The Solomon Gray Series Box Set

by Keith Nixon

  Gray wore the basic uniform: black trousers, shirt and a stab vest. In his lap was a black baseball cap with POLICE written across the front. Half the team were equipped in gear the average bystander would associate with a riot; body armour and helmets. The battering ram, a bright red cylinder with a carrying handle, lay on the floor at their feet.

  The radio crackled. Yarrow said, “Move into position.” The driver up front started the van’s engine and inched forward. Gray felt the vehicle turn, coasting out of gear or the driver had his foot on the clutch.

  Just five minutes before the deadline.

  The van came to a slow halt. Gray moved to the rear with difficulty. The stab vest was heavy and rigid. The utility belt round his waist weighed about the same as the vest. In all it was bloody uncomfortable. Gray popped the door open and stepped down, landing silently. He glanced both ways along the street. Nobody was around, not even an early morning dog walker.

  Parker occupied a terraced house on Hengist Avenue, named after a Viking raider who’d landed in Broadstairs a thousand years ago, a fact well known locally. The road was on the Millmead Estate. The van had drawn up beneath a streetlight, bulb blown, across a driveway on which a car was parked.

  The road was narrow, vehicles bumper-to-bumper on both sides, space a premium. Several cars had broken wing mirrors. Gray crooked his finger. The others stepped down. One guy in riot gear patted the ram like it was a pet before he lifted it out. Gray pointed to the house they wanted which was a little further down the hill.

  Two minutes, but they’d only go when Yarrow gave the word.

  The house was a narrow three-storey end-terrace set back a few feet from the pavement, pointlessly delineated by a low wall only a couple of feet high. A metal gate was off its hinges and propped against the downstairs bay window, slowly rusting. The officer with the tubular metal ram, accompanied by a colleague, lurked by the front door, hedged in by two large plastic wheelie bins. A further two uniforms hung back on the pavement, ready to crowd in once the door was gone. Gray pointed for two more to head along the alley in case Parker ducked out the back. Gray took up position on the corner, able to keep an eye on proceedings on both the alley and the front.

  The shout came in from Yarrow over the radio. “Go, go, go!”

  “Do it,” ordered Gray.

  The officer swung back the battering ram and belted the mass into the door. Sometimes doors fell first time. Not now. It barely budged. The cop crashed the ram again, not needing to be told to do so. A third, then a fourth time. On the fifth, Gray heard a splintering. And the sound of a window opening.

  A leg protruded from a first-floor window. Finally, the door collapsed under the onslaught with a huge crack. The shout, “Police!” went up as a second leg came out and then the rest of the person. Parker, wearing shorts, trainers and a hoody, dangled from the windowsill for a moment before dropping to the ground.

  Gray’s colleagues were piling into the property while Parker was escaping.

  “Stop where you are!” shouted Gray.

  Parker swung around, caught sight of Gray and immediately turned in the opposite direction, down the alley. Gray started after him. He got ten feet by the time one of the uniforms Gray had sent to watch the rear emerged from the garden.

  Parker paused, glanced over his shoulder. The PC, a stocky, short woman named Jones, was nearest. Parker reached inside the pocket of his hoody, pulled something out and flicked his wrist. There was the unmistakable snap of a baton extending.

  Jones went for her own, but Parker stepped forward and swung fast. Jones raised her arm instinctively as Parker swung. The breaking of bone was audible. Jones screamed and went down.

  Gray threw himself at Parker as he stood over Jones, barrelling the man over. Parker caught a foot on the prostrate Jones and hit the ground hard, the baton skittling away. The air went out of Parker’s lungs with a whoosh.

  But Parker was up quickly and kneeling on Gray, raining down blows with his fists. Gray held up his arms, trying to shield his face from Parker’s knuckles. He took a couple on the forearms. Then Parker stood and attempted to put a boot into Gray’s kidney. The stab vest absorbed the blow and Parker cried out in pain.

  Gray rolled and got a grip on the man’s ankle. Parker tried to tug himself away and break Gray’s hold. Then Parker began to jerk, his arms and legs rigid, his mouth contorted. Gray let go immediately. A moment later Parker collapsed onto the ground, continuing to spasm.

