by Keith Nixon
“For those of you who aren’t already aware, a local vicar by the name of David Hill was murdered sometime yesterday afternoon. Hill was last seen alive at ten o’clock yesterday evening. Gunshot wounds to the back of the head and torso fired at close range, we assume while he was praying. Neither the murder weapon nor the casings have been recovered. Two badly damaged bullets are on their way to Ballistics as we speak…”
The door opened, stopping Hamson mid-sentence. All heads turned to the interloper, Pennance, cup of coffee in hand and a surprised look on his face. He paused in the entrance, said, “Apologies for interrupting.” Slightly red in the face, he gently closed the door, sidled around the circumference until he reached Gray.
“What’s going on?” he whispered.
Gray gave him a brief summary, half an ear on Hamson who’d resumed her rundown of events. “There’s just no respect for the church anymore,” Pennance said.
“Any reason why there would be? Given the news over recent years, it’s hardly surprising.”
“You’re biased.”
Gray shrugged. “I can live with that. We’ll require the meeting room from now on, sir.”
“The meeting room?”
“I believe you’ve turned it into a temporary office.”
“Oh, no problem, I’ll move to wherever’s convenient.”
Hamson wrapped up her brief assessment and began assigning roles to the team.
“Is there anything I can help with?” asked Pennance. “I’m not making much headway with Buckingham.”
“Depends what you can offer,” said Gray.
The DI wriggled his fingers. “I’m pretty good with technology.”
A thought struck Gray. He explained to Pennance what he’d found in David Hill’s study, or more precisely, what he hadn’t.
“The arrangement looked pretty casual,” explained Gray. “I’ll get one of the DCs to check into it, phone all the repair places.”
“Let me see what I can find.”
“Thanks, but we’ll be fine, there can’t be that many.”
“You’re a dinosaur, Sol. I can achieve a lot without actual access to the reverend’s unit. Check into his online presence, see if he had any cloud-based files, social media accounts.”
“Social media?”
“Yes, like Facebook or Twitter.”
“I know what social media is. I’m just surprised the church would need access to something like that.”
“It’s the way the world communicates, Sergeant. God is no different.”
“Fair enough. There might be something else as well. It’s probably irrelevant.”
“All data is relevant at this stage, you know that.”
“David kept calling me about something. He called it ‘the devil’s work’.”
“What did he mean?”
“No idea. He wanted me to go over and help him.”
“Did you?”
“I didn’t get the chance.”
“All right. I’ll find out who his ISP is and check out what websites he was visiting.”
“In that case, you’re hired. I’ll tell Hamson.”
“Point me towards a workstation.”
“Use my desk. I’ve something else to do.” He wouldn’t bother telling Pennance or the boss what he was up to. Not yet anyway.
Twenty Seven
Pennance was on Gray’s mind the entire trip to Canterbury. Gray was stabbing at the button to make the doors open as the train slowed. The doors refused to open until the train had completely stopped. Their stubbornness did little to help Gray’s mood. He stepped out of the carriage and shoved his way through a crowd of people waiting to take his place.
A cool breeze cut through Gray’s jacket. He walked faster to warm himself. Within minutes he was at the West Gate. A brick wall once surrounded the entire city, constructed by the Romans and reinforced at the end of the fourteenth century when fears of a French invasion were at their height.
The offensive never materialised and as the need for accommodation expanded, the walls, and then the gates fell as a result of social change rather than war. The West Gate was the last of twenty-four, standing in defiance against time and progress.
Within the walls was a pedestrianised road which still followed the route laid down by the Romans, probably overlaying the original Iron Age track. Gray knew all this because he had been a bit of a history buff until the past became somewhere he no longer wished to visit.
Canterbury reminded Gray of a cross between Cambridge and York, full of chic boutiques, eateries, and smaller chain stores. It was a consumer’s heaven. He hated the place.
As a result of his dislike it had been a while since he’d last been to the city, dominated by its huge cathedral. Gray took a detour down a side road a couple of hundred yards beyond the West Gate, away from the main thoroughfare and its crowds. There he passed the grand cathedral entrance, a magnificence of carvings and statues in grey stone, swapping shoppers and casual coffee consumers for tourists.
Outside there was the usual gaggle of tourists taking photos and debating whether to stump up the hefty admission fee to the guard in his box. The cathedral was one of those sites where the public could only gain entry by paying, despite having provided the funds to build it in the first place. Another dichotomy of organised religion.
When a Chinese tourist approached asking whether he could take a poignant image of the visitors for posterity, Gray moved off, shaking his head.
Neil Wright and Partners was located at the opposite side of the central thoroughfare, so Gray cut up another side road and weaved through the flow of pedestrians once more. This next street was relatively quiet, despite the hubbub just yards away. Wright’s office was halfway along, on the second floor of the building he now faced.
Gray entered and climbed the stairs. No formal reception here. Relatively low-cost rentals. He found himself in a corridor with closed doors left and right. Each had a plaque outside identifying the business. Gray hit upon the right one and went in unannounced.
