The Solomon Gray Series Box Set

by Keith Nixon

“The information we have from them is useless. I’m sure knowing more will help us track him down.”

  Hamson stepped in. “Sir, this is a waste of time. I’ve already refused DS Gray’s request because the loss in time travelling to and from France versus the potential benefit is minimal. Having his focus here is the best use for him.”

  “Sounds perfectly reasonable to me. So why are we having this conversation?”

  “Because DI Hamson said I could take it up with you,” said Gray. “And here I am, taking it up with you.”

  Carslake sighed. He waved for Gray and Hamson to be seated. “Go on, Sol. Tell me why I should override a senior officer’s order.”

  “Because she’s wrong.” Hamson sucked in a breath. Gray could feel her anger, but he ignored her; there were bigger issues at stake. Tom issues. “Tom went through Calais, and I want to meet the witness.”

  “Ten years ago, Sol. The trail is cold.”

  “I have to try, Jeff. You told me I could meet the witness.” Frustration was now creeping in. Why wouldn’t either of them understand?

  “What’s going on?” asked Hamson.

  “Somebody saw Tom being taken on a ferry to France.”

  Carslake stood up and stared out the window. Gray struggled to keep quiet, to let Carslake consider.

  Eventually Carslake said, “It’s a no to France.”

  “I’ve already booked a ticket on the first ferry crossing tomorrow morning!”

  “Then you’ll have to get a refund!” Carslake sat down. “Look, I know you’re disappointed but Yvonne is correct. You’re best used here.”

  “This is bullshit, Jeff!”

  “You forget who you’re talking to, DS Gray.”

  The atmosphere was brittle. Gray realised he’d gone too far, though he wouldn’t be apologising. “What about the witness?” he said. “I have to see him.”

  “I’ve already said I’ll arrange it. Now get out of here, both of you.”

  Dismissed, Gray left the office, Hamson on his heels. She stopped him at the top of the stairs.

  “I fully appreciate how important Tom is to you. But why don’t you try working with me rather than attempting to steamroller your way through whatever obstacle’s in front?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Hamson stared at Gray for a few moments before she spun on her heel and headed back to Carslake’s office.

  Gray would be going to France, and he would be seeing the witness.

  Twenty Two

  Gray went to the detective’s office to collect his coat. He expected Hamson and Carslake would talk, then she would find Gray and attempt to justify herself all over again. He couldn’t be bothered with it.

  The Lighthouse Project was little more than half a mile away and there was no point in driving. Gray turned up his collar and got walking. There was a choice of routes – sea shore or residential. He decided on urban, so he turned right out of the station up the incline of Fort Road.

  A few hundred yards along was the faded relic of the Winter Gardens, a popular entertainment venue of decades past, cut into the soft chalk cliff. Opposite, he turned into the narrow thoroughfare of Trinity Square.

  The junction was overlooked by what had once been four-storey family houses for the middle class with superb sea views, but were now divided up into flats for people who probably never saw each other. It wouldn’t have surprised Gray if Jake owned most of them. Off the main drag were less grandiose terraced houses but they too hadn’t escaped being turned into multi-residence properties. The population density around here had dramatically increased over recent years.

  Trinity Square itself was no longer. Maybe at one time it had been a pleasant space of green. Now it was the revenue-generating, ash-coloured, concrete-and-white lines of a car park. Here, another idea occurred to Gray. It would mean some subterfuge and he wouldn’t be able to see the witness, but at least he could make it to France unhindered by Hamson and Carslake.

  He pulled out his mobile and made a call while he carried on by corner shops, a pub, and the lawyers who’d handled both his dead wife’s last will and testament and his recent property trades. All things to all people, living and deceased. By the time he reached the law courts, Gray was connected to an operator at the ferry company he’d originally booked with. He cancelled his ticket.

  As he progressed along the border of the New Town, Gray called Eurostar. He could get a ticket on the first train out. It meant an extremely early start and a much higher price than the ferry, but the journey time was only thirty minutes. He could be back much faster. As he turned into Belgrave Road, he received confirmation of the reservation. He thanked the operator and ended the call.