  “You okay, sir?” It was Jones, face as pale as milk, cradling her arm and holding a Taser.

  “I’m fine,” said Gray. He ached where Parker had punched him, but thankfully the vest had taken the worst of it. And compared to Jones’ injury his were entirely minor. He slowly got to his feet.

  Gray took the Taser from Jones. She said, “Can you cuff him, sir?”

  “With pleasure.” Gray unclipped a pair of handcuffs from Jones’ belt. He bent down, rolled the still incapacitated Parker over, folded his hands behind his back and ratcheted the restraints.

  “Let’s get you some first aid,” said Gray.

  Jones shook her head. “I’m all right, sir.”

  “Bullshit, I heard the bone break from five feet away. Come on.”

  Gray pulled an unresisting Parker to his feet then led Jones to the front of the house, pushing Parker before him.

  “Call an ambulance,” said Gray to a uniform. “And book him for resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer.” Gray shoved Parker forward. The PC took over, leading Parker to a nearby wagon.

  The noise had woken the street up. Neighbours were out of their houses or at windows, curtains raised. A woman from next door, dressing gown tightly pulled around her ample frame, watched Parker being led to the van. As he passed she spat at him. “Good riddance, you bastard!” Parker recoiled, then went for the woman. The PC holding Parker struggled to restrain him. Gray and one other piled in and wrestled Parker into the van, slamming the door.

  “I’ll get you for that, you bitch!” shouted Parker through the grill. Gray closed it, containing Parker’s rage. He hammered on the panels, but it was a futile protest.

  “I’ve been telling you people for ages about Parker,” said the neighbour in a lilting Caribbean accent before Gray could speak. “About time you came and got him, selling that shit to children around here. It’s disgusting.”

  “Would you prepared to be a witness if Mr Parker goes to court?” asked Gray.

  “Mister? Don’t be giving him no title, he’s scum! Of course I’ll be a witness. We don’t want him round here no more.”

  “Thank you. What’s your name, please?”

  “It’s Alvita Venables.”

  “I’ll have someone come and speak to you.”

  Gray returned his attention to the property as the woman headed back inside. The front door had been pulled away from its hinges and joined the gate in the front garden. The jamb was a mess. There had been at least three locks and a couple of bolts. The door itself was backed with sheet metal. It had been the surrounding frame which had eventually failed, rather than the door itself.

  Gray stepped into a small hallway with peeling wallpaper. A naked bulb burned above. A front room was immediately to the right; stairs beyond and a corridor. Another closed door to what could have been the dining room, behind which a dog was barking, its tone low, deep and continuous. Further along a kitchen which smelt of chip fat.

  “Big bastard,” said Herron, a recently promoted sergeant. He’d been the one swinging the ram. He was a big bastard himself, shaven-headed, tattooed. “Staffordshire Bull Terrier.” Dog rescue centres were full of the breed these days as they fell out of favour due to their aggressive reputation. Photos of staffies in the newspaper with members of far-right groups like the English Defence League hadn’t helped.

  “Have you called the K9 unit?”

  “Bit early for them, Guv,” said Herron with a grin. Gray laughed, some of the tension coming off.

  “Have
we found anything yet?”

  “Sir, you need to see this!” A shout from the upper floor, CID leaning over the bannister.

  Gray climbed the stairs, the carpet worn and dirty. There was an odour about the place too. Not just the dog, but damp and decay. On the next floor were two bedrooms and a bathroom, all the doors wide open. In one room a cop was squatting down beside a bed. Gray entered briefly. There was a form huddled under the covers. Eloise Nunes. Drug paraphernalia was scattered across the floor. Gray placed his feet carefully as he walked.

  “She doesn’t want to move, sir,” said the cop speaking with Nunes.

  “Get her healthcare worker, see if they can help.”

  Across the hallway two cops wearing gloves were searching. The window was wide open. This was where Parker had escaped from. A couple of phones, already bagged, lay on the mattress. More than likely the mobiles Yarrow had made such a point about yesterday. Gray picked one up, pressed a couple of keys through the plastic. A short stream of texts popped up, enquiries for drugs from customers. The numbers would prove vital to dealing with the wider network. Probably many of Parker’s customers would be getting a visit from uniform soon.

