by Keith Nixon
“Yes.”
He shrugged off his jacket, rolled up his right sleeve, and lay on the examination table. As Kahn tightened a strap around his upper arm just above the elbow, Gray twisted his head away and covered up his eyes with his left arm as if he were a weeping angel. Kahn tapped on a vein.
“You’ll feel a sharp scratch,” she said.
This time Gray kept his comments to himself. Without further warning the needle pushed through his skin and then the vein. Gray grimaced and sucked in half a lungful of air through his teeth.
“Thank you, Mr Gray. Just stay there a moment please.”
Gray did as he was told while Kahn returned to her desk and tapped at her computer. When she’d finished she turned to face him. “I’m going to urgently refer you to a specialist at the hospital for an endoscopy. The symptoms you’re displaying concern me sufficiently – weight loss, the reflux, the difficulty in swallowing – and the period of time you’ve been suffering for. By then we should have the bloods back.”
“What do you think it could be?”
“Any number of causes are possible.”
Gray considered what the doctor was saying. “It’s cancer, right?”
“Not necessarily. At this stage I’d really try not to worry. Your symptoms could equally be due to Barrett’s oesophagus, where the cells around the oesophagus are weakened. Or any number of other things. My referral is a precautionary measure. Any further questions?”
“I can’t think of any right now.”
At reception, Gray gave them his mobile number, then he was outside and wondering what the hell he could do, other than go home.
***
Gray opened up the floor-to-ceiling windows to let in some air into his flat. He stood staring out over the water for a few minutes, seeing nothing. In the two days since Cameron and Natalie’s arrest the case had changed completely. The charges over the Sunset fire against Jake had been dropped, and he’d been released, but Hamson was gathering evidence regarding Regan’s alleged sexual assaults, and Jake’s possible collusion in a series of cover-ups.
Cameron had been charged with murder, but was remaining silent. Natalie’s charge was accessory to murder. Gray had heard from Fowler that she was co-operating fully with his colleagues. It seemed her motive had simply been to destroy Jake, to publicly tear his life apart, raze everything he’d built to the ground.
The murder of William Noble remained open. Privately, the police believed he’d died at the hands of McGavin because Noble was digging into Millstone, but without the evidence it was another unsolved.
Right now, Gray felt as low as was possible. He was coming to accept Carslake had lied to him and probably had for years. Though it was tough to accept. Hamson had been right all along, but their friendship was broken, perhaps beyond repair.
This morning Gray had received an email from Inspector Morel in Calais. He couldn’t find any record of a child with Tom’s description coming through the port. The Dover witness probably never existed in the first place. Gray had to accept it was all a subterfuge from Carslake to put him off. But why?
Gray decided to have a beer. If he had cancer, then what the hell. His mobile rang as he was reaching for a bottle. “Hello, Rachel.” He was surprised to hear from her.
“Afternoon, Sergeant Gray.” She sounded tired.
“Sol, please. How are you?”
“Worn out, but I feel brilliant. I don’t really have anyone else to tell so I rang you, I hope that’s all right. My baby arrived last night.”
“Congratulations!” Gray was genuinely pleased for her. “Boy or girl?”
“A little boy. I’ve decided I’m going to call him Thomas.”
Gray’s heart lurched, but it could only be coincidence. Gray had never discussed his private life with her. “Good choice, I’ll come see you later, okay?”
“I’d like that.” Gray heard Thomas cry in the background. “I’ve got to go, Sol. He’s a hungry one.”
Holding his mobile, Gray realised a massive error of judgement. All these years he’d been chasing the past, seeking the missing, pining for the dead, when there was someone here who’d needed him. Someone Gray had abandoned, like Natalie had abandoned Rachel. He’d been a fool and worse. But at least he could try to undo his errors.
Gray pulled out his laptop. He entered Facebook Messenger, typed out his daughter’s name, and wrote her a note. A moment later a speech bubble and three bouncing dots appeared.
She was typing.
Her reply seemed to take forever, but when they appeared the words sent Gray’s heart soaring. “Hi Dad, I’ve missed you.”
