The Solomon Gray Series Box Set

by Keith Nixon

  Brazier turned to his forensics colleague, a young woman with braided hair and freckles across her cheeks, who he didn’t bother to introduce. “Start a crime scene list, would you?”

  The list would detail who’d accessed the property and when. Brazier and Gray would be at the top.

  The double-fronted detached house was in shadow. High walls surrounded the premise like a medieval city fortification, but the metal barred gate was open, one of the sliding kind, wheels driven by electric motors. A red light high on the outside of the house indicated a burglar alarm. There was an intercom set to the right of the gate. It struck an odd note with Gray – this was a low crime, safe district. The security measures seemed a bit excessive, but, then again, the wealthy could sometimes be a bit overprotective of their assets.

  Fowler was standing a few feet away. Gray walked over to him. “Mr Lavater mentioned the house is occupied by Mrs Usher. Is she related to Duncan Usher at all?”

  “She’s his wife.”

  “Bloody hell. That changes everything.”

  “Best call Copeland in.”

  Detective Chief Inspector Terry Copeland was Gray’s boss, a brash and forthright man. The spider in the middle of CID’s web.

  “Have you called him yet?” asked Fowler.

  “No.”

  Fowler sucked in his breath through a gap in his teeth. Copeland wanted to know everything that happened on his patch, as soon as it happened. Preferably before, if such a thing were possible. Murders were a rarity in Thanet, and Copeland insisted on being at the centre of every significant case.

  “Considering Copeland has had a hard-on for Usher ever since he transferred here, I’d get on the blower immediately. Just my advice. Do what you think is best, though. After all, you’re CID, I’m just the uniform grunt.”

  “No, you’re right.” Gray stepped a few paces away from Fowler, pulled his mobile out and dialled Copeland’s number. His effort went through to voicemail.

  “Sir, it’s DC Gray. Can you call me as soon as you get this? It’s very important.” Gray disconnected. He hadn’t felt comfortable giving Copeland any further information.

  “No luck?” asked Fowler. Gray shook his head. “It’s all yours then, for now. They don’t come any bigger than Duncan Usher. Anything illegal going on in Thanet, you can bet Duncan’s got a hand in it. This could be a big case, you lucky bastard.”

  “I’m not sure I’d use the word lucky.”

  Brazier approached the two. “Are you ready, Sol?”

  “Coming.”

  “Break a leg,” said Fowler.

  Gray followed the CSM into the grounds of Valerie Usher’s house. Gray’s adrenaline was raised another notch; he tried to force his breathing down to a normal rate. He wiped damp palms on his trousers before pulling on nitrile gloves. He wished Jeff Carslake, his Sergeant, mentor, and friend, were here. Carslake would know what to do, he always did. Gray had attended major crime scenes in the past, but in uniform. Like Fowler, he’d stayed on the outside of the cordon, wishing he was inside. Well, now it was his turn. His first major case since joining CID less than a year ago.

  But an Usher. Don’t screw this up. Copeland would tear a strip off him if he made any sort of mistake. Copeland’s style was to move hard and fast through an investigation, keeping his team on the balls of their feet. Gray had to take his time, be measured, miss nothing.

  The drive was a large rectangular slab with sufficient room to park three or four cars, either side. Tree branches draped over the space, the leaves still in the stifling night air. The front door was, indeed, wide open, exposing a darkened hallway. At the entrance, Brazier stepped to the side and let Gray go ahead of him.

  Gray paused for a couple of heartbeats. He looked over his shoulder. Fowler was watching. Fowler shooed Gray forward with a flap of his hands. The other forensics officer, the woman with the braids, was walking down the drive towards Gray and Brazier. Taking a deep breath, Gray crossed the threshold, Brazier in his wake, and fumbled for the light switch. A bright chandelier-style fitting lit the hall. More lights flickered on above the stairs and spilled down from the landing, reflecting off photo frames on the wall. Gray, Brazier, and his colleague split up to search the downstairs first.

