Page 15 of Slack Tide Kill

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.