The Solomon Gray Series Box Set

by Keith Nixon

  “That’s right. I was a bit more handsome back then.” Templeton chuckled. Neither Gray or Usher joined in. Templeton was entirely unfazed by their lack of response. He tapped some ash from the cigarette over the side of the armchair, it floated downwards like snowflakes. Maybe there was an ashtray below, but Gray couldn’t see it.

  “Did you take Tom?” Gray tensed. He felt a hand fall on his shoulder. Usher squeezed. Templeton saw and smiled.

  “I did.”

  “Where is he?” Gray clenched his hands into fists. He wanted to scream.

  Templeton switched his attention to Usher. “This makes us square.”

  “It does,” said Usher.

  Templeton lit another cigarette before he said, “Find Lewis Strang. He’s a cop, and he’ll know where to find your boy.”

  Bury The Bodies

  (Gray Four)

  Keith Nixon

  One

  Eleven Years Ago

  Detective Constable Mike Fowler leaned on the horn to warn the car in front he was coming. Two minutes ago, he’d been hammering along the London-bound side of the A299 dual carriageway, a wide, brightly lit stretch, and freshly gritted on this wintery December night. His was the fastest vehicle on the highway.

  However, Clapham Hill, leading to Canterbury, was a different prospect. He’d taken the Whitstable exit ramp at speed but been forced to lift his foot off the accelerator when he entered the narrow and twisty road. As Fowler shot past a slow-moving Fiesta the driver turned to glare. But Fowler only caught a glimpse of a white face as he overtook, his attention fully on the tarmac ahead.

  The road names round here – Bogshole Lane, Fox’s Cross Road, Honey Hill – reflected the fact this was in the sticks; lowland rural areas reclaimed from the marsh and sea over the years.

  Yet again Fowler made the call to Jeremy Templeton, willing him to pick up. Yet again the call immediately dropped to voicemail. Yet again Fowler disconnected, swore and pressed the accelerator harder.

  Soon his headlights illuminated the sign he wanted: Rough Common. He swung a right, his rear wheel catching a patch of black ice. He fought to correct the spin like he’d been trained on the police advanced driving course, losing some speed in the process. Then his tyres gripped and he was on a straight line again. A few hundred yards further was another turn between a couple of houses, both dappled with cheery Christmas tree lights. He headed straight on, along a track, dark and crowded with trees. This was Blean Woods, a relatively small remnant of what had once been a huge forest.

  He switched to full beam, pushing back the shadows. The car lurched down as a front wheel hit a pothole. Fowler almost banged his head on the steering wheel. Then up over a speed bump – the exhaust scraping in a metallic screech. He weaved around the peaks and troughs in the track, accompanied by the staccato rattle of grit and stones on the undercarriage. Up ahead was a car park – normally packed during the day, but now empty except for a single vehicle. Fowler slewed to a halt, his lights still on.

  He stepped out of the car’s warmth into the sudden bite of winter cold. He ran to the other car and glanced inside. Front – his rapid breath fogging the glass – then back. Empty, other than a mobile on the driver’s seat. He pulled out his phone, thumbed redial. The mobile in the car rang, the screen bright. Fowler groaned as he disconnected. No wonder his calls had gone unanswered.

  “Templeton!” shouted Fowler. Then once more. Nobody besides Templeton would hear him. There weren’t houses within half a mile, the woods surprisingly isolated. It was the perfect spot to bury a body. Fowler wondered how many more Templeton had entombed here. Templeton was a ‘cleaner’, he made people’s problems go away. But not this one – it couldn’t happen. Fowler shivered, the sharp wind cutting deep.

  He ran back to his car and turned off the engine, killing the headlights. He shrugged on a jacket and grabbed a torch from the glove compartment, his mind attempting to work out where Templeton would go. Fowler turned on the torch, but the bulb didn’t illuminate. He slapped the torch once, twice. The bulb flickered and finally lit.

