The Solomon Gray Series Box Set

by Keith Nixon

  “Get CSI over here to give the flat a going over,” said Gray.

  Worthington pulled out his mobile to make the call but it rang before he could do so. He listened for a few moments and said, “That’s great news.” Worthington turned to Gray. “We’ve found a knife.”

  “Where?”

  “On the corner of Addington and Princes Street.” Only a few hundred yards away, barely a couple of minutes’ walk.

  “Ring CSI while we head there.”

  Back in the living room, Gray said, “DC Worthington and I need to be elsewhere. CSI are on their way. Keep an eye on things until then.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gray switched his attention to O’Rourke. “One of my colleagues will arrive shortly to take you to the station.”

  “Why?”

  “To interview you about the man who was staying here.”

  “Will there be tea?”

  “I’m sure we can organise some.”

  O’Rourke raised a calloused thumb.

  “Let’s go,” said Gray. He descended the stairs with Worthington; took a right immediately outside. A few minutes of brisk walking brought them to Addington Street. A street cleaner – its yellow lights flashing – was parked outside the Theatre Royal. A long black tube snaked out from the rear of the vehicle; its neck paused above a drain, the cover removed and put to one side a foot or so away. A man in full-length orange coveralls leaned on the wing, appearing totally uninterested in proceedings.

  A PC approached Gray as he neared. “It had been dropped down the drain.” The PC held out a clear plastic evidence bag. Inside was a long-bladed kitchen knife. The handle was wrapped with sticking plaster, the kind you purchased as a length and cut strips off as required. There wouldn’t be any prints on the handle, the tape wouldn’t support them.

  “Get it off for analysis,” said Gray. Worthington took the bag from the PC. “I’m just going to give Hamson a quick update.”

  Gray rang her. “Things have moved fast since we last spoke. Clough found the victim was packing drugs, he was staying in a cuckooed property and it looks like the murder weapon has turned up. I think it’s safe to say the murder is County Lines related.”

  “Well at least we know,” was all Hamson said.

  “I’m going to hold the case review when I get back to the station. There’s a lot to discuss.”

  “I’ll attend if I can. Just make sure you invite Yarrow.”

  “Already done.”

  “Marsh is going to love this.”

  There was nothing Gray could say to that.

  Six

  Now

  Gray took his place last. Worthington, Yarrow, Fowler and Hamson were already seated around the rectangular table along with three other CID colleagues. A television was mounted on the wall but, for now, the screen was dark. Gray clicked the mouse on the laptop in front of him, waking the display.

  “Thanks for coming,” said Gray. “For those of you unfamiliar with the case, earlier this morning 999 received a call from a man claiming to have been attacked. Paramedics discovered the victim suffering multiple stab wounds. Unfortunately, efforts to save him proved unsuccessful and he died at the scene. We have a recording of the call.”

  Gray played the audio file. “Hello, 999 emergency, what service do you need?” asked a woman, her voice tinny through the small speakers.

  “Fuck.” A man’s voice. He sounded shocked. “I’ve been fucking stabbed.”

  “Sir? Where are you?”

  “I’ve been stabbed, get me an ambulance! I’m bleeding bad, man.”

  There was some background noise, rustling, a moan.

  “I need to know your location, sir. Can you see a street name?”

  “I dunno, man. I’m not from round here.”

  There came a long, drawn-out groan followed by a dialling tone over which the operator repeatedly shouted, “Sir!”

  “The victim’s call cut off at this point,” said Gray. Nobody else spoke. “This is our man.” Gray held up a photograph: the dead man, his eyes closed, taken at the mortuary by Clough and emailed through earlier. “As yet we don’t know his identity.” Gray slid the image across the table. Yarrow picked it up, stared at it briefly before handing it to Worthington who didn’t give the photo a glance before he passed it on. “There are no hits on MisPers of anybody matching his description. Nothing yet on his fingerprints and his DNA is being matched.”

