The Solomon Gray Series Box Set

by Keith Nixon

“Are you all right?” asked Gray.

  “Craig Mundby’s awake.”

  Eighteen

  Now

  Amos Jenkinson had retired to a red-brick barn conversion nestled in the village of Fordwich just off the Canterbury road. A couple of thousand years ago Fordwich was a major port, but the gradual silting up of the River Stour meant it was now landlocked. Jenkinson’s home was on the edge of the village, at the end of a cul-de-sac with fields to the rear. Gray parked on the drive. He could still hear the traffic making its way in and out of the city.

  Gray rang the bell. A short woman of about Gray’s age answered the door. Her hair was long and grey, tumbling past her shoulders. Large, elaborate earrings dangled from her lobes, almost long enough to touch her shoulder. “Can I help you?”

  “Is Amos in?”

  “My father’s resting right now. Who are you?”

  “Sorry, I’m Solomon Gray, an ex-colleague of his.”

  “Sol!” A voice bellowed from inside the home. Jenkinson was standing in the hallway behind his daughter. He looked frail and bent; he was using a metal framed walker to keep himself upright. He still wore the over-sized, pork-chop sideburns.

  “Dad, you’re supposed to be in bed!”

  “I’ll be dead soon, why would I waste time lying down?”

  “You’ll tire yourself out.”

  “I’m fine, Fiona. Don’t fuss.” Jenkinson switched his attention to Gray. “Come in, Sol. Fiona shouldn’t have left you standing on the step. Fancy a drink?”

  Jenkinson turned slowly around before Gray could answer, shuffling along the hall, pushing the walker out in front of him an arm’s length then sliding his feet forward. It was a slow process. Jenkinson led Gray and his daughter into a conservatory which opened out onto a garden of long grass and mature trees. A pair of French windows stood open, letting the cool air in. Several pieces of wicker furniture, bedecked with floral cushions, faced outwards. Jenkinson paused by a table on which stood multiple bottles and glasses.

  “What’s your poison, Sol?” he asked.

  “Dad!”

  “I don’t want another cup of tea, Fiona. I’m drowning in the bloody stuff. Sol is an old friend, so I’ll be having some of the hard stuff. You can leave us to it.” Fiona turned around and walked out. Jenkinson waited until she was out of earshot before he said, “She fusses so much.”

  “Probably because she cares.”

  Jenkinson shrugged. “Whisky or brandy?”

  “I’m driving Amos, and I’m on duty.”

  “Balls, man! The years have made you soft. Have a bloody drink with me!” Jenkinson sloshed some whisky into a glass, added a dribble of water and pressed it into Gray’s hand. “Sit down.”

  Gray did so and shortly Jenkinson joined him. He eased himself down, pushed the walker away and took a swallow from a considerably larger measure.

  “How are you then, Sol? It’s been a long time.”

  “Okay. How about you?”

  Jenkinson swirled the booze in the glass, staring into it. “I’ve got early onset Alzheimer’s. And arthritis to add insult to injury. But that won’t matter because once my brain goes, the body forgets how to live.”

  “I’m sorry, Amos.”

  “There’s nothing can be done. So to warn you, I have a tendency to forget recent events. I have good days and bad.”

  “I’m here about the past.”

  “I rather thought you might be. Duncan Usher by any chance?”

  “There’s an internal investigation underway.”

  “Of course there is. This bloody desire to wring our hands then hold them out to be slapped by the public – it’s irritating and it’s wrong.”

  “No argument from me, Amos.”

  “There’s been a letter already. From somebody called Smits.”

  “I met him yesterday.”

  “And?”

  “It’s why I’m here. There seems to be some doubt about the DNA analysis on the material you found under Valerie’s nails.”

  “Hmm, that’s what they’re focusing on, is it?”

  “To be honest I don’t know the breadth of their assessment.”

  “Well they’re going to have a bloody job proving anything, and soon I won’t remember at all.” Jenkinson threw the rest of the alcohol down his throat. “The data went missing, destroyed after the case was closed.”

