The Solomon Gray Series Box Set

by Keith Nixon

  “Marchmont,” said the fireman in response. He looked Gray up and down. “Been to a funeral?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “I was passing by. Have you been in yet?” asked Gray.

  “Just about to. The blaze was set by the time we arrived. All we could do was put it out before it spread. What’s your interest?”

  “The person who lives here has been involved in a case I’m investigating.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me, knowing William Noble,” said Marchmont.

  “Can I take a look?”

  “As long as you stay with me.”

  Gray followed Marchmont down the alley. The door to Noble’s flat stood open. The vent which usually spewed out hot air from the takeaway was silent. The aroma of Chinese food was replaced by the stench of burned wood and plastic. Marchmont led Gray up the stairs. The Chief stopped Gray on the small landing. “This is as far as you go.”

  Gray leaned inside the single room which opened off the landing. Gray coughed, the residual fumes getting into his lungs. On the far side of the space was another doorway to the second area. There were firemen in there too. The flames had scorched every surface.

  “Can you smell that?” said Marchmont.

  Gray sniffed. Clearly Marchmont expected Gray to detect something over the burning. “Petrol?”

  “Well done, Sergeant.”

  “So the fire was deliberate?”

  “That would be my assumption.”

  “Sir!” A shout from one of Marchmont’s men. He beckoned Marchmont from the back room. Marchmont disappeared inside for a few minutes. Gray stood impatiently, keen to know what they’d found. The Chief returned, a grim expression on his face.

  “There’s a corpse,” he said.

  “I need to see.”

  “It’s not pretty.”

  “I’ll survive.”

  Marchmont led Gray through, pointing out where to put his feet. Crammed into the corner of the back room, by a window, was the charred remains of a person. By the size of the body it appeared to be Noble, but the white hair was gone, as was most of the clothes revealing blackened skin like a piece of chicken overcooked on a barbecue. The sight made Gray feel like throwing up. But he made himself go over. There was the gold ring. It was Noble for sure.

  “I’ll get forensics,” said Gray.

  Gray pulled out his mobile and went downstairs to make the call in the fresh air. Before he could do so his mobile rang. It was the custody sergeant, Morgan. “Got a lad in one of the interview rooms we’ve just arrested, says wants you.”

  “Who is it?”

  A pause while Morgan flicked over a page, the sound loud down the phone. “Ray Quigley, tattoos everywhere. Know him?”

  “I’ll be there shortly. Look after Quigley for me, will you?”

  “He isn’t going anywhere,” said Morgan and disconnected.

  William Noble only had one more journey to make. To the mortuary. There was nothing more Gray could do.

  Thirty Six

  First, Gray went to his desk, took off his jacket, and hung it over the back of his chair. He sat down and pulled his keyboard over. He wanted to carry out some research into Quigley before they met. Five minutes, and he had what he wanted. Gray called Morgan and asked him to bring Quigley through from his cell.

  When Gray entered the interview room, Quigley was staring at the table. He wouldn’t meet Gray’s eye. His body was folded in on itself, shoulders hunched. The impact of the folder onto the melamine surface made Quigley jerk. He wasn’t looking in the slightest like someone who wanted to be here.

  Gray dragged out a chair, made the legs scrape. He sat down, hands in trouser pockets, open body language, in contrast to Quigley’s. He paused. Gray had all the time in the world whereas the pressure would be building on Quigley.

  “What’s going on, Ray?”

  Quigley didn’t acknowledge the question, kept his eyes downcast. Gray didn’t mind, he turned his attention to the file he’d brought in, flipped it open, and read. “Says here you’ve been charged with dealing Class A drugs. Pretty stupid as you’ve prior for possession, carrying cannabis.”

  “That was for personal use.”

  “Which is why you only got community service. Seems like you’ve moved up a league, though. Dealing now?” He fixed Quigley with a knowing look. “And it’s your second offence. Up to fourteen years if you get a judge with something to prove. We’ve been cracking down recently.” Gray closed the file. “Why did you ask for me?”

  “I want to come to an arrangement. I’ve got information.”

  Gray let the scepticism show in his face and voice. “Yeah, right.”

  “I do!”

  “I’m not in the drug squad.” Gray rose from his seat. “I’ll get one of my colleagues; they can manage you better than I can.”

  “It’s about Regan.”

  Gray paused, sat back down again. “Go on.” He was intrigued but suspected it would turn out to be nothing; that Quigley was desperate and would say anything to keep him here. “I’m listening.”

  Quigley shook his head. “Not until you promise I won’t be done for dealing. No recordings, no solicitors. This is between me and you. Cos if this gets out I won’t be walking straight again. Ever.”

  Gray sat back, thought about the proposition and about Quigley. In the silence, Quigley began to fidget. He blinked repeatedly and he appeared to be talking to himself, his mouth moving but no words to be heard. Panicking more about doing a stretch than whoever would take him out, Gray assumed.

  “I want to hear what you’ve got before I decide,” said Gray.

  “I’m not happy about that.”

  “That’s what’s on offer, Ray.”

