The Solomon Gray Series Box Set

by Keith Nixon

  Upstairs in his room, he sat on the bed. A few days ago he was in Scotland, today he was only ten miles from the border, but on the Western side of the country. The constant bustle was wearing him thin. He felt like lying down and getting a few hours’ rest. But his objective was Copeland, and that couldn’t wait. Gray was going to catch his old boss unawares.

  According to the map on Gray’s phone, Copeland’s address was just around the corner. Gray followed the route until he reached his destination, a house almost as large as the pub and facing an extensive village green. He stood on the pavement and looked it over. Copeland had done well for himself. The detached, solidly built house stood in an expanse of well-tended land with mature trees and borders. Two cars were on the drive, both Mercedes, relatively new and highly specified. A large 4x4 and a smaller soft-top two-seater.

  Retirement for Copeland brought a generous lump sum and an annual pension. Way more than Gray would achieve if he stuck at sergeant. He thought again about what Carslake had said about an inspector’s position and the benefits it would bring. Gray wasn’t sure whether he wanted to pay the price to get it, though.

  He walked up the drive, feet scrunching in pebbles. The front door was painted a glossy black, inset with frosted panes of glass, etched with fleur de lys. Large bay windows pressed out either side. A long brass handle hung down beside the door. Gray tugged on it, and a bell rang somewhere deep within.

  After a few moments a shadow fell across the glass, and door opened. This must be Copeland’s wife, Sarah. She smiled, trusting and friendly. Gray reckoned she was early fifties, younger than Copeland; curly ginger hair fell to her shoulders, green eyes.

  “Hello,” said Gray. “Solomon Gray. Terry and I used to work together. Is he available?”

  “He’s in his study. Come in.” She opened the door wider and Gray stepped into a brightly lit hallway. “Can I take your coat?”

  Gray shrugged his jacket off, and Sarah hung it up on a stand which appeared to be antique. Several walking sticks stood against it. A couple of Barbour jackets and a flat cap hung from hooks.

  “Where were you and Terry based?” asked Sarah. “I don’t think we’ve met before.”

  “Kent.”

  Sarah frowned, thinking. “That would have been a while ago then. Before me.”

  “About fifteen years.”

  “What brings you here after all that time?”

  “I’m on holiday in the area. A mutual friend said this was where Terry lived now. Jeff Carslake.”

  She nodded, no apparent recognition of Carslake’s name. “The study is just down here.” Sarah led him along a corridor. The decor was stripped and varnished wood, white-painted walls; very traditional. Sarah paused before a door, knocked then entered. Gray followed.

  Copeland sat at a roll-top desk facing an expansive window which looked out onto the garden. He half turned in his seat. An imminent expression of irritation, his mouth opening to voice a complaint, turned to one of surprise with perhaps a touch of fear as Sarah said, “An old friend to see you.”

  Copeland stood, his lips twisting into a smile devoid of pleasure. “Solomon Gray, as I live and breathe.” He took Gray’s hand and pumped it furiously. “Sol and I used to be colleagues.”

  “I know,” said Sarah, “he told me. I’ll bring you two a drink.”

  “Great, thanks,” said Gray.

  Sarah left, closing the door behind her.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Copeland demanded.

  “Nice to see you too, Terry.” Gray glanced around the room. Two walls were full of books, floor to ceiling. The remaining walls were replete with paintings of hunting and shooting. A fireplace with tiled surround was the main feature. Very much the country look. Copeland himself was dressed in suitable attire for the outdoor life in tweed plus fours, knee-length thick socks and a white shirt. Copeland’s wavy hair remained suspiciously dark, so he probably dyed it periodically. His face, however, displayed Copeland’s age – saggy jowls and a deeply lined forehead.

  “As I told your wife,” Gray said. “I’m on holiday in the area and thought I’d look up an old friend.”

  Copeland eyed Gray. “Any pretence at friendship ended when you walked out on me.”

  “And I’ve never regretted that. It’s about Usher.”

  “Not here.” Copeland left the study, clearly expecting Gray to follow. He turned towards the rear of the house. At the end of the corridor was a large kitchen, also traditional. An Aga cooker inset into an old fireplace; beams and cupboard painted French grey. Sarah was working a coffee machine which was erupting steam into the room.

  “We’re going outside,” said Copeland.

  Two dogs, pointers Gray thought, were asleep in baskets by the back door. At his voice the dogs leapt up, heads raised to their master, waiting to see what he wanted them to do. Gray couldn’t shake how much their pose reflected that of the men Copeland had commanded when he was still in the police.

  “You might as well take this with you,” said Sarah, holding a tray with two small cups and saucers, a milk jug and sugar bowl on it. Gray took the tray. Copeland waited for Gray to exit, then threw the ball for the dogs who dashed off after it.

  “I’ll join you in a moment,” said Copeland and closed the door. Gray crossed the expanse of grass to a cast-iron set of table and chairs and put the tray down. One of the dogs had retrieved the ball. Gray held out his hand and the dog released it into his palm. It was wet with saliva. Gray threw the ball. While both dogs chased after it, Gray wiped his hand on the back of his trousers.

