The Solomon Gray Series Box Set

by Keith Nixon

  “Very droll, but basically correct. The fluid obstructs the airway which causes asphyxia. Circulatory and respiratory failure occurs almost immediately.”

  “Nice.”

  “Quite. To be honest, it’s usually difficult to conclusively establish death by drowning. The lungs naturally fill if a corpse is submerged for any reasonable time, meaning the findings in any investigation are at best minimal.”

  “Really?”

  “Surprisingly, yes. There’s several signs to look out for.” Clough held a hand up in a fist. Gray was about to get a lesson. “One, a white froth at the nose and mouth.” Clough extended a finger. “But there was none. Possibly washed away in the surf. Two, the presence of weeds or stones grasped by the hands. Desperation at the nearing end. There were none — perhaps nothing could be grabbed? Three, foam in the lungs and air passage, which was present. Four, water-logged lungs, also a check, though as I’ve already said that’s entirely natural. Five, water in the stomach and intestines, ditto.” Clough raised his other hand in a fist. “Six, diatoms and maybe plankton in the tissues.”

  Gray opened his mouth to ask the obvious question. Clough got there first.

  “They’re algae found in water and they’re what can prove the evidence we need. The diatoms pass from the ruptured alveolar wall into lymph channels and pulmonary veins and then into the heart. Only a live body with circulation can transport diatoms from the water into organs in that fashion.”

  “The heart pumping junk around the body?”

  “Right. No pump, no diatoms where they shouldn’t be.”

  “Bloody hell, Ben, are you going to tell me if you saw them or continue being far too clever for your own good?”

  “Sorry, I get a bit carried away.”

  Gray felt like screaming.

  “Yes, there were diatoms.”

  “And time of death?”

  “Again, difficult to establish because of the body’s time in the sea. It’s effectively a huge heat sink. Could have been hours or days. Given the preserved nature of the cadaver I’d tend towards the former – limited time as fish food,” clarified Clough. “It’s usually the eyes that get eaten first. I also took a blood sample for analysis. Because I knew you’d be in a hurry I called in a favour, walked the sample over, stuck around and made a general nuisance of myself until I got the data.” Clough handed over a file. He did enjoy a degree of melodrama.

  In this case it was warranted.

  “Ketamine,” said Gray.

  Clough nodded. “Enough to knock him out and make him compliant. Regan ingested the drug at some point prior to his immersion. And being in a relative state of helplessness would in all likelihood actively reduce the signs of drowning.”

  “What about the other two?”

  “I’ve yet to undertake the full post mortems. Outward appearances signpost similar drowning indicators to Regan in one. The knife wound in the other may or may not have been fatal. I won’t know for sure until I go inside later today.” Clough held up a hand; palm towards Gray. “And yes, before you ask, I’ve sent their blood samples away too, although I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for those. I can only work one miracle at a time.”

  “That’ll do me, Ben.”

  They shook hands once more. When Clough was out of sight Gray rubbed his palms together and only stopped to answer his phone. He checked the display. Hamson.

  “Are you still at the hospital?” she asked.

  “Yes, why?”

  “We had a report of a disturbance last night at the Lighthouse Project on Belgrave Road. Seems like our mystery man was there.”

  “Okay, I’m on my way.”

  “Not yet. There’s a witness in the hospital you should speak to, if you can. Rachel O’Shea.”

  Nineteen

  Then

  It was the fire engine which brought Rachel back to the here and now. She withdrew from Cameron’s clinch.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  They sat side by side with their feet dangling over the water. Below her, the waves lapped at the Harbour Arm wall. Nearby, a couple of boats bobbed on the calm water of the anchorage. She preferred it when the sea was up and wild. When spray was in the air and there was the crackle of an impending storm. Tonight, though, everything was still.

  The fire engine raced along the Margate sea front, blue lights briefly lost among the permanently lit, lurid display of Dreamland. The sirens wailed, even though there was no queue of cars to shunt out of the way. Rachel returned her attention to Cameron. It would be someone else’s tragedy; she couldn’t help.