Despite everything, maybe there was a future after all.
Fifty Three
Jeff Carslake’s mobile rang. His spare, the pay-as-you-go, the one only a handful of people had the number to. He stared at the number, not recognising it. A landline. But it had to be somebody Carslake knew. He didn’t trust giving his details to just anyone.
“Hello?”
“Hello, yourself.”
“Who is this?” asked Carslake. The voice was familiar, the memory distant.
“You mean after all this time you’ve forgotten me? Now that’s just plain rude.”
The caller’s tone was playful, amused.
“It’s been a long day.”
“Well, we can make our acquaintance again soon, Chief Inspector Carslake, because I’ll be getting out.”
“Out?”
“From where you put me. This time you can’t stop it happening. The wheels of justice are in motion. Slowly, mind, so it’ll be a few months before we shake hands again. I just thought you’d like to know.”
A memory was stirring within Carslake. “Duncan?”
“The one and only Duncan Usher. I knew you wouldn’t let me down. Well, not again anyway.”
“You’re being released?”
“That’s what I said. I’ll be coming home. First person I’ll be having a word with is Solomon Gray. He’ll be very interested in what I have to say.”
“What about?” asked Carslake, though he already knew the answer.
“His lad, Tom, of course. I’ll be seeing you soon, Jeff. And it’s not going to be pretty. Count on it.”
Carslake cut the call. He threw the phone on his desk. He’d be getting rid of it, now it was compromised. Carslake was taken aback. Duncan Usher was getting out of prison, and he hadn’t had a clue. He and Usher agreed on one point.
It wasn’t going to be pretty.
Beg For Mercy
A Solomon Gray Novel
Keith Nixon
Prologue
Fifteen Years Ago
Valerie Usher rolled off to lie by his side. Beads of sweat dripped from her body, along with her anger and frustration.
He put out a hand to take Valerie’s, to apologise, but she flinched and pushed him away. Valerie pulled the bed sheet over herself then shielded her eyes with a forearm to distance herself from him. The heat rose in his face, and he bunched the sheet up in his grip until the moment passed.
Staring at the ceiling, he wondered yet again why he was here. But he already knew the answer. Lust. From the moment he’d first spied her in that form-fitting evening dress, hugging every one of her luscious curves, he knew he had to have her. She was his forbidden fruit. Before, he’d felt drawn to Valerie like a piece of metal to a magnet, unable to resist. Afterwards the guilt kicked in.
“Are you thinking about your wife again?” asked Valerie. “Is that why you couldn’t get it up?”
The mattress bounced as Valerie shifted her weight to face him. He turned his head. Valerie was on her side now, an arm crooked, her head resting on a hand. He smelt the hint of cooled sweat. Instead of answering, he ran his eyes down the shape of her body shrouded beneath the sheet. Valerie placed her palm on his chest and felt his heartbeat accelerate. “I want you to leave her,” she said.
“We’ve been through this,” he sighed. “I can’t.”
�
��Why?”
“We’re married.”
“But you’re screwing me.”
“So?”
Valerie rolled onto him, straddling him, allowing the sheet to fall away. She leaned down so her eyes were inches away from his. He felt her breath, hot on his face, smelt a hint of coffee.
“Unless you tell her, this is the last time you’ll have me.” Valerie flexed her hips, making him groan. He closed his eyes, enjoying the moment. “We can make this work. Leave her, move into your own place.” He felt her lips on his chest, then his stomach, his hips, his cock.
“No,” he said, pushing her off.
A flash of anger crossed Valerie’s features, as if she’d never been denied before. No. A word she didn’t quite understand.
“I’ve told you,” she said, “we’re done if you won’t.”
“Then we’re done,” he sighed, even though he hoped it wasn’t so.
Valerie laughed briefly, the stopped when she caught the look on his face. She leaned backwards, groped at his groin.
He pushed her hand away. “We shouldn’t be doing this. Get off me.”
