The Solomon Gray Series Box Set

by Keith Nixon

  Jason Harwood.

  Gray had previous experience of Harwood. He was a low-level fence who specialised in shifting stolen electrical goods. He also did a bit of dealing on the side.

  Gray rang Hamson. Judging by the background noise, she was in a car. He told her what they’d found.

  “Harwood? That little shit,” said Hamson. “How likely is the match?”

  “Extremely likely. There’s a potential problem, though. He’s associated with one of the targets for the upcoming Pivot raids.”

  “Who?”

  “Damian Parker. They’re friends.” Gray knew because he would be leading the team who’d be arresting Parker in a few days.

  “What’s your concern, Sol?”

  “I don’t want to blow the operation.”

  There was a pause; Hamson would be mulling over Gray’s issue. “I can’t see it being a problem. Let me deal with Yarrow. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

  “In that case, I’m going to need a search warrant.”

  “Get the paperwork started. I’ll be in as fast as I can to get it signed off.”

  ***

  Once the documentation for the warrant was complete, Gray emailed it to Hamson. As part of Operation Pivot, a huge amount of intelligence had been gathered on local drugs lines. Who sold, who bought. Where trades were carried out, where the players lived. What their circumstances were, what they did with their time. So it was a straightforward process for Gray to pull Harwood’s file, which listed his home address, movements, associates and habits.

  Harwood was still at the foot of the hierarchy. A twenty-four-year-old lowlife who supplied from a line run by a London-based gang. He operated in Ramsgate, where he lived. Harwood was typically late to bed, early to rise. His dealing was active in the dark hours, in the belief his business was harder to spot. Any electrical goods he sold on occurred in the pubs at night. During the day he fried bacon and burnt toast at his uncle’s beachside café, seemingly perfectly legitimately, though Gray wouldn’t be surprised if a little bit of powder was shifted alongside the rolls and coffee.

  Unsurprisingly, Harwood possessed a record, a litany of petty to medium crimes. From shoplifting to burglary. One count of ABH, for which he’d received a custodial sentence, another of handling stolen goods. But murder? That was a huge leap from his previous form.

  Social media presence was sometimes worth checking out too. It was a good way to learn more about the person, as people revealed far too much about themselves on the platforms. So Gray hit the usual apps – Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat. He had a number of potential hits on Twitter, but the sometimes convoluted usernames made it difficult to be sure he’d found the actual Harwood he wanted. One candidate appeared likely until Gray realised they lived in New York. Twitter was a bust. There was nothing on Instagram or Snapchat either.

  Facebook was the same; lots of people called Harwood. None of the profiles had Harwood’s photo; several possessed generic images, such as a car or a dog. Gray went back and clicked on each in turn. He found Harwood on the fourth attempt – a snarling pitbull.

  Harwood’s timeline was filled with photos of him posing, trying to appear cool and gangster-ish. Gray selected the blandest but still relatively recent photo, one of Harwood half-smiling into the camera, wearing a Boston Red Sox hat beneath a hoodie, and printed off several copies.

  Gray returned to the file, moving onto Known Associates. Nobody Gray had experience of, just a handful of equally nondescript low-grade guys. One called Smith, another named Ingham, and a Drinkwater. The team had captured a video of Harwood with his friends. Gray reviewed the recordings briefly, but it told him little other than Harwood was guilty of dealing. Finally, Gray checked the time. The café didn’t open until mid-morning, so Harwood should be at home.

  His internal extension rang. It was Hamson. “Paperwork’s all done, Sol. Go get him.”

  ***

  Signed warrant in hand, Gray arrived at Staner Court, an apartment block which loomed large over the Newington Estate of Ramsgate. Like its nearby neighbour, Arlington House, which dominated central Margate not far from the police station, Staner Court had recently undergone an external assessment following the Grenfell Tower fire in London. Although neither tower possessed external cladding, the residents had long been loudly complaining about the building’s general state of repair, or more precisely, the lack of it. Finally, someone in the council had relented and they’d found issues with external render on both constructions. Bits of the outside had been falling off. There was some concern about the balconies too.

