He went onto Google Maps and looked on street view.

  There was the café B the B had mentioned – which called itself an arcade. There was a hand car wash over the road. It was where Andy had parked that night, where he left his car, just before he vanished.

  Coincidence?

  Maybe.

  Maybe not.

  So who owned that café? A quick check in a local business directory told him it was owned by a company called Docklands Holdings. He went onto the web to check it out.

  Docklands Holdings had a registered office address in Bridlington, and its director was Carl Lavery.

  Connections. This whole case hung on connections; he was sure of that.

  Lavery owned a café with arcade machines. They’d take money or tokens every day and they’d be emptied every night if the café stood empty. Was this what Lavery was bringing back to the pub, holdalls of cash from the arcade machines?

  Now Curwen was getting a bad feeling, a truly bad feeling.

  Could he have been so wrong? For the first time, he felt the whole structure of the case he was building up against Lavery start to crumble. Maybe he was just what he seemed to be: a local small businessman who was probably involved in a fair bit of minor dodgy stuff, but nothing that would help Curwen.

  Because he couldn’t think of anything else to do, he went on with his checks. Lavery’s business interests were wider than Curwen expected, and the investigation started to draw him in. Lavery also owned the car wash and garage on the same street as the café, and several holiday lets. He couldn’t access more than the basic financial information on the company – where it banked, the names of the directors.

  Or in this case, director. Carl Lavery was the sole director of Docklands Holdings, and the company banked with the Bridlington Building Society, a small, local mutual that didn’t look like the place a serious lawbreaker would keep his money.

  On the other hand, car washes and cafés were notorious locations for drug deals and this, at least, gave him reason to keep on hoping.

  Had he got the right man but the wrong business?

  What had Becca the Barmaid said about the pub cellar?

  He got out his phone, the burner he kept for unofficial stuff. This was the one that had received the messages he’d forwarded from Andy’s phone. He hadn’t looked at it since Andy’s body was found.

  He scrolled down to the messages marked from Andy, and almost dropped his phone.

  There was a new one. One he hadn’t seen.

  The date was…

  Shit! How had he missed it? Becca the Barmaid had sent a photograph from the cellar – the fucking cupboard! And there they were, the bags, except the silly cow hadn’t got a picture of what was inside them. And these didn’t contain petty cash or the previous night’s takings. They were bulging.

  The image had been sent three days after Andy died, the night he’d been in the pub talking to her.

  And the phone – fuck it! – had sent the automatic response, ‘Great’, that he’d programmed in. But Andy was dead. His phone was presumably at the bottom of the estuary. How had it forwarded the message?

  Slowly, Curwen managed to calm his wilder speculations. If he just stopped to think, it was easy enough to work out. Andy’s phone hadn’t been disposed of, and it was still active, or it had been. The battery would be dead by now. Andy must have dropped it…

  Curwen thought fast, running scenarios through his head. They were all assuming Andy had been taken, killed and dumped, but if he’d dropped his phone, he might have got away, might have been running. The location of the phone could give the investigation important information about where he had been killed. Dinah had already told him that they didn’t know the exact location, or not for sure.

  So why hadn’t the phone registered on the searches? He knew from Dinah they hadn’t found it, but they should have been able to. He had the information right here – the phone had been active after Andy’s death.

  It must be because the signal was intermittent. Sunk Island was notorious for its poor connections. There was no location for the phone when the search was made because it hadn’t been able to connect, but later, for a fatal few seconds, it had.

  A high wind moving the trees around, making the tower sway – that could have given a brief connection that had picked up and transmitted the message. And that meant that somewhere in the records there would be a signal that might help them find the phone.

  If they found Andy’s phone, they’d find the app, and they’d see that messages had been forwarded. The number wouldn’t link to him, but the phone records would give them a location – not pinpoint it, but give a location within a few hundred square yards. And he’d made contact with that phone at Bridlington police station, and also at his flat.

  If they found the phone, he could be in trouble.

