Heaven's Door

by Michael Knaggs

  He lay back and she kissed him on the forehead, stroking his cheek and temple for a long time until he fully recovered. “Do you want to tell me what it was about – as if I couldn’t guess?”

  Tom did not reply at first. When he did it was in a voice trembling with pretended terror.

  “Well, I was chasing Cheryl down this corridor,” he said. “She was throwing her clothes off as she ran and I was shouting after her, begging her to put them on again. She turned a corner…”

  Mags stopped stroking his cheek and roughly grabbed and twisted his ear.

  “And when I followed her round, there she was, stark naked, waiting for me! It was horrible. I guess I just panicked and shouted out.”

  “What a remarkable coincidence,” said Mags. “I just had the same dream about Matty and this group of Munro-baggers chasing me. I was running down this corridor throwing off my …”

  Tom turned to her and rolled her onto her back slipping one of his legs between hers.

  “Right, you’ve asked for this,” he said.

  “What again? But I haven’t told you how my dream ended yet.”

  *

  Tom was awoken by Mags slipping into bed beside him, holding a mug of coffee. He lay quietly watching her as she sipped her drink, unaware that he was awake. He marvelled again at how beautiful she looked; how she never looked anything less under any circumstances, dressed for a ball or just emerging from a long, deep sleep. He placed his hand on her bare midriff under the duvet, causing her to start and almost spill her coffee.

  She smiled across at him.

  “Morning, Tom-Tom. No more nasty dreams?”

  “Morning, darling. No more nasty dreams.”

  “You never told me what it was really about,” she said, suddenly serious.

  “Just what you thought, I guess. A hangover from Wednesday. You know, the images of the platform …”

  That was as much as he wanted to say.

  “Poor you,” she said, putting down her mug and snuggling up against him. They lay like that for a long time.

  *

  Week 2; Saturday, 4 April…

  The land-line phone ringing on her bedside table woke Mags up. She grabbed at it, clumsily juggling with the handset for a few moments before pressing it to her ear.

  “Oh, hi!” she said, turning to Tom, who was blinking himself awake. “Katey,” she mouthed at him.

  “Just thought I’d phone to confirm that we’ve come through all the excitement completely unscathed,” said Katey.

  “That’s great,” said Mags. She gave a ‘thumbs-up’ sign to Tom with her free hand. “Good time?”

  “Yes, really good. Must have had about two hundred round all together. And live music, no less. Mickey got us this singer and one of the bands he manages. Lilli Bo-peep and Abattoir Ratts. I know them, actually. Really nice guys and they were absolutely brilliant, and did it for nothing – well they didn’t charge us anything, anyway.”

  “That’s fantastic,” said Mags. She checked the time. “It’s only nine-thirty. That’s very early for a morning-after-party call. You actually woke us up.”

  “Sorry about that. It went on ‘til about three o’clock, but nobody misbehaved. And Dad’s heavies played it really low key, although there seemed to be more of them than usual. I don’t know whether he’d drafted in reinforcements. But they behaved impeccably – tell him – didn’t throw anybody out or beat anybody up or anything. Oh, except they did frog-march somebody back in when they thought he’d given them a false name or something; but it wasn’t a problem. Jack seemed to thoroughly enjoy himself as well, although I haven’t seen him yet this morning. Or Megan.”

  “Megan! I see. Is this serious with Megan, do you think?”

  “About as serious as my big brother can get, I reckon. Mind you, they had a bit of a fall-out last night. I think the singer has quite a thing for Jack and – well, you know what they’re like – he didn’t exactly discourage her. It must be pretty serious though, because he said he was going to bring her round to meet you both. She’s really nice; you’ll like her.”

  “I’ll look forward to that. Is Jason there?”

  “No, he went home quite early – around midnight. Their house was broken into on Thursday during the day. They did about half-a-dozen other houses down their street at the same time. His mum’s really shaken up so he didn’t want to leave her alone all night.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame; poor woman. Did they take much?”

