The Solomon Gray Series Box Set

by Keith Nixon

  Cameron was here, as a crutch for his father; and the pathologist Ben Clough, to gain official confirmation of the identity of the corpse.

  And, of course, Regan, stretched out on a gurney, a distinct form beneath a white sheet.

  “Are you ready?” asked Clough. He stood by Regan’s head, Jake further down at chest height, Cameron parallel to his father on the other side of his half-brother, Gray at the bottom of the gurney where he could see both of the Armitages’ expressions.

  Jake visibly drew in a breath, his chest swelling. He exhaled, nodded. Delicately, Clough pinched both sides of the sheet between finger and thumb and peeled the shroud off the corpse. Clough exposed face and shoulders. Naked, pallid skin, bloodless lips, eyes closed.

  Regan was calm in death. Though Gray imagined his last moments were anything but. Being thrust underwater by successive waves, thrashing, hunting for air. The searing pain across his lungs and heart as they starved of oxygen. Perhaps at the end, the relief was blessed.

  More often than not, bereaved relatives viewing a loved one collapsed as grief overtook them. Not Jake. His stance stiffened; he stood taller, stronger when he laid eyes on his son, whereas Cameron remained expressionless.

  Jake turned to Clough. “It’s him.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” said Clough.

  Jake took a step forward. He raised a hand as if to stroke his son’s face, then drew it back and, before Gray could stop him, slapped Regan on the cheek, following up with another strike. Cameron and Gray leapt forward at the same time. Cameron reached Jake first, and got an arm around a shoulder. Jake shook him off and managed to strike Regan again. Gray and Cameron took a grip of Jake, barging him backwards like they were in a rugby match until he was against a wall. He was strong though, and fought against them.

  “Dad!” shouted Cameron. “Stop it!”

  “He’s an idiot!” shouted Jake.

  “Calm down, Jake,” said Gray.

  Clough, after initially freezing in surprise at the turn of events, covered up Regan with the sheet once more and slid the gurney back into the wall. As soon as he did so, Gray felt Jake’s muscles relax.

  “Are we done?” asked Gray.

  Jake nodded. “Sorry, I don’t know what came over me. You can let go.”

  “Get him out of here,” said Gray to Cameron, who nodded.

  When the Armitages had left, Clough said, “Well, that was a first.”

  “Good thinking, getting rid of the body.”

  “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  Gray let go of a lungful of air, felt himself relax too. “When’s the PM?”

  “Tomorrow, first thing.”

  Gray said his goodbyes, left the suite, found Hamson hovering by a vending machine. She folded up the packet of crisps she’d been eating and shoved it into a pocket. Cheese and onion, he reckoned by the smell. At least she didn’t lick her fingers.

  “How did it go?” asked Hamson.

  Gray fell in step beside her and told her what happened.

  “Really? I’ve never heard of that reaction before.”

  “That’s what Clough said.”

  “I may put you down for the PM.”

  “Great.”

  “No need to thank me.”

  “I wasn’t planning to.”

  Hamson’s phone rang at the car which was parked right in front of the entrance. She handed Gray the keys while she spoke. He unlocked and got inside, waiting for her. He didn’t have to wait long.

  “That was Mike,” she said, joining him in the car. “Says he’s got some CCTV we need to see.”

  Gray drove slowly through the car park. When they were on the main road Hamson said, “What about Cameron?”

  “He was controlled. He said and did nothing until Jake lost it.”

  “The reaction of a grieving relative?”

  “Maybe.”

  Nine

  Then

  Regan Armitage stepped back into the shadow of a shop entrance, warned by the shout.

  “Rachel!”

  A girl ran past on the other side of the road. A man and a woman stood on the top step of the Sunset guest house. The man shouted again. But Rachel, whoever she was, got lost in the gloom.

  Regan stayed still; wondered if he should come back tomorrow. The point of arriving at this time of night was that everybody should be asleep. After a few minutes of indecision, he watched the pair go back inside. Another minute and the light in the downstairs bay window switched off. Regan breathed a sigh of relief. He leaned out from the darkness, looked up and down the road, saw no one. He decided to wait another quarter of an hour.

