by Keith Nixon
“There was nothing you could have done to stop her,” said Hamson.
“Maybe I didn’t want to.”
“Keep that to yourself. Come and get your head seen to.”
Gray allowed himself to be led away.
Forty Six
Smoke curled upwards in a great plume. The fire burnt fiercely, at odds with the weak sun hanging low in the sky. Gray dragged an overflowing bin bag across the garden. He watched the flames shimmer. Great pieces of grey ash wafted up in the thermals and carried over the fence across several gardens. Children were laughing, jumping to catch the fragile flakes.
He grabbed a fistful of the yellowed, curling paper. There were years of pain stored up in careful loops and curls of neat handwriting. Without a second’s thought Gray tossed them onto the conflagration. It immediately caught, tinder-dry, and turned to smoke.
Gray threw handful after handful into the cleansing blaze. Although Hamson wasn’t able to return any of the official case notes there was plenty of history to get rid of. He had folders full of newspaper cuttings and handwritten notes. The process would not be a fast one. And in the morning there would be a nasty black patch on the lawn. Gray didn’t care. It was a start on the garden blitz.
“What’s it like being famous?” a familiar voice asked.
Gray looked up. It was Pennance. He stood at the garden gate, the picture of suave in a well-cut, three-piece suit.
“I can do without all the attention, frankly.” Gray had made the national papers. A death in a church and a serial killer had been big news.
“I rang the bell, but you didn’t answer,” said Pennance.
“I can’t hear it out here. Come on and give me a hand.”
Pennance did so, and for a few minutes the pair loaded the past into the consuming flames.
“Is this a social visit?”
“Not exactly. I’ll be heading back to London this afternoon. I thought I should come round and say my goodbyes.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“And to take you somewhere.”
“I’m off booze for the moment.”
“That wasn’t my intention. Have you got a black tie?”
***
Of the three people in the crematorium, only two were breathing. Gray and Pennance were seated on the front row. Buckingham had no known next of kin, no one to look out for him in life. The least the pair of them could do was ensure Buckingham made his final journey accompanied by someone who cared.
A cheap casket containing the last remains of the sixteen-year-old boy already rested on the conveyor that would transport the body into the cleansing flames.
Gray had squeezed himself into an old suit and found a half-decent white shirt, although he’d come up short in the tie department. Dark blue was the best he could do. The service was brief, delivered by the local vicar from the church next door. The crematorium was wedged between the church and a council tip, a juxtaposition Gray didn’t want to explore.
Once the reading was over, the vicar shook Gray’s and Pennance’s hands, mumbled a few appropriate but irrelevant words and departed.
Outside, Gray said, “This is where one of us should suggest going to the pub because every interment should be accompanied by a wake. But I’m sober and you’ve a train to catch.”
“I do have enough time for confession, though.”
“Not you as well. I’ve had enough of those recently.”
Pennance laughed. The sound suited him. “There’s something I probably shouldn’t have done. Actually, two things.”
“Then you came to the right place. I’ve a list as long as your arm of stuff that would fit into that category. Go on, tell all in gory detail.”
“I kept that DS of yours on the Buckingham case alongside me.”
“Fowler?”
“That’s him.”
“Hamson will be furious.”
“Which is one reason I’m telling you and not her. It’s my way of apologising.”
“I’ll tell her once you’re in London, perhaps you’ll avoid her wrath then.”
Pennance laughed. “What do you think of the neighbour, Ian Wells?”
“The housebound Goth? How do you know about him?”
“From the case notes, of course.”
“What about him?”
“He told you he’s housebound?”
“Yes. He gets away once a week with some charity. I can’t remember what they’re called.”
“Out and About.”
“That’s them.”
“Fowler’s digging revealed that Wells actually works for Out and About.”
“So he’s not housebound?”
“No, and he claimed there was a trip out by the charity on the day of Buckingham’s death too. But there wasn’t. Why lie about those things?”
Gray thought for a moment. “He told me he heard his neighbours through the wall because he was in all the time. Perhaps Wells ignored the door-to-door and avoided revealing himself?”
“It’s all supposition, unfortunately.”
“Let’s go talk to Wells, see what he has to say for himself.”
Pennance shook his head. “He’s yours. And you might want this.” He gave Gray the photo of Buckingham which Hamson had confiscated. “From a friend.”
Gray offered his hand. Pennance grinned and shook it.
“I’ll be going,” said Pennance.
Now there was just one more death to clear up. The one which had started it all. Gray rang for a taxi.
Forty Seven
Gray waited too long for the lift to arrive. As he did so, he removed his tie, bunched it up and shoved it into his coat pocket.
The doors stuck part way open, as usual. Inside, he pressed the button for the floor he wanted. It wasn’t any quicker to rise than before, and the smell hadn’t improved either.
By now the police tape was gone from outside Buckingham’s flat. Somebody had probably moved in already. A family from outside the area, he’d bet, keen to get a roof over their heads, not fussed about what had happened – the past was the past, after all.
Gray knocked. Ian Wells opened the door faster than it had taken Gray to navigate five floors.
“What do you want?” asked Wells. He looked furtive, his eyes shifting constantly, barely resting on Gray.
