The Solomon Gray Series Box Set

by Keith Nixon

  A previous occupant had left behind a copy of the day’s newspaper. A red top which Gray wouldn’t normally read. Gray flicked through it, ignoring the insalubrious stories about so-called celebrities and racier, politically biased narratives. A blurb about Usher’s release was on page five. He was already becoming yesterday’s news.

  Gray finished the coffee long after the paper. He checked his watch, debating whether to wait or go find Copeland. His impatience won out. After collecting his coat from his room, he walked the short distance back to the centre of Wetheral. When he rounded the corner he stopped in surprise. Two police cars were parked outside Copeland’s house, bracing the driveway. There were a couple of uniforms and two others, a man and a woman, who were clearly CID talking to a handful of locals. Gray headed over to the edge of the group.

  “What’s going on?” asked Gray of an old man who had more hair sticking out of his nose and ears than on his head.

  “Terry’s been found dead,” he said.

  “How?”

  “Drowned, I hear.” The old man crossed himself.

  Gray saw movement in an upper window, a smear of pale in the dark backdrop, peering out. Then she was gone. Sarah. She would have told the police about him. Gray made his way over to one of the officers.

  “DS Draycott,” she said by way of introduction.

  “DS Gray, Kent police.” He handed over his warrant card.

  Draycott eyed Gray. “Bit off your patch?”

  Gray repeated the story about being on holiday for a few days and coming to see an old colleague. Draycott waved her boss over.

  DI Mather examined Gray’s warrant card too, passed it back and shook Gray’s hand. “So you were with Chief Superintendent Copeland earlier?” he asked.

  “Yes. When I left him, he was going for a walk with the dogs.”

  “What time was this?”

  “A couple of hours ago. We were due to meet in The Crown, but he never turned up. I became concerned and came over.”

  “How was he?”

  “Fine, as far as I could tell. It’s been a few years since we last met, though. What happened? Someone said he drowned.”

  “Looks that way. Maybe he slipped and fell in, banged his head. We’ll know more from the autopsy.”

  “No witnesses?”

  “None.”

  “How’s his wife?”

  “As to be expected,” said Draycott. “In shock. All’s fine when she goes out. Finds out her husband’s dead on her return.”

  “Did you work for DCI Copeland too?” asked Gray.

  Both Draycott and Mather nodded.

  “How long are you planning to stay?” asked Mather.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow. Unless you need me here longer?”

  “I wouldn’t think so. Give me your number so I can get in touch if I have to.”

  Gray passed on his details, then left the scene wondering what had really happened to Copeland.

  Twenty Six

  Then

  Gray pulled up near his house, a tall terrace on a quiet street in Broadstairs. As it was after 5 p.m., he wasn’t able to park directly outside. The properties had been built before the First World War, so off-street parking was rare and on-street parking was a premium.

  Bloody Copeland. Gray still wasn’t convinced Usher was actually guilty, despite how his DI was making the evidence line up. The evidence was circumstantial and there were too many unanswered questions. Though he had to admit the information he’d just gleaned from Raptor was pretty damning. He tried to shake off the tiredness. He could do with a drink. Gray dug out his phone and called Carslake, telling him what Wade had said.

  “Usher has the code?” asked Carslake.

  “Apparently so.”

  “Fantastic information, Sol, well done.”

  “No problem.”

  Gray jumped when someone banged on his window. It was Hope, waving at him, a big grin on her face. She was wearing blue pyjamas. No pink for her.

  “Sol, are you still there?”

  “Yes, sorry.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “That’s all.” Hope was tugging on the door handle.

  “Okay, get some rest. And well done again.” Carslake disconnected as Hope yanked his door open, leaning backwards to make the heavy weight swing on its hinges. Gray pulled the keys out of the ignition and stepped onto the pavement.

  “Daddy!” Hope buried herself into his legs. He picked her up and held her to him. She sank her head onto his shoulder, long curly hair covering her face. “I missed you, Daddy.”

  “I missed you too, darling.”

