A woman with a couple of kids hanging off her legs was standing like an edifice on the corner of the concrete esplanade scrutinising Gray and Hamson as they made their way along the beach.
When they reached the top of the slipway the woman spoke.
“Excuse me, are you with this lot?” She pointed to a disorderly array of police cars and Scene of Crime vans, parked in front of a line of beach huts which followed the curvature of the cliff in the space where deck chairs would usually be located.
“Yes,” said Hamson.
The woman introduced herself as Mrs Fiona Emerson. She was tall and thin with a pinched face and wore a loose-fitting flowery dress. Her greying hair was tied up, and sunglasses rested on her head just beneath the bun. A short, balding man, wearing, of all things, a knitted tank top, hung back. Far enough away to stay out of it; close enough to react should he be called forward. Gray assumed he was the partner.
“We’re investigating a serious incident further down the beach,” said Hamson.
“Oh, I couldn’t care less about that.” Mrs Emerson dismissed someone else’s misfortune with an imperious wave. “I rang you people earlier. We’ve been waiting.”
“What about?”
“We were confronted by a man with a knife.”
Gray immediately pricked his ears up at this. He glanced at Hamson. By her expression she felt the same interest. The call must have got lost in all the recent activity. “When was this?”
“Less than a quarter of an hour ago. We usually arrive early to get a good space on the sand. I found the locks smashed off our beach hut and a man inside sleeping on the floor.” Mrs Emerson pointed towards her hut.
The subject of her concern was a small pile of clothes on the floor. Next to them lay a fluorescent yellow life jacket. It appeared someone had survived the landing.
“Get Blake,” said Hamson unnecessarily. Gray was already digging his mobile out of a pocket to place the call to the Crime Scene Manager. While they waited for him to arrive, Hamson took a closer look inside the hut, leaving Gray with Mrs Emerson.
“Originally from London,” she said. “Moved to Broadstairs for the quiet life.” She delivered the last comment with a distinct tinge of sarcasm, as if the intruder was Gray’s fault.
“What did he look like?” asked Gray.
“A foreigner,” she shrugged.
Gray waited for more. Mrs Emerson obviously felt as if this was enough of a description. “And?”
“What?”
“Height, skin colour, accent? Anything distinguishing?”
“For God’s sake, I don’t know! He was just a man!”
“Please try and remember. Any detail could help us find him,” said Gray.
Mrs Emerson huffed. “Average height, brown skin, dark curly hair, bearded, and aggressive.”
“Did he speak?”
“No. He just came at me when I discovered him. I backed away, and he ran past. I told Philip to stop him, but he was useless.”
Philip, the partner, scowled at her sleight, though held his tongue. Gray didn’t blame him for not tackling a knife-wielding stranger, but clearly his wife did. Blake’s arrival saved Gray from making any comment.
“What have we got here then?” asked the Crime Scene Manager. Gray explained the situation while a SOCO cordoned off the hut and got to work.
Blake was clearly unnerved by the hovering Mrs Emerson, who wanted her space back as quickly as possible. So much so he quickly cleared out of her hut, leaving one of his men to the inspection process; lifting fingerprints, bagging the clothes and life jacket.
“I feel sorry for the husband,” said Blake who was keeping Gray between him and Mrs Emerson. Hamson had made herself scarce to call Carslake again.
“Usually people get the partner they deserve,” said Gray.
Gray remained implacable under Blake’s stare.
“Anything?” asked Gray.
“Lots of prints. The small ones are easy to discount, clearly from kids. The rest we’ll match against the parents. Whatever’s left may be our man. However, Mrs Emerson says they have friends and family in and out of here all the time. ‘Like a hotel’ apparently. So it won’t be easy.”
It never was. Every job was an uphill battle as far as Blake was concerned.
“You’ll pull it off though, Brian.”
It was meant as mockery though Blake took it entirely at face value and responded with a stiffer spine and an appreciative grin.
“Where did Yvonne go?” asked Blake.
“Trying to find a mobile signal.”
“Impossible here, the chalk blocks everything.”
Blake missed the fact that Gray had been able to get through to him not so long ago. Hamson had promised Gray food if he managed Blake on her behalf.
“Well, give her my best, would you?”
“It would be my pleasure, Brian.”
“Bloody gold dust these beach huts. Council charges a fortune for them yet the waiting lists are huge. I’ve been on it for years.”
“I can’t see what the fuss is all about. They’re just sheds.”
“It’s Charles Dickens’ fault, you know.”
“What is, Brian?”
“Thanet’s tourism, the boom and bust. You know he discovered Broadstairs walking here from Ramsgate? He would have passed the very beach those corpses washed up on.”
Thankfully, Gray’s mobile rang before Blake could give him more of a social history lesson, and again disproving Blake’s assertion that mobile calls were impossible here. Gray answered, nodding a half-hearted apology at Blake.
“Morning, Sol.” It was the boss, Carslake. “How’s the beach?”
“Bracing.”
Carslake’s barking laugh was mercifully brief. “Just calling to get your thoughts on the bodies.”
“Hasn’t Yvonne filled you in?”
“I’d rather talk to a proper detective first.”
Gray winced. Relations between Hamson and Carslake, never good to start with, had deteriorated further. She was running out of allies — given her interpersonal skills, she hadn’t that many people on her side to start with. Gray gave Carslake a brief rundown of the situation and their latest findings.
“Such a pity about the boy,” said Carslake when Gray had finished. Regan had to be well into his twenties. Hardly a boy. “What’s next?”
“The death knock.”
Carslake sighed. “Give Jake my condolences, would you?”
“Of course.”
“Hang on; I’ve got another call coming in. Hamson again. Better take it this time.” The line went dead before Gray could reply.
Gray put his phone away. He handed his business card to Mrs Emerson, said goodbye to Blake, then made the climb up the relatively short, though steep, incline to the road above. He was huffing by the time he reached the peak. Hamson was leaning against his vehicle, cigarette in one hand, mobile in the other. She nodded to indicate she’d seen him. By the time she finished talking the cigarette was done too.
“Just bringing Carslake up to date,” she said. Gray didn’t tell her he’d done exactly the same. Things were complicated enough already. “How did it go?”
“Might have found some fingerprints. I’ve called the station, told them to get legs out on the street, see if we can find our mystery man.”
“Easier said than done,” said Hamson. “Particularly if he gets to Margate.” There was a large population of immigrants in the town and the description they had wasn’t much to go on. “And Blake?”
“I did enough to earn my bacon.”
“Makes a change,” said Hamson. It seemed like she meant it.