The Solomon Gray Series Box Set

by Keith Nixon

  The surprises kept coming. Gray took a moment to think, stalling by sinking half the espresso.

  “Who?”

  Pennance shook his head, disappointment evident. “Don’t mess me around, Sol. I’m not an idiot.”

  Gray knew Pennance was right. He had a sharp brain. Gray decided to come clean. “It’s about Tom, of course.”

  “Ah.” Pennance sat back. “How?”

  “Strang’s name came up recently. I’m following the lead. And if we’re being so honest with each other, why are you here?”

  “I’m part of an undercover surveillance operation on our mutual friend. We’ve been keeping an eye on him for a while. You were beginning to stray a little too close this morning to where we were located. I used the excuse that I was getting us all a coffee before you were spotted.” Which explained the two takeaway cups. “I’m trying to do you a favour, Sol. The last thing you want, I’m sure, is to come to the attention of the Met. People would start asking what your interest is.”

  “Have you moved departments?”

  “I’m still with the Sapphire Division.” The Metropolitan Police unit’s primary concern was child exploitation. “I need you to stay away from Strang; let my investigation run its course. I can’t have you blundering around. If we bring him in I’ll get what you want from him.”

  “If?”

  “Nothing’s guaranteed in life, you know that.”

  Gray drained the last of his espresso, slowly, carefully put the cup down. Another avenue blocked, like so many over the years. But there were ways around every obstacle. He wouldn’t give up.

  “I’ve never steered you wrong before,” said Pennance. Which was true.

  “Don’t make me regret it.”

  “I will if you come back.”

  “Train fares are bloody expensive anyway.”

  Pennance grinned, picked up the takeaway cups. “Thanks, Sol.” Then he was gone.

  Gray bought another coffee and wondered what to do with his time now.

  Three

  Now

  Gray turned his car into Union Row, a narrow line of terraced houses off the main road on the corner of the College Square shopping centre, which ran along the Margate seafront. He paused; a strip of blue and white tape stretched across the road, flapping in the wind, blocked his access. Somebody behind Gray beeped their horn, unhappy at their rush-hour progress being hindered. The car swung past. A frown, a shake of the head. A bad start to their day, but worse for the murdered man Gray was waiting to see.

  The uniform managing the perimeter, a young constable Gray recognised but didn’t know, glanced through the windscreen, before unhitching the tape, allowing Gray access. Gray wound down his window. “Where’s good to park?”

  A quick glance up the street. “Behind the Iceland van, I’d say, sir.”

  “Thanks.”

  Gray drove on, the cobbles of this old street of working men’s residences bumping beneath his wheels. Gray spotted the gap the uniform meant; tight really. He took a few goes to back in. When he’d achieved this minor miracle of geometry he walked further along Union Row – the spring sun starting to warm the day – until he reached the locus, delineated by more tape, this time yellow and stating, “Crime Scene Do Not Pass”.

  Beyond the tape, a line of four uniforms, each spaced an arm’s length apart, were slowly walking away from him, heads down. Their eyes would be focused on the road surface below, in a search for potential clues. A handful of crime scene investigators, wearing white protective suits and blue overshoes, milled about the immediate area. One, squatting down over what looked to be a carrier bag, lifted a camera and snapped a photograph, then another from a different angle. A sequence of small yellow cones crossed Union Row, connecting the carrier bag to the corpse.

  A few yards along was Pump Lane, which joined Union Row to Union Crescent, running adjacent to the Al-Birr Community Centre and Mosque. On the opposite corners of Pump Lane was the Union Surgery (a general practitioners’) and the Union Church which was of Methodist denomination.

  The entrance to Pump Lane was blocked off too, meaning nobody could get in or out of the immediate area without Gray’s permission. He was now senior investigating officer and the scene was his.

  Hands in pockets, Gray caught the attention of Detective Constable Jerry Worthington, one of the station’s new recruits, recently transferred from his home town of Newcastle. Worthington’s rugby player bulk stood out, despite the shapeless evidence suit. Worthington, hood down and mask dangling around his throat revealing a V-shaped soul patch underneath his lower lip, nodded at Gray and walked over, gait self-confident.