“To talk.”
“I read about you in the paper. You’re not a copper anymore so no, you can’t,” said Wells, trying to close the door. Gray stopped him with a well-placed foot.
“I’m taking a holiday, there’s a difference.” Which wasn’t quite true. Gray was still deciding whether to resign from the force. He pushed the door back open. Wells barely resisted.
“This is harassment. I’ll report you.” There was no conviction in Wells’s tone. “Clear off.”
“Are you sure this is how you want it to be?”
Wells folded his arms across a black T-shirt, covering the name of some band Gray had never heard of, stressed almost to ripping point by the big man’s girth.
“We’ll do it another way, then,” said Gray and handed over the photo of Nick with the faceless man. A man of a remarkably similar build to Ian Wells. His mouth fell open, and his hands began to shake.
“You’re crazy,” Said Wells.
“No, Mr Wells, I’m angry. You see, my colleague has been digging into your background. DS Fowler may be an arsehole, but he’s a very persistent arsehole. Keeps going when everyone else around him is caught up in other issues, seemingly larger ones. Not Fowler. He found out that there is indeed a charity called Out and About.”
“So? Of course there is.”
“So you’re an employee, not one of its clients. Why did you lie about that?”
Wells attempted a blank expression, but struggled to keep it together. A tic developed under his right eye.
“And there was no outing on the day Nick was murdered. Why did you lie about that, Mr Wells?”
Wells said nothing.
&n
bsp; “Good thing Fowler checked, otherwise you might have got away with it,” said Gray.
“Got away with what?”
“The murder of Nick Buckingham. We found fingerprints on the glass holding down the suicide note. We checked yours. There was a match.”
Wells’s face was now the shade of cheap white paint. He looked defeated.
“That’s you in the photo, isn’t it? We can check your tattoos, see if they match this one.” He pointed at the smudge on the shoulder of the man in the photo.
Wells sagged. He fell against the wall, then slid down onto his knees. “I didn’t murder him,” he said in a small voice, his eyes imploring. Tears spilled down Wells’s cheeks.
“You flung him off the balcony!”
“No, no! I’d never do that, I loved Nick.”
Gray took a gamble, said, “He didn’t love you though, did he?”
“That’s not true!”
“It was all about money for him.”
“No!”
“You were just another punter, someone to get drugs from.”
“I was more than that! He told me so.”
“Which kept you coming back for more, begging him to keep you company.”
“That’s not how it was!”
“And what did Nick do when you told him how you felt? I bet he laughed.”
Wells didn’t speak. Gray pressed harder.
“That’s what he did. He laughed at you, didn’t he?”
“Yes, right in my face!”
“I bet that hurt you more than anything.”
“Yes,” said Wells, his voice a whisper now. “It hurt so much. I took him by the arm, tried to shake some sense into him. It didn’t work. He laughed again, pulled away from me.
“Nick went onto the balcony to have a smoke. I followed him. I was crying like a baby. Next thing I knew there was a scream from below. Nick was gone. I’d pushed him over. I panicked. I wrote a quick suicide note, went back into my flat as quickly as I could and hid. I hid. I hid…” Wells covered up his eyes with both hands, bowed his head as if in prayer. He blew a huge breath out of his lungs and seemed to collapse into himself, suddenly much smaller. “Oh God, it’s been a nightmare, living with Nick’s death.” Wells looked up at Gray again. “I’m glad it’s all over. Thank you.”
Gray thought of Tom. Of Tanya, of Buckingham, of Hill, of Alice. And Kate. All dead, all watching him. This was his job. And whatever Alice had believed, Gray didn’t need saving. He could do that for himself.
Detective Sergeant Solomon Gray raised his warrant card. “Ian Wells, I am arresting you for the murder of Nick Buckingham.”
Forty Eight
When Gray brought Wells in it caused a stir in the station. Carslake was first to arrive, just as Wells was being put into his cell. Carslake stood watching proceedings for a few moments, before requesting he and Gray head up to his office.
“How did you put it all together?” asked Carslake.
Gray didn’t feel like talking but there were some things that had to be said. “I had a lot of help. Hamson, Pennance, and particularly Fowler.”
“Fowler?”
“He was the one who found out Wells wasn’t telling the truth.”
“Write it up in a report and I’ll see Fowler gets the credit.”
“Good. Is that everything?” Gray began to rise, keen to get out.
“No. Sit back down.”
Gray did so, reluctantly. He let the silence stretch. Whatever Carslake had to get off his chest Gray wasn’t going to make it easy for him.
“Whatever you think, Sol, I’ve always had your back.”
“Sure.” Gray hoped Carslake picked up on the sarcasm in his tone.
“Yes. You’re not the only one who never stopped looking for Tom.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Why? We were best friends. He was like a son to me.”
“It felt like you’d forgotten Tom, like he was history.”
“Never. He’s never far from my mind. Who do you think gave Pennance the photo of Wells?”
“Hamson.”
Carslake shook his head. “It was me. I took it out of the evidence folder. I put my career on the line to help you. I’d do it again if it meant we could bring Tom home.”