  The Lighthouse Project was just beyond the point where the two lanes of traffic split to pass either side of a row of houses. Gray paused. Above the entrance to the shelter was a small, hand-painted sign, black on a white background, a crude depiction of a lighthouse, probably the one at North Foreland on the edge of Margate, the last in the country to be operated by a human keeper. All were monitored via computer now, the cottages in the grounds given over to holidaymakers.

  A handful of steps led to the wood-panelled front door, which was closed, bay windows either side of the entrance, sash picture windows on the next floor which needed a lick of paint or three. Net curtains blocked the view inside. Gray trotted up the crumbling sandstone steps, avoided the rusting railing. There was clearly no money in charity.

  He rang the bell. It made no sound. Either the batteries were dead or the chime was out the back. It was a pity places like the outreach centre had to exist. A poor indictment of society. His second, louder thump was answered by a tall, young, skinny man.

  “We’re closed right now,” he said.

  Gray showed his warrant card. “I’m looking for Kelvin.”

  “Why?”

  “I understand there was an altercation here last night. I interviewed Miss Peace earlier.”

  “Oh. That’s me. You’d better come in.” He opened the door wide, allowing Gray to step into a grubby hallway with several doors off it. There was an odour of man inside which Kelvin seemed used to. Unclean man. Body odour, unwashed clothes. Stale food.

  Kelvin led Gray through the hall and into a back room; a refectory, judging by the benches and tables. There was a bedroom area off to one side. The smell was stronger here. Gray switched to breathing through his mouth. Kelvin, oblivious to the stench, headed into a small kitchen separated from the public area by a farm-style door, the ones which split in the middle, denying entry while allowing interaction.

  Kelvin held up a jar of instant coffee. Gray declined. Kelvin made himself one, using hot water from a stainless steel urn and milk from a bottle he sniffed first. Kelvin pointed Gray to a seat at the first of the tables back in the refectory.

  “I never asked what your surname is,” said Gray.

  “Askew. My mum always said it was a good name for a detective.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you get it? Ask you?”

  “Very good, Kelvin. Tell your mother it’s funny.”

  Kelvin’s face fell. “I can’t. She died last year.”

  Gray felt pressure behind his eyes, like someone was gently pushing with their thumbs. He recognised it as sadness. Sadness for a woman he’d never met. “My condolences, Kelvin.”

  “You weren’t to know.” Kelvin forced a smile. “What can I do for you?”

  “When I interviewed Natalie she said you let two men through.”

  Kelvin’s face collapsed. “I wish I never had.”

  “Natalie intimated they paid you. Is that correct?”

  “God, no! Why would she say that? I was just scared. I should have stood up to them like Rachel did. Maybe now it would be me lying in a hospital bed. I bet that’s what Natalie would prefer.”

  “You don’t like Natalie?”

  “She’s decent enough.”

  When Kelvin offered no more, Gray decided to change tack briefly,
see if he could come at this in a direction more palatable to Kelvin. “Why do people volunteer?” he asked.

  “Depends.” Kelvin shrugged. “Different reasons.”

  “What about you?”

  “At first, it was to get out of the house. It’s difficult getting a job round here. Really, I just wanted to help people who can’t always help themselves.”

  “How long has Rachel worked at the Lighthouse?”

  “Nearly a year, long enough to know she’ll stay. Most people come in for a short stint, struggle with the late nights, the sometimes-difficult subjects, and throw the towel in. Not Rachel. She’s determined.”

  “What about Natalie?”

  “Haven’t a clue, probably forever. She never speaks about herself. You know she lives in the flat above?”

  “No.”

  “Well she does. So she’s here all the time, keeping an eye on things, talking to our guests, making sure the staff are okay, ranting at the council to get more funding. She never stops, but it’s always about others. Natalie’s very caring. But if we go out for a drink she refuses the invite every time.”

