The Solomon Gray Series Box Set

by Keith Nixon

  Fowler’s backside was beginning to ache when he caught a furtive movement out of the corner of his eye. A lad, carrying a backpack was making his way along the street in fits and starts, moving like a rat in short, fast scuttles, using the shadows for cover. Fowler knew him. It was Regan Armitage, local troublemaker and the son of a wealthy property owner. Regan disappeared down an alley.

  Fowler stood, grabbed the bag and looked both ways before crossing the road. When he reached the alley’s mouth, he caught sight of a leg disappearing through a fence. Regan had entered the rear of the guest house. Seconds later, a cat shot through the same gap and dashed off in the opposite direction.

  Fowler didn’t have long to wait. A yellow light illuminated the wall above the garden. Regan squeezed out through the fence and followed in the cat’s wake. He was heading for the phone box that Fowler broke earlier. Fowler entered the courtyard garden. The fire Regan had set was weak, the flames dying. More fuel was needed.

  A fuel can and some oily rags came out of the bag. The man who owned the Sunset had a penchant for old motorbikes. A half-rebuilt machine rested at the furthest reach of the courtyard. Fowler kicked the stand, wheeled it over and reset it a few feet from the flames. He wet some rags with petrol from the can, threw them on the floor then poured fuel on the motorbike, splashed some towards the flames and dropped the can by the bike.

  The fire caught, leapt high, making Fowler hurriedly step back. He was amazed at how quickly the blaze roared, climbing up the walls and leaping inside the house. Embers rose like fireflies. The heat was a caress on Fowler’s face. He backed up further, mesmerised, until the glass in the kitchen window splintered then shattered. It wouldn’t be long before the neighbours were alerted and the fire brigade called. Fowler stuck his head through the fence, glanced up and down the alley. It was empty. He stepped through and quickly walked away.

  The Sunset Guest House was history.

  Twenty Seven

  Now

  Gray checked his rear-view mirror for the umpteenth time. There weren’t any cars behind him. If someone was following they were a long way back. His headlights lit up a blue sign with a white arrow pointing to the Medway Services. Gray didn’t use the indicator. He slowed, pulled onto the exit. There were hardly any other vehicles in the car park. A couple of lorries nearest the building, there for the night, paying to use the facilities. Gray picked a spot close to the entrance. He turned off the engine.

  “This is it,” he said.

  “What’s going on, Dad?” Hope had barely spoken throughout the journey.

  He twisted in his seat and took hold of Hope’s hands in his. “We’re going to meet somebody I’d like you to go and stay with. Away from Thanet.”

  “Who?”

  “A friend. Marcus. He’s police too.”

  “Why?”

  “I need to be sure you’re safe.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll be fine. Can you do this for me, Hope? Can you trust me?”

  Eventually Hope replied, “Yes, Dad.”

  ***

  Pennance wasn’t here yet. Hope put her wheeled suitcase beside the table and sat down. Gray headed off to the counter to order a couple of drinks.

  The service station was a long narrow rectangle either side of the dual carriageway of the M2, connected by a corridor like an extended railway carriage, the traffic running beneath. Floor-to-ceiling windows gave a view of the road itself – long and straight, originally laid by the Romans two thousand years ago. Within was a café, several shops, an amusement arcade and seating.

  Gray carried a tray over with two cups of tea and a pair of granola bars on plates. He put the tray on the table, pulled out a chair and sat opposite Hope. A large vehicle whooshed past beneath them.

  Gray kept glancing towards the entrance, but nobody came through the doors. “Have you heard from Hamish recently?” asked Gray.

  She pulled a face. “He’s tried to ring me a couple of times, but I rejected the calls. I’m still not sure what I’m going to do.”

  “So, you might keep the baby?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What about finishing your degree?”

  “It’s not like I can’t take the course again in the future.” Hope shifted in her chair. “How long will this be for?”

  “A few days, I’d think.”

  “Where will I be going?”