  Fowler considered his options. Several paths stretched around and through the woods – short, medium or long depending upon your preference. Circuits which began and ended here. Templeton wouldn’t want to go far, not carrying the dead weight of a corpse, in case he bumped into a rambler. Dogs were more of a concern because they had keen noses and a tendency to dig. So Templeton would bury the body deep.

  Fowler took the right-hand path. This was where walkers usually emerged – the end of the circuitous journey. Where they would be focused on getting back to the car and going home. Where children would be tired. The torch’s narrow beam lit a small circle of ground beneath. Fowler willed the batteries to keep going. Bushes and trees crowded him, their bare branches knocking against one another in a gust of wind.

  “Templeton!”

  Fowler kept moving until he saw a pale brightness ahead, off in the verdure. He paused, cocked an ear and listened: whistling – tuneless and shrill. Fowler stepped off the firm terrain onto soft undergrowth, rotting leaves and thriving moss. He pushed at the branches and boughs of saplings and bushes to make his way through. His trousers snagged on something. He heard a tear. The torch beam showed a long, snaking bramble. Fowler lifted his leg high over the obstruction, causing the fabric to rip some more. He swore but got moving again.

  As he forged on, the whistling grew louder, and the brightness increased. He found Templeton in a small clearing beneath a pine tree, its boughs shrouding the small man like the wings on a devil. Templeton was cutting a hole, building a pile of dirt. A torch perched in a tree branch cast enough light for Templeton to work under.

  “Templeton,” said Fowler.

  The man whirled around, the spade raised up to his shoulder, clutched in both hands, ready to strike. His mouth was open, his eyes wide. A second later Templeton recognised Fowler, let the shovel blade drop and leaned on the handle.

  “Bloody hell, Mike,” said Templeton, “you scared the crap out of me! This place already gives me the creeps.” He pushed long dark hair out of his face. Templeton was an ageing rocker and had the hairstyle to go with it.

  “Where’s the boy?” Fowler stepped forward, grabbed Templeton by the arm. “Where?”

  A frown creased Templeton’s face, seemingly puzzled that Fowler would ask. “In the boot of my car.”

  “How is he?”

  “Fine. He’s just drugged.” Templeton’s frown deepened. “I don’t kill people, just put them in the ground and let nature take its course.” He shrugged off Fowler’s grip, took a step back so he was out of reach.

  “Why the whistling?”

  “To keep back the ghosts, of course.”

  Fowler sagged. The relief made his gut churn. He’d been convinced Tom Gray was dead. “There’s been a change of plan. Go back to the car and wait for me.”

  “What change? Why?”

  “He’s to be taken back to Margate for a few hours before somebody else picks him up?”

  “Who?”

  “You don’t need to know, believe me.” Fowler held his hand out for the spade, which Templeton passed over. “Take this.” Fowler offered Templeton his torch. “Go and wait for me.”

  Templeton appeared ready to fire more questions at Fowler, but he shook his head instead, grabbed the torch and left. Fowler took a few moments to calm, before shovelling the damp loam back into the hole, all the while knowing how close it had come to being a silent grave for a child. When it was filled, Fowler stamped the mound down then spread some pine needles over the top. Within a few days the earth would appear untouched.

  He stretched up for Templeton’s torch and made his way back to the car park – faster than his outgoing trip. He shone the beam into Templeton’s car. Templeton was in the driver seat, waiting, engine running. Templeton blinked in the sudden bright light. He wound down his window.

  “Can you get that out my face?” asked Templeton. Fowler shone the beam at th
e ground. “So, what’s the new plan?”

  “Do you know the Sunset Guest House?” said Fowler.

  “On Fort Road?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Take the boy there. Someone will meet you.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me, Mike. It’s right by the police station.”

  “I’m well aware of that.”

  “What if somebody sees me?”

  “Just make sure they don’t.”

  “I’m not happy about this.”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  Templeton shook his head. “This wasn’t what I agreed to.”

  “It is now.”

  “No. It’s too risky.”

  “You have to.”

