The Solomon Gray Series Box Set

by Keith Nixon

  “And I’ll need to borrow some more cash from you.”

  “For crying out loud!”

  “Is that a yes?”

  Half an hour later Gray was in Hamson’s car being battered by a significant amount of sustained grumbling. It washed over him. There were far bigger issues to be bothered by than an upset boss.

  Hamson’s griping continued throughout the stop-start journey, as well as after she parked, paid, and hiked along the hospital corridors to the mortuary.

  “Here we are again, Sergeant,” said Ben Clough. He acknowledged Hamson with a nod.

  Gray couldn’t speak. The smell of antiseptic in the air made him feel sick.

  “You’re late.”

  “Sorry.” Gray didn’t know why he was apologising, or why they’d been delayed.

  “The roads were a bloody nightmare,” said Hamson.

  “Yes, that’s right.” The memory bobbed to the surface of his memory. An accident at a set of traffic lights had snarled the entire grid up. Although Hamson took alternative directions it felt like everyone else was doing the same.

  “I’m sorry to say I couldn’t wait. We’ve already done Mrs Small.”

  Relief flooded through Gray. He hadn’t really wanted to see Tanya sliced up. The lifeless expression on what had once been a vibrant face was enough to haunt his thoughts for months to come without adding further layers of horror.

  “What did you find?” asked Hamson.

  Clough waved a folder around. “Enter my lair and I will reveal all.”

  He led them down a narrow corridor and into a windowless office. The interior was a poverty of space. A desk and a couple of chairs were all that could be crammed in. Several boxes tucked against the wall gave the impression Clough had only just taken up residence.

  “Would you mind shutting the door, DI Hamson? Let’s have a bit of privacy.”

  “Of course.”

  Hamson couldn’t comply until she’d shifted her own seat, which was the impediment. “Sorry, Sol, but could I just…?”

  Gray shifted to allow Hamson room to manoeuvre.

  “All done?” asked Clough sweetly.

  She nodded. Gray settled down into an uncomfortable seat that had seen far better days. He placed his arms on the rests and tried to relax, found himself gripping the wood.

  Clough opened the report and glanced down. It was simply for effect. From past experience, Gray knew that the pathologist would be thoroughly familiar with the contents.

  “The victim was killed by a single gunshot from behind, which pierced the heart. Death would have been pretty much instantaneous,” said Clough. “The wound was a straight in-and-out. Gunpowder residue around the entrance wound, but no abrasion ring.”

  “So the calibre of weapon could be the same in both murders?” asked Gray.

  “Ballistics will confirm,” said Hamson. She turned to Gray. “We brought in a metal detectorist to probe the beach, one of those hobby guys. They found the slug pretty quickly.” This was news to him.

  “Then there was the head trauma. A single strike by a blunt, misshapen object, possibly a rock. I found some stone chips within the wound. It’s difficult to tell whether the impact occurred just before or after she was shot.”

  “How so?”

  “She could have struck her head when she collapsed.”

  “The body was found on sand, nowhere near anything that could cause that kind of damage.”

  “Maybe the incoming tide picked her up, moved her around?”

  “Possibly. Or she was hit first.”

  “The stomach contained a partially digested last meal, a curry by appearance and odour, although not in a great quantity. In comparison, her blood alcohol level was very high. There were also signs of a recent sexual activity.”

  “How recent?”

  Gray was surprised his expression didn’t give him away. Roiling within was a toxic cocktail. Of loss and guilt. He still felt like spilling his guts on Clough’s desk, confessing all, and being dragged away to prison for the rest of his life.

  He stayed mute.

  “Certainly less than a day,” said Clough. “Maybe even within a few hours of her death. No semen deposit though.”

  “Condom?”

  “Impossible to tell after her immersion in the brine.”

  “Maybe she went for a walk on the beach to bask in the afterglow and somebody killed her.”