  “Sounds like a saint.” Another shrug from Kelvin. “What about the man they were looking for. Do you remember him?”

  “It was the one in the newspaper; the guy you’re looking for.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Kelvin nodded. “The two men, they had a photo.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A photo they were comparing our guests with. I found it screwed up on the floor.”

  “Where is it now?”

  Kelvin pulled a piece of paper out from a pocket. “I thought you might want it.”

  Gray took it. The print was wrinkled and creased where it had been folded and screwed up. Gray was taken aback. The print was of Khoury from the CCTV Fowler had grabbed. Where had they got this from? It wasn’t an image the police had released to the press.

  “Did you recognise either of them?” asked Gray.

  Kelvin didn’t immediately answer, chewing his lip instead. Gray let him think. “It’s why I stepped back.”

  “Who was it, Kelvin?”

  “He’s called Larry.”

  “Muscles, shaven head?” asked Gray. “Larry Lost?”

  “That’s him.”

  Gray could understand why Kelvin had been intimidated. Larry Lost was known locally as “Loser”. A down-at-heel crook who worked on the door of equally down-at-heel establishments. He was too risky for nightclubs, when there was usually a heady mix of the small hours and large amounts of alcohol. After a series of insalubrious incidents, none of them would touch him. He was bad for business.

  So that just left pubs and, of those, only the arse-end places where it didn’t matter if someone with limited self-control started swinging as long as the fight was over and the trouble dispersed before the cops turned up. If they bothered at all.

  Loser was Frank McGavin’s man. McGavin was the local crime boss who ran everything illegal in Thanet, although the police had been unable to make any accusation against him stick.

  “What about the other one?”

  “I didn’t recognise him.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Black guy, dreadlocks and a beard.”

  “Would you mind coming down to the station and looking over some photos?”

  “Do I have to?”

  Twenty Three

  Back at the station, Gray showed Kelvin several photographs. The third was Larry Lost.

  “That’s him,” said Kelvin.

  “Are you sure?”

  Kelvin nodded. Gray kept showing Kelvin photos but none appeared to be Larry’s accomplice.

  “Sorry,” said Kelvin eventually.

  “That’s okay. You’ve been very helpful anyway. If you can wait here I’ll get someone to take a statement.”

  “Then can I go? Natalie asked me to keep an eye on the Lighthouse while she’s out.”

  “We’ll get through it as fast as possible.”

  “I hope so.”

  Gray found a uniform to take care of Kelvin before he went looking for Hamson to bring her up to date. In the incident room, Hamson was standing before the murder board, the team ready for a briefing.

  “Perfect timing, Sol. Mike has gathered some valuable information everyone needs to be aware of.” Hamson nodded at Fowler. He stepped forward. Gray leaned against the wall at the back of the room.

  “I’ve managed to piece together Regan Armitage’s final movements. First, I reviewed the council-maintained cameras to plot his general direction that evening, working backwards from Seagram’s. Once I’d figured out his route, uniform followed up with visits to establishments with CCTV to collect any additional footage. And we got this.”

  Fowler bent down, clicked a mouse and an overhead shot from a camera played on the large television screen. The video was a collection of clips meshed together, each time-stamped and organised consecutively, displaying Regan moving around Margate, from pub to bar to pub, the night he disappeared. The footage was grainy and indistinct at times, much sharper in others, some in monochrome, or in colour depending on the quality of the equipment.

  “Initially,” said Fowler, “there’s not a great deal to interest us. Regan was by himself for most of the evening. He says hello to some people, shares a joke, but when transiting between pubs it’s a solo affair.” Fowler jumped forward through the video to illustrate his point. “Each place he visits, Regan stands eyeing the crowd. Usually for a few minutes; never more than a quarter of an hour.”

  “He’s looking for somebody?” said Gray.

  “Maybe, but who? It’s when Regan gets to Seagram’s that it becomes more intriguing.”

