Burn the Evidence Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Title

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Teaser

  About the Book

  A body washes up on the beach near Ramsgate in the South of England. For DS Solomon Gray, the case appears cut and dried—a drowning. An immigrant. Another victim to the sea in his desperate attempt to reach the UK.

  As the tidewaters recede, two more corpses surface. One appears to be a refugee, stabbed to death. The other, Gray recognises immediately. Regan Armitage: son of business tycoon Jake Armitage. Gray knows this means trouble.

  A post mortem reveals ligature marks on Regan's wrists. Drugs in his bloodstream. All signs indicate murder. Armitage swears to track down his son's killer and avenge his death.

  Gray's investigation points to a deadly fire ten years prior, and soon Armitage comes under suspicion. But DS Gray knows what it's like to lose a child and puts aside his distrust of Armitage to help.

  How are the dead men connected to each other—and to the infamous fire?

  It's then that Gray gets another tip on the whereabouts of his own missing son, Tom …

  Burn the Evidence is the second book in a series featuring Detective Sergeant Solomon Gray. The crime series is perfect for fans of Ian Rankin, Stuart MacBride, and Peter James.

  About the Author

  Keith Nixon is a British born writer of crime and historical fiction novels. Originally he trained as a chemist, but Keith is now in a senior sales role for a high-tech business. Keith currently lives with his family in the North West of England.

  Readers can connect with Keith on various social media platforms:

  KEITH NIXON

  BURN

  THE

  EVIDENCE

  A SOLOMON GRAY NOVEL

  »be« by BASTEI ENTERTAINMENT

  Digital original edition

  »be« by Bastei Entertainment is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe AG

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. This book is written in British English and edited according to the Oxford Guide to Style.

  Copyright © 2017 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6-20, 51063 Cologne, Germany

  Written by Keith Nixon

  Edited by Al Guthrie and Ray Banks

  Project editor: Lori Herber-Griffin

  Cover design: Manuela Staedele

  Cover illustrations: © whiterabbit83/iStockphoto

  eBook production: Urban SatzKonzept, Düsseldorf

  ISBN 978-3-7325-4182-9

  www.be-ebooks.com

  Twitter: @be_ebooks_com

  Chapter 1

  Rachel lay in bed, staring at a ceiling she couldn’t see in the darkness. Her brother, Jonathan, was a few feet away; his breathing, regular and deep.

  The problem was her father. Or at least it could be, Rachel wasn’t sure. His place was in a cot bed on the other side of the room, next to the door. Trouble was, she was unable to tell if he was asleep or just pretending, trying to catch her out.

  The holiday — only a few short days — was over already. In the morning, they’d be heading back to smoggy London, a million miles away from Margate. A million miles from Cameron. She simply had to see Cameron one last time before she left, no matter what her father thought.

  Rachel pushed back the covers, put her feet onto the carpeted floor, the thick pile pushing between her toes, and carefully got up. The bed creaked. She froze. Jonathan stirred, rolled over. Nothing from her father. She dressed quietly, pulling on a pair of trousers and slipping a top over her vest. She picked up her shoes; didn’t bother putting them on, she’d do so downstairs.

  She crept across the room, avoiding the squeaky floorboard. She almost made it. The door was half open when her father said, “Going somewhere, Rach?”

  Over her shoulder she could see him sitting up in bed, silhouetted by the weak light from the landing. He must have been awake all along. “I wanted to watch the waves,” she said.

  Her father rose and crossed over to her. His expression was a frown, as was the tone of his voice. “Are you going to see … him?”

  “No,” she lied once more, hating to do this to her father, but she had to. Love won over everything, didn’t it? “Please? Just for a little while.”

  Her father sighed. Rachel knew then that he’d fold. He’d been easy on her and Jonathan since they’d come back home. After her mother disappeared, leaving Rachel and Jonathan to fend for themselves.

  “Come here,” said her father, beckoning.

  Rachel went to him, leaving the door open behind her. He enveloped her in his strong arms. She smelt his body odour. It wasn’t strong or off-putting, just a natural smell. He stepped back, put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Go back to bed, Rach,” he said.

  “What?” Rachel couldn’t believe it. She took a step back, shook his hand off, then another step.

  “You’re too young to be meeting a boy at this time of night.”

  “I’m sixteen soon. And I love him!”

  “You can’t possibly know what love is at your age.”

  The derision was obvious in his voice, it cut through her. Tears in her eyes, she turned and ran out the door, pulling it closed behind her, shoes still in her hands.

  “Rachel!” shouted her father.

