The Solomon Gray Series Box Set

by Keith Nixon

  Her hair was short and blonde, the kind of platinum yellow which came from a bottle. Her flawless skin was accentuated with high cheekbones. Some people paid big money for such looks. Her eyes were closed, mouth open. Her lips were red with lipstick, matching the colour of her nails – both hands and feet. It was the same woman from the photographs, albeit with a different hair style.

  “Nasty,” said Brazier.

  “Do you mean her or the scene?” asked Carslake.

  “The scene of course, Jeff. It was just a remark.”

  “Unless they’re pertinent to the case, keep them to yourself, Sean,” snapped Carslake.

  “My apologies,” said Brazier.

  Carslake turned his back on Brazier. “What do you think, Amos?”

  Jenkinson sucked in a lungful of air through his teeth, ready to deliver a pronouncement in his Yorkshire accent. “Mrs Usher most likely died from strangulation. I’ll determine the exact cause of death when I get a closer look, however from the marks around her neck, I’d say it’s a good bet. I’ll know for sure when I open her up and take a look at her larynx. If it’s cracked or broken, then strangulation will be a certainty.”

  “Not asphyxiation from the pillow?” asked Gray.

  “Doubtful, I would say, based on the signs.”

  “So why place the pillow over her face?”

  “Shame, maybe? I’d suggest the killer closed her eyes too,” said Jenkinson. “She’d have been staring right at him while he squeezed.”

  Carslake broke into the silence. “What about the attempted suicide?”

  “Who says it’s a suicide?”

  “The slashed wrist is a strong indicator.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “We didn’t find a suicide note,” said Brazier. “There was this knife beside the bed.” He passed over the bloodied weapon, which was inside a sealed evidence bag.

  “Where specifically?” asked Carslake.

  Brazier pointed to a large patch of blood on the carpet. “Beneath the man.”

  “Looks like it’s from a kitchen.” Carslake passed it to Gray. He looked at the weapon through the plastic. Gray had to agree. A black handle and a short, sharp blade.

  “So maybe he strangled Valerie, then feeling remorse, went downstairs and got the knife. He sat on the floor, cut his wrists and lay down to bleed out,” suggested Carslake.

  “It’s possible. Although there’s one problem.” Jenkinson was frowning. “I estimate the time of death to be around 10 p.m.”

  “He would have bled out within that time,” said Gray.

  “Yes.”

  “Unless he killed her, calmed down, then felt guilty and decided to kill himself?”

  “It’s a theory.” Jenkinson sounded doubtful, though.

  “There doesn’t appear to be any sign of a forced entry,” said Brazier.

  “These two knew each other then?” suggested Carslake.

  “It’s possible,” said Gray. “Thanet is a small area, and he wasn’t wearing any shoes. He probably didn’t come far.”

  “Can you prioritise the PM, Amos?” asked Carslake.

  “She’ll be at the top of the list.”

  “This was found beside the man.” Brazier passed Carslake a mobile phone in a bag. “There’s just one number on there. Says ‘home’”

  “Has anybody tried to call it yet?”

  “So,” a new voice interrupted. “Are any of you bastards going to fill me in on the good news?”

  Gray turned; it was Copeland, their boss. And he looked ecstatic.

  Eight

  Now

  Gray met Carslake outside the station. It was bright and warm. Carslake was wearing sunglasses and had rolled up his shirt sleeves. Gray was the opposite. No shades, and he’d picked up his suit jacket in case there was a sea breeze. Instead it was dead calm. Gray was considering going back inside to dump his jacket, but Carslake got walking, leading them down Fort Road, which dropped away to the Margate seafront. Gray followed.

  As they were passing the Turner Contemporary – a free-to-enter art gallery and a beacon of regeneration for the area, while barely giving a passing nod to the great artist himself – Carslake said, “There’s cafés everywhere these days. More of them than pubs apparently, which is a bloody travesty. What about that one on the harbour arm?”

  “Fine with me,” said Gray.