Gray struggled to process Carslake’s confession. It was totally unexpected and flew in the face of a belief Gray had built up over so long. “I don’t know what to say, Jeff.”
“You don’t need to say anything. We’re friends. Don’t forget that again.”
“I won’t.”
“Can we work together again? You and me, looking for Tom, together.”
“Yes.”
Carslake held out his hand. Gray took it. “You’ve no idea what it means to hear you say that.”
“Good. Because here’s the thing, Sol. I may have a new lead…”
Burn The Evidence
A Solomon Gray Novel
Keith Nixon
One
Rachel lay in bed, staring at a ceiling she couldn’t see in the darkness. Her brother, Jonathan, was a few feet away; his breathing, regular and deep.
The problem was her father. Or at least it could be, Rachel wasn’t sure. His place was in a cot bed on the other side of the room, next to the door. Trouble was, she was unable to tell if he was asleep or just pretending, trying to catch her out.
The holiday – only a few short days – was over already. In the morning, they’d be heading back to smoggy London, a million miles away from Margate. A million miles from Cameron. She simply had to see Cameron one last time before she left, no matter what her father thought.
Rachel pushed back the covers, put her feet onto the carpeted floor, the thick pile pushing between her toes, and carefully got up. The bed creaked. She froze. Jonathan stirred, rolled over. Nothing from her father. She dressed quietly, pulling on a pair of trousers and slipping a top over her vest. She picked up her shoes; didn’t bother putting them on, she’d do so downstairs.
She crept across the room, avoiding the squeaky floorboard. She almost made it. The door was half open when her father said, “Going somewhere, Rach?”
Over her shoulder she could see him sitting up in bed, silhouetted by the weak light from the landing. He must have been awake all along. “I wanted to watch the waves,” she said.
Her father rose and crossed over to her. His expression was a frown, as was the tone of his voice. “Are you going to see … him?”
“No,” she lied once more, hating to do this to her father, but she had to. Love won over everything, didn’t it? “Please? Just for a little while.”
Her father sighed. Rachel knew then that he’d fold. He’d been easy on her and Jonathan since they’d come back home. After her mother disappeared, leaving Rachel and Jonathan to fend for themselves.
“Come here,” said her father, beckoning.
Rachel went to him, leaving the door open behind her. He enveloped her in his strong arms. She smelt his body odour. It wasn’t strong or off-putting, just a natural smell. He stepped back, put a hand on her shoulder.
“Go back to bed, Rach,” he said.
“What?” Rachel couldn’t believe it. She took a step back, shook his hand off, then another step.
“You’re too young to be meeting a boy at this time of night.”
“I’m sixteen soon. And I love him!”
“You can’t possibly know what love is at your age.”
The derision was obvious in his voice, it cut through her. Tears in her eyes, she turned and ran out the door, pulling it closed behind her, shoes still in her hands.
“Rachel!” shouted her father.
She barrelled down the stairs, one flight after another. His heavy feet were close behind. He couldn’t catch her, not now. When she reached the bottom, the light was on in the hall. Mrs Renishaw, who ran the Sunset guest house, standing in the doorway wearing a dressing gown, her old-fashioned perm in a net.
“What’s going
on?” she asked.
Rachel didn’t pause to answer, but made a dash for the front door. She twisted the Yale lock and was onto the pavement before her father got outside. She heard Mrs Renishaw ask her question again, louder this time. Rachel sprinted, heading down the hill, past the Winter Gardens.
“Rachel!”
She glanced over her shoulder. Her father was standing on the top step; Mrs Renishaw at his elbow, peering past him. He called once more. Rachel ignored him.
An hour, that was all. An hour with Cameron. It wasn’t long. It would be over before they knew it. When Rachel got back to the guest house she’d apologise and her father would forgive her. Eventually.
But for now, Cameron was her focus. He’d be waiting for her at the harbour, as they’d arranged.
The trouble was, for Rachel, in that hour everything would change.
Two
Ten Years Later
Solomon Gray dug around in the pouch at his waist and grabbed hold of two cartridges. He slotted them into the cracked open barrel, snapped the weapon shut. He stood with one foot forward and the shotgun only half raised, held away from his chest.
“Pull!”
Gray sighted the clay before he nestled the weapon. It had to be firmly in place, otherwise the kick of the recoil could do serious damage, possibly even dislocate his shoulder. A circle the size of a saucer was fired across Gray, heading from left to right. He tracked the clay and fired, two rapid blasts, one after the other. The clay carried on into the trees, untouched.
“Looks like the drinks are on me tonight,” said Gray.
“You’re just rusty,” said Jeff Carslake.
“It’s been a while, right enough.”
If Gray remembered correctly, at least six years. He’d sold his gun back then too. He couldn’t be bothered with the rigours of maintaining a licence for something he didn’t see himself using again, so he was borrowing Carslake’s spare. It was heavy, unfamiliar. At first his aim had been surprisingly decent, though the initial targets were the easy ones, fired at a shallow, rising angle. Gray had plenty of time to zero-in on the clay. However, since then the difficulty had increased and Carslake’s more trained eye meant Gray’s score had fallen further and further behind his friend’s.