The Solomon Gray Series Box Set

by Keith Nixon

“And the other a few feet away from the murdered man. Your DNA was discovered inside. I’d bet when we analyse this,” Gray tapped the glove from Harwood’s flat, “we get the same result.”

  Harwood snapped his head up and looked at Gray properly for the first time, before turning to his lawyer. “What’s he saying?”

  Gray spoke before Brand could. “This item found at the scene of a murder belongs to you, Mr Harwood. Can you explain how your glove ended up in Union Row?”

  “No way!” Harwood sat bolt upright. “This is bullshit! I didn’t kill no one!” He turned to Brand again. “Tell him that this is bullshit!”

  “Where were you between nine-thirty and eleven pm two nights ago?”

  “Wednesday?”

  “That’s right.”

  Harwood considered the question for a few moments. His face lit up. “I was in the pub! Having a drink with some mates.”

  “Really.”

  “Yeah! Go there, check the cameras. That’ll prove where I was.”

  “Which pub was this Mr Harwood?”

  “The Windmill on Newington Road.”

  Gray knew it. “Okay, we’ll do so. Interview terminated.”

  “I’m innocent, mate.” Harwood was elated. “You’ve got the wrong man.”

  Gray left the room, got a uniform to return Harwood to his cell. When it was just him and Worthington, Gray said, “What do you think?”

  “He seemed pretty convincing.”

  Gray felt the same. His gut told him something was wrong here. “Go down there, see whatever imagery you can get and bring it straight back.”

  “No problem,” said Worthington. However, Gray thought it was very much a problem.

  ***

  Worthington returned well within an hour. He and Gray entered one of the meeting rooms to play the video recording straight onto a TV screen via a laptop.

  “They’ve several cameras,” said Worthington. “Inside and outside. The landlord said they’d had some trouble in the past and had them installed by the brewery.”

  Gray twirled a pen in his fingers while he waited. Soon a view from behind the bar came up. There were several people at the bar, waiting to be served. A man walked in through the door, waved at someone offscreen he must have known and leaned on the bar, awaiting his turn. The new entrant was Jason Harwood. The time stamp said 21.02.

  “Bloody hell,” said Gray, chewing on his pen. “How long was he there for?”

  Worthington wound on. Harwood returned to the bar several more times. Damian Parker was present too. At 22.07, Worthington paused the playback as Harwood headed outside.

  Gray sat forward. “Where’s he going?” He remained hopeful. Margate was just a short taxi ride from Ramsgate. The timing would be tight, but feasible.

  “Another feed picks him up,” said Worthington.

  Harwood was out the front of the pub. He sparked up a cigarette, chatting with a couple of fellow smokers.

  “Now what?” asked Gray.

  “That’s it. He finishes the cigarette before going back inside for another pint and then leaving.”

  “What time?”

  “22.29.”

  Gray threw the pen down on the table. “He’s not our man.”

  “Doesn’t seem so, sir. Not on this basis.”

  “So how the hell did a glove with his DNA on end up in our crime scene?”

  Worthington shrugged.

  “Let him go. In the meantime, I’d better give the DCI an update. Then we’ll reconvene as a team and work out what we do from here.”

  “Okay, sir.” Worthington left Gray alone.

  Hamson would not be pleased. A seeming slam dunk earlier this morning had actually turned out to be an own goal.

  “This is a bloody mess,” said Gray. But there was nobody to hear it. He had an idea though. Maybe the public could help.

  He headed upstairs to give Hamson the bad news. “It’s not Harwood. He has an alibi.”

  “What about the glove?”

  “A red herring.”

  “You said…”

  “I know what I said, Von. I was wrong.”

  Hamson ran her fingers through her hair, holding her hands to her head. If Sylvia were still here she’d be listening at the door right now, enjoying Gray’s plight.

  “What did you want me to do? The evidence said bring him in, so we did. The evidence also said, release him. He has an alibi and we have absolutely no choice.”

  “I know.”

  “And I kept you up to date all the way through.”

  “I know that too and saying so doesn’t help, Sol. I thought we had him.”

