The Solomon Gray Series Box Set

by Keith Nixon

  “Most recently the call wouldn’t connect. It was as if I’d been blocked from doing so.”

  “Not by me. Anyway, how can I help?”

  “I’m afraid this is all after the event.”

  “I don’t understand, Miss Trent.”

  “Mr Parker wanted to speak to you; he was very animated about it.”

  “Why?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me, but he was extremely concerned for his safety, kept insisting his life was in danger.”

  “Who from?”

  “He wouldn’t say. However, he was proved correct. Mr Parker was stabbed this morning by another inmate while he waited in a queue for breakfast. He’s in a critical but stable condition in hospital.”

  “Jesus. Is he going to make it?”

  “Touch and go, inspector. It’s been chaos here since.”

  “I’m not surprised. Why was he attacked?”

  “He’s not in any fit state to talk right now and I doubt he’ll do so when he wakes. Nobody wants to be known as a grass.”

  “What do you think?”

  “It’s a puzzle. I don’t know Parker and his assailant hasn’t been violent previously.”

  “Is he saying anything about why he went for Parker?”

  “Not a word, despite the prospect of a lengthened custodial sentence. I’m sorry there’s not much more I can tell you.”

  “Thanks for letting me know.”

  “I’m just sorry it isn’t better news.”

  “Could you keep me appraised of his situation?”

  “Of course.”

  Gray ended the call and headed back to his desk. He considered what Trent had told him. All Gray could think of was that Parker had some information he was prepared to share. And what was the motive for his attempted murder? To keep him quiet? Gray checked his phone logs. The screen was blank, no missed calls. Next he checked his voicemail, that was empty too.

  There was one occasion Gray had been without his mobile. In McGavin’s garage. And the phone had turned up on Gray’s desk, with his car keys. So somebody had put them there. Gray hadn’t had a chance to consider this, given the recent rapid-fire events. Perhaps the calls had been deleted?

  However, if his log had been wiped there were other ways he could find out the activity. The police had automated access to the largest phone providers via UFED, a piece of data analysis kit manufactured by an Israeli company called Cellebrite. The Public Protection Unit used the machines as standard to check the phones owned by suspected sex offenders. Think a secure password or erasing the phone’s memory was sufficient to protect you from prying eyes? Think again. Not even smashing the phone to pieces these days worked if the memory chips were recovered in one piece.

  The PPU was on the other side of the building. Gray knew one of the inspectors back from when he used to smoke. It was amazing who you could get talking to outside over a burning ember.

  ***

  When Gray walked into the PPU he received the merest of glances from the team working away. Gray couldn’t see his erstwhile smoking buddy, Inspector Karsten Albrecht, a German by birth.

  “Anyone seen Karsten?” asked Gray.

  “He left a few minutes ago. I’m sure he’ll be back soon,” said a woman next to Gray. “Can I help?”

  “I’ll find him, thanks.”

  Gray went outside and, as expected, found Albrecht finishing up a cigarette. “I thought you’d given up, Sol.” Albrecht had lived in the UK for more than a decade. He wore large, black-rimmed glasses and sported a close-trimmed goatee. Albrecht extracted another cigarette and offered Gray the packet.

  “I have.” Gray took the unlit cigarette from Albrecht’s lips. “I’m after your help.”

  “Now?”

  “I’m sure a man of your expertise won’t take long.” Gray handed Albrecht the cigarette and the German slid it back into the packet with a shrug.

  “Flatterer. What is it you need?”

  “A phone looking at.”

  “Whose?”

  “Confidentially?”

  “Of course.”

  “Mine.”

  Albrecht raised an eyebrow. “Interesting.”

  At a table in the centre of the office space sat the black box. It wasn’t much larger than a mobile, square and squat with an LED readout and four buttons, each with an arrow pointing up, down, left and right for navigation purposes. Cables ran from the UFED system to a computer. Gray handed Albrecht his phone. Albrecht plugged the unit into UFED via a standard USB connection.

  “What specifically do you want?” asked Albrecht.

  “A list of the calls from the last three days.”

