The Solomon Gray Series Box Set

by Keith Nixon

  “Shouldn’t you be asking Craig that, Inspector?”

  “We have. Mr Usher, I think you knew your wife was having an affair, and that was a problem for you. Compared to your two girls she wasn’t so important – they were what mattered. You said yourself when we spoke you’d maintained a cordial relationship just for them. If Mrs Usher divorced you, it would have been a racing certainty she’d get custody of the girls. I think she told you she was getting off with her new man and was moving a long way from you.”

  “That’s not what happened.”

  “I know you doted on them, Mr Usher.” Copeland put another photo on the table, this one of Elodie and Lotty, both smiling for the camera. It was an image from the mantelpiece in Mrs Usher’s house. “Thank God they weren’t murdered in their beds too, eh? You hatch a plan to kill her and frame somebody else, our poor Craig Mundby?”

  “None of this is true. I wouldn’t put Craig in the picture for murder, he’s a decent person.”

  “Did he like you?”

  “I’d hope so.”

  “Which is interesting also, because we have a statement that Craig was enticed into Mrs Usher’s house. By you.”

  “Bullshit,” said Usher.

  Dowling placed a hand on Usher’s forearm. He shook it off. “That’s a lie. I wasn’t even in the area.”

  “Can anyone corroborate that?” asked Copeland.

  “You know they can’t.”

  “This is conjecture, Inspector,” said Dowling.

  “Do you know Raptor Security?”

  “Yes, they’ve done some work for me in the past.”

  “At your wife’s house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which was another aspect that bothered me. The security around the property. There’s lots of it. Way more than would ordinarily be needed in an area like the Chessboard. It’s hardly Gotham City. Seems strange. What would Mrs Usher be so scared of, I wonder? Yet when we arrive, the security is disabled. The gate is wide open, the alarm off. All the defences rendered useless.

  “When we spoke to Raptor they told us something very interesting. The specification was detailed by you, Mr Usher. You paid for everything.”

  “So? It’s not unusual for working husbands with a stay-at-home wife.”

  “What about the access codes?”

  “My wife changed them.”

  “Yes, though there’s an override in case of emergencies. And you had that too. Meaning no matter what Mrs Usher altered the codes to, or how often she changed them, you could bypass them. You could walk right in whenever you wanted.”

  Usher didn’t respond.

  “How often have you been to your wife’s house?” asked Copeland.

  “Quite a few times.”

  “You know it well, then.”

  “Reasonably.”

  “We found your hair and fingerprints all over the house.”

  “My client has already disclosed he visited Mrs Usher’s residence,” said Dowling.

  “Yet the bedroom was clean. We couldn’t find evidence present. Nothing, Mr Usher. Not even your wife’s hair or fingerprints. Every surface had been wiped and the floor vacuumed. Even the hoover had been emptied and the contents taken away. That wouldn’t have been a quick process.” Copeland turned to Carslake. “How long did we estimate it would take, Sergeant Carslake?”

  “Fifteen to twenty minutes.”

  “Fifteen to twenty minutes,” repeated Copeland. “For one person to be thorough. Which starts to explain the gap between Valerie’s time of death and Craig’s seeming suicide attempt.”

  “Why would Mr Usher bother to remove traces of himself from his wife’s bedroom when he’s already said he slept with her several times. Clearly the fact that the killer tried to remove any trace of themselves points to some other than Mr Usher.”

  “Your client has already stated that he didn’t have sex with Mrs Usher that day. Somebody clearly did. We believe that to be your client. During the post mortem the pathologist found organic material under Valerie’s fingernails. We analysed the material then compared it to our database. It came up with a highly probable match. Which was you, Mr Usher.”

  Copeland sat back and smiled.

  “I need some time with my lawyer,” said Usher.

  “Take all you need.” Copeland stood, pushing his chair back with a scrape.

  Out in the corridor Copeland briskly rubbed his hands together, a grin on his face. “We’ve got him! I can feel it.”

