by Keith Nixon
“Sure,” said Hamson. “I’ll see you next door in a few minutes.”
When Hamson had gone, Gray pulled out his mobile. “Marcus, it’s Sol. Can you bring Hope back home?”
“Tomorrow okay?”
“Great, thanks.”
“You sound tired, Sol. Like you need a break.”
“Hopefully I’ll get one soon. See you later.”
Gray disconnected. He noticed a text had come in, from Hamish. He was on the way down to Thanet now and would be over in the morning. He asked Gray to tell him where and when to meet.
Then Gray went to see Hamson. To make up a story for the last time.
Thirty Eight
Now
Gray rose late the following morning. Hamson had given him the day off. Wyatt had stayed over, but she wasn’t in bed when he woke. He found her on the balcony, nursing a cup of tea. Hope was with her. Gray forced himself to go outside, the memory of his fight with Fowler still sharp in his memory. Wyatt stood, hugged Gray.
“Are you okay, Dad?”
“I’m fine thanks. Where’s Marcus?”
“He’s gone. We didn’t want to disturb you.”
“I’ll make you a coffee,” said Wyatt, rising. She kissed Gray on the cheek as she passed. “We’ve been talking about you, of course.”
“I’d have expected nothing less.”
Wyatt’s chair was positioned right in the sun which was poking through the clouds.
“Why don’t we go for a walk later?” asked Gray.
“I’d like that. What about Stone Bay? We used to go there all the time as kids.”
And that was where Tanya, briefly Gray’s girlfriend, had been murdered. But Gray felt like he could finally move on from the past. “Okay,” he said. “But a coffee and a shower first.” And a text to Hamish.
***
Later, when Wyatt had taken her leave, Gray and Hope walked through Broadstairs, past Morelli’s, a family-run ice-cream parlour that had barely changed since the 60s, then the Albion Hotel with the best views in Broadstairs, the mini arcade of flashing lights and rattling slots, before turning down Harbour Street, a hill which led down to the jetty from which they stepped onto the sand.
Hope linked her arm through Gray’s and they walked in silence for a while, enjoying the sound of the breaking waves.
When they reached Stone Bay they sat for a while on the sea wall watching people walk as close to the curling waves as possible without getting wet. A handful of Common Gulls perched in the sand, ignoring the passers-by.
Eventually Hope said, “I’ve made my decision, Dad. I’m keeping the baby.” Gray squeezed her hand, not trusting himself to speak. “I’m a due for a scan next week. Will you come with me?”
“Of course. I’ve told you already. Whatever you need.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“I’ll always be here for you.”
They sat like that for a while until a shadow fell across them.
“Hello, Hope.”
Hope, shielding her eyes from the sun said, “Hamish! What are you doing here?”
“That would be down to me,” admitted Gray.
“I just want to talk,” said Hamish. “May I?” He pointed at the spot next to her.
“Free country. Do what you want,” said Hope.
Hamish sat, his feet dangling. He was a tall man, a good few inches over six feet, broad shoulders, a strong jaw, high forehead and dark hair shot through with some white.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” said Gray.
“You don’t need to,” said Hope.
“No, you have a lot to talk about. I’ll see you back at the flat.”
Gray pushed himself up, brushed the sand from his palms and got walking. When he glanced over his shoulder he saw Hope leaning into Hamish, his arm around her. It seemed like everything was going to be all right.
Thirty Nine
Now
“Black suits you, Sol,” said Wyatt as she reached out and straightened Gray’s tie.
He was wearing his dress uniform, an item that hadn’t been out of storage for years. It’d needed dry cleaning. But amazingly, the moths hadn’t been at it.
A gust of wind whipped along Vicarage Street where Gray and his fellow mourners were assembled in a disordered group, mostly police, spread from the pavement into the grounds of St Peter’s Church, a flint-encased building whose origins stretched back a thousand years. A few stood outside the pub directly across the road, drinks in hand.
“Looks like rain,” Gray said. The sky was overcast; the clouds tinged the colour of ash. The hearse was late. He was to be a pall bearer.
“What do you think Fowler’s lawyer is going to tell you?” asked Wyatt.
A couple of days after Fowler’s demise, a man named Keogh had called Gray out of the blue. Keogh had said he was Fowler’s representative and Gray was listed in his last will and testament.
“I’ve no idea, but I’ll find out soon enough.”
“How’s Hope?”
“She’s fine, happy.” Hope had gone back to Edinburgh with Hamish. Gray missed her greatly.
“Look out,” said Wyatt, glancing past him. “Trouble’s on the way.”
“Trouble” turned out to be Superintendent Marsh.
“Morning, sir,” said Gray.
“On a day like this, Sol, no titles please.”
“Fine by me.”
“Have you got a moment? I won’t keep you long.”
“Sure,” said Gray.
Marsh turned, headed past the church, towards the graveyard, along a narrow, tarmac path. He paused beyond the furthest outreach of grievers, outside a small, walled-off section for the cremations.
