by Keith Nixon
The final clip was the most interesting. Parker and Harwood were part of a group of five outside Staner Court. This time Ingham was present. In the background Harwood’s girlfriend, Jackie Lycett, left the flats pushing a double buggy. Ingham watched her all the way over, while Harwood, oblivious, chatted to his mates. Lycett paused in front of the group, her back to the camera, trying to get Harwood’s attention but he waved her away and walked off. Lycett gave him the finger.
The camera stayed on Parker, meaning Ingham also remained in shot. Ingham hung back briefly, putting his hand on Lycett’s arm, leaning in, whispering something in her ear. Lycett recoiled, glancing in the direction Harwood had gone. She shook her head, walked away. Ingham watched her leave.
Gray sat back, considering the obvious conclusion. Ingham and Harwood knew each other and knew each other very well. It seemed as if Lycett and Ingham were involved somehow. And Gray remembered what Harwood had mumbled in the flat when he and Jackie were arguing while he was cuffed. That the baby wasn’t his.
Gray rang Clough. When the pathologist answered, Gray said, “Ben, its Sol. I’m calling about the PM on Usher. What’s your timing?”
“I’ll be starting on him shortly.”
“Good, I’ve got to be someplace else first, then I’ll be with you.”
“There’s a risk you’ll miss some of the operation.”
Well, that was a shame.
Thirty
Now
Gray parked in the shadow of Staner Court, the high-rise on the Newington Estate where Jason Harwood lived. A few minutes later he was knocking on Harwood’s door. It was opened by Jackie Lycett. She was dressed pretty much the same as when Gray had last seen her. Grey tracksuit bottoms and a stained Joy Division Unknown Pleasures T-shirt. Her hair was plaited. She looked tired.
“You again,” said Lycett. “Jason’s not here.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?” Gray didn’t mind. He’d rather speak with Lycett anyway.
Lycett shrugged. “I’ve got the kids to worry about. Jason can look after himself.”
“Can I come in?”
After a roll of her eyes, Lycett backed away, leaving room for Gray to enter. He closed the door behind him.
“Kids are asleep,” she said, “so we’ll talk in the kitchen.”
“No problem.” Gray followed her along the corridor, past coats hung on the wall, boots and shoes beneath.
In the cramped kitchen, Lycett put just enough water in the kettle. “Want a coffee?” she asked.
“I’m good, thanks.”
Kettle on, Lycett reached into cupboards, grabbed a mug from one, a jar of instant from another. The work surfaces were crammed with baby gear. A large tub filled with bottles and teats, sterilising for future use, containers of baby-milk powder. The sink was a jumble of dirty crockery. The view out the window was over Ramsgate rooftops.
“What do you want?” asked Lycett after she’d made her drink. She held the steaming mug and leaned against the sink, the light from the window behind creating an aura around her.
“Ray Ingham.”
Lycett’s hand shook. She put the mug down. “What about him?”
“How well do you know him?”
“What does that mean?”
“Does he come here often?”
“Every now and again, he’s one of Jason’s mates.”
“Always when your boyfriend is here?” Lycett didn’t answer. She picked the mug up – took a sip.
“When I was searching the flat the other day, Jason said something interesting. That the baby wasn’t his. Whose is it, Jackie?”
She dropped the mug. It burst into pieces on the floor, spraying ceramic shards and hot coffee everywhere. “Get out.” She pushed off the sink, pointed at the door. “Get out!”
Gray stood. “You two want to be together but Jason is in your way and Ray decided to fix the problem. Is that it?”
Lycett turned, picked up a food-encrusted plate and hurled it in his direction. Gray ducked and the plate shattered against the wall. As Lycett picked up a bowl, he ran into the corridor. The bowl broke a few feet from him. He reached the front door, Lycett following, a knife in her hand. She shrieked, “You bastard!”
As Gray opened the door, the baby began to cry. Lycett paused, torn between chasing Gray and attending to her offspring. Gray took his chance and bolted, slamming the door behind him. Rather than wait for the lift he took the stairs.