  Gray walked back the short distance to his house carrying her.

  Kate was standing in the doorway, balancing Tom on her hip. She was as beautiful as ever, despite the stresses and strain on her mind and body of having two young children. Kate’s hair was going grey already even though she was only twenty-nine, a year younger than Gray. She used to dye it, though now she was letting the natural colour come through. Kate hated it, but Gray didn’t care.

  “I kept them up until you came home,” said Kate. “They’ve been desperate to see you.”

  “Me too.”

  Their son, Tom, only eighteen months old, was about walking and his teeth were through. Kate was struggling to hold him as he stretched out for his father waving, grinning. Gray took him in his spare arm, then bent to kiss Kate on the forehead. Together they went inside, and Kate closed the door.

  Gray sighed inside when Alice Newbold, Kate’s friend from church, entered the corridor from the kitchen. She was a small woman, with a hairstyle that hadn’t changed for years – a loose perm held in place come rain or shine by a large volume of sticky hairspray. Alice was regularly teasing her hair with the pointed end of a comb, coaxing a few strands back into place and freezing them with more spray.

  When Gray was busy with work, Kate tended to lean on Alice. She was retired and spent most of her time either at the church or with the parishioners. Since Tom’s birth, Kate had become a bit of a mission for her. It irritated Gray that Alice had the run of the house, but he stayed quiet because he knew how important Alice was to Kate.

  “Hello, Sol.”

  “Alice.”

  “Now you’re home at last. I’ll leave you two alone. Art will be agitating for his dinner.” Alice touched Kate on the arm. “Remember what we discussed.”

  “I will and thanks Alice, see you soon.”

  “It’s no problem at all.” Alice kissed Hope on the cheek, eliciting a grimace.

  Good girl, thought Gray.

  Tom accepted a ruffling of his hair with limited grace.

  “God bless you both.” Alice left, the door clicking shut behind her.

  “Come on, let’s get you up to bed,” said Kate.

  “Mummy!” shouted Hope, her bottom lip out in a pout. She was already exhibiting a wilful and independent character. Something Gray wanted, but didn’t. Not until they were old enough to fend for themselves, at least.

  “I’ll read you a story,” said Gray.

  “Not the gingerbread man again!” said Hope as they climbed the stairs. It was Tom’s favourite. “He’s heard it a thousand times.”

  “You can have something else instead. What would you like?”

  “I’ve an idea.”

  “Let me read to Tom, and then I’ll come into you.”

  Gray lay Tom down in his cot; he was on the verge of needing a bed. At least he was in his own room now, giving Gray and Kate some privacy and personal time. A Moses basket at the bottom of the bed with a wailing child in it was a real passion killer.

  Tom listened with rapt attention to his favourite story, Gray snapping the book shut at the end like the crocodile closing his jaws. Tom wanted to hear the story all over again.

  “It’s time to get some sleep, son,” said Gray. He pulled the door to, just enough to allow a sliver of light from the landing to fall inside. Hope was sitting up in bed.

 
“Finally,” she said and handed Gray a book. Mister Bump. Gray read to Hope. She giggled all the way through.

  She loved words. If she’d been naughty, the major punishment was to withdraw stories.

  “Can you read it again, please?” asked Hope at the end.

  “No, darling. You need to get some sleep for school tomorrow.”

  Hope enjoyed her lessons. So different from his day when going to school was a case of survival of the fittest, show no fear, take the bullying. Everything was more pastoral now. Gray kissed Hope on the forehead.

  She lay down. “I don’t want the duvet, it’s too hot.”

  “Okay. It’s there if you want it.”

  “Night, Daddy.”

  “Night, Princess.”

  “Love you loads.”

  “Love you more.”

  Gray closed her door. Compared to Tom she preferred darkness. Gray always marvelled at how two children, from the same parents and raised in the same way, could be so different.

  Kate was waiting for Gray in the kitchen with a glass of red wine. She handed it over and he drank most of it in one swig.

  Gray topped up his glass and zoned out for a moment.