  He’d fucked up. No promotion, a black mark on his record and the other high-fliers would take off around him, leaving him behind. He’d end up on a team run by Karen Innes, having to defer to her decisions, call her ‘ma’am.’ Well, fuck that. That wasn’t going to happen.

  Could he locate the phone himself? No, stirring up the phone company for their records would surely come to Hammond’s attention. Best sit tight on that one.

  He needed to get that information about Lavery’s company. If he could link Lavery to the drugs, just about everything would be forgiven.

  Right. Who owed him a favour?

  He picked up his phone and keyed in a number, cursing as he got the messaging service. ‘Dom? It’s Mark Curwen here. I need some information, urgently.’ He outlined what he knew, and hung up, praying that his mate, Dom Maskall, a forensic accountant, would be around and would check his messages fast. Maskall owed Curwen some favours, including the time Curwen had managed to get a charge of ABH against him – when he’d thumped the man who was screwing his wife – dropped by ‘losing’ a piece of key evidence.

  Now, if he needed financial information on the quiet, Maskall was the person he went to. Right now, he wanted all the information Maskall could get for him on Lavery’s company, Docklands Holdings.

  He had to get the thing finished, get evidence that would allow him to bypass whoever was protecting Lavery.

  He had to clear up this mess. There was still time.

  ‘Sir?’

  His heart raced as he spun round. Dinah Mason was behind him, her neat blonde hair shining under the strip lighting, red glasses slipping down her nose. She looked angry and agitated.

  ‘What’s the problem, Mason?’

  ‘I spoke to the DCI, sir, about the woman in the pub, about Becca Armitage and Andy. He went ballistic. He said it was a side issue and that if he couldn’t rely on me to do my job, then I was off the team, and I wasn’t to distract people with this by talking about it.’

  As Curwen listened to her story, he got more and more confused. He’d wanted to keep Hammond away from Becca the Barmaid because her involvement with Andy would have to be investigated, which could be bad news for him. But now Hammond knew Becca and Andy had been seeing each other, and hadn’t just ignored it. He’d dismissed it – and kept it away from the team.

  What the fuck?

  ‘I’ll look into it,’ he said. Mason had no option but to accept that and get back to work, leaving Curwen to try and work out what the fuck was going on.

  Another possibility was starting to form in his mind. Maybe Lavery had kept out of trouble because he had better protection than Curwen could ever have realised. Lavery wasn’t just a small-time landlord of a run-down seaside pub. He was a businessman, and Curwen suspected he’d only just started uncovering the extent of Lavery’s interests.

  Was one of those interests a senior police officer?

  If so, it wasn’t just Curwen’s career that was fucked. He was in danger of ending up like Andy almost had, at the bottom of the estuary.

  Rule one: if someone is out to fuck you over, the only thing to do is to fuck them over first.

  He had to get Lavery, and fast.

  Chapter 28

  Bridlington

  Becca’s night was an endless replay of dreams about things chasing her, hands grabbing her, her stepfather’s footsteps on the stairs, her mother’s voice calling her a liar, and periods of wakefulness that were almost welcome, when the pain in her shoulder and her neck dragged her out of her nightmares. She must have fallen into a deeper sleep at some point because when she opened her eyes again it was daylight and for a moment, everything was peaceful – until she tried to move her neck and pain brought the memory of last night flooding back.

  She was so stiff it was hard to move, and there was no more paracetamol. The drug had barely helped anyway. She remembered Jared with his collection of opiates that, right now, much as she hated pills and pill-heads, would have been welcome.

  Remembering him made her feel so alone she could hardly bear it. She got out her phone and scrolled through the photographs, stopping at one of her and Jared standing by his bike on the cliffs at Kettleness. She missed him, but they couldn’t sort their lives out together, so they had to do it apart.

  She hoped he was doing better than she was.

