8. Proper Channels
Sally strode back toward the reactors, the shingle crunching underfoot, with Brown's words still stinging in her head.
'You did so well for us last time.'
None of that had been voluntary. They'd taken her past and used it to stab her in the back. She'd almost lost everything, and now Brown was trying to do it again. Antagonize her, force a slip, but she steeled herself. She had no intention of slipping now.
She glanced back at the shack as she walked, saw the red light blinking, and brought up her phone.
From her maps app she lifted the local postcode, TN29 9NB, then checked it on the UK Land Registry site.
Ten titles returned and she scrolled through them.
Bungalows and flats, holiday lets, even Dungeness Lighthouse, but no shack.
She found the number for the local Dungeness council, Folkestone and Hythe, and called it.
A bored-sounding female voice answered and Sally explained what she was looking for.
"One moment," the voice said flatly.
Sally got a hold tone. Above the reactors, the skies were darkening now, though it was still early morning. The first cold drop of rain stung her cheek.
"I've got a name on the record," the voice returned, "but I need to take a payment. It's five pounds."
"It's a police request," Sally said.
"In that case, file it through your DI and you'll get it in five to ten working days. Or pay five pounds and get it now."
Sally sucked her teeth and paid. Keys clacked down the line.
"OK, here it is. Name is one Mr. Reginald Rook. You want his listed address?"
"Yes."
"One second." More keys clacking. "Ah. Mr. Rook died three years ago."
Sally frowned. "So who owns the Crab Shack now? Do you have anything in there about the inheritance?"
The voice snorted. "Inheritance for some shack on the beach? Have you tried Land Registry?"
"It's not listed."
A dry laugh. "Sounds about right. Hon, I think you've hit a dead end.
A place like that, it's not really real.
Legal limbo, doesn't class as a residence, a shop, anything.
Barely better than one of those old pill boxes.
Fishermen pass these things back and forth, use each other's, all informal.
Only reason we've got any record at all is because this Mr. Rook, he was serving food, and that needed Health and Safety. That's it."
Sally bit her tongue. "Next of kin for Mr. Rook?"
"I don't have that."
"Just give me his address, then."
"In the ground, I expect."
"When he was alive."
"Fine." More keys clattered. "Here it is, business registered at Umberside Lodge on Dungeness Road. That's right next to the RSPB site. Pretty out there. Are we finished?"
"One second." Sally found the address on her map. It looked like a large working farm; lots of outbuildings, lots of dirt paths, surrounded by a large, empty expanse of fields, reeds and ponds. The map read RSPB, and Sally zoomed in.
Royal Society for the Protection of Birds. A conservation spot. No access allowed. Quiet, no neighbors, no witnesses within miles.
Sally's heart rate picked up. "This Reginald Rook, he have any other businesses?"
"That'll be another five pounds."
Sally paid.
"Right." Keys clicked. "Oh, you hit bullseye with this one. Looks like, over the course of 10 years prior to his death, Mr. Rook ran no fewer than 15 separate businesses."
A jolt ran through Sally. "Can you email me the details?"
They exchanged details and Sally ended the call.
The wind was stronger now, the rain sleeting in diagonally.
After a minute her phone chimed and she brought up the email; a full list of Reginald Rook's businesses.
Fishing supplies. Coastal salvage and recovery.
Marsh waste clearance. Mosquito extermination. The Crab Shack.
One entry grabbed her attention.
Reactor Maintenance Logistics Ltd.
Her jaw dropped slightly. That was a direct tie to Reactor A. All the more reason to hurry back and get inside. Check the CCTV. Interview the Director, Rupert-something, about this Rook connection.
The storm gathered as she drew nearer. The rain was heavier now, soaking her despite the jacket, obscuring the reactors like the shack's dirty glass, turning the buildings to lumpy shadows.
Ahead she saw the white blot of a forensics tent being erected around the crime scene.