  Gray was accompanied by Worthington and six PCs, just in case Harwood decided he was going to resist. One positive about making an arrest in an apartment block existed – only a single way in or out of the residence. Just a front door. Harwood could make the leap from of a window, but it would probably end messily.

  He stationed two uniforms in the lobby, in case Harwood managed to get past him and downstairs. Then Gray and the rest of the team took the lift to the ninth floor. He placed two further uniforms at either end of the corridor adjacent to Harwood’s front door. Worthington stood at Gray’s shoulder, the remaining two PCs at his back.

  The door opened wide soon after Gray’s knock. A young woman wearing a stained grey T-shirt, her hair held up high on her head by a plastic clip, and a baby on her hip, sucking her thumb stood there. A slightly older girl clung to one of her legs.

  “DI Gray, DS Worthington,” said Gray. “I’ve a warrant to search your property and for the arrest of Jason Harwood.”

  “What this time?”

  “I’m afraid I can only discuss that with Mr Harwood.”

  “He’s asleep.” She moved to allow them access. Gray smiled at the toddler but she carried on nibbling on her nail.

  “What’s your name please, Miss?”

  “It’s Jackie Lycett.”

  Inside, coats and jackets hung on hooks fixed to the wall, a line of shoes and boots just beyond. There were photos of the children, smiling. None of Harwood.

  “Jason,” shouted Lycett. Receiving no answer, she went deeper into the flat and yelled again. “Jason!”

  “What?” A man’s voice, half asleep.

  “Police. For you.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “How the hell would I know? Jesus!” She turned to Gray, jerked a thumb into the bedroom. “He’s in there. Sorry, but the little one needs feeding.” She walked away, trailed by the girl, seemingly unmoved by her partner’s troubles.

  Harwood exited the room, tying a dressing gown around him. His hair was tousled, several days of growth on his chin. He rubbed an eye, faded tattoo letters on each finger. “What’s all this about?”

  Gray showed his warrant card. “We’d like to ask you some questions, Mr Harwood.”

  “Why?”

  “Not here, down the station. Can you get dressed?”

  “I haven’t done nothing.”

  “Put some clothes on, please.”

  “No! Nut until you say why. Jackie, tell them!”

  She was in the corridor, standing in the entrance. “Leave me out of it.” She backed away, closing the door.

  “Christ, Jackie!” Harwood shouted. “Fat lot of help you are!” He reached down, picked up a shoe from the floor and threw it in her direction. It hit the wood with a thud.

  “Piss off!” shouted Lycett, muffled. The baby started crying.

  “Fucking kid’s not even mine.”

  “Mr Harwood,” said Gray, “I’d appreciate your cooperation. It doesn’t need to be difficult.”

  Harwood turned his focus back on Gray. His shoulders sagged.

  “All right, give me a minute.” Harwood retreated into his bedroom.

  “Watch Harwood,” Gray told Worthington before he followed in Jackie’s footsteps. He knocked on the door.

  “What now?” shouted Lycett. Gray entered a living room. “Oh, sorry,” she said. “I thought it was him.”

&nbs
p; “No problem, Miss Lycett,” said Gray. “I know these situations can be difficult.”

  A cartoon was playing on a large flatscreen television, the little girl planted a few feet from it, paying no attention to Gray. Gray didn’t recognise the programme. A yellow sponge with limbs and a face cavorting with a starfish. Strange. Lycett was beside an open window, leaning against the wall, smoking. The baby was nearby in a cot, kicking its legs. Jackie must have been lying when she said he needed a feed.

  “I need to search the flat,” said Gray. “We’ll intrude as little as possible.”

  “Help yourself. I’m used to it.” Lycett shrugged. “And I’ve got these two to worry about.”

  Gray left Lycett, closing the door behind him. A few moments later Harwood was standing in the corridor, wearing jeans and a hoodie.

  “Hands behind your back,” said Gray. A PC stepped forward, cuffs in hand.

  “Why?”

