Catalyst

by Michael Knaggs

  “Yes, Arnold,” said George.

  The Squadron Leader got to his feet.

  “During nearly a lifetime in the military, I like to think that I have been fighting for what is right and for the upholding of the law – international law in my case. But more important than the law is justice. It seems to me that, in the space of less than an hour, a single person, now being hunted as a triple murderer, and whose freedom – and, effectively, whose life – will end when he is caught, has put to rights something that all the agents of the law have abjectly failed to do for God knows how many years. Isn’t it ironic that justice, it seems, has finally been done, and the law is such that it will now punish the person who achieved it?”

  For the second time that evening, Arnold Danby sat down to enthusiastic applause.

  Andrew Donald sat motionless, his eyes widening with increasing disbelief and scepticism.

  “Jesus, hold it right there!” he said, interrupting Tom whilst he was in full flow. “Have you ever visited the planet earth, by any chance? This is the real world, for God’s sake. That’s just pure fantasy. We have a legal framework to comply with, or had you forgotten? None of what you have said – or very little of it – falls inside that.”

  “I’m not suggesting we should operate outside a legal framework,” said Tom. “Give me some credit, Andrew, how could I possibly be suggesting that? But the legal framework didn’t just happen; no-one came down a bloody mountain with it on tablets of stone – well, not in its current format, anyway. We put it together. Governments and their advisors. And it’s been developed and modified constantly through the centuries in response to natural and manufactured shifts in human needs and standards. What met the requirements of the people a hundred years ago would be mostly unacceptable today. The framework of the law is evolving all the time. We just need to shift it out of second gear – and up into about seventh!”

  “But you’re not talking evolution, you’re talking about… ”

  “A sea change. A quantum leap. A giant step for mankind. Don’t worry, Andrew, I’ll write the speeches.”

  “But, much as I hate to say this, things have moved recently on that front. The government are making progress; a quarter less drug crimes; a fifth fewer carrying weapons. Things are improving.”

  “Have improved,” corrected Tom, “not ‘are improving’. There’s a difference – a big difference.” He paused.

  “Go on.”

  “Those figures are twelve months old,” said Tom. “We’ve seen no further change in that time. Exam’s over – pens down, no more writing. The papers have been marked. And you won’t find anywhere in the world where twenty or even twenty-five percent gets you a pass. Twenty-five percent is an abject failure. Put it another way – they’ve been seventy-five percent unsuccessful, after nearly nine bloody years, for goodness’ sake!”

  “Good spin, Tom, but there’s a wealth of opinion out there that says they’ve done as good a job as they could. I don’t necessarily disagree with that, in fact. You can’t compare it with an exam, surely. There aren’t a hundred percentage points out there to be had. I’m not sure it’s a good idea – in fact, I am sure it’s a bad idea – to try to take apart the government’s record on tackling antisocial behaviour. We’ll shoot ourselves in the foot with that one.”

  “Totally agree,” said Tom. “What I’m saying though is that, in spite of the efforts, and actual progress, made by the government, there remains three-quarters of what is still regarded by millions of people as the biggest single domestic issue still to be addressed. And don’t forget, those are national statistics; they don’t tell the story of where things have got worse, in the FSIAs. What they have done, however laudable, has simply not been enough, and is having no further impact on the issue. I repeat, twenty-five percent success equates to seventy-five percent failure. In mathematical terms, at least.”

  “Okay,” said Andrew, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I agree with your rationale for focusing on this as one of the main priorities of the manifesto, and I really do like the spin on those percentages. But we are not going to directly challenge them on their record on this issue. As I see it, the only way we can use that spin is to be very specific about what we propose to do to address the remainder of the problem. And, I agree it’s got to be radically different from what’s in place now. But you’ll have to work hard to convince me that what you’ve just outlined is the way to do it. It certainly isn’t the only way.

  “However, let’s not lose those thoughts; I’d like you to put a bit more meat on the bones and look at the very significant” – he drew out the words – “hurdles to be jumped before we sprint for the line. Okay?”

  “Okay, Andrew,” said Tom, like a little boy who has just been told he can go out to play, but not near the main road. “I’ll try and find some time to start on it today.”

  “Hold on, Tom, there’s no rush. We won’t be talking about it again until I see the final outcome of this Brady affair. I want to see for myself its effect on urban hysteria, given it was that which enticed your revolutionary instincts out of hiding.”

  Jo was already at her desk when David arrived. She handed him a sheet of paper and followed him into his office.

  “I’ve told the guys to hold off on the records search, sir,” she said. “They won’t find anything. Mrs Deverall did get harassed by the gangs but chose not to report it.”

  David raised his eyebrows with the unspoken question.

  “Because it seems that reporting something to the police was the reason she got targeted in the first place.”

  David’s eyebrows dropped and his whole body seemed to sag. “Jesus,” he sighed, then looked at the sheet Jo had handed him. “What have we got here?”

  “Quite a bit of stuff came in late yesterday afternoon after I’d left to see the Ambroses. That’s just a summary.”

  “Okay, how did the interview go last night?”