“We can keep an eye on the gate from here,” said Marsh. “In case the hearse turns up.” Marsh was a pall bearer too.
“Yes, sir. Sorry… Bernard.”
“It’s me who should be apologising to you. I made a mistake, a rather large one.” Gray blinked. The Superintendent wasn’t one for admitting to human frailty. “I was wrong about you.” Gray opened his mouth to protest. Marsh raised a hand to stop him. “Tackling Ingham and McGavin was brave, and you brought in Oakley’s killer. Yvonne was right to put you forward for promotion. You pair are my best men.” Gray held back from pointing out Hamson was a woman. Marsh was on a roll. “Thanet CID is going to need rebuilding from the ground up and I’d like the two of you to lead that effort. As a result I’m making your inspector’s position permanent, which I should have done in the first place. What do you say?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
It was Marsh’s turn to be taken aback. “I thought you’d be delighted.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate your confidence in me, but I’ve never done the job for promotion. And given recent events I’m not sure what I want to do with myself.”
Marsh nodded. “I understand, Sol.” The Superintendent held out his hand. “Well, whatever you choose, you have my best wishes.” The pair shook.
“Sorry to interrupt.” It was Wyatt a few feet away. “The hearse is here.”
***
Gray, Marsh and four other officers had borne Fowler’s coffin inside. The vicar had read his service standing in the pulpit below the stained-glass windows depicting 2000-year-old events and a few hymns had been sung beneath a soaring roof. Gray was aware that proceedings weren’t really a reflection of Fowler. But, had he truly known him?
The answer, of course, was no. He and Hamson had discussed the enigma of Fowler endlessly over recent days. What they’d missed, how they had done so. Wondering at how Fowler had managed to keep his secrets so well. Gray was due to read a eulogy. He’d agonised over what to say. Still was.
The vicar, a middle-aged man with a deep cleft in his chin, beckoned Gray to his feet when it was time. Hamson, seated beside Gray, smiled. Wyatt, sitting on his other side, squeezed his hand.
Gray stood, passed Marsh and Yarrow and climbed the pulpit steps. He withdrew a piece of paper f
rom his inside pocket, placed it on the lectern and smoothed out the creases. All eyes were on Gray, a sea of pale, expectant faces riding waves of black cloth. The nave was packed, cops even stood at the rear. Fowler had been an irascible but popular colleague. The vicar, standing to one side, nodded at Gray, as if he needed encouragement to speak. Gray placed both hands on the lectern, leaned forward and kept his vision on the mix of lies and truth on the paper in front of him.
Somebody coughed. Gray glanced up again. Wyatt raised a covert thumb at him. But Gray was sick of the subterfuge, his own and others. Hadn’t he joined the police to seek out the truth? Feet shifted within the congregation, the silence stretching.
Hamson gave Gray a minute shake of the head; the frown on her face was unmistakable, however.
Not now, not here.
Not ever…
They’d talked about this too. Hamson had been forthright. For all their sakes Fowler had to be literally buried. They needed to move on. They had to make things better, just as Marsh had suggested earlier.
And Gray knew she was correct. In the end, despite everything, Fowler had saved Gray and he would be forever grateful for that. He smoothed out the paper once more before he began to speak.
With each word Gray’s voice grew stronger and Mike Fowler, just for a few minutes, came alive again.
Forty
Now
The offices of Keogh and Lane were located on the narrow and busy road called Moat Sole, just behind the council buildings in the quaint ancient walled town of Sandwich. The building itself was what had been a terraced house, residences either side. Except for the company name inscribed in gold lettering on the downstairs windows, Keogh and Lane was indistinguishable from its neighbours.
Gray was led into Keogh’s book-lined office on the first floor right on time. Slatted blinds across the window cut out some of the morning light. The traffic noise was muted by double glazing.
Keogh, a spindly man who appeared to be in his fifties, placed half-moon glasses on the desk before he stood and came out into the room to welcome Gray. He had a limp and moved slowly. “Old war wound,” joked Keogh as he took Gray’s hand in both of his and shook. “Thank you for coming, Mr Gray. Please, sit down.”
The solicitor waved at a chair in front of his desk and reclaimed his seat, lowering himself down with a slight grimace. Gray settled into the wooden chair. Keogh already had a file open on his desk, which was empty of all other paperwork.
“Is anybody else coming?” asked Gray, expecting Fowler’s ex-wife at least to be present.
“Just you, Mr Gray. The will was read yesterday.”
“I thought that’s what I was here for.”
“Not entirely. I am supposed to hand you this.” Keogh held out an envelope, the standard letter size. Gray took it from Keogh’s unresisting fingers.
Keogh stood and said, “I’ll leave you alone for a few minutes, so you may read in peace.” He limped to the door, closing it behind him.
Gray turned the envelope over in his hands. It was white and plain. Gray’s name on the front. Gray recognised Fowler’s neat script. There was nothing on the back. Gray slid a finger under the seal. Inside was a single piece of paper.
It was an adoption certificate, dated eleven years ago.
