results. The business was wholly owned by Jake Armitage. Besides Jake, the other directors were his sons, Regan and Cameron.
Gray leaned back in his chair, not sure where to go next. Millstone seemed a dead end, its true ownership hidden away. Tomorrow he’d go to see the expert on property deals.
Jake.
Gray remembered his pasta. He skewered some with a fork and put it into his mouth. It was lukewarm but it would have to do. He switched his attention to the Sunset fire. The same search engine produced a raft of results. Gray flicked through the reports, not sure what he was looking for. He spotted an article by William Noble in the now-defunct Thanet Echo. It seemed like the newspaper still had a life in the virtual world. Gray clicked on it.
The article was written a few months after the blaze. It was the last edition put out by the Echo before it closed. The detail was a rehashing of the actual events followed by a summary of the following cases, including the injunction against the newspaper in a chronological order.
The guts of it was Noble’s eyewitness account of the fire itself. It seemed he’d arrived on the scene with the fire engines and detailed what had occurred thereafter. Noble had had the foresight to grab his camera too. Right at the end, Noble stated that Jake’s exoneration had resulted from someone admitting to setting the fire.
Larry Lost.
Apparently he’d thrown a cigarette end over the fence which had started the fire. An accident.
One photo embedded in the text had caught his eye. Gray scrolled back up until he found it. The image was of three people sitting side by side on the sea wall opposite the Sunset, their faces lit by the conflagration. Gray clicked so the photo was full screen. He recognised all three immediately.
Jeff Carslake was standing a few feet away from the couple who interested Gray most: Cameron Armitage with his arm around Rachel O’Shea.
Forty
In the morning, Gray’s first port of call was the office of Tudor & Stratham, solicitors, who’d handled his house sale. They were based in what had been two large Victorian residences, now knocked through into one, located on the busy thoroughfare of Hawley Street in Margate near the law courts and the council offices. Gray pushed open the door and entered. Three people occupied four desks in the expansive reception area; only one looked up at Gray’s appearance. Recognition lit up her face. The woman was called Annie Cartwright, Gray remembered.
“Oh, hello Mr Gray, we haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Not since I completed on the flat purchase, no. This time I’m here on police business.” Now, the other two admin staff paid attention and took in Gray. Something more interesting than their paperwork.
“Of course. How can we help?” asked Annie.
“I’ve a question for Mister Stratham.” He was the conveyancer who’d handled the process. An overly bright, horribly efficient man who clearly didn’t have enough hours in the day to get everything on his to-do list done.
“I’ll go fetch him.” Cartwright moved out from behind her desk and climbed the nearby stairs. Within moments she was back. “Mister Stratham is free.”
Stratham himself was halfway down the stairs, paused in the descent, obvious in his concern, feet on adjacent steps. He was a man keen to please, always ready with a smile which was big on width though small in depth. “Annie said there was a problem Mr Gray?”
“There’s no problem, sir.” Stratham blinked; Gray hadn’t called him “sir” before. “I just want to benefit from your expertise.”
“In that case, come on up!” Stratham flashed his trademark beam, turned around, and trotted up the remaining steps.
Gray followed, albeit at a more considered pace. He found Stratham in a large office at the front of the building, with a view of the street and a multi-storey car park through expansive bay windows. The space felt cramped, though. Paperwork and filing cabinets everywhere saw to that.
“Take a seat.” Behind his desk, Stratham appeared comfortable and in control again after his earlier lack of equilibrium. “Can we get you a coffee?”
“No, thanks.”
“So, how can I help?”
“I’m unable to go into details. I’m working on a case, and some information would possibly be useful.”
“Exciting,” said Stratham, leaning forward, elbows on the desktop, pupils glittering. “Ask away!”
“Some properties have changed hands recently, and I’d like to know a little more about them. Who owned them, who purchased them, and how much for.”
“Which properties?”
Gray told Stratham, who wrote the addresses down, frowning. He said, “We may have handled these transactions.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Probably not, all this sort of data is made publicly available anyway, though there may be some information I can’t pass on. Client confidentiality and all that.” Stratham grinned.
“I can always return with a warrant if we reach that point.”
Stratham coughed. “No, no I’m sure that won’t be necessary.” Clearly Stratham was experiencing visions of uniformed police in his offices. “Can you give me a day or so to find out and get back to you?”
“That would be very helpful, thanks.” Gray handed over his business card. “You can call me on that number. My email address is on there also.”
Stratham showed Gray out. The only other time that had happened was when money changed hands, specifically from Gray to Stratham. The solicitor assured Gray he’d be able to help.
***
Twenty minutes later, Gray was in another reception area, this time the headquarters of Jake’s business, EAP, on Albion Street in Broadstairs. He was led through by an administrator to Jake’s office, an understated affair with good views over the sea. Jake indicated for Gray to take a space on a tan and red leather sofa, a Chesterfield if Gray knew his furniture. Jake opted for the matching armchair. Between them was a low table, a tall and slender silver pot, matching milk jug, and two china mugs.
“You appreciate your coffee, if I remember correctly,” said Jake.
“Yes.”
“Unfortunately there aren’t any roasters in Thanet, the nearest is in Canterbury. Ethiopian beans, supposedly from the very forest where coffee was first discovered.”
Jake poured some for Gray. It was earthy and deep. But it was still coffee.
“I expected a bigger operation,” said Gray. The building was a narrow five-floor terrace front
ing the busy road right on the cliff top.
“I employ about fifty staff in all, across the pub and club. In this building we’ve got the finance and human resources departments, plus me. We don’t need sales or marketing people, really, for what we do. The flats, the cleaners, even the caravan park, are dealt with through agencies.”
“Everything you own is commercial property?”
“It’s a roughly equal mix of commercial and residential. Mixing up the revenue streams across market segments minimises the risk.”
“All under your company Enterprise Associated Partners?”
“Correct. Is that why you’re here? To ask me about my business? Rather than to say you’ve found Regan’s killer?”
“As soon as we’ve something to tell you we’ll do so.”
“It’s taking too long.”
“We’re doing everything we can, Jake.” Gray had another sip of the coffee, decided a change of tack was needed. “Who are the partners?”
Jake snorted. “There aren’t any. The problem when you’re starting out is you’re small. Everything is tough: keeping your costs low because it’s a volume market, getting a good price for what you sell and, even worse, gaining a credit rating. Cash – it’s like blood for a company. If it isn’t flowing right, you’ll soon be out of business. So, one trick is to make yourself appear bigger than you are. It’s all about front in the early days.”
“What about now?”
“I’m established,” shrugged Jake. “Roles are reversed. People come to me.”
“Like Millstone?”
Gray noted Jake took a moment to think, gaining time by having some coffee. “As I said, people come to me all the time.”
“What do you know about Millstone?”
“Only that they made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
“Who did you meet with? To arrange everything.”
“Some lawyer called Fallon. Said he was Millstone’s representative. He didn’t even want to view the properties he bought, said that his people had already done their due diligence. He put an offer on the table, a very generous one, well above market rates, and I accepted. My solicitors handled the rest.”