The Solomon Gray Series Box Set

by Keith Nixon

  Bugger the glass.

  He took the bottle into the dark living room and sank into a soft armchair. Like the television that stood in the corner, the seat was hardly used and still smelled new even though it wasn’t. He drained the first beer quickly. A moment later he returned with the bag and the opener, purely for efficiency’s sake.

  Halfway through his third there was a tentative knock at the front door. Gray ignored it and the successive heavier thumping.

  The letter box fluttered. “I know you’re in there.”

  “Go away, Yvonne! And tell Carslake to bugger off while you’re at it.”

  “The DCI doesn’t know I’m here.”

  “Good for you. The answer’s the same.”

  The flap snapped shut. Gray smirked with success. As he was lifting the bottle to toast Hamson’s departure the living room light flicked on. He grimaced in the harsh white beam. Standing in the doorway was the DI herself.

  “Turn that bloody thing off!”

  Hamson complied.

  “I can’t see,” she said.

  His fingers fumbled until they closed on a lamp switch. The resulting illumination was soft.

  “Thanks,” said Hamson.

  “How did you get in?”

  “You left these in the lock.” Hamson held up a bunch of keys.

  “I didn’t even know I’d mislaid them.”

  “Good job it was me who found them.” Gray was too drunk to care. She dropped the keys onto a side table.

  “Take a seat. And have a beer.” Gray pointed at the bag which was obscured by the armchair.

  “No thanks, I’m at least a week away from facing another drop of alcohol.”

  “It wasn’t an invitation.” With a practiced flourish that belied his hammered state, Gray popped the cap and passed one to Hamson.

  “Got a glass?”

  “Nope, all smashed.”

  Accepting the bullshit at face value Hamson said, “Looks like it’s a bottle, then. What happened to your knuckles?”

  Gray twisted his hand, remembered the blood flowing from Scully’s gums. “I fell over.”

  “Right.” Hamson wiped the neck of her bottle, took a drink, and grimaced.

  “You should see your face.”

  “You should see yours. You look like a drunk.”

  “I am a drunk. Tonight at least. Why are you here? Last I knew you were stabbing me in the back.”

  “That’s harsh, Sol.”

  “It’s a fact.”

  “I’m checking on you, obviously. Although I wonder why now. I didn’t enjoy suspending you.”

  “How sweet.” Gray couldn’t help but load his comment with sarcasm. “And totally unnecessary. Now you’ve seen I’m a mess you can leave me to it. Come tomorrow morning, I’ll be back to my old self. In fact, I’m going to take my beer to bed.”

  Gray tried to stand, failed, and fell back down, missing the chair entirely and landing heavily on his backside. “Perhaps I’ll sleep here tonight.”

  “I’ll give you a hand.”

  “I’m not an invalid.”

  “You’re pissed.”

  “That’s an irrefutable charge.”

  Taking one of Gray’s hands she pulled him upright. Something fell out of Gray’s pocket. Hamson bent to pick it up.

  “Why do you have a photo of Buckingham?”

  “Because he’s the same age as Tom. It’s a reminder.”

  “Come on, let’s get you upstairs.”

  He leaned on Hamson, who wasn’t much shorter than a slumped Gray, and a damn sight stronger than she looked. The stairs were a mountain and they took each step slowly, Gray adopting the banister as additional support. On the first floor he said, “Just leave me in one of the bedrooms.”

  The DI headed to the nearest door and flicked the switch. The room was bereft of furniture.

  “Here’ll be fine,” said Gray.

  “You’ll freeze.”

  “I’ll sleep in my clothes.”

  “Not a chance.” She turned the light off.

  The next door was locked. Hamson rattled the handle. It wouldn’t budge. She frowned. Hamson wasn’t to know it used to be the master bedroom. No one had entered since Kate’s body had been carted out.

  “We’re going further up,” said Hamson.

