by Keith Nixon
Usher gripped the arms of the chair. “Who?”
***
The same guards returned Usher to his cell. On the way back, Usher thought about what was next. It had been a no-brainer to sign. Better the fresh air than the stink of incarceration.
When the steel door clanged behind him, Usher gave the guards a couple of minutes to clear off before he pulled the phone out from its hiding place behind the toilet cistern. It was an iPhone 4, not entirely up to date but sufficiently smart for what he needed and narrow enough to squeeze into a tight space. Officially Usher was allowed one call a week on the prison landlines, which were monitored, of course. Other than Frank McGavin, there was nobody for him to ring. His ex-mother-in-law wouldn’t speak to him and neither would his daughters.
Usher turned the phone on, and the Apple logo illuminated the screen. Security was surprisingly lax when it came to mobile communication in prison. Many of the cons had phones and were able to continue their enterprises from inside. Usher was amazed that wireless blockers hadn’t been established. As usual, reception was three bars.
Frank McGavin was a careful man. He only used unregistered burners and just once. Each time they communicated, McGavin ended with the details of the next burner’s number, which Usher stored into the iPhone’s memory.
Usher hit dial.
McGavin answered within a handful of rings. “Duncan, how’s things?”
“I’m getting out, Frank.”
“No shit? That’s great news! When?”
“Twenty-four to forty-eight hours. I’ll need picking up.”
“Of course, I’ll have Telfer do it. We’ll have a party, celebrate your release.”
“No, Frank, not yet. When I know for sure which one of the three of them framed me, then we’ll tear it up.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“As soon as I have a time of release, I’ll let you know via the official channels.”
McGavin laughed. “Come to the restaurant. I’ll make sure you get a decent meal.”
“Perfect. One more thing, though.”
“Anything. Just ask.”
“I need a couple of numbers. For Carslake and Copeland. I’m going to give them the good news.”
McGavin laughed once more. “I love it. But what about Gray?”
“I’m going to deal with him face-to-face. Keep them on their toes a bit.”
“I’ll text you the details. Carslake is still here, but Copeland has retired up north.”
“Thanks Frank, for everything.”
“No need. I’ll see you soon.” McGavin disconnected.
A moment later his phone vibrated twice in quick succession. The new burner number and Carslake’s. Copeland’s would follow once McGavin had it.
In contrast, Carslake answered immediately.
“Hello?” Carslake sounded distracted. Usher hadn’t heard his voice for years. “Hello?”
“Chief Inspector,” said Usher. “How are you?”
“Who is this?” Puzzled now.
“You mean after all this time you’ve forgotten me? Now that’s just plain rude.”
“It’s been a long day.”
“Well, we can make our acquaintance again soon, 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. In just a few days we’ll be able to shake hands again. I thought you’d like to know.”
Carslake paused on the other end of the line, as if clicking through memories. Eventually he said, “Duncan? Duncan Usher?”
“The one and only. I knew you wouldn’t let me down. Well, not again anyway.”
“You’re being released?”
“Jeff, you’re being particularly slow today. That’s what I said. And I’ll be coming home. First person I’ll be having a word with is Solomon Gray. I’m sure he’ll be very interested to hear what I have to say.”
“What about?”
“His lad, Tom, of course. I’ll be seeing you soon, Jeff. And it’s not going to be pretty. Count on it.”
The line went dead. Carslake must have cut the call. Usher smiled to himself. He powered down the phone and concealed it once more before lying down on his bunk. Today had been a litany of unexpected events.
Usher had been surprised by Smits’s revelation, though. If he’d drawn up a list of the most corrupt cops he’d met, Terry Copeland’s name would have been right at the top.
Not Solomon Gray’s.
Three
Now
Solomon Gray stretched out the aches in his body. So far the train journey had taken six-and-a-half hours. Nearly five hundred miles north, from Broadstairs to Edinburgh via London in a carriage that reeked of stale coffee and bacon sandwiches.
If he’d driven, Gray would be lucky to have made it two thirds of the way by now, given the level of traffic on the roads these days. And the major thoroughfare to Edinburgh along the east coast dropped to a single lane just beyond Newcastle, slowing progress even further.
But the major factor was Gray’s cancer; driving was no longer an option. He tired quickly as the chemotherapy nearly sapped the life out of him, of all the ironies. Afterwards, Gray never quite got back to where he started in terms of vigour and vitality. It was like his reserves were chipped away each time, and he was never able to fully replenish them. Just a few months to go, though, and his doctor seemed pleased with the progress he was making.
Nor could he ask for a lift (though Fowler had offered) as Gray was keeping news of his illness to himself, calling in sick or taking holidays when needed. So far he had managed, but he wondered how. He’d lost some weight, and his clothes hung off him. Perhaps it was because his colleagues were used to him looking like death warmed up. This time they were closer to the mark than they realised.
When the train halted, Gray remained seated. He packed away the travel chess set he’d brought with him to while away the time. He’d started playing recently and had a larger set at home on the coffee table. He waited for everyone else to disembark, avoiding the rush to the exit which started when the train began to slow. A bearded businessman was blocking the automatic door between the carriages, which kept attempting to close on him; such was his eagerness to exit the rubbish-strewn carriage.
