by Keith Nixon
“Let me know when you’re going to arrive.”
“And you’re sure she’ll speak to me?”
“I’ll make certain of it.”
“Thank you, Mr Gray – sorry – Sol.”
“Let me give you another number in case you can’t reach me.” Gray read out Pennance’s details. “I’ll see you soon.”
If everything went tits up Pennance would take over. Either way, Hope should be fine. He headed out onto the balcony with his whisky. He looked down. Leaning against the metal railings on the cliff edge was Mike Fowler. He lifted a phone to his ear. Gray’s mobile rang inside.
“Come on up,” said Gray when he answered. “I’ve been expecting you.”
***
Fowler closed the front door behind him. “Sol,” said Fowler. Gray, sitting on the sofa, didn’t reply. Fowler glanced around the living room. “Is Hope here?”
“I’m not stupid.”
“Do you mind if I take a look?”
“Be my guest.”
Fowler entered each room in the flat, one after the other, slowly pushing back every door with the heel of his palm, as if expecting somebody to leap out. When he returned, he paused by the coffee table. He stared at the cartridge, but didn’t pick it up.
“Why, Mike?”
“The same as you, Sol.”
“Our situations aren’t comparable.”
“I couldn’t help but get drawn in.” Fowler shook his head. “Carslake—”
Gray cut him off. “Merely opened the door. You chose to walk through.”
“Don’t you think I haven’t regretted it a thousand times since?”
“I’ve no idea.”
Fowler went to the drinks cabinet, poured himself a large shot. He sank half of the measure, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “This is it now, I’m getting out.”
“After one last job?”
Fowler leaned against the cabinet. “You’re a fool, Sol.”
“For not keeping quiet?”
“For not taking McGavin’s side. He’d have paid you, and well. A couple of years and you’d have had a nice pile.”
“Like you?” Fowler didn’t reply. Gray said, “I’m not interested in cash.”
“Retire then!”
“I’d be bored stupid.”
“Jesus, Sol, just something that wouldn’t have led us to this, then.”
“To what, Mike?”
Fowler shook his head. “I can’t protect you anymore.” He finished the whisky; put the glass down beside him.
“Is that what you’ve been trying to do?” Gray hoped his derision rang loud and clear.
“Of course.” Fowler’s shoulders hunched. “If you’d have let it go.”
“I couldn’t.”
“I told McGavin that. I can read you like a book, Sol.” Fowler pushed himself off the cabinet, straightened himself up. He pulled out a mobile, tapped in a number. It was answered quickly. Fowler said, “I have him.” He held out the phone for Gray. He took it.
“Solomon?” It was McGavin.
“What do you want?”
“For you to meet me.”
“What if I don’t?”
“Then I can’t guarantee Hope’s safety.”
“I’m not worried about her.”
“You should be. She can’t hide forever.” McGavin paused a heartbeat. “It’s you or her.”
Gray had a choice, but didn’t. “Where?”
“The place the lad Buckingham took a dive.”
McGavin disconnected. Gray handed the mobile back to Fowler, picked up his glass.
“I’ll see you there,” said Fowler. Gray swirled his whisky, staring into its depths. Fowler left. Gray eventually downed the measure and went to get his car keys before following his ex-friend out of the door.
Thirty Six
Now
There was a space in a bay on All Saints’ Avenue at the foot of Arlington House which Gray pulled into. He switched off the engine, got out and pocketed the keys. Gray couldn’t see Fowler. The car park entrance was still cordoned off.
When Gray entered the lobby, Fowler was awaiting him. Neither spoke, as if they were strangers. Gray called the lift by pressing the up arrow. The mechanism kicked in high above them, the rattle of the gears and chains like Marley’s ghost. When the lift reached them the doors jerked open, then stuck halfway. Gray squeezed through the gap, waited for Fowler. The interior smelt of marijuana. Graffiti had been scratched onto the walls: a phone number offering sexual favours (presumably for a fee), a statement that somebody called Andrew was gay and MUFC – Gray assumed for Manchester United, not Margate or Macclesfield.
