The Solomon Gray Series Box Set

by Keith Nixon

  Natalie rolled onto her backside, leaning away, hands on the floor, knees drawn up. Her expression changed with recognition. Fear crept into her face. Khoury looked down, feeling ashamed. This wasn’t what he’d had in mind when he imagined a new life in the UK. But he had to do this. For Najjar. For Shadid. For the family he would never see again.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  Khoury pulled Natalie to her feet and guided her forward through into the refectory, then the kitchen.

  “Food,” said Khoury.

  Natalie blinked. She opened the fridge and pulled out a large, plastic tub. She put it on a work surface and peeled off the lid, the seal parting with a loud snap.

  She spooned stew into a bowl, microwaved it for a couple of minutes, all the while keeping her eyes on him. His eyes darted nervously from the kitchen door, then back to Natalie. When the microwave pinged she took the bowl out and put the bowl on a table. Khoury indicated for her to slide onto one of the benches, then sat down to face her. He placed his knife on the table and ate quickly, glancing up at her with each slurp.

  When he’d finished, he stood so he had the height advantage and dominance. He hated himself for frightening a woman. But if she thought he was dangerous, then she would cooperate. “Where is Larry?”

  “Who?”

  “Larry. He was here last night.”

  “Do you mean Larry Lost?”

  “Yes. Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. He works in a couple of pubs. Why do you ask?”

  “Write down the names.”

  “I’ll need a pen and paper. They were in my bag, by the front door.”

  “Get it, then.”

  Natalie stood and went back into the hallway, Khoury right behind her in case she decided to make a dash. Natalie knelt down, swept fingers through her possessions on the floor, found what she wanted.

  “Pass me your purse,” said Khoury.

  Natalie handed it over. Khoury opened the clasp and took out the few notes she had in there. He stuffed them into a pocket and dropped the purse on the floor.

  Standing again, she rested the paper against the wall, wrote an address, and passed it to him. He glanced at the details, which meant nothing to him, before putting the paper into the same pocket as the cash. Khoury wasn’t entirely satisfied, though. With Larry and Dave on his tail, and possibly the police, as well, he needed to minimise his movements, his exposure. “Anywhere else he might be?”

  “I’ve told you all I know.”

  A thought occurred to him. “Does he have a boat?”

  “I think so.”

  “Where?”

  “Ramsgate, I would expect. It’s the largest anchorage in the area.”

  Khoury remembered the words on the back of the boat when he’d thrown himself overboard. Etna and Ramsgate. A name and the port of registration. “I'm sorry, but I need your car.” He held out his hand.

  Natalie bent down, scooped up a key on a fob, and dropped it into Khoury’s palm. He folded his fingers over it.

  “You might warn your friend, Larry, that I’m coming for him.”

  “He’s no friend of mine.”

  As Khoury considered his options, there was a knock at the door.

  “That’ll be Kelvin,” said Natalie.

  Another thump at the door and then the letterbox rattled. “Can you let me in?”

  “Why don’t I open up, and you just walk out of here?” Natalie asked Khoury. “There isn’t a way out the back. It’s the front or nowhere.”

  Khoury put his knife away, nodded at Natalie as the letterbox flapped once more. She took a couple of steps forward, undid the lock, opened the door wide, and stepped back against the wall to let Khoury pass. Kelvin was standing on the top step, looking bewildered and lost for words.

  Khoury barged past him. Kelvin stumbled but didn’t react. Natalie grabbed Kelvin by the wrist and dragged him inside. When Khoury looked over his shoulder, the door was slamming shut.

  Khoury walked up the street until he reached Natalie’s car. He got in, started the engine, and pulled straight out into traffic, ignoring the blare of a horn.

  After a minute’s drive Khoury reached some traffic lights. They were red. He slowed, looked at the signs. One pointed towards Ramsgate. There was the pictogram of a boat.

  When the lights turned green, Khoury followed the arrow and kept doing so until the harbour spread out before him. A huge rectangle of calm water dotted with yachts and motor boats was protected by two harbour arms which didn’t quite meet in the middle, leaving a small gap for the boats to head out the North Sea.