  The pair negotiated the road at a zebra crossing, strolled past the gallery and onto the jetty, a strip of concrete protecting the inner bay from the worst of the North Sea storms. A fistful of trawlers bobbed in its lee. Trawling was an endangered activity, like the fish they attempted to catch. Only one fishmonger in the whole area too. It was a modern tragedy of generational excess that an area which was three quarters coastline, received barely any fruits of the sea.

  Squat structures stretched along the harbour arm, in the past they were used to process the day’s catch. Gentrification was working its charms here, too. The dilapidated buildings had been made available by the council at a peppercorn rent simply so they were filled. One was a gallery run by a local artist on a very small scale, another was a bar, and finally there was the café. They entered. It was a little cooler inside, away from the sun.

  Carslake ordered while Gray selected a squashy sofa. They were the only patrons. It was bare brick walls and quirky local marine memorabilia in a sterile nod to the past. Gray laid his jacket over the back of the seat. He settled into the softness of the cushions, tired from the journey and the effects of his treatment. Gray could easily fall asleep if he wasn’t careful, so he stood up and glanced over the faux adornments while awaiting his drink.

  After a few minutes, Carslake came over with a tray. “I got us some cakes too.” Carslake sat down in an armchair on the opposite side of the table and pointed at the sweet treats. “Which one do you want?”

  “I’m not bothered.”

  Carslake picked up an eclair and munched on one end. Cream squished out of the sides. Carslake used a finger to rescue the blob. Gray didn’t fancy the doughnut Carslake had left.

  “You said Edinburgh went well, Sol.”

  “Not at first, Hope didn’t turn up. But she came to see me at the hotel this morning. We talked.”

  “That’s great! You must be delighted.”

  “Of course. It means I’ll be going back soon.”

  “Good.” Carslake wiped his fingers on a napkin. “Have you got any plans for the weekend?”

  “Nothing at the moment.”

  “I’m going to Dreamland with the grandkids now it’s opened. Some big-name designer was involved in the refurb, yesteryear themed apparently. To drag more people down from the capital.”

  Gray had read that aspiration in the paper, however the locals were suitably negative about its prospects. As was Gray. “It’ll fail,” he said. Margate was more Beirut than Notting Hill, little to attract the casual visitor. He’d seen Londoners getting off the train to visit the gallery, wide-eyed at the grungy sights the town had to offer. He doubted many had returned. At least Dreamland was closer to the station. Fewer homeless drunks to bypass. “What’s this clandestine stuff all about, Jeff?”

  Carslake appeared taken aback. “Clandestine? Not at all, I just fancied getting out of the office.”

  “That wasn’t the impression you gave me.”

  “Sorry, that wasn’t my intent.”

  “I thought you’d want to discuss the IPCC investigation.”

  “I’m not overly concerned, to be honest.”

  “Really?”

  “Did you do anything incorrect at the time?”

  “No, but they’re investigating a case I was integrally involved with.”

  “I think you’re safe, you were a new DC at the time, after all. Copeland is who they’ll really be looking at. And maybe me after him. I don’t see you being identified as a person of interest.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “The senior investigator is someone called Eric Smits. H
e’s going to be joined by Emily Wyatt.”

  “Do you know either of them?”

  “Look Sol, leave the IPCC to me. I think your time would be far better spent on Hope. And Tom.”

  Gray leaned forward, suddenly energised. Carslake had found a witness who saw Tom being taken out of England into France on a ferry. Gray had finally met the man a few weeks ago but he’d been vague at best.

  “Have you got some more information, Jeff?”

  “Are you not having the doughnut?”

  “Who gives a shit about a cake? Just tell me about Tom. Why are you holding out on me?”

