From the driver’s seat, Gray wound down the passenger window and locked it open with the press of a button. Hamson glared at him. Gray preferred her indignation to the lingering stench of cigarette. The outcome of no longer being a smoker: love had turned into loathing.
In comparison, Hamson was smoking more than ever. Too much, Gray thought. She seemed to permanently have a lit cigarette between her fingers whenever they were away from the office. She was often to be found standing outside the station, puffing away. However, he kept his opinion to himself. It wasn’t worth an ember in the eye.
In the ensuing flinty silence, they crossed the border from Broadstairs into Ramsgate. He followed Victoria Parade, houses one side, the coastline the other, until it became Wellington Crescent, a switchback hill which carried the road down to sea level. They passed a waterfall which was, as usual, more foam than flow because some local joker had again dumped a bottle of washing up liquid into the cascade.
Gray turned off at the bottom of the hill, driving past bars and restaurants which looked out onto yachts bobbing in the harbour. A hundred yards along, he pulled into a parking spot. There were a couple of bollards; otherwise it was a straightforward plunge into the still, black waters for the unwary or incompetent.
As Gray got out of the car he felt bile rise in his throat. He swallowed it down, coughed.
“Are you okay?” asked Hamson.
“Just indigestion,” he croaked, a searing in his throat and chest.
“Again?”
“It’s all this healthy living, Von.”
“You should get it looked at.”
“I’m fine.” Gray led Hamson to their destination. Between a tall stone needle erected to commemorate Prince Albert, and the shut-down casino, stood a bright and shiny Dreamliner caravan, now converted into a burger van.
The proprietor, a curly haired young man, was leaning over a hot plate. He glanced up at Gray’s arrival, stopped flipping meat patties. “What can I get you?”
“A burger, a bacon roll, and two coffees,” said Gray.
“What about the diet?” asked Hamson.
Gray had been trying a health kick recently, although sticking to it had proven much harder than he’d thought it would be. “I can have a day off every now and again, can’t I?”
“Some of us have willpower. Just the drink for me.”
“You sure?”
“Very.”
“Cancel the bacon roll then.”
The proprietor nodded, told them to take a seat and handed over a small piece of paper with a number printed on it, even though there wasn’t a queue.
“Can I get a cup of milk?” asked Gray.
“Of course.” The man got a mug from beneath the counter and poured some from a plastic bottle. Gray swallowed the cold drink. It immediately soothed the pressure in his chest.
Hamson was sitting at one of the tables on the pavement. It was pleasant in the sunshine. Gray joined her, scattering a handful of pigeons and a seagull which were getting as near as they dared, on the hunt for any scraps of food.
“I can’t believe you’re eating here,” said Hamson as she lit up. “It looks like a hygiene nightmare. And a burger, at this time of day.”
“I’ve a cast-iron constitution.”
Hamson snorted then blew smoke from her nostrils. “Tell me about Jake Armitage.”
Gray shooed the birds away. “At one time or another Jake has owned pretty much every commercial property in the area. Mainly guest houses, bed and breakfasts, bedsits. Cheap digs that these days cater for the unemployed and underprivileged.”
Hamson eyed Gray through curling smoke. “Low rent? Like for immigrants?”
“Precisely for immigrants.”
“Coffee’s ready,” interrupted the proprietor. Gray collected the two steaming mugs and brought them back to the table.
“You wouldn’t think there’s much profit in it,” said Hamson.
“The government pays, so there’s plenty of money. He also owns a pub and the nightclub, Seagram’s.”
“I’ve had a few nights there. Seagram’s is the opposite end of the scale, certainly not low rent given the prices at the bar.”
“I wouldn’t know, Von, I’ve never been in.”
“They cater for the London set. And the pub?”
“The Mechanical Monkey.” Upmarket and respectable — also did good food and wasn’t far from where Jake lived. Gray and Jake drank in there many times when they were teenagers. Funny how the world turned.
“I’ve never heard of Jake until today,” said Hamson.
“Unlikely you would have. But a decade ago he was infamous.”
“Why?”
“He’s always sailed close to the wind. Buildings he owned had a tendency to burn down at the most opportune moments.”
“And he got away with it?”
“There was never any clear evidence of wrongdoing, just rumours. The last apparent accident was about the time Tom disappeared. Some people died.”
“Were you involved in the investigation?”
“I wasn’t really in the right frame of mind, but I read about it afterwards.” Odd how after years of suppression recently he could discuss Tom without feeling so uptight. “The blaze took out a large guest house called Sunset. It transpired the building was blocking a development opportunity for an out of town company. Worse, Jake was apparently involved with them. He got an insurance payout and saved the expense of knocking the building down, allegedly. Seagram’s is there now. I’d show you the original newspaper article. If I still had it.” The article had been in a pile of documents Hamson confiscated from Gray.
“Sorry.”
“Doesn’t matter. History. Anyway, Jake had been a flamboyant character, happiest when on the front page of the local rag. The big fish in the small pond. He had a colourful private life too. Three marriages, three kids, three divorces. His last wife up and left him around the same time as the Sunset guest house fire, took the youngest child, a daughter. The two boys — Regan and Cameron — stayed. Her departure was different to the prior two. It was her choice, not his. The divorce and all the negative publicity around the fire hit Jake hard. He disappeared from view.”
“He’s a recluse?”
“Not as such, just departed the limelight.”
The burger was ready as Gray’s mobile rang. He recognised the number, sighed. He could ignore it, though he knew the caller would just keep trying until he picked up. Hamson collected the food while Gray answered.
“No comment,” said Gray. He took a chunk out of the burger, chewed, and swallowed. The food stuck in his throat. He coughed, trying to clear the blockage.
The person on the other end gave a wheezing laugh. “There never is, Sergeant Gray,” said William Noble, ex-editor-in-chief of the local newspaper, the Thanet Echo, now the overseer of a blog grandly called Thanet’s Voice. He’d been around forever, knew everyone and, worst of all, was tenacious. “I’m calling about the bodies.”
“What bodies, Will?”
Hamson frowned at Gray. He mouthed “Noble” and her scowl deepened.
“Come, come Solomon, spit it out. Someone will eventually, so why not you?”
“I’ve no idea what you’re referring to.”
“I hear of three corpses found on the beach. All drowned.”
“If you say so.” Gray was glad Noble didn’t have all the details.
“No statement to make at all, Sergeant? I’ll quote you as a source close to the police. We’ll keep names out of it, of course.” Noble laughed once more.
“Nice try, but no cigar this time.”
“Ah well, had to give it a go. Almost impossible to get a scoop these days. See you at the protest march later?”
“What march?”
“Where have you been hiding the last few weeks? The attack on social care by the government and the impact it’s having on service provision like the NHS can’t be allowed to go on! We’re demonstrating through Margate.”
“I doubt I’ll be able to make it.”
“Knew you’d say that. It’s only a little thing.”
“Good luck.” Gray disconnected, his mind on the fact that Noble would have the story on his blog soon, if not already.
“What did he want?” asked Hamson.
“Fishing. Interesting coincidence, though. Noble and Jake have history too. After the Sunset fire Jake sued over some articles Noble had run. Jake won, the Thanet Echo closed and Noble was out of a job.”
“Small world we live in.”
Gray nodded. “Suppose we’d better go.” He swallowed a mouthful of coffee and grabbed the burger. He had a huge bite of the bread as he unlocked the car. Hamson cringed at the sight. “What? A man’s got to eat.”