  “Morning, sir.” Worthington yawned. “No need for the gimp gear, we’re pretty much done.” Worthington lifted the tape for Gray who bent at the waist and entered the crime scene. “He’s over here.”

  Worthington led Gray to the corpse sprawled on the pavement, randomly spotted with pale circles of chewing gum. This was College Walk, a narrow alley which joined Union Row to the usually busy shopping centre.

  A young black man lay prostrate just beyond the three bollards which marked the alley entrance. Gray paused a couple of feet away from the body and adjacent to a dried stream of blood which had pooled around the corpse and run away in a narrow flow; evidence the man had bled out. Scattered about the carcass was the debris of the unsuccessful attempts by paramedics to revive him. The discarded wrapper from a syringe, gauze, dressings. Despite valiant efforts, the man had died on this dirty strip of tarmac.

  Gray tilted his head, took in the black tracksuit with double white stripe running down the arm and leg, the unzipped top revealing blood-soaked white T-shirt, the youthful face with open eyes which stared into nothingness. He was wearing a baseball cap, a large NY logo in the centre.

  “How old would you say he is?” asked Gray.

  “Late teens to very early twenties.” Which was what Gray had thought. “Expensive pair of trainers for a kid.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” Nikes. Gray knew the distinctive tick logo but he had no idea about their value beyond the brand name. “I don’t recognise him.”

  “Me neither.”

  Thanet was a relatively small place, broadly comprising the three conjoined and sprawling towns of Margate, Broadstairs and Ramsgate which curved along the easterly finger of the Kent coast and pushed into the English Channel, the busiest shipping lane in the world. The cops were aware of the repeat offenders; the thieves, the nonces, the druggies.

  “Boughton will for sure,” said Worthington.

  “Good point. Get him over, let’s have a chat.”

  Worthington left Gray and interrupted the nearest of the uniforms carrying out the fingertip search. A moment later, the uniform was talking into the Airwave radio attached at his shoulder before he nodded and Worthington returned. “Boughton’s on his way.”

  PC Damian Boughton arrived a minute later from the direction of Pump Lane. He was a local man, walked the same beat for most of his career, Union Row and the surrounding streets was on his patch. Greying, balding, he wore a short-sleeved shirt which revealed faded tattoos. Boughton was like the station’s extreme weather vane. If he wore a coat then it was very cold and everyone should wrap up tight.

  “Morning sir,” said Boughton to Gray. He nodded at Worthington. “I understand you want a word about the victim.”

  “Have you seen him before?” asked Gray.

  “No, sir, not at all. I’ve a very good memory for faces. And I’ve been asking around, talking to the kids. So far he’s a stranger.”

  “Carry on constable.”

  “Yes, sir.” Boughton retreated.

  “Clough’s been and gone,” said Worthington once Boughton was walking away. Clough was the Thanet pathologist, a thin and wiry man with a penchant for pedantic detail.

  “What were his initial impressions?”

  “That the kid was dead.” Worthington grinned. Gray did not. Worthington had a tendency towards l
addish humour which grated on Gray. Worthington picked up on Gray’s displeasure and replaced the smile with stoicism. At least he wasn’t stupid. “Multiple stab wounds to the torso and one to the leg, probably a cut artery. See all the blood around him? It pumped out fast. He didn’t really have a chance.”

  Knife crime was one of the fastest rising issues in the country and Thanet was no exception. It was a vicious circle whereby kids carried weapons to feel safe, but statistically those who did so were the ones most likely to be victims of violence.

  Gray glanced over the body. One of the trouser pockets was inside out, some loose change beside him. Gray pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves before patting the corpse down. He found a set of house keys in the other pocket, but nothing else. “You didn’t come across a phone nearby? Or wallet?”

  “Neither.”

  “I’m assuming he wasn’t attacked here?”

