Sea Breeze Campsite was a caravan and camping park that had enjoyed a good fifty years of business before it finally went under in the shitty wipe-out year that was 2021.

  The combination of gradual decay, lack of investment, the years of austerity and the final straw – the year of Covid – were the reasons for its inevitable demise. The seven-acre camp site with one hundred and seventeen trailers and fifty-three vacant hard stands, for those visitors with their own camper vans or caravans, had had a good innings, but time had eventually been called.

  The business had gone bankrupt, its thirteen staff laid off, and a firm of accountants were brought in to determine what money, if any, could be made from selling off the trailers and land.

  It hadn’t been a quick process, and eleven months on not much had happened, other than the once-tidy lawns around each plot had become islands of tall grass, hiding the wheels and stands of the trailers, and various weeds had begun taking advantage of the cracks and potholes in the tarmac drives and cycle paths.

  Sea Breeze Campsite was a ghost town now.

  The accountants overseeing the bankrupt camp had hired a permanent security guard to reside there for the first six months, but eventually they’d given up on that. There was nothing of much value to watch over once the camp’s office huts, grocery shop and licensed clubhouse had been stripped of their tills, computers and vending machines.

  It had become the place of choice for errant teenagers to hang out, smoke and get trashed. A number of the trailers had been broken into and were surrounded by a constellation of crushed beer cans, broken alcopop bottles, empty capsules of nitrous oxide and used condoms.

  Right now, though, at this precise moment, Sea Breeze Campsite stood empty and alone, save for a few feral cats and opportunist foxes.

  And one solitary human occupant.

  Here, lived a man on his own. Living by candlelight.

  Living off of an ever-decreasing stash of money. Living a cat’s ninth life that was also, he suspected, counting quickly down.

  His nights were disturbed, sometimes by foxes squaring up to each other, and occasionally by kids messing around where they shouldn’t.

  He spent the nights watching and waiting.

  The days were when he felt safest sleeping.

  28

  ‘Ah, yes, the update on the Nix case. Do come in!’

  Boyd stepped into Chief Superintendent Hatcher’s office.

  ‘DCI Boyd, I’m so sorry I haven’t had the chance to personally welcome you on board our Division before now. How’re you finding things? Settling in okay?’

  Her black rimmed glasses were worn halfway down her nose and her dark hair was cut into a wavy bob, one side tucked away behind her left ear, the other side flapping like a bat’s wing.

  ‘I’m settling in fine, thanks, ma’am,’ he replied.

  ‘It’s been a busy first few days for you. I’m sorry we had to throw you straight in at the deep end,’ she said, studying him over the top of her glasses.

  ‘That’s all right. It’s done me good to hit the ground running, I think.’

  She gestured at one of the two seats in front of her desk. ‘Come, sit down. Do you want a tea? Coffee?’

  He wasn’t sure how long this was going to take, and there was nothing worse than having the business end of your chat over and done with before the coffee turned up and then having to make small talk until it was gone. Particularly with the Chief Super. Any Chief Super.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks, ma’am. I’ve just had one.’

  He took a seat.

  ‘How are you finding it here?’ she began.

  ‘Well, I know my team’s names now, where the canteen is and the nearest toilet,’ he quipped. ‘That’s not bad progress for a first week, right?’

  She laughed. ‘That’s good work.’

  Her Madge was younger than he thought she’d be. With that nickname he’d been expecting – obviously not Margaret Thatcher – but another mature grey-haired iron lady with flinty eyes.

  Actually, Hatcher could have been anywhere from forty to fifty-five. Young for such a rank. Possibly younger than him. Which made for an odd, slightly unsettling dynamic. He was used to grizzly Old Sweats in the ranks above him.

  She glanced at the dressing over his ear. ‘I hope that looks worse than it is,’ she said. ‘I heard you’d been in the wars.’

  ‘It’s just a few stitches. But because it protrudes –’ obviously it protrudes it’s an ear, idiot – ‘the A & E nurse made me wear this dome-thing to protect it.’