  After the stuffy interview room, Gray wanted a change in scene. He found Fowler already outside in the car park, a cigarette half gone. He offered Gray the packet and a light. Gray hadn’t smoked for a while, but he accepted. He inhaled a lungful of dirty air, hung onto it for a few long seconds, then blew it out.

  “What a crazy day,” said Fowler. “Usher’s lot haves been kicking off constantly. How’s it going with the man himself?”

  “He’s consulting with his lawyer.”

  “Must be good then.”

  “Copeland’s pleased.”

  “Copeland’s not often wrong, and if he’s sure Usher’s the perpetrator, that’s enough for me.” Fowler finished his cigarette, dropped the end on the floor and ground it out. “Still enjoying it after the big step up to CID?”

  “Early days so far.” Gray was glad of the change in subject.

  “What about Wonder Boy?”

  Fowler meant Carslake, who’d enjoyed a rapid rise through the ranks, far faster than either Gray or Fowler.

  “He’s fine.”

  The door from the station opened. “Speak of the devil,” said Fowler, as Carslake stepped outside. “I’ll see you later; don’t forget the offer of that beer.” Fowler retreated inside, Carslake holding the door open for him.

  “Thought you’d given up,” said Carslake.

  Gray held up the cigarette. “I have.” He took another drag, the ember glowing bright. “Are we going back in already?”

  “They’re still talking. I just wanted to say I think you’ve done a great job with this case.”

  “It’s not over yet.”

  “We’re on the last lap though, Sol.”

  “Can you feel that, too?”

  Carslake laughed briefly. “Do you mind if I give you some advice?” Gray shrugged. “I know Copeland behaves like a superior prick, but if you keep your head down, get on with your work, and follow the DI’s lead, it’ll all be fine in the end.”

  “For who?” Gray stubbed out his cigarette.

  “Everybody.”

  “Copeland, you mean.”

  Carslake shook his head then said, “Look, Copeland is going places. It won’t be long, particularly once he gets Usher, and someone else will be in his chair. Just put up with him for now.”

  Thirty Three

  Now

  When Gray checked on Fowler, he found the duvet thrown back and no Fowler. Gray went through the flat, from one room to another. When he reached the bathroom, the door was closed.

  “Mike? Are you in there?” Gray knocked. No answer. He put his ear to the door. Nothing. “Mike!” Still nothing. Gray rattled the handle, the door was locked. He put a shoulder to the door and pushed. It didn’t budge. He stepped back, raised his leg and stamped his foot against the wood, adjacent to the handle. Two good kicks, and the lock splintered. A third and the door burst open. Fowler was slumped in the bath, fully clothed. He’d removed his tie and dropped it beside the bath. Fowler’s eyes were closed. The medicine cabinet above the sink stood open. Several pill bottles lay on the edge of the bath beside him. Gray couldn’t move.

  This must have been how it looked to Carslake when he’d found Gray. He’d clambered in the bath, arranged pill bottles along the edge the same as Fowler. He’d had a bottle of vodka to wash everything down with. But Gray hadn’t been able to do it. Fowler had.

  Gray jerked himself into action. He knelt down and pushed two fingers onto Fowler’s neck. There was a pulse. A quick check of the bottles revealed
one was paracetamol, the others were his cancer drugs. Only the paracetamol bottle was open though. He ran back into the living room, grabbed his phone and dialled 999. “Police emergency,” said Gray and identified himself. “I need an ambulance right now.” Gray gave his address. “I’ve got a pulse, but he’s unresponsive.”

  “What’s wrong with the patient?” asked the call handler, a man with a deep voice.

  “He’s unconscious after taking some pills, paracetamol.”

  “Make sure he stays upright, wait for the paramedics to arrive, and try to keep him conscious if you can.”

  Gray disconnected, opened the front door and returned to the bathroom. He grabbed hold of Fowler’s lapel and pulled him into a sitting position. Gray checked his pulse again. Fowler groaned then threw up all over himself.

  “Mike, I’m here.” Gray slapped Fowler round the face, gagging with the stench of vomit which was powerful in the confined space. Fowler groaned, and his eyelids fluttered open. He tried to focus on Gray before his eyes rolled back into his head once more.

