by Keith Nixon
Ogilvy slowly raised his eyes onto Draper. “No, you’re not sorry. This is so much like you.” He stood. “Once the sale on this place goes through there’s no reason for us to see each other again.”
“Philip.” Ogilvy walked out. “Philip!” The front door slammed. Draper let out a lungful of air. “I apologise for you having to witness that.”
Gray raised a palm. “No problem.”
“Actually, I’m glad it’s all out in the open. I’m sick of keeping secrets. There have been too many of them over the years.”
“Do you believe him? That you won’t see each other again?”
“It’s Philip, you never quite know what you’re getting. It’s important for him to be aware of his past. We should all know where we come from.”
“Maybe.”
“Anyway,” Draper stood. “It’s done now. There’s no taking that back.”
Outside, Gray recalled what Draper had said; about knowing your past. He pulled out his phone and called Dr Aplin at the DNA labs.
Thirty Seven
Gray knocked on the door.
“Inspector,” said Kerry Hudson when she opened up. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I won’t be long.”
“Come in.”
This time Gray got beyond the hall, into the living room.
“I read about everything in the papers. Such a shame. Do you think she’ll be sent to prison?”
“That’s not up to me now. And I’m here to talk about you, not Fiona Jenkinson. Or more precisely, your mother.”
“My mother?”
“As a favour I asked the lab who originally assessed your DNA to see if they could find a match to anyone in the database.” Gray held out an envelope. “Her name is in there.”
But Hudson didn’t take it. “Why?”
“You told me you didn’t know who your parents were. This gives you part of an answer, if you want it.” Hudson placed a hand across her open mouth, eyes wide. “Sorry, I wasn’t sure how else to tell you.” Gray put the envelope down on a nearby table. “Burn it if you want.”
Gray was on the pavement nearing his car when Hudson called. “Inspector Gray, wait!” She ran towards him, clutching the envelope. She threw her arms out, enveloped him in a big hug. “Thank you! I can’t tell you how much it means to know something, at last.”
When Gray had extricated himself he said, “It was the least I could do.”
“You didn’t have to, and I appreciate that. I apologise for my reaction; I just wasn’t expecting that.”
“I’d better go.”
“Criminals to catch?”
“Something like that. Good luck with the wedding.”
Thirty Eight
The gathering was small, just a handful of people attending the committal ceremony. It proved brief. The few words read by the vicar echoed around the cavernous interior of St. Peter’s church. A couple of hymns were sung, the organ drowning out the accompanying voices. No eulogies by relatives because, how could you?
It was raining when they moved outside – the tiny coffin in front being carried by Zara’s brother, Edgar along the narrow tarmac path, then the vicar, Draper and, finally, Gray.
Neither Zara’s parents nor Philip Ogilvy attended. Gray could just about accept his absence; after all, what was his connection to the child? But Zara’s relatives were a different matter. They were blood and their grandchild was being buried.
The vicar stopped beside the plot. The earth had been dug back, producing a deep hole. The small coffin was lowered into it. The vicar read a prayer. And then they were done. The vicar shook hands with Edgar, then Draper and Gray before he walked back to the church. Gray stood, not sure what to do next.
There was a stone to be erected too. With the baby’s name, Sophia Jessop, carved on it.
“Thanks for coming,” said Edgar to both of them.
“It’s the least I can do,” said Draper.
“Likewise,” said Gray.
“Where are your parents?”
“They’re otherwise engaged.” Edgar pursed his lips, like he’d sucked on a lemon. “My mother and I had long overdue words. My father took her side so I’m persona non grata right now.”
“At least you’re here for your sister.”
“Somebody should be.”
“I really appreciate what you did, Inspector,” said Edgar. “Giving up your plot for Sophia. Sophia was our grandmother’s name. She doted on Zara. Grandma Sophia and my mother didn’t get along.” Edgar smiled. “Which would be another reason for Zara’s choice of name.”