  “Easy,” said Albrecht, “just give me a moment.” Albrecht used the arrows to scroll through the system options. “Here you go.” The incoming and outgoing calls came up on the screen as a list. Time, date and length.

  “Can I get a hard copy?”

  “Sure.” A couple of clicks on a mouse and a printer whirred nearby. Albrecht collected them and handed over two sheets of paper to Gray. “Is that it?”

  “Told you it would be fast. Drinks are on me next time we’re out,” said Gray.

  Albrecht raised a hand in protest. “You owe me nothing. It was straightforward.” He went to disconnect the phone.

  Something occurred to Gray. “Actually, one other thing. Can you retrieve deleted voicemails?”

  “Within the same timeframe?”

  Gray nodded. Albrecht went back to UFED and tapped away. Moments later, Albrecht looked over his shoulder and said, “Want to hear it now?”

  “Please.”

  Albrecht clicked the mouse. On the monitor a window popped up with a pattern like a voice print. Another click, and Trent’s voice issued over the speakers in time with a band moving along the print.

  “Hello, Inspector Gray, this is Elise Trent from HMP Swaleside. Could you give me a ring back, please?” She then read out her mobile number.

  “Okay?” asked Albrecht.

  “Perfect.”

  “Do you want the message as an audio file? I can email it over.”

  “That would be great. And I’m definitely done now.” He shook Albrecht’s hand. “I appreciate it.”

  “Any time.”

  Back at his desk there was a steaming cup awaiting him. Fowler sitting nearby, raised a mug and said, “Thought I’d make you one for a change.”

  “Thanks.”

  Gray compared the printout against the piece of paper with Trent’s details. Three calls from the mobile and another from a landline. A quick internet search confirmed the dialling code was that of nearby Sheerness. It was a good bet this would be Trent also. So somebody had intercepted and dealt with them, maybe after hearing Trent’s voicemail. It had to be McGavin.

  Gray thought back to his last interview with Parker; how he’d been evasive. The discussion had been recorded on CCTV and Gray could review the footage from where he sat because everything was stored on a central server. With a few clicks, the tape was playing. The perspective was from on high, the camera mounted on the wall above the table and pointing down in order to best observe the subject.

  Parker was furtive, his behaviour almost the polar opposite of the previous day. At the time, Gray had thought Parker wouldn’t meet his eye, but as he watched afresh he changed his opinion. It wasn’t Gray that Parker was avoiding, but Fowler.

  Gray also recalled the camera in the corridor outside the cells. He could access that too. He went back a couple of days, watched Parker being installed in his cell by Sergeant Morgan, the door being locked, Morgan turning and walking away. Gray spooled forwards at 16x speed, slowing down whenever anybody went near Parker’s door. Several times Morgan checked on Parker, peering in through the peephole, giving Parker a tray of food, then removing it.

  As the hour became late the activity in the corridor lessened to just the periodic checks. Gray went faster. He almost missed it. If he hadn’t been watching the clock closely it would have passed h
im by. The time jumped. Gray paused, then rewound.

  It occurred at 02:12. The corridor was empty, the light low. Then it was 02:18. Six minutes were missing. He went back and forth several times. There was a definite gap in the recording. Somebody had wiped it. Somebody who’d been to see Parker at an unholy hour and put the squeeze on him. Somebody who was good with managing digital recordings.

  “You all right, Sol?” asked Fowler.

  Thirty Two

  Then

  The train drew to a slow halt, brakes squealing as metal bit metal, putting Fowler’s teeth on edge. The driver released a gout of air from the hydraulic brakes, like the expelled breath of an out-of-shape runner. A repetitive bleeping sounded from inside the carriages before the double doors popped and slid apart. The train emptied. This was the end of the tracks for the London route, or the start if you were heading into the capital.

  Fowler left the relative shelter of the entrance hall. Constructed in Victorian times, it was parquet floor beneath a tall, curved roof and a grand clock to let commuters know quite how delayed the service was. Heavy wooden doors shuttered behind him.