  Gray was puzzled, critical information was supposed to be retained following the conclusion of a case, regardless of outcome. “What about the sample itself? The analysis could be re-run, surely?”

  “Yes, if it existed. A freezer broke down. Nobody noticed until it was too late. Valerie’s material was just one of many that were lost.”

  “That’s unfortunate.”

  “It’s more than unfortunate, Sol. What’s the chances of both the data and the sample being unavailable for further examination?”

  “Slim.”

  “At best.”

  “Somebody didn’t want the work being carried out.”

  “Who?”

  “Copeland. And I can prove it. Give me a hand, would you?” Jenkinson held out his arms to be pulled up.

  Gray put his untouched drink down on the floor and obliged Jenkinson.

  “I get sick of that damned walker. If you don’t mind, I’ll lean on you instead.”

  “No problem. Where are we going?”

  “My study, it’s just back down the hall. Second door along.” They exited the conservatory and returned the way they’d come.

  Fiona appeared in the corridor. “Is everything all right?”

  “Fine, fine.” Jenkinson waved her away.

  Gray pushed the door open, revealing a well organised space, a desk in the central area before the window, shelves and filing cabinets either side. There were medical certificates on the wall and, for some reason, what appeared to be an African tribal shield crossed with two spears.

  “You go in, I’ll stay here,” said Jenkinson, propping himself up against the jamb.

  “What am I looking for?”

  “Filing cabinet, bottom drawer over there.”

  Gray followed Jenkinson’s bony finger, which pointed in the general direction. Within the cabinet were alphabetised sections from U to Z. U was the thickest.

  “Look for Usher,” said Jenkinson.

  Gray pulled out the sheaf and closed the drawer. It was a requisition for Jenkinson’s post mortem, bloods, and any other documentation Jenkinson had produced in the process of assessing the murder of Valerie Usher and dated a year after Usher’s successful conviction.

  “Did you comply?” asked Gray.

  “Of course!” Gray was wasn’t surprised. “Will you be talking to Copeland?”

  “Yes, don’t you worry, Amos.”

  Jenkinson grinned, looking more like his old self. “Good. One thing I remember with clarity is that I never liked that bastard.”

  ***

  Gray left Jenkinson in the conservatory, the bottle of whisky beside him and one of his business cards, should Jenkinson recall anything else of value. They’d spent a good half an hour going over old times. Clearly the pathologist missed his old life. Stuck, as Jenkinson had put it, in a ramshackle house staring out at the world as it passed him by.

  At the front door Fiona stepped into the hall.

  “He’s resting,” said Gray.

  “The silly old sod will have worn himself out,” she said. “He’s not had this much adventure in ages.”

  “He said he has Alzheimer’s.”

  “Yes, some rare form. So far it’s not so bad but the experts say it’s a steep downhill slope.”

  “How long?”

  Fiona’s mouth turned down. “Months.”

  There was nothing Gray could say other than goodbye.

  Nineteen

  Then

  It was obvious which hospital room along the corridor was Craig Mundby’s. Two uniformed cops flanked either side of the door. Both had been immediate colleagues
of Gray’s until his move to CID.

  “Take a break,” Carslake told them.

  “Thanks, sir.”

  “Bring us all a tea back, would you?”

  “It’s crap, sir.”

  “Like the wife, as long as it’s hot and wet it’ll be fine.”

  The PCs grinned while Carslake, damn him, chuckled. Gray kept his face straight. The joke wasn’t amusing in the slightest.

  Gray followed Carslake into the private room. He closed the door behind them. Craig Mundby lay propped up in bed. His round face was as pale as the sheets his bandaged wrists lay on.

  Craig wasn’t alone. A man and a woman sat in chairs either side of the bed. She looked like she hadn’t slept all night, greying hair pulled up into a messy bun, her face etched with worried lines. She cradled Craig’s hand within her own. The man was at least a decade younger. He looked like a surfer; sandy unkempt hair, tanned skin. A necklace of beads hung around his neck; a similar arrangement on his wrist.

  “Don’t get up,” said Carslake when the man made to stand. “DS Carslake and DC Gray.”

