The Solomon Gray Series Box Set

by Keith Nixon

  A kettle sat on a portable burner and, next to it, coffee, tea, sugar, and, mercifully, a plastic bottle half full of water. It could be days old, but he didn’t care. Khoury poured what there was into the kettle and lit the gas.

  He threw granules into a mug, added a couple of spoonfuls of sugar for a sliver of energy and poured hot water on top. There was half a packet of biscuits in a makeshift bin. They were soft. Khoury didn’t care. He sat on the floor, drew the towels tighter around him, and held the hot mug in his hands to warm them up. When he felt warmer, he ate the biscuits which crumbled at a touch and drank the coffee. It was weak compared to what he was used to.

  His first objective was to stay under the radar. He was sure the police would be looking for him. Perhaps they’d even consider him a suspect. Then he must seek revenge. He must find and kill the men who’d murdered one, and probably both, of his friends. Family honour dictated it. That was okay. He’d done it before in the name of civil liberty. Despite the coffee, Khoury felt the tiredness creep over him. He’d expended a lot of energy getting himself ashore and his body was shutting down. He tried to fight it; he needed to move soon, before someone found him.

  Khoury hadn’t realised he’d fallen asleep until the latch rattled and a person, flanked by two children, stared down at him. All he could see was silhouettes, the rising sun behind them.

  “Who’s that man, Mummy?” asked one of the children, a girl by her voice. She appeared more curious than frightened. The woman, however, was hardly the model of calmness. She took a step forward, pushing the kids behind her, out of the way.

  “Get out!” the woman shrieked at him.

  Khoury leapt up, the knife in his hand. The woman, despite her initial bravado, moved backwards now, holding her children protectively. “Philip!” shouted the woman. A glance showed a man waddling down a slope from the cliff above, laden with bags, shuffling in flip flops.

  Khoury grabbed his trousers and boots and began running, ignoring the stiffness from lying on a wooden floor. His dash took him past Philip, who slowly put down the bags and ran a few steps before halting.

  “Hey!” said Philip. “Come back here!”

  Khoury passed a boarded-up café and terraces of more permanent-looking, shuttered huts.

  He rounded a corner, out of sight of the family. He paused to put on his trousers. Above him, a chalk cliff, studded with flint, towered. Below, the beach and the receding sea. The only obvious way up was the slope he’d seen Philip on, though he wasn’t going back to it. He had no choice but to carry on and hope he discovered an escape route before the police arrived and he was trapped …

  ***

  The clatter of metal and a man's loud swearing ended Khoury’s recollections and brought him back to the present. He turned his head and caught the sight of a dim beam of light on the floor. Somebody stooped, picked up a flashlight. Khoury watched the man shine the torch into the face of one comatose vagrant after another.

  Part way along the row the man stopped, aimed the beam in a sleeper’s face for a long moment, flicked the illumination over to a piece of paper he held in a fist, and back again. It was an easy assumption to make that it was a photo.

  “Hey,” whispered the torch man.

  “What?” There was another figure working the far side of the room, the pair splitting the search between them.

  “Check this guy out.”

  “Give me a moment.” He made his way over, torch light downwards, stepping over stuff.

  “What do you think?”

  “It’s not him.”

  “Are you sure? It looks like him.”

  “Definitely not.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Because he’s white. We’re looking for coloured skin.”

  “Could be a tan.”

  The first guy groaned. “Christ, I wish this was over. These guys stink. Makes me want to slap one of them.”

  This time the beam was directed into the face of the first searcher, illuminating a shaven, bullet-shaped head. Khoury recognised him immediately from the boat. He knocked the hand down so the light was no longer in his eyes.

  “Stop whining, Dave. I don’t want to be here anymore than you, so let’s get it done quick, okay?”

  “Don’t tell me what to do, Larry.” The menace was clear in Dave’s voice.

  Khoury grimaced in the darkness. They were here for him. They’d come to him. Khoury couldn’t believe his luck. The pair split up again and methodically worked their way through the hostel guests. They were being thorough, checking everyone, working from opposite ends and concluding in the centre before repeating the process. Twice more they paused, checked the photo against a face, moved on.