  “I’m as angry as you are.”

  “But it’s not you who has to tell Marsh a suspect isn’t one anymore.”

  “Playing politics again, Von? Dangerous game running to the boss every time something breaks.”

  Hamson eyed Gray. He’d gone too far. “And what are you doing right now?”

  Gray held his hands up.

  Hamson flopped back in her chair. “Where next?”

  “I want to hold a press conference, see if anybody out there knows something.”

  “Go ahead if you think it’ll help.”

  “Frankly, right now I’m all out of ideas.”

  “Just ensure Bethany is fully involved.”

  Gray rolled his eyes. Bethany Underwood was the station’s Press Officer, a bleach-blonde waif who ran on nervous energy, constantly on the brink of flipping out.

  “Sol,” warned Hamson. She knew his feelings about Underwood all too well.

  “Okay, it’ll be the first thing I do when I leave here.”

  “Off you go then.”

  Gray tugged his forelock as he backed out of the office, bowing. His phone rang as he was descending the stairs. Pennance.

  “Could my day be made any worse?” asked Gray.

  “Charming.”

  “Sorry, it’s been a disastrous morning so far. I thought we had a suspect for the murder, but it turns out he has an alibi.”

  “I’ve some useful information then. A heads up on the name of your dead man before it comes through officially. We tracked him down. It took a while.”

  “Go on.”

  “His name is LaShaun Oakley.”

  “Sounds like a brand of sunglasses.”

  “Very funny.” But Pennance wasn’t laughing. “Oakley didn’t have a record, which explains why you couldn’t find him on the database.”

  Yarrow had been right – a clean skin. “How did you find him?” asked Gray.

  “I guess you’re familiar with Pupil Referral Units?”

  “Where kids who get excluded from schools end up. We have them here too, Marcus.”

  “Right, they’re becoming fertile hunting grounds for the gangs. Spotting vulnerable kids then effectively grooming them with crap like fizzy drinks, fast food or trainers.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Two of our team went through all the photos we had on file of referred children and eventually one matched. Oakley was from London; Enfield to be precise. A couple of colleagues went over to his parents’ house earlier today. To say they were shocked at his death was an understatement.”

  “Poor bastards.” Knife crime was blighting the youth of the country, London in particular. “Were they aware of his movements?”

  “They couldn’t understand why he’d be in Ramsgate. At first they didn’t accept it was their son. His behaviour sounded totally alien. He’d been gone a few days but Oakley had said he was heading off with some friends across the city, not to Kent. That’s all really.”

  “Thanks for letting me know, I appreciate it.”

  “You should get a report soon. Good luck.”

  Pennance rang off. A little more of the puzzle was filled in but there was still a distinct lack of clarity. Gray headed to his desk and repeated the process of scanning through social media apps to learn what he could about Oakley. Unlike Harwood, Oakley had a presence on all the major pla
tforms. Gray’s first impression was that Oakley appeared a normal guy, regularly out with friends, smiling in photographs. He didn’t appear to be a dealer; somebody who sold Class As which ruined the lives of many, while enriching a few. But maybe that was the point.

  Worthington was at his desk. Gray stood over him, and Worthington looked up. “We’ve a name for the Union Row victim,” Gray told him. “LaShaun Oakley. I’ve had a quick look over his social media stuff. Get digging would you? I’m going to check out the crime scene again.”

  Ten

  Now

  Gray decided to walk. It wasn’t far to Union Row and he needed to think. He headed down Fort Crescent, past the Turner Contemporary gallery, before entering King Street, which marked the outer edge of the Old Town, an upcoming Hipster area of cafes and antique shops.

  Gray remembered that he hadn’t spoken to Underwood about setting up the press conference, too taken with talking to Pennance. That delight would have to await his return.

  He cut across Market Place, past the English Flag, a pub which never seemed to close, and the last bastion against gentrification. Despite it being a dump and less than welcoming to the law-abiding, Gray was briefly tempted to go in for a beer.

