The Solomon Gray Series Box Set

by Keith Nixon

  “Jake,” said Cameron. “Some people are here to see you.”

  “Will I ever get you to call me Dad?” asked Jake, keeping his eyes down.

  Cameron smiled and shook his head.

  “Hello, Jake,” said Gray.

  Now Jake lifted his head. His face split into a wide grin. He stood, dropped the newspaper into his vacated seat and crossed to Gray. “Solomon Gray, as I live and breathe.” He took Gray’s hand and squeezed. Just a little too hard. “You look like shit.”

  “Thanks.”

  Jake was a short man, no more than five-and-a-half feet. Both Gray and Hamson stood head and shoulders above him. He was broad with it too, given to muscle rather than fat. Jake clearly kept himself fit. His stomach was flat, and his arms bulged.

  “How many years has it been?”

  “I don’t want to think about it.”

  Jake let go of Gray. “And DI Hamson as well,” he said, shaking her hand now. “I knew today would be a good one as soon as I woke up.”

  “I don’t believe we’ve met before, Mr Armitage.”

  “I make it my business to know all the movers and shakers in Thanet, even if it is from afar. Sit down and take a load off. What would you like to drink?”

  “Orange juice,” said Hamson.

  Jake manoeuvred himself behind the bar which was another strip of pine, heavily lacquered, parallel to the windows. There were a couple of handles to pump beer and a limited row of optics on the wall – gin, whisky, brandy. Gray took his coat off; it was like a greenhouse in here.

  “Can you make mine water?” asked Gray.

  “Not drinking, Sol?”

  “I’ve been cutting back.”

  Jake slapped his forehead. “Of course, stupid of me. After your troubles a few months ago. It was all over the papers.”

  “I’m on duty.”

  Jake nodded. “Fair enough.” He turned to his son. “Cameron?”

  “I’ll leave you to it,” he said.

  “Nonsense, stay. Anything our good friends here have to say I’m sure you can hear.” Jake’s tone left no room for argument.

  “Sparkling water, then.”

  “I’ll join you, I think.” Jake leaned beneath the bar and came back with a bottle of orange and two large bottles of water. They went onto a tray, along with four glasses and a bucket of ice.

  “I told you, sit down!” said Jake with a grin as he carried the tray over. “You there, Sol. And this one is for you, inspector.” Jake directed them to a comfortable seat and a stool respectively, giving Gray a place to his right looking outwards towards the sky and Hamson to the left, facing the bar. Cameron took an armchair.

  “So this isn’t a social visit, then?” said Jake.

  “No,” said Gray.

  “What, then? Somebody died?” Jake grinned.

  There was a pause.

  “Yes,” said Hamson eventually.

  “Regan. We found him earlier this morning,” said Gray.

  “This is a joke, right?”

  “No, Mr Armitage. Sadly, it isn’t,” said Hamson.

  “Is it true, Sol?”

  “It’s true,” said Hamson.

  Jake twisted, stuck a finger out at Gray. “I asked him, not you.”

  Gray said, “I’m sorry to say it is.”

  “You have our condolences,” said Hamson.

  “Keep your fucking sympathy,” snarled Jake.

  “It’s not DI Hamson’s fault,” said Cameron who had tears in his eyes.

  Jake glared at Cameron momentarily, nodded and turned to Hamson. “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.”

  Cameron stood up, went to the bar, grabbed a whisky bottle and a tumbler. He brought both back to the table, poured Jake a large dram and passed it to him. “Drink this, Dad.” Cameron poured one for himself too. “I can’t believe he’s gone.” Cameron sat back down, still holding the whisky bottle.

  Jake took the glass and sank the measure in one, grimacing with the taste. Gray knew Jake well enough that he wouldn’t want to show emotion in front of a cop. “What happened?” asked Jake.

  “We’re not sure yet, the investigation has only just got under way,” said Hamson.

  “Don’t screw around. Just give it to me.”

