The Solomon Gray Series Box Set

by Keith Nixon

  There wasn’t anywhere for him to sit, so Gray fetched a chair from a nearby dining table. It reminded him of the church pew, hard and uncomfortable. Perhaps the Fowlers didn’t like having dinner parties or eating together. Margaret, however, sat back, adopting a more relaxed pose.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “I have some questions.”

  “Fire away.”

  “When did you last see Reverend Hill alive?”

  “The evening before Alice found him. I went to the service.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Of course. You know Mike thinks it’s all mumbo jumbo.”

  Gray kept his views to himself. “How did David seem?”

  “Absolutely fine. There was nothing different about him. I’d been with him and Alice for most of the day, finishing off the Christmas decorations.”

  “What did you do when you left the church?”

  “I came straight home. I watched television all evening.”

  “Alone?”

  “Thankfully I’m never truly alone. Because of God. He fills my world.”

  “What about Mike?”

  “If my husband ever felt something for me it withered years ago. I’m just opportune, this house simply somewhere to sleep, eat, shower, and very occasionally have sex. Not much of an existence, is it?”

  Gray didn’t know what to say. Fowler never spoke about his personal life and Gray’s own contact with them as a couple had been minimal to non-existent for a decade. He’d always thought they were happy.

  “Sorry, am I oversharing?” She didn’t look sorry. “David, Alice, and God are everything to me because I have nothing else. The police force has taken it all.”

  Margaret looked infinitely sad. It was a fleeting emotion, a flicker over her face.

  “Have you ever seen this person?” Gray showed Margaret the photograph of Buckingham, trying to get back on track. The photo was beginning to get tatty, the corners folded, edges worn.

  “No.”

  “Are you sure? Around the church, perhaps?”

  “No, definitely not. We don’t have much trouble with vandals these days.”

  Gray didn’t correct Margaret’s misinterpretation.

  “Cup of tea?” she said. “It’s always the solution.” A wan smile spread across her face. She and Alice shared several common traits, a tea fixation being one of them.

  “Yes, thanks. Can I use your toilet?”

  Margaret told Gray where the bathroom was. He used it, washed and dried his hands.

  When he re-entered the living room he froze. Margaret was sitting in the chair again, legs crossed, arms on the rest, wearing only matching red underwear. He looked away. Her outer clothes lay in a neat pile on the floor beside her.

  “I’ve always been attracted to you, Sol,” she whispered.

  “Get dressed, Margaret.”

  “Don’t you want me?”

  “It’s a sin, Margaret. We both know it. God knows it.”

  “You don’t care about God!” snapped Margaret, her face switching from misery to fury.

  “Please, get dressed.” Gray picked up her discarded clothes and held them out, his face averted.

  “Am I that disgusting to look at?”

  He didn’t answer.

  The clothes were snatched from his fingers. “You can see yourself out.”

  Gray heard footsteps and when he glanced over his shoulder, Margaret was nowhere in sight. He’d be keeping the details of this particular interview to himself…

  ***

  Gray found Alice at home. Not in her house, at the church. She was carefully watering the Christmas tree. Alice caught sight of Gray when she straightened up. Her expression changed immediately.

  “Are you here to ridicule me again, Sergeant?” she asked. “Because if so, I have nothing to say.”

  Gray held up the photograph. “Do you recognise this person?”

  Alice frowned. “May I?”

  Gray nodded and she took the image, peered at it.

  “This is the poor soul who threw himself off Arlington House earlier in the week,” she said. “I saw it in the newspaper.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he connected to David?”

  “That’s what I’m attempting to determine. His name was Nick Buckingham. Have you seen him around the church at all?”

  “No, never.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I may be old, but my mind is perfectly clear.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant.”

  “You implied it.”

  Gray sighed. “I apologise if I offended you. It wasn’t intentional.”

  Alice handed over Buckingham’s mugshot. “As usual, it’s too late to take it back. If there’s nothing else, maybe you should leave.”