  It was Quigley’s turn to sit back and consider. He was talking to himself again, his leg jigging up and down rapidly. Whatever was inside was bottled up firmly. He was steeling himself. Getting ready for the battle ahead. The battle with his conscience.

  “Okay, I’ll talk,” said Quigley eventually.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Regan wasn’t all he seemed.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know. Nobody ever is, and his father said so openly at his funeral.”

  “Not like this, though. I knew him pretty well. He was a right piece of work. We had to make sure he got looked after, had what he wanted, when he wanted it.”

  “He’s the boss’s son, you said so yourself, I remember.”

  “Sure, but there are limits, you know?”

  “Such as?”

  “He had to get served the moment he reached the bar.”

  “Annoying, yes, though what does that matter? You said it was just a job.”

  “Do you know how much shit I take for letting someone queue jump?”

  “You’re not giving me anything here that’s of use, Ray.”

  “He used the club to trawl for women.”

  “And other men don’t?”

  “We had a couple of incidents.” Quigley trailed off.

  “Like what?”

  Quigley stayed mute. Seemingly this was his Rubicon. Cross and there was no going back. Gray repeated his question.

  “Trying it on with girls who were too drunk to say no. It got hushed up each time.”

  “By who?” When Quigley didn’t answer, once more Gray asked, “By his father?”

  “Regan’s mistakes had a habit of going away.”

  “How?”

  “The girls got paid off.”

  “Do you know that for sure?”

  Quigley shifted in his seat. “Not for sure, no. It was just something Regan said, about being untouchable.”

  “Is there anyone who can corroborate your story?”

  Quigley snorted out a laugh. “Unlikely.”

  Gray made a mental note to look into this a little more. Maybe someone had been into the station and made a complaint. A long shot, but you never knew. He changed tack. “What happened the night Re
gan disappeared?”

  “He was in the club, as usual. Coming to the bar a lot. Of course, as the manager I had to serve him. He liked that, showing who was really the boss. There were some who bent to him, thinking that one day Regan would inherit, and he’d do them favours. No chance. The man was a snake.”

  “I think we’ve established you didn’t like Regan. I need something more specific.”

  “He was with a woman.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Tall. Blue hair.”

  “Anything else?”

  “That was all I saw. She was by the dance floor. The lights were bright, and I was busy. Not much chance to kick back and take in the sights. It’s all booze, booze, booze.”

  “What was Regan on?”

  “His special beer. She had wine.”

  “That’s it?”

  Quigley shook his head. Reluctance crept in once again.

  “This is all supposition so far,” said Gray. “There’s no evidence.”

  “He bought other stuff.”

  “What?”

  “Drugs.”

  “Which?”

  Quigley wouldn’t answer. Gray repeated his question.

  “Ketamine.”

  Gray considered this. “Serious stuff.” Three incidences of the drug now, all seemingly related to Regan.

  “I passed it over with the second round of drinks.”

  “What’s the purpose of ketamine?”

  “It’s a relaxant.”

  “It makes whoever takes it compliant?”

  Quigley shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Was it for his own use?”

  Quigley laughed. “Regan didn’t do drugs.”

  “Never?”

  “No, he said drugs were for idiots.”

  Gray thought about the ketamine in Regan’s blood sample.

  “So he only gave drugs to other people?” said Gray.

  Quigley nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Sounds very much to me that you were aiding and abetting another one of Regan’s ‘incidents’.”

  “I had nothing to do with it! I just sold him gear. It was up to him what happened next. You’ve got to believe me.”

  “Had Regan bought drugs from you before?”

  “Once or twice. If there was someone he was keen on, but the woman wasn’t quite so interested then he’d buy.”

  “What then, once he had the drugs?”

  Quigley shrugged. “He didn’t come back to the bar. I assumed he’d left with her like before. To use the gear, I’d have bet.”

  “What did you think when he wound up dead?”

  “It was a complete surprise. I never thought he’d go that way.”

  “Did you care?”

  “About Regan?” Quigley laughed. “He was only interested in himself so why would I be bothered about him?”

  “That’s cold, Ray.”

  Another shrug. “He’s dead.”

  “Who did you buy the ketamine from?”

  “I suppose it doesn’t matter now. He’s dead too. My supplier was Larry Lost.”

  “Anything else you’d like to add? Now’s the time.”

  Quigley shook his head. Gray stood. So did Quigley.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” asked Gray.

  “I’m leaving.”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “You said we had an agreement.”

  “They were your words, not mine. Separately, you admitted to an additional charge of dealing in Seagram’s, and you hindered a murder investigation by not coming forward with this latest information, which is obstruction.”

  “You bastard!” Quigley stepped forward. His muscles bulged as he clenched his fists. If he swung, Gray would be in trouble. Gray kept the table between them and his hand on a chair in case he had to use it.

  “You want to add assaulting an officer to the charges?” asked Gray, his tone a lot calmer than he felt.

  Quigley seethed. He was breathing deeply, like a bull about to charge. Then he flopped back down into his seat. “You promised,” he said.

  “I didn’t promise anything.” Gray opened the door, said as he was leaving, “No recording, no evidence. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

  Thirty Seven

  Then

  The room was small. It seemed to be an office. There was a desk and some photographs. The central heating pipes knocked as water gurgled through them. Otherwise there was just a female police constable to keep Rachel company. She said her name was Karen.