“It’s Sol, and no problem. The space was going to waste otherwise. Just somewhere for weeds to grow.” Gray’s wife had bought space for herself and their son. But Tom didn’t need it.
“Nevertheless. Zara, next to her daughter, Sophia. And Zara near to your wife all along.” Edgar held his hand out for Gray to shake.
Movement caught Gray’s eye. He glanced up. Across the graveyard, behind Edgar’s shoulder, stood a man leaning on a stick, staring at Gray. Despite being partially masked by the trees, Gray recognised him immediately.
“Is everything all right?” asked Draper.
“Fine,” lied Gray. “There’s just somebody I need to speak with.”
Draper said, “If you’ve got time to spare, we can have a drink at my house.”
“I’d like that.”
“See you there.”
Draper and Edgar turned to walk away.
Gray headed across to Frank McGavin. Living abroad seemed to have been good for him. He’d developed a deep tan. McGavin was a big man, broad and tall, dominating every space he inhabited.
“Perfect place for you, this,” said Gray. “Among the gravestones.”
“I like the dead, Sol. They keep their secrets.” McGavin grinned. Teeth glowed bright, like they’d been whitened artificially. “Have you missed me?”
“As much as I miss a kick in the bollocks.”
McGavin chuckled. “So that’s a yes, then.”
“What do you want?”
“I’ve already got the best gift you could give me.” McGavin pointed at him.
“I can’t be doing with your bullshit games.” Gray turned away.
“Jerry Worthington.”
Gray stopped, pivoted back to face McGavin. “Pardon?”
“I know what you did.” Gray waited. “Not taking the bait? I’ll give you a name. Andrew Abbott.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He knows you, though. Says you told him who set a dog on his son.” McGavin paused again, stared intently at Gray.
Gray stepped forward, got into McGavin’s personal space. “You can’t prove anything. My words against yours. Cop against crook.”
“Really, Inspector?” The derision was clear in McGavin’s tone. He pushed Gray, made him take a step back again. McGavin spoke quietly. “You’re mine now. Do you understand?”
Gray didn’t answer.
After a moment McGavin straightened, patted Gray on the shoulder. “I’ll give you some time to get used to the idea. I’ll be in touch at some point.”
Thirty Nine
Gray left his car and walked to Draper’s. It was only a few minutes’ stroll. He rapped on the glass, McGavin’s final words still on his mind.
Draper opened up. Gray expected the dog to be at his ankles, wagging his tail, but he wasn’t.
“Where’s Mack?” Gray asked as he stepped inside. “Are you keeping him out of the way?”
Draper’s expression drooped. “My husband finally put his foot down. We couldn’t keep him, so he’s gone.”
“Where?”
“The rescue centre over in Flete. I drove him yesterday. Broke my heart, but we had to.” Draper closed the door. “The woman that runs the place, I can’t remember her name, says they’ll find a home for him. It might take some time, though.”
“Why?”
“Terriers aren’t popular because they’re a handful. If Mack
was a labradoodle or some other combination of breeds, he’d be out of there in seconds, but for a variety like Mack it might run to months.”
“Months?”
“Easily, maybe even more.”
“Oh.”
“At least it’s not one of those places that put animals down if no one has taken them after a certain amount of time.”
Gray had read about the kennels where there were too many dogs to be housed so the excess had to be selectively euthanised. He’d never really considered the inhumanity of the situation until now.
“Do you mind if I don’t stay?”
Draper blinked, caught off guard. “Sure.”
“I’ve got someone to see about a dog.”
Draper grinned; the confusion gone. “Under the circumstances, no problem at all.”
***
“That’s him.” Gray stood beside a pen. Mack’s front paws were up on the barrier, his tail wagging, tongue out.
“Well, there are two options,” said Amy, the manager of the animal shelter. The place was located down a dirt track, right on the edge of Margate, in the flat, empty land between Manston airport and the Westwood Cross shopping centre. “Fostering or adoption. With fostering you look after the dog at home, but he remains the property of the shelter. With adoption you take him on as your own.”
