by Keith Nixon
“You can see yourselves out,” said McGavin to Telfer and the young man. “And shut the door behind you. Don’t want anyone hearing our conversation, do we, Sol? I’ll call you back when we’re done.” Telfer left without as much as a backwards glance. The younger man gave Gray a long hard look before he followed in Telfer’s footsteps. Three identical doors blocked off the wide entrance – one stood a few feet open, glass panes inset into the top quarter. Telfer closed the door, which moved soundlessly on well-oiled wheels.
“Ingham’s a bit of a dick,” said McGavin as he re-entered Gray’s vision. He had to mean the younger man. “Fancies himself.”
“Bit like you then,” said Gray. He remembered where he’d seen Ingham now. Another one of Damian Parker’s associates listed in the Pivot file. He was friends with Jason Harwood too.
“I’ll give you that one,” grinned McGavin. He went behind the car and dragged out another office chair. Duncan Usher was bound to this one. McGavin pushed the chair until Usher faced Gray. There were bruises on Usher’s face, dried blood down his chin and his nose puffed up, purple and shapeless. His breathing was ragged. Usher turned his head, hawked up and spat at McGavin’s feet.
McGavin crossed over to the workbench and began to search through a toolbox. He weighed a large spanner in his hand. Then he picked up the blowtorch before putting it down again. Finally, he opened a drawer and removed a sawn-off shotgun. He handled it briefly before placing it on the bench.
“What the fuck’s all this, Frank?” Usher was attempting to sound tough, but Gray heard the quaver in his voice; saw him glance at the shotgun.
So did McGavin. “It’s the changing of the guard.” Ignoring Usher and turning to Gray, McGavin said, “You wouldn’t know this place, Sol, but it’s very familiar to me and my old friend here. We had a lot of fun here over the years, didn’t we, Duncan?” Usher glared at McGavin. “We could do what we wanted and nobody knew. The old boy who ran it turned a blind eye. He passed on a couple of years ago and I haven’t been back since. Until today. I feel quite nostalgic. In fact, this is where we were when Duncan received the call to tell him Valerie was dead. Duncan had just killed a man. Right where you’re sitting, if my memory is correct.” McGavin raised an eyebrow at Gray, as if daring him to comment, smiling when he didn’t. “That’s why he took the fall for Valerie’s death, because he had to.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” asked Gray.
“Just seems fitting.” McGavin grinned again, clearly enjoying himself. “And it amuses me to know there’s nothing you can do.”
“Why, Frank?” said Usher.
“You’ve been away too long. You’re soft, Duncan. Not when you were in prison. Only since you got out…” McGavin shook his head. “And when Carslake went, you became even more spineless. You know what disappoints me most?” McGavin waited for an answer. He didn’t get one. “There’s no fight left in you. The Duncan Usher I knew would be raging at me right now, straining to break those ropes, wanting to rip my throat out. But look at you. So meek. Such a pity. So, my old friend, there’s only one use for you now. Everybody needs to know there’s a new boss in town and, more importantly, they need to be totally aware what happened to the old one.”
“What about my girls?”
“They’ll barely notice you’re gone, Duncan.” McGavin turned to Gray. “And Sol, I bet you’re wondering, ‘Why me?’”
“Not really,” said Gray. He attempted nonchalant, but it sounded forced.
“You stood to one side while Carslake was murdered by our mutual friend. I’m interested to see if you’ll do so again.” McGavin returned to the workbench and picked up the sawn-off. He reached into the still-open drawer and withdrew a cartridge.
As McGavin walked over to Gray he cracked the barrel, inserted the cartridge and closed it again with a loud snick. McGavin held out the weapon to Gray. “Take it, blow Usher away and I’ll be in your debt.”
“Own me, you mean.”
After a moment’s thought, McGavin said, “I suppose that’s right.” He made the statement sound as if he’d not considered this option. “Well, as far as I’m concerned a man can never have too many cops in their pocket. And with Carslake’s demise I’m one down.”
Gray stayed where he was. “I’m not doing it.”