Gray was panting by the time he reached the ground floor. Lycett hadn’t pursued him. He headed out to the car, digging his keys and his mobile out of his pocket as he walked. A huge smash beside him made Gray leap sideways. A plant pot had hit the ground, spraying soil and leaves everywhere. He looked up. Lycett was leaning over a railing, an object raised above her head; a deck chair. She let go. Gray watched its trajectory and dodged it. Lycett backed away and Gray got into his car.
When he was a safe distance away, he called Worthington. “Jerry, I’m at Staner Court. Harwood’s girlfriend has gone off on one. Started chucking stuff at me. Get uniform down here so we can pull her in.”
“I’ll see where the nearest car is, sir.”
“Call Social Services too. The kids are with her.”
“Will do.” Worthington rang off.
Within three minutes a squad car, lights flashing, entered the grounds of Staner Court. It hadn’t taken long because there was always a patrol around the Newington Estate; visible policing. The two uniforms got out.
“Anybody else on their way?” asked Gray.
One of the constables, a grizzled veteran known in the station as Gripper, eyed the plant pot. “Just behind us, Sol. A bit of gardening gone wrong?”
Gray was glad it was Gripper; he was a big bastard with a busted nose and small eyes. He could cow people just by looking at them. Before Gray could answer, a second car arrived, spilling out two more officers. Gray explained the situation.
“Should be more than enough,” said Gripper when Gray had finished. “Let’s get this done then.”
The door to Harwood’s flat was closed. Gray tried the handle. It was locked. Gray knocked, shouted, “Jackie, it’s Inspector Gray. Open up please.” No answer. He hammered on the door again. Still no response.
“Want me to break it down?” asked Gripper.
“Go ahead,” said Gray.
Gripper stepped back, raised a foot and kicked out, his boot hitting the door just above the handle. The wood cracked. Gripper shouldered the door open.
Gray entered, closely followed by Gripper. “Jackie,” said Gray. “Let’s sort everything out.” Lycett didn’t answer. Gray made his way slowly along the corridor, alert. He found Lycett on the balcony. She was sitting on the railing, the baby in her arms. If she moved her weight at all she and the baby would fall. Gray remained in the doorway. He motioned for Gripper to stay back.
“Jackie,” said Gray. “Come inside and let’s talk.” Gray took a slow step forward.
“You won’t listen to me,” said Lycett.
“I’m here now.” Gray moved further towards Lycett. She watched him, but didn’t protest. “Tell me whatever you want.”
“They’ll take my kids.”
“You don’t know that.”
Lycett looked away from Gray and down at the drop beneath. Gray got to six feet away from her. “No closer,” said Lycett. The baby began to cry. Lycett rocked her gently.
“I’ve a daughter too,” said Gray. “There’s nothing more important to me than her. Jackie, this isn’t the answer.”
“What’s she called, your daughter?”
“Hope. She’s pregnant. I’m going to be a grandfather soon.” He shuffled further a little more. Gray was within reaching distance. “Please come down and we’ll talk about it. I promise we’ll do right by you and your children.”
“I don’t believe you.” Jackie closed her eyes and began to tip backwards. Gray leapt forward and got a hold of Jackie’s arm. She shrieked, Gray’s grip maki
ng her twist so she was facing down. The baby began to wail. Gray hung on, fighting gravity while Jackie struggled. Then Gripper was beside Gray. Between them they hauled Jackie off the railing. She collapsed to the floor, hugging the baby to her chest.
“Christ, that was close,” said Gripper.
***
Gray had to await the arrival of Social Services, so by the time he negotiated his way to the Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother Hospital on the edge of Margate, parked and found the post-mortem suite, the analyses were already underway. The corpse’s head was nearest Gray. Clough had just opened up the brain cavity. Gray couldn’t tell if this was Telfer or Usher.
Clough was bent over the body in the examination room itself, all white tiles and stainless steel, dazzling spotlights, glittering surgical instruments, and gaping drains, everything designed for an easy clean.