  The minutes ticked slowly past, Regan expecting someone to happen by and ask him what he was doing. But no one did. When the time was up, Regan hefted the heavy backpack from the ground, the strap cutting into his shoulder. Quickly he walked the hundred yards or so to the guest house and turned into the dark, narrow alley which ran alongside it.

  A wooden fence separated garden from alley. A few days ago, he’d loosened a couple of the boards. He bent over, got his fingers around the edge of the rotting wood. He was relieved when both came away easily. He shoved the backpack through and then, after a glance up and down the alley, followed it.

  Regan found himself in a long, narrow back yard. Like the girl, he paused, listened. Nothing. No noise, no light spilling out of any windows. He smelt engine oil. Under a tarpaulin was an old motorbike. He carried the pack to the back door. He knelt down and nudged at a cat flap in the door. It moved freely. He quietly unzipped the pack and pulled out a plastic jerry can, the kind drivers use as emergency back-up. He unscrewed the cap; took a wooden lolly stick from an inside pocket, and wedged the flap open with it.

  The cat chose then to exit, pushing its way out through the hole. It was a tight squeeze. The animal rubbed itself against Regan. He stroked it briefly before tipping the contents of the jerry can through the flap into the room beyond.

  The petrol fumes were powerful. Got right up Regan’s nose. Felt like the gas was scraping his sinuses, making him feel giddy and nauseous at the same time. The cat didn’t like it either and backed away. Regan poured until the can was empty. Next, he pulled some rags out of the bag and laid them on the tiled floor.

  Regan took his final tool. A brass Zippo lighter. It was a beautiful object; Regan flicked the wheel and the gas caught, producing a yellow flame. He lit a rag and, when it was burning, dropped the lighter inside. Immediately the flames expanded, a wave of blue rushing across the kitchen floor. For a moment, Regan watched – transfixed by the beauty – until, behind him, the cat hissed. Regan turned and saw the animal dive through the gap in the fence, back lit by the blaze. Alert now, Regan grabbed the backpack and hustled too.

  In the alley, Regan glanced over his shoulder. He was shocked by how quickly the fire had taken. He could see the flames. He’d need to be quick. Walking as fast as he dared without bringing attention to himself he soon arrived at the phone box. The hinges squeaked as the door opened and closed. He lifted the receiver. His plan was to ring the fire brigade so the conflagration would be put out, but not so soon that the house itself could be saved. It would mean the guest house was out of business – which was the objective.

  When Regan put the receiver to his ear, however, he heard nothing. He rattled at the contacts. Still silence. He looked down. The cord had been cut. The panic bloomed in his gut. There was no way he’d be making the call from here.

  He left the phone box and began running…

  Ten

  Now

  The traffic in front of Gray slowed before it ground to a halt. He was most of the way along Belgrave Road, a tributary which connected with the Margate seafront and ran along the border of the Dreamland amusement park.

  “What’s going on?” asked Hamson. They were less than a mile from the station now, just a few minutes’ stop-start drive under normal conditions.

  “I’ve no idea,” said Gray. The car in front
rolled forward a few feet then paused again. The road could be busy, but a dead halt was unusual.

  “We need to be at the station as soon as.”

  “I know.” Gray lowered his window. He could hear whistles and shouting. He popped open his door and got out. Several other motorists were standing beside their cars too. There was a thick line of people walking past the bottom of Belgrave Road, many holding flags and banners. A few drivers performed a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn and swung back the way they’d come.

  Gray bent down and stuck his head inside the car. “It must be the protest march Noble mentioned.”

  “What protest march?”

  “Apparently it’s to do with the squeeze on social services or something.”

  “And you knew about this?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Christ, we could have come in via Cliftonville and avoided all this. Do you know what route they’re taking?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “We can’t sit around here all day. Dump the car somewhere and we’ll walk.”