“Meaning you don’t mind someone else doing the dirty work, but you won’t do it yourself?” McGavin brought the barrel to bear on Usher. Sweat beads ran down Usher’s forehead.
McGavin laughed, lowered the gun. “Doesn’t matter anyway, I’ve got proper killers in my entourage.”
Gray took his chance, exploding out of his chair. He threw a fist, felt a connection with McGavin’s jaw through his knuckles. McGavin rolled with the punch and swung the shotgun, catching Gray on the side of the head with the butt. Gray went down, face first in the dirt. His head swam. He froze when he felt the press of cold steel against his neck.
“Don’t ever try that again.” McGavin prodded the shotgun hard into Gray’s neck then took it away. Slowly, Gray stood and turned around. “You’ve a good arm, I’ll say that much.” McGavin rubbed the area where Gray’s fist had connected. He snapped the barrel open and removed the cartridge. McGavin got within a few inches of Gray’s face then slid the shell into one of Gray’s pockets then patted it through the cloth. “That’s a reminder. Not to forget what happened just now.”
McGavin stepped back, turned his head and let out a harsh, sharp whistle. Ingham pushed back two of the garage doors, creating a wide enough gap for a BMW SUV to reverse in, Telfer driving Usher’s vehicle. Gray recognised the personal number plate. Telfer switched off the engine when he was a few feet away from Usher. Ingham pulled the doors shut once more. Telfer got out the car, left the door open before popping the boot. Telfer and Ingham got a roll of plastic sheeting from the rear of the garage and put it into the boot space.
“Sorted, boss,” said Ingham.
“Looks like it’s goodbye,” said McGavin and threw the shotgun to Ingham, who snatched it neatly out of the air.
“You don’t need to do this,” said Usher.
“I know, but I’m going to.” McGavin nodded. Ingham hit Telfer under the chin with the gun butt, catching Telfer and Gray off guard. Telfer sank to the floor without a groan, stunned.
Ingham and McGavin hauled the unconscious Telfer into the boot. Ingham went through Telfer’s clothes and pulled out the lock knife. He opened the blade and plunged it into Telfer’s torso once. Telfer, suddenly alert, clutched at Ingham’s clothes, tried to pull himself up. Leaning in a little further, Ingham, ignoring Telfer’s grip, put his hand over Telfer’s mouth, muffling the screams as Ingham stabbed him over and over.
Gray had to get out. He ran towards the exit, expecting McGavin to stop him, but he made the doors and pulled them open. As he was squeezing through the small gap Gray looked back inside. McGavin was gazing at him while Ingham kept wielding the knife.
Outside, Gray immediately recognised where he was. The far end of Reading Street, the long, narrow thoroughfare which cut through this part of St Peters. A short run down the hill, where Callis Court Road became Elmwood Avenue, and he’d reach Joss Bay, a popular sandy beach hemmed in by high chalk cliffs. On a dark, clear night, the beam from North Foreland Lighthouse, the last manned lighthouse in the UK, would reach this far inland across the fields, filled with brassicas during spring and summer.
Gray turned right, away from the beach, half walking, half running in the direction of what there was of the village centre. He patted his pockets, his phone was gone but he had his warrant card and wallet. He needed to call a taxi.
The village pub, the White Swan, was close at hand. And they would have a phone. After five minutes of trotting and constantly glancing over his shoulder, expecting Ingham or McGavin to come after him, Gray reached the Swan.
He pulled the door open and tumbled inside. The place was largely empty. Swirly patterned carpet, old tables and chairs, fake black painted beams s
et into white walls in an attempt to make the building seem older than it was.
An old boy well into his seventies, from the generation when you wore a suit for most occasions, a ring of white hair encircling his otherwise bald head, was seated at the bar; the landlady behind it. They paused in their conversation and stared at Gray.
“Are you all right, love?” asked the landlady, her face split with concern.
“I need a phone,” he said. “Police.” He showed his warrant card.
“Behind here,” said the landlady, lifting the hatch to allow him entrance. She was heavily tanned, wrinkled and wore a lot of gold jewellery – fingers full of rings and multiple necklaces around her neck.
