by Keith Nixon
“I’d like to be there for you.”
“That would look a bit strange.”
“I know.” Wyatt picked a piece of lint from Gray’s jacket before leaning in and giving him a kiss.
***
Gray did literally stay for one. He made sure his beer ended up on Marsh’s tab. When he was done he quietly slipped away, noticed by nobody except Wyatt. She waved as he departed, mouthed, “Good luck”.
He turned the radio on as he left the station car park, listened to a couple of retired footballers as he drove, discussing a match which had been played earlier in the evening. It was bland and irrelevant in the scheme of things, which was just what Gray wanted.
Twenty minutes later he turned into the parking space beneath his apartment block. He drew up in his allocated spot, turned off the engine and headed to his flat.
Inside he found Hope sitting out on the balcony. She stood and enveloped him in a hug. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
Hope released him. “It’s Hamish; he keeps trying to call me.”
“Have you spoken to him?”
“Not yet. He’s sent me a text, though.”
“What does he want?”
“For me to go back to Edinburgh. He thinks I’m making a terrible mistake.”
“Perhaps if the two of you spoke?”
“I can’t.” Hope shook her head, in some mental vicious circle, unsure how to break out of the spiral. “Sorry, I’m just tired. I’m away to bed. Night, Dad.”
Like when she was a little girl, if Hope didn’t want to talk, it wasn’t going to happen. Gray knew to wait for now. “Sleep well.” She threw Gray a wan smile and headed off.
Later, when Gray was in bed too, he struggled to sleep, despite how drained he felt. The enquiry was looming large in his mind. He’d managed to keep the approaching date at a distance, focusing on the Oakley murder case and Pivot raids, but now it was imminent he could no longer ignore its existence.
And there was another milestone tomorrow. Gray was booked in to see his consultant, Dr Manesh, who’d been handling his cancer treatment. He heard Hope moving around, shifting in her bed. It seemed like both of them had thoughts weighing them down.
Nineteen
Then
The journey to Dartford had been easy, straight up the A2 in less than an hour and a half, keeping strictly to the speed limit. The roads were empty as it was nearing midnight. Fowler caught sight of the tight entrance for Vauxhall Place, between a charity shop and a bargain booze outlet, but he passed right by, carrying on along Lowfield Street. He wanted to cruise the area, check out the lie of the land. It was drizzling, his wipers squeaking as they wiped the water away.
It soon became obvious that this part of the London overspill was high-rise flats, run-down housing, shuttered-up shops. Kids on the street corners, despite the hour; dog shit on the pavements, cats running wild. Fowler drove past a social club and swung around; found Lowfield Street once more.
More like Lowlife Street, thought Fowler, though he hadn’t spotted anything that made him want to delay the meeting.
He turned into Vauxhall Place. The lighting, already poor, dropped to virtually zero as he squeezed between the buildings, barely enough room to fit his car down. He drove slowly, twisting the wheel to avoid a pothole and potentially a broken suspension spring. He scanned left, then right, through high metal fences, the temporary kind that looked like they’d been there forever, given the amount of rust. A cracked sign strapped to one seemed to indicate the management company responsible, but Fowler bet they’d gone out of business some time ago.
Barely a couple of hundred yards along, the thoroughfare delivered Fowler into a courtyard which opened up to one side. His headlights reflected off a large puddle in the centre of a cracked cast-concrete floor, and beyond the graffiti-covered brick wall of a broken-down building. He could see a gap in the roof tiles, and plants growing from the gutter. A large bush was growing out of the brickwork.
And he wasn’t alone. A Range Rover stood idling on the furthest side of the space, exhaust fumes spewing. Fowler halted, avoiding the puddle. A shaven-headed man got out of the car, came over, tapped on his window, pointed at the ignition and signalled for him to switch it off. Fowler recognised him for what he was. A cop. It was in the way he carried himself. The man pulled at the car’s door handle as soon as the engine died. “Out,” he said.
