by Keith Nixon
“Absolutely,” said Usher.
“A table for how many?”
“Two.” Usher looked up at the CCTV lens above and behind the bar. “Mr McGavin is expecting me.”
“That’s wonderful. We have a table with an excellent sea view reserved for you both. I hope that’s all right?”
“Lead on.”
Jenny took two menus from the bar area before heading down the stairs. Usher followed. On the way Jenny touched one of her colleagues on her arm, nodded at her. The table was small and packed tightly into a corner on the lowest level. The chair was rickety and Usher felt hemmed in, the diners practically seated on top of each other. But Jenny was right; the view out across the beach and rippling sea was excellent.
Jenny placed a menu in front of Usher and said, “Your waitress today is Naomi.” It was the same woman Jenny had tapped. “If you need anything don’t hesitate to ask. Mr McGavin will be with you shortly.” Jenny withdrew.
“Good afternoon, sir,” said Naomi. She was older than Jenny, a tinge of grey in her clipped-back brown hair. She had a round face and dark skin. She put a basket with several types of white and brown bread and a carafe of water dappled with condensation in front of him.
“Specials of the day are mussels to start and locally caught skate as the main course.” Naomi pointed to them on the menu. Usher glanced at the prices. Food cost a lot more these days. She pulled a pad from a pocket in the apron and a pen from her shirt. “Would you like to order a drink or wait until Mr McGavin arrives?”
“How about a bottle of wine? It’s been a while since I last drank, so could you suggest something? Nothing cheap, of course.”
Naomi nodded. “Certainly. Our wine waiter is very knowledgeable.”
“Then I trust his judgement.”
Naomi smiled and headed for the bar. Usher grabbed a piece of bread from the basket and popped it into his mouth. He’d only eaten prison food for the last decade and a half and wasn’t sure what to make of the bread’s floral flavour. A thick layer of butter helped. Naomi returned and angled a bottle of Malbec so he could read the label. “Is this acceptable?”
“Excellent choice.” Usher had no idea if it was or wasn’t.
Naomi popped the cork and poured a small amount into a glass. “Do you want to taste it?”
“No, I’m sure it’s great. Keep going. I’ll say when.” After fifteen years of no alcohol, this was going to be interesting. She’d filled the glass almost to the lip by the time Usher stopped her.
“You’ll have a hangover tomorrow,” said McGavin who was standing behind Naomi. She moved to let him past. McGavin unbuttoned his suit jacket as he sat. “Thanks, Naomi. Have you ordered, Duncan?”
“Not yet.”
“Can I make a suggestion?”
“Go ahead.”
McGavin pointed at the menu before Naomi delivered the orders to the kitchen.
“We’ll be treated as a priority,” McGavin said, as he leaned in towards Usher.
“I never saw you as a restaurateur, Frank.”
“Us, Duncan. This is your business more than mine. And mid-range dining is the rage these days. People pay good money for honest, locally sourced food.” McGavin picked up the Malbec, peered at the label. “You’ve got good taste.”
“Apparently we have a superb wine waiter.” Usher took a tentative sip. The berry flavours flooded his mouth. He savoured them momentarily before taking a second, deeper draw. McGavin smiled.
“I’ll congratulate her later.”
“I’ve missed that. You’ll join me, of course?”
“I have a rule. No alcohol when I’m working.” McGavin laughed when he saw the expression on Usher’s face. “Though today is an exception.” McGavin got himself a glass and poured. He clinked glasses with Usher. “Great to see you. It’s been a while.”
“Cheers.” Usher looked McGavin over, noted the expensive suit, the crisply ironed white shirt, the gold cufflinks. “You’ve put on weight.” McGavin appeared successful, a man who’d achieved much for somebody only recently into their forties.
“You’re thinner.”
“Jail time.” Usher knew it had aged him, he looked much older than McGavin though there was only a decade between them.
The waitress brought two dishes over to the table.
