The Solomon Gray Series Box Set

by Keith Nixon

  Hamson had said the mobile was found down the back of a seat. There were a couple you’d expect to see around a table, all hard wood and functional. Just one armchair, facing the floor-to-ceiling window. The Slab might be a monstrosity from another era, but it had a hell of a view.

  Resolving to wash his hands afterwards, Gray poked his fingers between the cushions and felt around. He pulled out plenty of fluff and hair, but nothing meaningful. Not even cash. Perhaps the phone had slipped out of Buckingham’s pocket, ended up wedged in the constricted space.

  There was one last location he hadn’t checked. He didn’t want to now, but he had no choice. He grabbed the handle of the French window, his palm sweaty. His heart accelerated. He didn’t like heights, liked sheer drops even less, and the thought of going outside terrified him.

  After a deep breath and a steeling of nerves, Gray jerked the window open. Immediately he was buffeted by the wind which tore unhindered straight across the North Sea. He stepped over the threshold and the wind pushed and slapped at him a little more. Bizarrely, even through the turmoil, he could smell fag smoke. Probably another resident having a crafty cigarette.

  Gray took a moment to further compose himself, to allow the anxiety to ease as his mind became accustomed to this new state of affairs. Like many with a fear of heights, Gray felt an impulse to throw himself over the edge. He hated the feeling, that sensation of being on the brink of losing control.

  Gray shuffled the final few feet to the end of the balcony and peered over the edge, his hands tightly gripping the rusty railing which flaked old paint at his touch. The metal shifted under his grasp and the dread rushed up again, squeezed his heart, constricted his throat. Gray took a rapid step back, leaned against the exterior wall and gulped down air. But, before his brain could argue, he returned to the railing and peered down at the pavement.

  He didn’t want to imagine what would drive someone to dive into nothing, to watch the solid mass race towards their face, unable to turn back, unable to change their mind. Fearless or fearful, he couldn’t decide.

  Gray stepped away once more from the edge. His pulse didn’t slow until the window was closed and the sound of the wind receded to a whisper. He exhaled through pursed lips, and sucked in another breath to calm himself down.

  There was no more to see here. Perhaps Blake’s report, once he released it, would provide more clues. Or perhaps it really had been a pointless death.

  ***

  Gray was replacing the tape when he heard a cough, a single, sharp hack. He ignored it, but there was a second cough, followed by a third. He turned to see an obese man leaning in a neighbouring doorway. He was dressed all in black, jet black hair tied back in a ponytail in the style of a goth. Maybe the hint of some eyeliner.

  The goth nodded his way. A glance up and down the corridor revealed no one else, so the bloke had to be motioning to Gray. Now he was crooking a finger before he headed back into his flat. Gray straightened and walked towards the open door, wondering what the hell was going on.

  He could see the man making his way through the interior, using the wall for support and wheezing like a kettle. Gray stepped over the threshold.

  The goth, now seated in a voluminous leather armchair, the kind usually seen in expensive offices, introduced himself as Ian Wells. “Did you close the door?”

  Gray nodded. Truth be told he couldn’t remember if he had or not.

  “Good,” said Wells. “Can’t be too careful around here.”

  “What is it you want?”

  “You smell like a copper.”

  “You have a good nose.”

  “Show us your badge, then.”

  Gray obliged, handing over his warrant card for Wells to examine. While he did so, Gray took in the living room. The layout was identical to Buckingham’s, only the furnishings varied. A huge black television, sofa, sideboard, nest of tables, all in a dark wood. Then some models of spaceships, Star Trek maybe (Gray was no expert), and several bleached white animal skulls. A strong breeze whistled through the open window, the sound of traffic creeping up from below.

  “Looks genuine,” said Wells.

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  “Take a seat.”

  “No thanks. I can’t stay long.”

  “Sad business about the kid next door.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “Not really. I saw him around, heard him mostly. Heard them all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re aware what that place is, right?”