  The kitten was scratching and scraping around. She could hear the click of tiny claws as it pattered across the floor. What was she going to do with it? She could ask George if she could have a kitten, but what if he said no? Best keep it and say nothing. For the moment.

  Slowly, she pulled herself out of bed, and moving carefully, went and got some more kitten food and milk. The kitten was back on the armchair, but the mess on her scarf that she’d left on the floor showed what it had been scratching and why it had got down in the night. She picked the scarf up and shoved it into a plastic bag – it was beyond cleaning. It could go in the bin.

  She needed to buy stuff – cat litter, something to put the litter in, more food, more milk. It was all money and she just didn’t have enough. She extended a hand towards the little animal. It had been so timid before, but now it stayed put as she stroked its cheek and heard the buzz of a purr.

  She felt a glow of triumph. It liked her.

  She’d always managed on her own, so she’d do it now, somehow.

  Hoping it would be OK without a litter tray for a bit longer, she fed it, then went and stood under the shower until the hot water ran out, scrubbing the dirt off herself and washing her hair. Reluctantly, she looked in the mirror.

  Her face was bruised and her lip was swollen where it was split. Her knees were grazed, and there were bruises all over her body. She could tell people she’d fallen, but what would that make them think? That she’d been drunk, that’s what they’d think.

  It was her half day at the supermarket today and she thought about pulling a sickie. She was sick. It was hard to move, she was hurting so much, and her ribs were still painful where the shit, the dickface, had kicked her. Why not give herself a day off to recover?

  Because she needed the money.

  And although part of her wanted to give up, to stay away from the pub, show them she’d got the message, that she’d understood, that anger – the anger Matt talked about – came back. Why should she? They’d hurt Andy – and he was a creep and she didn’t care, she didn’t – but his kid, that wasn’t right, and they’d hurt her kitten, and they’d hurt her. What had she done to them?

  Nothing.

  She was going to the pub tonight, she was going to ask questions and she’d find a way to get into that cupboard and take those pictures. She’d show them they hadn’t managed to scare her away.

  But right now, she had other things to think about. It was already after seven and she had to be at the supermarket by eight. She pulled her clothes on and looked at her bruises in the mirror. Make-up wasn’t going to help – she’d just have to face them down.

  The kitten. Milk in one dish, biscuits in another. She limped downstairs to the junk room at the bottom of the stairs and grabbed one of the boxes. It would do for a tray. She went back upstairs with it, each movement making her wince, and filled it with torn up loo paper – that would do for the moment.

  OK. Coat, bag, phone, purse…

  Her purse.

  She usually left it on the small table after she got out her card for the meter, but it wasn’t there.

  She hadn’t used the card last night.

  She scrabbled in her bag, then tipped the contents out over the bed. It wasn’t until she’d gone through everything three times, and tipped the bag up and shaken it, that she was prepared to admit it.

  Her purse was gone.

  That was her card for the meter with at least five quid on it, her bank card and… shit. The envelope with her money from the pub.

  She went cold as the implications struck her. That was all her money. What was she going to do? Her head was aching, her face hurt. Everything hurt, and now she had no money. She wanted to sit down on the bed and cry.

  And that’s really going to help.

  She lifted her chin. They wanted to stop her. Well, she wasn’t going to stop. She was going to keep right on doing… She wasn’t even sure what it was she had been doing, but she was going to keep on doing it anyway.

  Now, she needed to get to work. Losing her job wasn’t going to help. She could see if Bryan would give her any overtime. And she could tell Carl what had happened. He might pay her again. Yeah, right. That was going to happen, wasn’t it?

  He might be prepared to sub her. At a price.

  But she had to have money, right now. Feeling as though she was taking the first step towards a sheer drop, she took a ten-pound note out of the rent and headed downstairs, back towards the yard, looking carefully across the ground as she went in case her purse was there.

  It wasn’t, but she could see the evidence of a scuffle, the empty paraffin bottle still lying on the ground, the burned pile of rags. She didn’t even know who it was who’d attacked her. Johnny Dip? Carl? Did he know about the pictures? Was it Carl sending her fake text messages from Andy? But why would he? He didn’t want her snooping around in the cellar.