  “Well, sadly, they don’t have much to take, but it doesn’t seem there was anything missing.”

  “Oh well, I guess that’s something to be thankful for – nothing stolen, I mean. Did everyone turn up who you were expecting?”

  “Yes and a hell of a lot more. Well, actually, Mickey himself didn’t show his face. Surprising, because he’d helped arrange it – I mean the band and that. No doubt we’ll find out why when we see him. I don’t expect the Home Secretary will be too disappointed at his absence,” she added. “Is he there?”

  “Yes, right beside me. Where else would he be? But don’t worry; he can’t hear what you’re saying.”

  She looked at Tom, with wide conspiratorial eyes.

  He laughed.

  “Give Katey my love,” he mimed, then got out of bed and went downstairs.

  “Anyway, what have you two been doing to make you sleep this long?” asked Katey. “And remember, I’m your daughter. I’m not expecting too much detail.”

  Mags laughed.

  “Well, put it down to the soporific properties of the Chardonnay and Talisker, and the expending of so much energy hiking.”

  “And then there’s the map-reading, of course,” said Katey. “I saw last weekend how much that was taking out of you both.”

  Mags laughed again.

  “By the way, Dad sends his love.”

  “Thanks. What do you have planned for today?”

  “More walking, hopefully. It’s beautiful here, Katey. We must all come some time – including Jason – and, who knows, perhaps Megan as well.”

  “Who knows? Anyway, must go and get dressed. Love to Dad. Bye, Mum.”

  “Bye.”

  She put down the phone just as Tom arrived carrying a tray.

  “Right,” he said, handing Mags her coffee and slipping back into bed beside her. “I’ll just drink this and then I’m ready for anything. And I mean absolutely anything!”

  “Well drink up quickly, then,” she said. “And don’t worry about burning your lips. I know exactly where you can cool them down.”

  She took Tom’s free hand and pulled it down under the duvet.

  “Perhaps we should stay just like this until the helicopter picks us up,” he said.

  “That’s tomorrow,” said Mags, smiling broadly.

  “I know, but we could always put it back a couple of days.”

  *

  Week 2; Sunday, 5 April…

  The large man drumming his fingers on the desk looked very different in his dark grey suit, lilac shirt and purple-and-white striped tie. So much so that he seemed almost like an intruder in his own office, sitting in his own chair.

  “So what have you got that’s important enough for me to miss my weekly appointment with God?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. It could have waited. When I called I didn’t expect you to come straight away.”

  “Not a problem, Inspector. There are enough decent baritones in the congregation without me. You might have to write me a note, though, so my wife doesn’t think I’ve just skived off.”

  The DI laughed.

  “So, do tell.”

  “Just feedback from the op, sir. Or more to the point, no feedback from the op.”

  “Meaning?”

  “No action at all – well, none observed. There was an issue with one camera, but we think we know why. Nothing sinister or suspicious.”

  “So what does this tell us?”

  “Precisely nothing, I suppose. Which is a lot better t
han something that we didn’t want to hear. I think we’ve had enough of that.”

  “And the targets?”

  “Visible virtually all the time, sir. Fully accounted for. No time out worth recording.”

  “You’re right; no news is good news on this occasion.”

  “Even so, not surprising, I suppose, given the level of surveillance. Not that I want to put a damper on it …”

  “Well you just did. But you’re right, of course. It doesn’t actually change anything.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Week 3; Monday, 6 April…

  Tom sat at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, laptop open, trawling through his emails when his mobile pinged with an incoming text message. It was from Jonathan Latiffe. He checked his watch – 6.45 am.

  ‘Please call. Alpha again. Stuff to know.’

  Tom topped up his cup from the cafetière on the worktop then perched on a bar stool again to make the call. Jonathan answered immediately.