  The kid was obvious the moment his feet hit the chewing-gum-spattered concrete platform. Rucksack thrown over one shoulder, pipe-cleaner-thin legs, and hunched in a too-thin jacket against the cold wind which blew along the track, funnelled by the building design which was really only intended to keep the rain off waiting passengers. His name was Nick Buckingham and he was Strang’s debut mule, riding shotgun with Fowler for company. After a moment’s orientation, Buckingham pulled up his hood, drew the strings tight, thrust his hands into coat pockets and followed the meagre flow towards the exit. Sheep, all heading in the same direction, and Fowler the wolf.

  As Buckingham passed by, Fowler grabbed him by the arm. Buckingham glared at Fowler with bloodshot eyes. “What?” he said.

  “I’m here to take you where you need to go,” said Fowler. He didn’t like this, being out in the open, managing a runner for Strang. It was dangerous.

  Buckingham shook off Fowler’s restraint. “I ain’t doing shit for you, bro.” Fowler rolled his eyes. Black street language from a white kid, trying to look tougher than he was. At least Buckingham wasn’t rapping with it. The mood Fowler was in he’d have probably punched him.

  “I’m here on behalf of Strang.”

  The kid’s eyes widened, immediately dropping the attitude. “You should have said.”

  Fowler couldn’t be bothered pointing out the obvious. He turned and walked back into the station hallway. He heard hurried footsteps behind him.

  “Where’s your car?” asked Buckingham as they got outside.

  “No need. We’re only going there.”

  Buckingham’s sight followed Fowler’s outstretched arm, pointing to the high-rise flats of Arlington House, looming large over Margate. Beyond were the lights of Dreamland, the amusement arcade which from a distance was more than it seemed; a disappointment close up. Fowler got going again, pausing briefly for a break in the traffic before crossing the road. Buckingham, a few paces behind, couldn’t get over at the same time and he hopped from foot to foot while he paused. Fowler didn’t wait.

  A few yards around the corner was the front entrance. Fowler shoved hard against doors which stuck and squealed in protest. He crossed the lobby, paused by the lift until Buckingham entered, struggling with the door. Fowler pressed the up button. Above, the mechanism cranked into life. Eventually the lift doors opened, stopping halfway. Fowler turned sideways and slid through, sucking his belly in to do so. Buckingham was so skinny he’d no need to copy Fowler. Fowler thumbed the worn button for floor five. The doors closed and the lift jerked into motion.

  The flat was just around the corner from the lift. Fowler took out a bunch of keys, unlocked two five-lever mortices and then a Yale. He allowed Buckingham to go first before closing up. He didn’t bother to shoot the bolts top and bottom. He wouldn’t be staying long enough. He’d tell Buckingham to, though.

  Buckingham walked along the narrow corridor which cut through the flat. Two bedrooms, bathroom, kitchen, then living room with a scattering of cheap furniture and a view over the North Sea through large French windows. Beyond the brightly lit street below it was darkness.

  “Have you got the stuff?” asked Fowler. Buckingham shrugged off the backpack and held it out. Fowler pushed out his hands. “I don’t want it.” Buckingham hefted a shoulder, dropped the pack to the floor. “If you want to eat go back downstairs and turn right. There’s a chippy open all hours, and then a shopping centre.”

  “I haven’t got any money.”

  “They didn’t give you some?”

  Buckingham looked away. “No.”

  Fowler knew it was a lie. Buckingham had spent it, probably on something powdery that went up his nose. Fowler took a twenty from his wallet and handed it over. He’d never get that back.

  “How do I contact you?” asked Buckingham.

  “You can’t. Somebody will be in touch tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m off now. This is for the front door.”

  Buckingham took the key Fowler offered. Buckingham seemed small and lost in the expanse of the living room, bag at his feet. Fowler forced himself not to feel sympathy. He couldn’t, he was just a facilitator, helping merchandise along the way. No more, no less.

  Fowler pulled the door closed behind him, hoping he wouldn’t see Buckingham again.

  Thirty Three

  Now

  “Sir?” Gray twisted in his chair. PC Boughton, the beat cop, was standing a few feet from Gray’s desk.

