by Keith Nixon
“You know who’s in those properties now?”
“Of course. It’s Frank McGavin. What do I care? I’ve no emotional attachment to what’s basically bricks and mortar. You buy, you sell, make money along the way. That’s all.”
“It’s just that I hear Millstone is everywhere now, trying to pick up property. Seems like you have a competitor. And they happen to be associated with the biggest criminal around here.”
“So what? Competition comes and goes. McGavin simply leases the buildings, as far as I know. If he goes bust, it’s his loss.” Jake sighed, stood up, went to a cabinet in the corner of the room. He opened the doors, took out a bottle. He held it up to Gray. “Want one? It’s malt, of course.”
Gray would have expected nothing less. “On duty.”
Jake poured himself a couple of fingers worth into a glass and brought it over. He drank half. “McGavin wanted to be a business partner.” Jake stared into his glass for a moment – drained the whisky. “I refused to sell to him. It didn’t feel right. Once you start with people like that you’re never rid of them. Then Millstone came in and made an alternate, higher, bid. The timing was good, and it wasn’t McGavin.”
“Why sell now?”
“I’ve been thinking of retiring for some time. I’ve more money than I need, and I’m not enjoying it any more. I haven’t for quite a while. Millstone has shown an interest in Seagram’s as well. They made me an offer via Fallon. Not high enough, though. If they up it, I may just agree. Once I know what happened to Regan, and it’s been dealt with I’ll move out to my villa in Spain and never come back.”
“How about Cameron? Couldn’t he take over? He’s a director of your business.”
Jake laughed. “He’s no bloody use. Too busy with his holier-than-thou pursuits.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Some crap with the homeless. It doesn’t matter, he’s no entrepreneur anyway. The company would fold within a year if he got his hands on it. Better to sell, take the money, and stick it in the bank. At least the grandkids can have some of it, if that ever happens.”
“He’s still your son.”
“He’s nothing like me.”
“Does that matter?”
“I don’t know, Sol. Frankly, I’m not sure of anything anymore.”
“On that point, there’s been an accusation. About Regan.”
“He’s dead, who’d do that?”
“It has potential implications for the investigation.”
“I’m assuming I won’t like to hear this.”
“There’s a suggestion Regan used the fact he was your son to assault women.”
“That’s ridiculous,” cut in Jake. Gray noted it was a half-hearted response.
“And that you covered it up by paying the women off.”
Jake appeared ready to explode. His fingers gripped the arm of the chair. “My son is dead, and this is what you bring me?”
“We have to assess every potential line of enquiry.”
“I think you need to go, Sol.”
“Are you denying the accusation?”
“Get out.”
Gray stared at Jake for a moment before leaving.
***
Gray’s mobile rang as he was stepping out onto Albion Street. It was the solicitor, Stratham.
“That was fast,” said Gray.
“I ascertained that we didn’t handle the sale and purchase of the two properties you mentioned.”
“Is it a problem?”
“Not when I’m on the case, detective!” Stratham laughed. Gray didn’t. “Erm, anyway, it only took a few calls, and it happens that a good friend of mine was the conveyancer. I managed to get the details out of him, provided there will be total confidentiality?”
“I’m a policeman, Mr Stratham. It goes with the territory.”
“Of course, of course. Stupid of me. I’ve asked Annie to email you over the documents. They make interesting reading.”
Gray wasn’t so sure anything in the business of conveyancing could be classified as interesting, but he uttered positive noises before ringing off. By the time he opened up the app on his phone the email was there in his inbox. Stratham was nothing if not efficient. Gray found a bench round the corner, looking out to sea before he started reading.
Attached to the email were some fairly hefty documents – deeds, the search information, and a valuation document. The first wasn’t a great deal of use. They were handwritten and dated back more than a century and not easy to read on a small screen. Useful as a historical document, was all.
The valuation document provided the proposed worth of the properties. Approaching half a million pounds for each. Not much more than Gray had paid for his flat. He called the solicitor again.
“Thanks for the information. Just one question. Do you think he got a good deal?”
“Yes, very. The price was about a hundred thousand pounds more than the current market figure. On both properties.”
“Is that unusual?” asked Gray.
“The sale and purchase of a property is just a transaction, Sergeant Gray. What someone wants for it in terms of price and what someone else wishes to pay can be, and often are, completely disparate. This is where tension arises, of course. I’ll ask you a question, what does a glass of tap water cost in a café or pub?”
“Nothing.”
“So you wouldn’t pay for it?”
“Why would I? It’s freely available.”
“And if you were in the middle of a desert, no water around you for miles and dying of thirst? What would you pay for that same glass of water now?”
“Probably everything I had.”
“And that’s exactly my point. Value depends upon context. It depends upon supply and demand. A glut of properties available means low prices, whereas a unique property in a desirable location means a high price. Take your new flat, for example. It’s in a relatively exclusive arrangement, has a sea view in a popular area. You paid for that.”
“I’m not so sure about exclusive,” protested Gray.
“It’s how the agent marketed it! And take the house you sold. Family-sized, within the catchment area for a raft of very good schools from reception through to Sixth Form. That’s unique and desirable.”
