The Solomon Gray Series Box Set

by Keith Nixon

  The posters started a couple of streets away from the club. Gray hadn’t really noticed them before. None of the offers appealed to him. Cheap drinks – double shots for one pound. Ladies nights – free entry for women but men had to pay. Over 30s nights and under 16s afternoons. With the pubs now able to open for extended hours they could behave as mini-nightspots themselves, which meant Seagram’s was operating in a congested market.

  When Gray reached the club the doors were shut: no bouncers, no queue. Also, no Fowler. Gray sent him a text asking where he was.

  Gray rattled the doors. He stepped back, looked towards the CCTV. It was at the end of the building, large lenses mounted high for perspective and behind cages for protection. The cameras wouldn’t miss much of anything.

  His phone rang. Jake.

  “We’re closed.”

  “Even to me?” said Gray.

  “Depends. Is this a social visit?”

  “I was hoping to speak to your staff,” said Gray. “About Regan.”

  “What about him?”

  “He was here the night he disappeared. Someone might know something.”

  “Of course, no problem. Give me a moment to come down.”

  By the time Gray had returned the mobile to his pocket the door was swinging back on its hinges, Jake’s face a white oval in the darkness. Gray stepped inside, Jake making way, shutting the door behind him.

  There was the cash booth on one side, the corridor on the other. Along a few feet was the other CCTV camera. Gray looked up and down the area, recognising the perspective from Fowler’s footage.

  “You couldn’t have picked a better time, actually,” said Jake. “We’re getting ready to open so most of my employees are in. Do you want to use my office?”

  “Thanks. DS Fowler’ll be here shortly.”

  “I remember him. I’ll get someone to bring him up when he arrives.”

  Jake led Gray deeper into the club. The corridor opened up onto equally dim expansive dance floor. Illumination along the floor, some soft lighting in the ceiling, but little else. Jake strode forward. Gray hung back, his eyes firmly on where he was treading.

  At the rear of the floor and through another set of doors Jake pointed to some stairs marked “Private, No Entry”. Jake started the climb.

  “Do you have any problem with drugs here?”

  “Why do you ask?” Jake didn’t turn around or pause.

  “Nothing specific.”

  “Good, because I’d be all over anyone who dared to shift any product in my establishment.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  ***

  Fowler turned up ten minutes later and apologised for being late with no explanation offered as to why. Gray was seated on one of the two sofas in Jake’s office that faced each other across a coffee table. Fowler placed himself on the same sofa and they agreed that Gray would ask questions while Fowler observed reactions and took notes.

  The process began with the bouncers. Seagram’s employed eight of them, but Gray was only interested in the pair who’d been working the front door the night Regan disappeared. They came in together. One was bulky in the way you’d expect a wrestler to be, the other was wiry and tough with quick eyes, the look of a boxer about him.

  The wrestler was called Sam, the boxer Nigel.

  “Yeah, we remember him, don’t we, Sam?” Nigel’s accent was West Country. Sam nodded, eyes roving the room.

  “Arriving or leaving?” asked Gray.

  “Both. He went in on his own, left with a woman.”

  “Could you describe her?”

  “Blue hair,” said Sam. He was a local. Nigel nodded.

  “Anything else about her?” asked Gray.

  The bouncers looked at each other, back at Gray. They shrugged.

  “Height, weight, build, what she was wearing?”

  “Not really,” said Nigel. “Just remember the hair.”

  “Yep,” said Sam. “It was blue.”

  “Did you see her entering the club?”

  “No,” said Nigel after a few moments’ thought. “But we were busy. And there’d been some bother to sort out.”

  “But you recall her leaving?”

  “’Cos she was with Mr Armitage. There’s always somebody with him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Liked the girls. It was a mission.”

  “Yeah, conquests,” said Sam.

  “You admired that trait in Regan?”

  “Who wouldn’t say no to a free bit of skirt?” said Nigel. “Perk of the job, right?”

  “Is it?”

  Nigel shrugged.

  “Did Regan have any enemies?” asked Gray.

