Page 69 of Slack Tide Kill

The caravan was hot and stank of weed. A television played silently in the corner; a news program about the Dungeness killing. On a coffee table, a glass ashtray overflowed beside empty takeaway cartons and a half-smoked joint in a saucer.

Spate shuffled in and sank into a sagging armchair. "I got health conditions. You start stressing me, I'll have an episode."

Sally stood before him. "We're making inquiries about the Rook family."

"About Reg? He's dead, love. You missed him by three years."

"It's about his sons. Roarke, Gabriel, Jerome and Silas."

Spate reached for the joint in the saucer.

"Don't," Liam cautioned.

Spate glared, withdrew his hand slowly, then laced his fingers over his ample belly. "Reg's boys, all right. Used to dandle them on my knee, didn't I? 20 year back. Don't know what they're up to now."

"So you're not working with Roarke Rook?" Liam asked. "Splitting the intake of immigrants off small boats landing on Dungeness?"

Spate peered at him, then laughed. The sound was sharp and volatile, like an engine backfiring. "Working with Reg's boys? You're joking, right, after they blew up our reactor deal?"

Sally's eyes narrowed. "You're talking about Reactor Maintenance Logistics? The company you and Reg started three decades back?"

"Course I am. That little shit, Roarke, pulled voting shares from Meeks and booted me, and that was that, after 30 years!"

"Meeks?" Sally repeated, thinking back to the three directors on their whiteboard. "Is that Crawford Meeks?"

"That's the pony. You've done your research. Reg called him a silent partner. Big money twat, is what he was and is. Financed us then profited for years off doing nothing."

"And Roarke leveraged him against you?"

Spate sighed. "Fitting way to put it. Story goes, Roarke went over to his place with a digger. Meeks just had a new extension put in, some fancy-arse conservatory off the back of his house? Roarke puts some bolts through his wall and straps Meeks to them, ties him to the digger and says he's going to pull until the extension comes down or his arm rips off."

Spate watched them for a reaction.

"Complicated," Liam said.

"It worked. Meeks sold up. Majority shares brushed me to the side, and that was it for us. Cutthroat little bastard, is Roarke."

Sally's lips pressed tight. Wheels within wheels. "Roarke wanted sole control of the company. Why?"

"Not a clue. There's been no real money in it for years. Some clean-up every now and then, after a storm, moving shingle around on the beach. Bit of electrical work, bit of plumbing here and there. But that's pocket money, barely 20 hours a month at time and a half."

Sally tried to fit that in, but it didn't slot next to any of the data points they had so far. "Any other idea why he'd want sole control?"

Spate laughed. "Who the hell knows why that little prick does what he does? Maybe Meeks made it up, make himself seem a hard man. Maybe it's all just Chinese whispers over a shithole company nobody ever gave a crap about."

Sally tried to decide if any of it even mattered.

"So is that it?" Spate asked. "All your questions done?"

Sally refocused. "Where were you on Sunday night, Gerald?"

He chuckled. "Sunday night? In bed."

"Alone?"

He grinned, showing cragged brown teeth. "That one night, yeah. It ain't that way most nights."

"I didn't ask about most nights. Can anyone confirm you didn't leave the caravan park?"