Once the aisle was clear, Gray lifted down his quilted jacket and a small, black wheeled suitcase from the rack above. He’d packed a few clothes and some toiletries, enough for a couple of days. If all went well, and he decided to stay longer, there were plenty of shops to buy clothes from. But, as usual, he erred towards the side of pessimism.
He stepped down onto the platform, welcomed the chill blast of air through Edinburgh’s historic Waverley Station. There was a noticeable temperature difference between here, due west from central Denmark, and Thanet from where you could see Belgium and Holland on a clear day with binoculars.
Gray made his way through the concourse, filled with light from the curved glass ceiling above, dodging fellow striding travellers on seemingly urgent journeys. A knot of people stood around the huge destinations and departures board.
Waverley was conveniently located in the city; a set of stairs brought him up onto the busy thoroughfare of Princes Street. For once, Gray had splurged, booking the Balmoral, an imposing Victorian five-star hotel adjacent to the station. The building looked like a castle, albeit with a large, central clock tower. After a brief glance upwards Gray headed for the entrance, keeping his bag close to heel. Within, a concierge, dressed in a neat three-piece suit, nodded a greeting at Gray as he passed.
The entrance lobby was dominated by a wide, striped carpet and several large palms whose presence gave the area a colonial feel. The air was clean and the surroundings felt hushed after the confines and activity of the train. Gray was checked in by a smiling young woman, accepted a key card but turned down both the access to the hotel spa and the besuited bellboy’s offer to carry his bag. He stepped into the lift and pressed the “4�
�� button. Room 417 was full of light and pleasantly warm. A throw across the king-sized bed had the same striping as the lobby carpet. Gray dumped his bag before looking out the window. His view was onto the garden and the monument to Sir Walter Scott, just along Princes Street. People went about their business beneath him.
Gray returned to the bed, unzipped his case and pulled out a small vanity bag. Rather than toiletries it was filled with small brown plastic bottles, neatly labelled, identifying the drugs Gray had to swallow each day to combat his cancer. He unscrewed the cap on several bottles, tipped a capsule from one after the other into the palm of his hand and went into the bathroom. He threw the handful of pills down his throat, drew a glass of water, and swallowed. He caught sight of himself in the mirror. His face was gaunt, black bags under his eyes.
“You look like shit, Sol,” he murmured to himself.
Nothing he’d packed would benefit from being hung up on hangers, so he headed back outside to stretch his legs. He couldn’t manage anything too strenuous, but sitting cooped up in his room wouldn’t do. His gut was tied up in knots. It had been nine years. Would he recognise her? Could she ever forgive him? In just a few hours, he’d finally get to see his daughter, Hope, again.
***
Hope’s suggested meeting place was a busy Italian restaurant crammed with tables and young families, not far from the Balmoral. He arrived early and was taken to his seat by a waiter with what sounded like an authentic Italian accent. The waiter leaned over the table and lit a red candle stuck into an old bottle covered in wax drips. Gray ordered water. A basket of bread arrived, he buttered and ate it while he waited, staring out the window.
The minutes ticked by. Gray checked his watch. Hope was late. He had no idea if that was normal for her or not. His phone was lying on the table. No messages. Gray checked for the third time. The waiter came over, eyebrows raised.
“She’ll be here soon,” said Gray. He received a mildly pitying look in response, obviously the man assumed Gray had been stood up by his date. Which was partially true. Gray’s phone beeped – a text from Hope.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” it read. “I can’t do this. I’m not ready. So sorry. Please give me more time.”
Gray’s stomach plunged with disappointment. He put the phone down and dropped his head to his hands.
“Is she not coming?” asked the waiter, his accent now Scottish.
Feeling his face colour Gray lied, “She’s ill.”
“Look, no rush. If you want to stay, you’re welcome. If you want a proper drink, just let me know.”
“Thanks.”
The waiter departed. Gray picked up his mobile and was about to call Hope until he realised that would probably only push her away. He read the message again. It implied they’d meet at some point, which Gray took some heart from. He pulled a ten pound note out of his wallet, threw it on the table, and left as quickly as he could.
As he stepped outside his mobile rang. Maybe she’s changed her mind? But no, it was Carslake, probably to see how it was going with Hope. Gray sent it to voicemail. A moment later Carslake rang again. Once more, Gray rejected it, this time switching the phone off and going for a walk.
Anywhere.
***
Gray was sitting near the Scott Monument in Princes Street Gardens. He’d been here for half an hour or more. It was drizzling. His brown hair was plastered to his forehead. The rain was soaking through his jacket, and he didn’t have a hood. His backside was cold, and the sanctuary of the Balmoral was only yards away, but he didn’t care.
The disappointment at not seeing Hope weighed like a brick on his chest. He turned his mobile back on to see if she had changed her mind. Immediately a string of texts from Carslake buzzed through, all asking where he was and telling him to call ASAP. The texts got shorter and blunter as they progressed.
Gray dialled, and Carslake picked up immediately.
“Where the hell have you been?”
“Edinburgh.”
“That’s not what I meant; I’ve been trying to get hold of you.”