  “Assume I don’t.” Gray actually didn’t.

  “It’s a knocking shop.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “I know what this tells me.” Wells pointed to an ear. “I don’t sleep too good, so I’m up and around a lot. And the walls are thin.”

  “Did you inform my colleagues of this yesterday?”

  “I must have missed them. I wasn’t in when it all kicked off. I only get away every Friday. A charity, Out and About, fetches me here and there. It takes me the rest of the week to recover.”

  “So what do you think happened?”

  Wells shrugged. “How would I know? You’re the copper.”

  “Hazard a guess.”

  “Unrequited love? Maybe someone fell for someone else.”

  “Fell? What do you mean?”

  “Not in the sense of gravity but, you know, in love.”

  “Okay.”

  “Sorry. I write poetry and sometimes my sense of drama overtakes me.”

  “Right.” Gray was keen to move on. The worst kind of writers wanted to tell you all about their work, which was the last thing he wanted to hear, particularly if it was bloody poetry. “Tell me about these noises you heard.”

  Wells frowned. “Are you some sort of perv?”

  “Humour me.”

  “If you insist. Grunts, groans, that sort of thing.”

  “That’s it?”

  “What more do you want?”

  “Would you be prepared to make a statement?”

  “About grunts and groans?”

  “About everything.”

  “No chance. I’m not talking openly to one of your lot. Far too dangerous.”

  “Why talk to me in the first place then?”

  “Doesn’t mean to say I don’t want to help.”

  “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

  “Not much more to say, really. Lots of comings and goings at all times of the day and night. Different girls in there for a while, then they’re gone. The same older men turning up, over and over. I see them, down below, when they leave.”

  “Anyone you’d recognise?”

  Wells’s face closed off, a shutter dropping over his eyes. “No.”

  “Certain?”

  “Time for you to go, I think.”

  “Why? What are you afraid of?” Wells wouldn’t meet his eye, concentrating instead on another cigarette, then staring out the window.

  He looked like Gray had slapped him in the face.

  Eleven

  The vicarage stood adjacent to the church, within the graveyard boundary. The small windows of the brick and flint cottage overlooked the supermarket and car park to the front and the stones to the rear. Gray couldn’t decide which view was more miserable.

  The back door was reached via a tiny enclosed garden replete with rose bushes which burst into fragrant bloom at the height of summer, but which for now were spindly and brown.

  Gray pushed at a gate constructed of a grey wood. Reverend Hill once told him it was the discards from a coffin that a previous incumbent hadn’t wanted to go to waste.

  Gray thumped on the door. He hadn’t been here in years. He was trying to work out how long it had been when Alice Newbold opened up.

  “This is a surprise, Solomon,” she said.

  And nobody was more surprised than Gray. What was Kate’s best friend doing here? “I’m here to see Reverend Hill.”

  Alice
opened the door and stepped back to allow him entry. “What was it about?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  Gray peered around the dim hallway. White-painted walls, some stairs, and a series of closed doors.

  Alice pointed to one that led into the living room, which was plain and functional. A couple of high-backed comfortable chairs, a coffee table, and some bookshelves. The obligatory cross on the wall and a few family photographs. A dusty painting of the church. A radio on the windowsill. No television.

  “Cup of tea?” Alice asked.

  “No thanks.”

  “It’s nice to have you back, Solomon.”

  Gray didn’t know how to respond. He wasn’t back per se. “Where is David?”

  “He popped out.”

  “Will he be long?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Oh.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want that cup of tea?”

  “I don’t want to waste your time.”

  “Somewhere better to be?”

  Gray didn’t. “Okay then, as long as you have Earl Grey.”

  “We have every kind of tea.” Alice bustled off into the kitchen.

  Through the window Gray watched the comings and goings in the supermarket across the road, wondering why David wanted to see him.

  In the kitchen, china clinked, the kettle boiled, and after a while Alice returned. She carried a tray burdened with a teapot, some cups, a cream jug, a sugar bowl, and several varieties of biscuit on a plate.