  Fowler let the scene play itself out. The time stamp read 22.32. An external shot from some distance, and at least one floor up; Regan skirting the long queue and going straight in. The view switched to the interior; Regan walking past the ticket booth. Then in black and white along a dimly lit corridor towards the camera; the perspective distorted at the edges by the fisheye lens before the view switched to him moving away and towards bright, strobing lights.

  The time display jumped forward to 23.39. In reverse, Regan heading towards the camera, the nightclub lights at his back. He wasn’t alone. The lens flared repeatedly as the strobing lights from the dance floor spilled out, making it difficult to distinguish his companion. When the viewpoint shifted to the nightclub entrance hall, Regan’s partner was clearly a woman in a revealing dress and hair cut into a shoulder-length bob.

  External once more; Regan staggering as he exited. The woman steadied Regan, helped him stay upright. One of the bouncers glanced at the pair, but returned his attention to the queue.

  Fowler paused the playback. “That’s the last we can find of Regan on any camera. He just disappears. No one sees him again until he washes up on the beach, hours later, dead.”

  “Thanks, Mike,” said Hamson. “The key question is, ‘who’s the woman?’ She might be the last person to see him alive. Sol, can you go down to Seagram’s with Mike and interview the staff. We need an identification, if possible.”

  “We’ll go this evening,” said Gray.

  “Okay.”

  “Drinks on the house, hopefully,” said Fowler.

  “I’ve got some other information,” said Gray. “Turns out Khoury stayed the night at a local refuge, the Lighthouse Project on Belmont Avenue. And there were two men trying to find him during the early hours. They had this.” Gray held out the photo of Khoury. “It’s our photo, not the one we released to the press.”

  “Who the hell gave them that?”

  There was silence in the room.

  “One of the men was Larry Lost,” said Gray.

  “Loser? You’re sure?”

  “I’ve just had the witness pick out his mug shot.” Gray checked his watch. “Right now, Loser will either be in bed or working.” There was always a pub open somewhere in Thanet, if you fancied ge
tting hammered.

  “Find him.”

  Twenty Four

  Khoury had spent half the day watching the Lighthouse Project, waiting for her return. Earlier, he’d walked the area, getting to know the backstreets and alleys; potential escape routes should he need them. He noticed quite a few people hanging around with seemingly little to do, standing on street corners, leaning against lamp posts, sitting on the steps of houses watching the world go by.

  Nobody paid them any attention and vice versa. Khoury soon understood why. A number of facilities similar to the Lighthouse Project, with signs above the door, peppered the area. Despite this, he felt exposed and took to walking a little, pausing a little, following a circuitous route.

  Last night, Khoury had left the Lighthouse at a run, keen to put distance between himself and the police, all the while keeping an eye out for Larry and his friend. He saw neither them nor the law. He grabbed a couple of hours’ sleep in a shop doorway, until he was woken, stiff and freezing, by a passing bin lorry. He was still cold and getting hungry.

  He halted a hundred yards away from the Lighthouse and sat on a wall. As his backside was growing sore, the front door opened. Two men stepped outside. One he recognised as Kelvin, the other, a tall, grey-haired man he hadn’t seen before. He moved like police. They walked down the steps and turned towards the seafront. Khoury considered following them, but it was Natalie he needed to see. A few minutes later, he walked up the steps to the Lighthouse and knocked. No one answered. He went back to his route.

  As the middle of the day approached, an old yellow VW Golf trundled by the Lighthouse and parked a hundred yards or so along. Natalie was behind the wheel. She looked tired and haggard. Khoury pushed off the metal fence opposite the Lighthouse and made his way over. Natalie didn’t notice him. She climbed the steps, fished around in her bag for her keys, and selected one from a decent-sized bunch.

  While Natalie was turning the key, Khoury went up the steps. She glanced over her shoulder when his shadow fell. The door was already open a crack. Khoury pushed it wide and bundled Natalie through. She stumbled into the hall, tripping on the carpet, and fell onto her knees. The bag hit the floor and spilled its contents everywhere. Khoury kicked the door shut behind him.