  “Definitely not, sir.” Worthington led Gray back across to Pump Lane, following the line of small individually numbered yellow cones. Beside each was a blood splat. Worthington stopped by the carrier bag Gray had seen photographed earlier. “This is where he was likely first assaulted, dropping his bag in the process. Given the spacing between the spatters, he ran from his attacker and collapsed where we found him.” A good hundred yards between the two locations. “He made a 999 call from where he lay.”

  But the paramedics were too late. Gray shifted his attention to the carrier bag; it was from the supermarket, Morrisons. There was one on College Square. Gray squatted down. Beside the bag was a glove. It was a standard woven woollen article, thin. The kind supplied in volume to bargain stores all over the country. Gray had a similar pair himself. The victim hadn’t been wearing gloves. “Have we found the other one?”

  “No.”

  “I want a DNA analysis on the interior.”

  “It could have been dropped by anyone, sir.”

  “I’m aware of that.” Gray shouldn’t need to tell Worthington that at this stage of an investigation it was about ruling evidence in, not out.

  Gray then parted the plastic. Inside was a microwaveable lasagne and a four-pack of beer, the metal dented. Beneath the cans was a pack of laxatives. Remarkably, there was a receipt too. Gray checked the time printed at the bottom.

  “When did the 999 come in?”

  “10.39pm.”

  The receipt said 10.35pm. Gray slid the paper into a clear plastic evidence bag. He straightened up, peeled the gloves off.

  “So, the victim had in all likelihood gone to Morrisons, bought his dinner and had been returning to his destination, possibly home, given the house keys in his pocket, when he was stabbed.”

  “I would think so, sir.”

  “We’ll need a search of the gardens and drains within a quarter-mile radius, see if the weapon disposed was of,” said Gray.

  “I’ll get that sorted, sir.”

  “Have you been to Morrisons yet?”

  “On the to-do list.”

  “Okay, I’ll go and check out any CCTV footage.”

  Typically, pedestrians used the alley as a shortcut to the shopping centre and Gray would do so himself under normal circumstances. Instead he walked the long way around, back to the main road. The constable released the tape barrier for Gray, replacing it when he was through. Gray entered the shopping centre. He was very familiar with the surroundings; it was the nearest large store to the station for a cheap sandwich.

  As he went inside, a heater blew a stream of air onto his head, ruffling his hair. Within the store, life went on as usual. Customers came and went with baskets and trolleys loaded with food when, only a few yards away and a few hours ago, a murder had been committed. The fruit and vegetable aisle opened up to one side. In front were tills, and on the other side was a customer-service kiosk.

  A harassed woman, bleached hair tied up into a rough bun and wearing a worn green uniform, was managing the counter. A short queue of people waited less than patiently for either lottery tickets or cigarettes. At the front, an old man, a shopping trolley beside him, was trying to return an item.

  Gray leaned on the work top, interrupting the transaction. The female staff member turned bloodshot eyes on him; by her expression, less than impressed with his imposition. Gray showed his warrant card.

  “Where can I find the manager?” he asked.

  “I’ll call him for you.” She picked up a phone, tapped in a couple of numbers. “There’s a policeman down here.” She paused, listened. “I’ve no idea what he wants.” Another pause. “Okay.” She replaced the handset. “Murray is on his way down.”

  “Thanks.”

  She nodded, returned her attention to the queue, sighing when she realised it had lengthened in the interim.

  A few minutes later, an efficient-looking man strode purposefully towards Gray across the shop floor. He looked too young, then again, with the long hours and seven-days-a-week opening required in retail, it was an industry for the youthful. Murray’s hair was swept over his crown in a wet-look wave, presumably held in place by copious amounts of gel. He wore thick-rimmed glasses, a cheap white shirt (with a sauce stain on the front), pressed black trousers and a green tie bearing the company logo.

  “I’m Murray,” he said, speaking fast. Like his colleague, he didn’t make it clear if Murray was his first or surname. “I hope this isn’t going to take long. I’ve rather a lot to be getting on with.” He gave Gray’s hand a single shake.

  Gray introduced himself. “There’s been a murder,” he said.

  “I know,” replied Murray, cutting him off. “It’s all everybody’s talking about. How can I help?” Murray’s eyes flitted around the immediate area, perhaps looking for a shoplifter to tackle.