  “He’s a clean skin then,” said Yarrow. Somebody without a record, unknown to the police, an increasingly common tactic used by County Lines gangs.

  “Possibly.” Gray continued, “Prior to the attack, our victim was purchasing food and laxatives from a nearby supermarket. He paid cash, from a large wad of notes, though no money was subsequently found on him. Neither was a phone, yet we know he placed or received a call shortly before the attack. He was wearing expensive trainers, and narcotics were found inside his stomach during the post mortem.

  “In the last hour we’ve received additional information. His base was a cuckooed property only a few yards away from where he was attacked. CSI are on site now.”

  “What’s the address?” asked Yarrow.

  “Union Crescent.”

  “Not one of our target properties,” said Fowler. “This is a new one.”

  “We’ve taken the resident in for questioning,” said Gray, “but he appears to be a user rather than a dealer. We found a train ticket dated yesterday indicating he came from London. There’s an enquiry into the Met to track his movements.”

  Gray clicked the mouse. “We also found a knife.” A photo of the weapon next to a standard plastic ruler came up on the TV screen. “Approximately thirteen inches long. Note the taped handle. No fingerprints. We’re still awaiting the PM report, but we expect this is what was used on the victim.

  “Jerry has tracked down some CCTV which makes interesting viewing.” Gray nodded for Worthington to take over, pushing the laptop over to him. Worthington clicked the mouse. The footage appeared on the TV screen.

  The recording was in black and white. A single person, hood raised, head down, walking the immediate area in a loop – up the street, turning into Pump Lane before reappearing a few minutes later, completing the circuit.

  “Our suspect spent a good ten minutes milling around, heading along Union Crescent, crossing the road and back again,” said Worthington. “While the suspect was out of sight, the victim exited his residence and made his way towards the alley, for Morrisons.” Worthington paused to let the scene unfold. “Our attacker spotted the victim but chose to lie in wait for his return.” The hooded man shifted towards Pump Lane, standing just back from the corner, leaning nonchalantly against a wall, keeping his face turned away from the lens and the victim. “See how he doesn’t look directly at the camera? He knows it’s there.” The scene carried on, a clock in the bottom corner ticking the seconds off.

  Worthington wound forward. “This is when the assault occurs.” The victim came from the direction of the shopping centre, along the alley. He crossed the road, his rolling gait causing the carrier bag to swing in his grip. As he passed the entrance to Pump Lane, the man pushed off the wall. He must have said something because the victim paused and turned.

  As he did so there was the flash of a knife, in and out of the victim’s torso, over and over. The carrier bag fell to the pavement. The victim managed to shove his attacker away. The attacker swung the knife once more, catching his quarry in the thigh. The guy staggered away, pulled a phone out of his pocket, placed it to his ear. “That’s the 999 call,” said Worthington.

  His assailant followed in the dying man’s footsteps, just a few yards back, shadowing him like a lion stalks a wounded antelope, ready for the coup de grace. He made it to the alley before slumping against a wall, as if he could no longer stand. The killer closed in, grabbed the phone from unresisting fingers, ended the call and put it into his pocket. He raised a hand, in defence or as a plea – impossible to tell. The
attacker batted it off and carried on searching, reaching inside the dying man’s tracksuit top. “He’s taking the money,” said Worthington.

  The attacker walked away while the victim slowly slipped sideways and lay on the ground.

  Worthington paused the video. “A few minutes later the paramedics turn up but they’re too late. No witnesses. It was all over quickly. The best we can say is the killer is white and of average height. I can’t determine any distinguishing features from this.”

  Something niggled at Gray. “Go back a few minutes, would you? To when he searches the body.” Gray stood up and put himself next to the TV. The scene played over again. As the attacker walked away for the second time, Gray said, “Stop.” He tapped the screen. “See there?” A small dark dot on the ground. “I think that’s the glove we found.”

  Worthington squinted. “Are you sure, sir?”