“Scallops,” said McGavin. “Fresh off the boat this morning in Ramsgate. As I said, we use as many local ingredients as possible.”
Usher picked up a fork, poked around in the upturned scallop shell.
“There aren’t any extra ingredients.”
“Old habits die hard.” Usher ladled a chunk into his mouth.
“How is it?”
“All right,” admitted Usher, his mouth half full. “I’ve had worse.” He smiled. It was excellent, to be fair. The scallop had a soft, melting texture which barely resisted his teeth. A scoop of lightly minted mushy peas and a shard of well-done, almost burnt, streaky bacon added unusual contrasting flavours.
“I guess you’ll be wanting to take the reins back?” McGavin picked at a scallop himself.
“Does that bother you, Frank?”
“Why would it?”
“Be straight with me.”
McGavin sighed, sipped some more wine. “All right, I’ll hold my hands up. I’m used to being the boss after all this time, but a deal is a deal. I said I’d look after the business until you got out.”
“And here I am.”
“Yes.”
Naomi arrived back at the table. “May I clear your plates?”
“Thank you,” said McGavin.”
“I’ve an alternative proposal,” said Usher once Naomi had gone. He’d been thinking about this for a while. McGavin waited, twirling his glass. “How about you continue to run the day-to-day operations and I sit in the background?”
McGavin thought about it briefly. “Like Managing Director and Chairman?”
“Exactly like that. The older, wiser man delegates and reaps the rewards from the harder working upstart.”
McGavin laughed. “I can live with that.”
“Good.” Usher held his hand out for McGavin to shake.
“Can I do anything to help? Money, for example? There’s a car at your disposal, of course and Dean to drive you.”
“I’m okay for cash, though I could do with somewhere to stay.”
“I thought you might.” McGavin laid a set of keys on the table. There’s a flat just above Beaches, around the corner.”
“Where?”
“Sorry, Beaches is a café on Albion Street. Turn left at the top, you can’t miss it.”
Usher scooped up the keys and pocketed them. “Thanks.”
“No need.” McGavin held up his hands, palms out. “Given you did a stretch for Dean and me, it’s the least we can do.”
The waitress delivered the main course. A rib-eye steak, rare, the blood seeping out of the meat. A small stack of chips, organised in a Jenga-style block, a few salad leaves and some peas in a small glass bowl. There was a white jug with peppercorn sauce too.
“How’s that?” asked McGavin.
Usher raised his eyebrows at the neatly arranged meal, surprised at how little there appeared to be on the plate. “I guess this place makes good profits?”
“Decent enough, yes.”
McGavin picked up his knife and fork and asked, “What’s next?”
“Figuring out which of the bastards set me up.” Usher devoured the steak, surprised at suddenly how hungry he was, shoving a piece of meat into his mouth as he was swallowing the previous chunk.
“Who do you think it was?”
The who – Copeland, Carslake or Gray. “Could be any of them,” shrugged Usher. “Or all of them.”
“Then?”
“Kill them.”
“We haven’t got the garage anymore.”
Where they used to deal with the inconveniences. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll find a way.”
“You always did, Duncan.”
“Have you seen my girls recently?”
“I keep an eye on them.” Neither lived on Thanet now. “They’re both doing well. Do you want to see them?”
“Once this is over.”
“Dessert?” asked McGavin when Usher pushed his plate away.
“Couldn’t eat another thing.”
“Anytime you want, come in. I’ll ensure all the staff knows who you are. They’ll take good care of you. You are the boss, after all.”
“Thanks.”
Usher and McGavin stood. They shook hands once more. Usher nodded to Jenny as he left the restaurant and got a broad grin in response. He turned right and climbed up Harbour Street. At the junction with Albion Street, where three pubs faced each other, he avoided temptation and crossed the road to a car park. Telfer, his driver, was leaning against the car, located in a disabled spot, picking at his finger nails with a pen knife.
“How did it go?” asked Telfer as he straightened and slid the blade closed.