  By the time Copeland came into the garden, Gray had thrown the ball four times, drunk a cup of coffee, and the rest had gone cold.

  Copeland approached the table, and stared at Gray through narrowed eyes. “How dare you come here, Sergeant,” said Copeland. His soft tone clashed with the expression of rage on his face. Copeland was back to his old self.

  “You’re not my commanding officer anymore,” said Gray. “Only one of us is still a serving officer.”

  “That’s correct, but I’d bet a month of your wages that I have substantially more influence in the ranks than you do.” The dogs competed for the ball; the winner returned and dropped it at Copeland’s feet. He threw it.

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Take it any way you want.”

  “An approach like yours, Terry, only works if the person you’re attempting to intimidate actually gives a shit. There was a time I’d have listened to you, but that was long ago when I was fresh and impressionable. I’m older and much more cynical these days.”

  Copeland glared at Gray, his jaw working. “Has Carslake sanctioned your trip?”

  “Not as such, no.”

  “Some honesty for once. I called Jeff just now. He had no idea you were here.”

  “You told him?” Gray couldn’t keep the concern out of his voice. He leaned forward in his chair, searching Copeland’s face for more information.

  Copeland smiled, and pulled out the chair to sit. “No, but your reaction explains a hell of a lot. So what do you want? Speak your piece, then fuck off.”

  “Usher’s out.”

  “I’m well aware of his movements. I still have friends, you know.” Gray’s mobile rang in his pocket. He ignored it. They’d leave a message if it was important. “I had you pegged for a higher station than sergeant.”

  “Not everyone strives to reach the peak, Terry.”

  Copeland bristled at the continued use of his first name. “And not everyone is capable. Cream always rises.”

  “Sometimes it curdles.”

  “Oh dear, Solomon, that’s a terrible analogy.”

  “I guess you’ve been expecting a visitor?”

  “I thought something would occur. It was bound to the moment Usher walked free. I was SIO. I doubt there’s anything I can help you with, frankly. We did everything we needed to fifteen years ago.”

  “So why is he free?”

  Copelan
d shrugged. “I understand it’s on the basis of a technicality.”

  “And a pretty big one, which seems to be down to you. Did you order evidence to be destroyed?”

  “What are you talking about?” Copeland frowned.

  “I saw Amos Jenkinson yesterday. He showed me an official document, signed by you, requisitioning any and all material pertaining to Valerie Usher.”

  “When was this?”

  “Early April, around the time Usher was convicted.”

  “That would have been about the time I was leaving Thanet CID.”

  Gray stayed silent, allowed Copeland to think back. “Why would I eliminate evidence?” he asked eventually.

  “Because you wanted Usher to be guilty.”

  “We put the right man away, Sergeant Gray. If that’s being questioned now, so be it. My conscience is clear.”

  “I think you were so keen to get Usher, you cut corners. Isn’t that right, Chief Inspector? I felt so at the time, even more so now.”

  “You know, Gray,” Copeland leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest, “I had high hopes for you. I credited you could with the ability to be moulded into a decent copper, but you chose not to listen to my advice and go your own way. And look where that’s got you.”

  “Unlike you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A near bankrupt on his third marriage. Congratulations.”

  Copeland’s eyes widened in surprise, but he quickly regained his composure.

  “Believe it or not, Terry, I have friends too. There’s an investigation into how the Usher case was handled.”

  “Eric Smits is running it. He’s very competent.”

  “Does his ability bother you?”

  “Not really.”

  But Gray thought Copeland was lying, still shaken by Gray’s ambush, and his guard had dropped slightly. “Enquiries always turn up some form of dirt,” said Gray. “Are you prepared for that? For your retirement to be affected?”

  The kitchen door opened and Sarah shouted, “I’m going out, Terry.”

  Copeland waved. “Let’s go back inside, it’s getting cold.” Gray followed Copeland.

  In the kitchen the dogs settled back into their baskets and fell asleep.

  “Do you want another one?” asked Copeland.

  “Sure.”

  While Copeland busied himself with the coffee machine, Gray glanced around the room. He saw some photos on the wall. They were of two children, teenagers.

  “They’re Sarah’s,” said Copeland, “from her first marriage. He died, left Sarah his business.” Copeland handed Gray a steaming cup. “Look, we got off on the wrong foot here, Sol.”

  “When? Today or fifteen years ago?”

  “We should help each other.”

  “You’ve already told me you did nothing wrong.”

  “But equally you pointed out an investigation always uncovers some level of dirt. You’re absolutely correct.”

  “Is there dirt to be found, Terry?”

  “Listen, I did what I thought was right at the time. But we live in different times now, and the decisions made back then might be looked upon in a new light. And who says you’re entirely clean?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Why are you here, Sol?”

  “According to some people, we jailed the wrong man for Valerie Usher’s murder. I’m trying to get to the bottom of what happened.”

  Copeland sighed. “You were right. What you said earlier. I don’t have much left. A reputation, perhaps, though even that is fading. It’s incredible how quickly you’re forgotten once you leave. The money – Sarah’s money – bought the house, the cars. She bailed me out of debt a few years ago when a business venture went south. If I blow it again, she’ll leave me. And then what will I have? Not a lot.”