  When the second engine and a police car went in the same direction, Rachel broke off from Cameron again. She ignored his protests. The red stain of a blaze was clear on the black sky. She jolted inside when she realised the first fire engine had stopped near where she was staying.

  She jumped up and ran as fast as she could, Cameron close behind her. She ignored his shouted questions. By the time she arrived, both fire engines were spraying water on the building. She paused, took in the sight: fire licking out of the first-floor windows, smoke billowing. The heat increased as she neared. She could feel it on her skin, a warm caress. A small crowd had gathered, watching behind a cordon, powerless to intervene. She ran over, couldn’t see her family there. She ducked under the tape and dashed to the burning house.

  A policeman grabbed her round the waist before she’d advanced two feet. She struggled. He tried to calm her.

  “My father and brother are in there!” she shouted.

  “You need to stay back!”

  The policeman let go, and Rachel fell into Cameron’s arms. A man wearing a crumpled suit came over. He was also police, he said. There was a bright flash, then another. Someone taking photos. The policeman left Rachel and Cameron with his colleague, whose name was Jeff, and went to talk to the cameraman.

  Jeff led Rachel to the sea wall and made her sit down. She held Cameron’s hand. The concrete was cold beneath her. Jeff took off his jacket which smelt faintly of smoke, and draped it around her shoulders.

  The three of them watched the fire burn.

  Twenty

  Now

  Gray was directed by a nurse to a private room off one of the many wards. Gray knocked lightly on the door.

  “Come in,” said someone from inside.

  He entered, closing the door behind him. Inside was the patient, a pregnant woman who lay on her back, seemingly asleep, dark hair spread across the pillow. Some monitors beside the bed bleeped intermittently. There was a bunch of flowers standing on the windowsill in a vase. Lilies. Beautiful to look at, not so great to smell. As if something had died and was in the process of rotting. Hardly ideal for a hospital environment of recovery and recuperation.

  A grey-haired woman sat in a chair drawn up to the bed. A newspaper lay in her lap, and she was regarding Gray expectantly.

  “I’m looking for Rachel O’Shea,” said Gray.

  “She’s asleep,” said the woman, standing.

  Gray introduced himself, showed his warrant card.

  “May I?” Natalie held out a hand. Gray passed over his card. She examined it closely before handing it back. “I’m Natalie Peace. Rachel and I work together.”

  “How is she?”

  “Let’s talk outside. I read somewhere that unconscious people can hear conversations.” Natalie tucked the newspaper under an arm.

  Just along the corridor was a small, square recess with seats bolted to the floor and a vending machine which Natalie fed some coins into. “Would you like something?” she asked.

  He shook his head. Natalie pushed several times at the keypad, making a selection, and waited for the machine to dispense a drink. A few moments later, she held a small plastic cup in her hands, blowing on the surface, although Gray couldn’t see any steam rising. She took a sip and pulled a face.

  “What do you want?” said Natalie.

  “My boss called and told me to speak to you. She said Miss O’
Shea was involved in an altercation with a man, possibly a person of interest in a case we’re investigating.”

  “I’m the manager of the Lighthouse Project on Belgrave Road. We provide a refuge for the homeless. Rachel is a volunteer.”

  “I know it. Not the easiest of places to work, I imagine.”

  “Sometimes, no. But I enjoy it.”

  “It’s under threat though?”

  Natalie scowled. “Bloody developers are after us, yes.”

  “Have you had any trouble previously?”

  “There’s sometimes a few scrapes, it’s the nature of the beast. But nothing like this.”

  “What happened?”

  “Two men came in, looking for someone. Rachel discovered them out the back in the dormitory, shining a torch into the faces of sleeping guests.”

  “How did they gain access?”

