by Keith Nixon
Tomorrow he’d be six. This was the last time Tom would sleep in his own bed. Maybe the last time he’d feel loved without having to relinquish something of himself.
Gray should have known, because that’s what fathers were for, but he didn’t.
“Sleep tight,” whispered Gray.
As for Gray, he would never sleep tight again.
Eight
During the blackest hours the angst crept in, disturbing his hard-won slumber. Gray’s eyes snapped open. The voice of the dead kid, Nick, speaking to him from beyond the grave, still fresh in his mind.
Gray exhaled, staring into darkness. He couldn’t see what time it was. He hated digital clocks with their bright displays, and relied instead on his digital watch. He pressed a button next to the dial which dimly lit the screen. It said 5:00 a.m.
His sleep pattern varied from day to day. Sometimes he’d wake in the middle of the night. Other times he’d sleep right through to morning. In either case, he never felt refreshed. His mind wouldn’t allow him a proper respite.
Gray occupied a double bed at the very top of the building. It was the most indifferent of spaces, though that didn’t matter. Here he was furthest away from the families around him and the rooms where his family had slept. The greatest distance away from the greatest catastrophe in his life.
It was a bizarre thing, anxiety. In the brightness of a new day it retreated to the dark corners of his mind. As the afternoon wore on it would stick out a tentative toe, and in the wee hours it leapt forward like the tide, filling the pools of his subconscious with stagnant memories.
The early days after he lost Tom were a harrowing period. Gray found it nearly impossible to cope. His world narrowed to the moment he was in, everything else was miserable shadow.
Five years of keeping it together, and then Kate… After that, he could take no more.
Carslake had found Gray in the empty bath, surrounded by a scattering of pills. Gray was fully clothed, a bottle of vodka in his hand.
Gray hadn’t attempted to kill himself, despite appearances to the contrary. It was just that at times everything would go dark, like a veil passed over his eyes, and he just wanted to sleep. Without dreaming.
Carslake got Gray help and for a few weeks the meds prescribed by Doctor Stone actually made Gray feel worse, increasing his depression. He’d finally settled and felt calmer. For a while. But once he realised the drugs had become a crutch, he stopped taking them and gave up seeing the doctor.
As a result, Gray had no desire to see this Doctor Mallory, Stone’s successor, despite Carslake’s insistence. Mallory would just prescribe more chemicals. Gray still kept some in the drawer next to his bed. Like a smoker with a permanently unopened pack of cigarettes. In case of emergency…
He’d have to deal with it at some point.
But for now, Gray had to get up. He sat upright, causing paper to cascade off his chest and onto the floor.
“Ah, shit!”
Gray remembered now that he’d taken his coffee and retreated to bed, tucking duvets and covers around him, pillows at his back. It was a ritual. Every evening he went over Tom’s case hoping he’d missed some clue. That he’d fallen asleep part-way through was unusual. Waking up without remembering, even more so. It wasn’t a good sign.
Gray fumbled for the lamp switch and flicked it on. He carefully peeled back the bed covers so not to disturb the other documentation. Papers dotted the floor space in neat little piles. Elsewhere, there were folders, newspaper clippings, and printouts from articles he’d found on the web, all catalogued in files stacked next to each other on shelves. All precisely catalogued, dated, and ordered.
Gray knew the location of every individual record. Most were duplicates of police archives, stuff he’d copied and smuggled out under the noses of his colleagues. Stuff he shouldn’t have. Just possessing copies was gross misconduct, maybe even grounds for dismissal. But how else was he to carry on the investigation into Tom’s disappearance?
He slipped out of bed, shivered in the chilly air, then bent down to gather up the tumbled sheets. He kept a small fan heater nearby and switched it on now, the venting angled so the air blew upwards and didn’t disturb the papers. He refused to switch on the central heating. What was the point in thawing out such a large house when all he occupied was the one room?