Fowler did as he was bid. Glass crunched underfoot, making him wonder what he’d driven over and whether his tyres were okay. He didn’t fancy being stuck here at this time of night.
“Spread ’em,” commanded the man. Fowler lifted his arms until they were parallel with the floor, like he was being crucified but without the wooden cross. As the man thoroughly patted him down, Fowler watched someone else in shadow soundlessly pulling a gate across the gap he’d just driven through, blocking it completely. The other man stayed in place, facing into the compound, ignorant of the rain. Fowler was trapped. His heart beat a little faster.
Search completed, the first man nodded Fowler towards the Range Rover. Fowler started walking, alone. As Fowler put his hand out for the door handle he glanced over his shoulder. Both men were watching him. He tugged, and the door popped, an overhead light brightening the interior. In the front sat a driver, only the back of his ginger-haired head visible. At the rear was Lewis Strang, immediately recognisable from the huge strawberry mark which covered half of his face. He wore a suit, tie and long black coat. It appeared to be on the way to a well-heeled function. Strang twisted his head so the blot was visible, daring Fowler to stare or make comment. Fowler ignored the bait.
“Get in,” said Strang. “You’re letting out all the heat.”
Fowler slid his backside across unresisting leather; closed the door with a soft thud. The light went out a few moments later, though the compartment retained a muted light from the driver’s dashboard.
“Would you like a drink?” asked Strang. He held up a small, metal flask. “It’s green tea. Good for the circulation.”
“I’m fine, thanks,” said Fowler.
“I feel the cold easily.” Strang unscrewed the cap, poured the steaming hot liquid into the cup. He took a sip. “Is this your first time in Dartford?” Strang made it sound as if they were discussing a holiday destination instead of the rough London suburb.
“I only ever go over the bridge.” In fact, Fowler had done so yesterday. The Dartford Crossing, owned by a French company, all proceeds flowing out of the UK, arched over the Thames nearby, theoretically carrying thousands of cars a day, though it was often a long and expensive car park.
“I don’t blame you,” said Strang. “I grew up round here. Left as soon as I could.”
Fowler didn’t detect an accent. “Well done.”
Strang leaned forward, tapped the driver once on the shoulder. “Off you go, Bob.” Once Bob had left, Strang turned back to Fowler. “I hope your boss understands the scale of the favour I’m doing him.”
Fowler noted Strang had made a statement, rather than asked a question.
“Jeff is aware of what he’s asking.”
“He’d better be. I’m here in this shitty place at a shitty time of night because I’d like you to impress upon Jeff that at some point I will expect something at least equal in return.” Strang drank some more of the tea. “Jesus. Kids though. I really don’t like getting my hands dirty with the underage. There’s good money in it, apparently, but it feels wrong. Have you got offspring, Sergeant?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“To see if you understand.”
“Jesus, Strang, can we just get on with it?”
Fowler felt a powerful grip on his leg just above the knee. Strang had one large hand digging in, the thumb finding a nerve. The pain intensified until Fowler cried out. Strang gave another squeeze before letting go. Fowler refrained from rubbing the area, which was numb and throbbed.
“This takes as long as I want, Mike.�
� Fowler kept his mouth shut. Strang finished his tea, said, “Where is he?”
“Not here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Change of plan.”
“You surprise me, Mike. I’d heard you were smart. Messing me around usually has consequences.”
“Hear me out. I’ve an alternative proposal for you. One which means you keep your hands clean.”
“Interesting, go on.”
“The kid isn’t here. I’ve already dealt with him. So you don’t need to.”
“Yet here I am.”
“My request is that none of this gets back to Carslake. As far as he’s concerned, we met and the boy went to you. Therefore he’s still in debt.”
“Stitching up your boss, I like it. And I’ll admit, not having to manage the child’s disappearance is a happy occurrence for me.”
“I’m glad we’re agreed.” Fowler put his hand on the door handle to leave.
“Not quite. It seems that you’re asking me for a favour, Mike, yet offering nothing in return. There’s not enough tipping the scales over to my side.”