  Nigel and Sam looked at each other again, then back to Gray in what seemed to be a habitual cross reference. “No,” said Nigel.

  “No friends neither,” said Sam.

  Gray didn’t get anything else meaningful from the bouncers and let them go after a few more questions. It was the same with the young woman who’d been on the ticket booth; she’d been too busy dealing with guests to notice Regan at all.

  “He’s part of the furniture,” she’d said, pulling a face but not elaborating why.

  Next Gray spoke to the front of house and bar staff. None had engaged with Regan directly that night. To a person, they were complimentary, said he was a nice guy, always had a word for them, no freebies, paid for everything, expected nothing, and tipped well. To all intents and purposes Regan seemed to be the perfect customer.

  Gray got a return for his efforts on interview number six. A tattooed guy, more ink than skin, settled into the seat opposite. Tunnel earrings which stretched the lobes into large hollows, short, spiky hair shaved to the skull at the sides. He wore a t-shirt to best show the markings off – colour up the arms and on his neck. The fabric concealed plenty of muscle too. He looked like he could handle himself.

  “Ray Quigley,” he said when Gray enquired. “Bar manager. Used to be on the doors, worked myself up to senior management.” He puffed his chest out.

  “Did you see Regan on Saturday night?”

  “Yes and I served him, like I always do.”

  “Always?”

  Quigley nodded though didn’t elaborate.

  “What time was this?”

  Quigley shrugged. “Hard to say.”

  “Make a guess.”

  “Early, we’d only just got really going. Time flies, we get very busy. It’s all I can do to keep up with the punters. Before you know it, midnight has been and gone and we’re closing up. I get maybe fifteen minutes off for a smoke.”

  “When?”

  “Eleven if I’m lucky, as long as I’m not dealing with any problems.”

  “Such as?”

  “Stupid staff, usually. Short-changing the customers, particularly the pissed ones. They think no one’ll notice. Quick way to make a bit of extra cash.”

  “Did you see Regan before or after your smoke break?”

  A sigh from Quigley, though he paused. His eyes glanced up and left as he accessed his memory. “Before.”

  “So what time?”

  “Ten? Ten thirty?”

  “That’s as specific as you can be?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Do you know all your customers?”

  “A lot of them. Margate’s a small town; we’re the best night spot. Clean as a whistle, virtually no trouble, plenty of fun. We get regulars, regularly. And he’s the boss’s son.”

  “Did you see Regan with anyone?”

  “He was alone when he came to the bar.”

  “What was he drinking?”

  “Estrella Reserva. We bring it in just for him.”

  “You don’t sell it to anyone else?”

  “We’re not allowed to.”

  “Who tells you not to?”

  “Him. Regan. We ran out once. He was…” Quigley clamped his jaw. It was clear to Gray the bar manager knew he’d said too much.

  “He was what?”
>
  “Fine,” mumbled Quigley. “No problem at all.”

  “Angry? Apoplectic?”

  “No.”

  It was pretty obvious what Quigley really thought. “You didn’t like Regan much, then?”

  “He’s the boss’s son.”

  The phrase was like a mantra. “Does that mean you can’t have an opinion?”

  “It means, he’s the boss’s son.”

  “What about Cameron?”

  “He’s the boss’s son too?” Quigley opened him arms in a question mark, rolled his eyes.

  Gray got more specific. “Do you ever see him here?”

  “Cameron? Once or twice. Clubs don’t really seem to be his sort of thing.”

  “You said Seagram’s is clean.”

  “Yes.” Quigley frowned. “As a whistle.” The same phrase that Jake had used.

  “You’ve never seen any drugs here?”

  Quigley stared straight at Gray. “No. Look, I’ve got to get back to work.”

  Gray raised an eyebrow at Fowler to see if he had any questions. Fowler shook his head. Gray let Quigley go, and he didn’t hang about.

  “He’s got more to say,” said Gray.

  “Definitely,” agreed Fowler, “but not here and not now.”

