The Solomon Gray Series Box Set

by Keith Nixon

  Four

  Then

  Duncan Usher peeled the bloody gloves from his hands. He inspected his knuckles, ignoring the bubbling sobs from behind him. His skin was clean. No signs he’d just beaten a man half to death. His shirt was spattered though. Usher would need to change it before he emerged.

  It hadn’t been a fair fight. The other guy was bound to a chair, no chance of defending himself, never mind fighting back. Usher crossed to a sink, washed his hands and dried them carefully. Usher liked to be clean.

  “What do you want to do with him?” asked Frank McGavin, one of the closest of Usher’s few confidantes. Usher turned around.

  McGavin might have appeared soft, but he was far from it. Thin and well-dressed in expensive clothes, McGavin was not one to underestimated. His greatest asset was his mind. He was sharp, fast to plot several courses of action from a given start point and assess the consequences. He’d risen far and fast with Usher.

  With McGavin was Dean Telfer, Usher’s driver. Usher didn’t use bodyguards, bad for the image. Telfer though, an ex-boxer, could handle himself and others. He was short, with slicked back hair. He wore a chain round his neck and several large rings on the fingers of both hands. They came in handy sometimes when people needing some “convincing”. Both his ears were pierced with gold hoops. Telfer gave off an edge, one of repressed menace. His eyes were always on the move, expecting trouble.

  The pair stood either side of the beaten man who was leaning forward in the chair, only held upright by the ropes. Blood and saliva dripped from his battered face onto the floor. The mess would be hardly noticeable.

  They always used a garage for this kind of work, where the smell of spilled oil and fuel masked everything. Some sawdust on the floor, a quick sweep up, and it was all just another workshop stain. And there were plenty of tools on hand. Pliers, hammers, even a blow torch should the interviewee prove particularly resistant. It was unusual for Usher himself to do the work, but this one had crossed over the line, taken from his boss and blamed someone else. Transgressions like that had to be dealt with, visibly.

  “Get rid of him at sea,” said Usher. It was the easiest way. Load the man onto a fishing boat in the dead of night, chug out a couple of miles, fix some weights to his legs with chains and a padlock, and the corpse would never be found. Fish food.

  Telfer’s phone rang. He listened briefly, lifted his eyes to Usher, disconnected. “That was the cops,” he said. “It’s Valerie.”

  “What’s the stupid cow done now?” asked Usher. “I swear to God, if she wasn’t the mother of my children,” Usher scrunched his fingers into fists again, tempted to swing one more time at the battered man.

  “She’s dead.”

  Usher paused, arm mid-arc. “How?”

  “I don’t know. She was found at her home.”

  “The cops will want to speak with you,” said McGavin.

  “Obviously,” said Usher, aware he couldn’t use his current whereabouts and activity as an alibi. “Frank, get this mess sorted. Dean, take me home.”

  Five

  Now

  Gray wasn’t ready to leave Edinburgh, but he had to. He zipped his case closed, took the lift downstairs, and handed in his key card. After returning the receptionist’s best wishes for the day, Gray crossed the lobby, stepped onto the street, and stopped in his tracks.

  A young woman stood on the pavement, staring intently at him. She was so familiar it ached. So much like Kate, Gray’s deceased wife; tall, slim, and with long brown hair. Neither of them moved for a few moments, the rest of the world rushing on without them. Gray closed the gap, paused a foot away, not sure what to do next, standing a full head in height above her.

  “Daddy, it’s really you!” Hope threw her arms around her father, buried her head in his chest. She began to cry.

  Solomon Gray slowly enveloped his daughter as his own tears began to flow.

  ***

  “When is your train due?” asked Hope. She stirred sugar into a cup of coffee. Gray was surprised. Kate hadn’t allowed the children sugar in drinks. However, Hope had spent the last few years with her grandparents and then on her own. Different influences.

  “The earliest is just after 9 a.m., but I’ve got a flexible ticket, so I can leave on pretty much any.”

  Hope checked her watch. “Not long then.”