***
Gray had left his car in the car park adjacent to what was loosely termed the harbour, really just a wharf on a narrow tidal mud river. Years ago, Sandwich had been on the coast and an important port. Not anymore.
He read the certificate again. His son was still called Tom, but his surname had changed. The parents were listed – Donna and Lewis Massey – but not a precise address. The adoption had occurred in the county of Derbyshire, half way up England, much of it located on a spine of hills called the Peak District. Massey wasn’t a tremendously common name; it should give Gray something to work on.
His phone rang. It was Pennance.
“Marcus,” said Gray.
“I wanted to let you know that we arrested Strang earlier today.”
“That’s good news, well done.”
“You all right, Sol?”
“Yes, sorry, just distracted.”
“I thought you’d be chomping at the bit to speak with him.”
“I’m not sure I need to anymore. I’ve got hold of an adoption certificate which I’m pretty certain means I can find Tom.”
“That’s bloody amazing!”
“To be honest I’m trying hard not to celebrate too much, Marcus. I’ve hit so many dead ends in the past.”
“Where did you get the paperwork from?”
“Fowler left it for me.”
“Then this is it, Sol. This is the end of the road.”
Forty One
Now
Pennance wasn’t quite right. Gray had to travel the road a little further before he reached his destination. There had been a few more people called Massey in Derbyshire than he’d thought. Apparently the family had come over in 1066 with William the Conqueror; there was even a major house in nearby Cheshire they’d once owned, before the line had died out.
The taxi dropped Gray off on a quiet, residential street. Gray shrugged the backpack over his shoulder and checked the address. This was it. The spa town of Buxton. He’d booked a nearby hotel for an overnight stay.
The rain was a persistent drizzle that had stippled the taxi’s windscreen all the way from the train station to here. The driver had moaned about the weather. It rained a lot in Buxton, up in the Derbyshire Peak District. According to the driver it was the highest market town in England and, in his words, copped the lot when it came to bad weather.
After the car had driven away, Gray stood staring at the house, a suburban semi-detached with a faux well in the front garden. All these years and he was about to knock on a door and meet his son.
Gray pushed at the metal gate which separated pavement from property. The hinges squeaked. Gray followed the short path. He paused again before he rapped his knuckles on the door. Nobody answered, so he knocked again.
He heard urgent footsteps before the door opened and a middle-aged woman peeked around, a blue towel wrapped around her head. “Sorry, I was just getting out of the shower.” The towel slipped and she put a hand up to straighten it. Gray recognised her as Donna Massey.
“I was looking for Tom,” said Gray.
“Sorry, you’ve just missed him. He headed out ten minutes ago with his girlfriend, Monica.”
“Oh, when will he be back?” Gray felt deflated.
“I’ve no idea. Sometimes he stays at hers.” She grinned. “Teenagers, law unto themselves.”
“So I understand.”
“I know where they’re going, though,” she said. “If that would help?”
***
“Table for one?” asked the waiter, like it was a crime to be alone.
“Yes.”
The waiter led Gray through into the restaurant, a brightly lit pizza place crammed with tables, just a short distance away from where Tom lived. “Is here okay?”
Gray’s heart leapt when he caught sight of his son. He was facing his girlfriend, side on to Gray. Monica was very attractive and smiling broadly. She played with her dark hair while Tom talked. They clasped hands across the table. She appeared to be a little older than him.
“There, please.” Gray pointed to a place a table away from Tom. The waiter led him over and Gray sat down. He was out of Tom’s line of sight, but with a slight turn of his head, Gray could look at him without being obvious. Gray took a menu, and made a fast choice before sitting back and listening. He was desperate to go over, to pull out a chair and talk to him. But how would he introduce himself? What would he say? Gray had thought about this moment so often, yet now it was here his mind was a blank.
The restaurant was mainly empty so it was easy enough to eavesdrop onto Tom’s conversation. The subjects they discussed were normal enough, about friends, about family, about work. Gray marvelled that Donna Massey had s
o readily given out information to a man she’d never met before. Northerners – too friendly.
As Gray’s pizza arrived, an American, loaded with pepperoni and cheese, Monica pushed back her chair. She stood, her back arched as her posture adjusted for her pregnant belly. Gray was going to be a grandfather twice over. Monica slowly walked off, eyed by Tom the whole way.
This was Gray’s moment. He could talk to Tom now. But he wasn’t able to. It didn’t feel right intrude on Tom’s life like this, not now. He appeared happy and content. A new chapter about to start. Whatever Tom’s memories were of Gray and his past they didn’t matter. Only his future.
He caught the waiter’s eye. “Could I get this to go, please? And the bill.”
While Gray waited for his pizza to be boxed, he thought about what Hamson had said before he caught the train, when he’d tendered his resignation.
“I’ll hold this until you get back, Sol.” She’d put the letter into a drawer. “Just in case you change your mind.”
The End
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Other Novels By Keith Nixon
The Solomon Gray Series
Dig Two Graves
Burn The Evidence
Beg For Mercy
Bury The Bodies
The Konstantin Series