  The thump of music was coming up the stairs, clear through the door which Quigley had left standing open.

  “How much CCTV footage did you get?”

  “From here? All of it. From opening to closing.”

  “Did you see the blue-haired woman going in?”

  Fowler thought about it. “I don’t think so.”

  “Okay, we’ll need to look again. Blue hair, it might be a wig.”

  “A disguise?”

  “It would make her stand out, that’s for sure. We need to find her. See who sells wigs locally, maybe they’ll remember somebody buying a blue one.” Fowler recorded the action in his notebook. “And we can make an educated guess at what Regan was up to before he arrived at the club.”

  “Trawling for women,” agreed Fowler.

  There was a knock at the door, Jake was leaning in. He said, “Feels strange, asking permission to come into my own office.”

  Gray wondered how much Jake had overheard.

  “Do you want to see anyone else? We’re open, and we’ll be getting busy soon.”

  Gray glanced at his watch. It had been an hour. “We’re done for now, I think.”

  “Want a drink before you go? If you’re off-duty, of course.”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Fowler.

  “I’ll pass. Got an early start tomorrow.” Gray was feeling unwell again, a pressure and burning behind his breastbone.

  “Your loss,” said Jake. He led them downstairs and across the dance floor. It was lit now, as was the bar. Quigley was behind the counter, restocking.

  Jake got Quigley’s attention. “Give Sergeant Fowler whatever he wants,” he said before shaking both their hands and leaving.

  “I’ll have a beer,” said Fowler.

  “We’ve got some Estrella Reserva going spare,” said Quigley.

  “That’ll do me fine.”

  “Do you have CCTV behind the bar, Ray?” asked Gray.

  Quigley pointed to a tiny camera mounted on the wall above the tills. “That’s how I know if the staff is fiddling.”

  “Nowhere else?”

  “No.” There wouldn’t be a view of the bar or dance floor from the lens.

  “Are you sure you won’t stay?” asked Fowler.

  “I’ve got to go.”

  Fowler raised the bottle in a salute. Gray left him to it. He had a date in The English Flag.

  Twenty Eight

  Then

  It was very early in the morning when Regan Armitage reached his home. Inside he could clearly hear his father talking to someone; maybe shouting was more accurate. Regan had hoped to creep in unnoticed and slip into bed while everyone was asleep. His foot was on the bottom step of the stairs when he caught the words “fire” and “deaths”. A shudder ran through him.

  He opened the door to his father’s office. A lamp spilled out a circle of light. His father, in dressing gown and pyjamas, was standing behind his desk, head down, revealing a developing bald patch, talking on his phone. His free hand was curled into a fist, the knuckles pressing into the wood.

  “Okay, see that you do,” said Jake. “This is going to cause a whole load of shit for me.” He finished the call, dropped the mobile onto the desk. Regan stared at his father until the older man realised he wasn’t alone. He glanced at Regan before his eyes returned to the telephone.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Jake asked; no strength in his words. “You should be in bed.” He sagged into a chair. His face was drawn and pale.

  “It was me,” Regan said.

  Jake leant over and grabbed a glass and a bottle. He poured himself a drink, took a mouthful, and swallowed. “What was?”

  “The fire. I did it.”

  “This is no joke, son.”

  “I’m telling the truth.” Regan shrugged the backpack off and unzipped it. He pulled out the petrol can and held it towards his father.

  Jake slowly put the glass down and rose, as if seeing Regan clearly now. Jake walked over, took the can, sniffed it. A little petrol sloshed around in the bottom. Jake dropped the can and grabbed Regan by the shoulders, his fingers digging in. “Tell me everything,” he said.

  “I heard you saying you wanted rid of the old bat so you could start work on a new project. I thought I’d help things along.”

  “By setting fire to her house?”

  Regan nodded. “It was the best I could do.”

  “Oh my God.” Jake let go of Regan, turned away, and tugged at his hair as if he were going to rip it out. He swung back to Regan. “Do you know what you’ve done? There were people still inside the building!”