Gray pressed a thumb into the worn button for the fifth floor, the number barely legible. The doors closed before the metal box lurched upwards. The lift shuddered to a halt a half minute later, and the doors parted once more. Fowler was first out, leading the way. Fowler took him to the flat where Nick Buckingham had been thrown off the balcony a year ago. Fowler knocked once, a short, sharp rap. Ingham opened up, eyeballing Gray over Fowler’s shoulder.
Once inside, Ingham pushed the door to, the Yale lock clicking into place before Ingham shot bolts top and bottom. He winked at Gray. Braced by Fowler and Ingham, Gray was taken along the corridor, past bedrooms, bathroom and kitchen and into the living room at the far end. It wasn’t much different to the last time he’d been here. A large, glass window stared out over a narrow balcony, the busy road and the North Sea beneath. Sticks of furniture placed around the room – designs from the 1970s made in bulk – low cost and beige. A sofa, couple of chairs, a coffee table in stainless steel and smoked glass. The mould patches where wall met ceiling remained.
McGavin was waiting for him by the window. “They say location is everything, Sol. Although in this case, other than the view, Arlington House is the exception to the rule.”
“You didn’t bring me here for property advice, McGavin.”
McGavin laughed. “To the point, as always. And you’re right, of course. This is about burying the past, Solomon.” McGavin pulled open the large French window. It squeaked on poorly lubricated runners. Immediately wind whistled into the room. McGavin stepped outside onto the narrow balcony. “Come over here, would you?” Ingham needlessly shoved Gray again.
Gray swung around and said, “Do that again and I’ll break your arm.”
“All right, Grandad,” said Ingham. “Calm down.”
Gray joined McGavin, but stayed just within the flat. He wasn’t keen on heights at the best of times. The balcony was a rickety affair, a lump of concrete shoved onto the outside of a cheap building constructed decades ago in an era when throwing up places to live in double-quick time was key. There was a metal railing around the edge which was spotted with rust and cracks across the base.
“Why are we here?” asked Gray.
McGavin attempted surprise. “For you of course, Solomon.” McGavin rattled the balcony railings, metal ground against concrete. “Doesn’t sound safe, does it?” He turned back to Gray. “What I always do is bury the bodies and bury them deep, so they’re never found.”
“Very poetic.”
“Quite, and you’re the last.”
“What is this? Tell a story day?”
“I was thinking suicide, a man so depressed he throws himself off the side of a building at the scene of a previous investigation.”
“That’s not really burying me, McGavin.”
“It was a metaphor,” sighed McGavin. “CCTV will show you driving over here on your own. You spend a bit of time in the flat, deciding your fate before …” McGavin whistled, high pitch dropping to a lower tone, like Gray was falling, before he slapped his hands together. Splat. “What do you think?”
“For you it’s quite subtle.”
McGavin grinned. He stepped back inside, leaving the windows open. Gray was sure the balcony had shifted under McGavin’s weight. The temperature in the room was dropping, the wind cold this high up. “Ah, the
re’s more. Mike here can attest to your ongoing depression and gloominess as, I’m sure, could many of your colleagues. It would be a relatively straightforward task to manipulate an enquiry. But, then again, you know that already, don’t you, Solomon?”
“Speaking of subtlety, Ingham’s attempt to frame Jason Harwood for murder wasn’t so effective,” said Gray. “Dropping his glove at the scene threw me off briefly, but not for long.” Gray turned to Ingham. “Looking forward to prison?”
“What are you on about?” asked Ingham. To Gray he seemed genuinely puzzled. “I didn’t kill the black kid. You’re talking shite.”
Then there was only one other person who’d had access to both Harwood’s old phone and his gloves.
“I’ve had enough of this.” McGavin retreated towards the far end of the room, blocking the exit. “Get it done,” he said. Fowler stayed where he was, between McGavin and Gray, seemingly not keen to get involved.
“Why don’t you just go over by yourself?” asked Ingham. “Make it easier for us all.”
“I never go down without a fight.”
“I hoped you’d say that.” Ingham came for Gray, slowly.