  “It’ll never happen to us,” said Kate, recognising Gray’s deepest fears because he’d expressed them to her several times before.

  “I hope not.”

  “It won’t. Do you know why?”

  “You’re going to tell me, I’m sure.”

  Kate scowled. “Because we have you, Solomon Gray. You’re our protector.”

  She stepped inside Gray’s arms and he gave her a tight hug.

  Eventually he asked, “What were you and Alice talking about?”

  “When?”

  “Earlier, Alice said to remember what you’d discussed.”

  “Oh, it was nothing, just Alice wanting me help at the church more, to get me out of the house.”

  Gray poured himself more wine.

  “Tough day?” asked Kate.

  “Tough few days.”

  The night that Valerie Usher had been murdered, Gray had come home and stood in the doorway of Hope’s room, staring at her as she slept. Kate found him. He’d no idea how long she’d been there. He told Kate then about the Usher case, to explain why she’d see little of him for a while.

  “That boss of yours – Copeland. He works everyone in his team to the bone. Why? Not for you.”

  “He’s not too bad, Kate.”

  “Who do you think listens to you every day? You’re constantly bitching about the man.”

  Gray topped up his glass. He felt Kate’s eyes watching his every move.

  “Do I?”

  “Yes!”

  “Have you been talking to Alice about him?”

  Kate glanced down at her feet. “Maybe.”

  “I don’t like you discussing private matters with Alice. It’s got nothing to do with her.”

  “She’s my friend.”

  “I know, but some things that should stay just between us.”

  “So why is it I feel I can speak to Alice when I can’t to you, Sol?”

  “You can talk to me about anything.”

  “Can I? You’re at work all the time, and on the rare occasions you’re home you’re shattered. Look at you now, you can barely stand. And you’re drinking a lot more. The bottle’s half gone already. It’s since you made the move to CID.”

  “I worked long and hard for that.”

  “I know. Me and the children have sacrificed a lot too.”

  “It’ll get better.”

  “Will it?”

  “One day.”

  “When?”

  “Soon.”

  “I miss you, Sol. The kids need their daddy.” Kate looked him in the eyes, a pleading expression on her face. “I’d like you to change jobs.”

  Gray couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Leave CID?”

  “Leave the police.”

  “We’ve been through this.”

  “Not really. I mentioned it, and you said no. That’s not really a discussion.”

  “The police is all I know. What else would I do?”

  “I don’t know," her voice was wavering. "At least we’d have our family in one piece!”

  “We’ll always have our family, Kate,” he pulled her close.

  “Will we? Sometimes I wonder.”

  “Daddy?” Hope was standing in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. “I heard you shouting.”

  “Me and Mummy are just having a conversation. Let’s get you back to bed.”

  Gray carried Hope upstairs. It took a few minutes to settle her. Kate was gone when he returned downstairs. He went back up a few steps and saw their bedroom door firmly closed. Gray guessed he’d be sleeping downstairs tonight.

  Twenty Seven

  Now

  Gray caught an early morning train back to Thanet. His sleep had been restless, fragments of his last conversation with Copeland played through his head. All the way home, as the countryside whizzed by his window, the manner of Copeland’s demise stayed on his mind. It was afternoon by the time he stepped off the train, and the day was pleasantly warm.

  Back at his flat, Gray headed out onto the balcony along with his mobile and the letter he’d received from the hospital a few days ago regarding his upcoming treatment. He dialled the number at the top of the page.

  “Doctor Manesh? It’s Solomon Gray.”

  “Ah, Mr Gray, good to hear from you,” said Manesh. Gray knew he was a Sri Lankan by birth. From Kandy. Finest tea on the planet, apparently. Doctor Manesh liked to talk.

  “I got your letter about my next appointment.”

  “Yes, it is going well, Mr Gray. A few more, and we should have you in remission.”

  “I’m afraid there’s a problem.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve got a challenging case at the moment, so I have to delay the treatment.”

  “No, no Mr Gray, you must not do that.”