“About as well as you’d expect.”
Telfer opened the door for Usher. “Where now?”
“Gray.”
Eleven
Then
“Duncan fucking Usher, eh? What a breakthrough this could be!” said Copeland. He stared at Valerie’s body.
“A dead woman is hardly what I’d call a breakthrough,” snapped Carslake.
“All right, DS Carslake, remember who you’re talking to.”
“I just think we should be specific, sir. At the moment it appears to be a murder suicide with a suspect in custody who isn’t Usher. Plus Usher’s girls are missing.”
“Attempted suicide, Jeff. And you know what I mean. I’d bet my left bollock Usher is involved. He has to be.”
Copeland was a career-first type of detective. He’d moved over from Herefordshire nearly eighteen months ago and was determined to stamp an impression of his large boot on the area. Arresting Usher and making a charge stick, a feat none of his predecessors had managed, would make that print indelibly deep and permanent. Copeland had a style about him which neither Gray nor Carslake were keen on and there was hardly a basis for Copeland’s current judgement. But Copeland had been the one who’d given Gray his chance to work in CID. And he was the boss, so Gray kept quiet.
“DI Copeland, I’d really like to get back to work,” said Brazier.
“I’m not stopping you.”
“Please can you leave the room, space is rather tight.”
“Your wish is my command.” Copeland led his officers onto the landing. Shaking his head, Copeland said loud enough to be heard by Brazier and his team, “Bloody SOCO, they should know they’re not the brains of this outfit. Just the tools, literally.”
Brazier stiffened, but said nothing, choosing to ignore the jibe.
“Yes, sir,” said Carslake. Gray knew he didn’t agree with Copeland, but like Brazier, Carslake had learned when to comply. Which was most of the time. Carslake possessed this innate ability to play the political game, to say the pleasing words, to take the right action – something he kept coaching Gray on. Gray was trying his best to emulate his DS, but it didn’t come easily.
“Summarise the situation for me, Jeff,” said Copeland. Carslake did so. When he’d finished, Copeland was silent for a few moments, thinking. “We’re missing a lot of data here,” he said. “The woman’s bedroom is clearly the locus. I want any fingerprints, hair samples, whatever, analysed in double quick time. I don’t care about the cost. They’re top priority. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The knife; is it from the house or brought in from the outside?”
“Impossible to say at this stage," Carslake said. "There’s a drawer full of utensils of various brands.”
“No convenient block of wood with one blade obviously missing?”
“Unfortunately not.”
“There never is.”
“What about the bloke you found beside the woman’s body?”
“Word from the hospital is he’s undergoing an operation. He’d lost a lot of blood. Much longer and he might not have been alive.”
“I want to talk to him as soon as he’s conscious. Have uniform stationed by his bed.”
“Already organised, sir, along with a door-to-door and we’re contacting next of kin.”
“Good, you’re learning. Might make a half-decent copper out of you at some point if you carry on like this.”
“I appreciate it, sir.”
Copeland’s self-importance was a characteristic Carslake had complained to Gray about over a beer several times. Wisely, Carslake bit his tongue. Copeland’s approach was send only.
“Don’t knock it, Jeff. The ability to study your betters is a useful trait in rising up the ranks. Everybody needs a helping hand at one time or another.” Copeland paused to ensure the message had got through to Carslake. “What about his identity?”
“Nothing definitive but we were discussing this as you arrived, sir.” Carslake held up the phone. “Just the one number stored in the memory. Says ‘home’.”
“Has anybody called it yet?”
“We were about to.”
“What’s the number? I’ll do that now?”
Carslake read out the detail of the number and Copeland tapped it into his own phone. He pressed the green key, then the button for the speaker and waited. The call connected and was answered on the first ring.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice, urgent.
“This is Detective Inspector Copeland, who am I speaking to?”
“Molly Mundby, do you have news about Craig? My son, he’s missing. I called in a report earlier. He has some mental health issues.”
