by Keith Nixon
Gray put the key into the ignition. Before he could start the engine his mobile rang.
He thought he’d better answer it, but immediately wished he hadn’t.
“Hello Sergeant, Ed Scully here. How are you?”
“Just gone from bad to worse.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“What do you want? I’m busy.”
“So I understand. I was hoping for some copy from you before we go to print. Well, to be more accurate, before the article goes online. Print is so yesterday.”
“What article?”
“About the murders. The ones you’ve been keeping quiet about.”
Gray stifled a groan. This was all he needed. He was damned if he was going to give anything to Scully. Over his dead body. Or the reporter’s. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
Scully laughed, a slippery, wet sound. “I was rather hoping you’d say that. So I’ll put down ‘The officer running the investigation declined to respond’. Sounds suitably incompetent, don’t you think?”
“Whatever. I stopped caring what you and your equally thick readers believed a long, long time ago.”
“My readers love you, Sergeant. You’re great copy. Always screwing up. It’s a sure-fire bet you’ll get something wrong again and I’ll be ready and waiting when you do.”
“Fuck you, Scully.”
“Wonderfully eloquent. I may quote you on that too.”
“Be sure that the next time we meet you’ll have my knuckles smashing in your teeth.”
“I look forward to it. I give as good as I get.”
“I won’t.”
“Something else before I gladly take my leave, Gray. Check out The Times as well. Another one of you corrupt buggers takes centre stage.”
Gray opened his mouth to protest an innocence he knew didn’t exist. A dial tone had already replaced the reporter’s voice. Gray swore. The reporter was talented at having the final word.
He turned off his mobile and threw it onto the passenger seat in disgust. He spent half a minute pinching the bridge of his nose to calm down. Scully had that effect on Gray, no matter how hard he tried to stay calm.
Gray logged into the hotel’s free Wi-Fi before using his smartphone to access the web browser and searched for Scully’s newspaper.
The front page popped up, the lead article by the man himself. The opening paragraphs were lurid in their description, the rest he skimmed.
David Hill’s image caught his eye. He’d seen a picture like it a few times in the vicarage. Gray made a note to enquire where Scully had obtained it. Bunged the uniform on the door a few quid to pop inside? Beneath was a shot of the church and another of Arlington House. If he cared to look left, Gray would be able to see the block of flats for himself at pretty much the same angle.
Gray noted the article had been published eleven minutes ago. And there was the statement attested to him, along with an acerbic quip intimating that the force was clueless.
So, Scully had lied. No surprise in that. He’d probably been trying to provoke Gray with the hope he’d spill something, and the article updated accordingly within seconds.
Gray opened another browser page and went to The Times. Only limited front page news was available, the detail and interior behind a paywall. Thieving sods.
Gray kicked the car into life. He backed out of the spot, did a quick three-point turn, and headed for the roundabout. When he looked left the tramp had gone. He wondered where he could find a newspaper at this time of night.
Twenty Eight
“Same again?” asked the bartender, nodding at Gray’s glass. His skin was marked by eczema, raw and painful looking.
“Works for me.”
The barman nodded and worked the pump with his red hands, filling his original glass. Strictly speaking, not allowed these days. Gray didn’t care. They were his germs.
The barman pulled a pint of Spitfire. The beer was brown and sported the kind of small head that would drive a northerner mad.
The Chapel was a micropub set up inside a second-hand bookshop because nobody bought paperbacks anymore. Even the pies were bestsellers compared to the novels. There was only Gray and two old blokes in the pub. One had a twinkle in his eye and engaged anyone within shouting distance in conversation. The other made himself unobtrusive. Gray wondered whether he’d spend his retirement in the pub too.
The barman dragged Gray away from the vision of his future by placing the pint on the bar. Gray handed over some cash with one hand, with the other raised the glass and took a gulp of the beer, savouring the hoppy flavour.
“Cheers.”
“No problem.”
Gray received the shrapnel in change and slid it into his pocket. He returned to his seat in a darkened corner of the pub. The table was dusted with crumbs, the result of Gray’s dinner of several packets of crisps (now empty and among the debris).
He’d finally tracked down a copy of The Times on the fifth attempt. He’d bought a pack of cigarettes too. Gray needed somewhere to read the paper so headed to the pub, rather than home. Five pages in, he found the story Scully must have been referring to.
Vigilantes Arrested
Police in London arrested five men in the early hours. All were part of a vigilante group involved in hunting paedophiles online. The group, calling itself Dark Deeds, apprehended fifty-six-year-old Shaun Gill, jailed for five years for grooming someone he believed to be a thirteen-year-old girl, but was in fact a middle-aged man posing as a minor. It is understood that among the arrested men is an as-yet-unnamed Metropolitan Police officer.
Comment, page 14.
Gray flipped to the Comment section. It was a much larger exposé on groups like Dark Deeds. He was surprised to learn how many of them there were – six confirmed, and the author believed yet more were operating under the radar. The vigilantes preferred to be thought of as private investigators. The leader of one band rather piously claimed they acted on behalf of concerned parents everywhere, doing what the police were unwilling or unable to do.