  Gray nodded and let himself out.

  Thirty Two

  Gray’s eyes opened. Darkness. He yawned, rubbed his face, felt his palm scraped by stubble. Theoretically he’d slept, but he didn’t feel refreshed.

  From arriving home, and through the wee small hours, Gray had sat on the floor of his attic room shuffling the casework on Tom’s disappearance into neat little piles until he could keep his eyes open no longer. Like painting the Forth Road Bridge, it was a never-ending task.

  Gray swung his legs out of bed, padded barefoot down the stairs. He turned on the shower and suffered a brief soaking in the gloom. After a rapid towelling to dry himself, he filled the sink with cold water, scraped at his chin with a disposable razor.

  The blade seemed to have no noticeable effect on his face; it still felt rough to the touch. He emptied the sink and watched the water disappear.

  That’s where my life has gone. Down the plughole.

  Actually, it went there years ago, countered a second voice.

  Kate.

  “You’re dead,” said Gray out loud to his pale reflection in the mirror. It stared back at him, unmoved. A cold breeze through the partially open bathroom door sent a shiver down his spine. Christ, things were getting bad when he started talking to his dead wife.

  Time to get dressed. His wrinkled dark blue suit was lying over the back of a chair where he’d thrown it last night. He pulled on yesterday’s shirt after a brief sniff of the armpit revealed no residual odour, and followed up with a tie. He gave in to wearing clean underwear. He had some standards, after all.

  He pulled on trousers, shrugged on a jacket, grabbed his mobile and warrant card and slipped them into a pocket. He nipped back into the bathroom for a spray of deodorant. After a second’s thought, he applied another couple of blasts to his shirt to be on the safe side.

  Gray took the winding route to the station. As he passed Café Tanya, Gray slowed and glanced at his watch. Although it was still early the lights were on and he could do with a decent brew.

  Why not?

  A few hundred yards along, Gray found a rare parking space. A sleet shower started the moment he stepped out of the car and he turned his collar up against it. When he reached the café he saw a sign on the door that said “Closed.”

  Tanya was inside, lifting chairs down from tables. She paused at Gray’s knock and grinned. Gray could detect genuine warmth through the glass as she unlocked the door.

  “Lovely to see you again, Sol.”

  “And you, Tanya.”

  She stepped out of the way to allow him entry. “First customer of the day.”

  “So I can come in?”

  “As it’s you.” Tanya wiped her hands on her apron and moved behind the counter, her smile not diminishing in the slightest.

  “I wanted to thank you for the coffee and apologise for running off like that.”

  “I’m not offended. The law beckoned. What happened?”

  “A murder.”

  “The vicar?” Gray nodded. “I saw it on the news. Let me make you a coffee. You probably need one.”

  “I just bought something supposed to be coffee but it was awful. A proper one would
be great, thanks.”

  Tanya checked the temperature of the silver brute of a coffee machine with a tentative pat. “It still needs a few more minutes, unless you prefer yours lukewarm?”

  “God, no. I’ve had enough drinks that have gone cold to last me a lifetime.”

  Tanya laughed, stepped away from the counter, and took a seat at the nearest table, subliminally inviting Gray to follow suit. He sat down but couldn’t think of a thing to say.

  “How’s work?” asked Tanya.

  “The usual.”

  “You’re looking stressed.”

  “That’s observant.”

  “Part of the job.”

  “Like remembering everyone’s order?”

  “Exactly like that.”

  “So what else do you observe, Detective Tanya?”

  Leaning forward, knuckles on chin, Tanya narrowed her eyes, searching his face. Eventually she said, “Loneliness, sadness, hope.”

  “That’s an interesting combination.” Gray was jolted, despite himself.

  “Am I right?”

  “I can neither confirm nor deny your assertions.”

  “You sound like a lawyer off the TV.”