  Gray continued up the stairs. At the top of the house was an attic room, empty except for a table and a chair, several cops within.

  “Thought you’d got lost, sir,” said DC Robinson. He wore a T-shirt which displayed the Levi jeans logo stretched across his chest.

  “Very funny,” said Gray.

  “This’ll cheer you up,” said Robinson. He indicated a cupboard set into the eaves. Gray looked closer. Beneath the floorboards was a stash of white powder in plastic bags. “Nunes told us it was here. She wanted to get some.”

  “Any money?” asked Gray.

  “Virtually nothing, but a full load of gear.”

  Which meant Parker’s most recent run to London had been to take back cash and bring in more merchandise to sell.

  “Great. Keep looking; see what else turns up,” said Gray. He headed back down the stairs and outside to call Yarrow. An ambulance had just arrived for Jones.

  “How did it go, Sol?” asked Yarrow once the call connected.

  “A bit messy, sir. But we got Parker, Nunes and a stash of drugs.”

  “Well done. Seems like we’ve pulled in just about everybody. Only the one empty property. Appears they scarpered a few hours before we arrived.”

  “One hundred per cent would have been a tough ask, sir.”

  “You’re right, but it’s irritating nevertheless. Anyway, well done, see you back at the station.”

  Gray slid his mobile into a pocket and headed over to the ambulance to ensure Jones was okay.

  Fifteen

  Now

  Gray rubbed his eyes as he waited for the kettle. It was only just after 11.00am but already mind and body felt like it had been a full day. The lack of sleep and change in routine was fast catching up with him.

  As the water began to roil Gray flicked the switch off, not wanting the temperature to reach boiling point. It burnt the coffee and ruined the taste. He felt a light touch on his arm. It was Wyatt.

  “Don’t worry,” Wyatt smiled up at him, kept her voice low as she leaned in. “Nobody saw.”

  Gray couldn’t help but look over his shoulder into the Detectives’ Office. Not one person was paying them a blind bit of attention. “Sorry.”

  “Am I that embarrassing?”

  “I’m just used to being talked about,” said Gray. “I don’t like to give anyone ammunition, particularly Mike.”

  “People might surprise you, Sol.”

  “Maybe.” Gray doubted it. He poured water onto the grounds in a single-cup French press.

  “How’s Pivot going?”

  “Really well.” Gray was relieved to be back on a professional footing. He turned around. “I’m just about to interview Parker.”

  “You look tired.”

  “Knackered.”

  “Would it be okay if I popped over later? It would be nice to meet Hope.”

  “I’m not sure that’s wise.”

  “Sorry to interrupt sir, we’re waiting for you.” It was Worthington, in the office entrance, beckoning him. “We’re in Two.” He left.

  “Look, I’ll tell you about it later.” Wyatt’s expression twisted into a frown. “Got to go. Help yourself to the coffee.” Gray hurried away.

  When he reached the interview room, Worthington pushed the door open, allowing Gray to enter first. Eloise Nunes sat hunched in her chair. She appeared worn and shabby. Her dyed pink hair was in disarray and pushed under a woollen hat; in places her locks stuck out at wild angles. She wore a stained dress, with a cardigan pulled over the top, one button done up but not in the right hole so the outfit was skewed. Her legs were bare, socks mismatched, and trainers, once white, were now grey.

  Nunes’ lawyer, a bespectacled man Gray didn’t recognise, stood and shook both his and Worthington’s hands. “Lesley Surtees,” he said by way of introduction before retaking his seat.

  Gray started the recorder, noted the time, date and everyone present. Nunes rocked in her chair. She scratched at a red mark at the corner of her mouth, then her arm. Coming down off a high; he’d need to watch that.

  “How are you, Miss Nunes?” asked Gray.

  “I’m a mess,” she said, blowing out a stream of beery breath like she was releasing a demon. Gray heard the accent, her Spanish heritage still present, her skin was pale, as if she never went outside. Gray had read her file. From a good background, travelled across the Channel a decade ago to teach her native tongue in a Broadstairs-based language school and somehow spiralled into trouble. Nunes lolled back in her chair and began to cry. After a few moments she cuffed the tears away. “Did you arrest Damian?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, he’s a piece of shit.”