“I take your point.”
Stratham, though, hadn’t finished. “Sometimes an investor may take a gamble, picking up a property in a potentially underappreciated location in the hope it’ll become popular and so drag the valuation up. Brick Lane in London, for example. A couple of decades ago it was full of squats and destitute artists. Now it’s an expensive creative hub. Round here, Margate Old Town is the perfect example. Regenerated by the Turner Contemporary art gallery and on its way up. Clearly, Millstone think there’s money to be made. Given how prices have moved around here recently, I think they’re right. It won’t be long before they recoup their investment. One hundred thousand pounds could seem like a snip.”
“Thanks for the finance lesson, Mister Stratham.”
“There’s plenty more I can tell you!”
Gray hurriedly interjected. “That won’t be necessary; you’ve given me enough to be going on with.”
“My pleasure. The world of property management is a fascinating one. I wish there were more people like you who shared my enthusiasm! Come back if you need to know anything else.”
Gray assured Stratham he would, then rang off. He rubbed his ear where it ached from the battering it had received from Stratham. His mobile rang again.
“Sergeant Gray? It’s Rachel O’Shea. I must speak with you about William Noble’s murder. I can tell you who killed him.”
“Where are you?”
“At the Lighthouse. Please come as soon as you can.” She disconnected.
Gray called Hamson, told her what little he knew, and agreed to meet her outside the Lighthouse as soon as he could get there.
Forty One
“What the hell is going on, Sol?” asked
Hamson as soon as she got out of her car. She’d parked on double yellows right out the front, the same as Gray. Before Gray could answer, the front door to the Lighthouse opened. Natalie beckoned them, turned, and went inside.
“I guess we’ll learn in a minute,” said Gray.
They found Natalie in the refectory, standing beside one of the long tables. Rachel was already seated and looking uncomfortable. It couldn’t be easy perching on the hard surface while heavily pregnant. Natalie sat down too, pointing at the space opposite.
“Sergeant Gray said you wanted to tell us about the circumstances of William Noble’s death,” said Hamson as she settled.
“William Noble was killed for what he knows about Millstone,” said Natalie. "They’re at the centre of everything.”
“Why don’t you start at the beginning,” said Gray.
Natalie straightened her back, keeping her forearms on the table. She said, “This is where Rachel should speak.”
Gray and Hamson switched their attention to the younger woman. However, Rachel was staring at Natalie, who put her hand on Rachel’s arm. “It’s time,” said Natalie.
“Over a decade now since they died,” said Rachel. “It seems like yesterday.”
“Who?” asked Hamson. But Gray knew. He was hearing echoes of his own past.
“My family.”
“The beginning, Rachel, as Sergeant Gray asked,” said Natalie gently.
Rachel gathered herself, took in a deep breath, let it out. “We used to live in Hackney. Me, my younger brother, mother, and father. Jonathan, Felicity, and Dean they were called. We weren’t allowed to call her Mum, just Felicity. Dean was just, well, Dad. Rachel glanced at Natalie who lowered her eyes and stared at the table top.
“I remember being happy, until my parents split up. Felicity said that Dad was holding her back, that she needed space as an artist. The three of us moved out, leaving Dad behind. After that, it was a carefree existence shifting from house to house. Sometimes staying for a day, or a week, or a month. For us kids it was fun at first. Felicity made it into a game. Finding food, staying up as late as we wanted, meeting other interesting, sometimes crazy people. Living, she called it.
“But it wasn’t long before the experience became a lot less enjoyable. My mother, she was flaky. It was Dad who’d kept her together, and once he was gone … She hid it well at first, and we were too young to know any better. Until the money ran out, and the paranoia crept in.”
“Felicity began saying she was a free spirit, as if she was some ’60s hippy. She’d dress up too, wearing outrageous clothes, altering her hair. It was like she was trying to be someone else. We kids were a drag.”
Natalie stood up and went to look out of the window.
“Until one day she just upped and disappeared, leaving behind most of her stuff. My brother and I woke up one morning in a bedsit, and we were alone. She’d left a note saying she loved us, but we were better off without her.”
“How old were you?”
“I was thirteen, Jonathan was nine.”
“You must have had to grow up quickly,” said Gray.
Rachel emitted a sharp, humourless laugh. “You have no idea. School? We never went near the place. Mum had claimed we were home tutored when anyone bothered to ask.”
“What happened when your mother went missing?”
“I took Jonathan to the nearest police station. At least we got a hot drink and some food there. We were put into care for nearly a week. Jonathan and I were split up. It took them that long to find my dad. When he turned up to collect me, it was the best day ever. He gave me a huge hug. He was crying. Said he’d been searching for us for ages. Then we went home.”
Gray felt a sharp pang of envy. A father reunited with a lost child. It was everything he had wanted for the last ten years. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Hamson glance over at him.
“That must have been an amazing feeling,” said Gray.
Rachel smiled briefly. “It was, for a few years. We went to school, made friends, had some stability. Dad was a taxi driver, did all hours just to make ends meet. We had a happy life, heard nothing from Mum. One day Dad told us we were going on holiday. To Margate, every Londoner’s dream. We were so excited.