  Khoury drove past a line of restaurants, looking for a space. He found one near a tall stone monument in the shape of a needle and a shiny silver burger van. He pulled in, switched off the engine, and looked at the various seagoing vessels. They were many, maybe even hundreds. Khoury didn’t bother to lock the car. He took a slow trip around the circumference, trying to recognise Larry’s craft.

  He’d walked nearly all the way round by the time he spotted a possible candidate. He paused on a metal footbridge. The shape looked right. Long, low prow; and raked cabin, painted black. However, Khoury couldn’t take a closer look as the jetty was barred by a metal gate and high fence to the side of which was a keypad. He tried the gate anyway, just in case. Firmly locked.

  There were two ways to get in. Either drop off the harbour wall into the water where there was no fence, or climb over it. The former meant a twelve-foot plunge and a bit of a swim, so Khoury wasn’t keen. He’d had enough of swimming. The latter meant awaiting darkness. Khoury decided on option two and returned to the stolen car.

  Twenty Five

  Gray pulled Larry’s address from the Police National Computer – a bedsit in a tall terraced house in Cliftonville on Northdown Road, once one of the most salubrious areas in Thanet, but now one of the least.

  Northdown Road, wide, busy, long, and possessing a run-down air, was the arterial route for traffic through Cliftonville. A line of shops ran along both sides of the street – charity places, takeaways, a bargain booze store, a cash converter, a pawn shop, a Polish supermarket, a few pubs, a Halal butcher’s, a Caribbean fruit shop.

  Getting inside the building had proved ridiculously straightforward. Gray simply pressed the buzzer of one of the many flats on a keypad beside the front door. It unlocked without him even making an excuse to the occupant he’d disturbed.

  Fixed to the wall inside, creating a minor obstruction, was a black-painted metal box with individual flaps for the mail. Each had a lock, though all could be opened up by putting a finger into the gap at the top and tugging downwards. The majority had various takeaway menus sticking out. A quick way of reducing the pile to be delivered. Larry’s was empty, even of junk mail. Gray moved past the box and closed the door behind him. The light level dropped dramatically. He flicked a nearby light switch. No change. The bulb overhead was dead.

  The threadbare carpet was green and brown swirls. There were a couple of doors either side of the corridor, numbered one and two. Beneath the curve of the stairs were several bikes and a pushchair.

  Floorboards creaked beneath Gray’s feet as he headed upstairs, the same carpet design stretching upwards. A job lot laid decades ago. Larry’s flat was in the eaves on the fourth floor, number eight. The landing was tiny with only a few feet of space with sufficient clearance above for him to stand upright. Gray thumped on the door. He listened for movement. Nothing. He knocked again. Still nothing.

  He transferred his attention to number seven. The occupant opened up before Gray had even raised his fist. A man in his early twenties wearing matching black tracksuit top and bottoms, with a double white stripe on leg and sleeve. His hair was a shambles, bags under his eyes.

  “You after Larry?” he said.

  “Yes,” replied Gray.

  “Join the queue.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Someone always is.” The man shrugged.

  “
So why answer the door now?”

  “It’s obvious you’re a copper, even through the peephole.”

  “Does Larry cause you any bother?”

  “Not really. Looks scary, but get talking to him and it’s pretty clear he’s a mess. Is he in trouble?”

  “I just want to speak to him in connection with an incident.”

  “What incident?”

  “Confidential, sir.”

  “Like that, is it? I get it. He usually leaves a key under the carpet. Excuse me, would you?”

  The man waved at Gray to move. The only way to create room was for Gray to drop down a couple of the steps. Once he had done so the neighbour bent over, peeled back a corner of the carpet. There, in the dust motes, was a key. The neighbour grinned at Gray like their numbers had come up in the lottery.

  Gray closed the door on his newfound friend, who was craning to look inside so much he was in danger of falling flat on his face. Where Larry Lost was best described as large, the flat was the opposite.