  “What can I do for you, Damian?” asked Gray.

  “I may have something.” Boughton held out a USB stick. “CCTV.”

  Gray plugged the stick into his laptop, clicked on the file. “Where did you get it?”

  “There’s a takeaway round the corner on Pump Lane, does Thai,” said Boughton. “The Lotus.”

  “I know it.” The food was good.

  “After some trouble last year, they installed a camera.”

  “But we checked everywhere; Worthington assured me it was done.”

  “Mr Lao who runs the place did say we’d been in and spoken to his sons, but they’d assumed the camera was still broken. However, it had been fixed already. When I was walking past earlier, Mr Lao came out and gave me this. He knows I’ve been asking around.”

  The footage ran. It showed a person walking quickly past the camera, their back to the lens. Gray pressed pause. He caught Worthington’s eye. “Jerry, come over here.”

  Worthington walked to Gray’s desk. “What’s up boss?” Fowler joined them too.

  “Damian has pulled some footage from the Lotus takeaway.”

  Worthington frowned. “I went in there myself. I was told there was none.”

  “There is now. Take a look, tell me what you see.”

  Worthington bent over and watched the brief scene play out. When it was done he said, “He’s talking on a mobile.”

  “That’s what I thought.” The person passing by had one hand up to their head. It was impossible to see the phone because of the pulled-up hood, but what else could it be? The hand was raised for too long. A mobile meant they could triangulate the call and obtain a number. Worthington checked the time stamp and wrote it down, then returned to his desk

  “Thanks, Damian, I appreciate it,” said Gray and shook Boughton’s hand.

  “Do you think it might be important?” asked Boughton.

  “Yes, very possibly.”

  “Good.” Boughton grinned. “It’s been doing my head in, knowing there’s a murderer on my patch.” Boughton left the office.

  Mobile operators were required to keep a record of every call and text for a year. The police had a direct link to the database via a single piece of software supplied by Charter Systems and didn’t require a warrant to do so under RIPA – the Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act. The process was automated but operated under ap
parently strict guidelines.

  However, all that was required was for one officer, Gray in this case, to give permission to another to gain access by filling in the required paperwork. Gray pulled the form up, entered the relevant data and fired it off. He raised a thumb at Worthington, who tapped away on his computer.

  By the time Gray reached Worthington’s desk, the DC was already into the system and had a list of numbers onscreen. “Nearest masts are Herbert Place, Addington Square and All Saints Avenue,” said Worthington. The first two just a few streets away from Union Row and the latter at the foot of Arlington House. Three masts were enough to triangulate the position of a phone. “What time was it again?”

  “10.44 on Pump Lane,” said Gray.

  Worthington ran his finger down the list. “This will be the one.” Gray wrote the number down. “It’s a burner.” So no identified ownership; a pay-as-you-go SIM.

  Worthington tapped the number into the database. “It hasn’t been used since the date of Oakley’s murder.”

  “What about the IMEI?”

  The International Mobile Equipment Identity was a unique number associated with the phone itself. The user could easily change the SIM card but the IMEI stayed with the phone for its lifetime. Worthington obtained the details and checked it against the National Mobile Property Register. “This is interesting.”

  Gray got in closer. The owner was Jason Harwood. He’d reported it stolen a month ago.

  “Perhaps it never was nicked,” said Worthington.

  “But Harwood didn’t murder Oakley; he has a cast-iron alibi.”

  “I don’t know what this means, sir.”

  “Me neither.” Gray straightened up. “But let’s bring Harwood in, see what the hell is going on.”

  Gray’s landline rang. He went back to his desk, picked it up. “Sol,” said DS Morgan at the front desk. “There’s someone here asking for you. A Jason Harwood. Do you know him?”

  Thirty-Four

  Now

  When Gray and Worthington entered the interview room, Harwood stopped pacing and looked them over. He was wearing the same tracksuit combination as the previous time Gray had seen him, unless Harwood was like Mark Zuckerberg and Steve Jobs, simply owning a multiple of the same clothing for straightforward decision making. Somehow Gray doubted it.