  The knockback over Harwood’s apparent guilt had been hard to take. Given the DNA evidence from the glove, Gray had been convinced they had their man and he was thoroughly puzzled as to what had gone wrong. Another few hundred yards along Lombard Street, and Gray crossed through the boundary of the Old Town, emerging onto the busy road which ran past Morrisons.

  At Union Row, Gray stopped. The police tape had been removed. The area was back to normal, people going about their business as if nothing had happened, no one had died. Two vans with the Iceland livery on their side were parked next to the rear entrance, being loaded for upcoming deliveries.

  A uniformed PC stood at the alley’s mouth. “Afternoon, sir,” he said. It was Boughton, the local PC, wearing the thin, standard-issue short-sleeved shirt as usual. If shorts were allowed Gray reckoned Boughton would have those on too.

  “Damian, how’s things?”

  “Pissed off, if you must know, sir. I hear the suspect has been released.” The jungle drums beat quickly.

  Gray sighed. “He had a concrete alibi.”

  “I don’t like there being an unsolved murder on my patch.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Pardon me, sir.” Boughton looked over Gray’s shoulder. He held out a photo of Oakley, the one Gray had taken from Facebook. “Do you recognise this person?”

  A passer-by glanced down at the image and shook his head without breaking stride.

  “Nobody tells me jack shit about this guy,” said Boughton.

  “Oakley was here less than a day.”

  “And not one person had any interaction with him?” Boughton shook his head. “I find that very sad, sir.”

  Gray did too. “People don’t look out for strangers anymore.”

  “That’s our job, isn’t it?”

  “I guess so.”

  “What do you reckon it was then, sir? Wrong time, wrong place?”

  “Given the CCTV footage, I think he was targeted. At least one person knew him. Or what he was, at least.”

  “Sweat and tears, sir, sweat and tears. That’ll get us the answer. Are you here to take another look at the scene?”

  “I just want to see if it sparks any ideas. Because at the moment I’m blank.”

  “I’ll leave you to it, sir. Let me know if I can help.”

  Gray moved forward, pausing again near where Oakley had bled out. Like standing on a grave in a churchyard, Gray didn’t really want to be on the exact spot, even though many pairs of feet would doubtless have crossed the patch. Oakley’s blood had been washed away. The efforts of the paramedics forgotten. It was as if he’d never existed.

  “Excuse me.” Gray glanced up. A woman with a double buggy wanted to pass and he was blocking the way. He backed up against the wall. She walked on, giving him a strange look and no thanks. He lingered for a while longer, remembering the young man lying there.

  Under Boughton’s watchful eye, Gray headed back onto Union Row in reverse, following the route Oakley had taken in his final moments to where the murdered man had briefly lived, if that’s what it could be called. As Gray glanced up and down the road, he realised he had nothing new. Beyond the scattergun approach of a press conference, Gray didn’t know how he could find Oakley’s killer.

  With poetic justice, it began to rain. If there was a romantic side left to Gray, the supposition would be tears from on high at a wasted life. However, he was a pragmatist. Somebody had wanted Oakley dead. It sent a message, but from whom and to whom? He didn’t know.

  Yet.

  He decided to head back to the station. When he passed the alley, Boughton was deep in conversation with a member of the public and didn’t notice Gray. Focus – that was what Boughton possessed.

  All Gray could do was keep pressing on. Sweat and tears, Boughton had said, mixed in with Oakley’s blood.

  Eleven

  Now

  While Gray waited for the gates to the underground car park beneath the complex of flats he lived in to open, he rubbed his forehead. The rest of his day had proven to be long and fruitless. A follow-up team meeting to discuss so-called progress hadn’t gone well. Like Gray, the rest of the team was bereft of ideas, deflated and angry. The presence of the glove was particularly puzzling. Gray had wondered out loud if it was a plant to distract the investigation. The taping up of the knife handle pointed to particularly careful planning.