  On the top flight was a single door. The roof sloped left and right of the landing. “No lights,” he said and went inside.

  He sagged onto the bed and heard Hamson beside him, felt covers slide up over his body. The fingers of sleep began to creep over him.

  “I think I just stepped on something,” she said.

  “That’s private, leave it.”

  She ignored Gray’s demand and lit the cramped confines via the bedside lamp.

  “What’s all this stuff, Sol?” She pointed to one of the piles of paper that made the small space seemed cramped.

  “Private, I told you.”

  Hamson picked up a folder. Through blurry eyes Gray read the sticker on the outside: “Nick Buckingham.” She glanced inside, then looked at Gray, her mouth hanging open. “These are official police documents.”

  She began lifting files and folders, flicking through them. “They’re all related to Tom.”

  “Of course. Did you think I’d ever stop looking for him?”

  “I know, but this?” Hamson indicated the mounds of paperwork with a sweeping arm. “There’s years of information here.”

  “He’s been gone years, Von.”

  Hamson stood in the centre of what little unoccupied floor space there was. “I don’t know what to do about this, Sol, I really don’t. Having all these files illegally is hardly going to help your case.”

  Gray wasn’t bothered that she’d found out. It felt like a relief, something he’d suppressed for such a long time, now released. Perhaps this would help his fragile mental state. Or maybe this was all the beer talking. He’d know for sure in the morning.

  “Do what you must, Ma’am.” Rolling over, Gray flicked the lamp off and pulled the duvet up to his chin.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow,” she said.

  Heels clattered down the stairs. Even they sounded fed up with Gray.

  Forty One

  Five Years Ago

  Gray had a bottle in his hand. He wasn’t sure what it was. Vodka maybe? He wasn’t sure what time it was either. He’d left Kate’s wake hours ago, slipped out when nobody was looking, turned his phone off, caught a bus back to Broadstairs, and carried on drinking.

  They threw Gray out of the pub when he started crying again. More accurately, when he couldn’t stop crying. Great gouts of loss welling up inside him that needed to be released.

  He had no recollection of making it home, unlocking the door, picking up the booze. His first memory was of standing in the room. He stared at their bed. Where Kate had passed on. By her own hand. Gray flopped onto the floor and cried till he was dry.

  Then he was next door in the bathroom. His reflection stared back at him in the mirror. So low he couldn’t possibly fall any further. Ragged, unkempt, lifeless eyes.

  Behind the mirror was a medicine cabinet. Full of over-the-counter pills and drugs. They made a twisted sense to Gray. He grabbed a handful of bottles. He needed to lie down. The nearest space was the bath. He clambered into it fully clothed. The pill bottles were arranged along the wall, the vodka bottle stayed in his grasp, which he drank from regularly.

  The pills were a way to escape all the pain. He could do it. He could swallow them down and that would be the end.

  Instead, Gray had another drink.

  ***

  He was shaking violently, agitated by some unseen hand. Gray opened his eyes, saw Carslake and David Hill leaning over him, Alice in the background, expressions of fear on all their faces.

  “Thank God!” said David.

  “We thought you’d ended it,” said Carslake. He was holding the half-empty vodka bottle. “Did you take anything?”

  Gray realised he
must have fallen asleep. He couldn’t remember whether he’d taken any pills or not. They were spread all around him in the bath, various shapes and colours. Gray said he didn’t know.

  “I’ll call an ambulance,” said Alice.

  Gray’s protests fell on deaf ears. The paramedics arrived. Gray was subjected to several rapid examinations. A fast drive to the hospital and Gray had his stomach pumped before unconsciousness took hold again. The last thing he remembered was Carslake promising that Gray would get help.

  But Gray didn’t want any.

  Forty Two

  The smell of coffee filled the kitchen. Vibrant and earthy, it reminded Gray of somewhere else, another time, when children chased each other round the room before breakfast, and Kate chided them that their pancakes were getting cold. But that time was long gone. Because he was here now. On the brink of unemployment. Alone. Adrift. Abandoned.

