Gray Justice (Tom Gray 1)

  Gray Justice

  by

  Alan McDermott

  Published by Alan McDermott at Smashwords

  Copyright 2011 Alan McDermott

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person.

  Alan wrote this book in his spare time. If you want to read more of his work, please make sure you pay for a copy so that he can quit work and realise his dream of writing full time.

  You may not reproduce this work, in part or in its entirety, without the express written permission of the author.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  I would like to thank my family for putting up with me during the time it took to write this story.

  Books by Alan McDermott

  Gray Justice

  Gray Resurrection

  Gray Redemption

  Prologue

  January 21st 2010

  Stuart Boyle held the Subaru Impreza at a steady thirty miles per hour as he headed towards the town centre. Red traffic lights halted his progress and he gazed around at the people in the cars, on the buses, walking the streets or sitting in their offices, most of them either at work or heading to work.

  He couldn’t understand the appeal of working eight hours, doing someone else’s bidding all day long for a just a couple of hundred pounds a week. In comparison, he was sitting in a nice motor that took just three minutes to steal and would earn him £500 by the end of the day. That fact that he regularly got caught didn't bother him: it was an occupational risk he was willing to take. Capture was simply an inconvenience, another few hours spent in a cell when he could be out casing his next hit.

  No, as things stood, work wasn't for him.

  He caressed the wheel of the Subaru he had stolen the night before, wishing he could keep it a bit longer, but he'd already told Sammy Christodoulou that he had it. Sammy wanted it straight away, and you didn't piss around with Sammy. No, best to hand it over, take the cash and see what tomorrow brings. Maybe he'd keep the next one to himself for a few days.

  “See what other music they got.” he ordered Martin Kyle, who was sitting in the passenger seat.

  In the back, Tim Garbutt nodded his head to the current beat and voiced his displeasure when the disc was changed.

  “Aww, I was listening to that.”

  “Stop bleating, Timmy,” Kyle said, switching the CD for something with a bit more drum and bass, “my gran wouldn’t even listen to that crap.”

  Boyle laughed, but his eyes were on the black Skoda coming towards them. The thick aerial first caught his attention, and as it neared he saw the white shirts and black epaulettes of the occupants that identified them as police in an unmarked car. The Skoda passed them and in his rear view mirror he watched it continue for another hundred yards before the blue lights illuminated and it performed a u-turn.

  Game on.

  *

  “That’s Stuart Boyle in the Scooby,” PC Trevor Haines told his partner. That was enough for PC Glenn Barker and he hit the blues and twos before spinning the car around in pursuit.

  “Hotel Oscar, this is Romeo Tango Two Five, can we have a PNC check on a blue Subaru Impreza, licence number Whiskey Victor Five Three Victor Kilo Mike.”

  Although it was procedure, the call in was a formality because PC Haines knew for a fact that Stuart Boyle didn’t own a Subaru Impreza, nor could he have insurance to drive one because he didn’t have a driving licence. In fact, Stuart Boyle had never had a valid driving licence: his driving ban had started before he was even old enough to apply for one and he had a string of motoring convictions, ranging from driving without a licence, driving whilst disqualified and driving without insurance, to theft of a motor vehicle and Taking Without the Owner’s Consent. All this despite being just twenty years of age.

  “Romeo Tango Two Five, this is Hotel Oscar. The vehicle is registered to a Mr Simon Glover, Winslow Way, Meopham, Kent. It was reported stolen at eight this morning.”

  “Romeo Tango Two Five, roger that. We believe the driver is a Stuart Boyle, currently disqualified from driving. We are three hundred yards behind it, heading north on Hall Lane, over.”

  “He’s seen us,” Haines told his colleague.

  “Looks like it. Fasten your seat belt, cos’ he ain’t one for pulling over,” Barker advised. Sure enough, the Subaru was soon doing sixty miles per hour and their Skoda was keeping up but not gaining.

  “Hotel Oscar, Romeo Tango Two Five, vehicle failing to stop, continuing west, speed six zero miles an hour. Traffic is light, visibility is excellent, weather is clear, driver is pursuit trained, over.”

  *

  As soon as the blue lights illuminated, Stuart was plotting his course home. Once in the network of streets on the Foxwell estate he was confident he could lose them. It was just a case of getting there before they managed to stop him. At this time of day the ring road was the quickest way back, especially in an Impreza.

  He hit the accelerator and was soon doing sixty through the morning traffic, weaving between cars and speeding down the centre of the road, forcing other drivers onto the kerb. At the traffic lights he was held up by stationary cars, so he took to the oncoming lane and sped through the junction, narrowly avoiding a collision with a bus coming from his right.

  The move held the police up and he gained an advantage, pulling a further hundred yards ahead, but another set of red traffic lights evened things out, and he had to slow in order to squeeze into a gap between a car and a van. The police were right on his tail now, and traffic ahead was stopped, so he took to the pavement, scattering pedestrians as he searched desperately for a clear stretch of road. Up ahead he saw nothing but stationary vehicles, so he turned into a side road and sped along residential streets at twice the speed limit.