  Row four became three. If he’d been sleeping near the door the pair would have found him by now. Fight or flight? Khoury decided on flight for now. They were big men; Khoury didn’t think he could take both. He worked best by stealth. He’d bide his time.

  The only escape route was to leap out of bed and jump over the sleepers in his way. If the pair were slow to react, perhaps he could make it. Outside, he could decide whether to keep running or follow them, depending on circumstances. Khoury tensed, ready to leap. He slowly peeled the covers back, but before he could move, the overhead light flicked on. Khoury dropped onto the floor, to remain hidden now the room was illuminated.

  “What are you doing?” Rachel was standing in the doorway.

  “We’re looking for a friend,” said Larry as he switched off his torch. “He’s disappeared, and we’re worried about him.”

  Dave, a black man with long dreadlocks, stayed quiet.

  “You’re not allowed back here,” said Rachel.

  “We were told it was okay.”

  “By who?”

  “Your colleague.”

  “Kelvin?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Well, he was wrong to say so. What’s your friend’s name? The one you’re looking for.”

  “Wayne?”

  “You don’t sound sure.”

  “It’s definitely Wayne.”

  “Is that a photo?” Rachel pointed at the paper in Larry’s fingers. She held out her hand. “Can I take a look? I may recognise him.”

  Reluctantly, Larry passed over the photo. Rachel glanced at it, shook her head. “This person looks Arabic.”

  “So?”

  “Wayne isn’t a very common Arabic name.”

  “Are you taking the piss?”

  “It’s not me who’s taking the piss. I can tell you this man hasn’t come in here tonight.”

  “You know all of them then?” The mockery in Larry’s voice was clear.

  “Pretty much. I was on the front desk, so everyone came past me and most of our guests are regulars. So, yes, I’d know. And this man is not in here.”

  “Your friend, Kelvin, says he is. Served him food earlier.”

  Rachel shrugged, unaffected. “Kelvin’s new. Faces look similar at first. He made a mistake.”

  Larry wouldn’t be deterred. “I want to see them all.”

  Rachel shook her head. “As I said, that’s not possible.”

  Larry stepped in, got right up to Rachel’s face. “Get the fuck out our way, now! Or I’ll do something you’ll regret!” He raised his hand in a fist.

  Rachel stood her ground, crossing her arms above her protruding belly, though her face paled. “You’d hit a pregnant woman.”

  “Happily.”

  “In front of all these witnesses?” Rachel pointed past Larry. Some of the men in the room were awake and sitting up, watching proceedings.

  “Yes, hello, I need the police please.” Khoury recognised the voice. It was the older woman, Natalie. She entered the room, a phone pressed to her ear. “A disturbance at the Lighthouse Project.”

  Larry grabbed the phone from Natalie’s grasp, ended the call.

  “You’d better go,” said Natalie. “The police will be here in a minute. They’re only around the corner
and know to come quickly when there’s trouble.”

  Dave put an arm out, said, “Larry, mate, let’s be off.”

  Larry shook the restraining hand away, tossed the phone on the floor, and stalked out, Dave in his tracks. Rachel apologised for disturbing everyone’s sleep, but most were already unconscious again. As altercations went, it was minor. No punches had been thrown. Natalie and Rachel followed the two men, presumably to ensure they did actually leave.

  Khoury slipped his boots on, rose, and went into the eating area. Only Rachel was there, one hand on her head, the other on her belly. She looked startled when she saw Khoury.

  “Can I see?” asked Khoury.

  She passed over the piece of paper. It was a photo of him, not great quality but clear enough to be recognisable. Khoury scrunched the paper up into a ball and dropped it onto the floor.

  “We can help,” said Rachel.

  Khoury shook his head. He could only help himself, the way it always had been. He returned to his bed, collected his coat, and pulled out the knife. Back in the refectory, Rachel looked down at the blade, then back up to Khoury. She stepped backwards.