Fowler turned back to him. “What do you mean?” he asked, though knowing damn well what he wanted.
“I want your future loyalty as well.”
Fowler had anticipated this, had already wrestled his conscience into submission. That Tom’s life was worth throwing his own integrity away. “Two cops for the price of one.”
“Three, if you count me.” Strang smiled. He held out his hand. Fowler took it and shook. This time, Strang let Fowler get halfway out of the car before stopping him. “Mike.” Fowler turned. Strang leaned over. “Give it five minutes before you leave.”
The Range Rover drove off, pausing at the gate for the remaining man to open it up. He got into the rear. As he did so the interior light popped on and Fowler saw a pale shape at the rear window. It was Strang, staring back at Fowler. Then he was gone and the Range Rover disappeared up Vauxhall Place.
Fowler was left in darkness. He shivered, realising how cold it was. He returned to his car, got inside and started the engine. The wipers kicked in. A minute ticked by. A shadow fell across the windscreen. Fowler looked up. It was the tree growing out of the building, blowing in the wind. He couldn’t wait here any longer. He put the car in gear and went slowly in the Range Rover’s tracks.
At the junction with Lowfield Street he glanced up and down the road. Nothing and nobody. With a scuff of his rear tyres in mud, Fowler pulled away fast to start the return journey to Thanet.
Twenty
Now
Gray tugged at his shirt collar while he waited. He felt hot, his palms damp, heat in his armpits. This was it, the moment when he learned whether six months of repetitive, bruising treatment had been worth it. The battering of his body with chemicals, allowing the cells to recover before repeating the assault all over again. The process had proved wearing, but Gray supposed that was the point.
The waiting room was a space located between the corridor and the office belonging to Dr Manesh. The area was functional. Beside the chairs was a table and some educational posters, yellowed in the sunlight. The wall paint was old and flaking, the light all unnatural – there weren’t any windows. The room badly needed refreshing.
Gray heard the clack of heels on linoleum. Through the glass door, separating his space from the corridor, he watched two nurses in animated conversation walk past, one clutching a sheaf of folders to her chest.
Just behind them was Manesh. He entered, also carrying a folder. “Good morning, Solomon.” He checked his watch, flicking his wrist so the white lab coat he wore rode up his arm to reveal the face. “You’re early.”
“Got a busy day ahead, doctor.”
“Haven’t we all. Please, after you.” Manesh opened his office door and stood to one side, allowing Gray entrance. “And looking rather smart. All dressed up with somewhere to go?”
“An inquest.” Gray had dug out his best suit and had it dry-cleaned in preparation. The smell of the chemicals was still on the fabric this morning when he’d removed the thin plastic wrap. “For work.”
“Ah.” Manesh was a good head shorter than Gray. His black hair was neatly combed and his small moustache precisely clipped. During their time together, Manesh had told Gray he came from Sri Lanka. Manesh’s English was very good, with just the hint of an accent. Manesh had proved himself an adept and conscientious communicator. Throughout the treatment process, he’d explained each step concisely and listened to all Gray’s concerns.
The doctor pointed at a chair before dropping the folder on a desk and seating himself. He pulled his chair in, smoothed his blue tie down and put his arms on the desk, covering the folder which he’d left closed.
“Let us cut to the chase, Solomon,” said Manesh. “The delay in your care was a major worry for me.”
During a case earlier in the year Gray had broken his treatment programme to focus on his work. Manesh had warned him of the potential consequences but Gray had chosen to ignore the doctor.
“I’m sorry about that,” said Gray, “but it was necessary.”
Manesh held up his hand. “Thankfully, it has not been a problem. I have good news, the best news, in fact.” A broad grin split his round face. “I’m delighted to tell you that you are in remission!”
The relief burst through Gray like a tidal wave. He bent over, arms on his thighs. His heart beat faster. It was what he’d wanted to hear, but dared not hoped for. “That’s fantastic.”
“Isn’t it? But let’s be clear, I will need to see you periodically. Just to ensure the cancer has not returned. It is a scourge which has a habit of popping up again.”