  He checked his rear view mirror as he took another turn and saw the police car in the distance, and he guessed he had enough of an advantage, just as long as he could maintain it. Another right turn and he was back on the main road, with the ring road only a few hundred yards ahead.

  *

  “Hotel Oscar, Romeo Tango Two Five, vehicle has joined the ring road, heading west, speed now eight zero miles an hour.” PC Haines gave the commentary while PC Barker concentrated on the driving.

  “Understood, Two Five.”

  The pursuit carried on for two miles with no sign of the Subaru slowing down. If anything, it was pulling away from the Skoda.

  “Hotel Oscar, Romeo Tango Two Five, we believe he may be heading for the Foxwell estate. Do we have any other units in that area, over?” Haines asked. If they didn’t get the Scooby contained soon they were sure to lose them, even if they knew who was at the wheel. Recognising Stuart Boyle was one thing, but having proof that he was ever in the car was another matter entirely. He was too clever to touch a car without surgical gloves and his family would provide a watertight alibi, as always. No, their only chance was to catch him at the wheel.

  “Romeo Tango Two Five, we have no units available at the moment and Quebec Hotel Nine Nine is on another call, over.”

  Damn! QH99, the force helicopter, would have been invaluable in this pursuit, especially if they lost sight of the vehicle and the suspects decamped.

  *

  Boyle pulled off the dual carriageway a mile from his home and although it felt like he had slowed considerably, he was still travelling at seventy miles per hour through the light traffic. Behind him the unmarked car was closing, but he had enough of a lead as he turned into the estate. He told Martin to turn the music off and took the first left, then a right and a left again, and with the windows open he could hear the sirens disappearing in the opposite direction. He still wasn’t out the woods, though. He was well known among the local constabulary and there was a chance that they might have recognised him. They would also have the chopper up searching for the car, he was sure of that. He had to get home as soon as possible so that his family could swear that he had been in the house all along.

  He took the next right into a cul-de-sac, stopped the car and was out and running in no time. His passengers were moments behind him and all three headed for an alley which led to Alba Street and Boyle’s house. Had any of them looked back they would have seen the Subaru rolling gently down the slight incline of the street. Slowly at first, but the momentum soon built up and it gathered pace all the time…

  *

  Dina Gray stood outside her sister’s door, saying her goodbyes after discussing the upcoming birthday party. Daniel made his way up the garden steps and out into the street, where he looked over the low wall into Sarah’s garden and started singing “ten green bottles”.

  Dina looked up at her son, marvelling at how quickly he had picked up that song. He'd only heard it for the first time at the beginning of the week, and here he was counting down from ten to zero. It was hard to believe that he would be three years old at the weekend: it seemed like just yesterday when he was learning to crawl. Now he could count, he knew the alphabet, he could read a dozen words and loved to sing. She knew he would have lots of fun in the soft play area of the local activity centre next weekend and she was also looking forward to it immensely.

  “I really envy you,” Sarah said. “I wish I could get my lazy sod of a husband off the beer long enough to get i
t up, then I might stand a chance of having another little darling like him.”

  Sharon's own kids were all grown up, and she felt broody every time Daniel popped round, but that didn't stop her volunteering to babysit at every opportunity.

  With the front of the garden being elevated, neither Dina nor Sarah saw the Subaru until it was a few feet away. There was barely time to recognise the danger before it hit the wall at only twelve miles per hour. When it hit it wasn't going quite fast enough to demolish the wall, but fast enough to crush the life out of Daniel Gray.

  Chapter 1

  October 28th 2010

  The alarm clock heralded the start of a new day and it came as some relief to Tom Gray, rousing him from yet another nightmare.

  In the months since Daniel had been gone he had rarely been able to sleep without dreaming of the incident. At first he had thought it a blessing that he hadn’t witnessed Daniel’s death, so that he could remember his son as he was the last time he saw him alive, but as the weeks went on he found that each dream saw Daniel dying in more bizarre and painful ways. In all of these dreams he was there, watching it all unfold, but helpless to do anything about it.

  The relief soon turned to anguish, though, as he remembered what the day had in store.

  As much as Daniel’s death had hurt him, he had been able to immerse himself in his work. For his wife there had been no such distraction. She had shunned friends and sat alone in the house day after day, hitting the bottle. He had lost count of the number of times he had arrived home to find her drunk and watching a home movie: Daniel learning to eat with a spoon; Daniel taking his first steps; Daniel saying “Daddy” for the first time...

  Every evening was spent consoling her, urging her to get back in touch with her friends and carry on with life, and despite her promises that she would, he saw little evidence of things improving.

  The fact that he hadn’t spotted the signs for what they were would haunt Tom Gray for the rest of his days, but today more than any other.