  “Well, they said Mrs Deverall was harassed by the gangs, although not the Bradys directly, to the extent that she twice tried to take her own life.”

  “Jesus,” said David, again.

  “Apparently, she then became ill after her second attempt and that’s when the carer made his first appearance. He started making regular visits and soon after that she moved out to stay with friends. That was last October. They couldn’t give me much of a description of the man, just that he was tall, very upright. So we won’t be able to say for certain whether it was the same man who paid her rent.”

  David looked down again at the sheet of paper.

  “Date of birth, NI number, bank account details, maiden name Coleridge, son’s name and date of death, no other children, possibly one surviving sister in Canada – no known address. So we know pretty much everything about our Alma except where the bloody hell she is.”

  “There’s one very interesting bit of information which isn’t on there,” said Jo. “It came in by email just a few minutes ago. Social Services, like the NHS, have no record of any nurse or carer having been assigned to Mrs Deverall’s case.”

  David’s eyebrows shot up again, this time in surprise. He leant back in his chair and tapped the tips of his fingers together, lost in thought for a long time.

  “So Alma Deverall is hounded by thugs, gets clinically depressed, tries to take her own life a couple of times, becomes ill and eventually moves out.

  “Given the time of year, it could have been a friend – even an old flame – who took her in initially for a few weeks and ended up asking her to stay over Christmas. Anyway, she either doesn’t get well or is invited to stay on indefinitely; but whatever happens, she doesn’t return. Then, around about the time of the killings she makes a decision not to return at all. This could have been decided weeks before or prompted by the killings themselves – reading about them in the newspaper or seeing it on TV. She just couldn’t face coming back and decided to give up the house and stay put. That wouldn’t be a surprise, except if t
hat was the reason, it took her less than forty-eight hours to make up her mind. But nothing exciting about that; all perfectly logical.”

  He leant forward now, elbows on the desk, a clear sign of his growing intensity.

  “Now,” he said, “for the exciting and illogical bit. It appears she lied to her next door neighbour about the identity of her visitor. Mrs D and her new companion either forget – I don’t think so! – or take pains not to leave any trace of her new whereabouts. Her doctor, the bank, the council rent office, the DWP all have 12 St George’s Close as her current address, which – since last week – is incorrect. Okay let’s not get carried away; perhaps she wanted to keep that address because she expected to return up to a few weeks ago. And perhaps she just hasn’t got round to writing to them all yet. But that just doesn’t stack up, does it? Because now she’ll never get her mail because neither she nor anyone else on her behalf has access to the property. How will she receive her bank statements, pension payment slips and all the other stuff she needs?”

  “Just a thought, sir,” said Jo, “do you think it’s possible she died? I mean, that would explain why no-one would care about the mail and why she didn’t even visit the house to sort out her things. I know about the letter last week, but a signature can easily be forged well enough to fool somebody who isn’t looking for a forgery. I’ll check if a death has been recorded in that name recently.”

  “Okay, Jo, quick as you can.”

  George and Irene returned to Cullen Field earlier than planned, swept there on the wave of curiosity they had generated the previous evening. They drove the short distance to the estate in the vanguard of a convoy of six vehicles carrying nineteen villagers on a tour of inspection of the new world right on their doorstep.

  They split up into smaller groups on arrival arranging to meet at the village green in Cullen Hall at 1.30 pm for lunch. Between them they went in almost every outlet in the shopping mall, visited the library, the leisure centre, the college’s adult learning section, and a few even risked a quick drink in the Wild Boar Inn, escaping unscathed. As planned, they all met at the allotted time, but four of them had decided to have a game of bowls in the municipal park instead of eating with the others. Immediately after lunch, seven of the group returned to the village; the remainder continued to explore the estate – or played bowls – for the rest of the afternoon.

  “Who’s going first? Come on, make our day, Murray.”

  “Can’t I’m afraid, sir,” said DC Murray Davenport. “Spoke to all three shopkeepers; they admitted they had threatened to take care of the Bradys the last time they put in a complaint, but there’s no way they’re up to that sort of thing. Showed them the identikit – though, as you know, it’s all cap and stubble. No reaction at all.”

  “Department of no surprises. Okay, Geoff?”

  He addressed the other half of ‘Mutt’n’Geoff ’. The two young officers were so alike in appearance that they had been allocated this single identity. Both an inch under six feet, slim, fresh-faced with dark hair, spiked and held with gel, it was easy – and very common outside the team – for one to be mistaken for the other.

  “Nothing either, sir,” said Geoff. “This was the complainant whose description seemed to match the killer’s, but in fact he’s about a foot shorter and in his early sixties. So, no joy, I’m afraid.”

  “Thanks, Geoff. Moving on; as a result of DS Cottrell’s meeting with the occupants of 11 St George’s Close last night, we now know that Mrs Deverall was targeted by the gang on the estate, but she didn’t report it. I’m sure you’ll all want to buy the sergeant a drink for saving you from another record search, but that will have to wait for now.”

  He turned to Jo. “Detective Sergeant?”