  Gray had an opinion, however not one he could express here and now. Instead he asked, “Does the residence where we found you and Mr Parker belong to you?”

  “It’s a council house, but the place is in my name.”

  “What was Mr Parker doing there?”

  “We were sleeping together every now and then. A shag for a fix. At first it suited both of us. He promised me drugs if he could store some stuff there, just temporarily he said. Then one day he wouldn’t leave. Moved his clothes into a spare room. Then his mates. Always in and out. I was powerless.”

  “We have evidence you’ve been dealing, Miss Nunes.”

  Surtees cut in. “Perhaps you should share this evidence with my client before making accusations, inspector.”

  However, Nunes shrugged. “I had to. I’m an addict, officer. I need to put that crap in my veins and he gave it to me. He forced me to screw him too, even though by then I didn’t want to. Sometimes his mates, after I’d had a hit. He put me out on the streets to make some cash, which I just blew on gear. I’m not proud of what I’ve done, but I couldn’t help myself.” Nunes tried to grab Gray’s hand, but he managed to withdraw it before she could take a grip. “I just want to be free. Can you help me? Get me clean?”

  “There’s a programme we can put you on, if you want.”

  “More than anything.” Nunes covered her face with her hands and swayed back and forth.

  “You’ll likely pick up a sentence for dealing, Miss Nunes.”

  “You can’t say that for sure, inspector,” said Surtees. “Miss Nunes, you don’t have to answer these questions.”

  “I want to,” said Nunes. “I deserve this.”

  “Your call, Miss Nunes.”

  “I don’t care,” said Nunes. “As long as I’m away from them, I’ll take it.”

  “One more thing,” said Gray. “Do you know about the murder of a nineteen-year-old male four days ago by the name of LaShaun Oakley? He was a runner.”

  Nunes frowned, as if sifting through hazy memories. “I haven’t been out the house for days.”

  “Has Mr Parker ever made any mention of Mr Oakley?�
��

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Okay. Thank you for your time, Miss Nunes.” Gray was about to stop the recording but Nunes cut in.

  “Though he did talk about a kid and his Line pissing on his business and how it was going to be stopped.”

  Gray withdrew his finger. “Go on.”

  Nunes shrugged. “I was lying on his bed after he’d, you know, finished with me, when his phone rang. He thought I was out of it. I usually am; it’s the way I cope. He was on his phone to somebody, swearing his head off about doing the next one that got off the train. That’s it really.”

  “You’ve been very helpful, Miss Nunes.”

  “You got any stuff?” Nunes leaned forward.

  “We’ll help you get clean, remember?”

  Nunes nodded, head loose on her shoulders. Gray terminated the interview this time, called for a PC to take her back to the cells and show the lawyer out.

  “Interesting,” said Worthington when they were alone.

  “Promising, yes. However, you know junkies will say anything to get what they want.” Gray stood. “Let’s go talk to Parker.”

  Sixteen

  Now

  Worthington, with laptop and a folder under his arm, entered the adjacent interview room, Gray in his wake.

  Parker was inclined back, his chair on two legs, pressed into a corner of the room, hands down the front of his trousers. He didn’t bother to glance at Worthington and Gray, staring at the ceiling instead. The expression on his face spoke volumes. Bored tough guy without a concern in the world.

  Parker’s lawyer sat beside him; Alfie Lakehurst, one of the duty briefs, who appeared as ragged as Gray felt. Mussed hair, bags under the eyes, skewed tie, like he’d pulled an all-nighter. Apparently middle-aged, from the white patches in his brown beard.

  Gray sat. Once he’d started the digital recorder running he said, “Assaulting a police officer is a serious charge, Mr Parker. As is resisting arrest.”

  Parker withdrew his attention from the interior decor, flicked his gaze from Worthington to Gray. “Wrongful arrest, bro.” He shrugged. “And youse smashed down my door. Illegal entry. I’ll sue you for both. Make myself a fortune.” Parker brought his chair onto all four legs and nudged Lakehurst hard, smiled and nodded at him. “Am I right or am I right?” Lakehurst didn’t reply, maintaining an admirably straight face.