Now
The traffic in front of Gray slowed before it ground to a halt. He was most of the way along Belgrave Road, a tributary which connected with the Margate seafront and ran along the border of the Dreamland amusement park.
“What’s going on?” asked Hamson. They were less than a mile from the station now, just a few minutes’ stop-start drive under normal conditions.
“I’ve no idea,” said Gray. The car in front rolled forward a few feet then paused again. The road could be busy, but a dead halt was unusual.
“We need to be at the station as soon as.”
“I know.” Gray lowered his window. He could hear whistles and shouting. He popped open his door and got out. Several other motorists were standing beside their cars too. There was a thick line of people walking past the bottom of Belgrave Road, many holding flags and banners. A few drivers performed a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn and swung back the way they’d come.
Gray bent down and stuck his head inside the car. “It must be the protest march Noble mentioned.”
“What protest march?”
“Apparently it’s to do with the squeeze on social services or something.”
“And you knew about this?”
“Vaguely.”
“Christ, we could have come in via Cliftonville and avoided all this. Do you know what route they’re taking?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“We can’t sit around here all day. Dump the car somewhere and we’ll walk.”
A space had opened up in front of Gray. He manoeuvred until he could bump the car up the kerb and out the way. He locked up once Hamson was on the pavement and they got walking. A little further on, there was a knot of people gathered outside a house. As they neared, a portly man sporting a shock of white hair and goatee with pince nez glasses perched on his nose stepped forward and blocked their way.
It was William Noble. “You made it then!” he said.
“Just passing through,” said Gray.
“You need to stay; this is an important issue which will affect everyone eventually. Services are getting squeezed all over the place.” Noble pointed at the house, a large and intricate gold ring glinted on his index finger. A sign above the doorway named it as the Lighthouse Project, a drop-in centre for the homeless. “It’s just the start, I’m telling you. We have to draw the line, right here, right now. They’re trying to close this place down, build houses or shops on it.”
“Who is?”
“The corporate machine.” When he saw his answer was too obtuse for Gray, Noble clarified, “A London mob called Millstone Property Developers.”
“Never heard of them.”
“Oh, they’re everywhere. Like most companies, it’s profit first, people third.” Noble turned away, returning with a placard. “I’ve got a spare.”
“I can’t,” said Gray. “I need to get going.” Hamson had barely paused for the interruption and was fast receding. “Got to go, Will.”
Noble put an arm out and stopped Gray. “I heard one of the dead was Regan Armitage.”
“I can’t comment.”
“Call me when you can.” Noble let go.
Gray caught up with Hamson at the intersection of Belgrave Road and the esplanade. He was amazed to see so many people. It was noisy too; repetitive chanting and ear-piercing whistles. The line wound up the hill and away from them. While Gray stood observing, someone pushed a leaflet into his hand. It was a flier about the impact of the proposed closures.
After a pause, Hamson impatiently forced her way through the crowd. Gray shoved the paper into his pocket and followed, ignoring the complaints of those she barged out of her way.
“Bloody do-gooders,” said Hamson once they were on the other side and free.
“That’s democracy for you,” said Gray.
***
Mike Fowler was seated at his desk in the detectives’ office when Gray and Hamson arrived, Carslake at Fowler’s shoulder. The CCTV footage was frozen on a wall-mounted TV screen and ready to go.
“Where have you been?” asked Fowler.
Hamson held up a hand. “Don’t.”
She positioned herself to leave a gap for Gray between herself and Carslake.
“Get started, Mike,” said Carslake.
“I picked up the footage from the Broadstairs Town Hall,” said Fowler. “There isn’t any CCTV on the beach, just along the clifftop, in the town, and on the jetty itself.”
Fowler clicked the mouse button and the scene began to play. The perspective was across Viking Bay, back towards Dumpton Gap. Cliffs in the distance, sea to one side, sand to the other. A canoeist was battling the surf, and on dry land somebody was throwing a stick for a dog. The picture quality was poor: grainy black and white.
“Where are we looking?” asked Carslake.
Fowler stood up and tapped the screen. “Here, the central figure.”
In the expanse, moving with unpractised difficulty along the shoreline, was a figure. The person stayed right against the water’s edge, head down, growing in size as the distance shortened. At the foot of the jetty the man paused and glanced around, clearly deciding which route to take.
The esplanade led around between a pub called the Tartar Frigate and the old harbour building, a double-storey wooden construct, tilted over from hundreds of years of being battered by the wind. The other way was a steep hill to an old portcullis and back into town.
The man began walking again, drifting out of sight momentarily as he passed under the camera. The shot cut as they switched between perspectives. Now he was moving away from them. The man turned left and disappeared out of sight behind a toilet block — tall terraced houses in the background.
“Where did he go?” asked Hamson.
“Watch,” he said. After a minute or so the man reappeared. “He went to the public toilets.” The man was obscured from the lens once more. Another shot revealed him walking quickly through the car park behind the harbour building and receding along the esplanade. Fowler paused the footage. “No more cameras.”
“In all likelihood, he headed our way then,” said Gray.
“Certainly looks like that,” said Hamson.
“Pity we don’t have a better picture of him.”
“Maybe we do,” said Fowler. He sat down, hit a few buttons, and a close-up of the suspect popped up on screen. “I pulled this from the Tartar Frigate. They’ve got good quality lenses.”
There was an image of their target, a side-on view of a man with dark skin, a beard, and a prominent nose. It wasn’t great, though it was enough to go on. Fowler passed over a handful of printouts.
“Good job, Mike,” said Carslake and patted him on the shoulder. “Can you send copies of everything to my office please, Yvonne? Top brass are all over this, and I need to brief them accordingly.”
“Of course, sir,” said Hamson.
Carslake left the room.
At his desk, Gray took the flier out of his pocket and glanced over it. A handful of inflammatory statements studded with exclamation marks, some photos of rough sleepers, and people in hospital. On the back the company Noble had mentioned, Millstone, got another mention and not a positive one. They were being blamed for profiting by others’ misfortunes.
“Sol,” said Hamson. “Incident Room, now. We’ve got work to do.”
Gray threw the leaflet in the bottom drawer of his desk and followed Hamson.