  “I’m Molly Mundby, and this is my husband, James.”

  “We’re investigating the murder of Valerie Usher, and we need to understand the part Craig played in all of this.”

  “Craig can’t have killed her.” Molly shook her head emphatically. “He can’t even have been involved, officer.”

  “Ms Mundby,” Carslake ventured slowly. "Your son was found on the floor next to Mrs Usher’s corpse.”

  “He wouldn’t hurt anybody, just the opposite. He’s the protective sort.”

  “He just likes to be friends,” said James.

  There was a knock at the door. One of the uniforms entered with a tray of tea in paper cups. Carslake took the drinks, and the uniform left. Gray declined the offer, as did Molly. James accepted and sat holding the cup in both hands, staring into its depths.

  “Craig works for James,” said Molly. “Nobody else would employ him.”

  “Why would that be?”

  “Craig’s a tactile lad,” said James, “though not everybody appreciates it.”

  “We’ve always done the gardens at the house,” said Molly. “We’re friends with the owners, and we live close by, on Bishop Avenue, so it’s easy to pop over regularly and keep on top of the greenery.”

  Gray knew Bishop Avenue. It adjoined Castle Avenue, the street on which Valerie’s house stood. It was just a few minutes’ walk away.

  “The house doesn’t belong to Mrs Usher?” asked Gray.

  “No, she leases it. Moved in a few months ago. Basically James and Craig come with the place. They were there yesterday, weren’t you love? Sorting out the borders.”

  James nodded. “Some shrubs needed cutting back, and the lawn was due for a final mow. Still lots of growth, even at this time of year.”

  “Did you see Mrs Usher?”

  “Yes, she always comes out to say hello to both of us.”

  “What about the girls?”

  “They were running around the back garden while we worked. Val shouted at them to come inside.”

  “Val? Were you two friends?”

  Molly, frowning, said, “James just cuts the grass.”

  “Mr Mundby?” asked Carslake.

  “We weren’t familiar, no.”

  “Was there any interaction between Mrs Usher and Craig?”

  “She just said hello.”

  “How did she seem to you?”

  “All she said was hello, Sergeant!” said Molly.

  “Normal,” said James, pursing his lips.

  “And Duncan Usher, did you see him?”

  “He came out into the garden with the girls. The four of them played catch while I pruned.”

  “Craig and Duncan got on well?” asked Gray.

  “Craig gets on with everyone, Sergeant,” said Molly.

  “Earlier your husband said not everybody appreciates Craig’s tactile nature.”

  “But they like him.”

  “Have you got a key to the property, Mr Mundby?”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “Constable Gray asked your husband the question, Mrs Mundby,” said Carslake. Molly folded her arms.

  “I don’t have any keys to anywhere. Val – Mrs Usher – sorry, makes sure everything is unlocked for us when we arrive. I access the back garden through the side gate.”

  “What about the house?” asked Gray.

  “No, why would I? We keep all our tools in the garden shed.”

  “Did Mrs Usher keep the front gate open while you were there?”

  “It’s always closed.”

  “Always?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did you finish?” asked Carslake.

  “Mid-afternoon, about 3 p.m. I’d guess. It was a beautiful day, and Mr Usher let us knock off early. I took Craig for a pint.”

  “Where?”

  “The Albion, on the sea front.”

  “It’s not the nearest pub.”

  “I know, but you can’t beat the view.”

  Gray made a note to get confirmation of the Mundbys’ presence. It was a busy hotel with a popular bar, even more so on a sunny day.

  “Then what?” asked Carslake.

  “We went home, had dinner.”

  “And Craig came home with you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “When did you realise Craig was missing?” asked Carslake.

  “Not until just before your colleague rang,” said Molly. Craig went to his room to play on his game console after we’d eaten. I went to check on him, but he wasn’t there. He’d climbed out the window.”

  “Had he done that before?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Do you always check on your son at night?”

  “More often than not.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s my son.”

  “Why would Craig be at Mrs Usher’s?”