***
“Good afternoon, Sergeant,” said Wright. Neither his tone nor demeanour betrayed any surprise at Gray’s arrival. Sharp eyes absorbed the DS at a glance. Wright was suitably distinguished in a smart shirt open at the neck to reveal a rich tan which Gray suspected was cultivated on a beach somewhere hot and exclusive, rather than a sunbed or spray booth. Gray felt rather shabby in comparison. “Are you here to engage me in some work?”
“As if I would.”
“You’d be surprised, Solomon.”
“It’s DS Gray.”
“Of course.”
Wright smiled like he’d seen it all before, as if Gray was someone collecting for a charity. A few pennies to get rid of a minor irritation. Or a thick wedge of notes in a brown envelope.
Because that was Wright’s business, taking care of problems his criminal clients couldn’t. He was the sole occupant of these small offices. No employees, which presumably reduced potential trust issues. Wright didn’t advertise, didn’t take walk-in business. He didn’t need to.
Gray had no idea who the Partners in the company name were. Maybe they were an affectation, or they’d been dispensed with long ago. Maybe they’d never existed in the first place. He didn’t care.
Wright waved at the visitor’s chair, grander than his own modest affair, doubtless designed to put his clients, rather than himself, on a pedestal. So much the opposite of Carslake. Gray declined. His mobile rang. He ignored the vibration in his pocket.
“I’m just a—” Wright started.
“Businessman,” Gray interrupted. “I know. I’ve heard it all before.”
Wright smiled once more, and this time it appeared almost genuine. He leaned back in his seat, spread his arms in a welcoming pose. “So, are you going to tell me what this is about?”
“Patrick Silverman.”
Wright affected a blank stare. “That’s all I get?”
“He was one of your clients.
”
“If you say so. I have lots of clients. I can’t be expected to remember them all.”
“I’ll jog your memory. He’s not your usual type.”
“What is my ‘usual’, Sergeant?”
“Crooks.”
Wright burst out laughing, slapped the desk with an open palm. “I like it, but that’s slander, DS Gray, and I happen to know a perfectly good lawyer who could prove that point in court.”
“It’s fact.”
The solicitor shrugged. “Depends on how you define crooks. There have been plenty of examples in the press recently of people with a pristine public image who had more blood on their hands and destroyed more lives than the worst serial killers.”
Gray agreed, though wasn’t about to let Wright know it. “Patrick Silverman resided in the Shady Oaks residential home in Herne Bay.”
“You make it sound like he no longer does.”
“Correct. He passed away.”
“Passed away? So quaint.”
“Hardly, Mr Wright. I’ve seen death and its consequences too many times.”
“My heart bleeds.”
“And here I was thinking your heart was in a jar of formaldehyde somewhere.”
Wright pursed his lips. “I’m a very busy man, Sergeant. So unless you happen to have a warrant, I’d like you to leave.”
“Fine by me. I don’t want to be here any longer than necessary. One last thing, though. Silverman owns a flat in Arlington House, Margate. Except he’s been dead for four years. The bills for his care were and still are handled by your company.”
Wright shrugged. “It’s not that unusual. We probably have power of attorney. No one told us the old boy had died, so we carried on coughing up and the care home carried on taking the money, I would assume. You should be investigating them.”
“Who would have paid you?”
“As I don’t remember Silverman, I certainly wouldn’t be able to recall the associated financial relationships.”
“Hazard a guess. What’s typical?”
“It could have been anyone. A relative, for example. A sibling who inherited and wanted the old boy out of the way.”
“Does that happen often?”
“More than you’d think. At least it won’t be a problem you’ll face.” Wright grinned.
Gray remained calm. “What about Frank McGavin? Would he be paying?”
“Who?”
“Don’t pull that one. You and I know him all too well.”
“That’s a new one on me, Sergeant.” Wright was inscrutable. He’d make a great card player.
“I have a hunch someone like Frank would be involved.”
“First name terms. It sounds like you’re more acquainted with him than I am.”
“Only in a legal sense. And you haven’t answered my question.”
“I’d have to check my records.”
“So check.”
Wright relented and tapped away at his laptop. “I digitised all my data last summer.”
“Very modern.” Gray wished the police would do the same. Some information was electronic, some not. The older stuff was still on paper, gathering dust, being nibbled at by mice.
“Four years ago, you say?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, let’s see what comes up,” said Wright, as he melodramatically slapped at a key and sat back in his chair. “And the response is… nothing. I don’t have any record of a Patrick Silverman.”
Gray strode around the desk, barging past Wright.
“You only needed to ask, Solomon.”
The screen showed a search box with “Silverman, David” entered. The feedback below said “0 results.” Gray deleted the name and retyped it. He struck the enter key. The computer barely paused in its consideration before spitting out an identical result. Gray raised a questioning eyebrow at Wright who raised a disinterested shoulder in return.
“It could be that the information simply wasn’t transferred properly. We used a temp. Cheap, but she made mistakes.”
“You’ve had this before?”
“A couple of times.”
“Where are your physical records?”
“Shredded. They took up a significant amount of space and I didn’t need them once everything was on here.” Wright tapped the laptop.
