He was breathing heavily, struggling with his balance.
“I haven’t decided what I’m going to do next. There’s one or two things, I suppose but – well – whatever. But I’ll keep you all informed as and when – if anyone’s still interested.”
He laughed again, looking round the sea of blank faces. Then he seemed to slip and gripped the lectern tighter.
“I’m okay,” he snapped at Tony, who had taken a step forward to support him. “Just fine.” He turned back to the reporters. “Now, any questions? Just ask away, that’s what I’m here for.”
There was a general shaking of heads, except for one reporter at the back. A young woman with short blonde hair, wearing a pink jacket and black trousers held up her hand. Tom didn’t see her but Tony stepped up beside him.
“Over there,” he said, pointing.
“Clara Lewis, Network Thames,” she said. “Mr Brown, in the light of what has happened, do you have any regrets about extending the expulsion provisions to drug dealers?”
There was a deathly hush as the whole group of reporters turned to look at her in disbelief. Tears sprang to Tom’s eyes. He caught them with the thumb and forefinger of one hand. There was a long silence.
“Oh, yes,” he said, his voice barely audible. “Most definitely, yes.”
He turned and stepped down from the stage.
*
Tom went into the bathroom, seeing himself in the mirror for the first time since he had staggered away from it earlier to find a tissue to deal with his cut. His eyes filled briefly with tears again at the depressing sight in front of him, before he splashed water onto his face and went into the bedroom to change his bloodstained shirt. He picked up the half-empty bottle of whiskey and joined Tony in the living room.
“Could I ask you two big favours, my friend?” said Tom.
“Go on.”
“Firstly, don’t say anything to me about what just happened, at least for the rest of today. Suffice to say, I’m really sorry. You deserved a lot better. Okay?”
“Okay. And the other favour?”
Tom held up the bottle.
“Stay and help me finish this. That way, I’ll only drink half of what’s left. If you go. I’ll drink the lot.”
Tony thought for a moment.
“On one condition. We eat first, and drink later. Okay?”
“Okay.”
*
Week 13; Friday, 19 June…
Tom read again the text he had received from Andrew the previous evening.
“Really enjoyed your press conference. Good luck with the campaign.”
It was not until now that he realised its implications and thought back to his conversation with Jackie two days ago. He hadn’t mentioned his plans to contest the vacant seat in his statement to the press. Only one person in the world had heard him state that intention.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Four days later
Week 14; Tuesday, 23 June…
John Mackay’s agitation contrasted sharply with his relaxed and smiling demeanour at their first meeting exactly nine weeks ago. He had, uncharacteristically, discarded his uniform jacket and loosened his tie and was pacing backwards and forwards, covering the full distance between the large bookcase at one side of his office and the windows overlooking New Station Yard at the other. Even more unusually, his jacket was roughly draped around the back of his chair rather than arranged neatly on its padded hanger on the coat stand. Jo was sitting on one of the two wing chairs in front of the desk watching and listening intently.
“I – we – need to get closure on this, Jo. Today – right now, in fact. If Gerrard went round intimidating all the witnesses and came back from each with what he got from Newhouse, I still wouldn’t have enough to reopen the case. There’s nothing – and there would still be nothing – to indicate anything except the usual on-the-street jostling for positions.”
“Yes, sir, I do see that, but …”
“It’s the ‘but’ that you’ve got to lose, Jo. Nobody doubts your instincts and your intentions, but there comes a point where judgement must take over from them. You don’t have an axe to grind, a position to protect. I don’t understand what is driving you, other than your feeling at the time you made the arrest that he didn’t seem to know the stuff was there. But if he’s devious enough to peddle crack in the current climate, feigning shock and horror to give himself time to think would be a piece of cake.”
“I do understand, sir. I guess I’m just …”
“And,” John continued, “something we’ve hardly mentioned; what about his performance in court? Not a lot of shock and horror – or denial – there, was there? A guilty man resigned to his fate if ever I’ve seen one.”
Jo sighed. John sat down and leaned across towards her, resting his elbows on the desk.
“Look, Jo,” he spoke quietly now, “I want you back on board one hundred percent. Heather Rayburn told me about your issue with the Enderbys. How you reacted to their drowning; feeling that you were responsible for allowing them the chance to leave their home and take their own lives just after you’d told them they might lose their son again. It wasn’t your fault, as I’m sure you’ve come to realise, but I can understand how it might have seemed that way at the time.”
Jo was staring at him now, eyes wide.
“But this is different…” John went on.
“You bet it is, sir,” Jo interrupted. “I don’t see any connection at all. On that occasion it would have been avoided if I’d acted differently. That’s a fact. If I’d just put a watch on them …”
“It’s not about the incident itself, Jo.” John held up his hands to stop and reassure her. “I’m talking about the reaction. On that occasion, as I said, I can understand how it got to you. But you’re a fringe player in this, and yet, increasingly over the past couple of weeks or so, you’ve been letting this get to you in much the same way. You seem to have assumed the responsibility for Jack and Jason’s situation – taken on the blame for their fate. They are to blame, Jo. They did it, as far as it’s possible in this life to be certain of anything. You have to let go.”