  “Poetically put, Inspector. I took the liberty of combing her pubic region and found some hairs that clearly weren’t hers. I’d assume from her sexual partner. I’ve sent them away for analysis. It’ll be a couple of days before I get anything back from the lab.

  “Other than that she was relatively fit, in possession of very little excess fat, healthy heart and lungs too. Theoretically, Mrs Small had plenty of enjoyable years ahead of her.”

  “Thanks, Doctor.”

  They took their leave.

  Gray ran a hand over his face. Tanya. Who would want to kill Tanya?

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “Not really.”

  “Your call. And don’t worry about the outburst, I never forget.”

  Trawling after Hamson, Gray was irritated with himself. Hamson unlocked the car and they climbed in. She was driving.

  Gray stared out the window in a silence which Hamson, eventually, couldn’t help breaking. “Did you know her very well?”

  He thought about that one. He and Tanya had talked most days for the last few weeks, had sex once. He played it safe and just on the wrong side of accurate. “I bought coffee from her every morning.”

  “Well, you’ll have to go somewhere else from now on.”

  Gray didn’t have a reply to that.

  Thirty Nine

  Back at the station, Gray headed straight to the incident room and the whiteboard. Buckingham’s notes were still on the board, though there hadn’t been any recent information to add. The office hadn’t seen this much action in years. Buckingham, Hill, and Tanya fought for space in his tired mind.

  There was plenty to read about Tanya – a mass of neat notes and a wealth of photographs, all but one of them displaying his one-night stand in death. It was hard to take. He needed some space, to be away from the hurly-burly of the murder investigation.

  From the corner of his eye Gray watched Hamson enter one of the meeting rooms and engage in an animated conversation with Carslake. Which left only Fowler to talk to.

  “I don’t see anything up there about CCTV, Mike. Is a review underway?”

  “We’ve only just finished checking the footage.” Fowler was surly.

  “And?”

  Fowler shrugged. “Just Mrs Small walking down the High Street and along the cliff top until she descended onto the beach via the steps at Viking Bay.”

  “Alone?”

  “Nobody suspicious. It’s Broadstairs, not Margate. I’ll go down to the pubs and restaurants on the jetty, see if they’ve any cameras. We may catch a break there.”

  Gray didn’t bother to thank Fowler and retreated to his desk. Ten minutes later Hamson appeared in his blurred peripheral vision. He kept his eyes forward. “What is it Von? I’m busy.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Bloody awful.”

  “Good. You deserve it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re a fucking idiot.” Her words were lava spilling out from her lips.

  “What?”

  “There’s a bloke come into the station with something to say that might interest you.”

  “I seriously doubt it.”

  “Believe me, you’ll be interested. Get your arse along to interview room three.”

  ***

  Hamson refused to utter another word. She walked as if trying to stab her heels through the lino floor. The sound chipped away at Gray’s temples. She didn’t even hold the door into the interview room for him. A man fixed a glare on them as they entered.

  “About bloody time,” he said.
<
br />   “Apologies for the delay, Mr Philips.”

  Philips, remained seated, a mug on the table before him. He wore a well-pressed white shirt and a black tie. He was clean shaven, and his thinning hair was neatly combed. Gray held his hand out. Philips shook it. His grip was firm and dry. Gray drooped into a chair. Hamson followed suit in a more angular fashion. She crossed her legs, sat back a short distance, just out of Gray’s line of sight.

  “You’ll excuse me if I don’t stand,” said Philips. “I’m knackered. Only just finished my shift.”

  “I can sympathise,” said Hamson.

  “Night’s the best time to be a taxi driver, though. Good money to be made. Why am I still here? I really need to get some sleep.”

  “I’d like you to repeat what you told me for my colleague’s benefit.”

  Gray noted Hamson hadn’t bothered to introduce him. He was too foggy to think about it properly, assumed she was just angry.

  “All of it?” asked Philips.