  Karen had been very nice so far, offering Rachel drinks and food. But Rachel wasn’t hungry or thirsty. Karen had also tried to engage in conversation, but Rachel had nothing to say either. All that interested Rachel was her father and brother. Rachel wanted them here so they could all go home.

  The detective who’d loaned her his jacket, Jeff, she remembered, knocked, and entered. He said something quietly to Karen, who stood up, surrendering the chair.

  “Can I join you?” he asked Rachel. She nodded. Jeff brought Karen’s chair nearer, but left some distance between them. He sat down. “How are you?”

  “Where’s my dad?” said Rachel. “When’s he coming?”

  Jeff stared at her, his expression neutral. “I’m sorry to say I have some bad news.”

  Rachel’s bottom lip began to quiver, not wanting to believe what she knew deep down was coming next. “Is my dad dead?”

  “I’m very sorry, Rachel. It was the smoke.”

  “Can I see him?”

  “I wouldn’t advise you to do that.”

  “What about my brother?”

  Jeff shook his head. “Do you know where your mother is?”

  Rachel sucked in a lungful of air, unable to speak, her chest about to burst with grief. Her head dipped, tears began to flow down her cheeks, dripping onto her lap. She felt utterly lost and alone, entirely unsure what to do next. Although she’d always been independent, this was a whole new world for her.

  “There’s someone waiting to see you,” said Jeff. Rachel didn’t react, she couldn’t.

  “Hello, Rachel, I’m a social worker, and my name is Tiffany.”

  Rachel forced herself to look up. She didn’t look like a Tiffany. A kindly, middle-aged woman, her hair in a pixie cut, smiled at Rachel in a mix of pleased-to-see-her tinged with sadness. Rachel recognised her type. She’d been in care before.

  “We’ve been trying to find your aunt so she can come and get you but I’m sorry to say she’s on holiday in the Canary Islands.”

  “So what happens now?” asked Rachel.

  “We need to find you somewhere to live until your aunt returns.”

  “A home?”

  “Yes, it might be a few days or a bit more. I’m sorry I can’t be exact.”

  Rachel didn’t care what happened. She was alone and lost.

  “Would you mind coming with me?” asked Tiffany.

  Rachel stood up. As she passed Jeff she handed back his jacket. He smiled at her, put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Everything will be okay,” he said.

  But Rachel knew he was lying.

  Thirty Eight

  Now

  Gray found Hamson in the detective’s office.

  “Have you heard about William Noble?” she asked him.

  “I arrived at his office when they found him. There’s more.” He brought Hamson up to date regarding Quigley’s confession.

  “Larry seems to be our connection to everything,” said Hamson. “He was at the Lighthouse trying to find Khoury, beat up Noble, sold Quigley drugs.”

  “And now Noble’s dead.”

  “We’ve all been singularly unsuccessful at tracking down Adnan Khoury. He seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth.”

  “I reckon your old mate’s in all this.”

  “With Khoury?”

  Hamson shook her head. “Noble. Burning the evidence. That’s Jake’s game, isn’t it?”


  “We’re hardly mates, not any more. Noble told me he was investigating some bunch called Millstone.”

  “Who?”

  “Developers.” Gray got the protest flier from the march and handed it to Hamson. She looked it over. “And somehow McGavin is involved. He’s been buying up property as well. Larry Lost worked for Frank.”

  “So Noble’s sniffing around got him killed?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Over houses?”

  “People have died due to stranger things. I need to do a bit of digging into the files, see if anyone made a complaint about Regan.” And while he was in the files he’d look at the Sunset fire too, something else Noble had mentioned.

  “You can do that later; first we’re paying Frank McGavin a visit.”

  ***

  Frank McGavin was reputed to possess many material items: money, houses, people, and a stable of horses. He was the man who wanted for nothing. Control was his thing; primarily over supply chains and routes to market for illicit and illegal activities, people too.

  According to Noble, McGavin’s physical portfolio had recently expanded to include a restaurant called Fruits de Mer, which commanded a marine view on the Broadstairs cliff top, providing upmarket seafood. Inside Gray found it to be understated yet tastefully decorated. Pale, pastel shades on the walls. Thin glasses, pure white china, and designer cutlery on the table. Gray recalled it had been an empty shell, another decaying wreck marring the Dickensian town. He hadn’t even realised it had opened. Gray wondered how McGavin chose the place. It didn’t seem his style.

  These days it appeared as if half of Thanet, an officially deprived region with a high unemployment rate, a deluge of outsiders, increasing crime statistics, was attempting to pull itself up by its boot straps. The old, the tired, and the poor swept away to allow the fresh, the shiny, the cultured, to be catered for.

  The London set with their barely occupied apartments of stainless steel and glass, here for the clean air, for a few days' rest and recuperation. Leaving those unable to keep up pushed away into the corners, steepening the downward spiral, widening the gap between the haves and the have-nots. Like tossing rubbish in the sea; the tide eventually dumped it elsewhere but by then it was out of sight and someone else’s issue.