by Keith Nixon
“He’s okay.” Gray squatted, put his hand out. Mack gleefully accepted a stroke. “You took him then?”
“I had to.” Mack rolled over onto his back, paws in the air, exposing his stomach. Gray rubbed the dog’s ribs. “It’s only temporary. Until I can find somewhere permanent. The kids love him but he’s driving my husband up the wall.”
Gray gave Mack one more rub, then stood, said, “I’ve got an update for you.”
“Okay, come through.” Draper indicated the living room. A huge television dominated one wall in front of which was arranged a leather sofa and armchairs, like an upmarket cinema. “Please, take a seat.” Mack followed them, waited to see where Gray was going to sit, then flopped at his feet.
The leather squeaked as Gray settled into the armchair. “We’ve carried out some tests on the baby.” He didn’t want to say post-mortem. Sometimes people were squeamish about the process and didn’t like to think directly about it. “First, you were right, it was a girl.”
Draper frowned. “So sad.”
“Second, we’ve received the DNA analysis back from your swabs and we found that the girl is not related to you or your mother.”
“Oh!” Draper put a hand over her mouth. “I’m not sure whether that’s a relief or not.” She shook her head. “How did she die?”
“Most probably of natural causes and no more than ten years ago but at the moment it’s difficult to be more specific.”
“She lay there for a decade?”
“So it seems.”
“That’s horrible. How did she end up in my mother’s wardrobe?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“But you’ll tell me when you do?”
“Of course.”
“What happens to the little girl now?”
“We’ll keep her for the time being.”
“She’ll be buried eventually, though?”
“Once our investigations are complete. At the moment we’re not clear who we should release her body to.”
“God, of course. I never even thought about that.”
“She’s being treated with complete respect.”
“It’s about time someone did.”
Gray agreed. “How are you otherwise?”
“Not enjoying being a minor celebrity, I have to say. I’m sure you’ve seen the newspapers?”
“Yes.”
“There’s been a couple of calls from reporters too. I’ve declined to comment.”
“Probably for the best.” Gray stood, Mack lifted his head. “I’d better be on my way.”
“Was that all you found from the swabs?” Draper remained seated. “About my relationship with the baby?”
“What do you mean?”
“You didn’t make mention of Philip.”
Gray groaned inside. He sat. “I was talking in general terms.”
“You don’t need to hide anything. I do know about my partial relationship to Philip.”
“I wasn’t sure how to broach it.”
“I don’t blame you. Clearly Mum was an expert at keeping secrets. She told me a few years ago that Philip and I were half-brother and sister.”
“Philip isn’t aware?”
Draper shook her head. “As you probably noticed he’s a gloomy person. She didn’t want to make it worse for him, she said. But I’ve never been sure whether to believe her. Even more so after discovering the baby. That made me question everything, to be honest.”
Gray sat back down. “The DNA analysis revealed only a 50% match between you and Philip. You’ve got different fathers.”
“So, at least that was true.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What are you apologising for?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Mum didn’t have an affair, by the way.”
“It’s really none of my business.”
“I can’t let you leave with only half that story too. Mum was already pregnant when she and Dad got together. They’d known each other for years. Dad had loved Mum all that time but not been able to do anything about it because she had a boyfriend. But when her partner learned she was pregnant he ran away, leaving Mum in the lurch.”
“Nice guy.”
“Mum’s parents were strict so there would have been a lot of shame heaped on her if she’d borne a child out of wedlock. So, in stepped my father. They married quickly and he took Philip as his own son.”
“Sounds like he was a good man.”
“Thank you. He was. I miss him a lot. Mum told me all this just after Dad died, then swore me to secrecy.”
“And it’ll stay that way.”
“I appreciate it.” Draper smiled. “Now you can go.” Mack followed them to the door. “Are you sure you can’t take him?”
“Sorry.” Gray gave Mack one last rub before he left.
In his car Gray sat, considering what Draper had told him. Family secrets and sources of shame. He wondered if the mother of the baby in the box had felt the same. Had shame driven her to act?
Gray’s phone rang.
“Doctor Maltby from the QEQM. Somebody has just walked into A&E with dog bites.”
Fourteen
The Spencer Wing parking spaces were all filled so Gray had to pay at a machine. He marched inside the hospital, ignoring the triage line run by the nurse, a different one to last time, and went up to the desk. He showed his warrant card to the receptionist. “Doctor Maltby is expecting me,” he said.
She picked up her phone, dialled, waited a moment for an answer, said, “The police officer is here.” She listened, replaced the receiver. “Doctor Maltby will let you in.”
“Thanks.”
Gray moved to the double doors which led to the A&E suite. A moment later the door opened, Maltby standing there in her white lab coat. “That was fast.” She stood back, allowed Gray access.
“I was only down the road in St. Peter’s.”
“This way.” Maltby led Gray to the beds in the narrow area of the main A&E section. She paused, spoke quietly. “All I know is he’s called Eric. When he arrived, he’d been bitten and scratched by a dog. His father is with him too. We cleaned Eric up and gave him something for the pain.”