  They were bound to be here soon. Until then, Gray drank coffee, smoked, and regarded his garden, which was as tangled and chaotic as his life.

  The doorbell chimed. It was time and it was Hamson. She wasn’t alone. Two uniforms flanked her, looking stern.

  “Get dressed, Sol. I need you to answer some questions down at the station.”

  Gray turned away and left the door open for Hamson while he went upstairs to throw some clothes on and take a pill. Maybe his last for a while.

  ***

  “Tell me about yesterday,” said Hamson. They sat in interview room three again, Gray where Philips had sat, Hamson opposite. In a surprising move, Pennance was riding shotgun. Engaging an outsider. Where was Carslake?

  It had been well over an hour since they’d brought him in, and it was formal. Every noise was being recorded. Just like the interrogation after Tom's disappearance.

  “Which bit? It was a long day.”

  “Between me suspending you and going to your house.”

  Pennance pitched a glance at Hamson, which she ignored.

  “I went out for a drink,” said Gray.

  “More than one?”

  “It’s not become illegal in the last twenty-four hours, has it?”

  Ignoring the sarcasm Hamson asked, “Where?”

  Gray reeled off the five pubs he’d patronised. The Tartar Frigate was the concluding stop.

  “Tell me about your knuckles.”

  “I scuffed them.”

  “On what?”

  “Someone who deserved it.”

  “Witnesses say the ‘who’ was Ed Scully.”

  “I won’t deny it. I warned him.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “I went home. You know I did.”

  “Do I?”

  “You saw me.”

  “There’s a half-hour gap between you knocking out Scully and me finding your keys in your door. What happened in between?”

  “Stared at the sea for a bit. Walked home. Went to the off-licence.”

  “Which one?”

  “The Bottleneck.”

  “We’ll check the CCTV.”

  “What’s all this about?”

  Her response was the heavy descent of paperwork onto the table. “Talk to me about that.”

  Gray didn’t immediately recognise the inch-thick stack of papers in front of him. Then the sun pushed through the clouds in his brain. “You’ve been back to my house.”

  “A judge granted a warrant this morning. It took three men half an hour to bag everything up.”

  From a buff folder Hamson produced another piece of evidence. It was the photo of Buckingham he’d been keeping.

  “And this one?”

  “A reminder of the boy. No one else seems to care about him.”

  “That’s not strictly correct, Sol,” said Pennance.

  “He’s just evidence to you,” said Gray. “Nothing more. Why am I here, Von?”

  “It’s Detective Inspector Hamson. And you had sex with Tanya Small immediately before she was murdered, then kept it to yourself. That’s sufficient in itself.”

  He couldn’t deny it.

  “How did you get the case notes?”

  Gray unburdened himself with the energy of someone who’d been holding up a weight for far too long. “I made copies. At night, when no one was around. Over the months and years. Anything related to Tom, no matter how slight. I never stopped trying to find him.”

  “Touching,” said Pennance. He’d been unusually quiet so far.

  “What are you even doing here?” Gray stabbed a finger at him.

  “DI Pennance asked to be involved. I thought it a good suggestion.”

  “Have you taken leave of your senses, Von?”

  “I’m not the one sitting on that side of the table.”

  Gray didn’t have an answer. He crossed his arms, shifted his chair slightly so he wasn’t directly facing Pennance.

  Hamson brought the conversation back on track. “It’s against regulations to have official police documentation in your possession.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  She said nothing at first, rattled her fingers on the table. Hamson flipped open the folder, turned it so it faced Gray. Inside was the photo of Buckingham and his unseen sexual partner, which Gray had received anonymously by email.

  “It wasn’t very well hidden,” said Hamson.

  “I wasn’t planning on having my house burgled.”

  “We followed due process. This is evidence.”

  “Why arrest me now? Search my house?”