  “He was carrying one of your plastic bags. He was in here immediately before he was attacked.”

  “Okay, we’ve got in-store CCTV. Got to monitor everywhere. For thieves, stuff just walks out the door here all the time. I’ve a target to meet.”

  “I’d like to review the CCTV footage, Mr Murray.”

  “Just Murray is fine. No problem, follow me.”

  Murray led Gray back the way he’d come. He paused at a door set into the wall at the far end of the store, pushed it open and allowed Gray through first. Gray found himself in a narrow hallway, the scuffed magnolia walls of a corridor stretching away to a set of stairs.

  “Up here. Excuse me,” said Murray and pushed his way past. At the top of the first flight, Murray turned left into the first doorway. It was a small room filled with TV monitors.

  “What time?” asked Murray. Gray showed him the receipt. “See this number here?” Murray pointed to a three-digit code beside the time and date. “That’s the till identifier. He went through self-service.”

  Murray sat down, placed his hands on the controls and began winding back through the footage. On one of the monitors Gray watched people reverse in a quick, jerky motion, the clock in the bottom corner of the screen rolling back too. Murray brought the speed back to normal at 10.33pm. There was a bank of self-service tills. Only one was occupied.

  “That’s him,” said Gray. The man’s clothes were obvious, even in black and white. He walked up to a till, passing beneath the camera, holding the food and drink. The baseball cap was pulled down low over his eyes.

  The man scanned his stuff and shoved it into a bag. When it was time to pay, the soon-to-be victim unzipped his tracksuit top, reached inside, pulled out a wedge of notes, unpeeled one and fed it into the machine. The rest returned to his pocket. He grabbed the change the machine spat out, took the receipt and walked away.

  “He didn’t pay for the carrier bag,” said Murray.

  Gray ignored him. “Can you follow him through the store?”

  Murray nodded, switched cameras and went through the same motions of rewinding time. From this angle, the man could be seen in the entrance. He pulled a mobile from his pocket and spoke briefly before returning the phone to his tracksuit trouser pocket. He left th
e store, walking towards his death.

  “Thank you, Murray,” said Gray. “I’ll send a constable round to take a copy of the footage.”

  “No problem. Happy to help. I’ll show you out.”

  Murray walked Gray through the shop once more, gave Gray’s hand the same cursory jiggle, turned and returned to his job. Gray contemplated the footage and crime scene as he walked the few yards back. The victim’s mobile and cash had been stolen. Perhaps this was a robbery gone wrong. But, from the camera’s perspective, nobody else was nearby to see the pile of cash the victim was carrying. The laxative was maybe relevant. This could be a County Lines related incident – drug dealing by gangs who were based outside the area, transporting narcotics in for sale to the locals, and shifting the cash from the sale back to their base. Like an import–export business – but an illegal one.

  When Gray reached the alley’s mouth the paramedics were loading the body bag into the back of an ambulance. The slamming of the vehicle’s doors echoed. The pair climbed inside. The engine started, and the ambulance rolled past Gray towards the cordon. The driver gave a quick blip of the siren to shift some of the more persistent onlookers out of the way. As soon as the ambulance was gone, the crowd moved to refill the gap.

  DC Worthington wasn’t in view. Gray expected he was organising the local area search. For now, there was little more Gray could learn here.

  Four

  Now

  Back at the Margate police station on Fort Hill, less than half a mile away from where the killing had taken place, Gray headed for Detective Chief Inspector Yvonne Hamson’s office. It was on the first floor and had been Carslake’s. Sylvia, Carslake’s personal administrator, had resigned shortly after his death. As yet, Hamson hadn’t replaced her. Gray doubted she ever would. It wasn’t really Hamson’s style to have somebody running around after her, taking messages, making drinks. And there was always the drive to save costs in these days of austerity. Gray entered the office after the briefest of knocks.

  Hamson was at her desk, concentrating on her computer screen. She glanced up at Gray’s entry, the beginnings of a frown on her forehead. “Bloody hell, Sol. How many times have I told you to wait before you come in?”