The viewing area was separated from Clough’s workspace by a large plate-glass window. It was plain in comparison, as if the lion’s share of the budget had been reserved for the dead. The walls were washed in a lemon yellow; rows of uncomfortable chairs fixed to the floor, all facing the same direction – towards the window. The spectacle of evisceration was difficult to avoid. The air was icy and stank of disinfectant. Gray kept his coat on and breathed through his mouth.
The pathologist must have caught Gray’s movement because he looked up from his work. Clough was dressed in a lab coat, pure white. He wore purple nitrile gloves and a mask across the lower half of his face. His hair was beneath a cap so just a thin strip between his brow and the bridge of his nose was visible.
Clough flicked a switch. “Nice to see you, Sol,” he said. Gray raised a thumb in response. The communication was one way. “Mr Telfer has been dealt with; I’m just with Mr Usher at the moment. Shouldn’t be long. I’m almost through.”
Gray had to admit he was pleased he wouldn’t be witnessing much of the evisceration. It was a procedure he would never get used to and never wanted to.
“I should be no more than thirty minutes,” said Clough, clicking off the intercom, meaning Gray wouldn’t be listening to the pathologist’s running commentary.
In fact, Clough required less than time than he said, during which Gray attempted to look anywhere else but through the glass. At times he wished he still smoked, the perfect opportunity to go outside. Gray fiddled with his phone instead. Clough would understand.
Clough finally said, “I’m done.” The pathologist, keeping bloodied hands raised, pushed his way through a pair of double doors to the rear. He would be cleaning down now, stripping off his gear.
Gray, glad to exit, headed for Clough’s office, a tiny affair, barely enough room for a desk with a chair, and two more for visitors. For a tall person like Gray, sitting down meant his knees were pretty much pushed up to the desk itself. On the back wall were a couple of framed diplomas. A bookcase to Gray’s right held medical journals. Light entered through windows inset with chicken wire the size and shape of graph paper.
It took Clough a couple of minutes to clean down. He shouldered the door, having to close it first before he could access his chair. Clough shook hands with Gray and flopped down in his seat. As usual, the pathologist’s palms were as cold as melting ice.
“Can’t keep away it seems, Sol.”
“It’s all the dying people,” said Gray. Clough snorted in his approximation of a laugh. “Initial thoughts?”
“First, I concur with the scene-of-crime officers that the weapon used to kill Mr Usher was a shotgun.” Clough paused, pointed past Gray. “Pass me that book, would you, Sol?”
Gray handed Clough the volume he wanted. The pathologist riffled through until he hit the right section. Gray stood up to see what Clough was looking at; a series of photos of damaged corpses.
“This is an article by a man called Cassidy who spent a lot of time analysing shotgun wounds.”
“Lucky guy.” Gray returned to his seat.
“Quite. Now, I have to compare the images I took during the PM with these. If there is up to a metre between shooter and victim, the central wounds are still in the region of two-and-a-half to four centimetres in diameter. When the shooter is more than a metre away, scalloping of the wound is observed.” Clough flipped through the book, settling on another section further through. “Unlike rifles, shotguns don’t generally lead to exit wounds unless there’s a contact wound to the head.
“Which means that if the barrel was touching the head when fired, I’d expect to see massive destruction because the combustion gases produced during the firing also enter the skull. Their expansion would have blown Usher’s cranium apart, spreading bone and skin fragments far and wide. I’d only be able to determine the exact point of entry via a painstaking reconstruction by literally piecing bone fragments together like a grisly jigsaw. Also, there would be soot, burn and carbon marks and unburnt powder.” Clough closed the textbook.
“I conclude that Mr Usher was killed by a single blast from an intermediate velocity shotgun removing most of his face and the back of his head. From the amount of damage and the lack of secondary materials I’d say he was shot from around a metre or so. Death would have been instantaneous and occurred an hour previous to my arrival at the scene, approximately 3am. I’d say he definitely died in the car.”
“There’s a but,” said Gray, because he knew there was. “Right?”