  A nod from Hamson drew a sigh from the taxi driver. “And then I can go?” Another nod, a further exhalation. “It’s about the woman on the beach. As soon as I saw her photo in the newspaper I knew straight away.”

  “What about her?”

  “The night she died I was working in Margate. I always pull the late shift.”

  “Popular with the wife,” said Gray.

  “Not really,” said Philips, Gray’s poor attempt at humour falling flat. “It doesn’t matter anymore. She left.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Don’t be. Best thing that ever happened to me. No mortgage, no kids, nothing.”

  “Go on, Mr Philips,” said Hamson. “The sooner you tell us, the sooner you can go.”

  “You’re right. Where was I?”

  “Margate.”

  Philips clicked his fingers in recollection. “The dead woman got into my taxi. Before she was dead, of course. I took her to Broadstairs.”

  A fist reached into Gray’s gut and twisted.

  “Do you recall the address?”

  “I’ve picked up a lot of people since then. It was somewhere at the top end of town.”

  “Not near the beach?”

  Philips shook his head. “And she wasn’t alone. She was with a man. They were together, if you know what I mean. Romantically involved.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “I didn’t see him, only her. She did all the talking and it was dark. She even paid. What a gentleman her other half was!”

  Gray began to relax. Maybe he’d get through this.

  “He left something behind, though.”

  “This?” Hamson held something up.

  “Yes.”

  A battered black wallet, clad in a clear plastic evidence bag, hit the table. Gray’s world shrunk to that single piece of well-worn leather.

  She stood, the chair legs scraping, said, “Thanks for coming in, Mr Philips.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Unless you’ve anything else to add?”

  The taxi driver shook his head.

  “I’ll show you out.”

  “My information is important, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope you catch the bastard.”

  Hamson picked up the wallet before escorting him out. When she returned, Hamson towered over Gray like one of the gravestones in the St Peters churchyard.

  “I know why you called me an idiot now,” he said.

  “About time you applied some intelligence to all this.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Sorry? That’s it?”

  “What else do you want me to say?”

  “You were Tanya’s sexual partner, right?”

  “It’s not what you think…”

  Hamson reared up. “Don’t go making excuses! For once tell me the fucking truth!”

  “It was just once.”

  “What’s the frequency got to do with it? You and Tanya were together immediately before her death, yes?”

  Gray nodded, his head heavy, skull threatening to split apart.

  “My God. And you didn’t say anything.” Hamson put her head in her hands. “Can you comprehend what you’ve done? How much you’ve exposed both of us?”

  Gray couldn’t speak.

  “This could be the end of both our careers,” said Hamson. “You fucking fool.”

  “You’ll be fine. You didn’t know about any of it.”

  “I’m your commanding officer, Sol! The buck stops with me. Can’t you see that?”

  Gray couldn’t answer.

  “And the DCI isn’t my biggest fan in the first place.” She flopped into a sitting position, stared at Gray with resignation.

  “I saw you two chatting.”

  “It was more of a one-way bollocking.”

  Before Gray could reply there was a knock on the door, and it opened. In stepped Carslake.

  “I’ll take over from here, Yvonne.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Hamson stood up and left the room. Carslake took her seat. For a few moments Carslake and Gray eyed each other.

  “You’re a bloody fool,” said Carslake eventually.

  “I know. And I’m aware I can’t be part of the investigation anymore.”

  “That’s big of you. Actually, you can’t be part of anything because you’re being suspended, pending an enquiry.” Carslake shook his head. “Frankly you’re lucky it’s just a suspension. It’s only because of our friendship you’re being allowed to go home and not going straight into a cell.”

  Gray opened his mouth to thank Carslake but the DCI raised a hand and interrupted him. “I don’t want to hear it.”

  “I’ll get my coat.”

  “There’s one job to do before you go home.”

  ***

  Gray drove slowly to the hospital. He suspected that if he was stopped en route he’d be over the limit. Thankfully there weren’t many cops around here. He should know. His head was pounding, as much with Philips’ revelation as the after-effects of last night.