  “If I decide not to take that one, we’ve got some time.”

  Gray took a sip of his flat white. It was decent. Often baristas got it wrong, made them more like a latte, the extra milk overpowering the bitterness of the bean.

  “I’m sorry about yesterday.” She kept her eyes on the revolving spoon. Gray noticed she wore a silver chain round her neck, a cross hanging from it, a design very similar to one of her mother’s. “I just panicked; I wasn’t sure what I’d say to you.”

  “I understand. How many years has it been?” Gray knew exactly and to the month.

  “Too many.” Hope peered at Gray. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, I always look like this,” lied Gray. “And it doesn’t matter now, because you’re here. What changed your mind?”

  Hope raised her head and smiled at Gray. There was genuine warmth within. She put the spoon on the table. “My boyfriend. He said I shouldn’t let you leave without at least attempting to speak to you. We may never have got another opportunity. He called the hotel to see if you’d left. I was on my way in when you came out.”

  “He sounds sensible. What’s his name?”

  “Hamish. He’s a local if you hadn’t guessed.”

  Gray laughed, Hope joined in. She became serious again. “Hamish was estranged from his father. He’d had an alcohol problem, pretended he had cancer, stuff like that. Really it was a cry for help.”

  Gray wasn’t convinced; it sounded more like a cry for attention. And Gray was struck by the irony. One person fabricating an illness, and here he was keeping an actual disease secret.

  Hope continued, “Anyway, Hamish’s father died last year. He was discovered in his flat by the cleaner. He’d been dead for three days and no one had even noticed.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “Awful, isn’t it? That someone can become so distant from their family, that they don’t even know he’s passed. So Hamish told me not to make the same mistake.”

  “Mistake?”

  “To not try. We might have hated each other, but at least we’d have known.”

  “No lingering regrets.”

  “Hopefully not.”

  “So far I don’t hate you.”

  “So far?” Hope laughed.

  “I’ve faith in us.”

  “Me too.” Hope paused before saying, “Are you sure you’re all right, Dad? You look worn out.”

  “I’m fine, just busy at work.” Gray had been planning to tell her about his cancer, but he decided now wasn’t the time, particularly after her revelation about Hamish’s father. If Hope was going to stay in touch, it must be because she wanted to, not because she felt obligated. He changed the subject. “How’s university?”

  “Great. Hard work, but I love it.”

  “Nursing, right? That must be very rewarding."

  “Helping people is what life’s all about, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, even at a personal cost.” Hope paused, put her hand out across the table. “I get that now, Dad.” Gray covered her hand with his.

  “How did you and Hamish meet?”

  “At the hospital.”

  “Student or patient?”

  “Neither, he’s a consultant.”

  Which would make Hamish a lot older than Hope. Gray kept the voice inside his head locked up.

  “Hopefully we can meet one day.”

  “We’d like that.” Hope checked her watch. “Don’t you need to go?”

  “Probably.”

  “I’ll walk with you to the station.”

  “Best not, otherwise I won’t be leaving.”

  They exited the café,
standing awkwardly outside. Gray wasn’t sure what to do next. “I’m headed this way.” Hope pointed in the opposite direction to where Gray needed to be. “Please come back again.”

  “I will.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Hope gave Gray another big hug, followed by a kiss on the cheek.

  “Bye, Dad. Love you.” Then she was gone.

  The train was well underway, snaking along the coast back towards Berwick and England. The trolley had just been past. Gray had taken a coffee, but it was swamp water compared to the stuff he’d drunk half an hour earlier in the café with Hope. It had tasted fine yesterday. He thought back over the conversation with his daughter and smiled. It had been brief but gone well, better than he could have wished for. Her final words were still a surprise to him. He touched the place on his cheek where Hope had kissed him.

  He’d definitely be returning to Edinburgh, and soon.

  Six

  Now

  Gray was shattered by the time he arrived at the Margate police station. He almost nodded off in the swaying taxi, even though it was only a brief drive along the seafront.