  “Jason Harwood, I’m detaining you for murder. You do not have to say anything, but anything you say may be taken down as evidence and used against you. You have the right to a representation. If you do not have a lawyer one can be provided. Do you understand?”

  “No, I fucking don’t! Murder?”

  “Hands,” repeated Gray.

  Harwood reluctantly relented, placing his wrists behind his back. The PC ratcheted the cuffs.

  “Take him to the kitchen and let’s get searching,” said Gray.

  “What are you looking for?” asked Harwood.

  Gray ignored him and began the process of sifting through the family’s possessions, starting in Harwood’s bedroom, which smelt musty.

  It took about a quarter of an hour to find what they wanted. In a box at the back of a cupboard was a single glove which appeared to match the one found on Union Crescent.

  Eight

  Then

  Fowler felt uncomfortable as he waited for Carslake to return from the large wraparound bar. He was pressed into a corner, back to the wall, seated at a circular table. He glanced around, assessing the youthful faces. Their attention was on having a good time, not on a pair of tired men in wrinkled suits.

  “Here you go,” said Carslake, sliding a pint over, the wet glass leaving a trail like a snail across the damp surface.

  “Cheers.” Fowler sank half of it in one go, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and settled into the seat, feeling not in the slightest bit relaxed.

  “Templeton made it.”

  “Good.” Fowler had half-expected Templeton to dump the boy on the roadside and make off, the stakes too high for him. And for everybody else now.

  “Everything will be fine.”

  Fowler twisted his head to stare at Carslake, who’d taken the spot adjacent, rather than opposite. This way they were close to each other, less likely to be overheard. The pub was packed to the rafters with revellers. Music thumped, the bass tugging and pushing at Fowler’s chest like an external irregular heartbeat.

  Carslake had brought Fowler to the Royal in Ramsgate, a large waterside bar cum club with alcohol and entertainment over two floors. It was always busy and stayed open late. Fowler had driven home straight from the Blean Woods, changed his trousers then headed over here. He’d parked beside the harbour, waiting until Carslake showed. The bouncers had moved to let Carslake past. “He’s with me,” Carslake said, hiking a thumb at Fowler. No entrance fee applied to either of them.

  The interior was bright, a DJ called Sway wearing headphones to one side, on a small stage elevated over everyone’s heads, two massive speakers bracing him. The DJ was old-school, mixing on a record deck. No CDs for him. Fowler could see the sense of their location. Everyone was either drunk or trying very hard to be. He and Carslake were just two more people, out for a bad time, anonymous.

  “It’s not right, Jeff.”

  Carslake shrugged. “Had to be done.”

  “Why?”

  “Best you don’t know.”

  Fowler snorted. The very words he’d shot at Templeton earlier. “One day you’ll have to tell me.”

  “One day, maybe.” Carslake made it sound like that would be far in the future, if ever. Fowler finished his pint, pointed at Carslake’s glass. “Not for me,” said Carslake, holding up a hand.

  At the bar Fowler ordered another. While he waited for the beer to be poured he looked over his shoulder. Carslake was staring at him, seemingly measuring Fowler, maybe assessing his will for what was ahead.

  “Three-eighty, mate.” The barman pulled Fowler’s attention away. Fowler paid, carried the pint back, narrowly avoiding a spillage when a drunk woman bounced into him while she was dancing. She had long brunette curly hair, large dangly earrings and imposing ruby-red lips. She apologised, laid a hand on Fowler’s arm and a kiss on his cheek. Then she rubbed at the spot she’d planted her lips before carrying on waving her arms in the air and sashaying her body to the music on unsteady feet. Fowler regained his place and sank another large chunk of his beer.

  “Slow down,” said Carslake. “Can’t have you being done for drunk driving.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine.” Fowler raised his pint at Carslake. “Friends in high places and all that.”

  Carslake leaned in, so close Fowler could feel his breath and smell stale garlic. “You need to deal with this, Mike. We’ve got a job to do.”

  “He’s a kid, our friend’s kid.”