Jo didn’t speak.
“Look,” said John. “I’m going to tell you something that only two or, perhaps, three people know. That’s me, Tom Brown and, just possibly, his wife. When they made the statement in the House about the sentencing of drug dealers, I phoned Tom Brown in an attempt to persuade him to think again. I actually tried to talk him out of it. Can you believe it! I couldn’t tell him why, of course, because even at that stage, prior to the drugs being found, we already had enough on Jack – and Jason – to make a case against them. That was bad enough before the announcement, but suddenly I was faced with the distinct possibility that what we were about to do could result in one of my best friends losing his son forever. And that’s exactly what happened, although not in the way anyone expected. Not my fault – but that doesn’t make it any easier.
“It was unprofessional of me to speak to him at all, of course. In a conflict of interest like that you should always put the personal issue aside and do what you’re paid to do. And it was a waste of time, anyway, as you know. So I failed twice – made the wrong decision, professionally, and failed to carry it through. So when it comes to feeling responsible, DI Cottrell, I’m in the gold medal position and you’ve not even qualified for the final.”
Jo didn’t speak for a long time.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, “I guess I didn’t realise just how close … Okay, no more ‘buts’. There’s nothing I want more than to move on from this – really. And I appreciate your concern about me and for giving me time out to plough my own furrow, as it were.”
John was silent himself for a few moments. Then he leaned back in his chair.
“Good,” he said, suddenly more relaxed. “I know you can’t just throw a switch and turn it off.”
“No, sir, but I can start to rotate the knob on the dimmer.”
John
laughed out loud. “From what I’ve heard about him, that sounds like pure Gerrard.”
Jo smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Something else you should know that I didn’t share with you before. When we set up the surveillance on Mickey last year, we had what we thought was rock solid evidence that Manston Grange was the centre of an illegal drugs market. We assumed, because of his background, that Kadawe was the main man – the centre of the activity; the hub of the wheel. As you know, we watched him, pretty much day and night, for seven months; and got nothing.
“We called off the operation, went back over all the information we’d collected beforehand and still couldn’t understand how we could have got it wrong. So we kept a watchful eye going forward and, lo and behold, Jack and Jason – as Jake and Jasper – came onto the radar. We’d been seeing the Grange and Kadawe as pretty much one and the same entity. It seems certain now, that we were looking in the right place but at the wrong person.”
Jo was silent for a long time.
“So why didn’t you share this with me before, sir?” she said, eventually.
John got to his feet and started pacing again.
“I didn’t tell you because I secretly hoped – almost prayed – that you would find something. I desperately wanted you to be right and all the rest of us wrong; even though it would have been a massive embarrassment to us and now, of course, too late for Jack.”
He turned to Jo.
“But you can’t find what isn’t there, even if you look for ever.”
*
Jo walked out through the main gates to a small park a couple of streets away where she sat on a bench overlooking the duck pond. She gazed absently at the rippling water stirred by a gentle breeze, then took out her phone and clutched it tightly on her lap for a long time. Eventually she looked down at it and scrolled through her list of contacts.
*
Week 14; Wednesday, 24 June…
For a long time, the dishevelled figure sat on the parapet above the central arch of Vauxhall Bridge, his feet swinging over the side above the Thames. His hair was uncombed, and his clothes creased; the collar of his sports jacket was turned inwards and the tail of his crumpled shirt was half sticking out at the back. People passed by within a couple of feet of him, pretending he wasn’t there, not giving him a second glance.
It was hardly surprising then that no one recognised him. If they had looked more closely, they might have noticed that the clothes were expensive, and the face under the mop of hair and behind the stubble was strikingly handsome, with pale-blue, intelligent eyes.
The man looked down at the water forty feet below, churning in the wake of a passing launch, and wondered what it would be like. He was a strong swimmer; he could make it downstream to the flood barrier and back – easily. So, he wondered, would an instinct for survival override his objective? Would his first mouthful of water throw some sort of switch in his mind and activate a natural bid to stay alive? After all, he thought, it wasn’t like jumping from a high building or cliff, where the leap itself was the terminal movement. Once that step was taken, what followed was inevitable; as certain as Heaven’s door.
He looked up and across to the Palace of Westminster, with the sun glinting on its golden highlights, and thought about the man who had delivered a landmark speech to the House on a Wednesday exactly thirteen weeks ago. A man who he realised no longer existed; who had somehow mutated into something else, something worthless. He looked down at the water again and eased himself slightly forward.
“Are you okay?”