Figures in white clean suits were using sledgehammers to drive anchoring pins into the shingle, each strike resounding strangely across the beach.
She thought again about what Dean Whateley, the 'Seafoam Strangler', had said. Sound carried strange across the beach. Barking at 3 a.m. An engine.
By the time she reached the tent, it was secured.
A steady drip of forensic specialists flowed in and out, wearing particle masks and blue evidence gloves.
A press officer stood at the outer tape line briefing an inner cadre of reporters.
More officers swept across the beach in fingertip searches.
There was no sign of DCI Mayhew or Liam O'Connell.
Sally checked her phone as she strode up to the tent. A message finally came in from Liam.
‘Almost there.'
She entered the tent. The stench of rotting seaweed inside was overpowering. Forensics officers bustled around the body, poring over his clothes and any inch of exposed skin. Another photographer fired a final few flashes through the gloom then stepped back.
The body remained untouched, though a black body bag lay by his side. DCI Mayhew stood nearby, talking in hushed tones to a man with rough stubble and dark, wideset eyes, wearing full clean gear.
Sally headed over. "DCI."
Mayhew turned, and her expression soured. "Ah. This is our NCA partner, Officer Rogers. Crime Scene Manager Dwayne Akilota."
Akilota nodded. "Officer Rogers." His voice was clipped, some sub-Saharan accent she could not identify. "The DCI made me aware of your findings."
"The numbers," Sally said. "Did you confirm them?"
"Yes. Zoom photography was sufficient, though we will of course run closer analyses in Dover." He raised a tablet in his hand, displaying a zoomed-in, high-resolution image of the victim's ‘eyes'.
Sally flinched at the sudden close-up.
"8107," Akilota said. "As you thought."
Sally studied the photograph. The digits were startlingly clear, though something looked off.
"The 8 looks different," she said. "Less neat than the others. Maybe it's the angle of the photograph?"
Akilota's eyes narrowed. "You've a keen eye. I agree, the tooling on that one is different. It's flagged for closer review in Dover."
"Good. Anything else? ID? Cause or time of death?"
"Nothing on cause yet. Preliminary time is between midnight and 6 this morning."
Sally's heart sped up. She turned to Mayhew. "I knocked on three doors near the lighthouse. Got a report of dogs barking at 3 a.m., an engine sound, and possible CCTV at a defunct food shack tied to a local businessman, now deceased."
"3 a.m. is right in our window. And this shack has CCTV? I'll send a team and–"
"I've got it," Sally interrupted. "Focus your teams on the scaffold interviews. Unless you suddenly have manpower to spare?"
Mayhew glowered. A beat passed. "Who is this businessman?"
"I don't know much yet, but he had a connection to the reactor. I'll run him through the PNC then go knock on his door, see if I can find some family member who'll turf up the keys to the shack."
"You'll need to file a warrant."
"I know that, DCI."
The two women stared at each other. Akilota looked between them.
"Keep me apprised," Mayhew finally said.
"Of course, DCI." Sally turned back to Akilota. "No ID?"
The CSM shook his head. "Nothing yet. His pockets are empty.
We're running facial photographs through local databases, as well as Coastguard records and shared resources with French immigration.
If he's from within a 50-mile radius of this point, we should have him soon.
Now, if you'll excuse me, we need to work fast before this storm gets any worse. "
As if to punctuate his point, the tent fabric flapped violently.
"Of course, thank you," Mayhew said, and Akilota returned to the body.
"What about the reactor's CCTV, DCI?" Sally pressed.
Mayhew's lips pursed. Maybe she'd been hoping to keep that to herself. "Dr. Rupert Palmer just arrived. I'm about to go view the footage and–"
"We're about to go," Sally corrected. "I'd like to see it, plus I have some questions about this reactor connection."
Mayhew's jaw worked under the skin. "Come on then. They're waiting."
She pushed out of the tent into the storm, and Sally followed.