“Can you describe him please?”
Molly did so, it matched the man they’d found beside Valerie.”
“I’m afraid to say your son has been involved in an incident.”
Molly cut across Copeland. “What incident? Is he all right? Where is he?”
“Craig has been taken to hospital.”
“I’m going there now.” Molly cut the call.
“We’ll deal with that later,” said Copeland, as he hit the "end" button and slid the phone into his pocket. “Show me the rest.”
Gray walked Carslake and Copeland around the house, starting with the lounge. Gray pulled at the handle of one of the large windows. He stepped into a decent-sized garden which would probably have a sea view on the horizon during the day.
The garden was mostly lawn with mature shrubs and border plants around the extremities. A path wound its way across the centre, like stepping stones across a green lake. A tall tree hung over one corner, the leaves rustling gently. Gray had no idea what any one of the plants was called. He’d never possessed green fingers. Opposite the tree was a shed, also locked.
“Not easy to get around the back of the property,” said Gray, pointing at high, wooden fences which ran the perimeter.
“There’s a side gate too. A narrow path on the right-hand side of the house,” said Carslake, “but the gate’s locked and at the moment we can’t find the key.”
“Hell of a lot of security for such a quiet area,” said Copeland. “Electric gates, an alarm, and a camera.”
“That’s what we thought.”
“Talk to the company, see when it was all put in and access the camera footage.”
“I’ll do that,” said Gray. There was a name on the alarm box, Raptor Security, and a local phone number. Gray noted it down. He caught movement in the corner of his eye. Fowler at the windows. “Sir.” Gray nodded at Fowler.
Copeland turned, said, “What is it, lad?”
“Sorry to interrupt sir,” he said. “Next of kin has turned up a name, Eva Franklin. She’s Valerie Usher’s mother.”
“And?”
“The daughters are with her.”
“That’s a relief,” said Carslake.
“What’s her address?”
Fowler handed over a piece of paper which Copel
and folded into his pocket without even glancing at it. “She’ll have to wait, though. Usher first.”
Twelve
Now
Gray leaned against the front door of his flat to close it and dropped his bag on the floor. He stayed where he was for a few moments, head hung low. He rubbed his eyes. They felt gritty and sore. When he took his hand away from his face it shook.
Although he felt worst immediately following radiotherapy, the after-effects stayed with him for weeks. He was permanently short of energy and drive. The pretence he had to maintain made it worse, giving the appearance of normality when all he wanted to do was lie in bed. He’d picked up his post from the box downstairs; one of the envelopes had a frank from the local hospital. It would be about his next appointment. Gray couldn’t face that right now.
“You look ancient, Sol. The last fifteen years haven’t been kind to you.”
Gray started with surprise. Sitting cross-legged on his sofa was Duncan Usher, a mug on one knee. Gray had been so drained he hadn’t even noticed his presence. “How the hell did you get in?”
“Old dog, old tricks, my friend.”
“Get out.”
Usher raised the mug. “I’ve already made myself at home. Why would I leave?”
“Where’s Telfer?”
“With the car. If you look down onto the pavement you’ll see him.” Usher picked up a pawn from the coffee table. Gray had a game in progress. “I didn’t fancy you for a chess geek.”
“So?”
Usher put the piece back down, but not in the right place. “Make yourself a drink and join me, I’ve something you’ll want to hear.” Usher stood up, crossed to the large glass doors which led onto the balcony where Gray regularly sat, whatever the weather, and slid one open. Outside were a table and an accompanying chair.
Gray opened the front door for Usher to leave through. “I severely doubt I’d be interested in anything you had to say.”
“It’s about Tom.”
Gray froze. It was the last thing he’d have expected Usher to say. “What about him?”
Usher shook his head. “Make a coffee first. You need an injection of energy. Kettle’s not long boiled.” Usher turned away from Gray and bent over the balcony, resting his arms on the railings.