by Keith Nixon
“Problem?” said Pennance when Gray had rung off.
Gray nodded. “You. Carslake wants my feedback. In private.”
“I’m not surprised. Let’s talk in the car. There’s some stuff you should be aware of before you meet the boss.”
It took five minutes to get out of the hospital and reach Gray’s vehicle. He saw a traffic warden heading their way, but he was safe. He’d paid for a ticket which still had half an hour on it. Showing your badge didn’t work anymore and there were plenty of news outlets that hungered for the slightest hint of police abuses. He wasn’t willing to give Scully the benefit.
“Come on then,” said Gray when they were inside. “Spill.”
“What about Carslake?”
“He can wait. I’ll say there was traffic.”
Pennance stared out of the windscreen for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “All of this stays between us, right?”
“Scout’s honour.”
Pennance eyed Gray warily. “I’m being serious.”
“So am I, sir.”
“It’s Marcus.”
“Let’s stick to the formalities, sir.”
“You have an interesting past.”
“So?”
“Your loss defines you.”
“I think about them all the time.”
“I understand. I would too.”
“Are you married? Do you have kids?” asked Gray. He’d never bothered to find out about Pennance’s personal life.
“No and no.”
“Then you couldn’t possibly understand what it’s like to lose one.”
“I work with children all the time.”
“It’s not the same as your own flesh and blood. The world changes as soon as you’ve got one of your own.”
Pennance nodded. “I can’t argue with that.”
Satisfied he’d made his point, Gray let the argument go and moved on to the next. “I’m getting questions about the mobile. How the hell do I explain it to Carslake?”
“Leave it to me. I just need to choose my moment.”
“Make sure it happens.”
“You have my word.”
“So what’s this investigation Buckingham was so integral to?”
“First, I should tell you something about him, what kind of kid he was. Okay?”
“Sure.” This was what Gray wanted, desperately.
“According to his file, Nick was born in London. His mother was a prostitute. She couldn’t cope with a baby so he was taken into care when he was just a few months old. After that he moved from home to home, pretty much in trouble from the moment he could walk. By the age of twelve, Nick was on the streets. His carers didn’t report him missing. He was already drinking and doing drugs at that point.”
“Tell me something I can’t figure out for myself.”
“Consider this all context. Nick was picked up within days of being out of care, fed with the promise of money, which meant he could get off the streets and out of the cold. Next thing he knew, he was in a big car being taken to a swanky hotel. He was made to shower, then he spent a few hours with a man before he was given some money and kicked out. This went on for months. The same car, the same pimp. Different places, different punters.
“Nick wasn’t stupid. His clients clearly valued youth and novelty so he knew his appeal could only last so long. He tried to kick his habit, tried to save some cash and live a different life, but he couldn’t do it. He was caught in a vicious circle.
“But Nick had an ace up his sleeve. He suspected he had valuable information – he thought he recognised some of the people he’d spent the night with. However, they were in positions of power and Nick didn’t know who to trust. Then he got himself arrested in Green Park. I heard about him from the cop who picked him up.”
“Yandell?”
“Yes. He’s one of my eyes on the street.”
“What about Dent? Is she one of yours too?”
“Let’s just say Rosemary operates more on the fringes. Like you.”
“So you met Buckingham and he just gave up all of his information?”
“Of course not. Nick had a mistrust of the police to start with, never mind what other ideas were in his head. He assumed his clients were well-connected people; they clearly had money. Rosemary, over time, drew little snippets out of him. I only met Nick once there was some mutual trust built up. But then word got out that I was building a case against the wrong people.”
“A mole inside the Met?”
Pennance nodded. “Those connections again. The city wasn’t safe for Nick, so I called you. Sent him down here to get him out of harm’s way.”
“That didn’t work.”
“I appreciate your bluntness.”
“It’s a fortunate trait of mine. One thing I don’t understand, though - if Nick was so valuable to you, why didn’t he have an escort? A couple of friendly police to look after him?”
“I didn’t know who was friendly, as you put it, and who wasn’t. Some of the people I’m investigating are big and powerful, so yes, someone on the inside is certain.”
“You don’t believe Nick committed suicide?”
“No.”
“Someone got to him?”
“On the basis of the bruises, it’s possible.”
“Who?”
“Now that’s the big question. The problem is Nick wasn’t supposed to be in that flat. I had another location for him to stay. He never turned up.”
“So he went off the radar?”
“Apparently so.”
“Why there?”
“I wish I knew. I’m not even sure it matters.”
Gray was about to ask another question when his mobile rang. He answered and spoke before Carslake could. “Sorry, the traffic’s crap. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.” He disconnected. “We’ll have to continue this while we drive.” Gray started the engine.
“That’s about all I can tell you. For the time being, anyway.”
“Who were his clients?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Then you do know more.”
“I understand the point you’re making but I’m not your enemy, Sol.”
“You’re clearly not my friend either. What else is going on?”
“I’ve already said too much.”
Twenty One
Gray sloped into his boss’s office.