“What’s your daughter’s name, by the way?” asked Gray. Ingham didn’t reply, focused on his task. “The one Jackie Lycett had after your affair?” Ingham paused, his arms dropped as the revelation passed through his mind. Gray feigned surprise. “Oh, she never told you? She’s been arrested so Harwood is looking after your child like he has since she was born, but you’re good with that, right?”
While Ingham hesitated, Gray took his chance and ran at him, dropping a shoulder. He struck Ingham in the chest. The two of them went down. But Ingham was fast and he was angry. Gray’s earlier words had stung and they seemed to lend Ingham extra strength. He was like a boxer – a quick count and up and on his toes, appearing unaffected. Ingham took up the pugilist’s stance, fists up, elbows in.
“Come on,” said Ingham, beckoning Gray.
Gray slowly rose. Before he could get his defence up, Ingham lashed out, his right fist a blur. Gray barely saw the swing, only able to move an inch or so before the blow caught him on the cheekbone. The pain was immediate and Ingham followed up with another, rattling Gray’s teeth. His world lurched. Gray was dazed, ears ringing. Ingham smacked Gray again, right in the solar plexus. Gray lost the air from his lungs, like somebody had reached inside and blocked his throat. He couldn’t breathe, unable to replace the expended oxygen. He sank to his knees, gasping.
While Gray fought for breath, Ingham marched over, grabbed him by the shoulder and dragged him towards the open window. Gray could hardly resist as his body was still fighting for equilibrium. When they reached the balcony, Gray desperately threw out a hand, grabbed onto the door surround, impeding Ingham for a moment. But Ingham cracked Gray’s knuckles and he let go.
The balcony creaked and groaned as Ingham jerked Gray out into the wind. Ingham reached down and got Gray by the belt of his trousers. He began to heave. Gray hung on tight to the balcony railing, wrapping his arms around the rusty metal which bit into his skin. He ignored the pain as the shards sliced skin. The balcony buckled under the onslaught.
“Give me a hand!” shouted Ingham.
Fowler slowly moved forward. His intervention would tip the balance. Gray almost let go then. He couldn’t fend off the two of them. Fowler paused as he reached the window.
“Get his other leg,” said Ingham. “Then we’ll have him over.”
“Mike!” said Gray.
“I’m sorry,” replied Fowler. Then he shoved Ingham in the back. Ingham, not expecting Fowler’s move, lost his grip on Gray and went half over the railing. Gray crawled away, getting off the balcony, as Fowler did exactly what Ingham has requested, got hold of a leg – but it was Ingham’s. Fowler heaved upwards, throwing Ingham into empty space. Ingham screamed all the way down until his wail was sharply cut off. Moments later there was the sound of a car horn and screaming.
Gray lay on the floor, panting. McGavin was gone; Gray had no idea when he’d left. Gray sat up, turned to face the outside. Fowler was standing on the balcony, staring down after Ingham, his back to Gray. Then a loud crack and the balcony lurched again, Fowler taking on a drunken angle. The balcony was coming away, the couplings shearing under Fowler’s weight. He grabbed hold of the railing before glancing over his shoulder, his face twisted in fear.
“Sol!” shouted Fowler. With a screech and another bang the balcony parted from the wall and plummeted. Gray threw himself forward, arm outstretched, in a vain attempt to grab Fowler. But it was too late. Gravity had hold and it wasn’t letting go.
Gray watched Fowler soundlessly fall to the ground below. The balcony smashed onto the pavement, landing on top of Ingham’s prostrate form, spreading debris across the road, Fowler landing a moment later. His body hit the railings before spinning away. From the shape of Fowler’s sprawled form, his limbs at odd angles and his neck resting on his shoulder, it was obvious he was dead.
A passing car slewed to a halt, blocked by a couple who’d already stopped because of Ingham. The driver leapt out, staring at the mess, then the gap where the balcony had once been. He pulled a phone out from his pocket and put it to his ear.
Gray inched inside and rolled onto his back. He stared at the ceiling until the sirens arrived.
Thirty Seven
Now
Hours later, Gray was sitting with Hamson in one of the interview rooms, door closed, recorder off as Gray had requested. Hamson had listened to Gray recount the events leading up to Ingham and Fowler’s deaths open-mouthed. She hadn’t asked a single question.