  “It’s Ed Scully,” said Hamson eventually.

  “Is he pressing charges?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Gray shifted forward in his seat. “What? How?”

  The documents went, Hamson replacing them with a photo of the man himself. Scully was seated in what looked to be a living room, open-mouthed in apparent shock, a huge hole in his chest. Gray had seen enough corpses to recognise the cause of death. His head spun.

  “Someone shot him,” confirmed Hamson. “Know anything about it?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Would it be fair to say you hated Scully?”

  “I loathed the man and the feeling was mutual.”

  “Do you care that he’s dead?”

  “The world’s a better place without him. But it wasn’t me who shot him. I wouldn’t go to prison for that man.”

  Hamson regarded Gray for a long moment. “Three murders in a town where homicide is a rarity. We’ve been looking for something that connects these deaths, besides the weapon. Now I think I know what that something is.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “You. You knew them all,” said Hamson. “In fact, it would appear that you knew Tanya Small...intimately. In her case, you were the last person to see her alive and you’ve already admitted to hating Scully.”

  “Is this some sort of sick joke? You know I didn’t kill them.”

  “This isn’t going anywhere,” said Pennance.

  “I agree,” said Hamson. She seemed grimly determined. “Solomon Gray, I’m arresting you for the murders of Tanya Small and Edward Scully…”

  Gray didn’t hear the rest of his rights being read, nor did he resist when he was led away to be processed.

  His fingers were swabbed for gunpowder residue. He was put into a cell where he would spend the night. The clang of the door shutting barely troubled his ear drums. The hard surface of the bench didn’t register with his nerve endings as he sat down.

  Gray held his hands out before him, wondered what they’d done. Was it true? Had he killed Scully?

  Was he, Solomon Gray, a murderer?

  Forty Three

  Over the following forty-eight hours Gray was moved from lockup to interview room a further five times.

  The first occasion followed soon after his processing and was necessarily fleeting. He was offered representation. Gray refused.

  The second was the following day. He’d barely slept, surrounded by familiar yet alien sounds and a r
outine that wasn’t his. Hamson and Pennance were seated when Gray was brought in. Hamson gave Gray a hard look as he sat down. He was too tired to respond.

  “How long had you and Mrs Small been in a relationship?” said Hamson.

  “It was hardly a relationship. I spoke to her most days at the café, but the conversation was confined to food and drink orders. We only got to know each other properly over recent weeks.”

  “How did you feel when you saw Mrs Small dead on the beach?”

  “Shocked, of course.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything at the time about having slept with Mrs Small or afterwards? You had plenty of opportunity to do so.”

  “I don’t know. It became more difficult to tell you the longer it went on.”

  “Because it made you look guilty?”

  “I didn’t kill her.”

  “Do you own a gun?”

  “No.”

  “You’d know where to get one from. Frank McGavin, for example.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I’m wondering if that’s why you delayed making mention about Mrs Small and you? To give you time to wash away the gun residue, to cover your tracks?”

  “No.”

  “And she was found in an area where CCTV was non-existent. I think you took her there and killed her.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  Gray leaned over the table. “I’m as keen as you are to find out what happened to Tanya. I liked her. A lot. I didn’t kill her.” Point made, Gray sat upright again.

  “And what about these?”

  Hamson placed a pill bottle on the table. Gray itched to snatch the container, to place a tablet on the tip of his tongue. He kept his hands pressed between his legs, out of sight. He hoped the twitching wasn’t visible.

  “Your records show Occupational Health referred you for an examination recently,” she said. “Care to explain, Sol?”

  “Talk to my doctor.”

  “Mallory? I have. He cited patient confidentiality when I called him. We’d need your consent for him to release the information.”

  “Which I’m not giving you.”

  “Which is okay, because the Internet’s a wonderful thing,” she said, holding the bottle so the label faced Gray. “I searched for the brand name on the label. These are for depression.”