27. On All Sides
On the way out of the station, they collected kit from Hawlin in the equipment store: a belt, cuffs, a collapsible baton, and a can of PAVA, all with their own holders.
"The spray just got approved by the DCI," Hawlin explained. "Senior officers only."
Sally threaded the belt through her borrowed uniform and clipped the holders on. The lanky young officer looked somber and tired as they signed off.
"How late did you work that list, Rick?" Sally asked, slotting the cuffs, baton and PAVA into their molded holders.
"I lost track around 2, ma'am," Hawlin said, rubbing his eyes. "Me and Emily slept here last night. I mean PC Chakrati."
Sally just nodded. "I've been looking at your intel. It's solid. We owe you both."
Hawlin's face lit up. "Ah. Thank you, ma'am! Em will be stoked to hear that."
"Keep it up. Oh, and here's the file Emily gave me." She held out the sheaf of papers. "Can you get it back to her?"
"Of course."
Back in the Mustang and leaving Rye, they stopped for chicken and mushroom pasties and steak bakes from a Greggs, then ate while they drove.
"How's your Audi looking?" Sally asked, mouth half-full with pastie, circling the one-way system to the Camber Road south.
"Totaled," Liam said, chewing. "In the Hastings impound. Once water's past the floor board, it's done."
"Sucks."
"Yeah."
She pushed the gas down and they shot out of Rye. Liam ate with one hand while leafing through Spate's folder.
"Book report," Sally said as she passed through Camber.
"Looks like a proper old-school Kent villain.
" He looked at her. "Not top tier, but not stupid either.
I'm seeing scrap metal ties, storage, the reactor thing, a lot of the same businesses as Reg.
" He swallowed then slurped coffee. "In his youth, 40 years ago, he got charged with affray and disturbing the peace, also conspiracy to intimidate, but not much of it stuck.
" He flipped pages. "Did a few short stretches, but we never landed anything big on him.
Runs the caravan park where he lives, but it's almost certainly a front. "
"A front for what?"
"No clue."
"He's got a boat?"
"Yeah." He flicked ahead. "A handful of privates, a small yacht. He's also invested in a fishing fleet, that's five boats I can see; part owner in a consortium."
"So the two or three boats, they could easily have been his."
"True. But it's all boats down here." He gestured to an orange-hulled boat cruising over the Channel waves. "That's RNLI. Royal National Lifeboat Institution. They'll have a bunch of boats."
Sally took the final bite of her steak bake as the road looped to skirt Lydd. This time she headed north on Romney Road rather than southeast to Dungeness. The land flattened on either side, dry fields running out under the wide gray sky, ditches flashing dark beside the verges.
"This is supposed to be a marsh, right?" she asked.
"It was. That's the power of the RMC, I guess. I'd bet all these ditches drain into it."
They passed through New Romney, rejoined the coast at a tiny holiday village called St. Mary's Bay, then Dymchurch lay ahead. A low-lying field of white static caravans sank to the right, squeezed between the road and the towering concrete sea wall like stacked goods in a cargo yard.
"There it is," Liam pointed. "Spate's caravan park. Looks charming."
A red-and-white barrier hung open at the entrance. Beside it, a cracked sign promised FAMILY FUN, SEA VIEWS, CAFé OPEN DAILY, though the café windows were steamed and hoary and half the caravans had their curtains drawn.
Sally rolled the Mustang down off the road and up to the café.
The place looked worse from the inside; its promised sea views cut off by the sea wall, leaving only damp decking, rusted gas bottles, cracked planters and stone paths slick with moss.
Ahead, a family hurried along a narrow path between two moldy caravans, the solitary child dragging a plastic bucket along the grass.
A different group was clustered at a picnic table near the kids' play area.
Six young men were smoking and drinking from cans wrapped in plastic supermarket bags.
They wore stonewash jeans and cheap leather jackets that would never survive a Kent winter.
One had a black wool hat pulled low. Their faces were young, wary, hollowed.
Sally had seen enough border cases in the US to recognize the look of the newly arrived, fleeing something.
She walked toward them.
"Sally," Liam cautioned.
The wind came over the sea wall and cut through her uniform shirt. The young men watched her cross the worn grass, cigarette smoke eddying sideways.
"Morning," Sally said. "You boys on holiday?"
No one answered. One stared at the ground. Another took a drag from his cigarette with exaggerated care, as if smoking were suddenly his only task in the world.
Liam came to stand alongside her. "There's no asylum hotel in this area," he said quietly.