  A space had opened up in front of Gray. He manoeuvred until he could bump the car up the kerb and out the way. He locked up once Hamson was on the pavement and they got walking. A little further on, there was a knot of people gathered outside a house. As they neared, a portly man sporting a shock of white hair and goatee with pince nez glasses perched on his nose stepped forward and blocked their way.

  It was William Noble. “You made it then!” he said.

  “Just passing through,” said Gray.

  “You need to stay; this is an important issue which will affect everyone eventually. Services are getting squeezed all over the place.” Noble pointed at the house, a large and intricate gold ring glinted on his index finger. A sign above the doorway named it as the Lighthouse Project, a drop-in centre for the homeless. “It’s just the start, I’m telling you. We have to draw the line, right here, right now. They’re trying to close this place down, build houses or shops on it.”

  “Who is?”

  “The corporate machine.” When he saw his answer was too obtuse for Gray, Noble clarified, “A London mob called Millstone Property Developers.”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “Oh, they’re everywhere. Like most companies, it’s profit first, people third.” Noble turned away, returning with a placard. “I’ve got a spare.”

  “I can’t,” said Gray. “I need to get going.” Hamson had barely paused for the interruption and was fast receding. “Got to go, Will.”

  Noble put an arm out and stopped Gray. “I heard one of the dead was Regan Armitage.”

  “I can’t comment.”

  “Call me when you can.” Noble let go.

  Gray caught up with Hamson at the intersection of Belgrave Road and the esplanade. He was amazed to see so many people. It was noisy too; repetitive chanting and ear-piercing whistles. The line wound up the hill and away from them. While Gray stood observing, someone pushed a leaflet into his hand. It was a flier about the impact of the proposed closures.

  After a pause, Hamson impatiently forced her way through the crowd. Gray shoved the paper into his pocket and followed, ignoring the complaints of those she barged out of her way.

  “Bloody do-gooders,” said Hamson once they were on the other side and free.

  “That’s democracy for you,” said Gray.

  ***

  Mike Fowler was seated at his desk in the detectives’ office when Gray and Hamson arrived, Carslake at Fowler’s shoulder. The CCTV footage was frozen on a wall-mounted TV screen and ready to go.

  “Where have you been?” asked Fowler.

  Hamson held up a hand. “Don’t.”

  She positioned herself to leave a gap for Gray between herself and Carslake.

  “Get started, Mike,” said Carslake.

  “I picked up the footage from the Broadstairs Town Hall,” said Fowler. “There isn’t any CCTV on the beach, just along the clifftop, in the town, and on the jetty itself.”

  Fowler clicked the mouse button and the scene began to play. The perspective was across Viking Bay, back towards Dumpton Gap. Cliffs in the distance, sea to one side, sand to the other. A canoeist was battling the surf, and on dry land somebody was throwing a stick for a dog. The picture quality was poor: grainy black and white.

  “Where are we looking?” asked Carslake.

  Fowler stood up and tapped the screen. “Here, the central figure.”

  In the expanse, moving with unpractised difficulty along the shoreline, was a figure. The person stayed right against the water’s edge, head down, growing in size as the distance shortened. At the foot of the jetty the man paused and glanced around, clearly deciding which route to take.

  The esplanade led around between a pub called the Tartar Frigate and the old harbour building, a double-storey wooden construct, tilted over from hundreds of years of being battered by the wind. The other way was a steep hill to an old portcullis and back into town.

  The man began walking again, drifting out of sight momentarily as he passed under the camera. The shot cut as they switched between perspectives. Now he was moving away from them. The man turned left and disappeared out of sight behind a toilet block – tall terraced houses in the background.

  “Where did he go?” asked Hamson.

  “Watch,” he said. After a minute or so the man reappeared. “He went to the public toilets.” The man was obscured from the lens once more. Another shot revealed him walking quickly through the car park behind the harbour building and receding along the esplanade. Fowler paused the footage. “No more cameras.”