  “London, probably.”

  “Why, Dad?”

  “I’m getting closer to finding Tom.” A pained expression crossed Hope’s face. It was the first time her brother’s name had been mentioned between them in more than a decade.

  “Is that what this is all about?”

  “Maybe.” Truth was, he didn’t know. He saw movement by the entrance. It was Pennance, pushing his way through the doors. “Ah, Marcus.”

  “You must be Hope,” said Pennance. He remained standing.

  “We haven’t got time to waste,” said Gray. “I suggest you get going.” He stood. “I’ll call when it’s all over.”

  “Can I help at all, Sol?” asked Pennance.

  “This is helping.” Gray gave Hope a hug. “Everything will be okay.” Hope nodded though she didn’t seem convinced.

  Pennance and Gray shook hands. “Thanks Marcus, I owe you.”

  “Stay lucky,” said Pennance.

  Gray stood at the window until he saw a pair of headlights swing onto the down ramp then take the M2 towards London. He was still there long after the tail lights had disappeared.

  ***

  Gray had just crossed into Thanet on the A299 dual carriageway when his phone rang. It was Hamson. He pulled over onto the hard shoulder, stuck the hazard lights on and answered. “What’s up?” The clock said 4.01am. “We’ve a problem,” said Hamson. “I need you here.”

  “Where’s here?”

  “The car park, underneath Arlington House. It’ll be obvious when you arrive.”

  “Half an hour.” Gray disconnected.

  He could have a bloody good guess what would be awaiting him.

  Twenty Eight

  Now

  The car park entrance, a gap in the concrete allowing access to a steep ramp which descended into a cavernous space, was blocked by blue-and-white-striped police tape and a pair of constables. Arlington House towered above. A few lights in the flats were on, even at this unholy hour. As Gray drew up, one of the constables stooped to peer into the car. Gray wound the window down. “You’ll need to park over there, sir.” The PC pointed. Gray reversed, found a space on the grass verge. He locked up, retraced his steps. The same constable lifted the tape to allow Gray to pass. He ducked under.

  “Where’s DCI Hamson?” asked Gray once he was on the other side.

  “In the centre, sir. You can’t miss her.”

  As Gray descended the down ramp, he spotted Hamson. Beyond the DCI were lines of cars. Hamson was with the pathologist, Clough, and both were in white evidence suits. crime scene investigators were crawling over the immediate area – only Clough and Hamson static. The Crime Scene Manager, Brian Blake, rotund in his get-up, stood in front of a white van, “CSI” printed on the side. Gray changed direction, made his way to Blake. Gray didn’t like Blake much and the feeling was mutual. The moustachioed Blake leaned into the back of the van, and wordlessly handed over a suit, overshoes and gloves. While Gray was putting the gear on, Blake noted down his presence on the crime scene log, a piece of paper held in place by a clipboard, before he scuttled away, not looking back.

  Suited and booted, Gray headed for the inner cordon where Hamson was waiting, standing on a square metal plate. There were more plates behind her, placed like stepping stones along the centre of the lane between rows of cars, their purpose to reduce impact on trace evidence at the scene. Hamson acknowledged him and walked on, indicating Gray to follow.

  As he neared the end of the row he caught sight of a BMW SUV. He recognised the vehicle as Usher’s. His heart began to thump. He knew
what was coming. The plates led past the front of the car and around to the driver’s side. It became obvious the interior of the car was a slaughterhouse. Blood and grey matter were splashed all over the passenger’s window.

  “Tell me what you see, Sol,” said Hamson.

  Gray took in the grisly tableau. A single corpse in the driver’s seat, leaning over at an angle, held partially upright by the seat belt. It was Duncan Usher but Gray only knew because he recognised the clothes. Usher’s face was gone; blown away, obliterated from close range by a smash of shotgun pellets.

  Glass littered the floor and back seat; little irregular shards, mixed in with blood and brain spatter, and there were pellets embedded in the upholstery. Gray had been wrong, he’d only had a partial idea of what to expect. McGavin had outdone himself.