  “Hi, Tom. Just felt you ought to know what you’ll be walking in to today. They tried earlier this morning to get them down off the wire, but when the chopper got close, it came under attack from some of the guys. A few had climbed up to the top of South Block and started throwing stuff at it. They had to get away fast.”

  “So they haven’t got them down yet?”

  “Right. They figured there was no point in trying again straight away. Thought exactly the same would happen.”

  “They did the right thing,” said Tom. “Any one hurt?”

  “No, but I think the crew were pretty shaken up.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Tom. “Look, Jonno, you can fill me in on the details when I get in. Are you okay to meet me at around nine?”

  “Yes, I expected you’d want to. Jenny was holding everything until after your meeting with the PM at ten-thirty. So there’s space on CT.”

  “Good. What about the press?” asked Tom.

  “Well, the mission was around five this morning – that’s the best time, when everyone’s at their lowest …”

  “I know the theory well,” said Tom.

  “Well, it seems for these guys it is just a theory. Too early to be sure about the press – only happened a couple of hours ago. But seems unlikely at that time in the morning.”

  “Had any contact or comments from the PM or Grace about the deaths since we last spoke?”

  “No, except it was Grace who told me about the rescue attempt, just a few minutes before I sent you the text. She asked me to bring you up to date right away. And I think she’s planning to be at your meeting with Andrew, or at least for part of it.”

  He ended the call and entered his 9.00 am meeting with Jonathan on Corporate Time, and then his mobile sounded again. It was Jenny.

  “Hi, Jenny. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, thank you, Home Secretary. And you? Did you have a good time?”

  “It was absolutely great. And thanks again for making the arrangements – and on a Sunday. I guess I owe you a day off in lieu for that.”

  Jenny laughed.

  “So put me out of my misery,” he said. “What do you have to tell me? I can take just about anything except the news that you’re looking for another job.”

  She laughed again. “Well you can relax, then. As if I would ever do that. It’s just to let you know that the press gang is gathering outside. They’ve been checking that you are back at the Street today, so I’m afraid you must be the target. I guess they’ll want your comments on Alpha.”

  He looked at his watch – 7.15 am.

  “You’re at work already? Do you enjoy making me feel guilty?” he said. “Anyway, thanks for the heads-up. By the way, I’ve spoken to Mr Latiffe this morning and I’m meeting with him at nine o’clock. Just so you don’t send him away if he gets there before me. Looking forward to seeing you again very soon.”

  “That’s exactly what I was going to say, Home Secretary!”

  Mags appeared, yawning in the doorway, just as the gravel crunched outside signalling the arrival of Tom’s car.

  “Oh no!” she said. “Paul’s here already. No time for a quickie.”

  “Tell you what,” said Tom. “You can fondle me while I’m cleaning my teeth.”

  “You really do spoil me, don’t you?”

  *

  Guildford Centre of Justice was a huge new complex, which included a range of facilities located in buildings around New Station Yard, a massive rectangular courtyard. The Centre had been developed to reflect Guildford’s status as one of the NJR’s regional hubs. Dominating the site, opposite the main vehicular entrance to the courtyard, was Guildford New Station, the police headquarters for the South Thames Division covering the area bounded by the Metropolitan Police District to the north, the M3 to the west and the English Channel to the south and east, and which housed the region’s Flexible Response Teams.

  In his palatial office on the second floor, Chief Superintendent John Mackay rose from his chair to welcome his new recruit. John was a large man who carried just a little too much weight around his middle, although his light athletic movements belied his fifty-plus years.

  “Detective Inspector Cottrell,” he said, beaming and extending his hand. “Welcome aboard. Delighted to have you on the team.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Jo. “I’m very happy to be here.”

  He gestured for her to sit down.

  “Before we start,” he said, “have you had breakfast? I don’t suppose you have.”

  “No, sir, but I don’t usually have much, just coffee and toast. I managed half of that this morning before I set off.”