  “In all likelihood, he headed our way then,” said Gray.

  “Certainly looks like that,” said Hamson.

  “Pity we don’t have a better picture of him.”

  “Maybe we do,” said Fowler. He sat down, hit a few buttons, and a close-up of the suspect popped up on screen. “I pulled this from the Tartar Frigate. They’ve got good quality lenses.”

  There was an image of their target, a side-on view of a man with dark skin, a beard, and a prominent nose. It wasn’t great, though it was enough to go on. Fowler passed over a handful of printouts.

  “Good job, Mike,” said Carslake and patted him on the shoulder. “Can you send copies of everything to my office please, Yvonne? Top brass are all over this, and I need to brief them accordingly.”

  “Of course, sir,” said Hamson.

  Carslake left the room.

  At his desk, Gray took the flier out of his pocket and glanced over it. A handful of inflammatory statements studded with exclamation marks, some photos of rough sleepers, and people in hospital. On the back the company Noble had mentioned, Millstone, got another mention and not a positive one. They were being blamed for profiting by others’ misfortunes.

  “Sol,” said Hamson. “Incident Room, now. We’ve got work to do.”

  Gray threw the leaflet in the bottom drawer of his desk and followed Hamson.

  Eleven

  The incident room was buzzing, the activity centred around the murder board in the rectangular, high-ceilinged space. The board summarised all the pertinent information for clarity.

  The same facts and suppositions would also be stored on the HOLMES2 database, an acronym for the second iteration of the “Home Office Large Major Enquiry System”. But during a major investigation the online data quickly became large and unwieldy, difficult to see the detail in the morass of information being added by multiple people. Too many strands to focus on. The board was the concise fulcrum around which the investigation would rotate. Everything relevant to the case in one place, a visual aid.

  Otherwise, the incident room was sounds and movement. Ringing phones, cops talking to one another, talking to potential witnesses. Sifting, analysing, testing. Gray threaded through the desks, heading for the board.

  Gray stood beside Hamson. He recognised Fowler’s surprisingly neat script, all curves and loops, which crabbed down delineated c
olumns. There were sections for each victim, possible motives, possible offenders, murder weapon. So far, the victims were marked only by their photographs and the legend “Unidentified”. Three faces, all in death. At least one murdered.

  Regan Armitage’s section was brimming with facts and several suppositions. In comparison, the segment reserved for the beach hut intruder was empty except for Fowler’s CCTV photo which he stuck up.

  “We need to find this guy,” said Hamson, tapping the mystery man. “He could be the key.”

  “Heads up, Von,” said Fowler.

  Gray turned. The station’s Press Officer, Bethany Underwood, had entered the room. She was tall, skinny, and had frizzy bleached-blonde hair, thinning because she’d applied the chemicals too often. Underwood always seemed to be running on the edge, tense and stressed. She glanced around, spotted Hamson, and made her way straight over.

  “We’ve got a problem,” she said when six feet away. Underwood always got straight to the point.

  “Oh?” said Hamson.

  “Your case, I’m getting calls from the papers and TV, more and more of them. All wanting an update. Carslake’s in my ear too. What shall I tell them?” Underwood glanced at the photos of the dead men. She began to chew at a nail, saw Fowler watching and quickly dropped her hand.

  “I’m just about to carry out a briefing. Why don’t you stay and listen, then we can talk after?”

  “Okay, thanks.” Underwood moved away, distancing herself from the victims. She stood by the large television screen.

  “Everyone,” said Hamson. She remained before the murder board and raised her voice. “Can I have your attention, please?”

  Hamson allowed the noise to fall to a level where she could speak, rather than shout. A DC remained on the phone, quietly finishing a call.

  “As you all know, this morning we found the body of Regan Armitage on a beach. He appears to have drowned. We also discovered two other men, one stabbed. The other appears to also have drowned, seemingly after a failed attempt to cross from France in a people-smuggling exercise. It is highly probable that another man survived the trip. This man was found sleeping in a nearby beach hut.”