  “He was shot where he sat,” said Gray eventually. “From roughly here.” Gray placed himself directly outside the driver’s side. He mimicked holding a gun in both hands, aiming at the slumped body. “Obviously a shotgun, given the damage. The window was closed, fully or partially, when they fired. If I was going to make an educated guess it appears to be an execution. There’s a statement being made by hitting him in the face. There has to be a purpose to it.”

  “Agreed,” said Hamson.

  “I assume we’re looking at Duncan Usher? It’s his car.”

  “We are.” Hamson held out an evidence bag. “Found in his pocket.”

  A wallet, monogrammed in the bottom corner, initials in gold. “DU”.

  “No effort to conceal his identity.”

  “None.”

  “Where’s Telfer? Usher rarely drove himself.”

  Hamson answered by leading Gray to the boot. She lifted it up. Inside was a huge sheet of plastic. Hamson peeled back a corner, revealing Telfer’s wide-eyed stare. “Stabbed repeatedly.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Inseparable to the end.”

  “Has Clough given a time of death?”

  “Nothing precise. He said we’ll have to wait for the PM because of a concern he wouldn’t voice. But we got an anonymous call about a gunshot just over an hour ago.”

  “No sightings of anyone fleeing the scene?”

  “Of course not.” Hamson snorted mirthlessly. “Frankly, this is all we need, given Pivot’s underway.”

  “But we’re done with that.”

  “So I thought. Wyatt will be staying in Thanet for the time being for continuity.”

  Gray frowned. “Is something wrong, Von?”

  “I’ll tell you later. I’d better call Marsh, give him an update. This will be all over the news. You know what this means, though?”

  “What?” Gray didn’t know much of anything right now.

  “The coronation of Frank McGavin. The king is dead, long live the king.”

  Twenty Nine

  Now

  The Major Incident room, recently reclaimed from the Pivot team, was in full swing. Whether the victim was a one or a ten on the arsehole scale, all murders received the same treatment. Maximum effort. No complaints, no grumbles. Everybody focused on what needed to be done.

  But this was Duncan Usher. Gray’s colleagues appeared pleased he was dead.

  The Murder Board was being written up by Worthington. Two columns, for Usher and Telfer. Photos of the pair, before and after death, were being stuck up by another DC.

  The phones were being worked. CID officers contacting informants for every shred of relevant information, no matter how seemingly insignificant. Likewise, uniform was out on the street, rousting contacts. All leave had been cancelled, every team member pulled in. For maximum effort, supposedly.

  “Von,” he said, keeping his voice down, even with the noise in the office. “I think you need to have a word with the team, remind them what they’re here for.”

  “They should bloody well know.”

  “Are you sure, Ma’am?” Gray used the honorific deliberately. Hamson turned to him, frowning. “Two known criminals who half the team in here has been after for years are dead. And this is your first serious case in charge. You should stamp your authority on it, get everyone working in the direction you want, how you want it.”

  Hamson stared at him for a long moment, making him think his words hadn’t penetrated. He was about to try again when she said, “You’re right. Thanks, Sol. Get everyone together. We’ll meet in fifteen minutes.” She headed out of the Incident Room.

  Gray spent a short few moments organising a case review. He found Hamson outside in the car park. At first he didn’t see her, until he spotted the plume of smoke from around the corner. She was leaning against the wall, shoulders flat against the bricks, one leg bent at the knee

  “Sorry,” said Hamson. She dropped the cigarette and ground it out with the previously raised foot.

  “A bit of cigarette smoke isn’t going to start up the cancer again, Von.”

  “Nevertheless, bad habit.” Hamson regained her earlier stance.

  “No argument there. We’re ready to go whenever you are.” He mimicked Hamson, his hands behind his backside. He lapsed into silence, debating whether to talk with her about last night’s events.

  “You all right?” she asked, cutting into his thoughts.