“Sit down. I’ll be with you in a minute.” Carslake tapped away at his keyboard, using one digit per hand. Gray’s own technique was equally laborious.
As Gray settled into his seat, there was a knock and Sylvia poked her head around the door. Sylvia altered her appearance regularly. Today was curls and arched eyebrows, although the glare meant for him remained consistent.
“Can I get you anything, DS Gray?” she said with everything other than enthusiasm.
“A whisky, if there’s one going?”
“Very funny.”
“It’ll have to be a coffee then.”
“As you wish.” So much derision loaded into those three little words.
A worryingly short time later Sylvia re-entered without knocking this time, a chipped mug in one manicured claw. There was a distinct absence of steam.
“There you are.” She smiled, dumped the mug on the desk and departed.
The contents were brown and sludgy. Like thick riverbank mud. Gray took a cautious sip, pulled a face, and set the offensive fluid back down again. Lukewarm, dirty engine oil was the best that could be said about it. Yesterday’s reheated, in all probability.
Eventually, Carslake pushed the keyboard away and eyed Gray. “You took your bloody time getting here.”
“Couldn’t help it. Traffic. And since I’ve been hanging around for ten minutes I can’t be that important.”
“Superintendent trumps sergeant. How’s the coffee?”
“Ancient.”
“Like us,” said Carslake as he settled into the chair adjacent to Gray.
Bugger. It’s that kind of conversation. A face-to-face thing.
“How’s everything with the team?”
This obviously wasn’t what Carslake really wanted to discuss.
“All good, thanks. No issues to speak of.”
“What about your appointment with Mallory?”
“Done.”
“Excellent.”
“That’s it? Can I go?”
“No.”
“There’s a surprise?”
“Enough of the sarcasm.” Carslake stood, moved towards the wall and leaned against it as if he needed support. He stared out of the window for a moment. Outside, a gull wheeled in the bluster. “How was the Buckingham post-mortem?”
“The usual. Depressing. I don’t know how Clough does it, to be honest. Bottom line is it might not be a suicide after all.”
“Why?”
Gray told him about the bruising on Nick Buckingham’s back and arms.
“So he could have been pushed?”
“I’ll have to make measurements to be sure, but possibly.”
“And Pennance, what’s he like?”
“Cool, efficient, focused on the job. Though I’m not sure I’d ever like him.”
“Really? He seemed personable enough to me. Anyway, I’ve reassigned the Buckingham case to you. Before you ask, I told Hamson earlier and no, she wasn’t happy about it. You and Pennance can handle it. I want him busy. I don’t think he’s here for what he says he is.”
“You’re not making sense.”
“Think about it. Why would a DI come down all the way from London for some kid?”
Gray gritted his teeth, counted to ten. The kid who could have been Tom. “It looks like murder now. Isn’t that enough?”
Carslake returned to his seat, leaned on his elbows. “But how could he have known? It doesn’t hang together and I’m bloody worried he’s playing me.”
“I’d wondered the same thing.”
“And your number on Buckingham’s phone. How did that happen?”
Gray took in a sharp breath. He’d almost managed to forget about that. He tried to keep his voice steady: “Beats me.”
“It needs dealing with,” said Carslake. Gray couldn’t agree more. “Down to Pennance, do you think?”
“If it is, he hasn’t said so,” lied Gray.
“I don’t like it.” Carslake rocked the chair back, a risky venture, given its age and the mass of the occupant. “The Met. Sapphire. Something bigger is going on.”
“Like what?” Gray couldn’t see what Carslake was getting at, but sometimes there was no arguing with him.
“I’ve no idea and that’s precisely why I’m unhappy. So you need to do something about it.”
“Me? What the hell can I do?”
“You can be my eyes and ears on this thing. Keep me informed of what Pennance is up to. You’re down in the office all the time. I’m up here.”
If Gray wanted to tell Carslake about Pennance, now was the time. But he held his tongue for too long and Carslake moved on.
“I appreciate this, Sol.”
***
Gray stepped back into the CID office. Fowler glanced up from a report he was typing.
“Looks like your blood pressure’s up, Sol. Wouldn’t want you dying on us. Couldn’t stand all the administration.”
The DS laughed at his own joke and Gray forced himself to join in. He moved away from Fowler and crossed to Hamson’s desk.
“Where’s Pennance?” said Gray.
“He’s appropriated one of the meeting rooms as an office. What’s up?”
“Pennance, followed by Carslake. It’s enough to drive you to drink.”
A snort from Hamson said she felt the same. Gray’s desk phone interrupted. It was the desk sergeant.
“Got a visitor for you.”
“Who?”
“She won’t say.”
“I’ll be there in a minute.” Gray told Hamson where he was going – to the front desk, then out. “Over to the jetty, I could do with some fresh air and clear my head. I’ll have my mobile if anyone needs me.”
“Sol, I almost forgot to tell you …” said Fowler.
Gray muttered an expletive, said, “Quickly.”
“Don’t bother yourself then. It’s only about Buckingham. I guess a murdered kid doesn’t matter.”