  “It won’t be for long, a few weeks at the most.”

  “I would urge you to complete the course at the earliest opportunity.”

  “I can’t doctor. I’m needed.”

  “Then your supervisor has to find somebody else.”

  “That’s impossible. I’m personally critical to the investigation.”

  Dr Manesh sighed heavily. “Well, I can’t force you to have the treatment, but I recommend, in the strongest possible terms Mr Gray, not to delay the process. It is likely to set back your advancement and may ultimately mean we can’t successfully destroy your cancer.”

  “So it’s potentially a life or death decision?”

  “That is one way of looking at it, yes.”

  Gray considered Dr Manesh’s words. They had no impact on his choice. “Thank you for your advice, but I have to do this. I’ll be back in touch as quickly as I can.”

  “The sooner the better. Goodbye, Mr Gray.”

  Gray disconnected. He hoped so, too. His mobile rang almost immediately.

  It was Fowler. “I can hear seagulls, are you sunning yourself?” he asked. The humour sounded forced to Gray.

  “Inside, outside, makes no difference they’re so loud. What’s up, Mike?”

  “I need to have a chat. I know you’re on holiday again, but is it okay if I pop round?”

  “Of course.”

  “Over a beer? I could really do with one.”

  Gray checked his watch, barely after 2 p.m. “It’s a bit early.”

  “Not for me. See you in the Albion. Twenty minutes all right?”

  “Sure.” Gray cut the call. Fowler had seemed even gloomier than usual.

  It was a ten-minute saunter for Gray to reach the Albion Hotel, a clifftop establishment boasting spectacular views. On a clear day like today, the horizon was a stretch of blue sky and sea. Once owned by the same family for a century, they’d sold out to a major brewery a few years ago. No heirs interested in taking on the business, apparently.

  G
ray went inside, managed to bag a table by the window, and ordered himself a sparkling mineral water while he awaited Fowler. He got halfway down by the time Fowler arrived, late.

  “Parking is a bloody nightmare around here,” he said, shaking his head. His shirt was open at the neck, his tie loosened.

  “At least the summer holiday season is done. A few weeks ago you wouldn’t have found a space within a mile.”

  Fowler pointed at Gray’s glass. “What’s that, water?”

  “What’s wrong with water?”

  “What’s right with it? Wait,” Fowler put a hand over his heart and staggered theatrically. “Are you ill? Shall I call an ambulance? Must be bad if you’re on that stuff.”

  “Very funny. I’m just a bit dehydrated is all.”

  “Do you want a proper drink then?”

  “I’m fine with this, thanks.”

  Gray watched Fowler while he was waiting at the bar. He looked scruffier than usual, his suit wrinkled, hair ruffled. Fowler obviously wanted to ask how it had gone with the IPCC. Gray could read him like a book.

  Fowler soon returned with two pints of Guinness, he sat down, took a deep gulp from the glass. Gray noticed the area under Fowler’s eyes was black.

  “Water, what’s the point?” asked Fowler.

  “Not getting fired for drinking on the job?”

  Fowler shrugged.

  “I said I didn’t want a beer.”

  “They’re both for me.” Fowler said it as if his statement should be obvious and Gray was stupid for asking.

  “What’s going on, Mike?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Bullshit. You’re downing the booze while on shift, and you look like you’ve run through a hedge several times.”

  Fowler shrugged again and started on his second pint.

  “How’s Yvonne?” asked Gray.

  “At work or home?”

  “Both.”

  “Crabby and crabbier.” Fowler pulled a face like he’d smelt something gone off. “Ever since we moved in together.” He gave a deep sigh.

  “What?”

  “She has… expectations, I guess. On how we should live. Suddenly there’s flowers and cushions everywhere.”

  “That’s it? Home decor?”

  Fowler raised his hands. “I don’t know, it’s just …” He dropped his hands again. “She’s always watching me, measuring me. Nothing I do is good enough, I don’t know.” Fowler sank the rest of his pint in one go then wiped his top lip clear of foam. “Can we change the subject?”