  ‘A bra cup?’ She widened her eyes comically.

  He laughed politely, as if it was the first time he’d heard that particular description. ‘It does look a bit like that.’

  ‘Very vogue,’ she said, smiling. She didn’t comment about the scabs on his face – the foundation dabbed on this morning had been a little more refined and a bit less of a Donald Trump job.

  Hatcher tapped the keyboard of her open laptop and in the reflection of her glasses he saw something on the screen had changed. ‘How are you finding Hastings?’ she asked.

  ‘Nice. It’s a welcome change from London. It’s all a bit messy and chaotic there now.’

  ‘All the upheaval? I know. Brexit has created a completely different eco-system in this country. There’ve been winners and losers right across the board.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Everyone’s running about like headless chickens, investors either fleeing for the hills or scrambling for the bargains. Things will eventually settle down.’

  Boyd cleared his throat. He was here for a reason, and discussing the state of the nation wasn’t it. ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘Yes?’ She looked up from her laptop.

  ‘The Nix case.’

  ‘Yes. Now, how’s that coming along?’

  After his chat with Sutherland, he was sure she was right up to speed. But he played along. ‘Slowly. Because the forensics on the yacht were pretty messy and compromised, exposed to the weather for maybe three months, we’re exploring avenues via the forensics taken from Nix’s house.’

  She nodded at his bandaged ear. ‘And that’s where you got that injury?’

  ‘Right.’

  A frown flitted across her forehead. ‘You know, I do wonder whether throwing this one at you so soon was a good idea.’

  ‘No, it’s fine, ma’am. To be honest, getting back into the swing of things, being on a team again, I think it’s what I’ve needed for some time.’ He nodded. ‘This is good for me.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure you can understand my concern,’ she replied. ‘From what I heard, you rugby-tackled one chap at a junkyard and were then swiftly ambushed inside a house by a burglar. Call me old-fashioned, but I think it’s conventional for a DCI to be more HQ-based.’

  A burglar. He was pretty sure that neither of them believed that one. He kept his face neutral.

  ‘Yes, quite right, ma’am. It’s just… how things shook out.’

  ‘DSI Sutherland and I have been chatting and he says if you need a recovery day or two, DS Minter’s perfectly capable of running things. And, if you need longer, DCI Flack could supervise your case as well as his?’

  Boyd suspected she was aware that he didn’t share her migrant theory. Did she want him out of the way for a bit so he couldn’t stir the pot?

  ‘No, thanks. I’m okay. I’m fine, ma’am.’

  She nodded. ‘Well, the offer’s there.’

  ‘Thank you. Anyway, the Nix case…’ He sat forward in his chair, which groaned audibly under his weight. ‘I was informed that Gerald Nix’s personal computer has been redirected to Border Force.’

  Here we go.

  Her face flexed for a moment, then in a smooth motion, her gaze met his and she clasped her hands together in front of her chin. He knew it had been done on her orders. She was either going to fake ignorance or acknowledge the instruction. Lie or level.

  If she went with the former, he was going to have to tread very carefully.

  She nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I know about that.’

  Inwardly he let out a sigh. ‘Do you know why that was, ma’am? We could really do with it here. We need to get going with our investigation into Mr Nix’s online activities.’

  She pushed her glasses up her nose. ‘Do you think he’s guilty of anything, Boyd?’

  ‘All options are on the table at the moment, ma’am. But it may help us to identify who else was on the boat with him at the very least.’

  ‘A partner and someone else, wasn’t it?’

  ‘His partner, yes. We don’t really know much about her yet.’

  ‘So do you think we’re definitely looking at murder then, or do you think missing persons is still on the table?’

  ‘There was a fair bit of blood down below and in the cockpit.’

  She’d read the reports, according to Sutherland. Why was she being so resistant to the possibility that a murder or two had occurred on the boat?

  ‘I mean,’ he continued, ‘since we don’t have bodies, it’s always possible both Nix and his partner are still alive, but… I think it’s very unlikely.’

