Now
Gray found Hamson in the detective’s office.
“Have you heard about William Noble?” she asked him.
“I arrived at his office when they found him. There’s more.” He brought Hamson up to date regarding Quigley’s confession.
“Larry seems to be our connection to everything,” said Hamson. “He was at the Lighthouse trying to find Khoury, beat up Noble, sold Quigley drugs.”
“And now Noble’s dead.”
“We’ve all been singularly unsuccessful at tracking down Adnan Khoury. He seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth.”
“I reckon your old mate’s in all this.”
“With Khoury?”
Hamson shook her head. “Noble. Burning the evidence. That’s Jake’s game, isn’t it?”
“We’re hardly mates, not any more. Noble told me he was investigating some bunch called Millstone.”
“Who?”
“Developers.” Gray got the protest flier from the march and handed it to Hamson. She looked it over. “And somehow McGavin is involved. He’s been buying up property as well. Larry Lost worked for Frank.”
“So Noble’s sniffing around got him killed?”
“Maybe.”
“Over houses?”
“People have died due to stranger things. I need to do a bit of digging into the files, see if anyone made a complaint about Regan.” And while he was in the files he’d look at the Sunset fire too, something else Noble had mentioned.
“You can do that later; first we’re paying Frank McGavin a visit.”
***
Frank McGavin was reputed to possess many material items: money, houses, people, and a stable of horses. He was the man who wanted for nothing. Control was his thing; primarily over supply chains and routes to market for illicit and illegal activities, people too.
According to Noble, McGavin’s physical portfolio had recently expanded to include a restaurant called Fruits de Mer, which commanded a marine view on the Broadstairs cliff top, providing upmarket seafood. Inside Gray found it to be understated yet tastefully decorated. Pale, pastel shades on the walls. Thin glasses, pure white china, and designer cutlery on the table. Gray recalled it had been an empty shell, another decaying wreck marring the Dickensian town. He hadn’t even realised it had opened. Gray wondered how McGavin chose the place. It didn’t seem his style.
These days it appeared as if half of Thanet, an officially deprived region with a high unemployment rate, a deluge of outsiders, increasing crime statistics, was attempting to pull itself up by its boot straps. The old, the tired, and the poor swept away to allow the fresh, the shiny, the cultured, to be catered for.
The London set with their barely occupied apartments of stainless steel and glass, here for the clean air, for a few days' rest and recuperation. Leaving those unable to keep up pushed away into the corners, steepening the downward spiral, widening the gap between the haves and the have-nots. Like tossing rubbish in the sea; the tide eventually dumped it elsewhere but by then it was out of sight and someone else’s issue.
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.”