  “That’s hardly my problem.”

  “I know. I also know you’ve never liked me.”

  “Not true. I didn’t mind you at first. But as time went on, less so.”

  “I was good at what I did.”

  “I never doubted that, just your methods.”

  “It’s why I was sent to Thanet,” said Copeland. “It was either him or my job.”

  “So you fitted Usher up.”

  “No.” Copeland curled his hands into fists. “I never broke the rules. I genuinely believed Usher was the culprit.”

  “You saw what you wanted to.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Certainly.” Gray shook his head.

  “I’ll tell you some things, though only if you guarantee my name will be kept out of it.”

  “You said you know Smits. Why not tell him yourself?”

  “He doesn’t work that way. Our Eric is incorruptible.”

  Gray remembered Usher’s comment from a couple of days ago. Everybody had their pressure points.

  “Do you agree?”

  “Tell me first, then maybe I’ll agree.”

  Copeland clenched his jaw. Gray heard his teeth grind. “My specific task was to clean Thanet up, to take Duncan Usher down. At first I made no progress at all. I was under increasing pressure from the top to get into Usher’s gang. Then we had a breakthrough. We got one, then two informants on board. People right at the heart of his activities. The intelligence was golden. I was building a cast-iron case against Usher. Then his wife got killed.”

  “Why not arrest him then on the basis of what you had from the surveillance?”

  “It was too early in the process. He’d have been out in a few years. With a murder conviction, he’d go down for good. And it worked. Life for Usher and the gang split up. It was a hell of a coup.”

  “In the short term. McGavin stayed loose, and before long it was business as usual. We believe Usher carried on running the business from his cell.”

  “I did as much as I could.”

  “Who were the informants?”

  “That’s the problem,” Copeland stared him straight in the eyes. “I don’t know.”

  “How’s that possible?”

  “Their handler kept their identities to himself. He said it was safer that way. To protect them. Because otherwise Usher would find out. We had pretty good evidence Usher had various officers in his pocket. So I agreed to it. And before you ask, I was desperate.”

  “Who was the handler?”

  “Finally Solomon, you ask the million-dollar question.” Copeland clapped theatrically. “It was Jeff Carslake.”

  “I never knew.”

  “You were a DC, why should you?”

  Gray swallowed half his cup of coffee while he thought through Copeland’s revelation. “Could one of the informants have been Valerie?”

  “I wondered the same, but only afterwards, when the case was done. It would have been a very strong motive. What’s clear, Sergeant Gray, is you and I have one last case to solve together. Do so, and we save each other. Fail, and we are both in deep shit. Are you with me?”

  “I don’t have a lot of choice now, do I?”

  “Good. I’m going to take the dogs out for a march, do you want to come along? There’s plenty more to discuss.”

  Gray couldn’t face the exertion. He was tired from the trip. “I’ll pass.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “The Crown.”

  “That’s where I always finish my route. How about I buy you a pint in about an hour?”

  Twenty One

  Then

  Carslake waited. As he’d arranged, Molly Mundby left her son’s room, mobile in hand. It would be Copeland, asking to speak with her. One of the PCs intercepted her as she exited. She frowned, but whatever the PC said worked because she moved along the corridor to the waiting area.

  Carslake caught the eye of the remaining PC and nodded. The officer entered Craig’s room, came back out again moments later with James in tow, and headed in the opposite direction to Molly.

  When they were gone, Carslake made his move. He wouldn’t have long, a few mi
nutes at best. Craig was still lying in bed, staring out the window. When Carslake entered, Craig looked to the door. A blank expression on his face turned to concern then panic.

  “My parents aren’t here,” said Craig.

  “That’s okay,” said Carslake, “it’s you I want. We’ve got a bit of a problem, you and I, don’t we?”

  “I haven’t told anyone.”

  “I hope not, Craig.”

  “Promise, cross my heart, hope to …” The rest of the phrase drifted away on Craig’s lips. “I didn’t hurt her. But I saw you coming out of Val’s house. You and that other man.”

  “Who would they believe anyway?”

  “What do you mean, officer?”

  “Should you speak about what you saw. Would they listen to me, a policeman? Or you?”

  “Nobody hears anything I say.” Craig spoke in a quiet voice.

  “At the moment, Craig, you’re our prime suspect.”

  Tears welled in Craig’s eyes. He wiped them away. “I wouldn’t hurt Val, she was my friend.”

  “So you say, but the evidence tells us otherwise,” Carslake softened his voice, as if trying to engage a toddler. “I can help you though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s something I need you to say, when you’re asked. And you have to be certain when you say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “That you saw Duncan Usher coming out of Val’s house. Duncan Usher. Not me.”

  “But, that’s a lie!”

  “Only you and I will know.”

  “Mum says I should always tell the truth.”

  “It’s either that or prison, Craig.” Carslake was starting to get agitated. Time was getting short, he could feel it. “What would happen to your mother if you went to prison?”

  “She’d be very upset.”

  “Mr Usher is a bad man, take it from me. He deserves to go to prison.”