Gray sat upright. “Like whack-a-rat.”
Manesh grinned again and pointed a finger at Gray, as if he was firing a gun. “Exactly that!” Manesh laughed. “Whack-a-rat, that is funny.” Manesh stood and offered a hand to Gray. “Now go and enjoy your life and I will see you again in six months.”
Gray got to his feet, gripped Manesh’s hand and shook. “I can’t thank you enough, Doctor.” The words didn’t sound sufficient to convey his gratitude.
Manesh waved his appreciation away. “Isn’t it what we all do, Solomon? Look out for people? Especially those who can’t for themselves?”
***
Hamson scuffed the butt against the wall, another black mark among many others.
She shivered, shoved her one exposed hand deep into the pocket of her knee-length black coat, and hunched her shoulders. She leaned against a thick wooden handrail the width of a floorboard, once painted white but little of the coating remained, exposing bare wood, grey with age. A few steps led up to the official building above, the Magistrate’s court on Cecil Square in Margate, a short walk from the police station and on the edge of a busy road, the air tainted with exhaust fumes.
“How did it go?” asked Hamson.
“I got the all clear,” said Gray.
“That’s great news!” A motorbike sputtered past, the throaty exhaust’s roar drawing Gray’s eyes momentarily. “So why don’t you look pleased?”
“I am, but it’s all this, Von.” Gray waved a hand at the edifice. The court building was an ugly, brick oblong with an appearance harking back to post-war modernism – all straight lines and angles, narrow windows and brutalist, which once would have been fashionable and now just appeared tired and over simplistic. A seagull, several feathers sticking out at unnatural angles, eyed Gray from the level above.
“It’s good, Sol,” said Hamson as she walked up the couple of steps to the entrance. “It means you can put everything behind you.” Hamson dragged open the door and held it for him, the second time today someone had done that.
“True,” lied Gray.
In the entrance lobby were a couple of security guards wearing black trousers, light blue shirts and dark ties. There were two walk-through metal detectors. Hamson handed over her bag before she went through the screening. One of the guards checked the conte
nts, handing it back when she was through and he was satisfied. Gray passed the same guard his phone and wallet. There was a loud bleep when he set the sensors off though.
“Are you wearing a belt?” asked the guard.
“I am.”
The guard held his hand out. Gray repeated the process, no sound this time. He took back his phone and wallet.
While Gray was threading his belt back on Hamson asked, “Which court are we in?”
Gray pulled the summons from an inside pocket and scanned it briefly. “Seven.”
“Along here,” pointed Hamson.
A small group was already assembled outside the closed door to Court Room Seven, waiting for proceedings to commence. Gray recognised Carslake’s wife, Juliette, Jules to her friends, accompanied by her two grown-up children, Luke and Matthew. Even though he’d known she’d be here, he still felt a shock of guilt at her presence. She glanced at him, then looked away. He had tried to speak to her at her house shortly after Carslake’s death, but the conversation had been terse.
Ben Clough, the pathologist, nodded at Gray. A few unfamiliar men in suits huddled together. They appeared to be reporters. The door opened. Out stepped the court usher, a woman in a formal skirt suit and white shirt, clutching a clipboard to her chest. She wore a name badge: ‘Florence Vogel’.
“We’re ready to begin,” Vogel said, and stood to one side, allowing the attendees to file past.
The interior was as functional as Dr Manesh’s waiting room. At the front was a raised bench, three chairs behind it and a coat of arms on the wall. The central chair, for the coroner herself, directly below the heraldic motif, was larger than those that braced it. Off to one side, and a row further forward, was the cube-shaped witness box, then three lines of tightly spaced seats butted right up to each other, giving little room for manoeuvre. Plain carpet, television mounted on one beige wall.
Towards the rear of the room was a further row of seats, split down the middle by a wide aisle. The small group Gray hadn’t recognised made for the right-hand section, reserved for the press. So his guess had been correct. The opposite space was for the public. Anyone had a right to attend an inquest, but it seemed no one planned to today.