“I’m on leave, Jeff.”
“I know. This is important, though. I wouldn’t have rung otherwise. Have you seen the news today?”
“I haven’t had the chance.”
“Then take a look and call me back right away.”
“What’s going on?”
“You’ll know when you see it.”
Gray disconnected, puzzled.
***
Back in his hotel room, Gray changed the television channel to the twenty-four-hour BBC news feed. A politician was on screen, making some self-absorbed claim which Gray couldn’t be bothered to hear. He muted the sound, relying on the ticker tape at the bottom as it scrolled across the screen. Gray peeled off his clammy jacket and hung it over a chair. He grabbed a towel from the bathroom and was vigorously rubbing his hair when he saw it. Gray paused, his dampness forgotten.
Convicted murderer Duncan Usher released from prison after alleged miscarriage of justice.
At the top of the hour, Gray turned on the sound. Usher was the lead story. A female newsreader with blonde hair, black eyebrows, and a wrinkle-free forehead which spoke of either superb genes or botox, stared seriously into the camera lens.
“Earlier today Duncan Usher, found guilty fifteen years ago of his wife’s murder, was released from Wandsworth Prison,” she said. “Our reporter is in south-west London to give us the full story.”
The view cut to a balding man clutching a microphone, his coat open at the neck to expose a shirt and tie. He was standing across from the prison gates, a road in between with cars passing by from side to side. The reporter maintained an equally stern expression and spoke loudly to be heard above the traffic.
“Two hours ago, Duncan Usher, a man until today serving life for murder, attempted murder, and perverting the course of justice, was set free, stepping outside for the first time in a decade and a half.”
Footage of Usher getting into a car and speeding away cut in before switching back once more to the reporter.
“As yet there has been no official reason given for his release, but the BBC understands evidence has come to light, which casts doubt on his original conviction.”
Another change of scene brought up archive footage of the house where Usher’s dead wife had been found, and the start of yet another telling of the grisly tale. Gray had lived it once already, he didn’t need to hear it all again. He muted the TV. He thought the case was long done and buried deep. No wonder Carslake had been agitated. Gray felt sick. The ghosts of the past would be stirring now.
Gray rang Carslake back.
***
“You’ve seen it then,” said Carslake. “The lawyers are claiming a false conviction. Poor procedure and a corrupt investigation.”
“They’re right.”
“You need to come back to Margate.”
“I know.”
Carslake paused before asking, “How did it go with Hope?”
“It didn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“She didn’t turn up.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I. Anyway, it can’t be helped. I’ll catch the first train back in the morning.”
“Good, I’ll see you then.”
Gray called down to reception, told them he’d be checking out in the morning, as something had unexpectedly come up. The person he spoke to was understanding. No howls of protest about a visit cut short. Gray hadn’t even unpacked and already he was leaving. This wasn’t how he’d foreseen the trip.
Next, he looked up train times for the following day. The ticket he’d bought restricted when he could travel, and there weren’t any seats available until after 9 a.m. The route was direct to London, meaning business travellers heading in for early morning meetings.
Gray felt he had to tell Hope. He retrieved her text and sent a reply, saying he completely understood. He added that he had to go back to Margate tomorrow mor
ning on police business. He hated saying that, it felt like history repeating itself to the detriment of his relationships. He and his wife Kate had argued often over the demands of the job. But it was true, and he wasn’t going to lie to his daughter. He sent the message.
The TV caught Gray’s attention. Usher was on screen. From the multitude of microphones on the table in front of him, it was clear he was giving a press conference.
It was the first time Gray had seen him since sentence had been passed. Usher’s face, and hair, had thinned a bit, but otherwise he hadn’t changed much. He still appeared the confident, self-assured person Gray had known. Gray picked up the remote and turned the sound on, Usher was apparently now taking questions.
“How does it feel to be free after all these years?” asked a female reporter from out of shot.
Usher narrowed his eyes, taking a moment to consider an answer. “My wife is dead. I’m estranged from my daughters, who’ve grown up believing a lie. I’ve got a grandchild I don’t know, I’ve been wrongfully imprisoned for years, and officially I’m still a convicted murderer. So, in answer to your question. It’s great to be out, but I’m not free.”
“But that conviction will now be quashed?” asked the same reporter.
“I’m hoping so. First we have to get to the truth, to find out what really happened to Valerie.”
“And what did happen, Mr Usher?”
“It was the police. They set me up.” Usher stared at the camera. Gray felt as if he were looking right at him, as they had across an interview table when Usher had first been brought in. “Now, if you will excuse me,” said Usher, “I have a pint waiting for me at the bar.”
Usher stood and left the room to a buzz of conversation. A man opened a door for him and followed him through. The view was only fleeting, but he looked like Dean Telfer – though bald now and minus the jewellery Usher’s right-hand man wore back in the day.
Gray switched off the television. He headed to the minibar and searched through the bottles. Whisky. When in Scotland and all that. He shouldn’t drink, but he didn’t care. He poured the shot into a glass, dribbled in a tiny amount of water from the tap and sat in front of the window, looking out over the city, knowing that whatever tomorrow brought, it would not be welcome.