Gray lifted the receiver. “Can I get a whisky? A double.”
“Course, love. Bells or Grouse for you?”
“Whichever.”
She turned away, the rings clinking on glass.
Gray paused, debating whether to call Hamson. I’ve just witnessed a murder. It was right, but Gray simply saw a host of problems. McGavin would not let him off easily. That’s why he’d taken Gray to the garage, to demonstrate his power.
The phone began to wail, too long off the hook. Gray got the dialling tone. He tapped in the number for a local taxi firm.
“Can I get a pick-up at the Swan, Reading Street?” asked Gray when they answered.
“Where to, mate?” asked the controller, a man.
“Broadstairs.”
“Fifteen to twenty minutes okay, mate?”
“Can you get here any quicker?”
The controller sucked in his breath. “We’re very busy, sorry, mate.”
“Okay.”
“What’s your name, mate?”
“Gray.” Being constantly called “mate” was becoming wearing.
“We’ll get you sorted, don’t you worry, mate.”
“Thanks.” Gray rang off.
The landlady passed Gray the whisky glass. He threw the alcohol down his throat in one. “Another,” he said.
“Double again?” she asked.
Gray nodded. He took out his wallet, swapped cash for the booze, took the glass over to a table and sat. The chair was low to the ground, as if a good few inches had been taken off the legs. Gray swirled the whisky around the glass, staring into its depths, seeing nothing. Glancing up, he saw the landlady and her patron were openly staring at him. Gray realised he was covered in dirt from the garage floor, bruised and bleeding from being beaten. He stood, went to the bathroom at the rear of the bar, leaving his glass on the table.
Gray’s reflection in a cracked mirror showed messed up hair and oil on one cheek. There was mud on his hands and knees too. No wonder they’d been gawking. He felt like pounding the mirror, smashing it into a thousand pieces the way he should have smashed McGavin’s face. Gray knew he was trapped now. His moment of weakness at Dreamland had finally caught up with him.
Why had he thought he could get away with it? He’d known it would come back to bite him, that Usher would probably speak to McGavin eventually. Gray cursed himself for not mitigating the risk sooner. And he’d witnessed another murder. Could he have prevented it? The answer was no, and he’d have likely died himself had he tried. Gray knew the threat to him would extend to Hope – it always did. Family was a powerful lever. That couldn’t be ignored.
Gray cleaned himself up as best he could; lukewarm air from the hand dryer removed the damp patches from his trousers. Standing on one foot and lifting his leg to get it close enough to the flow. While he dried off, it struck Gray that there was one person who could help.
When he was done, Gray went back out into the bar, his every movement watched by the landlady and her patron. Picking up his whisky, Gray drank it in three gulps. A clock on the wall told Gray there was up to another ten minutes before the taxi arrived. He couldn’t stay here. With a nod of thanks to the landlady, he headed outside.
The Church of St Andrews was opposite. Hit by a sudden compulsion, Gray crossed the empty road and entered the place of worship. He took a pew at the rear. Gray felt inside his pocket, touched the shotgun cartridge. He withdrew his hand as if the metal were hot and burnt him. He bowed his head and prayed to a God he hadn’t believed in for a long time.
Twenty Five
Now
The taxi driver, a young man with a buzz cut and wearing a track suit left the Swan as Gray left the church. His car was bumped up the pavement, hazards blinking. “Are you Gray?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Control told me you be in the pub.”
“Sorry.”
“What’s the address?”
Gray told him, then got in the back. The driver pulled away, heading the way he was already facing – back towards the garage.
“Can you turn around?” said Gray. “Go in the other direction?”
The driver frowned, not quite understanding. “This is the fastest route.”
“Humour me, would you?”
The driver shrugged. “Okay, it’s your money.” He slowed to a stop, reversed into somebody’s drive and returned the way he’d come. The journey would take five minutes longer, but Gray would avoid the garage. The taxi took a wide loop, eventually reaching Stone Road on the edge of Broadstairs.