  She barrelled down the stairs, one flight after another. His heavy feet were close behind. He couldn’t catch her, not now. When she reached the bottom, the light was on in the hall. Mrs Renishaw, who ran the Sunset guest house, standing in the doorway wearing a dressing gown, her old-fashioned perm in a net.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  Rachel didn’t pause to answer, but made a dash for the front door. She twisted the Yale lock and was onto the pavement before her father got outside. She heard Mrs Renishaw ask her question again, louder this time. Rachel sprinted, heading down the hill, past the Winter Gardens.

  “Rachel!”

  She glanced over her shoulder. Her father was standing on the top step; Mrs Renishaw at his elbow, peering past him. He called once more. Rachel ignored him.

  An hour, that was all. An hour with Cameron
. It wasn’t long. It would be over before they knew it. When Rachel got back to the guest house she’d apologise and her father would forgive her. Eventually.

  But for now, Cameron was her focus. He’d be waiting for her at the harbour, as they’d arranged.

  The trouble was, for Rachel, in that hour everything would change.

  Chapter 2

  Ten Years Later

  Solomon Gray dug around in the pouch at his waist and grabbed hold of two cartridges. He slotted them into the cracked open barrel, snapped the weapon shut. He stood with one foot forward and the shotgun only half raised, held away from his chest.

  “Pull!”

  Gray sighted the clay before he nestled the weapon. It had to be firmly in place, otherwise the kick of the recoil could do serious damage, possibly even dislocate his shoulder. A circle the size of a saucer was fired across Gray, heading from left to right. He tracked the clay and fired, two rapid blasts, one after the other. The clay carried on into the trees, untouched.

  “Looks like the drinks are on me tonight,” said Gray.

  “You’re just rusty,” said Jeff Carslake.

  “It’s been a while, right enough.”

  If Gray remembered correctly, at least six years. He’d sold his gun back then too. He couldn’t be bothered with the rigours of maintaining a licence for something he didn’t see himself using again, so he was borrowing Carslake’s spare. It was heavy, unfamiliar. At first his aim had been surprisingly decent, though the initial targets were the easy ones, fired at a shallow, rising angle. Gray had plenty of time to zero-in on the clay. However, since then the difficulty had increased and Carslake’s more trained eye meant Gray’s score had fallen further and further behind his friend’s.

  “Try again. Think in terms of shooting down a plane.”

  Gray reloaded. “Pull!” He tracked the gun slightly ahead of the clay and fired. The pellets clipped the edge. It was a hit and therefore a point, but Gray was disappointed. The next he blew apart.

  “You’re getting the hang of it,” said Carslake. He took Gray’s position on the shooting platform, nestled the shotgun tight into his shoulder and stared down at the sight. “Pull!”

  His shot blasted the circle into smithereens. Gray sighed.

  Half an hour later, the course completed, Carslake and Gray were in the bar. Gray carried the drinks over to the corner table where Carslake was seated.

  Gray raised his glass in salute to the winner.

  Carslake bowed. “It’s good doing this again, Sol.”

  “Yes,” agreed Gray. And it was. In fact, Gray felt great. He and Carslake used to come here regularly after work, rather than taking a day off as they had on this occasion. They’d been fiercely competitive, Gray the slightly better of the pair back then. Spending time together outside work socially. Gray with other people. It seemed familiar, yet odd.

  “Same time next week? One evening, maybe?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Won’t be long before you’ll be giving me a run for my money.”

  “Who knows, I may practise when I’m off-shift.”

  Carslake laughed. Gray fidgeted; he had a question burning in his mind.

  “Did you hear any more from your contact?” asked Gray. “About Tom?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did.” Carslake put his glass down. “Today, actually.”

  Gray leaned forward. “Was it him? Was it Tom at the ferry port?”

  “Maybe.”

  “How can it be a ‘maybe’? Either it was Tom or it wasn’t?”

  “A decade’s a long time for someone’s memory to falter. Christ, a witness can be unreliable within minutes, never mind years! You know that.”

  Gray rubbed a hand over his face. “Sorry, it’s just bloody frustrating.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Why has all this only just come to light?”

  “It seems some case material was lost.”

  “What material?” Gray went cold, he’d possessed every piece of documentation relating to his son’s disappearance and now it appeared the collection had been incomplete. Ten years of searching knocked off track because of a missing piece of paper. Ten years during which Gray’s family fell apart. Estranged from Kate, his wife, and his daughter, Hope, who’d gone to live with his in-laws and not come home again.

  “A witness statement. The man my contact spoke to is retired now but still lives in Dover. He definitely recalled seeing a boy, possibly matching Tom’s description, in the back of a car as it was driving onto the ferry. He remembered it because the boy had looked petrified. I drove there myself and showed him Tom’s photograph. He’s pretty sure it was him. It seems Tom was being taken to France.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me, Jeff?” Gray was stunned by the revelation. “I could have spoken to him myself. He may have given me something vital!” Gray was almost shouting. People in the bar were turning to stare.