  And now she had to admit she was scared. She might not know who had attacked her, but she knew they were still out there. It felt unsafe to step out of the flat. Even the road would have felt dangerous, but she had to go out the back way and through the gennel – the shop didn’t open until nine.

  Feeling horribly exposed, like someone was going to jump her at any moment, she pushed open the gate and looked round, her phone clutched in her hand. The gennel was empty and when she got to the end, she saw the road was quiet – a few people walking along, and… Her feet slowed. There was a bunch of kids standing on the corner, crowded round someone she couldn’t see. The group shifted as she approached and she saw the lad in the centre of the group, who’d been hidden before.

  It was Lewis, Jade’s Lewis.

  No bike today.

  She took in the designer gear and the cool trainers that she knew Jade couldn’t possibly have afforded, but the clothes were scuffed and stained, his lip was bleeding, his face looked pinched and he looked scared – petrified. He might be a little shit, but he was still just a kid, her mate’s kid, and he looked like he was in deep trouble. Hadn’t she been there herself? He was what? Eleven, twelve? About the same age she’d been when everything finally fell to pieces.

  On impulse, she stopped. ‘Lewis?’ she said.

  One of the lads, the tall, lanky one she’d seen with Lewis before, looked round. His hand was in his pocket, gripping something. ‘Fuck off, bitch.’ Slowly, the others began to move towards her.

  Her mouth felt dry. She stepped back, out of arms reach, and held up her phone. ‘Do you want the coppers here?’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, like…’ The tall, lanky lad was sneering, but while the attention of the group was directed towards her, Lewis ducked, turned and ran. A bus was heading down the opposite side of the road, pulling into the stop. He was across the road, almost under the bus wheels and scrambling onto it before the others could react. ‘Let him go,’ the lanky guy said. His eyes, cold and empty, met hers. ‘You’re dead, bitch.’

  They turned and sauntered away.

  Becca’s legs felt shaky. She ought to do something, but she didn’t know what. Lewis was safe, for now. The others were gone and she had no idea who they were. She hesitated, then saw that her bus was just pulling into the stop. She couldn’t lose half a day’s pay. It was hard to run. She stumbled towards the bus, waving, and by some kind of miracle, the driver waited for her. ‘Morning, love,’ he said cheerfully as she eased herself up onto the platform. He waited until she was in her seat before he pulled away, a small kindness that made her eyes sting.

  Were those lads intending to hurt Lewis, or were they just giving him a warning? She could still see the flat menace in the eyes of the lanky kid. You’re dead! She knew what he had in his pocket.

  Was it just a threat? Did he know something about last night?

  Snitch bitch. She could still see the silhouette of the man who had attacked her, against the dim light of the gennel. Was it him, the tall, lanky lad? The voice was wrong, and she thought the person she’d seen silhouetted against the light wasn’t as tall, but she couldn’t be certain. It was all swirling round in her head in a confusing jumble – Lewis, the knife, the attack, the text message – and she could feel, deep down inside her, the thoughts starting again: useless, waste of space, loser, loser, baggers can’t be choosers, Becca…

  She closed her eyes and let them wash over her. Like a rowdy crowd in a shopping mall, they flowed past, pushing and shoving, and then they were gone and she could breathe again.

  There were other things to worry about, and she made herself focus on those. Where was she going to find ten pounds to replace the money she’d taken out of the rent? How was she going to manage when she’d lost a week’s cash? There was just the remains of the tenner and it would be – she did the sums rapidly in her head – it would be nine days before she got paid again.

  There’d be no money for heat, for food, for the kitten.

  She couldn’t take any more out of the rent money. George had been OK recently, but he wouldn’t be if she went into arrears. He’d made that clear when she moved in. You paid up or you were out. She put her face in her hands, then realised people were looking at her, and sat up again.

 

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