  She placed the tray on the low coffee table. “Four sugars, wasn’t it?”

  Something Gray had said years before, just to niggle her. She hadn’t forgotten.

  “These days it’s no sugar.”

  “Garibaldi or Hob Nob?” Alice said, offering the biscuits. He took two out of politeness and she handed him a plate. “For the crumbs.”

  Once Alice had her own drink she took one of the chairs, nodding to the other for Gray. A silence descended. It wasn’t uncomfortable, it was simply that neither had anything to say.

  Eventually Alice broke the silence. “Do you ever think of her?”

  He didn’t have to ask who she meant. “Of course. Constantly.”

  “So do I. I miss her greatly.”

  Gray didn’t want to enter into a competition as to who cared the most for Kate.

  “Do you know why she killed herself?” asked Alice.

  “How could I? She didn’t leave a note or any explanation.”

  “She did," Alice paused. "She left me a letter.”

  “A letter?” Gray was so surprised, he couldn’t help but repeat Alice’s words. “What did it say?”

  “I don’t know. I burnt it. Unopened.”

  "What?" Gray felt as if he’d been punched in the chest by a powerful fist. He struggled to draw breath, and his heart thumped. “You didn’t read it?”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Why didn’t you give it to me?”

  “It wasn’t addressed to you.”

  “Oh my God.” Gray put a hand to his head. He stood, felt dizzy. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t think Kate wanted you to know. I couldn't betray her like that.”

  He steadied his stance, willing himself not to strangle Alice. “So why tell me now?”

  She looked down to her hands. “It feels like enough time has passed.”

  He had to get out of here or he’d do something he regretted. He lurched towards the door.

  “Don’t you want to wait for Reverend Hill?”

  Gray stumbled outside.

  Twelve

  Ten Years Ago

  Gray watched Tom taking in the sights with eyes almost too wide for his head. The funfair was a perplexity of lights, sounds, and smells that were a constant enticement to the innocent.

  Tom had opened his presents and cards as soon as he awoke. Kate took too many pictures, Tom complaining about being made to pose rather than run around. His sister sulked. Someone else was getting the attention the oldest child craved, but only once she realised she wasn’t alone to soak up all the love. Tom went to school under duress; he wanted the funfair. And now they were here.

  Gray held Tom’s hand, the boy’s tiny fingers enveloped within his. The entertainment was in full swing. Tom and Gray were like salmon, swimming upstream against the tide, slipping in and out of the people-current all around them. Gray clutched Tom tighter still. Everyone was looking up or ahead, unaware of the tiny six-year-old buffeted by tree-trunk legs.

  “What do you want to do first?” asked Gray.

  “Ghost train!”

  Gray shook his head. Tom’s bottom lip protruded far enough to hang a coat off it. “Let’s get you some candy floss.” The pout withdrew.

  Sugar feathered onto the stick in an ever-widening whorl until it was the size of Tom’s head. A young woman with tattoos and earrings swapped the sugar rush on a stick for some coins. They walked while Tom ate.

  Next stop was hook-a-duck. It took Tom a little time to catch one of the floating chunks of yellow plastic. He pointed at a goldfish. The short bloke behind the counter coughed, spat, held up three stubby fingers. That was how many ducks Tom would need to snag. Three meant lots of money.

  “We’ll be almost out of cash,” said Gray to Tom. He’d rushed out of the house without checking his wallet. Just the change in his pocket. Not enough.

  “Fish!”

  “Okay.”

  Gray nodded at the guy, handed over the coins. The money disappeared into a pocket. As predicted, Gray was pretty much done. During Tom’s fishing expedition he felt uncomfortable, as if someone was watching. Gray turned, scanned the crowd. There were people everywhere. None looking in their direction. Gray shook his head. Stupid. He placed a protective hand on Tom’s shoulder nevertheless.

