The Solomon Gray Series Box Set

by Keith Nixon

  Hamson tapped the photo on the board, and it flicked up onto the TV screen so everybody could see. Heads turned towards it. Hamson continued, “It is critical we find him. he may be our key. Get his description out to uniform; I want everybody looking for him. And send pictures of the unknowns over to Interpol and French police. Let’s see if we can get a match on them.”

  “Already done,” said Fowler.

  “Good, thanks, Mike. Now, Regan Armitage.” Hamson pointed to his section on the board. “What was he doing in the last few hours of his life? Where had he been? Was he with anybody? We believe he was at Seagram’s later in the evening. Again, we need to check CCTV. Cause of death has to be established for certain. Sol, you get the post mortem.

  “Now, I don’t need to tell any of you that this is a high-profile case. The son of a well-known local businessman, dead under mysterious circumstances. The media is already onto it, so are the powers that be. So, bring me everything and anything you find. Okay?” Hamson got nods from around the room. “Right, everyone, back to work.”

  Hamson made her way over to Underwood who, if anything, appeared more anxious. En-route, Hamson was stopped by a DC in his second year at CID, still keen and young. They engaged in an animated discussion frustrating Underwood even more. Hamson stretched out a hand, touched the DC on the arm before she carried on. The DC went bright red, glanced around the office and turned a further, deeper shade of embarrassment when he clocked Gray and Fowler watching him.

  “Someone needs to have a chat,” said Fowler. “Warn him off.”

  Gray knew what that meant. The DC would be subjected to Fowler’s cigarette-ash breath in his face as he loomed over the love-struck younger man and gave him the benefit of his wizened knowledge. It wasn’t something Gray wanted to experience.

  “I’ll talk to him,” said Gray.

  “Why?”

  “He’s more likely to listen to me.”

  Fowler snorted, but seemed to accept the offer. “By the way, I was thinking. We should go out for a drink, just you and me. Like the old days.”

  Fowler’s offer caught Gray by surprise.

  Gray wondered if this was Hamson’s doing. Fowler was peering at him expectantly. “Sure, just let me know when.” Gray wondered if they’d ever actually get around to it. Words and deeds …

  “There’s a pub quiz coming up, how about that?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Sol.” It was Hamson, beckoning him over. She was with Underwood. Gray joined them. Hamson looked Gray up and down. “Have you got a tie?”

  Gray groaned. That meant only one thing, a journalist briefing.

  “Why me?” asked Gray.

  “Because you’re photogenic,” said Hamson.

  “Bullshit.”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  Gray rubbed his stomach, making exaggerated circular movements. “I feel ill again.”

  “Really.” Hamson sounded totally unconvinced. “This is important, Sol, and you’re my number two. We need to find the missing man. Bethany says the media is keen, so let’s use them, okay?”

  “Okay,” said Gray, grudgingly.

  “Thirty minutes enough?”

  Gray nodded. “I’ll find my best bib and tucker.”

  Before doing so, Gray headed off to find Carslake. He wanted to know more about the Dover witness who’d passed along the information on Tom, and Carslake hadn’t yet given him the details. He took the stairs two at a time. In recent weeks he’d altered a number of elements about his life, cutting back on the rubbish that went into his body and burning off calories through exercise. The latter wasn’t so difficult; he’d always preferred to walk instead of drive anyway. Reducing the alcohol and nicotine had been the tougher challenges to face up to. It had worked, though. The weight had been falling off.

  “Afternoon, Sylvia,” said Gray to Carslake’s hoary administrator who he always made a point of being irritatingly sugar-sweet to. Sylvia barely acknowledged Gray, who was not her favourite person by any stretch of the imagination. Her false fingernails rattled at the keyboard. Each week she had her talons done. Typically in an unusual colour and decorated with some bling. This week was green with a silver arc across them. “Nice nails.”

  “The DCI’s not in,” said Sylvia. She picked up some headphones from her desk, put the buds into her ears, and pressed the screen on her phone. Gray heard tinny music. He sarcastically waved at her and left.