  “For God’s sake, Sol. Keep your voice down.”

  “I don’t give a shit what anyone else here thinks,” said Gray, but lowered his tone. “This is my son we’re talking about.”

  “Your response is exactly why I kept this from you, Sol. If the lead had come to nothing how would you have felt then?”

  Numb, thought Gray. Like always. He said, “Where does the witness live? I want to meet him.”

  “Just outside Dover, in St. Margaret’s — and I’ll arrange it, of course.”

  “As soon as you can.”

  “Of course. Look, Sol. This is a really good development. You should be pleased. It’s more than you’ve had for years.”

  “Sorry, Jeff. I’m delighted.”

  “I haven’t stopped pursuing this either. The search continues in France. The trouble is, from there he could have been moved anywhere. The haystack just got a lot, lot bigger.”

  “Thanks, Jeff.” He felt guilty now for going off at Carslake.

  “No need to thank me. That’s what friends are for.”

  Gray’s mobile rang. His hands were shaking with emotion as he pressed the green key. He listened briefly to the caller before disconnecting.

  “What?” asked Carslake.

  “There’s a body on the beach.”

  Gray’s day off was over.

  Chapter 3

  The body lay face down, its weight creating a depression in the wet sand. One brown arm was flung out, the other tucked beneath the torso. Both shoes were missing; bare feet on show. The toes were crushed together, overlapping one another, Gray guessed, from being squeezed into footwear several sizes too small over a long period of time. The clothes were still sodden, the waves breaking a few feet away, the tide retreating.

  A runner out in the early morning March sunlight had spotted the body. At that point, the mud-coloured water had only released the upper third of its prize. By the time Detective Sergeant Solomon Gray arrived, all was revealed.

  What made the corpse stand out against the dull background was the fluorescent yellow buoyancy aid, straps over the shoulders and a belt tied around the waist. The “life” jacket had proved useless at its one and only task.

  Experienced sailors spent good money on reputable brands — the flotation devices literally could be the difference between survival and death. Novices, like weekend kayakers, usually went cheap. Fine if the shore was within spitting distance and the water a millpond.

  Further along the shore, stranded on seaweed-strewn chalk and flint rocks, was a deflated dinghy. It lay like a banana skin, discarded, battered, and bruised.

  The wind had whipped Gray’s clifftop flat last night, stopped him getting to sleep. It had been breezy all day. These days he lived not much more than a mile from here, a stretch of beach about midway between the resorts of Broadstairs and Ramsgate. Gray expected the dinghy had been pitched over by high waves, or had suffered a puncture. Whichever, the end result was a washed-up corpse.

  Centuries ago, this area of coastline had been the covert port of entry for contraba
nd smugglers, bringing ashore alcohol and tobacco at an out-of-the-way place to avoid customs tax. The entrances to caves and tunnels, cut into the soft chalk, still existed. These days the illegal “cargo” was people.

  The bay could only be reached when the tide was low. After a hike from the nearest break in the cliffs, it was popular with tourists, offering a café and toilets where Gray had descended a footpath. Most people rarely made it this far, choosing to stay close to the amenities, but Gray had walked this route many times on his way to Ramsgate. It was the perfect landing spot if you didn’t want to be seen. At night nobody came here.

  “Another bloody immigrant.” Detective Sergeant Mike Fowler stood beside Gray, a foot shorter in height and broader in the chest; powerfully built. Fowler sported a porn-star moustache — a relic from an annual charity event — and a sneer.

  Gray suspected Fowler was right, though silently thought it’s refugee, not immigrant, you idiot. Incidences of trafficking had soared over the last few years. They were so close to the European continent, France and Belgium could be seen on a clear day.

  In times of austerity and high unemployment, people-smuggling was one of the few growth industries; a classic scenario where demand dramatically outstripped supply, where desperation and hope were ruthlessly exploited. Money changed hands, risks were taken, people died.

  Still, even if Fowler was probably right, Gray wasn’t going to say so.

  “Another bloody person, you mean.”

  Fowler was no more than a colleague to Gray these days, their friendship stretched and strained through years of conflict that just never quite seemed to go away.

  “No, I really don’t. I mean, who goes out in a dinghy at the dead of night otherwise?”

  Gray could see his point, but where were the rest? Trafficked people were always brought ashore in groups.

  “Show some compassion, man.”

  “For what? They’re like bugs. One disappears; three more materialise in their place. We’re overrun. It can’t carry on.”

  Gray’s heartburn flared up again. Periodically, he experienced a discomfort in his chest cavity, a pressure within, often when Fowler was around and his stress levels rose. Usually a drink of milk calmed it, but there was none to hand out here.