Eric was in the bed furthest away. Maltby drew back the curtains. Gray stepped through and the doctor drew the curtains again. Eric lay propped up in bed. Both his arms were on top of the blanket and heavily bandaged. He looked to be in his mid-teens. His dark hair was a mess, scratches on his face and a swollen bottom lip.
A man sitting on a chair beside Eric stood. He was wearing a tracksuit, zipped up to the neck, tattoos on the back of both his hands. His hair was curly, his nose once broken and badly fixed. “Who are you?”
“Inspector Solomon Gray.”
“Thought you was a cop. You need to find the bastard what did this to my kid.”
“Which is why I’m here.” Gray turned to the patient. “What happened, Eric?”
Eric focused on his father, seeking permission.
“Tell him, son. It’s all right.”
“I was minding my own business when out of nowhere some dog ran at me, knocked me off my bike, then started going for my arms.”
“What type?”
“A cop dog.”
“A German Shepherd?”
Eric shrugged. Gray pulled out his phone, entered a browser, pulled up a photo of the breed, showed the screen to Eric.
“That’s the one.”
“Where did this happen?”
“The Sunken Gardens.”
A run-down relic of what had once been a grand formal layout of flowers and close-cropped lawns in the 1930s above the cliffs in the well-to-do area of Westbrook on the edge of Margate. The large grassed area was hidden in a deep dip behind flint walls, trees, shrubs and hedges. The houses overlooking the gardens were hundreds of yards away, the other direction was the cliff edge. A good location for trouble.
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
&nbs
p; “And your surname, please.”
Eric checked with his father again. Maybe it was ingrained into the kid never to tell the cops anything. Another nod.
“Abbott.”
“What were you doing in the Gardens?”
“Waiting for my mates. They were late. When they arrived, the bloke ran off down towards the beach.”
“Could you describe the man?”
“All I know is he was taller than me. He kept his face covered with a scarf and had his hood up.”
“Why would he pick you?”
Eric shrugged. “No idea. I weren’t up to nothing.”
“Did he speak to you?”
“He told me I was trouble.”
Abbott senior, who hadn’t shared his name with Gray, cut in. “He doesn’t know what trouble is yet. Look officer, why don’t you get out there and find this guy rather than stand here with us?”
“Be assured we’ll be looking into this as a matter of urgency. Have you got a number I can contact you on?” Abbott senior gave him a mobile number. “Thanks, I’ll be in touch.”
Gray raised a thumb at Eric and left the bedside. Abbott followed him. Gray paused. Doctor Maltby hung back. The man got up close to Gray. “If you don’t track him down, I will, all right?”
“Leave it to us, sir.”
“What would you do if it was your kid?”
Gray knew exactly but wasn’t going to admit it. “As I said, we’ll treat it with urgency.”
“Another of his mates got attacked, it isn’t right.”
“Kirton, you mean?”
“No.” Abbot’s forehead creased. “He’s fine.”
“I interviewed him a couple of days ago. He’d been bitten by a dog too, over on the Newington Estate.”
“Don’t know what you’re on about, mate. Alex is fine.”
“Alex Kirton? Not Freddie?”
“Never heard of a Freddie Kirton.”
“So, who’s the third one? We don’t have a name.” Abbott eyed Gray with suspicion. “The more evidence we can gather the faster we’ll be able to learn who did this.”
“All right, Alfie Durrant.”
“Thank you. That’ll help me, I’m sure. I’ll be in touch.”
“Work fast, mate.” Abbott glared at Gray briefly before turning and walking back to his son.
Maltby walked beside Gray, said, “He’s intense.”
“Somebody just assaulted his son; I can give him leeway on that.”
Maltby pressed a button beside the door to let him out. “Good luck.”
Fifteen
Gray entered Eric Abbott into the PNC search engine. Eric possessed an extensive record. Mainly low-level stuff like affray, criminal damage (graffiti which he’d claimed was street art and was given a warning) along with several anti-social behaviour orders. He was 16 and lived on Park Place, behind Dreamland in Margate. He’d attended the Hartsdown Academy junior school in the town until moving to the Marlowe Academy senior school at 14.
The list of known associates was relatively short – Alfie Durrant, Alex Kirton and Eric’s father, Andrew Abbott. Gray jumped over to Abbot senior’s record. Seemingly, the son was imitating the father because Abbott was a career criminal. He’d been inside for armed robbery as recently as four years ago. His place of residence was Westcliff Road, just a stone’s throw from the Westbrook beach and near to the Sunken Gardens.
Next, Gray flipped over to Alfie Durrant. He was a little older than Eric at seventeen but had committed a raft of crimes of increasing severity, leading up to a house burglary a year ago for which he’d received six months in a juvenile detention centre.
Since his release there had been accusations of an assault on a pensioner in the College Square shopping centre, although the man refused to press charges and eventually the case had been dropped by the Crime Prosecution Service because they weren’t convinced gaining a conviction was feasible – the man allegedly assaulted wasn’t willing to testify.
Like Eric, Durrant was a Margate resident, living in one of the flats on Mill Lane, and had been at Hartsdown too before moving to the Marlowe. He’d left school at sixteen to attend the Broadstairs College but was now classified as unemployed having dropped out not even a year into the cookery course he’d begun.