He hastened to gather the last few sheets, not willing to wait for sunlight in case something ended up mislaid and out of order. That single piece of paper might have the key. He still believed this, despite having read every last page of every last document in the room at least a hundred times over the last decade. Most of the articles he could recite from memory, just like The Gingerbread Man. Nothing had been missed; it wasn’t there to be found. But Gray couldn’t admit that to himself.
The book was on his bedside cabinet. The Gingerbread Man. Gray grabbed hold of it and, with a shiver, clambered gratefully back under the covers. He turned off the lamp before wrapping the blankets like a cocoon around him. He listened to the hum of the heater as he fingered the book’s worn spine.
The upset and fear would sit in his stomach all night now, gnawing away like a rat on gristle. Gray lay foetus-like, arms crossed over his chest, the memory gripped between his fingers. Unblinking eyes stared into the darkness, reliving that night.
Yet again.
Nine
Holding a steaming coffee cup, Gray surveyed his garden. He pondered whether today was the day to finally get on with clearing the weeds, but hoped it would rain again so he couldn’t. Then again, beyond decimating the mini-jungle, Gray had no idea what to do with himself. Leisure time was a rare and difficult-to-manage event. He gave silent thanks when his mobile rang. It was nearby just in case Pennance decided to call.
He hadn’t, of course. The bastard had left him twisting in the wind.
“Saved by the bell,” he said. He checked the display, saw it was Hamson, and decided to answer even though it was his day off. “Morning, Von.”
“It’s Ma’am.”
“I know.”
Hamson sighed. “Any plans for the day?”
“The lawn needs napalming. Why, have you got something for me?”
“Just being polite before we get into the grit.”
“Sounds ominous.”
“More than having your number on a dead kid’s phone?”
“I’ve been over that. With you and Carslake.”
“Yes, he told me. He also told me Blake’s been complaining about you.”
The Crime Scene Manager, causing trouble again. Hamson and Blake had a well-known dislike of each other following a particularly uncomfortable Christmas party. Blake had left his wife, and, in front of the whole office, declared undying love for Hamson. She laughed in his face.
“What was Blake complaining about this time? Global warming? The state of the economy? Immigration, perhaps?”
“His displeasure at your all-too-brief appearance at Nick Buckingham’s flat.”
“Ah, we have the lad’s name.”
“You’re choosing to ignore the Crime Scene Manager’s criticism?”
“I was under orders to return to the station. What’s your second point?”
“I’ve already said.”
“All I’ve heard so far is bleating from Blake.”
“Nicholas Buckingham. Fingerprints came through on the victim.”
“Strictly, Von, he wasn’t a victim. He died by his own hand.”
“Also, he was sixteen, Sol. A child.”
Hamson’s utterance stabbed Gray through the heart. Sixteen. Same age as Tom. He looked older. Or maybe Gray just wanted him to be older, so he couldn’t be Tom.
Gray ended the call, even though Hamson was still talking. He held the phone loosely in his hand, staring into the distance.
No way he’d get to the garden today.
***
An hour later, shaved and showered, Gray was at the Margate station, his rare weekend off discarded. He found DS
Fowler in the incident room, writing up details about Nick Buckingham onto a whiteboard. At the top was the deceased’s name, then underneath was the information they’d gathered so far and several colour photographs of the cadaver in situ. It wasn’t much to go on.
“So you got the short straw,” said Gray.
“Bloody hell, you scared the crap out of me!” Fowler’s neck and cheeks turned red with anger and embarrassment. Gray ignored Fowler’s discomfort; he’d get over it, and Gray was keen to voice the question at the forefront of his mind.
“I understand the jumper has been identified?”
“We found a match in no time. He had priors.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me? I had to hear about it from Hamson.”
“I left a message on your voicemail.”
“You did?”
“That’s what normal people do when the other party doesn’t answer their phone.”
Gray took a moment to check. There was indeed a text telling him a message awaited his attention.