  “Unfortunately, I know one or two.” Gray thought of Neil Wright and his mind drifted onto Buckingham again.

  “Penny for them.”

  He pushed Buckingham to the back of his mind for now. Gray’s phone rang. He checked the screen. “Excuse me, I have to take this.”

  “No problem. I’ll get your coffee. To go?”

  “Unfortunately.” He nodded and answered the phone: “DS Gray.”

  “Morning, Sol,” said Dr Clough. “How are we this fine day?”

  A glance out of the steamed-up window revealed it to be anything other than fine. “Marvellous.”

  “Glad to hear it. Look, sorry to call you so early. I wanted to let you know Buckingham’s tox results are in. I’ve sent you a copy.”

  “What’re the highlights?”

  “Appropriate word choice. He was loaded with cocaine. The levels measured were very high and clearly he would have been too.”

  “Until he came crashing down.”

  “Quite. I thought you’d like to know as soon as possible. I’m aware how important this case is to you.” Another unexpected piece of intuition.

  Clough didn’t do small talk so, message delivered, he rang off, his work done. Gray considered the additional information. Could Buckingham have simply fallen? Possibly, given his consumption of narcotics. Although that didn’t explain the bruising. Gray slid the phone back in his pocket. He turned back to Tanya. “I’ve got to go.”

  “No problem.” She slid a paper cup across the counter, plastic lid firmly in place. When Gray went for his wallet Tanya said, “It’s on the house.”

  “That’s very kind. You’ll have to let me return the favour and buy you a drink some time.”

  “Are you asking me out on a date, Detective?”

  “I didn’t mean it to sound like that.”

  “That’s okay, I don’t mind. And yes.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ll happily let you buy me a drink.”

  “Oh.”

  “That’s it? Oh?”

  “I’m just surprised.”

  “Don’t be. I’m desperate.”

  “Oh.”

  Tanya laughed. “You should see your face. I’m joking. About being desperate, that is. I really would like to go out for a drink some time.”

  “Great. I’ll give you a call to fix something up.”

  “Then I better give you my number.” She picked up one of her takeaway paper cups and in black marker scrawled her number on the outside. She slid Gray’s cup inside it. “You won’t forget now, will you?”

  ***

  There were, in fact, two reports waiting for Gray on his arrival at the station. The first, Buckingham’s toxicological analysis, was attached to an email from Clough.

  He skimmed through the couple of pages and settled on the relevant information that was contained in just a handful of lines:

  Presence of significant quantities of Class A drug, subsequently identified as cocaine.

  The printer whirred to life at Gray’s command. One copy of the tox report for Pennance, who was on the phone at Hamson’s desk, and the other for himself.

  Gray went back to his inbox. At the top of the list was a new, unread message. It appeared to be spam. Gray almost deleted it, until he noticed with a jolt the sender was apparently Nick Buckingham.

  He double clicked the message. There wasn’t any text, just a JPEG attachment. Gray glanced around to make sure no one was watching before he clicked the file, opening up a new window.

  A photo of a man, if the hairy arm was anything to go by, and a youth filled his screen. The man appeared to be undressing, the kid was already naked, a bored expression on his face. Only the man’s back was visible, impossible to tell who he was. There was a small smudge on his left shoulder. A birth mark or a tattoo? Either the picture had been cropped, or the man was too close to the camera.

  Gray recognised two aspects immediately.

  The kid. The location.

  Buckingham. The flat in Arlington House.

  No one was paying Gray any attention, and Hamson was nowhere in sight. He sent the printer whirring again.

  Pennance was off the phone now. “Sir?” said Gray. “Have you got a moment?”

  The DI came over to Gray’s desk. “What’s up Sol?”

  “You’re the IT whizz kid, what do you make of this?” Gray tapped his computer screen.

  “Jesus,” whispered Pennance, noting the time stamp. “Nick couldn’t have sent it, he was already dead.”

  “Who would do this?”