  “I tried to ring the fire brigade, but the phone was broken.”

  “A family burned to death!”

  “Nobody saw me.”

  “If this comes out, I’ll be ruined. You’ll end up in prison, Regan!”

  “I’ve got away with it.”

  “Not yet, you haven’t. There’ll be an investigation.” Jake returned to his desk, poured himself another drink, and swallowed it in one. “Are you sure you weren’t seen?”

  Regan nodded. “There was a girl, but I stayed in the shadows until she’d gone.”

  “Okay, maybe this can be dealt with.” Jake picked up his mobile again and made a call.

  ***

  Jake was still drinking when Jeff Carslake arrived. Regan could smell the smoke from the fire on Carslake’s clothes. He shuddered again. With the office door closed, Carslake asked Regan to repeat his story, word for word.

  When Regan was done, Carslake said, “Yes, we can fix this.” Carslake took the backpack, said he’d dispose of it. “One of the firemen at the scene said he suspected it was arson. There’s no chance of hiding that aspect.”

  “What are you suggesting then?” asked Jake.

  “I’ll probably just fit someone else up for it. There’s a couple of fire starters that I could point the finger at, though an accident would be better.”

  “Whatever it takes, whatever it costs to keep Regan out of jail, just do it.”

  Twenty Nine

  Now

  The English Flag was a pub in Margate’s Old Town. To call the establishment down-at-heel would be a kindness. It was down-at-sticky-carpet. The pub was resisting the area’s gentrification with a two-finger salute to the London set and immigrants in equal measure. As the immediate area grew more respectable, so the Flag seemed to dip further.

  Inside, a huge George Cross flag hung behind the bar, held up by nails at each corner. Otherwise it was tacky floors, worn furniture, and an appalling attitude to customer service. It served beer, a limited range of spirits, and monkey nuts, delivered with derision by the surly landlord, all day. This was where the dregs of Margate came to
drown their sorrows.

  However, there was a camaraderie between the clientele. A one-for-all attitude. Certainly not friendship but a kinship at least. Newcomers were viewed with suspicion until they were trusted. The regulars knew exactly who Gray was and, like a cat about to strike, shrank into themselves. Gray, though, wasn’t here for a fight. He was here for answers.

  Noble was seated at the bar, leaning on the stained wood as if supporting himself. Within the crook of his forearms stood a pint. A bandage was wound around his head, tufts of hair poking out.

  “You got out quickly,” said Gray. He sat down. He still wasn’t feeling great; the fresh air hadn’t done anything to relieve his feeling of wanting to be sick.

  “I discharged myself,” said Noble. “Bloody doctors. They haven’t a clue.”

  “Brain surgery, was it?”

  Noble ignored Gray’s flippancy. “Want one?”

  “From here? You’ve got to be joking.”

  Noble shrugged and sank a good portion of his pint. “When you’ve had a near-death experience like I have, best to make every moment count.”

  “It’s lucky you possess such a thick skull, Will.”

  “Very funny.” Noble turned, held out a hand to Gray. “Thanks for looking out for me, though.”

  “It’s my job.” Gray shook Noble’s hand. “And I’m sure you’d do the same.”

  Noble betrayed a doubtful look.

  “What happened?” asked Gray.

  “Not here.” Noble jinked his thumb, indicating a table as far from the bar as possible. “Walls have ears.” The landlord was standing nearby, slowly splitting monkey nuts and chewing on the contents and taking in everything. He was known to sell anything for cash.

  When they were seated Noble said, “Speaking of which, all of this stays between us, right?”

  “That depends on what you tell me.”

  “I’ve always liked you, Sol. But the company you keep, it bothers me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Carslake’s not a straight shooter.”

  “What makes you say that?” Gray

  Noble shook his head. “I don’t trust him and neither should you.”

  “Why not? I’ve known Jeff for years.”

  “That’s your problem.” Noble stared at Gray for a long moment. “Some stuff I’ve heard over the years. I think he has some associations a cop just shouldn’t have. Like with Regan Armitage.”