“Next time, try harder.”
“It’s your weekend off.”
“I don’t care whether I’m at work or not.”
“Your call.”
“I’ll live. Give me a quick run down.”
“Not much to say, really. Sixteen years old, from London originally, a load of arrests up there until a few months back when he dropped off the radar.”
“Any pulls here?”
“Nothing official.”
“So he ended his life of crime, then?”
Gray saw the beginnings of a restrained shrug.
“Couldn’t say.”
“What about benefits?” It was common for people on the dole to relocate down to the coast to sign on. The money was the same, but the air quality and the view were a drastic improvement over inner city squalor. The flat and Buckingham’s living expenses would be covered by the taxpayer, of course.
“Nothing. Unless he was operating under a different name.”
“Take his photo down to the benefits office when they reopen on Monday and see if anyone recognises him.”
“Who put you in charge?”
“Hamson, remember? Anything from the door-to-door?”
“Nothing meaningful.”
“What a surprise.”
“A couple of the flats didn’t answer, including the immediate neighbours. Otherwise nobody saw or heard anything.”
“Get a uniform back to the ones who weren’t interviewed and make sure they are this time.”
“Sure.”
“And find out who owns the flat.”
Gray left Fowler to his scribbling and headed to his desk. Once he’d flopped into the ancient chair, he dragged his keyboard over and accessed the Missing Persons logs, both regional and national. Nobody named Nicholas Buckingham had been reported missing within the last five years.
Perhaps he had parents who weren’t interested in his welfare? A more charitable assumption would be the lad was an orphan. Although if he’d been in care, why hadn’t the supporting organisation flagged up his disappearance? Perhaps they had, and it had been recorded as an absence, a lower-tier description of missing that didn’t warrant police time. Sometimes kids slipped through the net as a result.
He switched over to the Police National Computer, tapped in the deceased’s name. This time there was a hit - many, in fact. A long list of misdemeanours from shoplifting upwards. The last notation was an arrest in London six months ago, the charge: vagrancy and disorderly conduct. Nick had been lifted in Green Park, one of the most affluent areas of the city, given a caution, and referred to his social worker. The reason why wasn’t detailed. Gray wrote down the name of the arresting officer, a PC Yandell, followed by the social worker, Rosemary Dent.
Another couple of clicks and Buckingham’s mugshot popped up on the screen. The eyes were bright and strong, glaring out of a face loaded with anger. Gray felt another, stronger tug of guilt. Why hadn’t he paid more attention yesterday?
Gray sent the information on Buckingham to the printer and launched another programme, SLEUTH, which revealed significantly more detail and made for grim reading. Buckingham had barely been at the series of schools he was supposed to attend. He’d moved around a lot, a foster kid. He was a troublemaker and was difficult to manage. Presumably they were just glad to see the back of him, hence the lacking notation on MisPers. No wonder the poor sod had ended it all. He wasn’t exactly leaving much behind.
With a little effort, Gray found the numbers for both Yandell and Dent. He picked up the phone and dialled. He got lucky.
“Hello, PC Yandell speaking.”
The accent was Home Counties. Gray introduced himself. The PC didn’t warm up at the sound of a fellow copper. Just the opposite, in fact.
“What’s this about?” asked Yandell.
“An arrest you made earlier in the year. Nick Buckingham.”
“You’ll have to give me more than that,” said Yandell, sounding exasperated, like Gray was some sort of idiot.
Gray summarised Yandell’s arrest report to a few moments of silence.
“I vaguely remember him, sir. I think me and my partner arrested him. Then again, I might be wrong. I’d have to get my notebook to be certain.”
“So, unremarkable then.”
Yandell seemed distinctly disinterested. “His sort are ten-a-penny here, sir.”
“Sad.”
“It’s the world we live in. Look, I’ve got to shift it. Briefing’s in a few minutes. I need a cuppa first, know what I mean?”