  Gray had some smartening up to do.

  Twelve

  DCI Jeff Carslake watched the other car pull up to his bumper in the rearview mirror. It parked so close that when Jake stepped out and walked over, Carslake could only see the lower half of his body. A rear door of the car Carslake had borrowed specifically for this meeting opened and in slid Jake. He quickly shut out the weather.

  “All a bit melodramatic, isn’t it?” asked Jake. A gust hit the car, rocked it from side to side. The sky was black; rain on the way.

  “Best no one is aware of this,” replied Carslake. “I learned from experience long ago to take the better-safe-than-sorry approach right from the outset.”

  “Reculver, though. This place is the arse-end of beyond.”

  Windswept was an understatement when describing the tiny seaside hamlet half an hour’s drive up the coast from the Ramsgate–Margate axis. Here, the buildings were set low to deal with whatever weather was thrown at them. Once, it had been a strategic location. The Roman fort, built two thousand years ago, on top of Iron Age defences, to guard the water channel before them, was just a grass-covered hump now. The only significant constructions were the pub and the twin towers of a ruined church slowly being consumed as the sea eroded the chalk cliff it stood above. Visitors were frequent here in the summer, when they could ride or walk the coastal path for uninterrupted mile upon mile. During an inclement spring they were, at best, rare.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” said Carslake.

  “Do you have any dead children?”

  “No.”

  “Then you wouldn’t have a clue what I’m going through and your apology is just words.”

  “I can empathise.”

  “I want your assistance, not your sympathy. How many years have I been paying you?”

  “Don’t.” Carslake hated Jake shoving his corruption back into his face. He could just about live with himself otherwise, but Jake made it tough.

  “What? You’re bent.” Jake leant forward, between the seats. “We’re not friends together here. I give you money, you look out for me. If you’re pissed off with me, I don’t care. Get it?”

  “Yes.”

  Jake sat back. “I had to learn about Regan from Solomon Gray, of all people.”

  “I couldn’t warn you. The death knock had to be news.”

  Jake ground his teeth. “My dead son, news. It’s all over social media. Even bloody William Noble is tweeting about Regan. I bet he’s loving this.”

  “It’s the way the world works now.”

  “Tell me the rest.”

  “Are you sure you want to hear?”

  “Just get on with it.”

  Carslake adjusted his posture. He pulled his jacket tighter about him. It was cold. “Not much to say until after the post mortem tomorrow.”

  “I want the report as soon as it’s available.”

  “You’ll get it.”

  Carslake explained what he knew about the case, to date. When he’d finished, Jake sat for a few moments, thinking.

  “Something smells,” said Jake. “Regan out at sea; it doesn’t make sense. There was no need for him to be taking on a sideline. My business is healthy, and he had plenty of folding money to play with.”

  Carslake shrugged.

  “I want you to start digging,” said Jake.

  “I already am. It’s my job.”

  “No, I mean more than just getting reports to me. Investigating.”

  “You’re making me sound like a proper policeman now.” Carslake couldn
’t help but put the sarcasm into his tone. Jake didn’t seem to notice.

  “You’ve got resources; make sure they’re directed where I need them. Call me with everything, no matter how small.” Jake popped open the passenger door. Carslake watched as the initial scene reversed itself – Jake returning to his car and driving away.

  When Jake had gone, Carslake got out of his car. He needed to clear his head. He crossed the car park, buffeted by the wind, heading for the derelict church. Inside, the breeze lessened, whistling through columns of brick and the windows where glass had once been. It sounded to Carslake as if someone familiar were speaking to him. Carslake stood still and listened.

  “Why?” They said. “Why?!”

  Carslake’s heart hammered against his rib cage, his breathing quickened. It felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the space he stood in. “Tom? Is that you?” His voice shook.

  “Why?!”