“I’m not in the best of moods.”
“That’s not my fault.”
Which was true. Gray ground out an apology which Fowler seemed to grudgingly accept.
“Buckingham wasn’t signing on,” said Fowler. “There aren’t records of him and nobody at the dole office recognised his picture.”
That was unusual. Gray had expected benefits to be Buckingham’s top priority. “And the flat?”
“The owner is a Patrick Silverman. He bought it when the place was built back in 1963.”
“And where’s Silverman now?”
“Passed away four years ago in an old people’s home where he’d lived since the late ’90s.”
It didn’t make sense. Gray frowned. “No will? No next of kin?”
“Neither. It looks like the council had no idea he was dead. All the bills were still being paid.”
“By who?”
Fowler shrugged. “I hadn’t got that far.”
A thought struck Gray. He rapped his fingers twice on Fowler’s desk. “Give the home a call, would you? See what they say about Silverman and his funds.”
“Sure thing. I hear the case is all yours.”
“Carslake gave me a day’s grace. This will be the last request.”
“You’ll owe me a beer.”
“Done.”
When Gray reached the front desk, Morgan wasn’t there. And neither was his nameless visitor.
Twenty Two
Bloody Carslake’s politics, bloody Pennance’s secrecy, and bloody selfish behaviour threatened everything. And Gray was stuck in the middle. His head felt ready to burst from the pressure.
He scooted across Fort Hill, dodging traffic. Past the art gallery. Within ten minutes he was outside Tanya’s café. He pulled at the door, but it didn’t budge. Gray peered through the glass. The lights were on, but it was empty. When he stepped back he noticed a handwritten sign on the door which said, “Back soon.”
Gray partially retraced his steps. He turned left before the gallery, wandered out along the harbour arm which protected the moorings of a few bonny boats from the stormy English Channel, which stirred on the other side of the sturdy concrete and brick structure.
Near the end of the arm was a café which had set up in one of the squat, redundant fishing buildings. Once the day’s catch would have been hauled here, gutted, processed and transported on.
He ducked inside and ordered a coffee. A search of his pockets came up empty. He apologised and departed. Face burning with embarrassment, Gray carried on until another step meant a twenty-foot drop into the sea. Here was a statue, a faceless lady constructed entirely of shells. She stared impassively outwards, standing tall whatever the elements threw at her.
The relative calm was soon interrupted by the ring of Gray’s mobile. The display revealed it was Fowler. Hopefully earning that pint.
“Good news?”
“I spoke to Shady Oaks, the retirement home. Silverman’s payments went through an intermediary.”
“What does that mean?”
“Everything was handled by a legal firm.”
“Sounds expensive.”
“I wouldn’t know. It’s Neil Wright and Partners.”
“Which means Frank McGavin,” said Gray.
“Yes.”
“Now I’m even gladder the case is yours,” said Fowler and disconnected.
Wright was well-known to Gray and his colleagues. A crooked notary who worked exclusively for criminals, the most notable of whom was Frank McGavin, who ran everything illegal in Thanet.
Wright was smoother than margarine. No one in the force’s
history had managed to raise a charge against him, never mind present it. The same went for McGavin. Whenever McGavin’s name came up in an investigation it meant no good, but making a charge stick was the challenge. Wright looked after McGavin and vice versa.
Gray considered what he knew, which wasn’t very much.
A suicide, or possible murder victim, who’d once been on the game, but no more, living in a flat owned by a man long dead, which was managed by a firm of criminal defence lawyers.
And then there was the Pennance conundrum. Were Carslake’s suspicions correct? Was the DI here for something completely unrelated?
And the events before Buckingham’s death. Yes, there had been a suicide note – had it been a cry for help? And the bruising? The unidentified fingerprints on the glass? Whose were they?
Gray knew very little of relevance. However, thanks to Fowler, he at least had a thread to pull on. Mr Wright would be getting a visit.
Gray pulled the photo of Buckingham out of his pocket. It was beginning to crease. He stared into the boy’s face.
A voice interrupted him. “Penny for them.”
Tanya was standing to the right of the shell lady, like a child next to its mother, such was the difference in height. Gray slid the photo away. Tanya proffered a cardboard cup. He accepted, felt heat, and not just from the drink.
“I called in to see you,” said Tanya. “They said you were over here.”
“Thanks.” He took a sip. Decent coffee. One of Tanya’s own. “This is a surprise.”
“A pleasant one, I hope? Because I don’t think my fragile self-confidence could take it otherwise.”
“Of course. I just didn’t expect to see you.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not the sort of thing that usually happens to me.”
“Thing?”
“You know. A beautiful woman, looking for me.”
“I must be fatally flawed, then.”
“Maybe.”
“I love this spot.”
“Me too. It’s where I come to think. When the office gets too loud.”
“Do you want me to go?”
“No.”
“Cheers.” Tanya held out her cup to Gray. He nudged his into hers.
“Cheers,” he said.
“So tell me about yourself.”
“What do you want to know?”