The Solomon Gray Series Box Set Read online

  Dig Two Graves

  A Solomon Gray Novel

  Keith Nixon

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Twenty Four

  Twenty Five

  Twenty Six

  Twenty Seven

  Twenty Eight

  Twenty Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty Two

  Thirty Three

  Thirty Four

  Thirty Five

  Thirty Six

  Thirty Seven

  Thirty Eight

  Thirty Nine

  Forty

  Forty One

  Forty Two

  Forty Three

  Forty Four

  Forty Five

  Forty Six

  Forty Seven

  Forty Eight

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Twenty Four

  Twenty Five

  Twenty Six

  Twenty Seven

  Twenty Eight

  Twenty Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty One

  Thirty Two

  Thirty Three

  Thirty Four

  Thirty Five

  Thirty Six

  Thirty Seven

  Thirty Eight

  Thirty Nine

  Forty

  Forty One

  Forty Two

  Forty Three

  Forty Four

  Forty Five

  Forty Six

  Forty Seven

  Forty Eight

  Forty Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty One

  Fifty Two

  Fifty Three

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Twenty Four

  Twenty Five

  Twenty Six

  Twenty Seven

  Twenty Eight

  Twenty Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty One

  Thirty Two

  Thirty Three

  Thirty Four

  Thirty Five

  Thirty Six

  Thirty Seven

  Thirty Eight

  Thirty Nine

  Forty

  Forty One

  Forty Two

  Forty Three

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Twenty Four

  Twenty Five

  Twenty Six

  Twenty Seven

  Twenty Eight

  Twenty Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty One

  Thirty Two

  Thirty Three

  Thirty Four

  Thirty Five

  Thirty Six

  Thirty Seven

  Thirty Eight

  Thirty Nine

  Forty

  Forty One

  Other Novels By Keith Nixon

  About The Author

  One

  A door slammed somewhere down the hall, and a drunk shouted in the corridor before a copper shut him up. Inside interview room three, Solomon Gray ignored it all.

  Carslake scraped his chair as he drew himself up to the table. Harder to do these days as his waist was expanding. He had a soft face, but Gray knew better than to underestimate him.

  Carslake said something; to Gray it was just white noise.

  Gray looked up at the crack in the Artex ceiling where the pipe had burst last year. A blob of water hung from a brown stain. He watched as a drop hit the table.

  There was the strike of a lighter, the flare of a flame, the crackle of Carslake’s first drag. “Want a smoke, Sol?”

  “I want my son back.” Gray was bereft of sentiment, his mind trapped in the shock phase of the grief cycle. He felt nothing.

  The lighter flickered once more. It was Fowler this time, his porn-star moustache stained with nicotine. “Go on,” he said, yellow teeth exposed in a grin as he held out a glowing cigarette. “Take it.” Fowler was always one to provide temptation.

  Gray didn’t have the strength to argue. The smoke burst into his lungs, opened the airways. It made him feel light-headed. He wished he hadn’t accepted Fowler’s offer now.

  “Have you made your call?” asked Carslake.

  Gray nodded. “Reverend Hill is on his way to tell Kate. Alice is going with him.”

  His wife, Kate. How was she going to deal with this?

  “Wise,” said Carslake. In other words, Gray thought, someone else’s problem right now. Carslake had bigger fish to fry. “Is the recorder running?”

  “Yep, started it a minute ago,” said Fowler.

  Carslake took another drag on the cigarette, the ember a bright spark in the dimly lit room, then let a sigh escape in a plume of smoke.

  “This is an interview with Detective Sergeant Solomon Gray. Present are Detective Constable Michael Fowler and Detective Sergeant Jeffrey Carslake. Time is…7:35 p.m. on the 15th of December, 2006.”

  7:35 p.m.? Was that all? It felt like it should be much later.

  Carslake rested his forearms on the battered table between them. They’d all pulled a full shift and then some. The weight of the day and friction of the job lingered like Fowler’s body odour.

  Carslake loosened his tie, beads of sweat forming on his brow. The space was small, and the radiator against the far wall couldn’t be turned down, the valve broken and awaiting repair.

  “What happened, Sol?” said Carslake, his voice indulgent.

  “I took Tom to the fair. It’s his birthday.”

  “We know that,” said Fowler. “Tell us something new.”

  Gray paused. New? To him this was all new. A unique emotion, perhaps the last he would ever feel. Carslake glared at Fowler, who held his hands up in surrender.<
br />
  “Carry on, Sol.”

  “I took Tom to the fair. It’s his birthday,” repeated Gray, his memory organised in a straight line.

  “Just the two of you?”