“Not everything is, though.”
“Sometimes that’s life. Sorry, there’s nothing else I can do.” He didn’t sound or look apologetic.
Gray had no legal recourse, no warrant, not even permission from his senior officer. It was stalemate, and both men knew it. Gray threw his card on the lawyer’s desk. “In case you think of anything.”
“Of course.” Wright picked up the card and dropped it into the bin.
***
Back in Margate the taxi pulled up in front of the station. It was pissing down. Gray paid, didn’t tip, and went inside.
“DI Hamson has been looking for you,” said Morgan the desk sergeant who was rarely away from his post. Morgan’s mouth twitched with amusement, making his ratty moustache do the same.
“Lucky me.”
“She said to go straight through when you’re back.”
“Did she now?”
“How was your date?” said Morgan, smirking.
“What date?”
“With the woman who came in to see you the other day.”
Gray thought back. Tanya said she’d popped in only to find he’d gone out. “Good, thanks.”
“You’re a lucky man.” The desk sergeant seemed to be on the verge of an amused outburst.
Wondering what he’d missed, Gray headed through to the offices. Hamson wasn’t in the detective’s office, although Pennance was, talking to Fowler, his back to the door. Gray’s scowl caused Fowler to halt mid-flow. Pennance followed the man’s gaze, twisted his neck and met Gray’s stare. He returned his attention briefly to Fowler.
“Thanks, I appreciate the information. Let’s finish our discussion later, okay?”
As Pennance made his way to Gray’s desk, Fowler threw him an apologetic shrug.
“I was wondering where you’d got to,” said Pennance.
“I didn’t realise I was supposed to appraise you of my movements. I’m just about to visit the toilets. Is that something you’d like to be aware of, Inspector?”
“Not my sort of thing, to be honest.”
“I’m glad we’ve cleared that up. It’s late. Probably a sensible idea to get you back to the hotel.”
“DI Hamson has offered to take me.”
“Very helpful is our Yvonne, but I’ll do it. Where’s your bag, by the way?”
“I already checked in this morning. I’ll just grab my coat.”
“Don’t rush. Hamson wants to see me first.”
As soon as Pennance cleared out, Gray crossed to Fowler’s desk. “What was he after?”
“Just wanted to know what I’d found out so far regarding Buckingham.”
“Did you tell him about the lawyer?”
“You said not to mention Wright. So I didn’t.”
“Good.”
Hamson was alone in the incident room, staring at the whiteboard. “Ah, the wanderer returns. Now where the hell have you been?”
“Checking out computer repair shops,” Gray lied.
“We’ve got uniforms for that. I needed you here.”
“You were busy. I just got on with it.”
“I tried calling. Several times.”
“Did you? Battery must be flat.”
“What are you up to, Sol?”
“Me? Nothing.” Gray tried to look innocent. “Anyway, Pennance wants a lie down. He asked me to give him a lift to the hotel.”
“I was going to do that.”
“Somebody must have warned him off.”
Gray made a dash for the door, managed to get through it before Hamson had anything substantial to hand to fling at him.
“Ready?” said Pennance.
“I’d suggest
you stick that on.” Gray nodded to the raincoat over Pennance’s arm. It looked barely up to the job, probably unable to cope with the temperature in his car, never mind the weather outside. “It’s raw out.”
In the car park Pennance pulled the fabric tightly about him to keep out the bitter wind. “You were right.”
“It happens sometimes.”
The return journey along the seafront took slightly longer than Gray’s taxi journey from the station. They were briefly held up at the clock tower roundabout, where the council periodically changed the layout, regardless of the cost and confusion to the public. Past the bright lights of Dreamland, once a major tourist attraction and now a faded relic, like the town itself.
Dreamland was closed these days, the dodgems and rollercoaster silent, the merry-go-round mothballed. There was a hope to regenerate it in the near future. Plans had been drawn up and torn up more times than could be counted, although this time there was some luminary designer involved. Time would tell if celebrity stardust made the slightest difference.
Gray was lucky enough to nab a bay adjacent to the hotel entrance. It was one of those places with an identity crisis, doing cheap food, kids’ parties, and overnight stays. All things to all people. There’d be plenty of Londoners down to see the art gallery’s displays who’d regret booking in here with the local hoi polloi.
Gray locked up once Pennance had wriggled out. He felt eyes upon him and looked over to Buenos Ayres, a row of terraced houses near the hotel. A tramp stared at them. Big guy.
“Know him?” said Pennance.
“Of him, yes. Trouble. I’d advise you stay well clear.”
Pennance held out his hand for Gray to shake. “I appreciate your help today.”
“No problem.” Gray wondered what “help” Pennance was referring to. “What time do you want me to pick you up in the morning?”
“I’ll walk.”
“See you tomorrow, then.”
Pennance nodded.
Gray returned to his car. He sat there for a few minutes, trying to work out what Pennance really wanted. There was something about the man, like he had a higher purpose in life compared to the rest of the population. Gray gave up, figuring he’d find out at some point. That’s what he always did, waited for the impending to reveal itself. He’d had a lot of practice.