  “You take him.” Templeton opened his door and made to get out. Fowler blocked Templeton’s path. Pushed him back into his seat, grabbed him by the throat. Templeton thrashed, trying to lever off Fowler’s grip but Fowler was strong. Templeton hit Fowler’s arm until he let go.

  “For fuck’s sake, Mike!” croaked Templeton, rubbing at his neck. If looks could kill.

  “You’re wasting time. I’ve got to go back to the station. I’m already exposed by being out here when I’ve no reason to be.”

  “Not my problem.”

  “One call and I’ll make it your problem. You owe us, remember?”

  Templeton glared. Fowler let him think, mull over his situation. But not for long.

  “I do this and we’re square, right?” said Templeton eventually.

  “If we’re in the clear, you’re in the clear.”

  “All right.” Templeton was a fool if he thought mere words made everything okay. He pulled his door closed, started the engine and drove off.

  Once the sound of Templeton’s car had died away, Fowler took off his coat and got inside his own vehicle. The interior was like a fridge. He twisted the ignition key, set the heaters blowing on full before he picked up his mobile and made the call. It was answered immediately.

  “I made it in time,” said Fowler.

  “Thank God for that!” Fowler heard his boss, Sergeant Jeff Carslake, blow a huge sigh of relief. “Well done. Get your backside here soon as you can, we need to talk about what’s next, but not over the phone.”

  “I’ll have to change my trousers first.”

  “Why?”

  “I tore them on a bramble. They’re shredded.”

  “Jesus, Mike. There isn’t time for this crap. Just move your arse.” Carslake disconnected.

  The light from the mobile died, leaving Fowler in near blackness, the trees above him blocking out the glow of the city and most of the stars. He remembered how he’d got here, saving the life of his friend’s son, but condemning him to owing a debt to the wrong kind of people. Just a few hours ago, he and Carslake had interviewed Solomon Gray, talking over the moment when Gray had realised his son was gone. And, all along, Carslake had the answer.

  Fowler cursed the day he’d arrived at the scene of Valerie Usher’s murder, when he’d been sucked in and couldn’t escape whole. But there was no going back now.

  Two

  Two Weeks Ago

  Acting Detective Inspector Solomon Gray wasn’t one for stakeouts. They weren’t his thing, including the unauthorised ones. Not because he didn’t have the patience. Quite the opposite. The problem was, he was a people watcher. Passers-by were interesting; distracting. It was often the curse of the more introverted, like himself – he preferred observing people to interacting with them. And on the busy streets of London there were always plenty to side-tracked by.

  This was Gray’s third trip to the capital in two weeks. He always took the train. Driving meant leaving a trail, and Gray wanted anonymity. He’d have to pay the congestion charge to enter central London and the NPR system – number plate recognition – would log his journeys in and out. Plus, as the adverts used to state, he could let the train take the strain.

  He stepped out of the carriage and passed through the ticket barrier before heading towards the sign for the London Underground – a red circle with a horizontal line through the centre.

  Gray descended two flights of escalators. The smell of the underground hit his nostrils. He tried to define the pungent odour. A combination of grease and earth mixed with the metallic tang of ozone. However, Gray reckoned if he asked ten people to describe the aroma he’d get ten different definitions, and in multiple languages.

  The escalator mechanism clacked beneath his feet. Gray stood to the right, leaving the left free for the speed merchants to charge down the steps. In front and behind, people were on their phones – talking, messaging, listening to music. For a place with so many people it was utterly impersonal.

  Once at the bottom, Gray headed for the Northern Line, the black route on the underground map. He waited on the platform, an overhead digital sign telling him the next train was under a minute away. A wind preceded the train’s arrival, the gust picking at his coat. Brakes screeched until the train halted, and only when the doors opened did his fellow travellers remove their attention from their phones to step inside before returning to what they’d been doing previously. There were warning beeps, then the doors closed and the old metal carriage shunted forwards with a jerk. Gray already had hold of a handrail in preparation. The train knocked along the bore of the oldest underground train system in the world.