  Khoury pushed past Rachel, making her stumble. Where had the two men gone? He rushed for the front of the house. Natalie was on the pavement, arguing with Larry. He was standing beside a car, the passenger door open, engine idling.

  “Leave,” she said. “Before the police get here. We’ll talk later.”

  Larry looked like he had something else to say, but he got inside the car, and it was moving before he had the door closed. Khoury dashed down the steps, but the car was going too fast for him.

  Khoury took a couple of steps back towards Natalie. He wanted to know more about Larry, this man who had probably killed his friends. Clearly, Natalie knew something, knew Larry. But he heard a siren. Blue flashing lights rounded the corner from the seafront. Khoury turned and dashed in the opposite direction, anger blooming.

  Close – he’d been so close. He knew where to start looking now, though. He’d be back. For Natalie.

  Seventeen

  The office of Thanet’s Voice was in Margate’s New Town, above a Chinese takeaway in the pedestrianised shopping area. The entrance was down an alley, a black door behind two large blue bins on wheels. A large extractor fan blew hot air. The alley reeked of stale food and piss.

  The door yawned open. Immediately inside was dimness and a set of stairs. Gray fumbled around until he felt a light switch and flicked it on. Noble was lying face down at the top of the stairs, his head and one arm hanging over the uppermost step. It didn’t look good for him. Noble’s face was covered in blood, one eye swollen.

  Gray ran up and knelt down beside him. He put his ear next to Noble’s mouth. His breath washed in and out. Gray was hugely relieved.

  “Will, it’s me, Sol. I’m here.”

  Noble’s only reply was a groan.

  “I’ll call you an ambulance. Hang on.”

  Gray picked up Noble’s phone from where it had fallen from his hand and dialled 999. He gave Noble’s torso a quick check over. Noble groaned when Gray felt his chest. Maybe a cracked rib? It looked like he’d taken a good kicking from someone. Gray decided it wasn’t wise to move Noble into the recovery position. Doing so might make things worse. Next, Gray called the station and asked for some uniforms to be sent down.

  Satisfied he couldn’t do any more for Noble, Gray took a quick look around. There were three doorways off the landing. Directly behind Noble was the office. It was a mess. Paper strewn everywhere. Drawers dragged out, files all over the floor. An assault on Noble and a hasty search for something. But what?

  When Gray went back onto the landing to check on Noble again he found him leaning upright against the wall, his eyes closed.

  “Stay where you are,” said Gray. He crouched; put a hand on Noble’s shoulder. “The ambulance will be here in a few minutes.”

  “I’m all right.” Noble pushed Gray weakly away. “I don’t need anyone.” Noble ruined his own diagnosis by leaning over and vomiting down the stairs. When there was no more to throw up, Noble sat back up again, wiped his mouth, and grinned weakly. “Okay, maybe I do. They didn’t find it, though.”

  “Find what?”

  “Hello?” A call from the bottom of the stairs. “Ambulance.” Two paramedics at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Here,” said Gray, standing.

  Gray moved out of the way to allow the paramedics access to Noble.

  “Nothing major,” said one to Gray after they’d given Noble a quick check over, “but we’ll take him to the hospital, just to be sure.”

  Noble crooked a finger at Gray. “We need to talk.”

  “When you’re better.”

  “Tomorrow,” said Noble. “I’ll call you.”

  Uniform arrived then; two constables.

  “You took your time,” said Gray.

  “Sorry, sir, there’s an incident at the Lighthouse Project.”

  The constables shifted to one side while the paramedics helped Noble to his feet and supported him during the descent. Gray followed. Then the medics put Noble on a stretcher and loaded him into the back of the ambulance. The doors closed and the ambulance drove away, watched by a couple of faces standing in the takeaway’s window.