Gray should have known this day was coming. Though he hated to admit it, McGavin had been right. Over the last few months, Gray had been lured into a false sense of security, believing Usher was content that justice had been done.
Gray had lost little sleep over his ex-friend’s death. If it wasn’t for Carslake, Tom would be home, Kate still alive, Hope would still have a family that she wanted to be part of. Carslake was in the past and Gray hated him now.
Stone Road ran near the cliff edge and that’s how Gray felt – as if he was on the cusp of a precipice, ready to tumble into darkness. However, by the time the taxi reached his flat, a plan was forming in his mind.
As the car drew up, Gray said, “Can you wait here for me? I’ll be back down shortly.”
“Okay. The meter will be running.”
Gray headed up to his flat. It was late now. Hope was in bed. Gray knocked on her door and entered. He flicked on the light. His daughter pushed herself into a sitting position.
“Dad?” Hope raised a hand to shield her eyes.
“You need to get up and pack.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
He squatted down beside her. She opened her mouth to ask him again. “Please, listen. We haven’t much time. There’s some stuff going on I have to deal with and you can’t be here in case it goes wrong. Get out of bed, pull your things together. We’ll be leaving soon.”
“What for?”
“Hope, we have to go.”
“You’re not telling me anything.”
“I can’t. It’s best you don’t know. Please, get packed.”
“I don’t like this, Dad.”
“I’m sorry, Hope. You have to come.”
“What if I say no?”
“Then we’re all in danger. The baby too.”
Hope stared at Gray until she eventually said, “Okay.”
Gray left a confused and scared Hope in her bedroom. He pulled the door to. The landline was in the living room. Before Gray placed a call, he changed his clothes, dumping his dirty suit on the floor. Next, he went into the bathroom and swallowed some painkillers, a mix of paracetamol and iboprufen, along with a glass of water. He dug a spare car key from a set of drawers in the living room. His car should still be parked outside the station.
He picked up the receiver, dialled Pennance. When the line connected Gray said, “Marcus, it’s Sol. Look, I haven’t much time, I need your help.”
Twenty Six
Then
As Fowler waited, he realised he was about to break the law again. He’d clocked off hours ago, told his wife he had to work overtime, but headed out for a couple of beers with some colleagues – to the Britannia, the pub next door to the station. So far, so usual.
A few hundred yards along near Trinity Square, Fowler found the phone box. Inside, the acidic stench of urine caught in the back of his nose. Fowler held his breath. The vandalism wouldn’t take long. He removed a pair of pliers from the carrier bag and cut the cord to the handset. Job done, he headed back.
There was still time yet, so he took cover under a bus shelter – the legend, “Daz 4 Kaz” scrawled onto the plexiglass. The nearest lamplight was too weak to reveal his features to any but the nearest of passers-by. The bag was tucked behind his feet, under the seat. It was later than he’d thought, later than was planned, late enough that there would be no buses running now.
However, it was a pleasant night, the alcohol from earlier still delivering an agreeable buzz into his bloodstream. The cooling sea breeze dropped the temperature to a bearable level. Likewise, in the winter the same air currents warmed the land, keeping the frosts at bay. Opposite was a long line of terraced houses with magnificent views over the sea. Once private houses for the wealthy, now they were mainly given over to flats for immigrants or benefit seekers. But one was not.
The Sunset Guest House looked like its neighbours. Basement windows below pavement height, front door up several steps, then another three floors of plain, rendered frontage with inset sash windows. A sign in the window said “Vacancies”. The light behind the curtains of this room was on; all the others switched off. Cars were parked bumper-to-bumper all along the road.
The guest house door was flung open and a young woman descended the steps fast. She dashed down the hill. Moments later a man and a much older woman arrived in the entrance.
“Rachel!” the man called several times. But the girl didn’t stop. Soon the woman went back inside. The man waited several minutes, until it was clear the girl who’d shown her heels wasn’t coming back. He retreated inside and the door closed. The road went back to its default, peaceful state. A couple of cars passed by in the following quarter of an hour, though that was all.