  “No idea, but if you forward me the email, I might be able to trace it.”

  Gray sent the email to Pennance, then collected the documents from the printer. With any luck, Pennance would be able to shed some light on the photo and its sender.

  ***

  Gray found Hamson in the incident room where activity was a little calmer than the previous day, that initial adrenalin-loaded rush of a new case dissipated with time and effort.

  “Ballistics,” she said by way of greeting and Gray received his second report of the morning. The critical material was even more scant than Clough’s. The bullets were badly damaged. The evaluation determined they were 200 grain, .38 Special projectiles. The bad news was the ammunition was very common and relatively easily sourced. However, the Special version was exclusively designed for revolvers. Which explained why no casings had been discovered at the scene.

  “I’ve just received this,” said Gray, handing Hamson a copy of the photo.

  She stared at it, then at Gray, appearing as stunned as he felt.

  “Who sent it?”

  “The email said it was from Buckingham himself. Pennance is looking into it now.”

  “There you are,” said Pennance from the open doorway. He sauntered over to Hamson and Gray.

  “Any luck?” asked Gray.

  Pennance shook his head. “Whoever encrypted the email is better than me. I do have a friend who may be able to help,” he paused. “If you’re okay with that?”

  “Do it,” said Hamson. “Why would somebody send this to you? And why now?"

  “Maybe we’re not making fast enough progress?" Gray shrugged.

  Pennance interrupted. “Anyways, I’ve been taking a look at the reverend’s online activity.”

  “Anything? Or is that a bust too?” Hamson asked.

  “Initially, nothing out of the ordinary. He only used his social media presence to promote the church. Then I found this.”

  Pennance handed over a printout of a newspaper article from a few months back. Written by Scully.

  “Local Vicar Fights Online Abuse,” read Gray out loud. He skimmed the commentary, which was about the Reverend David Hill fighting his own good fight, wanting a pornography ban and lambasting Internet servic
e providers for allowing adult content to be so freely available.

  “I got access to his browser history via his ISP. Seems Reverend Hill was on a crusade after all,” said Pennance. “And I rang all the local PC repair shops.”

  “I asked a DC to do that,” Hamson cut in, her voice sharp. “Lazy little bugger.”

  “That was down to me. I took over.”

  “Even so…”

  “And?” asked Gray.

  “Nothing.”

  “Bloody hell, Marcus,” said Hamson. “After all that build-up?”

  “I mean no one I spoke to had a computer brought in by Reverend Hill or Mrs Newbold.”

  “Where is it, then?”

  But any further discussion of the computer was interrupted when Fowler stormed into the incident room. “What the hell have you done to my wife?” he shouted, and launched himself at Gray.

  Thirty Three

  Compared to the hard lines of the interview rooms, the comfort suites were designed to put the victim at ease. Alice Newbold and Margaret Fowler contrasted perfectly. Whereas Alice sat upright, all straight back and indignation, Margaret was slumped over, bent and defeated. Neither looked particularly at ease.

  And neither did Hamson, who was conducting the interview.

  Gray hadn’t been allowed to join the interview and instead he watched and listened just along the corridor via a computer monitor. He still ached from hitting the floor after Fowler charged at him, but thankfully was otherwise uninjured.

  “This is a very serious allegation,” said Hamson. “Attempted rape.”

  “It is,” said Alice. “I want Sergeant Gray arrested immediately.”

  It took all Gray’s mental strength not to storm into the room and rip Alice’s head off.

  “The alleged attack by the suspect was on Mrs Fowler, though.”

  “That’s right.”

  Margaret gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

  “Mrs Fowler is so traumatised by the incident she’s unable to speak. I’m here to represent her.”

  “When did the alleged attack occur?”

  “There’s nothing alleged about it, Inspector. It happened yesterday!”

  Margaret shook her head once more.

  “Margaret, we’ll need to collect evidence.”

  “Evidence?” said Margaret, her voice tiny.