“Yes. Can you put this back please?” Clough handed Gray the book. Clough continued. “I found ligature marks on his wrists and ankles, sufficiently deep to suggest he’d been tied up for a period of time beforehand. And they were very recent.”
“I’ll see whether CSI found any rope in the car. What about Telfer?”
“Yet another interesting conundrum, Sol. He was wrapped in a large sheet of plastic. His blood had pooled within the sheet. I also found blood had settled along the back of his body so I surmise he was stabbed to death in-situ. The amount of pooling would indicate a time of death earlier than that of Mr Usher by a good four to five hours.”
“Had he been bound as well?” Again, Gray knew the answer but needed to go through the motions.
“There weren’t any indications of restraint, no.”
“Okay.”
“If that’s all, I’ll write up my report forthwith.”
“Thanks, Ben,” said Gray.
Gray left Clough to his writing and headed back to his car. When he arrived at the station he went straight up to Hamson.
“I’ve just been to Usher and Telfer’s PMs,” said Gray. “Time of death differed between the two of them. Telfer around 10 or 11pm, Usher approximately 3am. Both were murdered in the car, but Usher had been bound for a period beforehand.”
“Bound?” asked Hamson.
“That’s right. I need to check if there was any rope in CSI’s manifest.”
“We can see now. Just a moment.”
Hamson tapped away at her keyboard to access the electronic file. “No, nothing even close to a binding.”
“Based on Clough’s findings, and the first report of the shooting coming in, it’s reasonable to assume that Telfer was already dead by the time Usher arrived. The question is whether Usher drove himself or if somebody else did.”
“We need CCTV to help make sense of this.”
“Agreed.”
“What about McGavin?” asked Hamson. “You’ll be interviewing him at some point? As Usher was his business partner and mentor.”
“I doubt we’ll learn anything from him.”
“His attitude will be interesting though. What do you reckon, happy or sad?”
“When it comes to McGavin, guessing is futile.”
Thirty One
Now
Gray was on the verge of entering the Detectives’ Office when Wyatt caught him. “You look dreadful, Sol. Are you all right?”
“It’s all these early starts. They’re beginning to catch up with me.”
“I guess you heard the intel? About the new drugs supply?”
“Yvonne told me earlier.”
“It’s awful, though I suppose every cloud has a silver lining. I get to stay here a little longer.”
“Not under the best of circumstances, Emily.”
“You don’t want me around then, inspector?”
“That isn’t how I meant it to come out.”
“I’m just joking, Sol. God, where’s your sense of humour?”
“In bed. What’s the latest?”
“I’m still trying to untangle what’s happening out on the streets. Mike has been putting the hours in talking to his contacts. But what’s obvious is there’s a new, better supply which is going down a storm and definitely a replacement line out of London. They’re clearing up. Desperate customers, pristine product at a lower price. If you’re a junkie, what’s not to love?”
“What does Yarrow think?”
“He’s got Sheerness in his targets now. Speaking of which, a friend of mine has been trying to reach you.”
“Who?”
“Elise Trent, the governor at HMP Swaleside. I met her on an Open University course a few years ago. We got on really well and we’ve stayed in touch since.”
Gray frowned. “Swaleside is where Parker got sent on remand.”
“If you say so. Anyway, she’s been trying to call and couldn’t reach you and asked me to pass on her number. She seemed pretty pissed off.” Wyatt handed over a scrap of paper as her mobile jingled.
“Pissed off?” asked Gray. “Why?”
“It’s Mike,” said Wyatt checking the phone’s screen. “Sorry, I’d better take this. I’ll see you later.”
Gray stared at the paper as Wyatt drifted away but he was only going to learn what Trent wanted by calling her. She answered within a couple of rings.
“Miss Trent, Inspector Gray returning your call.”
“Ah! The elusive policeman. I’ve tried to contact you several times. I even left a voicemail.”
“Sorry, this is the first I knew about it.”
“I rang on this number, I assure you.”
“I don’t know what went wrong.”