  And Bethany Underwood, when Gray had found her, was her usual pleasurable self. She’d chewed her nails even more than usual when Gray asked her to organise for the newspapers and television to come in about Oakley’s murder. Despite it being her job to do so, she appeared less than pleased. In the end, Gray had whipped off an email to her, copied to Hamson, to ensure the conference was scheduled for tomorrow because the following day the Pivot raids were planned. From past experience of major operations, Gray knew the station would be chaos, whether the raids were successful or not.

  He jumped at the knock on his window.

  It took him a moment to realise the person staring back at him. Hope. His daughter smiled at him, made a “wind your window down” motion, even though cars hadn’t had handles for years. For a moment he forgot where the button was, he was so surprised.

  “Hi, Dad,” she said when the window was halfway.

  “Hope, what are you…?” Gray’s question was cut off by the bleep of a horn. He glanced in the rear-view mirror. Another car, wanting to access the garage. “Don’t move,” he said to Hope.

  He drove inside, parked and walked as fast as he could back to the pavement. Hope was sitting on the low wall which encircled the flats. As Gray approached, she stood and flung herself into his arms.

  “Oh, Dad.” She began to sob into his shoulder. It was then he grasped that she had a large suitcase with her.

  ***

  It took a few minutes to calm Hope down, during which Gray received several looks from passers-by, from intrigued to sympathetic. Eventually, he moved Hope upstairs; the two of them and her luggage barely fitting into the tiny lift.

  Inside the flat, Hope said, “Can I get a drink, Dad? It’s been a long day.”

  “Sure, make yourself at home.”

  “Where’s your bathroom?”

  Gray pointed her in the right direction, then got the kettle busy. While he was pouring hot water onto coffee grounds in a French press he heard the toilet flush. A few moments later Hope appeared in the kitchen doorway and leaned against the jamb.

  “Milk and one sugar, isn’t it?” asked Gray.

  “Good memory.”

  “I don’t forget much.” He didn’t add that this ability was as much a curse as a blessing.

  “But can I have a cup of tea? Green if you have it.”

  “Sorry, I should have asked.” He rummaged aro
und for the box, found it, put a bag into a cup and poured water into it. He handed her the mug.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “Let’s sit on the balcony,” said Gray. Hope nodded.

  Gray slid open one of the floor-to-ceiling doors. It moved easily on well-oiled runners. At Wyatt’s insistence he’d recently bought a second chair and a couple of cushions to improve the comfort of the wooden-slatted furniture. Both chairs faced out to sea. Hope put her mug down on the small round table and leaned over the balcony railing. She glanced up and down the esplanade which ran along the clifftop immediately beneath them. Below that were the sands of Louisa Bay, a popular tourist spot with its own permanent beachfront café. The bacon sandwiches were good, the coffee, however, was instant.

  “All these years living here, yet it’s funny looking at a familiar outlook from a different perspective.”

  “I know.” Gray had thought the same when he’d viewed the flat.

  “Broadstairs has barely changed.”

  “It never does.” A few shops came and went, restaurants closed and reopened under different names, but that was about all. The centre was tightly packed and much of it was under a conservation order from the council, so it was difficult to alter the buildings or layout. Gray owned a book containing old photos of the town dating back to Victorian times and it was much the same even then.

  “I’ll have to buy some flip flops,” said Hope. “It’s usually wellington boots or walking shoes in Edinburgh.”

  “Is this an impromptu holiday?” It was obvious something was up, but Gray wanted whatever the issue was to come out as and when Hope was ready.

  She sagged into one of the chairs. “No. Well, I mean yes, sort of. I needed to get away from Hamish, from Scotland. I didn’t want to impose on Grandma.”

  “You did the right thing and you’re always welcome here. It’s great to see you.”

  Hope smiled weakly. “Do you mind if I lie down? I’m a bit tired from the journey.”

  “No problem at all. I’ll show you the spare room. The bed needs making up first.”

  “I’ll give you a hand.”

  “I can cope.”

  Once Hope was settled, her case taking up quite a bit of space in the small bedroom, Gray retreated outside again. He put his feet up on the other chair, stretching out. He wondered what had brought Hope to him. Either relationship, job or money. The same motivations for criminal behaviour.