Her hand went to his chest, lacing her fingers through his chest hair once more. “What would your friends think about you having an affair?”
They’d be shocked. The churchgoing man with a young family and respectable job. He taught his son’s Sunday school class, for Christ’s sakes.
Valerie took a handful of his hair and pulled. He grimaced. “Then I’ll tell your boss.” Another tug. “The cop shagging the snitch.” She yanked the hair this time, harder, painful. “You’ll be divorced, friendless, and out of a job.” She wrenched at him again and snarled. “Your reputation ruined. I’ll hollow you out.”
“Stop.”
“So, you’ll leave her?” She sat back and lifted her eyebrows in amusement.
“I can’t.” Even to him, his voice sounded wheedling, weak.
In a sudden swipe, she slapped him. His cheek stung. As she raised her hand to hit him on the other side of his face, he caught her arm mid-swing. Valerie lunged forward, biting into his arm. He shouted in pain, lashing out with a fist. It caught her on the cheekbone, and she rolled off him.
“You bastard!” Valerie’s hand darted up to where he’d hit her. With her other hand, she gathered the sheet up around herself. She glared at him with such intensity, he should have burst into flames.
“You’re pathetic,” she spat, rubbing her cheek. “You can’t even get it up. No wonder your own wife won’t fuck you anymore.”
“Shut up.”
“It’s over. And so is your perfect little life. I’m telling Duncan everything.”
“I said, shut up!”
“I’ll make him kill you slowly. You pathetic excuse for a man.”
He pounced on her, wrapping his fingers around her throat, just to shut her up. He couldn’t stand it anymore. The taunts. The threats. The jibes. Valerie clawed at his arms forcing his head upwards, but he exerted more pressure. She tried to shove him back, her hand at his chin. She bucked and kicked, trying to put a knee into his balls. He was too heavy, too strong for her. As the seconds crawled, Valerie weakened. She tried to push him off again, but the drag of her fingernails felt more like a caress. Her hand dropped away and landed on the mattress with a thud. Valerie gave one last lurch before she died.
The real world rushed back to him. Shit. He looked at his fingers, then at Valerie, her jaw so wide open he could see a dark filling in her back tooth. Had he really killed her? He placed two fingers on the side of her neck, feeling for a pulse. He hoped it had been a dream, but he knew she was gone. He hoped her soul was at rest, because his would never be again. He got off the bed, pulled out his mobile phone, and made a call. Confession time.
While he waited he pulled the pillow off the floor and put it over her face. He couldn’t stomach the accusatory look.
One
Always be ready, because you never know what you’re going to find.
That’s what Detective Constable Solomon Gray and his classmates were told by the instructor at the Maidstone police training college.
Being the first responder at a potential crime scene meant certain responsibilities. Others were on their way, Gray just happened to be the nearest Crime Investigation Department Officer. He had to admit, he was excited at the idea. This was it. He hoped it was a big one.
Gray swung his car onto Castle Avenue and found his way blocked by a squad car. The revolving lights cast a steel blue hue across Castle Avenue, part of the quiet residential area known in Broadstairs as the Chessboard because all the roads were named after the game’s pieces. Pleasant detached residences on Castle Avenue, a low to non-existent crime rate, home to the better-heeled on the Isle of Thanet.
Gray killed the engine and stepped into the warm night – an unexpected heatwave in early October – some shift in the jet stream bringing unseasonable weather to the south east. After the relative cool of the car’s air-conditioned interior, the outside temperature was thick and sticky. This time of year, the air should have been crisp to accompany the falling leaves.
Gusts of wind from the nearby cliffs carried a brief respite of cool and the swish of beating waves. The sea was just a five-minute walk away. Otherwise, silence. Gray leaned into the unmanned squad car and switched the blues off. For a moment everything appeared normal. No outward sign of disturbance – a single bystander, a man on the pavement with a dog – otherwise just a couple of curtain-twitchers peering out at the unusual commotion. It was late, nearing 11 p.m. The residents here were too polite to impose. Until Constable Mike Fowler motioned Gray over and said, “He’s over here, Sol.”