  “I bet they’re all gutted really, sir. Anyway, we now know just about everything there is to know about this lady from Number 12 except the one thing that no-one seems to know. That is, her current address. And when I say no-one, that includes the bank, the council, her doctor, the DWP. Essential contacts. And – as it turns out – Social Services, who also have no record of the carer. So why has she not made any arrangements for people to get in touch with her now she’s officially given up her address in Cullen Field?”

  “Could she have died, do you think, sarge?” asked DC Shakhir.

  “If you’d stop trying to spoil it for me, Omar, I’m coming to that.”

  Omar shrugged and looked round the room. “I can’t help being brilliant.”

  “I checked this out,” Jo continued, “and there is no record at all of the death of a Mrs Alma Deverall anywhere in the country over the last twelve months – that’s going back to well before the last time she was seen by her neighbours. However, as we know, great efforts seemed to have been made to keep Mrs D’s whereabouts a secret. If she’d died, registering her death would immediately give away her present address – I mean, a doctor would need to attend and the funeral director would have to collect her from somewhere. Unless, of course, her death was registered under a false name, but that’s difficult, for all sorts of reasons. So perhaps not a false name, but a real name that she hasn’t used for a while.”

  “Her maiden name?” said DC Omar Shakhir.

  “Well thanks again, Omar!” said Jo, with a touch of genuine annoyance. “You’ve just spoilt my big finish!”

  There was some laughter and gentle applause.

  “Yes,” she went on, “her maiden name. And guess what; a Mrs Alma Elizabeth Coleridge died just over four weeks ago at an address in Hammersmith. Cause of death – a self-administered overdose.”

  All nineteen day-trippers made an appearance in the Dog and Duck that evening. As they drifted in, in twos and threes, they gravitated to the area in front of the large bay window, pulling together a few tables and crowding round them, seated in a tight circle. They were joined by ex-Squadron Leader Danby, who was staying at the pub for a few days. There was only one topic of conversation. All agreed that George and Irene’s assessment the previous day had been borne out by their visit.

  If anything, the ambience and tangible friendliness of the place had surpassed their expectations and all were enthusiastic about making this a regular trip. They laughed when someone suggested it was as if they were deciding where to go for a weekend break, with someone else developing the idea by offering to check out whether the Wild Boar did bed and breakfast. What lightened the atmosphere so much was the feeling, expressed by Emily the previous evening, that the removal of the threat in Cullen Field would quite clearly be reflected in Meadow Village. The continuous, if almost subconscious, fear that clouded the villagers’ lives, particularly in this very situation as they relaxed in the pub but always with one ear to the door, now seemed a thing of the past.

  “I think we should have a meeting to discuss this,” said George.

  “I thought we’d had one,” said someone. “Last night we talked about it for nearly two hours, at the hall and in here. I’m not suggesting we shouldn’t discuss it some more, but with what in mind?”

  “What about a debate?” suggested Clive. “Taking up Arnold’s point. Proposal – the man who shot the Bradys is a hero and should be allowed to continue the good work. Please discuss. Something like that.”

  There were a few chuckles around the tables, but a majority of support as well.

  “That’s a great idea, actually, Clive,” said George. “The usual format; we get someone to propose the idea with a brief speech, someone to speak against it, then throw it open to the floor.”

  “The problem will be getting someone to speak against it,” one of the women said.

  “Not really, Joyce,” replied George. “We just need a volunteer to oppose the motion. They don’t have to mean what they say; it’s just to start the ball rolling. I’d be quite happy to do it if someone else will chair the meeting. What about you, Fred?”

  “Yes, I don’t mind.”

  “Good,” said Clive. “So Fred chairs the meeting, George opposes, and t
he person proposing the motion can form an orderly queue… ”

  They all laughed.

  “Yes,” said George, “we might have to draw straws for that privilege.”

  “Tell, you what,” said Fred. “It might be worth putting up a notice on the estate somewhere. You know, show a bit of solidarity. I can’t imagine anybody would be interested, but… ”

  “I think that’s a great idea,” said George. “Those in favour?”

  Nineteen hands were raised.

  The expression on Mags’s face was similar to the one with which Andrew had received the same information, but about a thousand times more intense.

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” she said. “Have you turned into a fucking monster?”

  Tom was realistic enough to have anticipated a negative response, but was taken completely off guard by the ferocity of the attack.

  “Look, obviously there are lots of details to be sorted out and I’m sure… ”

  “It’s nothing to do with details. It’s fundamentally wrong. It goes against every human principle… ”

  “Every Margaret Tomlinson-Brown principle, you mean. Can’t you just for once see the bigger picture? Can’t you just for once apply your human rights doctrine to the wider population rather than limit it to the ones that you and your tea-sipping cronies, sitting in your designer clothes on your expensive settees, choose to regard as the down-trodden and underprivileged.”

  Mags’s eyes were blazing as she struggled to remain calm.

  “I see,” she said, softly, after a long silence. “That’s what you think of my beliefs; of the hours and days I spend – whilst running a business as well – trying to ensure that the innocents of this world have something to live for. Thank you very much for making your feelings clear. I had no idea you thought I was such a waste of time.”

  “The innocents! This has nothing to do with the innocents. They are the ones I’m trying to protect.”

  Mags got up from her chair.