  “Come with me,” said Gray to the DCs. He entered the takeaway. The odour of Chinese food was much stronger inside, the smell always reminded Gray of sweet and sour sauce, the red stuff that quickly congealed on balls of an unidentified meat surrounded by a light golden batter. The crackle of hot oil in a pan and the scraping of metal on metal as an unseen chef in the back cooked was the only sound. Three men stood in the narrow space between the door and the metal-topped counter. They stared sullenly at Gray. A white carrier bag rested on the metal surface. From the shape of it there was clearly a takeaway within.

  Behind the counter, a large, handwritten menu was nailed to the wall. Beneath it, a short Asian woman wearing an apron blinked at Gray through thick glasses. She’d been trying to disappear out the doorway into the kitchen but stopped now. As if Gray would only see her if she moved.

  He showed his warrant card and said, “A man has just been assaulted. Did any of you see anything?” He received blank looks in return from all.

  “Somebody must have seen something,” said Gray. Still nobody offered a response. “Right, I’ll be taking you all down the station for further questioning.” Gray turned his attention to the woman. “You’ll have to close down for the night.”

  “Fuck’s sake, mate, what about my food?” The man who’d spoken appeared the youngest of the three. He wore black leather, and his bottom lip was pierced with a small silver ring. He pointed his thumb at the carrier bag. “It’ll go cold.”

  “Tell me what you saw. Then you can go.”

  “All I saw was you walk past, then the ambulance and cops arrive.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yeah. None of us have been here long. It’s a takeaway. Fast food, you know? Maybe it was you who beat up that bloke?”

  The man glared at Gray. “Give your name and contact details to my colleagues here; then you can be on your way, all of you.”

  Gray turned to the Chinese woman. “Did you see anything?” She shook her head. “Do you know the man who lives above?”

  “No.”

  “Nobody walked past? You didn’t hear any noises from above.”

  He got a shrug in reply then, “You all look same to me.”

  Eighteen

  Dr Ben Clough’s hands always felt cold. After every time they shook hands, Gray had to fight the urge to rub his own together to warm them up again. He couldn’t figure out if it was a genetic thing with Clough or whether it was because he spent the majority of his time in the mortuary where the temperature was kept permanently low.

  Clough was the silent, considerate type. He was a runner – another solitary pastime – pounding the streets out of hours. At some point, Gray would ask his advice on the
mundane matter of exercise, though at a more appropriate time.

  Gray had driven over to the hospital, rather than head into the station, setting off before the beginning of his shift in order to beat the traffic. Thanet was a maze of indirect, restricted routes which had a tendency to bottleneck at the slightest opportunity, making the journey half an hour rather than ten minutes. Clough was an early starter, too.

  The pair sat in the pathologist’s tiny, airless office. A desk, a couple of chairs, a pair of filing cabinets, and it was full.

  “I made a start as soon as I could,” said Clough. “I thought it prudent.”

  “Fine with me.” Gray didn’t like watching a corpse being dissected. “Any revelations?”

  “Best I show you.”

  Clough led Gray to the storage area. The air was several degrees cooler, and Gray could see his breath fog. There were many small metal doors set into the wall in rows, floor to ceiling. Clough undid the latch on one at waist height. Cold spilled out, and Gray shivered involuntarily. The pathologist tugged on the gurney inside and Regan’s shrouded corpse was silently revealed, the bed moving on well-oiled runners.

  Clough lifted one corner of the white sheet to expose a wrist, leaving the rest of the body hidden. Gray bent closer to see what Clough was pointing to.

  “Abrasions,” said Gray.

  “Correct. And not just there.” Clough moved down the body, lifted back the adjacent corner, bringing a leg into view. “It’s the same on both wrists and ankles.”

  “He was bound hand and foot?”

  Clough nodded. “And these.” He folded back the sheet, keeping Regan’s face and half his body covered. There was bruising on the side of his ribcage, the marks livid.

  “He was assaulted, probably kicked. By the arrangement of the discoloration I’d suggest he curled up into a ball to protect himself.”

  “Cause of death was drowning?”

  “His lungs were inundated with liquid, if that’s what you mean.”

  “So, he drowned then, Ben.”

  “You know how the process works?”

  “They breathe water rather than air, which isn’t particularly good for them.”