“I think fostering is out.”
“Have you owned a dog before?”
“A few years ago now.” Like about thirty-five, when Gray was a kid and the responsibility was strictly someone else’s.
“That’s good.”
“Can I take him now?”
“Usually we carry out a home visit, to check you and the location are suitable.”
“Oh, okay.”
“But as you’re a police officer and we usually have difficult rehoming terriers I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.”
“That’s great, thanks.”
“All I need are some personal details and a donation towards his upkeep.”
“Sure.” Gray didn’t point out Mack had been with them less than a day. The shelter was a charity, after all.
“If you’ll follow me, we’ll get started.”
Gray left Mack and sorted out all the paperwork with Amy. Just over a quarter of an hour later he was back, lead in Amy’s hand. He’d bought all the essentials too, like a bowl, a basket and some food. They were in the back of the car.
She went inside, clipped the lead onto Mack’s collar, came out and handed it to Gray. “I hope you’ll be happy together.”
“Come on, boy,” said Gray. “Let’s go home.”
THE END
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A Cold Welcome
The yellowing bruises on Konstantin Boryakov’s face were momentarily invisible, lost in the lurid glow of the amusement arcade called Dreamland.
The many coloured light bulbs flashed and flickered even at this hour. It was very late, or maybe it was very early. Whatever. Inside him was darkness and, behind, waves repetitively beat at the sea wall.
A road stood between Konstantin and the amusement arcade. No traffic. There had been a single car, but it made itself scarce moments ago around a corner after depositing Konstantin on the kerb. He read once more the piece of paper in his palm; an address scrawled in crabby handwriting. Red pen. No idea where the place was. Neither had the driver.
A quick glance in both directions revealed a single person in sight. A man with an unsteady gait. He weaved. Left, right, forwards, backwards. Like he was walking into a gale.
Drunk.
Konstantin sighed. Didn’t like dealing with the inebriated. They were unpredictable. Neither was he in the mood. Jetlagged from the flight, angry at the driver for dumping him here, worn down after months of confinement. Russian prisons were hard places. His ribs hurt, unfit after being locked up for weeks on end, body battered from repeated ‘persuasion techniques’. But they’d learnt nothing. And now Konstantin was somewhere in England, sometime in 1995, 1,500 miles away from Moscow, the FSB and the Lubyanka prison. Even the borrowed clothes still itched his skin. But he’d no choice.
“Hey. Excuse me,” he said.
The drunk paused, lifted his eyes from the pavement to Konstantin’s face, struggled to focus.
“What you want, my man?”
Konstantin held out the paper, said, “Where this place?” Too tired to bother smothering his Russian accent.
The drunk’s eyes widened, head lolled from side to side, body swayed.
“Dunno.”
Konstantin stepped closer, could taste the stench of alcohol bleeding out the man’s pores into the air. Lifted the address right in front of his face. Waited while the pupils found their range, took a while.
“Oh yeah. I know.”
“Tell me.”
“Once you’ve handed over your wallet, mate.” A new voice, from behind.
The drunk shrugged, shambled past Konstantin.
He turned slowly; saw three men arranged in a semi-circle, spaced out, Konstantin at the locus. Cursed himself, lost his edge when he’d been inside. No way would these punks have sneaked up on him six months ago.
“What if say no?” Konstantin wanted to see the reaction, measure the opposition.
The one in the middle, the leader, laughed. Flashed a knife. Confident, despite being significantly shorter and slimmer than Konstantin. Arrogance in numbers. Good.
“Just give us your wallet and your bag, you’ll be fine.”
“Dave, he sounds like one a’ them Eastern Europeans, them bastards that’re nicking our jobs.”
The guy on the left. Fat, acne scarred, many times busted nose. A failed boxer in other words. The one on the right, tall and skinny with an unnatural twitch, stayed silent.