  “Bloody journalists,” said the driver, jerking Gray out of the beginnings of a doze. “They’re almost as bad as the politicians.” All Gray could see of the driver was the back of his balding head and large ears.

  A BBC TV van was parked in front of the station. Which meant reporters would be camping out there. “Can you take me round the back, please,” said Gray.

  “Okay, mate. Don’t like the press either?”

  “Not really.”

  “I don’t know anyone who does.”

  There was indeed a huddle of journalists, talking among themselves while they awaited the news to happen before them. One or two turned towards the taxi as it drove past, but the glance was brief and uninterested.

  In the car park, Gray paid the driver, collected his case from the boot, and went inside. He headed for the Detectives’ Office, a collection of desks in a large open plan where he and his colleagues carried out the administrative aspects of the role, which were many.

  Gray opened the office door to a commotion. Detective Sergeant Mike Fowler was flying his mini remote-control helicopter around the office again. He’d had it a few weeks, a birthday present or something. Whoever had purchased it was an idiot. The bloody thing was a menace in Fowler’s hands, and, so far, Detective Inspector Yvonne Hamson had let the problem ride.

  He watched Fowler fiddling with the controls like a giddy schoolboy. Hell, he even looked like a schoolboy now, his top lip naked after having recently shaved off his legendary porn-star moustache. Gray ducked as the drone buzzed over his head. Which was the point. Fowler wanted to be annoying. To push Hamson. A few faces looked to Gray, imploring him to do something. Gray’s own relationship with Hamson was problematic, too. Recently they’d had a falling out in the staff canteen, and, since then, Hamson’s demeanour towards him had remained chilly. Publicly tackling Fowler would hardly help.

  However, Gray had no need. Hamson threw her pen onto her desk and stood up, a commanding six feet. Fowler, eyes focused on the helicopter, didn’t notice her approach. She snatched the controller from his hands. Thud. The drone dropped to the floor. Surprise registered on Fowler’s face, then shock when Hamson marched over to the helicopter, turned to meet Fowler’s dumbfounded gaze, then pressed her patent shoe down hard enough to shatter the toy with a loud snap. Hamson scooped the larger pieces off the floor and dumped them into Fowler’s lap along with the controller, then gave her blonde hair a careless toss as she returned to her desk.

  Gray felt someone behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. Carslake. Catching sight of his DCI, Fowler bit back whatever he’d been planning to bark at Hamson.

  “Briefing in the Major Incident Room. Two minutes,” said Carslake and withdrew.

  Silently the CID team filed out. Gray dropped his bag at his desk and followed his colleagues.

  The Major Incident Room was used for precisely its namesake. It was similar to the Detective’s Office; rectangular with a high ceiling. However, the dominant features were an expansive whiteboard, known as the murder board, where all information pertinent to a case was summarised, and a large, wall-mounted flat screen television. A couple of meeting rooms branched off to the side. Tables and chairs, lined up to face the whiteboard, filled the central space.

  Right now the whiteboard was blank. Gray wasn’t surprised to see the area commander, Superintendent Douglas Marsh standing before it, facing into the room. He was suited and booted in uniform. His cap lay on the nearest table. Marsh had silver hair and a hook nose. His bearing was upright, hands behind his back, chest pushed out in an attempt to convey strength and control. Gray knew all too well this was front because Marsh was a blusterer; used to getting his own way, and pissy when he didn’t.

  Marsh stood between Carslake and the station’s Press Officer, Bethany Underwood. Underwood was tall, skinny and had frizzy bleached blonde hair, thinning because she’d applied the chemicals too often. She always seemed to be running on the edge – tense and stressed. Today was no exception, but at least she wasn’t gnawing away at her cuticles for once.

  Gray was last in, and he closed the door behind him. For once, there was little chat between the officers. They knew what this was about. Fowler stood near Gray, a female detective constable between them. Fowler leaned around the woman and scowled at Gray, presumably still smarting from having his toy smashed, before returning his attention to the senior management.