  She tapped her finger on the edge of her laptop thoughtfully. ‘And the other person? Do we have any idea who that was?’

  ‘Well, they, by elimination, are a person of interest.’

  ‘The person who attacked you –’

  ‘Isn’t him. The forensics on the boat didn’t match.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  He absently fiddled with his tie. ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Ma’am, can I ask why Border Force have taken possession of his computer?’

  Hatcher tucked the loose bat wing of dark hair back behind her ear and paused to think. ‘They have an interest in Nix,’ she replied slowly.

  ‘Such as?’

  Her face hardened ever so slightly. ‘If they have their reasons, Boyd, they have their reasons.’

  ‘Well, that computer may have – probably does have – a direct bearing on my case.’

  ‘DCI Boyd, I appreciate that you’re trying to do the best job you can here. But Border Force answers directly to the Home Office. As an agency, they outrank us. If they want the computer, they have the computer.’

  ‘The thing is, ma’am, Nix may have had some dodgy dealings with Aiden Rigby.’

  ‘That’s the chap who was brought in yesterday?’

  ‘Yes. He’s got form for fraud, scams, that sort of thing. He had Nix hide a tidy sum of money away for safe keeping. So it’s possible – in fact it’s quite likely – that Nix has got a digital paper trail on that computer that implicates them both in laundering and hiding criminal money.’

  Her body stiffened ever so slightly. ‘Boyd,’ she said sharply, ‘I’ll tell you what I know. Border Force believe Mr Nix may have been involved in trafficking migrants with his yacht. They think he was making money rendezvousing with high-fee-paying migrants in the Channel. They believe that something went wrong this time, perhaps a disagreement about the price – who knows? But it went wrong for him.’ She settled back in her seat. ‘That’s all I can tell you.’

  ‘What about the man who jumped me in the Nix home? That wasn’t just a random coincidence!’

  ‘Now listen.’ Her voice lowered in tone. Indeed, it was almost Thatcher-like. ‘They have more information than we do. They have an investigation already running on Gerald Nix –’

  She stopped talking and glared across the desk at him.

  He said nothing. Boss Interview 101 – once they start glaring, you shut up.

  They played ten seconds’ worth of Who Blinks First?

  ‘Ma,am,’ Boyd said in a conciliatory tone. ‘Migrants or no migrants, I really can’t get much further without that computer.’

  ‘Don’t turn this into something it isn’t,’ she snapped. ‘The focus of this investigation, Boyd, is what happened on that boat with those migrants!’ She took a deep breath and continued in a slightly softer tone. ‘Border Force have a more complete picture than we do. And we’re not going to waste valuable resources wrestling with them, second-guessing where they’re going with it. We do know, however, that a violent exchange occurred on board that yacht and we have signs, as far as I’m concerned, of a boat impact, with scuff marks, footprints and fingerprints that suggests it was boarded by someone.’

  ‘Uh, that’s –’

  ‘And… trafficking is the way Border Force are leaning. So, we’re not going to have two departments touting two different theories, understood?’ The lines on her forehead smoothed out as though they’d never been there. ‘Is that clear? If that’s all…’

  Boyd nodded as he stood up to leave. ‘Yes, ma’am. Perfectly.’

  Clear as bloody mud, he thought. What the fuck is going on here? And what are you up to?

  29

  ‘Battered sausage and chips please.’

  Boyd took his boxed lunch away from the seating area outside the café and away from the feathered thugs perched on the nearby safety rails, watching and waiting for an opportunity to strike. He walked the length of the pier, past the Bier Garden to where Perspex windbreaks offered him some shelter from the chilly sea breeze.

  He found an empty bench with a view out across the Channel. The sea was grey and choppy today, throwing suds and spray up into the air, almost reaching the pier’s decking.

  He drizzled zigzag ketchup lines across the chips and speared the first of them with his wooden fork. More than once recently, Emma had voiced that he was putting weight on around his middle. Not the usual up-down amount, but a steady growing gut tyre that was in danger of taking him over the line from dad bod to fat plod.

  But dammit. These chips were good.