  “Kelvin let them in.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Another volunteer. If we weren’t short of people I’d get rid of him.” An angry expression crossed her face. “The fact is they shouldn’t have been there. It’s against the rules.”

  “Why?”

  “We try to provide a safe and secure environment for our sleepers. It’s tough out on the streets.”

  “What time did this happen, precisely?”

  “Just after 1am.”

  “Did you know them?”

  She shook her head.

  “Can you describe them?”

  “Locals, by their accents. Big guys, not pleasant at all. Not homeless by how they were dressed; too smart and they wore aftershave.”

  “You were brave to stand up to them.”

  “It was Rachel, really. I just called your lot. You get used to dealing with difficult people and situations. They weren’t pleased. I followed them outside to ensure they left.”

  “Does this happen very often? Someone trying to find people?”

  “Yes, unfortunately. Usually family members looking for a runaway. But they’ve left home for a reason and don’t want to be located. It’s our job to be impartial.”

  “How did Rachel end up needing to be hospitalised?”

  “I don’t really know. I was outside when it all happened, showing the two men off the premises. One of our guests ran past me into the street and kept going. I went back in and found Rachel on the floor. Kelvin was looking after her. He’d already called an ambulance; the police came pretty much straight away. We’ve been in here ever since. The baby’s all right though, thank God.”

  “What did the man look like? The one they were looking for.”

  Natalie passed Gray the newspaper. On the front page was a picture of their mystery man from the earlier press conference. “It was him. Look, I’ve got to get back in to Rachel. Is that everything you need to know?”

  “What about the baby’s father?”

  “He’s working. He’ll be here soon. I really need to be with Rachel.”

  “Of course, I’m sorry I’ve kept you for so long. Thanks for your help. I’ll send someone over to take a formal statement and show you some photos when you’re feeling up to it. Perhaps you’ll recognise the men.” Gray handed over his business card. “In case you remember anything else.”

  Natalie put the plastic cup down on the table and left. When Gray walked passed Rachel’s room the door was closed.

  His phone beeped; a text message. It was from Noble. It said, “I’m out. Meet me later.”

  “Where and when?” tapped out Gray.

  “Tonight English Flag.”

  Gray groaned. The place was a dump. But at least he might learn why Noble had been beaten.

  Twenty One

  Mike Fowler was like a cat, waiting to pounce the moment Gray sat down. He dropped a file in front of Gray.

  “French police have responded,” said Fowler, almost purring, leaning over Gray’s desk. “We’ve got a name for our mystery man. Adnan Khoury. And they’ve identified the other corpses too.”

  “That was remarkably fast,” said Gray, taken aback. “Clearly, for once, they weren’t on strike.”

  “Seems not.” Fowler, in his enthusiasm, missed the joke. Gray had to admit to himself it was a lame one anyway.

  Hamson joined them, greeting Gray. She sat on the corner of the desk, one leg swinging. “Something to go on, at last,” she said. “How did it go at the hospital?”

  Gray updated them with brief details from the post mortem and his subsequent conversation with Natalie about Rachel’s altercation with Khoury.

  “He’s still in town then,” said Hamson.

  “So it seems. Interesting that rather than running away from his pursuers, Khoury went after them with a knife.”

  “Yes.”

  Gray opened the file.

  “Don’t expect much,” said Fowler. He and Hamson left Gray to it.

  Gray started up his PC. There would be emails waiting, reports to file, the usual stuff. But his interest was in the French information. Even though Fowler had prepared him, Gray was disappointed by the scant data.

  There was barely a page for each, comprising names, photos, country of origin. The other two appeared to be named Najjar and Shadid, all were from Syria. Najjar was the stabbing victim. An addendum stated that the French police believed there was a high probability that the names were false identities. And there were fingerprints for each of them.

  There was no chance of obtaining records from their apparent homeland – Syria was more concerned with civil war and unrest than law and order. The only credible data was their temporary location in Calais (now out of date, of course) and the crimes they’d been accused of committing on French soil – robbery and indecent assault.