  Gray waited for the paramedics to arrive. He kept glancing at his watch, the second hand ticking round painfully slowly. It felt like hours but was really only minutes. Fowler groaned several times, giving Gray hope, but he felt powerless, unsure what to do for the best. All he could do was follow the handler’s advice.

  Gray heard movement in the flat. He stood as two paramedics in green, one carrying a black medical bag, crowded the small room. “Can we get through please,” said a woman, dark hair shot with white. Her sleeves were rolled up as if she meant business. She was pushing a stretcher.

  “It’s an overdose,” said Gray as he shifted into the hallway. “Paracetamol.”

  “How many did he take?”

  “About twenty.”

  “In one go?”

  “I think so.”

  The woman turned and looked over her shoulder. “Can you wait in the living room?” The paramedics bent over and proceeded to look Fowler over as Gray withdrew, leaving Gray with the stretcher.

  Gray rang Hamson while he waited.

  “It’s Mike,” he said when she answered. “He’s taken some pills.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “There’s a paramedic crew working on him now.”

  “I’m coming over.”

  “There’s no point, we’ll have left for the hospital by the time you arrive.”

  “I’ll see you there.” Hamson disconnected.

  The paramedic re-emerged into the room, making for the stretcher.

  “How is he?” asked Gray.

  “We’re going to have to pump his stomach back at the hospital and administer an antidote to counteract the paracetamol,” she said.

  The stretcher with Fowler lying on it, half under a blanket, emerged into the living room. Fowler’s eyes were closed, his face pale as ash. They’d stuck a drip into his arm, the bag hanging from a hook.

  Gray turned to one of the paramedics. “Can I come in the ambulance with you?”

  “Hurry up then.”

  Gray grabbed his mobile and pulled the door closed. He stepped into the lift, a tight squeeze beside the stretcher. The lift doors shut, and the box descended.

  Thirty Four

  Then

  “Is that thing off?” Usher pointed to the recorder.

  Dowling bent over and checked. “Yes.”

  “I have to confess.”

  “When we discussed the accusation earlier you were adamant about your innocence!”

  “And I still am. Whatever Copeland claims was found under Val’s nails isn’t from me.”

  “That’s good, then we’ll be able to cast doubt in the jury’s minds.”

  “I’ve been set up. When Val was being murdered I was elsewhere. I just can’t prove it.”

  “I know, you were in your flat.”

  “No, I was in a garage.”

  “So what?”

  “I was murdering a man.”

  Dowling stood up, ran his fingers through his hair. “Fucking hell, Duncan!”

  “There were two witnesses to that particular act. I’ve a choice now. Either I go down for Val’s death or I own up to where I actually was and take everybody with me. I can’t let that happen.”

  Dowling flopped into his seat again. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing. I’ve made my decision already. You’re going to call Copeland back in. We’re not going to offer a defence against his accusation.”

  “Are you going to confess?”

  “No, I’m just shutting down. The cops can come to whatever conclusions they like, as long as it doesn’t come out what I was actually up to. Okay?” Dowling didn’t answer, staring sullenly at him. “You have to do this, Rufus. If not I’ll have you replaced by another lawyer who will. If I feel I can’t trust you…” Usher let the threat hang in the air.

  Eventually Dowling said, “I’ll get Copeland.”

  Usher smiled to himself. He’d been outmanoeuvred. He just didn’t know who by.

  Thirty Five

  Now

  The ambulance journey was fast and steady. Gray rocked around in the back, seated at Fowler’s feet, while the female paramedic perched beside him. He heard the sirens go on just the once before they took what felt to be the roundabout on the edge of Broadstairs. Right now a smooth, efficient ride was of the essence. The emergency services only thrashed it on the way to a scene.

  The moment they drew up, the paramedic was past Gray and opening the doors. She and her colleague wheeled Fowler out, the legs of the stretcher extending to hit the ground outside. Then they were gone, moving fast, Gray trailing in their wake.