  Carslake receded. Fowler noticed Carslake couldn’t meet his eye. “Which I’m well aware of.” Carslake hadn’t said Tom’s name since the moment it all started.

  “Templeton was going to kill him.”

  “I stopped that.” Carslake’s focus was back on Fowler. “As soon as I heard I stepped in. It’s created some… difficulties, each of which needs handling.”

  “By me, you mean.”

  “By us. We both have a part to play.”

  Fowler was about to reply, when shouting broke out over to their left. Bouncers moved with sudden speed, pushing their way through the clientele to reach the source of the trouble. The music continued, unabated.

  “Keep out of it,” said Carslake, unnecessarily. Moments later the bouncers unceremoniously dragged two men, still shouting the odds at each other, to the entrance. Once the door snapped shut the interior returned to its previous state, the pair already forgotten. A new track blared out across the pub, something pacey and heady.

  “What do you want?” asked Fowler. He knew he was in too deep to simply walk away, despite being desperate to.

  “You’re to meet someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Lewis Strang.”

  “Strang?” Fowler was stunned. The man was a legend in police rank and file, a high-flying copper.

  “He’s the best at what we need.”

  “Which is?”

  Carslake paused before he said, “Disposal.”

  “I’m not doing it.”

  “He’s going to put the kid somewhere safe. Not kill him.”

  “Where?”

  “All these bloody questions, Mike.” Carslake slapped the table. “Something else not to know. Either of us. When everything’s finalised you’ll drive the kid to a pre-arranged destination and hand him over. Strang will take it from there.”

  “No way.”

  “You have to, Mike. There’s no one else I can trust. And besides, the kid likes you.” Carslake’s words punched a hole in Fowler’s soul.

  “Oh my God.” Fowler sat back, dropped his head on his shoulders and stared at the ceiling, which was a riot of reflected, twirling colours from a disco ball.

  “This has to happen. You know it.”

  “I need more booze.”

  This time Carslake headed to the bar without uttering a word. Fowler was well aware of Carslake’s manipulative nature. Fowler was simply being given time to consider his situation. But Fowler already knew Carslake was right – it did have to happen.

  “What about the evidence trail?” asked Fowler when Carslake returned.
“The Sunset, Templeton’s car, Templeton himself.”

  “The car and the guest house are easy. And Templeton owes me.”

  “Is that enough to keep him quiet?”

  “I’ll make sure it is. Which is my commitment in all of this.” Carslake checked his watch. “Time to head off, Mike. We’ve a long day tomorrow.”

  Fowler shook his head. “I’m staying for a while.”

  “Thought you might say that.” Carslake stood. “Just make sure you get a taxi.” He left.

  Fowler was wondering how much alcohol he would need for him to forget, when somebody took Carslake’s place. It was the woman who’d bumped into him earlier.

  “You’re looking sad, lover,” she said.

  “I am.”

  “Maybe I can help?”

  “I’m sure we’ll be able to come to some sort of arrangement.”

  The woman grinned at him. “I’m Candy.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  Nine

  Now

  Jason Harwood was hunched over the table in interview room four, his nose inches away from the surface, displaying thinning hair on his crown. Gray took a seat opposite.

  After starting the recording, stating his and Worthington’s presence along with the appointed duty lawyer, Arthur Brand, Gray pushed a cup of coffee Harwood’s way, spat out of a vending machine into a plastic cup a few minutes ago. Harwood had complained all the way over from Ramsgate and during the booking-in process that he hadn’t had a chance to get a drink. Now he ignored it.

  Gray placed a photograph of the stabbing victim next to the cup. “Do you recognise this man, Mr Harwood?”

  Harwood lifted his eyes up. “Bloke who got murdered the other night. Saw it on the TV.”

  Gray left the image in place. “What about this?” He put the glove found at the crime scene onto the table. It was encased in a clear plastic evidence bag.

  “It’s a glove.”

  “Does it belong to you?”

  Harwood shrugged. “Dunno.”

  Gray added another bagged glove to the first, a left and a right. A matched pair. “We found this one in your flat.”

  “So what?”