  His mind turned to the press conference he was supposed to be giving later this afternoon. Apparently one of the red tops had run the yacht story on their third page this morning. On a slow news day, Nix’s boat might have made page one, but this morning another member of the cabinet had been caught with his trousers down – literally – and salacious details of that had trumped migrant fearmongering.

  All the same, the third-page headline had been unhelpfully large and eye-catching.

  So this afternoon’s Punch and Judy show was going to be about tamping down that nonsense while at the same time gently airing Hatcher’s suggestion that Nix might have got his hands dirty in the trafficking business.

  What Boyd didn’t get was why Hatcher cared one way or the other. Maybe she just wanted to stay on the right side of Border Force? These days they seemed to be the one government body whose budget actually increased year on year. Maybe Her Madge saw a sunnier future working for them than Sussex Police? Paving the way, perhaps?

  He managed to finish his sausage and chips without being mugged by gulls and made his way back along the pier. On his way past the café he spotted Minter and Okeke inside, standing in the queue. Minter was saying something that was making her laugh heartily. She was almost doubled over and waving a hand for him to stop so she could catch her breath.

  Boyd almost managed to pass by without being spotted.

  Okeke caught his eye and straightened up, the smile still on her face as she waved to him and beckoned him to join them. He raised his arm and mouthed Sorry, as he shook his head and continued in the direction of the station.

  ‘The Chief Super’s a little concerned about you doing the press conference, Boyd,’ said Sutherland.

  ‘Why?’ Boyd asked.

  Sutherland lifted his chin and gazed down his nose at the side of Boyd’s head. ‘That silly dressing on your head. She thinks it’ll be a visual distraction.’

  ‘Oh, for fu– really?’

  ‘She’s worried that all people will see is a damn bra cup strapped to your head.’ Sutherland pressed his lips and tried to look apologetic. ‘Her words, Boyd, not mine.’

  ‘Of course she is,’ muttered Boyd. He suspected it had more to do with what he might say rather than how ridiculous he might look.

  ‘How do you feel about DS Minter standing in for you today?’

  ‘I’m not sure, sir. Has he done one before?’

  ‘Not really, no. But he’s a good lad. I’m sure he’ll be fine.’

  Boyd suspected it was going to be a packed house, thanks to the tabloid’s wonderfully antagonising headline. Although God knows he would be more than happy to pass that particular buck, it would be a hell of an ask to throw Minter straight into something like that. ‘Does he know?’ Boyd asked.

  ‘Not yet. I thought it best to run it past you first.’ Sutherland’s pale round snowman head bobbed up and down. ‘Out of courtesy.’ He coughed out an awkward laugh. ‘Not that you get to decide, of course.’

  ‘Well, if he’s not done one of these before, it’s probably not a great idea to start him on one that’s got this kind of attention,’ said Boyd.

  Sutherland screwed up his face. ‘The Chief Super thinks it’ll be good for him. And she really, really wants someone other than you to do it. Come on, Boyd. She’s right. That’s thing’s distracting. Do you want to brief Minter, or shall I?’

  Boyd shrugged and sighed. ‘I’ll talk to him.’

  ‘What?’ said Minter. His handsome, chiselled face suddenly had a pitiful lamb-about-to-be-slaughtered quality to it. ‘This afternoon?’

  Boyd looked at his watch. ‘In just under two hours’ time. I can’t do it cos those hacks are just going to question-bomb me about this.’ He gestured to his ear. ‘Right, we need to work out what you’re going to say.’

  ‘Fuck me. Really?’

  ‘That would be a poor way to start,’ said Boyd, trying to raise a smile. ‘Look, I’ll type up the statement for you to read out. If you read it in the monotone way most of us do, they’ll barely even notice you speaking.’

  Minter… Muscly Minter with his barely concealed tattoos and bulging pecs suddenly looked like a toddler staring down his first day at reception.

  ‘C’mon, mate – that was meant to be funny,’ said Boyd, trying to be jovial.

  ‘Oh, right.’ Minter was starting to look a bit green at the edges.