  Just one stop east and Gray was reversing the process, out onto the platform, up an escalator, away from the smell and into the light once more. His journey had been short, and he was still in central London, zone one. This was Angel, Islington. Property here was expensive, even for the capital. Busy with tourists and traffic, where wealth butted up against poverty. It pained Gray to shake his head as he passed an imploring beggar, but he couldn’t save them all.

  He could taste diesel fumes in the air. At a steady pace it took Gray ten minutes to reach the narrow opening of Rawstone Street. Strictly he was in Finsbury now, not that you’d be able to tell from any boundary signs – there were none.

  Gray was here for Lewis Strang. The name given to Gray by Jeremy Templeton. A connection to his missing son, Tom. Gray had found Strang quickly enough, but then hit a wall. Because Strang was a cop. A detective inspector in the Metropolitan Police. Effectively a colleague and out of bounds. But not when it came to Tom. Gray simply had to move with more caution. Getting a home address had been straightforward. And Gray had learned more about Strang via local publications like the London Evening Standard. DI Strang was high profile, a prolific detective with a penchant for finding his way into the press and onto the TV.

  So Gray knew what Strang looked like and where he lived. And the latter was what gave Gray additional cause for caution. A detective inspector shouldn’t be able to afford a three-bedroom mews house with off-street parking unless he’d come into money via the lottery or an inheritance. The rent on a similar property, just a few doors along from Strang’s, was in excess of five grand per month.

  During Gray’s previous journeys here he’d spent his time scoping out the CCTV, shops and bars where people congregated, the quiet spots where nobody went. But this would be his first walk past Strang’s house. Gray sauntered along, pretending to enjoy the sights along the route, openly staring at each of the residences. He paused near number 26, Strang’s, to tie his shoelace. The ground floor was a pair of garage doors, flush with the pavement; a front door braced by two olive trees in massive ceramic pots, too heavy to run off with; then two storeys of windows above. Nothing remarkable. Gray stood.

  “Morning, Sol.”

  Gray turned, surprised to see Detective Inspector Marcus Pennance beside him. Gray hadn’t heard his arrival. Pennance was a handsome, well-dressed, and well-groomed man. He looked mid-thirties, but was actually early forties. He looked after himself, went to the gym and drank the required daily amount of mineral water. Pennance was the picture of a modern single man.

  “Marcus, I didn’t know you lived around here.”

/>   “You should have told me you were coming. We could have got together.”

  “Last minute decision,” lied Gray. “I’m in between meetings.”

  “Like the previous Thursday and the Sunday before?”

  Gray was unable to keep the surprise off his face, whereas Pennance was, as usual, impassive as a rock.

  “Come on,” said Pennance. “I’ll buy you a coffee. Then we can talk.” Pennance turned and got walking, not bothering to check if Gray was following which, of course, he was. He had no choice if he wanted to know what the hell was going on.

  Pennance led Gray to a nearby café which was part of a big chain. If Gray were honest (which he usually was) he preferred independent places. Gray found the coffee on the mild side. His partiality was towards bitter. He wondered what that said about him.

  “Grab a seat,” said Pennance. “I’ll order.”

  Gray picked a crumb- and sugar-laden table by the window; floor-to-ceiling plate-glass separating inside from outside. Using a napkin, Gray scuffed the worst of the detritus onto the floor, as it appeared previous occupants had too. He sat down, watched people hurry by, oblivious to his stare. All the while he wondered why Pennance was here. Maybe their objective were the same.

  A minute later, Pennance arrived with a tray; a large cappuccino for himself, double espresso for Gray. There were two sealed paper drinks cups too.

  “What are you doing, Sol?”

  “Taking in the sights.”

  “I can think of better attractions. The Houses of Parliament, Tower of London maybe. Or the British Museum? A West End show? But not a row of houses.”

  “I’d heard a Banksy had been painted on one overnight.”

  Pennance actually laughed. “That’s a good one. Very clever. I didn’t have you down as an appreciator of urban art.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Marcus.”

  Pennance raised his coffee in a salute. “We can all say that, my friend. So, what’s your interest in Lewis Strang?”