  About six feet out from the wall which met the landing, the roof descended at an angle. So everything which needed height was towards the right and vice versa. The kitchen was in the back corner. Opposite was a bed, and crammed in between was a single armchair and the television. The floor was polished boards with several rugs intermittently spaced.

  The angular roof line turned back into vertical about three feet from the floor. Inset periodically were small hatches, Alice-in-Wonderland-like. Gray crossed to one of the cupboards. He bent down and popped the door open. A rug on the floor got in the way of its swing and he had to shift the carpet a few inches as a result.

  Disappointingly there wasn’t a portal to another place; no bottle marked “Drink Me”, just clothes on hangers. He shut the door, resisted opening up again several times to see if the inside changed. It didn’t.

  A couple of Velux windows cut into the roof-provided light. One was open a crack. No danger of getting burgled this high up unless maybe by a seagull. The walls were bare except for the television and a photo of a boat.

  As well as being small, the flat was surprisingly neat and tidy. Gray had expected a mess. Pigeon-holing Larry accordingly. He had been wrong.

  The search took all of five minutes. Gray found a small bag of cannabis in the bedside cabinet. He looked out the window at the view over the adjacent roofs and towards the sea. He went back to the photo and looked at the boat. It was clearly moored in Ramsgate harbour. The Royal Yacht Club and the Smack Boys building behind were distinctive. Gray couldn’t see a name. He took a photo with his camera.

  He called Hamson. “Larry’s not here.”

  “Found anything incriminating?”

  “A bag of weed.”

  “Get yourself to Seagram’s, Sol. Larry will turn up.”

  “I’ve got another lead I’m going to follow.”

  “Oh?”

  “Larry owns a boat.”

  “I wouldn’t have seen him as the seafaring type.”

  “Maybe he’s the type who sails to France in the dead of night?”

  Twenty Six

  Gray drove inland, taking the dual carriageway past the defunct Kent International Airport rather than the less direct coastal route. It took just over twenty minutes to complete the journey. He went as far round Ramsgate harbour as he could, and parked by the footbridge. He was facing the Ramsgate Home for Smack Boys at the foot of Jacob’s Ladder, a set of stairs which gave access from the clifftop high above, next to the Sailors’ church, both built in the late 1800s. The smack boys were apprenticed to fishing boats and the building was where they stayed when not at sea.

  He pulled out his phone and compared the angle at which he was currently standing with the photo on Larry’s wall. He was too far over. He crossed the metal footbridge, which could be swung out of the way when ships needed access to the harbour, and checked the perspectives several times until it seemed about right. Then he focused on the boats in the immediate area. Eventually he saw one which was similar. But, a metal fence and a gate with a keypad blocked the jetties off from public access.

  He tried the gate. Locked. He stared through the fence, but saw no one who he could ask to let him through. He turned around. Above him was a tower, glass around the circumference. The harbour master’s office. His role was to keep a constant eye out for marine traffic and monitor it.

  Gray walked over to the building. The lower floor was toilets and showers for those moored here. He found the office door and went inside, took the stairs. The view from the top was superb. Sea on one side, the bobbing ships on the other.

  “Can I help you?” A bearded, bald-headed man who appeared to be in his fifties and wearing a naval uniform was frowning at the intrusion. He was holding a huge pair of binoculars he’d been using to scan the waterways. Gray pulled out his warrant card.

  “I want to gain access to one of the boats moored here.”

  “Which one?”

  “I don’t know the name.” Gray showed the harbour master the photo of Larry’s boat.

  “Ah, the Etna.” The harbour master introduced himself as Captain Eadie.

  “Do you know anything about the Etna’s movements?”

  “She comes and goes at all times of day and night. There’s no routine to it.”

  “Do you know the owner?”

  “Larry? I see him around.”

  “What’s the code for the keypad?”

  “1805. Battle of Trafalgar.”

  “Thanks, I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  “I can keep a good eye on you with these.” Eadie grinned and showed Gray the binoculars.