  Inside, a nurse pointed Gray to a waiting area. It took half an hour before a doctor emerged. His white medical coat was open, revealing jeans and a casual shirt, chest hair spilling out above the top button. The man, who introduced himself as Dr Zaika, spoke with an Eastern European inflection.

  “How’s Mike?” asked Gray.

  Zaika ran his hand through his long, centre parted hair. “We’ve stabilised him for now.”

  Gray blew out a lungful of air. “That’s a relief.”

  “Mr Fowler is by no means in the clear though. Paracetamol is one of the least effective drugs a person can use to attempt suicide. It rarely kills, and a high dose can damage the liver.”

  “And?”

  “We don’t know yet, we’re going to test his liver function shortly. The main task initially was to pump Mr Fowler’s system clear, which we’ve done.”

  “Can I see him?”

  “Mr Fowler doesn’t want visitors right now. Can I suggest you return tomorrow?”

  Gray called for a taxi, as his car was still at his flat. While he waited outside, he rang Hamson – she’d been a no show – but it immediately dropped into voicemail. The taxi arrived within a few minutes.

  When Gray reached his flat he found Hamson sitting on the floor outside his door.

  “You’ve got some nosey neighbours,” she said. “I’ve had to show my badge twice while I was waiting for you.”

  “Why didn’t you come to the hospital?”

  “I couldn’t.”

  Gray slid his key into the lock and opened up. “Come in.”

  “I need a cigarette,” she waved a packet at him. “Can I smoke on your balcony?”

  “I thought you’d given up?”

  Hamson extracted a stick and jabbed it between her lips. “Fuck off, Sol.” She flicked the lighter and sucked hard, burning the first centimetre of the stick. She was all stiff angles and tension, like an Anglepoise lamp. She plumed white smoke into the air. “What a fucking idiot,” she shook her head and took a mug from Gray.

  “Maybe it was a cry for help?”

  “Why take pills? Just talk!” Hamson ground out the half-smoked cigarette on the balcony floor. “It wasn’t exactly the strongest basis for a relationship, moving in after he’d left his wife of two decades.”

  “I can’t imagine li
ving with Mike was easy.”

  “That’s an understatement. Then again, neither am I. I’ve been on my own for so long.”

  “Makes two of us.”

  “But mine was by choice.” Hamson realised what she’d said, a mortified expression crossed her face. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  “Like you didn’t the last time we had coffee together? When I accused you of going after my job.”

  “I remember it well.”

  “Everything has been so tough, what with Mike, you, and Carslake.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Where did he do it?”

  “The bathroom.”

  “Can I see?” Without waiting for his answer Hamson walked past Gray. Hamson bent down and picked up Fowler’s discarded tie. “Is this yours?”

  “It’s Mike’s.”

  “Good.” Hamson took hold of the tie in both hands about the centre and yanked at it hard until there was a ripping sound and the fabric was in two pieces. She dropped them to the floor then leaned into the bath, picked up one of the bottles Fowler had discarded and read the label. Frowning she turned to Gray said, “What are these for?”

  “Pain relief.”

  “They’re not your basic paracetamol, Sol.”

  “Now’s not the time, Von.”

  “You might as well tell me. I can Google the brand and find out anyway.” Hamson pulled her phone out and began to tap away.

  “I’ve got cancer.”

  Hamson stared at Gray wide-eyed. “Why didn’t you say?”

  “Would you have listened?”

  “Jesus, you need to ask me that, Sol?” Gray didn’t answer. “Are you going to be all right?”

  “Probably.”

  Hamson stared at him for a long moment. “Can I trust you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Hamson sat on the edge of the bath. “It’s Carslake. He was talking to me earlier in the week. About you.”

  “It’s happened more than once, Von. What’s the big issue?”

  Hamson shook her head, clearing cobwebs. “He was saying you had to go, that you only caused trouble, that I had to choose between you and my job.” Carslake was playing him off against Hamson then. “I told him I’d think about it. You’re a pain in the arse, Sol, and you always will be, but this isn’t right. It’s subterfuge and politics. Stabbing someone in the back. It’s right up Carslake’s street.”