  Carslake shrugged and grabbed the doughnut. “First, I need you to understand the scale of the issue we’re facing. Look at the Madeleine McCann disappearance. That was ten years ago. It’s had all sorts of police resources thrown at it throughout the years and still nothing. Witnesses have moved on, others have died. Opportunity scattered to the wind. We’re pretty much on our own when it comes to finding Tom. No massive resources and millions of pounds being thrown into the investigation. And we’ve an additional challenge in that no one considered the prospect of a European angle. He’s a needle in a haystack, Sol. But even needles in haystacks can be found with enough effort, and I think I’ve got something.”

  Gray bent forward. His palms were damp but his mouth dry. He drank some coffee, his hands shaking a little, giving time for Carslake to fold half the doughnut into his mouth before Gray asked, “What, Jeff?”

  “Initially Tom’s trail petered out in Brussels, but signs indicate he went over the border, to Amsterdam. I’m following a series of potential sightings like breadcrumbs. Sometimes they disappear, and I have to search out the next one.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner, Jeff?”

  “I wasn’t sure it would turn out to be anything substantial, I’m still not. But now I’m going to be swamped by Smits so I want to pass everything over to you, okay?”

  “It’s time consuming.”

  “I don’t care. I’ll take the workload on.” Gray would work all the spare hours he had if need be. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  “Good.” Carslake drained his coffee. “How are things with Hamson?”

  “Fine. Why wouldn’t they be?”

  Carslake stared at Gray for a moment. “They’re clearly not, Sol. She can’t stand to be in the same room as you.”

  “Just a misunderstanding. It’ll work itself out. I’m not the easiest person to get on with.”

  “Don’t blame yourself. Hamson seems unable to work well with anybody around her. Like Mike. That helicopter incident before the briefing.” Carslake shook his head. “The whole office witnessed it.”

  Gray didn’t know what to say that would make Carslake think better of Hamson, so he stayed quiet.

  “Your silence does you credit, Sol. In your position many people would leap at the chance to criticise their superior. Many people have. When the Usher investigation is done and dusted, Hamson has to go.”

  Gray almost spat his coffee across Carslake. He swallowed then coughed. “That’s a pretty drastic step, isn’t it?” Gray wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

  “The atmosphere is terrible, you’re aware of it. And this affair with Mike, it’s unprofessional, frankly. Clearance rates are suffering, right at the worst possible moment when the IPCC are going to be all over me and Marsh. Hamson is the DI; she has to take responsibility for the problems.”

  “What about having a word with her?”

  “God knows, I’ve tried.” Carslake pulled a face like a child being offered unpalatable food.

  “I didn’t mean you. Human Resources.”

  “HR? God, no. They’re a waste of space.”

  “You seem set on this, Jeff.”

  Carslake nodded emphatically. “I am.”

  Gray paused, let his mind roll. He picked up his coffee, but only the dregs remained. He placed the cup back in the saucer. “There has to be some other way. We’re already short staffed.”

  “Believe me; I’ve spent a long time thinking it all through. Ideally I’d prefer her to put in a transfer request, one I couldn’t refuse.”

  “And you want me to engineer it, I guess.”

  “You always were sharp, Sol.”

  “How am I going to do that?”

  “Make friends with Hamson again, talk to her about her position.”

  Carslake seemed to have everything figured out. Gray said, “She might not be interested.”

  “Make her interested. Ideally I’d suggest moving Mike too, but I can’t afford to lose both of them. And even though he’s a pain the arse, at least he’s a decent copper. However, if things carry on as they are and more complaints come in about Mike then then he could follow Hamson out the door.”

  “I’ve got to say, Jeff, I’m not comfortable with all this.” Gray wondered what the real reason was for Carslake wanting to push out Hamson.

  “I suspected you wouldn’t be. You’re too bloody straight, Sol. That’s your problem. So, there’s a potential direct benefit for you. With Hamson gone, an inspector’s position frees up. Because of all your experience, it would be an obvious step. Think of it as a sweetener to sharpen the mind.”

  There it was, on the table before them. Hamson was to be the sacrificial lamb, and Gray would be the one who exercised the knife, sliced the blade through the sinews of her career.