Fowler, a beat cop, was a bulky man, muscle filling out his uniform. A short-sleeved white shirt revealed firm arms. He shaved his hair right to the scalp and wore a permanent frown beneath the brim of his cap, pulled down low. He was a poster boy of an imposing cop, portraying the don’t-mess-with-me persona. Invaluable on a Saturday night when the Margate pubs kicked out.
“Is the perimeter secure?” asked Gray.
“Of course. I know my job.” Fowler and Gray had joined the force at the same time, but Gray had reached CID first. Fowler was still sulking, but Gray hadn’t the time for petty sentiments; only one thing on his mind.
“What did you find?”
“Don’t you know?”
“I’d like to hear it from you.”
“The body of a woman, upstairs. No immediate signs of cause of death. Don’t worry, I didn’t trample the crime scene, I entered under the purpose of preservation of life. I checked her pulse. Didn’t even turn the lights on. Then I left, waited for the cavalry to turn up. But got you.” Fowler shrugged, like he shouldn’t have been expecting much.
“Where’s the guy who called it in?”
“Over there.” Fowler hiked a thumb over his shoulder.
“Take me to him.”
Fowler, fists clenched and shoulders hunched, led Gray to the man standing on the pavement, under the sodium yellow hue of a street light. The man wore shorts, flip-flops and a t-shirt. A chocolate labrador lay at his feet, unmoved by the proceedings of humans, uninterested in Gray.
“I’ll leave you to it,” said Fowler and walked away without awaiting a reply.
“Are you Mr Lavater?” asked Gray.
“Yes.” Lavater’s white hair was thinning and scraped across to cover a bald patch. He patted at it subconsciously, expertly pushing a few strands back into place.
“Beautiful dog.” Gray knelt and scratched behind the labrador’s ear, eliciting a tail wag in response. Gray got back to his feet. “Tell me what happened.”
“I was walking past, with Cadbury, and I noticed the gate was wide open.” Lavater pointed. Gray turned to follow Lavater’s indication but couldn’t see any detail from where he was standing. The house sat recessed from the road. Lavater’s accent wasn’t local. Sounded like one of the many Londoners who’d bought a property out of the city and commuted,
accepting a long daily commute, the early starts and the late finishes in exchange for the seaside air.
“When I came back half an hour later, it was the same,” said Lavater. “I was surprised and concerned, normally the gates are closed. Mrs Usher keeps to herself, so I went to see if there was something wrong.”
“Usher?” interrupted Gray. “Any relation to Duncan Usher?”
“I’ve no idea. Sorry.”
Maybe she was married to the local crime boss, Duncan Usher? If so, this was going to be a huge deal. Gray wrote a few words in his notebook, his hand shaking. Gray paused briefly at the arrival of another squad car, disgorging two uniforms. They ignored Gray, heading straight for Fowler. Operating along tribal lines.
“You entered the property, sir?”
“Not precisely. I stopped at the front door, shouted inside but nobody replied. So I called you lot. Crime scene contamination and all that.” Lavater even winked.
An armchair CSI, thought Gray. He managed to restrain the sigh.
“Has anyone taken a statement from you?”
“Not yet.”
“Then I’ll need you to stay here until one of my colleagues does so.”
Lavater frowned. “I’ve got a 6 a.m. train to catch in the morning.”
A white van – “Forensics” stamped on the side – rolled along the road.
“Thank you for your cooperation, sir.”
Gray turned away before Lavater could protest further. Fowler would have to deal with him. Gray headed for the van, arriving as the Crime Scene Manager, Sean Brazier, unfolded from the passenger side. Brazier was tall and thin – ungainly like a human stick insect. Gray, at a shade over six feet, didn’t consider himself short, but Brazier towered above him.
Gray gave Brazier a fast run-down of status, what little there was of it, while the CSM moved to the back of the van, opened the doors and extracted gloves, white evidence suit, face mask, and blue overshoes.
When Gray had finished, Brazier said, “Put these on.” Like Gray needed telling.