The tactic they employed was to set up an online persona as a teenage child, usually a girl, and wait. Before long, some dirty old man would begin grooming the “child”, worming their way into their lives, playing on their vulnerabilities, making them dependent. Some of the bolder predators might even ask for photographs or videos. After a while, they’d suggest a meet. And that’s when the vigilantes would pounce, restraining the man, fleeing the scene, then notifying police to arrest him.
The text made it clear that the cops themselves were not in favour of this approach, stating it interfered with their own practices and due process. But the public seemed to love it. The average person on the street had few qualms about the methods employed to catch people who preyed on children, particularly since the revelations about Jimmy Savile and the recent wave of disclosures about other notable celebrities and church members. Gray could hardly blame them.
Gray left his jacket on the chair back and pint on the table as place holders, and headed outside. On the narrow pavement he contaminated the fresh air by lighting a cigarette. He pulled out his mobile phone, tapped at the screen as smoke curled from his mouth. The number rang and rang. He was just about to give up when it was answered at last.
Gray introduced himself and asked for Yandell.
“I’m sorry, sir. He’s currently unavailable,” said a woman who hadn’t introduced herself.
“When will he be back?”
“I don’t know, sir. I haven’t been advised of that.”
The comment sounded strange to Gray. “Advised?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is he ill?”
“I couldn’t say, sir.” It sounded like a strange phrase to Gray.
“Is he suspended?”
“I’m not at liberty to answer. You’ll need to speak to my DI.” A neat passing of the buck. “But he’s not at his desk, sir. Can I ask him to call you?”
Gray gave
his details and leisurely finished his cigarette, entering a staring contest with a seagull the size of a dog. He dropped the filter down a nearby drain and went back inside the pub, where he returned to his seat and read the paper in more detail.
“The ghosts of history rapping on your door again?”
Gray didn’t need to look up to know it was Carslake.
“Bugger off, sir, and leave me to my melancholy.”
“Very poetic.” The DCI pulled out a chair opposite Gray and sat down heavily. “And that’s no way to speak to a superior officer.”
“I’m off-duty.” Gray kept his eyes on the newspaper.
Carslake checked his watch. “Actually, you’re not.”
“So tell HR, or whatever they’re called now. How did you know I was here?”
“I guessed.”
“Well done. What do you want?”
“The other day I was distracted so I didn’t get a chance to ask: how did it go with Doctor Mallory?”
“The best I can say is: it went.”
“What am I going to do with you?” asked Carslake after a significant pause.
Gray wanted to tell Carslake everything. About Buckingham, Pennance, McGavin. However, he drained his beer and stood. “Want one?”
“My shout. What are you drinking?”
“As it’s on expenses…” Gray tapped his empty glass and sat back down. Carslake headed to the bar to order. A minute later he was back with a pint and a brandy.
“Don’t know how you can drink the stuff,” said Carslake, pointing at the bitter.
“Practice.”
Gray slowly turned a page, willing Carslake to clear off; he could feel the bastard’s leaden stare.
“I called the doctor,” Carslake said at last.
“Did he talk to you?”
“Of course.”
“Whatever happened to patient confidentiality?”
“Mallory said you were belligerent.”
“He annoyed me.”
“Everyone annoys you.”
“I’m doing my job, aren’t I?”
“At the moment. I’m concerned things might go backwards again.”
Gray stayed quiet.
“Mallory mentioned a prescription,” said Carslake.
Gray pulled the bottle out of an inside pocket and rattled the contents.
“Good,” said Carslake. “Feeling okay?”
“Fine. I’ve got to go.”
“Pity. I was enjoying our chat.”
“The feeling isn’t mutual.”
Gray stood and gathered his coat, leaving the pint Carslake had purchased untouched. Although Gray really wanted another drink, he couldn’t stomach Carslake right now.
“It’s all for the best, you’ll see,” said Carslake.
“Is that what Sylvia said?”
Outside, the wind whistled along Albion Street. Gray fished out his mobile and sent a text to Hamson. It said, “Thanks for dropping me in the shite.”
There was an off-licence around the corner. Gray decided to make a pit stop on the way home. It would be a liquid dinner this evening.
Twenty Nine
Gray tossed the paper version of the local rag onto his desk. On the way into the station he’d picked up a copy from the local supermarket.
Scully’s article was the lead. At least the photos were less lurid in the black and white print than the full-colour version online.
“I reckon that’s me.” Fowler, leaning over Gray’s shoulder, pointed at the grainy photo of a group in front of St Peter’s Church.
Gray’s head snapped up. He’d just had a crazy thought. Scully had bribed someone to gain access to the vicarage. Gray had assumed it had been the uniform. But maybe not.
“Do you think it makes me look fat?”
“Fatter,” said Hamson.
“This,” Gray pointed at the headline, his voice quiet. “Was it you, Fowler?”
“What?”
“Were you responsible for this story?”