  “It’s hard to tell, but it’s in the right area. Maybe our man dropped it.”

  “If so,” said Yarrow, “any DNA may lead us to whoever did this.”

  “Get onto the lab, Jerry, and tell them to shift the glove up in priority.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Does anybody have any further points to make?” There were several shakes of heads. “That’s it for now then, we’ll keep you appraised of progress.”

  The meeting broke up.

  “Do you need me for anything else?” asked Worthington.

  “No, we’ve plenty on,” said Gray. “Good work by the way, Jerry.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Worthington left but Gray stayed behind for a few minutes, shutting down the laptop, taking a breather. He felt shattered, but also elated. It had been a busy day, but they were picking up pieces of the puzzle.

  Back at his desk, Gray read his email. There was a note from Clough, the post-mortem report. Gray scanned over it, picking up on the key phrases. The blade used was long enough to nick the victim’s bones at both the front and back of the ribcage. Clough estimated a minimum of twelve inches. Based on the lacerations it wasn’t serrated, just like the one found down the drain. Gray now felt certain they had indeed found the murder weapon. Cause of death was blood loss from a slashed artery. Even if the paramedics had arrived immediately, the man would have been very unlikely to survive.

  A shadow fell across Gray’s screen. It was Hamson, blocking the light. “Have you got a minute?”

  “Sure.” Gray pushed back his seat.

  “Not here.” Hamson turned and walked away. Gray followed her outside and into the car park.

  She lit a cigarette, standing downwind from Gray. “You’re making good progress with the murder investigation. The glove is interesting.”

  “Time will tell. How did your conversation with Marsh go?”

  “Surprisingly, he was fine; even thanked me for keeping him up to date.”

  “You made the right call then,” said Gray. Hamson pinched the bridge of her nose. “Are you all right, Von?”

  “Just tired. It seems somebody’s always wanting a piece of me.”

  “When Pivot goes down, you can bask in the glory.”

  Hamson made a pfft sound. “Marsh will be all over that. Our successes are always his and vice versa.”

  “Things will quieten once Yarrow is gone.”

  “And the enquiry is out of the way.”

  “Yes, I’d forgotten about that.” He hadn’t. A public examination of Carslake’s apparent suicide was due in a few days.

  “It’ll be fine.”

  “I hope so.”

  Hamson’s phone rang and she rolled her eyes. “Better get back to it.” She took one last drag of her cigarette, dropped the tab to the floor and ground it out before heading inside.

  Gray’s phone vibrated. A text which said, “Where are you?” With a smile, he replied.

  Soon, Emily Wyatt was standing next to him. He yawned, said, “Sorry. Been a tough day.”

  “No problem, I totally understand. It’s been crazy for me too. So, I’ve got a proposal for you.” She theatrically glanced over both shoulders before placing a hand on Gray’s chest and leaning in closer to whisper in his ear. “I can’t be bothered driving all the way home. How about I stay at your place? As long as you’re not too worn out, that is.”

  Gray grinned. “I think I’ll be okay.”

  Wyatt pecked him on the cheek. “See you later then.” And she was gone.

  ***

  In the car on the way home Gray speed-dialled Pennance.

  “Sol, hi. To what do I owe this displeasure?”

  “I’m on the scrounge for a favour.”

  “I suspected as much. What specifically?”

  “We had a kid murdered here yesterday. He was traced back to London.”

  “I saw the update from Yarrow. We’re co-ordinating cases, remember?”

  “Why do you think I called, Marcus?” Gray couldn’t keep the exasperation out of his voice. Pennance always had to have an answer.

  “Sorry, go on.”

  “I haven’t heard anything yet from your colleagues. I want to know whether he was just transiting through the city or if he was from the area.”

  “Christ, Sol. Do you know how much footage they’d have to sift through? It’s needle-in-a-haystack stuff, mate. If there was a time stamp on the ticket that would help. Three trains an hour head down your way. And that’s if he went direct. He could have changed at another station first.”