He turned quickly at the sound of the voice. The girl was tall and slim, with long, straight, white-blonde hair. With the bright sun behind her he couldn’t make out her features, and just for a moment he thought he recognised her. But, of course, he knew it couldn’t be her. She hadn’t been in touch for some time now; except for just the one text last night.
“I’m fine,” he said to the girl.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, honestly.”
“Okay.” She smiled.
He watched her walk away, and then shouted after her. “Thank you!”
She looked back and gave a little wave. He took his mobile from his jacket and read the text again.
‘Mum needs you very much NOW!’
He shook his head. Wrong, he thought. Whatever it is, I would only make it worse.
He turned to look along the bridge where the girl had gone. He couldn’t see her. Could it really have been his daughter, he wondered, reaching out to him in his troubled mind?
He sat deep in thought for a full minute without moving, thinking about the girl. Then he swung his legs back over the parapet, dropped on to the pavement and walked off the bridge.
HOTEL ST KILDA
The story continues in…
LOST SOULS
Prologue
“Just like in the movies.”
The young man seated on the bench spoke the words out loud to himself. He was of medium height and average build, with longish dark hair; and casually dressed in designer jeans, tee shirt and a short, tan leather jacket.
He looked around the nearly-deserted park and across to the shining lake where a mother and her small child pitched lumps of bread at a squabbling group of ducks in front of them. Until now, except for one elderly lady walking her border terrier a hundred yards or so away to his right, they had been the only visible signs of humanity in the tranquil grassy oasis close to the town centre. He wondered how many times he’d watched this scene play out in spy films and TV dramas. The only thing that was missing was a rolled-up newspaper under the arm of the man who was approaching him. Instead, he was carrying a small day-pack, which he removed from his back and placed between them on the bench as he sat down.
The new arrival was tall, in his early thirties, with handsome chiselled features and dark, close-cropped hair. He was formally dressed in an immaculate charcoal grey lounge suit, pale blue shirt and navy-and-grey striped tie. He also wore a pair of soft leather gloves.
“Sorry,” said the first man, with a smile which was close to a sneer. “I’ve forgotten the password.”
The newcomer said nothing but fixed him with an intense stare from behind his dark-tinted glasses. The first man broke the uneasy silence.
“I mean, this is a bit John le Carre, isn’t it?”
The stranger raised his eyebrows in surprise, still remaining silent.
“Yes, some of us do read things other than the back page of The Sun in case you’re wondering. Anyway, why didn’t the big guy come himself?”
His companion looked momentarily confused, and then smiled thinly.
“You needn’t concern yourself with the chain of command.”
He nodded towards the bag. The first man unbuckled the single strap, lifted the flap and peered inside. He let out his breath loudly.
“What if I say no?”
“Then there’ll be five instead of four.”
He closed the flap again, fastening the strap and slumping back on the bench, legs out-stretched in front of him.
The stranger raised his eyebrows again; this time with a question.
“Okay?”
The first man nodded, nervous now. It was a long time before he spoke again.
“When?”
“Down to you. But a week today I’ll expect to have read all about it. Then we meet again. I’ll let you know when and where.”
He got up from the bench, leaving the day-pack and walking away without another word.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Once again thanks are due to the many people who contributed in different ways to the production of this book.
To those who provided me with factual information for the first book and especially David Monks and Alan Isherwood who have answered more of my queries for Heaven’s Door. In particular, I thank Richard Latham for giving up his time to provide me with an invaluable insight into the home of the British parliament. In add
ition to the essential information it yielded, the experience itself was such a memorable one.
To all the people – friends, acquaintances and strangers – who have purchased Catalyst and provided me with such encouraging feedback, which has spurred me on to complete this second volume.
To my publisher, Matador, for making the whole experience of creating these books such an enjoyable one, and in particular to Rosie Grindrod and Amy Statham, not only for their assistance with each step along the way, but also for their patience, both in responding to what must have been the most basic and obvious questions, and in watching deadlines pass by like ships in the night when I failed to get materials to them on time.
To Gary Smailes of Bubblecow – again – for his detailed editorial critique and invaluable advice following on from this.
To my family for their ongoing interest and encouragement, and above all to my wife, Carol, for her unstinting support and for continuing to endure my feeling sorry for myself when things were not going as planned – which happened quite a lot.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MICHAEL KNAGGS was born in Hull in 1944. He moved to Thurso, Caithness, in 1966 to work as an Experimental Officer at Dounreay Atomic Power Station, and relocated to Salford in 1968 to complete a degree in Chemistry. From 1970 up to his retirement in 2005, Michael worked for Kellogg Company – the global breakfast cereal manufacturer – latterly as Human Resources Director with responsibility for pay and benefit policy across the company’s European organisation.
He lives in Prestwich, Manchester, with his wife, Carol. Their passion is hill-walking and they undertake at least one long distance walk each year. They have two children and two grand-children.
REVIEWS OF…
Draws you in and doesn’t let go until the final page
Heaven's Door Page 39