  Watching where he put his feet, Gray entered a large open-plan living–dining room. Wall-to-ceiling French windows looked out onto what he expected would be the back garden, though right now it was pitch black outside. Judging by the sofa cushions and curtains, the occupant clearly liked leopard skin.

  Directly in the centre of the room was a large, ornate fire surround. Its rugged façade deviated from the rest of the home’s modern interior decor, particularly the inset gas fire. Atop the surround were photos in silver frames. Gray studied several without picking them up. Children, twin girls, were in all of them, ageing steadily from left to right across the mantle. Growing up from tiny babies, side by side in incubators, to young girls older than Gray’s own daughter. Maybe eight or nine?

  Alongside photos of the girls were two grinning women with striking similarities; high cheekbones and green eyes, both with hair cut short – one bottle blonde, the other grey. Mother and grandmother.

  Back in the hall, Gray found Brazier in conversation with a person filling the front entrance. It was Carslake, wearing an evidence suit. Gray felt a bite of relief that the crime scene would be Carslake’s responsibility.

  Carslake broke off from his conversation with the CSM and turned to Gray. “What have you found so far?”

  “Not much. Nobody downstairs.” He took Carslake into the lounge, showed him the photos. “It appears a mother and two daughters live here. Maybe the grandmother too.” Gray paused. “She’s Duncan Usher’s wife.”

  “I know, and they’re apparently estranged. Where’s Copeland?”

  “I’ve no idea. I called him straight away, but he didn’t answer. I left a voice mail.”

  “Not much we can do if he won’t pick up.” Carslake turned and nodded to the stairs. “What about up there?”

  “That was next.”

  The pair took the carpeted steps, Carslake a step ahead of Gray. There were more photos in frames leading upwards. The same family members. On the wide landing, all but one of the pale wooden doors were firmly shut. Two, to his right, each had pieces of paper taped to them, the names, Elodie and Lotty, surrounded by drawings.

  “You check out the girls’ rooms,” said Carslake, heading in the other direction.

  Gray put a palm on the nearest door handle, Elodie’s, dreading what he might find. He pushed the door back, which moved smoothly on its hinges. The room was ordered but jumbled, the bed made up. Books were everywhere, on a free-standing shelf, in piles on the floor.

  No one inside. Gray moved to Lotty’s. To Gray’s huge relief, her room was empty too; the bed also appearing to be unslept in. Posters on the walls, a guitar leaning haphazardly on a stand beneath the window. Several dolls lay on the floor as if they’d been discarded mid-play. Maybe the children were in the other room? Where Carslake had gone.

  Gray crossed the landing to the room Carslake had entered, then paused in the doorway. The overhead light was on. Floral curtains were drawn across a window on one side, a free-standing wardrobe and a matching set of drawers on the other. Above the bed was a large, framed photo of Mrs Usher with two young girls, the setting obviously staged in a studio. Gray recognised all three from the images downstairs.

  Beneath the photo stood a substantial bed, king-size at least. On top of the mattress, a naked woman was sprawled out on her back, a pillow covering her face. The leopardskin duvet cover was rucked up in a pile on the floor. However, the bottom sheet was gone; the woman lay on what appeared to be a mattress topper. Gray assumed the sheet had been taken to remove evidence.

  Carslake was crouched beside the bed. Gray moved closer; saw a man lying on the floor in a foetal position. He’d been concealed initially by the bed. A pool of dark blood, which had leaked from an outstretched arm
, stained the cream-coloured carpet. Nearby was a long-bladed kitchen knife. His wrists were slashed. The man was young, slightly flabby, dressed in black shorts and an England football top. They seemed to be a matching set. His feet were bare. Carslake pressed two fingers into the man’s neck.

  Gray thought he saw his chest rise and fall slightly. “He’s still alive.” He could see blood leaking slowly from the man’s wrists. Gray got his hands around them and squeezed, trying to stop the flow.

  “There’s an ambulance outside,” said Carslake, “I’ll get the paramedics.” He ran out.

  Gray continued to squeeze while he waited. Within a minute, a pair of green uniformed medics were at his side.