“Not really,” said Gray.
But Yandell was gone.
Gray tried Dent next. The response was voicemail, a message that she was unavailable and to leave a message or call another number if it was an emergency. Which it wasn’t, so he hung up. Gray drew several circles around Dent’s name. He’d try again on Monday.
There was still Marcus Pennance. Gray stayed his hand. He wasn’t supposed to know Pennance, and the man operated across blurred lines. It meant he got things done, but Gray didn’t always like the methods. He definitely didn’t like suicide victims ending up with his number on their mobiles. Detective Inspector Pennance had some explaining to do. But for now he’d have to wait.
Fowler dropped the printed mugshot of Buckingham onto Gray’s desk. “Funny. I’ve been staring at his face for hours and he reminds me of someone.”
“Who?”
“You, Sol. He looks like you.”
Gray leapt up and grabbed Fowler by the throat, then threw him onto the floor. Fowler hit the ground hard. Gray raised his fist to punch Fowler but he held back.
“Go on then,” said Fowler. “Hit me!”
“You’re not worth it.” Gray stepped back, grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and left the office.
Ten
Up in the gods, the motor kicked into life and cables shifted as the lift made its slow descent to the ground floor. Gray jangled the flat keys in his pocket while he waited. He took a long look at the mugshot of Buckingham.
Is there a resemblance?
Distracted, Gray answered his ringing mobile. “Hello?”
“Good morning, Solomon. It’s David Hill. Do you have a minute?”
Gray closed his eyes. The last thing he needed was Reverend Hill on his back. “I’m always here for the devil’s work.”
There was a pause as Hill digested the sarcasm. It didn’t seem to put him off. “I need your help.”
“So you said. With what?”
“I’ve been investigating things myself.”
“Things?”
“Yes. It’s best I show you. Can you come over here?”
The lift shuddered to a stop in front of him. Gray stepped inside and the doors closed. He pressed number five. The panel was worn and scratched where thousands of fingers had prodded at it over the years. The interior still smelled faintly of urine. He figured it was probably a spray the cleaners used.
“I don’t kno
w, David. I’m busy.”
“It’s very important.” Gray could hear the desperation in his tone. “I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”
The lift began to ascend.
“Maybe. I’m not promising anything.”
But David Hill was gone. The signal had dropped out.
The lift jerked to a halt at the third floor. No one was there. On again to five. The doors stuck halfway open and Gray had to turn sideways to escape. The entrances to the flats were firmly barred and stretched off to the left and right.
For a moment Gray wondered if he’d recognise the location. Yesterday it had been obvious, the entrance gaping like a missing tooth. Gray hadn’t taken a note of the number, never expecting to return, but the blue-and-white police tape was a giveaway. As was the replacement door. It looked wrong. Renewal among the refuse. Gray’s phone rang again, but he ignored it.
He jerked the tape down, slid the key into the lock and twisted. It moved easily. New, well-oiled, not even slightly worn. After pausing a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim corridor, Gray gave the residence another inspection.
The bathroom hadn’t been part of his assessment the first time around. He noted a dark ring mark around the scratched bath, mould in the corners of the shower, a split plastic curtain. The toilet seat was down. He didn’t fancy peering into its depths but did so anyway, relieved there were no nasty surprises.
The bedrooms were carbon copies of each other, scruffy and cheap, identically furnished and already familiar to Gray. The kitchen was plain, dirty dishes piled in the sink, cupboards almost bare, as was the fridge, which hummed away in the corner. The light didn’t come on when he opened the door. A sour odour wafted out. A half pint of milk at the back, probably cottage cheese by now.
Finally, Gray entered the living room at the end of the corridor. A layer of fingerprint dust covered everything. Whoever lived here next would struggle to get rid of the bloody stuff. The few sticks of furniture were out of position on the worn carpet, if the indentations were anything to go by. Shifted by the investigators.