  “Has something happened to Valerie?” asked Craig, now awake, cutting off Molly before she could answer. He blinked repeatedly as if the light was too bright for him. Molly stood and closed the curtains. He looked around the room before lifting a bandaged wrist up and staring at it. “What happened?”

  “Valerie’s dead, Craig,” said Molly gently. “The police are here to find out what happened to her.”

  “Dead? How?”

  “What do you remember about last night?” asked Carslake. Craig had been staring at his mother, but his attention shifted to Carslake, who Craig seemed to see for the first time. His eyes widened.

  “Now’s not the time, Sergeant,” said Molly.

  “Mrs Mundby, we’re investigating a murder.” Carslake switched his attention to Craig again.

  Craig stared at her until Molly reluctantly nodded. “Go on, Craig.”

  He thought hard, the concentration clear on his face. “Playing Sonic The Hedgehog.”

  “What time did you go to bed?”

  “I don’t know.” Craig turned away.

  “Craig,” pushed Molly.

  “Late.”

  “You were found in Mrs Usher’s house this morning,” said Carslake. “How did you get there?”

  “I just … I don’t know.” Craig appeared confused, his eyelids blinking rapidly again, breathing shallow.

  “It’s all right, Craig,” said Molly, gripping his hand and stroking his head.

  “Mum?”

  “You were found beside Mrs Usher’s bed,” said Carslake, “Your wrists slashed.”

  “No.” Craig lifted his arm once more, staring down at the bandages, the same expression of puzzlement and confusion on his face.

  “How did you get there, Craig?”

  “I don’t understand. I don’t know. She can’t be dead. She’s my friend!”

  “Stop this, Sergeant Carslake! You’re upsetting my son.”

  “We’re investigating a murder, Mrs Mundby.”

  “I just do the gardens w
ith James. I don’t remember anything. One minute I was playing games in my room, the next I woke up in here. I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “He’s already said he didn’t do it, Sergeant,” said Molly.

  “Mrs Mundby, please. Have you anything else to say Craig?”

  “I don’t remember what happened. I promise!”

  “Okay, Craig,” said Gray. “If you remember anything ask one of the officers outside to give me or Sergeant Carslake a call. And we’ll have to talk again when you’re feeling up to it.” Craig nodded, lay back and closed his eyes.

  “Can we have a word outside, Mrs Mundby?” Molly followed Carslake and Gray into the corridor. Once Gray had closed the door Carslake said, “I’d like to take a DNA sample from Craig.”

  “Why?”

  “For elimination purposes. It’s voluntary, of course.”

  “We’ve nothing to hide, feel free.”

  “Thank you. Constable Gray will be back shortly.”

  Molly went back inside.

  “What do you think to all of that?” asked Gray.

  “Hard to be sure,” said Carslake. “At best Craig is an unreliable witness. Bit of tension between man and wife as well. Why doesn’t Craig remember what happened?”

  “Trauma?”

  “There’s a lot Mrs Mundby isn’t telling us. Did you see how keen she was to step in whenever her husband opened his mouth to speak?”

  “It was hard to miss.”

  “Anyway, I’d better call Copeland and give him an update. Take a DNA swab from Craig while I do that, would you, Sol?”

  Before Gray could answer Carslake was walking away and tugging the phone from his pocket.

  Twenty

  Now

  Gray took the first available train to Wetheral, changing in London before heading for the north west. Not as great a distance as to Edinburgh, but it took longer because the train was slower and stopped at more stations.

  It was late afternoon by the time Gray arrived, carrying the same bag he’d lugged to Edinburgh. He had a couple of days’ holiday, so that’s what he was doing. If he happened to spend it with their old boss, where was the harm in that? Copeland was the fulcrum around which the Usher case revolved – he had been fifteen years ago and he would be now. Copeland was that kind of man.

  Gray stepped onto the platform at Wetheral. According to the village website, the settlement on the River Eden was “picturesque”. Gray wasn’t here for the view, but as he exited the station, he could see why Copeland had selected it. Plenty of green, rolling hills in the distance, and it was peaceful. He’d booked a room just yards away station, in a pub called The Crown, rambling and whitewashed, standing on a narrow road. Gray walked over and checked in.