Gray returned to Freddie Kirton. Freddie was younger at fifteen and unconnected to Abbott or Durrant other than being a Marlowe Academy pupil. It made sense why he would attend the school, his house was only a couple of streets away. Otherwise he lived in Ramsgate, the other side of the island, and had a minimal police record. So, the only link between all three was the school. And more than a thousand pupils attended the Marlowe from right across Thanet. Freddie was an outlier.
Then, Gray looked up Alex Kirton – the name Abbott had given him. The same age as Eric at 16, lived one street away, also attended Hartsdown and Marlowe, ran in the same gang as Eric and Durrant, and had even been picked up a couple of times accompanying Eric. Kirton too had avoided time in detention and had multiple ASBOs to his name. Gray looked up the arresting officer – PC Damian Boughton.
Which confirmed Freddie Kirton had to be mistaken identity and the games console with the apologetic note a way of making up for it. His attacker possessed a guilty conscience, it seemed.
So, three minors all with an ever-growing criminal record and, to all intents and purposes, that list would simply expand further as they moved into adulthood. Most of the crimes linked to the trio were in and around central Margate. Boughton’s patch, hence the arrests. Gray called him.
“I’m on a day off, Sol,” said Boughton when he answered.
“Sorry.”
“It’s all right, you weren’t to know. To be honest I can do with the distraction; I’m only running a few errands for the wife. What’s up?”
“It’s who, not what.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Three males, Abbott, Kirton and Durrant. You’ve nicked all of them more than once in and around central Margate.”
“Oh yes, I’m very familiar with that trio, real group of trouble causers. They used to be little bastards even when they were toddlers and are growing up to be big bastards as they reach adulthood. Between them and a couple of their mates they’re responsible for the majority of the trouble in my patch. The only blessing is they’re not involved with selling drugs, although that might just be a matter of time. They’re a real worry for the future.”
“Well, two of them have been assaulted in recent weeks, a man has set a dog on them.”
Boughton laughed. “I didn’t know that. Thoroughly deserved, I’d say.”
“I’m trying to find out who attacked them.”
“When you do, tell me would you? I’d like to shake them by the hand.”
“Bloody hell, Damian.”
“Look, Sol. You’ve read their records. Presumably you’ve also seen the laughable sentences the courts have handed down.”
“They’re minors.”
“So? That makes it okay for them to harass and beat people up, break into their houses? Get drunk in public, make lewd suggestions to passers-by? Now is the time to come down hard on them, before it becomes totally ingrained, before they realise they can pretty much do as they please. You’ve experienced this behaviour; you can’t tell me you haven’t. And things will only get worse with the jails full to bursting, you watch.”
“It’s not our job to be the judge.”
“They hardly even get in front of a judge, though. Mark my words, this lot will be in and out of our station over the next few years. Andrew Abbott is well connected. He used to work with one Frank McGavin.” The self-exiled crime boss. “There’s trouble ahead, for sure.”
“Any idea who might target them?”
“I could give you a list as long as your arm! Besides their mothers nobody will care that they’ve been assaulted. Look, I’ve got to go.”
“Wait, Damian.”
“Okay but be quick.”
“Di
dn’t you want to talk to me about something?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You said the other day in St. Peter’s.”
“Oh, yes. It’s nothing. Forget it. Anyway, I’d wish you good luck, but for once I hope you fail to catch your man. That lot deserve everything they get and more.” Then Boughton was gone.
Gray sat back, vaguely dissatisfied with the conversation with Boughton. He scrolled through the Kirton’s record one more time, not sure what he was looking for. He was about to exit when he noticed that someone else had recently accessed the file. Gray flipped to Durrant’s and then to Eric. He saw the same name.
Jerry Worthington.
Sixteen
“Where’s Worthington?” asked Gray.
“Are you alright, sir?” Ibbotson frowned.
“I’m after Worthington.”
“Yes, sir. We’re all aware of that.” Ibbotson glanced around the office. Gray was aware of faces turned towards him.
“Jesus, Ted. Have you bloody seen him or not?”
“He’s right behind you.” Ibbotson nodded over Gray’s shoulder.
Worthington stood with his arms crossed a few feet away near the door, wearing a mocking expression.
“My office,” said Gray. “Now.”
“Wasn’t one bollocking enough?” asked Worthington. “What am I supposed to have done this time?”
“I’m here if you need me,” said Ibbotson as Gray stalked away.
“Stay out of it, sergeant,” said Gray over his shoulder.
Worthington entered the office first, Gray a couple of feet behind him. He slammed the door shut.
“What the hell is going on?” asked Worthington. “You’re acting like someone has stolen your teddy bear.”
“Eric Abbott, Alex Kirton and Alfie Durrant.”
Worthington blinked, raised his hands out to the side. “Is that supposed to mean something?”
“Three lads in the same gang, two recently mauled by a dog with a third attacked in a case of mistaken identity.”
“Sounds like pretty bad luck to me.”
“What do you know about them?”
“I’ve no idea who you’re talking about.”