  “Must have been an early start; so let’s put that right. I can really recommend the toasted teacakes. Let’s rustle up a plateful before we get down to business. Okay?”

  “Definitely, sir,” said Jo, with a relaxed smile.

  John pressed a button on the desk phone and a voice crackled on the loudspeaker.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Alice, can you get us some coffee and teacakes, please, right away.”

  “I’ve got them standing by in the canteen, sir.”

  John laughed. “Am I that predictable?”

  “Consistent is a better word,” Alice replied.

  He laughed again as he released the button.

  “But predictable is more accurate,” he said to Jo, who was still smiling.

  *

  “Good morning, Tom. Welcome back.”

  The prime minister’s private office at Number Ten, or his ‘inner sanctum’ as he liked to call it, was a functional room lacking the opulence and grandeur of the rest of the famous address. It featured an antique wooden desk with red leather inlay covered by a glass top, and, behind it, a well-upholstered swivel chair of similar vintage. In front of the desk, and facing it, was a pair of wing chairs a couple of feet apart and turned slightly in towards each other. A huge sideboard occupied one side of the room and floor-to-ceiling book shelves the other. In front of the book shelves was a low, circular glass-topped table between two armchairs. A single, plain chandelier hung from the ceiling.

  Grace was already seated in one of the wing chairs and looked as though she had been there for some time. Evidence of that was a nearly empty coffee cup in front of her on the corner of Andrew’s desk. Her eyes met his, betraying no indication of either her mood or her feelings towards him.

  “We felt it was important that you were up to date with the Alpha situation,” said Andrew. “Especially after what happened last week,” he added.

  “Jonathan told me about the aborted attempt to get them off this morning,” said Tom.

  “Splendid!” said Andrew, waving him to the vacant wing chair. “So we’re all friends again at the Home Office. I’m so pleased. Grace, do you want to bring the Home Secretary even further up to date.”

  “Yes, of course.” She turned to Tom, with the same dispassionate expression. “We’ll be making a further attempt in a couple of days’ time dependin
g on the weather conditions. We’ll use two choppers this time. If we’ve got personnel on the superstructure we’ll send in a Wildcat first to strafe the roof of South Block with live ammo, so they’ll be clear that we mean business. If that doesn’t send them back straight away, we’ll get in as close as possible and aim directly at them with a second machine gun loaded with blanks, using a hailer instructing them to climb down. If needed, we’ll fire a few blank bursts to simulate the start of an attack. Once they’ve retreated, the second chopper will go in and release the two on the wire.”

  “Sounds good,” said Tom, thinking how eerily similar it sounded to his own dream attack on the platform. “What happens if that doesn’t work?”

  “Then they’ll withdraw,” said Grace, “and we’ll look for a Plan C. But any third attempt is likely to feature live ammunition in both machine guns.”

  “In the meantime,” put in Andrew, “let’s hope Plan B works. Thank you, Grace.”

  Grace rose from her chair.

  “Yes, thanks, Grace,” said Tom, standing up.

  Their eyes met briefly again.

  *

  “My main concern, Tom, is that you may be incapable of taking a step back from what is now a done deal.”

  After Grace’s departure, Andrew had ordered coffee and croissants and the two men had moved away from the desk to occupy the arm chairs which faced each other over the low table where the refreshments had been placed..

  “The NJR is no longer a hands-on priority for the Home Secretary,” Andrew continued. “Yours is a leadership role, not even a management function. You’ve done the job – defined the future state and facilitated our getting there. That’s what leaders do – not dash around in helicopters interfering in other people’s work.”

  “I think that’s very harsh, Andrew. If it is a done deal …”

  “It is, Tom, there is no ‘if’ …”

  “Okay, point taken, but let me put it another way, then. If my hands-on involvement with the NJR is finished, then it’s only just finished. Until the feedback to the House last week, you seemed perfectly happy with what I was doing. And my impression – and other people’s – was that the speech itself went well. So what other things have led you to this conclusion?”