  A sharp nod. “The original plan was we’d go as a family, but Hope wasn’t feeling too well so Kate stayed behind. We were all disappointed. Hope’s only two years older and it would have been great fun for her, too.”

  “How old is Tom?” Carslake knew the answer. It was for the tape.

  “Six. He’s six. And he’s out there somewhere alone.”

  Gray rose from his seat, driven to start looking for his son again. Carslake placed a restraining hand on his arm.

  “Sit down. We’ve got all boots on the ground right now. Understand?” After a moment, Gray nodded and settled again. “Good. Now, what was the fair like?”

  Gray skipped back a few hours in his mind. Bright lights, screams of enjoyment, loud music. “You know how they are. Seen one, you’ve seen them all.” Gray shrugged, stubbed out the cigarette.

  “Go on,” prompted Carslake.

  “I came home late. Shift overran.”

  “When doesn’t it?”

  “True.” Gray tried to laugh, but it sounded more like a wheeze. “Kate was angry about it. Reminded me it was Tom’s birthday. The local kids had been and gone, the presents opened and played with, the cake cut and demolished. She told me, 'The one thing you had to do was get home on time.'”

  “What did you say?”

  “The same as every other working father.”

  Carslake shrugged. “Why don’t you just tell me?”

  “I have to work to pay the bills. No job, no money. Rough with the smooth, you know?”

  “I bet that went down well.”

  Gray grimaced. “No.”

  “And then?”

  “I didn’t even get changed. I took Tom straight out. Kate didn’t thank me; she clearly thought it was the least I could do. Tom was delighted, though.” Gray smiled. His penultimate happy memory. The pleasure dropped away almost instantly. It felt inappropriate.

  “We won a few things on the stalls. Went on a couple of rides.” Gray remembered sitting on a roundabout and then some swings.

  “Did you hit the dodgems?” asked Fowler. “They’re great fun. First thing I head for.” Tom had shrieked with delight when they were thumped into by another dodgem.

  Carslake furrowed his brow at Fowler. “Keep going, Sol.”

  “Tom had been nagging me all evening about the ghost train. But we’d left the house in a rush and I hadn’t picked up my wallet so I was short of cash. In the end, I folded. I told Tom it would be the last thing we’d do, then it was home time. I was knackered.”

  “So, you went to the ghost train…” nudged Carslake.

  “I tried to get out of it one last time by saying we were short of money, that we both couldn’t ride, but…”

  He choked, a moan catching in his throat. The other two detectives waited for Gray to compose himself.

  “Tom was so keen he said he’d go by himself. I had two choices. I could take him home, kicking and screaming, and face Kate’s wrath or… you know.”

  “You let him go on?” said Fowler, unable to keep the disbelief out of his voice. “The lad’s six years old.”

  “If I could go back and change it, believe me, I would.”

  “There’s no need to justify yourself,” said Carslake. “What happened after that?”

  “We queued. Tom held my hand the whole time. I could feel him trembling with excitement. The car arrived. He sat down, and he looked so small that I almost stopped him there and then. Then the bar dropped down and off he went, into the darkness, a huge grin on his face.” Gray stared into the middle distance. “He didn’t come out again.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When his carriage came back, it was empty.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I just stood there. Then I dropped everything I was holding and pushed inside. It was dark. I fumbled around, couldn’t find anyone. Not even the ghost. I shouted for Tom. No reply. I ran out behind the ride. Nothing. It was as if he’d vanished into thin air.”

  “And then?”

  A heartbeat, another. “I screamed.”

  Two

  Ten Years Later

  Death was often pointless, but, given the circumstances, a plummet of five floors from balcony to roadside was at the extreme end of the spectrum.

  Detective Sergeant Solomon Gray was surrounded by white. Powerful lights blazed over the scene, the beams reflecting off the canvas tent sides erected to shield the body from the elements and preserve any evidence.

  The jumper was young, a boy on the cusp of manhood. When Gray first caught sight of the corpse, that same shock arced through him like it always did whenever a report came in about a child in trouble or worse, dead. Could it be his Tom? He squatted down to take a closer look. No, this one was older. Relief, then – hot on its heels – guilt. Once more he’d avoided facing up to reality.

  What the hell drove someone with their whole life ahead of them into a swan dive with only one possible outcome?

  Suicide cases. He hated them.

  According to an eyewitness, the kid had screamed all the way down. A natural response? Or had he changed his mind when it was too late? Or maybe he was unwilling to jump in the first place?

  The kid looked remarkably peaceful, given that one side of his body was smashed into the pavement. Gravity and concrete had fashioned him into a chaotic canvas, an abstract that wouldn’t look out of place in the recently built art museum less than a mile away. If it wasn’t for the Jackson Pollock blood splatter and the vacant, staring eyes, Gray could have imagined him asleep.