  Luckily, he made it to his destination without incident, found a parking spot, and left the car at a haphazard angle. He didn’t bother paying the parking charge. A fine was the least of his worries.

  Clough was in his tiny office, tapping away at a keyboard. When his eyes alighted on Gray an expression of intrigue surfaced. Wordlessly, the pathologist handed over a sample jar. He permitted a moment’s privacy by stepping into the corridor while Gray extracted several pubes and slotted them into the screw-top container. The pathologist couldn’t meet Gray’s eyes when he took back the evidence.

  Forty

  The first thing Gray did when he got home was to swallow another of Mallory’s pills. He paused to luxuriate in the ensuing numbness delivered by the little white pill before he attempted the second task. A call to his bank, cancelling his credit cards, all of which were in his confiscated wallet. Next, he arranged the collection of some emergency cash from over the counter because his money was in the same place as the cards.

  Then he went out to get drunk again.

  ***

  Gray was steadily achieving his objective of attaining oblivion when trouble came for him in a corner of The Tartar Frigate, a pub on the Broadstairs seafront.

  The first sign of Gray’s impending doom was an intruding voice that he immediately recognised. “Solomon Gray.”

  He turned.

  Scully.

  The reporter pushed with his mouth again, unhappy Gray was ignoring him. “Hey, I’m talking to you.”

  “Fuck off,” said Gray.

  “You’re such a pompous prick.”

  “Whatever. Leave me alone.” Gray went back to his pint. Took a swig of the beer, his fingers tight around the glass.

  “I was right. Tell me I was right,” said Scully. He emphasised his words by shoving Gray’s shoulder. Beer spilled across the table.

  Gray stared at the pool spreading across the dark varnished wood. Slowly, he twisted
his head over a tense shoulder. The reporter was leering at him, a shit-eating grin plastered across his repugnant face. A couple of Scully’s colleagues in the background at the bar were enjoying the spectacle. The pub had fallen silent, waiting to see what would occur.

  Scully shoved him again. Something clicked out of place inside Gray, fracturing his self-control.

  The next thing Gray knew, he was standing over a prostrate Scully, trying to put a boot into his ribs. The reporter’s colleagues were holding him, meaning Gray couldn’t quite reach. His knuckles throbbed. They were skinned, raw.

  Shocked faces. Silence.

  Then someone shouted, “Call the police.”

  “I am the police,” said Gray. “I told him. I told Scully the next time we met I’d stick a fist in his face. He asked for it.” He shook off the journalists. “You’re all witnesses.” Gray moved a finger in a semi-circle to encompass everyone.

  Within seconds he was outside in the open air. He glanced in through the window. A dazed Scully was being pulled to his feet. He decided it would be prudent to withdraw before they came looking for him.

  ***

  Gray unlocked his door and fell into the hallway. It was well into the evening and Gray couldn’t see a thing. He felt for the light switch. As his fingers touched it he changed his mind. So he stayed in the dark and fumbled his way along the corridor, the weight of the beers he was carrying altering his already off-kilter centre of gravity.

  He staggered down the two steps into the kitchen. The alcohol made him forget they were there, despite him negotiating them for the best part of twenty years. The beers almost ended up on the floor when he mistakenly estimated the kitchen unit he was aiming for to be wider than it actually was. He fished around for a bottle, snagged one.

  Given his condition, there was no way Gray would be able to pop the cap in the dark. He started the torch app on his phone. The bright beam cut through the darkness.

  “Ouch.” Gray squinted against the glare.

  The drawer opened with a rattle. He shushed it into silence, seized the bottle opener, levered open the Bishop’s Finger, a powerful local Kentish brew. At a couple of per cent alcohol higher than your average bitter it was the sort of booze to start the night, not close it.

  At the third attempt he succeeded. A hiss, and foam poured out of the neck. Gray raised the bottle to his mouth and sipped it away.