  Maybe not Gray’s boy, maybe it was the others. The ones he’d never met but had helped sully him forever. Something brushed across Carslake’s face. It felt like somebody breathing on him. He backed up against the wall, twisting his head from side to side, trying to see into the shadows. He almost pissed himself there and then. The wind increased, plucking at his clothes. Carslake’s scalp itched, as if someone were running their fingers through his hair.

  Carslake fronted up, as he always did. Shouted at them, though there was no strength in his words. But the wailing grew until he could stand it no more. He turned and ran.

  Thirteen

  “Your tie isn’t straight,” Underwood said to Gray.

  He shrugged. “I doubt they’ll be that bothered. I’m not the star turn.”

  They stood in the front reception area of the station. A knot of reporters was outside, talking to each other or on phones. Earlier, from an upstairs window, he’d watched vans and cars arrive, disgorging the journalists.

  Underwood checked her watch. “Time to go.”

  “Remember, you’re here for moral support,” whispered Hamson. She squeezed his arm and smiled. Gray nodded. He held the door open for her, as Underwood hadn’t bothered, and they walked out.

  There was the immediate click of photos being taken and shouted questions from the assembled men and women of the press.

  Underwood held up her hands, then pushed them down as if she were squeezing the noise into a box too small to contain it. Gray noticed Noble at the back of the pack.

  “Quiet down please, ladies and gentlemen,” said Underwood. “DI Hamson will read out a brief statement. There will be no time for questions.” Underwood waved Hamson on. Reporters held phones out to record her words, cameras clicked again.

  “Earlier today, the body of a twenty-six-year-old local man, Regan Armitage, along with two currently unidentified males, was found on a beach between Broadstairs and Ramsgate. One of the unidentified males had been stabbed. Although the post mortem is yet to be carried out, it’s likely he died from his wounds.

  “We believe another person escaped the scene. A man was discovered hiding in a beach hut at Dumpton Gap, but he fled. This man may be able to provide vital information to aid our investigation and we are making an appeal to find him. Miss Underwood has a photo of him and will hand out copies.”

  “Is it true that you’re currently investigating the murder of Regan Armitage?” asked someone, a female by the voice.

  “The investigation is ongoing, and I cannot comment on operational specifics.”

  “Could this man you’re trying to track down be the murderer?” asked the same person.

  Underwood stepped in before Hamson could answer. “I said no questions at this time.” Underwood glared at the offending reporter who appeared totally unaffected by her gaze.

  Hamson headed back indoors.

  Noble appeared at Gray’s side. Gray got a waft of Chinese food – Noble’s offices were above a takeaway in the New Town area of Margate, a five-minute walk away.

  “She’s hardly endearing herself to my colleagues,” said Noble.

  “That’s a common trait in Miss Underwood,” said Gray.

  Noble pouted. “This could have been my exclusive if you’d have just bent the rules a little.”

  “I’d bet a day’s pay you put the story out anyway.”

  “It would be a disservice to my profession if I lied, therefore I will maintain a stoic silence.”

  “Which would make a change, Will.”

  “Anyway, all this is small beer compared to the other stuff I’m working on. When it comes out…” Noble shook his head. “Turmoil. Your lot will be really busy clearing up the mess.”

  “What mess?”

  “Scoop of the century, Sol. So I’m keeping that one to myself. You’ll know when it happens. Besides, you have dubious friends.”

  “Who?”

  “See you around.”

  Noble turned and walked away, lost in the mix of bodies and leaving Gray with more unanswered questions.

  Fourteen

  Now that night had fallen, Khoury felt he could move around the town a little easier. The loss still burned in his heart. He was making his way back to the Lighthouse Project, the place his dreadlocked benefactor had pointed out to him earlier, only a few minutes from the shop where Khoury had acquired his new belongings. The polluted illumination of Dreamland was in front of him and beyond it the high rise of Arlington House bullied the skyline. A few lights twinkled from behind curtains.

  As had become a habit, Khoury glanced over his shoulder. The pavement was empty except for the orange cast of intermittent sodium lamps. A fox paused as it crossed the road, spotting Khoury. When car headlights came around the corner, the animal burst into motion and was quickly lost to sight. As the vehicle passed by, Khoury turned his face away. The car drove on without slowing.