  It was time to have a shower, shave and head to the office to do the payroll.

  In the afternoon he would bury his wife.

  Stopping only at a sandwich bar to grab a bacon roll, Gray drove to the offices of Viking Security Services and filled his parking space near the front door. He had started this company a few months after leaving the Army and had been supplying security personnel to domestic and foreign companies for the last five years. His main income came from supplying BGs, or Body Guards, to companies operating in regions affected by the recent upheaval in the Gulf States, although he also provided staff specialising in training private defence teams. His first such contract was supplying advisors to a Saudi prince to train his personal guard and the job they had done had cemented his reputation. Gray currently had a team of five permanent advisors, plus over one hundred other freelance staff on his books ready to take a job at a moment’s notice, half of whom were already in the field. Each of them was earning Viking Security Services a commission of £100 a day.

  All of the people he employed were either personally selected, having served with them, or came highly recommended by former colleagues still in the forces. If a soldier cut the mustard in his old regiment, he would be pointed in Gray’s direction when he left. His insistence on selecting only the best in their field made him the stand-out choice for close protection contracts.

  He got out of his BMW cabriolet after putting the roof up to protect the interior from the seagulls which mobbed the area. One of the local residents liked to feed these birds each morning, which meant at least thirty of them would be on the wing, screaming past his office window and shitting all over his car. He wouldn’t have minded if they had been little sparrows or blue tits, but seagulls were nothing more than flying rats. They nested on buildings, they ate garbage — often destroying the garbage bag and spreading its contents all over the street in the process — and they made such a racket whenever a rival ventured to within fifty yards of their territory. Perhaps one day they would abandon the city and return to the sea, but as long as this ignorant cow kept inviting them for breakfast, Tom wasn’t going to hold his breath.

  Inside the office building Tom stopped off at the kitchen to get a coffee to go with his sandwich. He ate after mating the laptop with the docking station on his desk, and once it had powered up he went for a quick look at the BBC news website. The intention was to get the World News section to check on developments in Syria, where he had a team of seven contractors, but before he could navigate to the page the main headline caught his eye:

  “Anger at killer driver’s sentence.”

  Gray clicked the link and read the article, which told of a 17-year-old youth who received a £500 fine and a twelve-month driving ban for killing his passenger girlfriend when he crashed his car. He had admitted driving without due care and attention rather than face the charge of causing death by dangerous driving.

  He thought about Stuart Boyle, the man who had killed Daniel. The police wouldn’t give Gray any specific details about Boyle due to the trial, which was starting today, but one officer had admitted he had “previous”. They were confident of a conviction, and the fact that Boyle had been remanded in custody at the start of the year suggested their case was good. They had CCTV evidence of Boyle leaving the driver’s side door, which was captured by a resident who had installed the cameras after being plagued by the local youths.

  Gray would miss the first day of Boyle’s trial, which was expected to last all week, but would be in court for the remaining days and the verdict.

  Another headline caught his eye

  “M1 closed near Luton after crash kills two.”

  His thoughts immediately turned to his wife. The coroner’s verdict was suicide based on the fact that she had removed her seat belt and disabled the air-bag before ploughing into the motorway bridge support at over one hundred and ten miles per hour. Gray didn’t dispute their decision, but since her death he had cursed himself daily for not realising she wasn’t as strong as him, and he knew he should have seen the signs. His Army training had taught him that death inevitably came for everyone, and when you lose someone close you celebrate their life, not mourn their passing.

  On this day, his Army training abandoned him and he cried like he hadn’t cried in his thirty-six years.

  The funeral was held at the same church where their son was laid to rest. The mourners were equally split between Dina’s family and Gray’s ex-Army friends, separated by the coffin suspended over the hole in the ground.

  Tom’s parents had handed him to social services as a toddler and he had been raised by foster family after foster family until he was old enough to join the Army and finally find people with whom he could truly bond. They were his only family now.

  To Gray, the service seemed to be over as soon as it had started. He had spent the entire time in his own recollections and heard few of the words spoken by the vicar, not even allowing the late autumn drizzle to penetrate his little world.

  Eventually a hand on his shoulder brought him back to the present and he saw that the coffin had already been lowered into the ground. He stood confused for a moment, not knowing if he should throw some soil on the coffin, or say a few words, but thankfully everyone opposite turned to leave and he took that as cue to do the same. He moved to catch up with Dina’s mother but his wife’s brother stopped and put up his hand. “Now is not the time, Tom.”

  Tom Gray had a feeling there would never be a right time, because Ruth had made it plain that she blamed him for Dina’s death. He had phoned numerous times but Ruth never took or returned his calls. Eventually he had driven to the house to confront her, only to be told that she didn’t want to see him. “Mum’s taken it hard,” Dina’s brother had told him. “How could you let Dina get into that state? Didn’t you notice something was wrong?”