  Gray made his way back outside again. At the keypad he tapped in the numbers. The magnetic lock powered off with a heavy clunk. Gray pushed on the gate, went through, and let it close behind him. The Etna was almost at the end of the jetty. Gray glanced around the exterior, not much to see.

  He stepped aboard; momentarily caught out by the rocking motion he wasn’t used to. Despite living by the sea for years he never spent any time on it. He tried the door which would give him access to the cabin. It was locked. The door was wood with some round glass panels at the top. He tapped the glass. It felt thin. Access would be easy. But if he did discover any evidence it would be inadmissible in court – no search warrant

  He stepped off onto the jetty again and went back to his car. He always carried nitrile gloves in the boot. He grabbed a pair, along with a couple of evidence bags, and went back to the Etna. As he went back on board, he looked up at the harbour master’s office. Eadie wasn’t in sight. Gray didn’t want to be caught.

  Gray pulled on the gloves, drew his coat sleeve over his fist, and hit the glass with his knuckles a couple of times until it cracked. Once more and he had a break. He picked out the shards, reached through, and felt around. His fingertips brushed the knob of a Yale lock. Standing on his tiptoes, Gray was just able to get a grip. He twisted and the door popped open.

  Inside was a cramped cabin, dimly lit as curtains covered the portholes. He put the glass shards down on a work surface. Using the torch on his phone, he first went through into the bedroom at the back. He returned to the galley kitchen. On the bottom shelf of a cupboard, which otherwise contained crockery, he found a tool box.

  He lifted out the top drawer, which held a hammer and several screwdrivers. Beneath an oily rag were three ziplocked plastic bags of white powder. He picked one up. He opened the bag but couldn’t identify the contents, and he wasn’t keen to test some on himself. He poured some into an evidence bag, resealed the bag, and returned the rest of the powder to where he’d found it.

  Before leaving, he moved the glass shards onto the floor, just inside the galley. Back on deck he shut the door behind him, peeled off the gloves, and made his way along the jetty.

  When he was stepping through the gate, Eadie pulled back one of the windows in the tower and leaned out. “Find anything?” he shouted.

  “Not this time.”

  �
��Better luck in the future.”

  When Gray was inside his car, he put the evidence bag beneath the passenger seat and checked his watch. He had time.

  ***

  Finding a parking spot outside the hospital was never easy so Gray put his car in the area reserved for the medical staff. His phone bleeped as he was applying the handbrake. It was Noble, suggesting a time to meet. Gray put him back by an hour as it overlapped with when he would be at Seagram’s, interviewing the staff with Fowler.

  Clough was in his cubbyhole office. Gray dropped the evidence bag onto the pathologist’s desk. “Can you identify this?”

  Clough eyed the bag before picking it up, seeking an explanation from Gray by his expression. When he didn’t get one, Clough opened the bag, took a careful sniff. “Odourless. Wait here a minute.” He left his office and was soon back with a small white cardboard box. He closed the door, put the box on the table, and pulled out a plastic cylinder about ten centimetres tall. He popped a cap off one end, withdrew an ampoule, opened this too before placing it upright on the desk.

  He folded a piece of paper, scooped a little of the powder out of the evidence bag, and poured it into the ampoule. Inside the vial was a clear liquid; it began to darken as soon as the powder hit. He let the colour develop for half a minute before comparing the shade against a chart which he removed from the white cardboard box.

  “Ketamine,” he said.

  “Are you certain?” asked Gray.

  “Ninety-nine per cent. That’s the accuracy of these kits.”

  “Thanks.” Gray picked up the plastic bag, resealed it, and put it back into his pocket. He left Clough. There was another place he might be able to find Larry. Gray had some more questions to ask him now.

  However, Larry would have to wait. Gray had to get to Seagram’s; otherwise Hamson would crucify him.

  Twenty Seven

  Seagram’s was on the edge of the Old Town, not far from the station and only a few minutes’ walk from the Lighthouse Project.