  Hamson told Jake the basics. Jake didn’t speak for a while afterwards, his forehead creased with a frown. “I don’t get it,” he eventually said. “Regan hated the sea. Even as a kid he was scared of it.”

  “It appears he was running migrants,” said Gray.

  “Migrants?” Jake shook his head. “That makes no sense.”

  “What did Regan do for money?”

  “He worked for me, sort of. He’s listed as a director of the business though it’s a largely pointless role. He never actually came to work; it just meant I could pay him something. He wasn’t good at holding down a job. Never saw the sense in hard work for commensurate reward. He expected success to come to him, rather than the other way around.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. Regan lives here, on site. I saw him park his car, then head to his place. Then he left again, later on.”

  “What time?”

  “About six. He was done up for one of his usual Saturday nights out. Regan always hit the town on the weekend.” Jake paused for a moment. “Listen to me; I’m already talking about him in the past tense.”

  “I know this is difficult, Jake, but do you know where he would have gone?”

  “Not really, but he typically ended up at the club.”

  “Seagram’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he there yesterday?”

  “I didn’t see him, but that doesn’t mean anything. I’m always busy, particularly at the weekend.”

  “Do you have CCTV?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you mind if we send someone by to pick up the recordings?”

  “No problem.”

  “We’ll need to take a look around his caravan.”

  “Do whatever you need to.”

  “What about you, Cameron? When was your last sighting of your brother?”

  “Half-brother. Same father, different mother. Same as Dad – here, yesterday.”

  “Why doesn’t Cameron show you Regan’s home now, DI Hamson?” asked Jake, butting in.

  Hamson appeared only too pleased to leave. Cameron left the whisky behind.

  When the door was closed, Jake said, “You need to keep her in line, Sol.”

  “She’s my boss. We operate to a different set of rules than you. We always have.”

  “I remember, that was part of the problem.”

  Gray held his tongue. The pair had been friends at school, Jake the firebrand, Gray the hanger-on. As they’d grown up, Gray developed a law-abiding persona, whereas Jake stayed true to his roots. When Gray joined the police the two drifted further apart.

  “I don’t understand any of this, Sol. It makes no sense at all. Find out, will you? I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “It’s my job, Jake. I don’t want your money.”

  “Of course, I keep forgetting.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Touché.”

  “One other thing. Someone will need to identify the body.”

  “Christ.” Jake ran a hand over his face. “This isn’t what I expected my day to consist of.”

  “Sorry, Jake.”

  “Not your fault.”

  “When can you come down?”

  “Just give me half an hour, okay? I’ll require some further fortification.” Jake raised the whisky glass.

  “Get Cameron to drive you. It wouldn’t be good to be arrested for drunk driving.”

  “In the scheme of things I couldn’t give a shit, Sol.”

  “I’d better get going.”

  At the door, Jake stopped Gray. “Thanks for being here. I won’t forget.” There were tears in his eyes.

  “You never do.”

 
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Here. In case you need anything.” Gray passed over his card.

  Gray closed the door softly behind him. He wound his way between the rows of caravans until he found Cameron propped up against one, arms crossed.

  “She’s inside,” said Cameron. He looked to the Club House at the sound of breaking glass. “I think I’ll leave Jake to it for now.”

  “I’ve a couple more questions for you, Cameron.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Do you work for your father as well?”

  “Yes, although I earn my keep, at least.”

  “And you live here too?”

  “No, I don’t have one of these wonderful abodes. I manage the site for Jake. If I was here all the time it would drive me mad, and it wasn’t me Jake needed to keep an eye on. I have one of the flats on Marine Esplanade in Ramsgate. I surf and jet-ski so it’s the perfect location. When I’m not working I’m out on the water.”

  Hamson stepped out of the mobile home. “I’ve had a quick look around,” she said, taking off her blue nitrile gloves. She stuffed them in her pocket. “Can’t see anything obvious.”