“He booked a B&B not far from here. Sunset, it was called, small, clean, and near the beach. We had a room on the top floor, up some narrow stairs. Only a handful of residents. And it was run by a lovely old lady, Mrs Renishaw. Just a few days to get away, that’s all.” Rachel paused, staring down at the cuticles on her left hand, her eyes seemingly focused on them.
“It was the last night of the holiday; I’d spent so much time awake looking out for Jonathan while we were with Felicity that I was used to getting by on only a few hours, still am. My dad tried to stop me leaving, but I got past him and ran out the front door, down the narrow stairs. There was nobody around. The sea, it drew me. I sat on the harbour arm for an age, just listening to the beat of the tide. It was mesmerising. Until the sirens. Fire engines and police cars racing along the road and up the hill.
“I had a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. I can remember it still. A wrenching and twisting as if there was a big hand inside me, squeezing.” Rachel paused for a moment – zoned out and in the past – until she shook her head and came back. “I forgot the waves and followed the light. There was an orange glow over the town, as if the sun was rising even though it was the middle of the night.
“When I got back to the B&B, fire engines were spraying water on the blaze. The flames were leaping out the windows. Mrs Renishaw was crying. I ran through the small crowd of onlookers, looking for Dad and Jonathan.”
Rachel fell silent, her hands at rest.
“When the fire was out, they found them in the bedroom. The fire caught quickly. I learned later it was because Mr Renishaw, the old man who owned the guest house, had flammable materials lying around. They gave off toxic fumes. I blamed myself for years.”
“Why?” asked Gray.
“I should have been there. If I’d have stayed, maybe I’d have been able to raise the alarm.”
“You don’t know that,” said Natalie. “I’ve told you a thousand times.”
“And afterwards?” asked Hamson.
“I was in care again until Dad’s sister, my aunt, took responsibility for me. I went back to school, worked hard, and got good grades. What else was there to do? Then to University to do a teaching degree. Rather than working in London, I applied for a job here in a small school, and I got it. It felt right to be in Margate, because I’d never really left. How could I?
“Then my life took another unexpected turn. Some people came in to speak with the children. They were from a charity called the Lighthouse Project. In walked Felicity.” Rachel turned to Natalie and touched her hand. “My mother.”
Gray struggled to make sense of what she’d just said. Natalie was the mother from hell? The one who’d abandoned her kids. The same as he effectively had.
“How could you?” he asked. Then Gray wondered what his daughter might say about him.
“I take after my father,” said Rachel. “It was Jonathan who was like Mum.”
“What happened to Felicity?” asked Gray.
Natalie shook her head. “She’s gone, I made sure of it.”
“What happened when you met again?” asked Gray.
“I couldn’t believe it,” said Rachel. “She’d been missing from my life for so long, and then she was there. By pure chance. It didn’t matter what wigs she wore, what make-up she had on; I always recognised my mother. And I didn’t think she recognised me. I couldn’t stay; I kept my head down, turned around, and walked out.”
“And I ran after her,” said Natalie. “I tried to tell her everything, but she didn’t want to know.”
“Can you blame me?”
Gray heard the anger in Rachel’s tone and saw her shoulders tense.
Natalie reached out and took Rachel’s hands in her own. “Of cour
se not.”
Rachel visibly relaxed. “It took months of persistence on my mum’s part before I could bring myself to see her again. When we did finally meet, I was glad.”
“Catching up on all the lost time?” asked Hamson.
“Not at first,” said Natalie. “Before seeing Rachel at the school I’d no idea she’d come back to Margate. Maybe part of me hoped she had. If I’d known for sure I’d have tried sooner. I had to explain to Rachel who actually killed our family. Even if it meant she never spoke to me again it was imperative I tell her it was because of that bastard, Jake Armitage.”
The silence was utter; the accusation swinging in the air like a body on the end of a hangman’s rope. Twisting, turning, demanding attention.
“That’s a very serious allegation,” said Hamson. “Do you have anything to back it up?”
Natalie stood up and left the room briefly. Within a minute she returned, dropped a folder onto the table. She sat back down, opened the folder, and pushed it over to Gray and Hamson. She said, “William gave me these. It was another of his projects. One which got stopped.”
Gray spread out the contents which were mainly neatly cut newspaper clippings, from a variety of sources. The locals were prevalent – the Thanet Echo and the Kent Herald. Each was cut so the date at the top was visible and ordered in a chronological review of the fire and its aftermath. The bodies discovered, the speculation that it was for financial gain, the denial from Jake, the lack of evidence which meant it never got taken any further, a case dropped by the CPS much to local outrage, the subsequent development of the dilapidated site from which Jake apparently profited. Gray noticed the article written by Noble that he’d read last night wasn’t present.
“Why didn’t Noble go to the police?”
“He tried, but your lot wouldn’t touch it.”
Hamson frowned. “We would have at least looked at it.”
“You point-blank refused. Told William to take a hike or he’d be arrested for wasting police time.”
“Do you know who told him that?” asked Gray.
“Jeff Carslake.”