  All had been residents in the area on the edge of Calais called the Jungle. A mix of temporary and semi-permanent accommodation where refugees, mainly men, sheltered while trying to cross into Britain – whose welfare system, the apparent wealth of employment, and its liberal attitude made it a magnet for migrants.

  The Jungle had been a constant source of tension between the UK and France and was rarely out of the news. The Calais residents hated it too. Travel through the area to the ports became harder and harder. Night time was particularly hazardous with trucks and cars regularly stopped and boarded. About a year ago, the French finally had enough and shut the Jungle down and dispersed the refugees. It wasn’t clear where they were supposed to have been sent.

  At the back of the report was a final page stating the details for a contact in the Calais police, Inspector Jacques Morel. Sounded like a mushroom to Gray. He thought about what Carslake had told him yesterday. Tom had been seen on the way through Dover to Calais. Maybe Morel could help here as well?

  Two birds, one stone. Gray picked up the phone and tapped in the numbers. Someone had even helpfully provided the international dialling code. The connection was made and the single tone vibrated in Gray’s ear.

  “Oui?” A woman’s voice. Then an intelligible rattle of vowels and consonants Gray was unable to decipher.

  Gray asked for Morel, adding a s’il vous plait at the end.

  The woman switched to accented English. “Who is calling?”

  “Sergeant Gray, with Kent Police in the UK.” The two police forces spoke a lot, particularly the coastal divisions.

  “He is not here right now.”

  “When will he be back?”

  “Sorry, I do not know. Would you like to leave a message?”

  Gray sighed, left his details, said au revoir and, frustrated, ended the call.

  “Unable to reach Morel?” said Fowler.

  “Yes.”

  “Join the club. Neither could I or Yvonne.”

  Gray had an idea. The witness to Tom’s disappearance was a few miles outside the Dover ferry port. Carslake had said he’d arrange for Gray to see them so he could combine that with a trip to France.

  A couple of minutes on his desktop showed him the Calais police station was in the town centre and that there
were plenty of tickets available on the Dover ferry. The sooner he went, the sooner he could be in Dover.

  He entered his credit card details. A mouse click confirmed he’d bought a ticket which would be sent to him electronically.

  Minutes later, he found Hamson at the murder board in the incident room. The section had been updated to include Khoury’s name and details.

  “I called Morel,” said Gray. “I couldn’t reach him.”

  “Surprise, surprise.”

  “I think I should go over there, see the inspector for myself.”

  “You’ve got be joking, Sol. No free holiday for you.”

  “We need to know what we’re dealing with. The dossier gives us nothing other than a name.”

  Hamson paused, thinking about it. “I don’t disagree, but we’re short on manpower right now, and I’m not convinced you’ll learn much more anyway. Everything French police had was on those pages. So, it’s a no. I need you here, helping with the case.”

  “There’s other stuff going on, Von.” Gray could feel his anger growing. He was fighting to keep his voice even.

  “Ma’am or boss please, Sergeant. And it’s still a no.”

  “I’ll talk to Carslake if I have to.”

  “Go ahead. I doubt he’ll be any more willing than me.”

  “Okay.”

  “Seriously?” Hamson appeared ready to say something else but gritted her teeth instead. Gray left the incident room, Hamson trailing just behind. He went upstairs, walked straight past Sylvia, knocked on Carslake’s door, and entered without waiting. The room was dominated by a large window overlooking the North Sea. Carslake was seated at his desk, silhouetted by the back lighting. He was talking on his mobile. He frowned at the intrusion. Gray stood before his desk, Hamson beside him, her arms crossed. Carslake ended the call and put his mobile down.

  “Bloody wait for me to say you can come in next time, Sol,” said Carslake.

  “I want to go to Calais to see the French police about Khoury, the missing man.”

  “I know who he is. DI Hamson has been keeping me up to date. Why?”