  “We’ll take it from here,” said one. Gray rose and backed away, retreating onto the landing where he watched the medics work on the man, Carslake beside him, leaning on the bannister.

  “I couldn’t feel a pulse,” said Carslake, shaking his head.

  “He can’t have come from far,” said Gray, “he wasn’t wearing anything on his feet. Do you recognise him?”

  “Never seen him before.” Carslake shook himself. “We need to carry on. Anything in the girls’ rooms?”

  “They’re empty,” said Gray. Carslake leaned inside Lotty’s room, then Elodie’s. Gray thought of his own family, his daughter, Hope, and son, Tom and shuddered once more.

  “The beds haven’t been slept in; maybe they’re staying with friends or family?”

  “I hope to God they are.”

  “We need to contact the next of kin.”

  “I’ll get someone on it,” Carslake said. “There’s not much more we can do until the paramedics clear out. Go get some fresh air. You look like you’re going to be sick any minute. And try Copeland again.”

  Gray nodded. He was grateful for the break. He headed outside, peeled off the gloves and overshoes, pausing a moment before pulling out his mobile and hitting redial. The call to the DI dropped into voicemail once more.

  “Sir, DC Gray trying to reach you again. It’s urgent you get in touch with me.” Gray disconnected. If it had been anyone else, he wouldn’t have bothered leaving another voicemail, but he wanted Copeland to know he’d made the effort.

  Fowler and his uniformed colleagues had raised a cordon, keeping back a handful of onlookers who’d gathered to see what was going on. The street had filled considerably since he’d been inside. There were two more SOCO vans, the ambulance, and the pathologist, Dr Amos Jenkinson, a white-haired, blunt Northerner, well into his fifties, who sported pork-chop sideburns. He stood beside the freckled SOCO who was writing his name down on the crime-scene log.

  Fowler came over. “How was it?”

  “Unpleasant,” said Gray, glad to be away from the blood.

  “Want a beer later to help get over it?” Fowler had clearly got over his petulance.

  “I think it’s going to be a long night.”

  “All the more reason to go to the pub after,” grinned Fowler.

  “They’ll be closed by the time we’re done here. I’ve got to go.” Gray made his way over to Jenkinson.

  “Sol,” said Jenkinson by way of greeting. “How many bodies?”

  “One, a woman. And a man barely alive.”

  Carslake emerged from the house and joined them. “Paramedics have stabilised him. He’s lost a lot of blood. We won’t be talking to him for a while. If at all.”

  Just then the paramedics wheeled the man out on a stretcher; the white bandages wrapped around his forearms a bright spot in the darkness. They loaded him into the ambulance. One of the PCs from the cordon joined the patient before the doors were closed and the ambulance pulled off.

  “Right,” said Jenkinson, rubbing his hands together, “let’s get to work.” He strode away.

  “Did you catch Copeland?” asked Carslake.

  “Voicemail again.”

  “He’s not going to like being out of the loop.”

  “Don’t I know it, Jeff. But if he’s not answering what can I do?”

  “Not a bloody thing.”

  Gray nodded, though he knew it was an excuse Copeland wouldn’t accept. “I’ll give Kate a quick call.”

  “Hurry it up, Sol.”

  Gray moved away from Carslake, rang home.

  “I guess you’re calling to say you’ll be late again,” said Kate, Gray’s wife, when she answered.

  “Sorry, love.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I can’t say, but it’s serious. And I was first on the scene, so I have to see it through. How are the kids?”

  “Asleep.”

  “Have you had a good day?”

  “I’d have preferred it if I saw my husband occasionally.”

  Carslake was giving Gray a wind it up hand signal. “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you when I see you.”

  “Please try and be quiet when you come in, Sol. I don’t want you waking the children again.”

  “I’ll try.”

  Gray disconnected and rejoined Carslake, who was talking to Fowler. “Mike, get a door-to-door going. I want to know if anyone saw something. Start with that lot hanging around at the cordon.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And we need a next of kin starting. Anyone else here from CID yet?”

  “I’ll go and see.” Fowler scuttled off.

  “How’s Kate?” asked Carslake.

  “Pissed off. How does your marriage work?”