  “Why would he?”

  “To save money.”

  “He had plenty of cash on him, a thick wadge from what we saw on CCTV.”

  “Not his funds though, Sol. All the people who run these operations are tight bastards. Every penny they spend on their runners is a waste as far as they’re concerned.”

  “Can you give them a kick anyway?”

  Gray heard Pennance sigh over the car speakers. “I’ll try.”

  ***

  Gray leaned into his fridge and pulled out two beers. When he shut the door the kitchen plunged back into darkness. Gray headed out to his balcony. He’d let Wyatt in just a few moments ago. They’d kissed briefly before Wyatt asked for a drink. Gray handed her the beer.

  “I still can’t get over how good this view is,” said Wyatt. She was standing at the railing, facing outwards.

  “Are you talking about me or the sea?”

  Wyatt laughed. “The sea, of course.” It was why Gray had bought the flat, part of a relatively new apartment block right on the cliffs above Louisa Bay in Broadstairs. It took as long to get to the ground floor as it did from the front entrance to the beach. Minutes.

  “How’s the case going?” asked Wyatt. She turned around, leaned against the railing, cradling the bottle.

  Gray sighed. “More questions than answers unfortunately.”

  “Do you think it’s related to Pivot?”

  “Yarrow seems to think so.” Gray drank some beer. “What’s going to happen when the Pivot team moves on?” They were planning a series of raids soon. Once complete, Pivot would relocate to the next problem area.

  “I really don’t know, Sol. I’m involved because of my child exploitation experience. Sadly it’s not an issue unique to Thanet. My best guess is I’ll shift over with Yarrow. Probably to Sheerness, from what I hear.”

  “Pity.” Gray liked seeing Wyatt around the office.

  “It’s not as if we live far away from each other.” Deal was about a thirty-minute drive.

  “Yes, but our respective workloads will be a challenge.”

  “It’s not that different to now.”

  “I suppose so.” But Gray wasn’t convinced.

  “There is a bonus, of course.”

  “What?”

  “We can be open about our relationship. Stop all this skulking around.”

  “That’s true.” To date, they had managed to keep their private lives totally under wraps. “All those detectives in the office and none of them have figured it out.”

  Wyatt la
ughed again. “I’ve got news for you. Nobody’s really that interested in us.”

  Gray pouted. “And I thought I was the centre of the universe.”

  Wyatt put the bottle down and closed the gap between the two of them. She placed her arms around Gray and kissed him long and slow. When she pulled away she said, “Right now, you are to me.” And she led him inside, closing the French window behind them.

  Seven

  Now

  Gray rose early the following morning. He slid out carefully from under the duvet like a bedsheet limbo dancer. The gymnastic exercise was worth it because he managed not to disturb Wyatt. She remained on her back, asleep. Gray grabbed a few clothes from the wardrobe and drawers before he took a shower in the main bathroom, rather than the en-suite, and dressed there too before heading into the station.

  He made a coffee in the kitchenette in one corner of the Detectives’ Office. The worksurfaces were pristine, all the tins in the right place, no milk left out, because the cleaner had been in overnight. Once his CID colleagues arrived, the area would take on the appearance of a brewing war zone. Back at his desk, Gray activated his mouse and dropped into his email account. He had hundreds of unread messages; mostly they were junk or valueless internal memos. He focused on the new emails at the very top.

  Annoyingly there was still nothing from the Met on the victim’s movements. Without an identity, Gray was missing a vital chunk of information. However, the lab had pulled out the stops and analysed both the knife and glove.

  As anticipated, the knife was free of fingerprints. However, traces of blood had been found on the blade which matched that of the victim. But as a lead on tracking down the killer, the knife was another dead end.

  When he turned his attention to the report on the glove, Gray forgot all about the coffee. Trace DNA had been identified inside the fingers. And there was a match to a name in the database. The odds that the match wasn’t correct corresponded to one in a billion – high enough for Gray to be sure of the data.