  “Forensics can do some deeper digging.” Gray turned to Cameron. “Thanks for your time, Cameron, and again, our condolences.” Gray shook Cameron’s hand. He and Hamson headed back to the car.

  “We might as well go straight to the mortuary,” said Gray. “Jake said he’d be over shortly. Otherwise, by the time we reach the station we’ll be leaving again.”

  “Good idea.”

  Gray started the engine and reversed out of the spot. Cameron was still leaning against his brother’s caravan, watching them as they drove out through the high walls.

  “Did you learn anything else from Jake?” asked Hamson.

  “Not much.” Gray told her what he had said.

  “You two, though,” said Hamson after a moment’s pause.

  “What?”

  “You were like old bloody mates.”

  That was about right.

  Bloody mates.

  Seven

  Adnan Khoury walked quickly, head down, avoiding the few people he saw, sticking to the shoreline. His progress brought him into a built-up area. A road sign said Margate. Buildings meant people, which was good and bad. In the distance he could hear shouts, whistles, and chants. He passed a lifeboat station, the doors open, a boat on a trolley. A man in yellow oilskins wiping his hands onto a cloth didn’t give Khoury a second glance.

  He carried on for a few hundred yards before pausing at the edge of a harbour, an inner bay protected by a long concrete arm. Here the town opened up. Margate had a shabby appearance. Before him, was a road lined with pubs, cafés, restaurants and, beyond, an amusement park called Dreamland, which seemed to be mainly bright, flashing lights even though it was mid-morning. Then a tall block of flats which loomed like a dirty iceberg.

  Now he could see what the noise was about. A protest march making its way along the road. Lots of people, banners held high, words Khoury couldn’t read. Somebody at the front on a megaphone, chanting. The line stretched on back down the sea front. Dotted periodically were fluorescent yellow jackets and uniforms; apparently the police.

  Khoury headed along the harbour arm, away from the march. At the far end was a bench. He sat down. While Khoury waited, he thought about his brother Najjar and friend Shadid. What had happened to them after Khoury threw himself off the boat and swum for shore? Najjar had been stabbed, that much he knew.

  He could have lost it there and then. The grief he’d been bottling up for the last few hours threatened to spill over. A moan escaped his lips. Khoury glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone had heard. He was alone. Khoury allowed himself a few moments to think about Najjar. He rocked back and forth, arms across his chest, head bowed. Tears ran down his cheeks.

  The irony of it all. Najjar had been the kind-hearted brother, always with a good word for people, a helping hand. Khoury was the black sheep. He’d needed to leave Syria. Najjar only came along to protect him, Shadid too, as a family favour. Khoury was desperate to speak with his wife – to see how his little girl was handling her chemo treatments. It had been a week since they’d last spoken. He supposed they were still in hospital. At least they were safe while he was away. And soon, they could join him in England, or that had been the plan.

  For now, all he wanted to do was scream. But it wouldn’t do well to draw attention to himself. There would be people after him.

  Khoury had to acquire the basics – clothes, food, money – and soon. He needed somewhere to sleep, too. If it was to be the streets, he needed the means.

  It took about twenty minutes for the demonstrators to pass. His stomach rumbled. He was starving. Only some stale biscuits in the last twenty-four hours. Luckily Khoury was wiry, not an ounce of fat on him; he didn’t need to eat a great deal to survive.

  Once the protesters were just a trickle and the police had gone, Khoury made his way to the road which ran parallel with the sea front. A long line of cars followed in the march’s wake. Pedestrians on the pavements went about their business. None gave him even a first glance.

  Margate reminded Khoury of Calais, where there was also a brooding sense of acceptance between locals and immigrants. He’d blend in here, for sure.

  He wandered the pedestrianised shopping area, getting a feel for the immediate surroundings. He stole an apple from a fruit and vegetable shop, picking it up from a tray as he passed. When he was down to the core, his hunger awoken rather than satisfied, he selected his first target, a cheap clothing store. He entered through large, heavy doors and mooched the racks of low cost garments. He was pleased to see there weren’t any electronic tags.