Fowler finally got it. The temperature plummeted to sub-zero. Everyone in the room was staring at Gray and Fowler, waiting to see what would happen next.
“I could hardly stop them taking my picture!”
Gray jerked upright. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it, you idiot! Have you been talking to the press? There’s stuff in there no one else could know!”
Fowler’s face reddened. He spoke through his teeth. “You’re not seriously suggesting I’m bent, are you?”
“I suppose I am.”
“Mike, don’t.” Hamson grabbed Fowler’s arm as he squared up to Gray. Fowler shook her off, moved another step forward. Gray reciprocated, got into Fowler’s space.
“Nobody accuses me of being a leak.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“What’s going on here?” The voice came from the doorway.
All eyes shifted from Fowler and Gray to Carslake.
“Just a discussion, sir,” said Gray.
“Really?” Carslake flicked his gaze to Fowler.
“Yes,” said Fowler, backing away.
“DS Gray, I’d appreciate a word with you,” said Carslake. Gray didn’t move, eyes firmly on Fowler. “Now.”
“We’ll take this up later,” said Gray.
“Look forward to it,” said Fowler.
Gray followed Carslake up the stairs, the latter stepping to one side when they reached Carslake’s office, allowing Gray to enter first. Carslake closed the door and leaned on it.
“Would you like to explain to me what the hell that was all about?”
Gray ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s been a very stressful time.”
“Stress has nothing to do with it, Sol. You have to rise above that sort of thing. Railing on a colleague is bad enough, but with Pennance around? What were you thinking?”
Gray felt tired. “I don’t know.”
“Well, you’d better bloody work it out. And fast. I took you into my confidence the other day. I can’t have you blowing it.”
Gray shrugged. “What do you want me to say?”
“Get out of here and sort yourself out.”
***
It didn’t take long to track down Pennance. He was in the canteen, of all places, seated alone at a table for four, fiddling with his phone. A drink at his elbow. Gray dragged out a chair, sat opposite. He tossed The Times across, folded so the vigilante piece was front and centre.
“Know anything about that?” asked Gray.
Pennance barely glanced at it. “It’s all over the news.”
“You said Yandell was a colleague of sorts.”
“Did I?”
“Is it Yandell who’s suspended?”
Pennance remained blank. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Sergeant.” He pushed the newspaper back across the table and walked away.
Thirty
Five Years Ago
His in-laws arrived in Broadstairs the same day Kate passed on. On hearing the news, they’d packed a bag and travelled the three hours from Malvern. By then, Kate had been transferred to the pathologist for a post-mortem. It would delay the burial.
Kate’s father Fred was not a God-fearing man. He was solid, dependable, no-nonsense. Gray liked him. The feeling was not mutual. He and Gray stood in the well-tended garden while Fred’s wife Ruth grieved within. Alice was keeping her company.
“Where’s Hope?” asked Fred.
“I don’t know,” said Gray. “She wasn’t at school when I went there. Hadn’t been all day.”
“Playing truant?”
Gray nodded. “Apparently it’s been going on for a while.”
“And you weren’t aware?”
“No.”
Fred shook his head. “Hope can’t stay with you. Too many bad memories. She’ll live with us.”
“What if she doesn’t want to?”
“I’m sure she’ll agree.”
“What if I don’t agree?”
“Yes,” said Gray. "She's all I have left."
“Do you have the time and the capacity to look after a teenager?”
Gray didn’t answer. It would be a lie if he said "yes".
“As I thought.” Fred left Gray alone in the garden. There was packing to be done.
***
Hope returned home when school finished, as if she’d been there all day. She was surprised to find her grandparents present. Gray told Hope about her mother. At first Hope was unable to say anything. She sat on the end of her bed, totally still. Then tears welled up and rolled down her cheeks.
“Why?” A whisper. “Why?” A shout, then a wail. Hope fell over sideways onto the bed, curled herself up into a ball.
“Your grandparents are here for you. I’ve packed a bag," Gray paused. "It's best for both of us.”
Still Gray kept his emotions suppressed.
When Hope was about to get into Fred’s car Gray gave her a hug. She was limp in his arms.
Gray remained silent, trying to convince himself it really was for the best. He would see Hope only once more in the next five years.
Thirty-One
The door was double-glazed and inset with a mosaic pattern. Gray rapped on it.
It was a nice place, a big house, newly built on what used to be convent grounds on the outskirts of Broadstairs. When the wind was blowing in the right direction it’d be a strong bet you’d be able to hear the waves.
After another knock, the door opened. A face peered out, most of the body hidden by the door.
“Hello, Margaret,” said Gray. “I’m here for that follow-up.”
Margaret said nothing, simply walked inside. He followed her into the living room. She sat on the edge of a high-backed chair, leaning forward slightly, her hands clamped together between her knees. The space was cluttered, sofa and chairs, dining table, cushions, plants, bowls of potpourri, china dolls, crockery, books, and several crucifixes. No Christmas decorations. Perhaps Margaret focused all of her time on St Peter’s Church.