  The building he wanted was a white-washed house in a terraced row identical to its neighbours except for the sign above the door which stated “Lighthouse Project Outreach Centre”. Beside the words was a depiction of a lighthouse. Beneath the title was a strapline, “Shining out a light for the homeless”. A yellow glow spilled out from the front door like its own beacon.

  Steps reached up to the front door from the pavement. Khoury walked up them and entered. Within was a hall and a couple of doorways, ahead and to the right. The walls were plain; the floor varnished boards. Khoury glanced inside the nearest room. It was a reception area where a young woman, wearing faded denim dungarees, stood. Her dark hair was tied back. She had a name printed on a badge pinned to her chest which said “Rachel”. She was heavily pregnant.

  “Hello,” she said, bright and alert.

  Khoury didn’t reply. Words didn’t matter.

  Rachel smiled. “We don’t bite, and there’s no need to tell me anything unless you want to. Including your name.”

  Khoury remained mute.

  “Do you understand me?”

  He nodded.

  “We offer a bed for the night or there’s hot food or both, depending on your preference. You can take a shower too or a bath. We don’t want any trouble so no drug taking on site and no fighting. If either rule is broken, you’ll be asked to leave. Did you understand all that?”

  Khoury nodded again.

  “Good. I’m Rachel.” She tapped her badge. “Come find me if you need anything. Here’s a blanket and a towel. Go back the way you came, turn right along the corridor, and you’ll find everything out there.”

  “Okay.”

  Rachel grinned this time.

  Khoury took the bedding, turned around, and followed his feet. Out the back, he entered a larger-than-expected room with rows of benches aligned vertically. To the rear was a long table at ninety degrees to the benches, covered with a plastic sheet. On top was a large urn, a pile of paper bowls, and plastic spoons. Behind the tables were a young man and a grey-haired woman, also wearing badges. Kelvin. Natalie. The smell issuing from the urn made Khoury’s stomach lurch into life.

  K
houry went further inside. Off to one side was another area with rows of beds, half of them filled with snoring people. To the other was a small kitchen area. He made his way over to the table.

  “Vegetable soup,” said Kelvin. “Would you like some?”

  “Yes.” Khoury kept his head down, not making eye contact with Kelvin or the woman.

  Kelvin picked up a paper bowl and ladled a couple of dollops of soup in before handing it to Khoury. Natalie passed over a plastic spoon and a serviette. Khoury carried the bowl over to a table, put down the towel and sat. He poured some water from a jug into a plastic cup, took a sip. The water was tepid.

  He turned his attention to the soup. Purely out of habit, Khoury dug around with the spoon first, searching for anything which shouldn’t be there. Then he ate, his hunger overcoming his trust issues. It was decent enough, warm and filled with chunks of root vegetables. As soon as the first mouthful hit his stomach, he realised quite how hungry he was and devoured the lot, head low as possible over the food and shovelling it in at speed. When finished, he was back, holding out the bowl for Kelvin. Only partway through his third helping did Khoury’s appetite began to sate.

  Finally satiated, Khoury sat back. He considered having a shower. However, he realised he wasn’t alone at the table. That in itself wouldn’t be unusual, this was a hostel, after all, but the two other men were focused solely on him. They sat on either side a couple of feet away. Once they had Khoury’s attention they shifted along to fill the gap so Khoury was hemmed in.

  “Hungry little boy, aren’t we?” said the first man. He had a beard, bad teeth, and one milky eye. The other, also bearded, with long, straggly hair stayed silent, glaring.

  During his travel across Europe Khoury had learned to sense when trouble was near. This time his instincts had failed him. The air was thick with menace. Kelvin and Natalie were tending to the lengthening queue of homeless people. Khoury had to deal with this but not back down. He remembered Rachel’s no fighting rule. It wouldn’t do to be ejected.