  “The reason for bringing you all here,” said Marsh, without preamble, “is the release of Duncan Usher. I’m unable to share all the details, but, what I can say is, new information has come to light which appears to prove his innocence. I’m sure you’ve noticed a gaggle of reporters outside. My presence here is to impress upon you the importance of presenting a united front to the press and public on what is and will remain a high profile and very sensitive case.

  “It is critical we maintain consistent messaging. So if any of you are approached by a member of our esteemed press, direct them to Miss Underwood here.” Marsh pointed towards Underwood who looked surprised to be addressed, jerking upright like a child caught in the act of doing something they shouldn’t. “Your uniformed colleagues are being given the same message.

  “Let me be clear,” continued Marsh, “that is an order. If I learn anyone, from DI Carslake down, has been straying from this line, then we will implement disciplinary measures. And before anyone asks, it is not because I want to cover something up – just the opposite.” Marsh fixed the room with a steely glare.

  “Now, I am expecting two investigators from the Independent Police Complaints Commission to arrive at this station within the next day. Their task will be to conduct an investigation into the events of fifteen years ago. Not all of you worked here at that time. Those who did will be interviewed by the investigative team. You will be open, frank, and honest with them. Do I make myself understood?”

  Fowler put his hand up.

  “You’re not at school anymore, Mike,” said Carslake. Nervous laughter rippled around the room.

  “Could prosecutions result from the IPCC’s work?” asked Fowler.

  “At this stage it’s impossible to say,” said Marsh. “The lead investigator may consider anyone a witness. However, our focus should not be on the IPCC. They simply have a job to do. We’ve nothing to hide and have done nothing wrong.

  “Duncan Usher has always protested his innocence in the murder of his wife. If it’s proven that Usher was wrongfully convicted, then we didn’t catch the actual perpetrator back then. They need bringing to justice. Whoever they are. Any more questions?” He waited for just a few seconds. “No? Okay, I’ll leave you all with DI Carslake.” Marsh nodded at nobody in particular and left the room.

  Carslake said, “I’ve nothing additional to add other than I support Superintendent Marsh. Please remember, any and every external e
nquiry gets referred to Bethany, okay?”

  From the number of people dipping their heads in response from all around the room it was clear the message had got through. “If you’ve got any burning questions, see me or DI Hamson. Otherwise, back to your day jobs, please. Don’t let Duncan Usher get in the way unless he has to.”

  The gathering broke up. “Sol,” said Carslake, “a word if you don’t mind.”

  Gray made his way over, heading in the opposite direction to everyone else, like a salmon swimming upstream.

  Carslake allowed the room to empty and for the door to be closed before he said, “We need to talk, though not now and not here. What are you doing tonight?”

  “I was intending to get some sleep. It’s been a long day.”

  “Of course, stupid of me. What happened with Hope? You said she didn’t turn up.”

  “Actually in the end it went really well.” Gray heard the note of surprise in his own voice. “We had a little time together, after all.”

  “Good, I’m glad to hear it. But this can’t wait. If the IPCC do arrive tomorrow, we need to have had a conversation first.”

  “Okay.”

  “Give me half an hour to clear my diary, and we’ll go out for coffee. I’m buying.” Carslake patted Gray on the arm before he left. “Everything will be fine.”

  Gray wondered why Carslake had felt the need to say that.

  Regardless, Gray didn’t trust Carslake a millimetre.

  Seven

  Then

  “You can come inside.” Sean Brazier beckoned Gray and Carslake from the front door. The CSM held out fresh white suits and accompanying paraphernalia.

  Once they were dressed, Gray and Carslake followed Brazier upstairs into the bedroom where the pathologist Jenkinson hovered just over the threshold. Valerie’s lifeless body lay exactly where Gray had first seen her, though now she was bathed in tungsten white from overhead spotlights erected by SOCO to prevent shadows. Her skin was almost lost against the white mattress she was lying on. Her hands and feet were encased in plastic bags to protect any evidence that might be under her nails or on the skin. The pillow had been removed from her face. It would have been bagged also.