  “You mentioned Pivot earlier. What’s going on?”

  “Mike has been getting intel from his contacts that a new drugs supply has started up already. And it’s proving very efficient, apparently.”

  “Yarrow did say it was a possibility.”

  “Agreed, but the minute the previous lines are gone? We were hoping for some respite. It’s like we didn’t put the slightest dent in the dealer network. Cheaper drugs and higher quality. As much as anybody wants. All from the one source.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” said Gray. “If you’re the dominant supplier, why lower your prices? I’m no commercial expert, but isn’t supply and demand a factor here? Lots of demand – constrained supply should mean higher cost, surely?”

  “Mike thinks they’re attempting to take a permanent stranglehold on the supply chain. Once they have all the customers in their pocket, they can charge what they like.”

  “It’s almost as if they were ready and waiting for the competition to be taken out.”

  “Funny you say that, Sol, that’s exactly what I was thinking.” Hamson pushed off from the wall. “I’ve got to keep an eye on that problem so you’ll be the senior investigating officer on the Usher case.”

  “Fine by me,” lied Gray.

  “Right, let’s get back inside. You’ve two murders to solve.”

  ***

  Hamson was the last to be seated, placing herself at the head of the table. Not really her style, but it was the only remaining chair. Gray had arranged for the review to take place in one of the meeting spaces just off the Incident Room. Besides Hamson and Gray there were six others present, all from CID.

  Hamson bowed her head for a moment. Gray knew her well enough to be aware that she was gathering her thoughts, but a few of the others threw glances at each other, wondering about the delay.

  Eventually Hamson said, “I’m well aware the situation we find ourselves in right now is extraordinary. It would be easy to let the murders of two well-known criminals slide, to think that someone has done us all a massive favour. However, we are police. We cannot think that way.

  “I would remind you that our primary purpose is to gather the facts and interpret them accordingly. It’s far too early to know the why. DI Gray will be SIO as he has a long-standing knowledge of both victims. But remember, above all, keep an open mind. Carry on.”

  Hamson left the room, closing the door behind her.

  “Okay, let’s summarise,” said Gray. For the next quarter of an hour the team ran over the crime scene photos and the information CSI had gathered to date.

  “We need to generate more data,” said Gray. “There’s just not enough to go on. Jerry, get uniform knocking on doors nearby.”

  “Where, sir?�
� asked Worthington. “Most of them are commercial properties, shops mainly, so they’re only occupied during the day.”

  “Somebody called in the shooting, and there are the flats immediately above the car park and a hotel across the road. Maybe they were outside having a smoke and saw something. Likewise with CCTV, drag off what you can from the nearby cameras. I want to know when Usher got into the car park and who arrived before and after him. Is anybody aware of when the PM is due?”

  “Haven’t heard, sir.”

  “I’ll contact Clough. If there’s nothing else, let’s get to it. We’ll reconvene in the afternoon to assess progress.”

  Gray headed to the Detectives’ Office. There, lying in the centre of the desk, were his phone and car keys.

  “Did anybody see who put these here?” asked Gray of everyone in the office. He raised the phone and keys up in the air. He received shrugs and shakes of the head in response.

  One of Gray’s colleagues had, though. He wondered who.

  For now, that would have to wait. He wanted to know more about the man in McGavin’s garage: Ingham. With a few clicks Gray pulled up the Pivot file on Damian Parker, the intel collected in advance of the raids. As Gray rightly recalled, Ingham, first name Richard, was outlined under the Known Associates section. The trio – Ingham, Parker and Harwood – had grown up together; gone to the same schools.

  Next, Gray accessed the surveillance footage. There were several media files in the relevant directory. Gray played each one, watching them throughout. In all the segments Parker was outside, typically wandering the housing estate where he lived. There was Harwood, wandering the streets with Parker, buying something at the café where Parker worked, even heading inside the block of flats together. However, Harwood was nowhere nearby when Parker was dealing, which was why Pivot passed him over.