  “Basically, Sol, there are three choices. You both either come to live with it and stay married, you can’t live with it and divorce, or you get another job.”

  “I can’t imagine being without Kate or the job.”

  “Then you’ll have to find a way.”

  Two

  Now

  Two guards guided Duncan Usher up the concrete stairs to the prison governor’s office. The one behind Usher had Blakey’s on the heels of his shoes, metal protectors which clicked with every pace the man took. As they ascended the stairs, the prison stench receded – body odour, piss, over-boiled vegetables. It had been worse when smoking was allowed.

  Usher didn’t know what was going on – why he was being brought here. He hadn’t met Governor Jones since his first days inside, when the governor had personally warned the new inmate not to cause any trouble. Jones knew he was dealing with Margate’s kingpin, and he wanted to make certain Usher understood who was in charge now.

  That had been fifteen years ago.

  Fifteen years in which time Usher had battled his conviction from the inside while his lawyer fought from the outside. As long as he maintained his innocence, the opportunity to go in front of the parole board would be denied whenever he became eligible. According to the authorities, he was a killer, and convicted murderers were supposed to repent. Those who confessed their sins received the opportunity to return to “normal” life. Those who did not, remained trapped, serving their full sentence. So for Usher to be taken upstairs was highly unusual. Perhaps, at last, someone was beginning to listen to him.

  They paused outside the wooden office. One guard unlocked Usher’s handcuffs while the other knocked and then opened up without waiting for permission.

  “Go on.” Usher got a shove in the shoulder to emphasise the demand when he didn’t immediately move. Once he was inside, the door closed behind him, the guards remaining outside. But that wasn’t the only revelation, because the man standing behind the desk was not Jones.

  “Sit down,” he gestured to the metal chair in front of Usher which was bolted to the floor. “I’m Smits.”

  Without answering, Usher took a seat. He kept his eyes firmly on the stranger, waiting to learn why they were both here. Smits had a bulbous head, a single stripe of hair along one side, the rest of the skull bald. And slightly bulging eyes.

  Smits came around the front of the desk and perched on a corner. “I’d like your help.” He crossed his arms. No preamble. “In return you’ll get your freedom.”

  Usher narrowed his eyes
. What kind of ploy was this? The scepticism must have flitted across his face because Smits smiled.

  “I don’t care who you are,” said Usher, “I just want to know what you are.”

  “I’m the conscience of the police. I suspected you wouldn’t trust me, so I’ve had a letter drawn up, laying out my commitment. It’s been reviewed by your lawyer, here’s a letter confirming that to be fact.” Smits slid a document across the desk.

  Usher leaned in, read the note where it lay, sat back. “That’s Dowling’s signature.”

  Smits followed with another piece of paper, placing it next to the first. Usher got closer again, read slowly. The contents were an offer, giving Usher what he’d always wanted. His innocence.

  Something smelt about all of this, thought Usher. He said, “Why now?”

  “I asked the guards to take off your shackles in a gesture of good faith. I hope you appreciate that?”

  Usher noticed Smits had answered his question like a politician: dealing with a question by posing another. “Where’s Jones?”

  “It’s best we keep this matter private. You’ll see one of the clauses is a non-disclosure statement.” Smits stuck a finger on a paragraph. “In other words, should you sign all aspects of the agreement, the contents will be confidential. If you break this clause, you’ll be straight back in prison, serving the rest of your original sentence.”

  “I’m really being released?” Usher struggled to keep the eagerness out of his voice. After years of fighting, at last.

  But Usher wasn’t a trusting man. His original doubts cast a shadow over his elation. He needed to know exactly what Smits got out of this. “My lawyer is close to getting me out anyway.”

  “Close is one thing. This moves you to the other side of the gates in a matter of weeks. Guaranteed. Your lawyer will take considerably longer. That’s if he even succeeds. How many setbacks have you had over the years?”

  Plenty.

  “What’s in this for you?” asked Usher.

  “My role is to root out corruption in the police force. I want to bring someone down. With your cooperation. And it relates to the death of your wife.”