  Tom snagged the final duck and let out a little cheer. The man lifted down a fish in a bag of water. Handed it over. It didn’t seem very golden. Pretty anaemic. Tom took Gray’s hand again.

  “Time to go home,” said Gray.

  “Ghost train!” Tom threw a minor paddy when Gray told him no.

  And then, stupidly, Gray relented.

  Thirteen

  “How was the rest of your weekend, Sol?” asked Hamson.

  She lurked in a corner of the detectives’ office which some years ago had received a TV-style makeover (i.e. cheap and fast) into an improvised kitchen by the addition of a small strip of Formica, now chipped and scratched into oblivion. A dirty kettle, a half-empty jar of coffee, some scrunched tea bags, lumpy sugar, and stained cutlery completed the portrait. The team were pushing for a microwave and a fridge. Carslake wouldn’t have it, concerned the stench of zapped curry and decomposing French cheese would become a permanent fixture.

  Hamson stirred her coffee, clinking the spoon against the ceramic cup with each revolution. A pause, and then the next vessel received a similar battering by the tarnished metal utensil. It put Gray’s teeth on edge; made his head hurt more than usual.

  He was about to complain when Hamson halted her assault and picked up the mugs. She walked over to his desk, heels clicking on the linoleum.

  “After you called, I was in here for half of it.” Gray shrugged. “The weather was lousy for the rest. To be honest, I’m glad to be back at work.”

  “Among the dead and dying.”

  “And you.” There was a momentary pause, Hamson unresponsive, motionless except for her eyes as a uniform walked through the office, her Medusa-like gaze upon him. “Von, am I going to get my drink before it goes cold?”

  “Sorry, I’m all over the place today.” Hamson stretched out an arm.

  “What’s new?” Gray accepted the mug, holding it around the circumference. It was scalding. He placed the mug on the desk, spilling some coffee in the process, and blew on his fingers. “Bloody hell, are you trying to hospitalise me?”

  Heads looked up from desks, saw it was Gray shouting, then shook it off and went back to work. The usual
spectacle, nothing new.

  “You know what, Sol? You’re a whinging bastard.” Hamson, who always gave as good as she got, adopted a whiny voice, “It’s too cold, it’s not strong enough. It’s instant, not filter. Give it to me before it gets cold. Now it’s too hot. Grow a pair, man.”

  Gray was stunned for a moment, then he burst out laughing. “That’s not what I sound like, is it?”

  “You’re bloody impossible. Get a grip, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” Gray tugged his forelock a couple of times.

  Point made, Hamson retreated to her desk tucked against the wall, messy with its own overflowing caseload and backed-up paperwork. If the police force were a U-bend it would have been beyond the rescue of a plunger years ago.

  “And sorry for shouting,” said Gray, not meaning it. He took a tentative sip of his boiling coffee, feeling his inspector’s eyes on him. “Good, that.” Two lies in as many seconds.

  It tasted awful, twice-boiled water from the bottom of the kettle and instant granules that hadn’t quite dissolved. Though Gray wasn’t about to say so out loud. Instead he resolved to pour it down the sink the moment Hamson wasn’t looking.

  Hamson applied a dash more lipstick, using a vanity mirror to get the enhancement just right. Finally, she primped her hair. Straight a couple of days ago, curly now. The colour changed regularly too.

  Once finished, she turned her attention to Gray. “So what was all that crap about?”

  “Actually, I ended up back at the flat.”

  Hamson narrowed her eyes, twisted back and gave Gray her full attention. “Why?”

  “Something you said. About the suicide being just a kid. It made me think.”

  Hamson pulled a pained face, though avoided making a direct comment. “And?”

  “Not much, really. Nothing inside, though I did speak to one of the neighbours. An Ian Wells. He said the place was a brothel.” His voice petered out. “I don’t know, Von. Something doesn’t feel right. I just can’t put my finger on it.”

  “It would be an explanation for all the fingerprints we found.”

  A non-committal grunt from Gray. He wasn’t convinced either way.