“I don’t know about you,” said Hamson, “but I need a drink. It’s hard to believe. All those years of lies.”
“He fooled everyone, Von.”
Hamson put her head in her hands. “Marsh is going to be looking for scapegoats over this. A dirty cop under my watch.”
“We’re not going to work that way.” Hamson looked up at Gray. “Mike saved my life, losing his own, which is how we’re telling it.”
“I can’t do that, Sol.”
“Von, he died a hero. Nobody needs to know about his other side. What purpose does it serve now?”
“What about McGavin?”
“Who’d listen to him?” McGavin was on the run, an APB out for his arrest but so far not a trace found at his house or businesses. “Mike was my backup; he saved me from Ingham but died in the process. That’s what I’m saying, Von.” Hamson stared at Gray for a few moments. “It’s the right thing to do.”
Eventually Hamson said, “Okay.”
“Thank you.” Gray rose. “Before we start officially, I know who killed Oakley. I need you with me.”
Jackie Lycett was waiting in the room next door. Gray and Hamson took chairs opposite. An Indian female duty lawyer wearing a sober black jacket and white shirt combination sat beside Lycett. She introduced herself as Miss Sharma.
“I’ve been sitting here ages,” spat Lycett. “What the fuck’s going on? Where’s my kids?” she asked.
“They’re with Mr Harwood,” said Gray. He started the machine recording. “Miss Lycett, who’s the father of your youngest child?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Answer the question, please.”
“Jason is.”
“That’s not true.”
Lycett got to her feet. “You’re calling me a liar?” she shouted.
“Sit down.”
Lycett stayed on her feet until Sharma said, “Miss Lycett, I can’t represent you if you don’t answer the officer’s questions.” Lycett sat.
“And yes, I am calling you a liar. I have it on very good authority that the father of your child is actually Ray Ingham.” Lycett’s face coloured, but she said nothing. Gray continued, “I also know you and Mr Harwood were having relationship issues, directly as a result of your affair.” Lycett dug her fingernails into her palms. “Do you recognise these?” Gray pl
aced two evidence bags before her. One containing Harwood’s glove, the other the “stolen” mobile.
“No.” Lycett crossed her arms, turned away.
“I think you do. I believe you murdered LaShaun Oakley and left the glove at the scene, then used Mr Harwood’s phone to directly implicate him so you could be with Mr Ingham.”
“No.”
“The trouble was you weren’t aware that Mr Harwood was actually at the pub when you were stabbing the victim. You two barely spoke with each other as it was, and Mr Harwood had a frenetic social life, so why would you? And I’d bet you also didn’t know Mr Harwood had reported the phone stolen. He could barely remember himself.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re on about.” Lycett turned to her lawyer. “Tell him, I didn’t do nothing.”
“Have you any evidence to back up your claims?” asked Sharma.
“I’m coming to that. Where were you around 10.30 on Wednesday last week, Miss Lycett?”
“I was at home, with the kids. Jason was out on the piss, as you said. Where else would I be?”
“In the last hour I sent one of my colleagues over to Staner Court to interview your neighbours. It transpires that Mrs Jessop, who lives opposite, babysat for you at the time when Oakley was attacked. So you weren’t at home.”
“She’s full of shit,” said Lycett.
“And we’ve got CCTV footage of Mr Oakley’s assailant, which we’ve analysed to assess height and build. The measurements match yours. Finally, we’re in the process of contacting the taxi firms to ask who they collected from your area and drove into Margate. Any time soon, I’m expecting to come up with the answer. Most of the vehicles have cameras these days. And, right now, crime scene investigators are searching your flat for anything else they might turn up.” Gray turned to Hamson. “I think that’s sufficient, don’t you ma’am?”
“Agreed,” said Hamson.
“Jackie Lycett, I am arresting you for the murder of LaShaun Oakley.” Gray read Lycett her rights. She said nothing.
After Lycett had been led away Hamson said, “Well done, Sol.”
“Before we carry on, can I make a call?”