Page 67 of Slack Tide Kill

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."