“Where you from, mate?” Dave said.
“I not your mate,” Konstantin replied.
“Yeah, that’s true, which is why you’re going to take a good leathering before we have your stuff.”
“Who first?”
Dave laughed. “Peaches, he’s yours. Should be a piece of piss for you.”
It transpired Peaches was the ex-boxer. He stepped forward, right leg leading, fists up in loose balls. Konstantin waited for him to near, skipped forward, kicked a heel out, struck Peaches on the knee, heard it rupture.
Peaches’ mouth fell open, verbally paused as if the assault hadn’t really happened, then the reaction from his nerve endings hit. Brain first, mouth next. Let out an ear-splitting scream. Hit the deck hard, writhed like a landed fish, grasping his damaged limb. Konstantin ignored him, was out of the game.
“Now that weren’t nice you Polack bastard,” Dave said, brought the knife out into full view, weaved the blade as if attempting hypnosis.
“I Russian,” said Konstantin.
“Whatever,” said Dave.
The skinny one hefted his weapon, a broken pool cue. Four feet long, jagged end where the tip had been previously sheared off. Clearly fancied himself as some sort of Jedi Knight, the way he flourished it.
Konstantin ignored the weapons, focused on Dave’s eyes. Waited for the flicker.
Saw it.
Moved before Dave, closed the gap faster than the smaller man expected and was inside his reach as the knife began its swing. Konstantin grabbed his forearm with both hands, spun Dave around, twisted behind his back and up. The knife fell to the floor, spun like a roulette wheel. But no luck for Dave tonight.
Held short of snapping the arm like a branch as Skinny finally swung the pool cue in a wide arc intended to take Konstantin’s head off. But he ducked and the lump of wood smacked into Dave’s skull, cut off the scream before it even
emerged. Dave slumped to the pavement, like a crumpled heap of rags.
For a moment Skinny stared open mouthed at his fallen leader, realised he’d screwed up and needed to make it right. Pivoted the cue back over his head in an executioner’s stance, wielding an axe. Brought it down.
The cue smacked harmlessly into Konstantin’s palm, held it for a moment as Skinny struggled. Smiled. Then punched him full in the face with a massive left fist. Skinny went out like a shattered light bulb.
Konstantin tossed the cue over the wall, picked up Dave’s knife and stuck it inside his jacket. Searched both unconscious forms. A few ten pound notes in Skinny’s jacket, but a thick wad on Dave, accompanied by a large bag of drugs. Pocketed the cash, poured the wraps down the nearest drain.
But he still had a problem.
Walked over to where Peaches was rolling from side to side, whimpering. Konstantin held up the piece of paper, now stained with blood, in front of the man’s eyes.
“Tell me where this is or bust other knee.”
Peaches told.
A Matter of Life and Death
Dave the Rave felt like the side of his face had been hit by a truck. He gingerly peeled his eyelids back, felt the beginnings of a lorry sized headache coming on. Looked slowly around. Neither Skinny, nor his trusty cue, was anywhere to be seen. Peaches lay flat out ten feet away, face down. Appeared like he’d tried to crawl away, passed out with the pain.
Stood up, took about half an hour to get to his feet. Knew immediately there was something wrong. His jacket felt light. The knife he wasn’t bothered about, could nick one of those from any supermarket. It was the money and the drugs. He’d only just got the stash, sold hardly any. Owed his dealer big time for it.
Dave checked every pocket three times, a sense of dread throttling his heart further each occasion his hands came up empty. Looked around frantically in case they’d fallen out in the heroic struggle. Got on all fours, crawled every inch of the pavement.
After a couple of minutes Dave discovered the bag in the gutter. Led him to the drain, oblivious to the stench wafting up. Could see the wraps floating on the turgid fluid below. He tugged at the metal grate, wouldn’t budge no matter how hard he tried.