  “Effectively you’re offering me a step up the ladder at a colleague’s expense.”

  Carslake grimaced. “Not quite how I’d put it, Sol. Think about it another way. You’ve more than paid your dues. You should be an inspector already. You deserve this. Any promotion would be on merit.”

  “I’m not a back stabber.”

  “I never said you were!”

  “It’s what you want me to do though, Jeff.”

  “No, no. Simply to facilitate the initial step. Have a think about it, okay? Take your time, I need to see the Usher investigation through and satisfactorily closed before anything meaningful can happen anyway.” Carslake checked his watch. “Ouch, look at the time. I’d better get back. And you seem about ready to fall asleep. You’re shattered, go home and get some rest. In fact, take a few days off.” Carslake stood up. “And Sol, not a word to anyone about Hamson’s demise. This is entirely between us.”

  Nine

  Then

  “Get dressed,” said the friend, the one he’d called on.

  “What’s the point?” he shrugged. “She’s dead. I killed her. I’m finished.”

  “That’s not happening. If you go down, I do too.” The friend scooped the killer’s trousers off the floor and threw them at his feet. “Sort yourself out.” The friend turned away, leaving him alone.

  He rose to his feet and slowly pulled his clothes on, keeping his back to Valerie. By the time he was buttoning his shirt the friend was back, carrying a vacuum cleaner, a cloth and several plastic carrier bags in his gloved hands. The friend handed the cloth to him and a pair of gloves.

  “Put those on then wipe anything you might have touched. If they find your fingerprints all over the place they’ll wonder why. Vacuum the floor then put the hoover contents into a bag.”

  “I know what to do.”

  “If that were true, we wouldn’t be standing here now.”

  “Sorry.”

  “There’s no time for recrimination. Get on with it. At least you had the good sense to use a condom. Which reminds me, you’ll have to clean her too.”

  “Why?”

  “God, think about it, man! Pubes. They get everywhere. The vacuum hose should do it.”

  “Really?”

  The friend grabbed him by the shirt, pulled him close. He could hear the rasp in his friend’s throat as he fought for control. “I’m very close to walking out and leaving you with this. Pull yourself together.”

  He looked down at his feet. “Sorry.”

  The friend let go. “Did you go anywhere else in the house? Do
anything else?”

  “We had a cup of coffee in the kitchen.”

  “That’s it? Think! We haven’t got long.”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “Right, you get this cleared up, the dishwasher can deal with the cups. We need to get out of here as soon as possible.”

  The friend left the room while he switched the vacuum on and began sucking up the evidence of his presence, the last remnants of the affair.

  Ten

  Now

  The restaurant was at the bottom of Harbour Street, a narrow thoroughfare which led down to the Broadstairs sea front and jetty. Across the road, a tired amusement arcade failed to lure clientele with its flashing lights, half of them burnt out. Next door to that, a tiny cinema in a flint and brick building claimed its fame of being among the smallest such joints in the country. A portcullis arch spanned the road joining the restaurant to the sailing club, attesting to Broadstairs’ more violent past.

  The restaurant was a far more modern expanse of windows, designed so the diners could take in the sea view. But this also meant pedestrians could observe what the diners were eating.

  Usher pushed open the door. The interior was dark lacquered flooring and mismatched tables, white-painted brick walls organised into three tiers which dropped down over successive floors, each with its own large Edison light chandelier, aligned with the angle of the descending road outside. A mish-mash of different sized and shaped mirrors were affixed to the far walls. A bar area stretched across the width of the upper tier. It was busy, a hubbub of chatter, relaxed patrons enjoying the atmosphere.

  “Hello, sir,” said a greeter. She wore black trousers and a polo shirt with the restaurant’s logo sewn in, complete with a maroon apron tied around her waist. A badge revealed her name. Jenny. She was young, fresh-faced, freckles on her cheeks. Her hair was tied into a fishbone plait. She smiled, revealing a gap between her front teeth. “Would you like to dine with us today?”