"None official." Sally took out her warrant card and held it up. "NCA. That means police. Anyone here know Gerald Spate?"
The young man in the black hat bolted.
He went straight up off the bench, can spilling, cigarette flying from his fingers, legs pumping. The others followed, scattering in three directions across the grass. One vaulted the fence to the road. Another skidded between two caravans toward the beach.
Liam took one instinctive step after them, then stopped.
Sally didn't move. There was no point trying to chase six young men like that. Maybe they'd catch one between them, and what good would that do.
"Sort of like putting a pin in a balloon, that, wasn't it?" Liam observed, raising his phone.
"Easy way to check their status." Sally slipped her badge away. "Think we just found our way in. You calling Mayhew?"
"Of course."
"Hold it for now. OK?"
Sally looked at him. Liam shifted his footing, hesitated, then put his phone away. "For now, Sally."
"For now's all we need."
Sally pushed into the café. A bell over the door jangled and warm, stale air hit her. A few laminated menus curled on the counter. Four empty tables sat under photographs of summer beaches that looked nothing like the view outside.
An older woman stood behind the counter, polishing the steam wand of an old espresso machine. She was thin and gray-faced, hair dragged into a bun so tight it pulled at her temples.
"About time you lot came for those lads," she said.
Sally showed her badge again. "We're looking for Gerald Spate."
The woman jerked her chin toward the back of the park. "Last row. Big one in the corner, only one with an actual sea view. Thinks he's little Lord Fauntleroy, doesn't he?"
Sally had no idea what that meant. "Those young men outside. How long have they been here?"
"That lot? It's always different lads. Same look to them, though, if you know what I mean."
"How long?"
"Week, maybe, each batch? Some longer. Some gone within days."
"And Spate's housing them?"
The woman snorted. "What do you think? It's a bloody caravan park, isn't it?"
"Small boat arrivals," Sally said.
The cloth stopped mid-polish. "Not my business, that, is it? I'm on minimum wage, love. I live in this shithole with those lads and the lord of the manor himself. I tell tales about any of it, I'm gone."
"Your name?" Liam asked.
"Fuck off."
"Are there ever girls here?" Sally redirected. "Women?"
"No. It's them boys only."
"Did you ever see the Rooks?"
"The Rooks?"
"Sons of Reginald Rook. Roarke, Jerome, Silas, Gabriel."
"No. Gerald's got his own crew, bringing those lads in. And it ain't any Rooks."
Sally considered. "Thank you. You've been very helpful."
"Not my intention."
They walked out, heading for the big caravan on the corner. From one of the caravans, a baby cried.
"You think Spate gets the men, Rooks take the girls?" Liam asked.
"Let's ask him."
The corner caravan was the largest in the park, a double-width static with cream siding gone green at the seams. A mildewed canvas awning had been stretched outward from the door, fixed with ropes to fence posts and plastic water barrels.
Under it sat a small hot tub with a cracked lid, a black pizza oven, two stained recliners and a generator chugging in the cold.
Sally stepped under the awning. The air smelled of marijuana. A line of vivid green algae crept out of the hot tub.
"Disgusting," Liam said.
Sally banged on the caravan door. Something heavy shifted inside, there was a thud, a muffled curse then the door opened.
A man in a stained burgundy dressing gown tied too low across his belly filled the doorway. He was bald with a floppy gray comb-over, his chest was hairy and pale, his round stomach straining forward. His eyes were red, wet and unfocused, taking several seconds to settle on Sally.
"The fuck you want?" he said.
Sally held up her badge. "Mr. Gerald Spate?"
"No."
"Try again."
His eyes shifted to Liam, then back to her. Calculation moved slowly through the fog. "What's NCA doing on my doorstep?"
"We've got some questions about the death on Dungeness."
"Nothing to do with me. Now piss off."
He started to close the door, but Sally put one boot against it. Spate looked down.
"You got a warrant for that?"
"We don't need a warrant to make an arrest, Gerald."
"Arrest is it, now? Take your boot off my property or take me in. I've got a good lawyer, so you'll be wasting your sodding time."
"A lot depends on the charge, though, doesn't it?"
Spate's red-rimmed eyes sharpened slightly. "That's a smarter threat, girl. What have you got?"
"You're a waypoint for small-boat immigrants. Even if we can't prove it, I know quite a few vulture paparazzi. They'd love to crucify you for it in the Gaze; a good old Kent boy offering aid and comfort to the trafficking gangs."
Spate sucked air through his teeth. "Come in then. Bigger dicks than yours have swung over my front porch."
He stepped back and Sally entered.