Page 74 of Slack Tide Kill

Home field advantage.

The old fire station looked different without the emergency vehicles and press presence outside. Smaller. More honest. The red bay doors were shut and a handwritten sign had been taped to the glass.

CLOSED DUE TO UNFORESEEN CIRCUMSTANCES

Sally parked and they got out. Liam peered through the glass. "Unforeseen circumstances is doing a lot of work there."

There was nobody inside. The displays remained where they'd been dragged aside, while a profusion of mugs, teas and instant coffee tubs rested on the central trestle table.

"The girls will be in Dover now," Liam said. "Immigration Removal Centre. Basically a prison, but they've got no sentence. No idea how long they have to stay."

Sally tried to peer deeper in. She recognized a large red hand pump, the display of old helmets. Then a figure appeared at the back, carrying a mop bucket.

Sally rapped on the glass.

The figure twitched, turned, and stared at them.

He was elderly but upright, perhaps late 70s, with a narrow face, white hair and a brown cardigan buttoned over a shirt and tie. Even from outside, he looked offended.

Sally held up her badge to the glass. "We need to talk. Open up, please."

The man set the bucket down with visible reluctance and came to the door. He opened it only as far as the chain allowed.

"We're closed, Officers," he said, his accent very posh indeed.

"Officer Rogers and O'Connell," Sally said. "We're not here about yesterday."

"We're still closed."

"We actually need help with local history."

Now the man's eyes showed some kind of curiosity. "What kind of local history?"

"Owlers," Liam said. "Old smuggling routes through the marsh."

The man paused. Then he closed the door, scraped the chain free and opened it properly.

"As part of an active investigation? You'd better come in."

They stepped inside.

The museum smelled strongly of bleach now, laid over the familiar old fire-station smell of wood, dust and cold stone. Several of yesterday's folding tables had been stacked against one wall. A few foil blanket fragments still glittered in the corner near the skirting board. Someone had forgotten a bottle of water beneath the wartime display.

The old man saw Sally notice and stiffened.

"Terrible business yesterday," he said. "You gave us 20 minutes' warning, then filled the place with police, doctors and poor young souls. We do what we can, of course, but it's not what the building is for."

"Seems it's been through several uses," Sally said. "Everything changes."

"Well, now it's for remembering things properly." He said it with some force. "Which may be increasingly unfashionable, but I believe is essential."

"We agree completely," Liam said. "And your name is?"

"Edwin Pike. Volunteer trustee. Retired headmaster. Amateur historian, though not amateur in standards."

Sally liked him immediately, despite herself. "You have a display on the Owlers?"

"I have three," he said sternly. "The trustees allow me one and a half, while the rest remain in storage." He picked up a ring of keys from the gift shop desk. "This way."