  First, he picked up a jacket, something long and heavy with a hood. When he was sure no one was looking he slipped it on, alert and ready to run. No alarms were raised. Emboldened, he carried on with his spree, picking up some pants and socks. Upstairs was a food section. He put a few easily concealed items in his pockets; high-energy chocolate bars and drinks. Finally, just before leaving, he lifted a hoodie from a coat hanger and concealed it beneath the coat.

  Holding the hoodie under his jacket he was almost on the street when a hand fell on his shoulder.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Khoury turned. A man, frowning at him, dressed normally, not a guard in a uniform. Khoury couldn’t reach his knife; it was tucked away below what were now several layers of clothes. He tried to shrug the hand off, but the man gripped the coat tighter, spun Khoury ninety degrees and pulled him around the corner, away from the store.

  “You were lucky you didn’t get caught,” said the man. Khoury had the chance to properly look at him. He was young, blonde hair twisted into dreadlocks. He wore a camouflage army jacket covered in badges and Doc Marten boots.

  “You’re new here, right?”

  Khoury’s understanding of English was good. In his past life back home he’d been a language teacher in adult education.

  Khoury nodded. What was going on?

  The young man sighed. “Look, you need to keep your head down.” He dipped into Khoury’s pockets, pulled out the chocolate bars, put them back in again. “Getting done for this isn’t worth it. You’ll be on a boat and back to France for less. I haven’t got much myself, but here you go.” He held up a five-pound note. “Have you got anywhere to sleep?”

  Khoury shook his head but didn’t take the cash, dubious as to how the young man would expect him to earn it. But the young man stuffed the note into one of Khoury’s pockets.

  He said, “There’s a place called the Lighthouse Project. They’ve got beds and food. Would you like me to show you where it is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Follow me.”

  The young man led Khoury out of the alley, turned, and walked up the slope towards the centre of town. They’d only gone about a hundred yards when Khoury stopped dead. The television in the shop window had caught hi
s eye.

  Not wanting to believe what he was seeing, Khoury went up to the window, bumping into a passer-by in the process, sending her bags spilling to the ground. Khoury barely noticed.

  He pressed his palms up against the glass as the camera view panned over a building in ruins. Massive slabs of shattered concrete and twisted metal. Clearly it had once been a large construction, now reduced to rubble.

  “What’s the matter?” asked the young man, standing by Khoury’s side. Khoury ignored him.

  A legend appeared on the screen, revealing the location as a children’s hospital in the rebel-held Idlib province. The Syrian regime, supported by the Russians, had been indiscriminately attacking rebel-held facilities.

  Khoury sagged to his knees. There was only one children’s hospital in Idlib. It was where his daughter was being treated. Laila. She would be dead. His wife, too. There was no way she would have left his daughter’s side. They were dead, both of them. Khoury was alone. Tears flowed down his face. He felt a hand fall on his shoulder.

  “Bastards,” said the young man.

  Something hardened inside Khoury then. His people had suffered so much. He stood, cuffed away the tears. “Please take me to the refuge,” he said. The young man stared at Khoury for a long moment before he nodded.

  Eight

  Standing in the mortuary viewing room, Solomon Gray understood how Jake was feeling. Hollowed-out cheeks, pallid skin, and haunted eyes were just the outward, visible display of the gut-wrenching sense of loss. Gray knew because he’d felt exactly the same when he stood above the body of his ex-wife after she’d committed suicide.

  However, there was one critical difference. Jake was about to view his dead child. There could be nothing worse for a parent. At least Gray hadn’t had to suffer that.

  Yet.

  Gray believed that Tom was still out there somewhere, waiting to be found. He hadn’t received the solid, irrevocable proof that Tom was deceased, the way Jake was about to. Tom would be on the edge of tipping into adulthood now. Seventeen. Maybe unaware of his background, except perhaps for a few, nagging memories that clung to his subconscious like a fading dream.