  Gray’s mind was like an artist’s palette, assumptions and suppositions whirling into one colourful mess. The past joining with the present. A reminder of his wife’s passing. By her own hand, too.

  “Are you all right?” asked the attending pathologist, Dr Ben Clough, who loomed over Gray, casting a long shadow. He peered at Gray through his glasses with unblinking eyes. Clough was a neat, precise man. Combed sandy hair, trimmed fingernails, washed clothes. The antithesis of Gray in appearance, identical to Gray in the difficulty he had connecting with people. Clough was competent bordering on arrogant.

  Clough had the wiry physique of an athlete, all sinew and muscle. When not working ridiculously long hours he pounded the streets, loping mile after mile. Most presumed it was an escape from his job. Gray knew Clough just preferred solitude. He could relate to that.

  “I’ve seen everything I need to,” said Gray.

  “Haven’t we all.” Clough sounded much older than he looked. “I’ll call when the post-mortem is scheduled.”

  The pair exchanged brief farewells out of courtesy before Gray gratefully stepped out of the evidence tent.

  It was overcast and chilly outside. Arlington House, a granite-grey high-rise on the Margate seafront and the deceased’s diving board, was perfectly in keeping with the seasonal inclemency and the dingy atmosphere. It looked like a monumental tomb. Gray counted five floors and fixed his eyes on the offending balcony. It didn’t look that high up. He wiped a hand over his forehead. It came away slick.

  A gust of wind slapped Gray; reminded him it was December, when autumn was buried and past, and winter was tightening its grip. Christmas was on the way, which meant impending merriment, a holiday and, worst of all, the anniversary of Tom’s disappearance.

  A crowd of onlookers had continued to grow while he was talking with the good doctor. They pressed against the cordon, eager to catch a glimpse of the tragedy. Those nearest the tent flap craned their necks, flamingo-like, teetering on tiptoes to see inside. Then the flash of a camera.

  Gray felt like hunting down the snapper and ramming the lens where it wouldn’t be found. What was it with people? Why did they take such pleasure in witnessing the misfortune of others? Like rubber neckers on a motorway, scoping out the sce
ne of an accident. Morbid bastards with their misplaced invincibility, their unwavering belief that such a fate could never happen to them, that their deaths would come quietly, peacefully in old, old age.

  Gray knew better.

  He’d been around long enough to recognise trouble when he saw it. Soon the jostling for a better look would turn to shoving, then a scuffle, a couple of arrests, followed by paperwork he could do without. Hours of police time squandered. The magistrate would no doubt issue little more than a caution to the offenders after a night in the cells. All of it due to the pursuit of momentary gory gratification. A tinderbox of misfortune that just needed a spark.

  And there it was. Ed Scully, a ruddy-faced freelance newspaper reporter and general ne’er-do-well. Scully was as slick as engine oil, a chameleon who changed his appearance at will to blend with the crowd. Today he was dressed down in jeans and a jacket zipped up to the neck. His hair was shaved back to the skull. If there was bad news, Scully could always be found trailing in its wake, like a seagull following a trawler, scavenging the scraps.

  There was history between them. The purported journalist had cut his teeth on Gray’s misfortunes and continued to nip at him every chance he got. Scully never allowed Gray’s wounds to heal, pulling up the past and dragging it through the papers, always revealing some detail he shouldn’t have known.

  Scully oozed through the crowd, seeking prime candidates to interview, those who would deliver the most abhorrent of quotes and so provide the best copy.

  Scully’s roving eyes spotted Gray. The reporter smiled, then winked. Who better to provide a comment than the harried DS? Gray didn’t react beyond an internal tightening of the gut and a clench of his right fist.

  He broke eye contact with the hack before Scully could force his way through the squeeze of bodies. There was work to be done and Gray didn’t trust himself not to screw it up by slamming his fist into Scully’s face.

  Gray turned to the grim-faced police constable supervising the cordon. He nodded as the PC lifted the tape and granted him a quick exit. Gray could feel Scully’s eyes boring into his spine as he walked on.

  A minute or two later, within the relative peace of Arlington House, Gray nudged the up arrow a couple of times to summon the lift. His thumb successfully cajoled the mechanism into a lumbering descent of many floors, if the distant racket was anything to go by. He leant his forehead on the metal doors to cool his sweating brow.

  Eventually the lift arrived and Gray stepped back. The doors slowly parted in a ta-dah! movement. The lift was empty.

  He rattled the same thumb at the number he wanted until the doors closed. He read the graffiti as a distraction from the all-pervasive odour of urine and cigarettes.