Catalyst

by Michael Knaggs

  “Forty-seven at the library; three at the leisure centre; seventeen at the supermarket; twenty-eight actual signatories at the college plus the Head of Sociology is bringing all his final year students along. That’s another twenty-three including himself.”

  “So,” said Clive, who was adding up the numbers on his mobile’s calculator, “if we assume all ninety-seven of us attend, that’s over two hundred already.”

  “But this isn’t what we wanted,” said Fred. “We’ve got ourselves in this situation by accident. It was just an idea for a different 3AF meeting, not a national referendum. Where are we going to hold it? Do we get a marquee?”

  “I suggest we contact the council office and ask if they have anything available that can accommodate, say, three hundred people,” said George. “They must have some big conference rooms or lecture theatres we could use.”

  “What about Wembley Stadium?” said Clive. “We might be being optimistic thinking we’re only going to get three hundred. Or should that be pessimistic?”

  “OK,” said George, “let’s say five hundred. If we get more than that and some people can’t get in, I think we can justifiably say we did our best. That will be over five times our usual attendance.”

  “Do you still want me to chair it?” asked Fred. “Only I thought it would just be the usual crowd.”

  “Really?” said George, with a knowing smile. “Can anybody remember who it was who suggested we invite people from the estate? All together… ” He raised his arms to conduct the collective response.

  “Fred Dawson!” they said in unison, laughing.

  “Fair point,” said Fred, and the twinkle returned. “I’ll do it.”

  Tom scored a few welcome points with Mags by opting out of a function at Westminster to attend Katey’s parents’ evening. Bishop Adcock High was a small independent school set in large, well-tended gardens just over a mile’s walk from Etherington Place through a leafy lane and along a paved pathway, crossing a couple of wild flower meadows. It was the perfect evening for such a walk; warm and still, with the sinking sun picking out the colours amidst the lush green.

  He took Mags’s hand as they walked home and although she did not exactly reciprocate his grip, she made no effort to pull away. They were joined by one of Katey’s school friends, a tall, good-looking Kenyan boy, and the two of them walked behind, laughing and talking conspiratorially in low voices. Tom was a little agitated by this intrusion into what he regarded as a family affair.

  “Listen,” said Mags, “the only reason she didn’t insist we drove here tonight was so that she could walk back with him. She can’t ignore her friends, just because she’s with us.”

  “No, of course not,” Tom nodded and smiled at her. They walked on in silence for a couple of minutes. “How old is he, anyway?”

  “Sixteen,” answered Mags.

  “Sixteen!” said Tom, a little too loudly and then whispered, “In the same year as Jack?”

  “No, the year below, but Jack knows him; says he’s a really good kid.”

  “Even so, he’s a bit old for her, isn’t he?”

  “He’s just a friend,” said Mags. “She’s not mentioned anything about marrying him yet.”

  Tom turned to her wide-eyed.

  “Just a joke,” said Mags, smiling quite warmly now. “Don’t worry. It’s only the same age difference as you and me, after all.”

  “Yes, but that’s different,” said Tom.

  “Oh, of course, it would be,” replied Mags, now grinning broadly. The boy left them just before they reached home, shouting, “Good night, Mr Brown! Good night, Mrs T!”

  “Goodnight, Jason,” said Mags.

  “Jason, eh? Mrs T?” said Tom. “Is he a regular visitor, then?”

  “He quite often walks home with Katey, and he’s popped in for a chat a couple of times,” said Mags. “Don’t worry,” she said again, still smiling, “they’re just school friends.”

  And this time she squeezed his hand.

  “Right, who fancies a coffee?” asked Tom when they arrived home.

  “I’ll do it,” said Katey. “Three coffees?” She went through to the kitchen. Tom looked at Mags wide-eyed in amazement.

  “You’ve got Jason to thank for that,” she said. “He always puts her in a good mood.” Katey followed them through into the huge rear living room a few minutes later with three steaming mugs on a tray. Their daughter, at fourteen, was tall and slim and already had the face and figure of a young woman – a beautiful young woman – although she had managed to retain her teenager’s scowl. Her hair was almost white blonde, long and straight.

  “Well,” said Mags, “we’re really pleased you’re doing well, Katey. If you want to make us feel absolutely ecstatic, it seems you just have to concentrate more and work harder, according to Mrs Metcalfe… ”

  “And Mrs Latham, and Mr Hartson, and… ” Tom added, with a smile, counting on his fingers. Katey held up her hands in a gesture which exactly mimicked one of her father’s.

  “Yes, I know; they all say the same. But the point is, if you’re naturally brilliant, you’re going to do okay anyway. It’s not like you have to cling to every word every teacher says.”

  Tom shook his head, still smiling. “That’s true, of course, but life is so unfair to brilliant people. It treats them the same as ordinary people up to a certain age, which means they are judged on trivia like exam results and dissertation reports and the like. I know it’s frustrating for a true genius but… ” He shrugged and spread his arms.

  “Yes, okay, point taken. Anyway, Jason says I should try harder as well.”

  “Well, there you are, then,” said Mags, jumping in before Tom had time to say anything. “It must be right. We’re all agreed then?”

  “I suppose… ” said Katey. “Anyway, Dad,” she went on, brightly, “I know you’re mad busy, what with the usual stuff and this Cullen Field thing. It was really great you coming tonight.”

  “Of course I was going to come, Princess,” he said. “It’s a matter of priorities, and when have you ever been lower than number one?”

  She screwed up her face to think.

  “Well… the last three parents’ evenings, for a start.”

  “Point taken,” said Tom, holding up his hands in the familiar gesture of surrender.

  “Anyway, I bet you only came because you know all the girls fancy you,” said Katey, smiling accusingly.

  “Katey!” said Mags, pretending to be shocked. “That’s not true, is it?”

  “Of course not,” said Tom. “Ninety percent perhaps, but surely not all of them.”

  CHAPTER 6

  On the second day of the stake-out, soon after darkness had fallen, the figure turned in through the gates from the road and walked slowly down the driveway. He carried a small bunch of flowers and was wearing a long dark raincoat, ankle high boots and an army-style cap in standard DPM camouflage colours, which he removed soon after passing through the gates. He stopped briefly in front of the Chapel of Rest and looked round, before walking down the path to the left until he was opposite the headstone. He stepped over to it, carefully standing on the raised edges around the stone slabs marking the graves between the path and the one he had come to visit. He stooped down, and removed the bunch of flowers from the grave, putting them to one side before replacing them with the fresh ones. From the office in the chapel, Catherine, Geoff and Jocky McLean, one of the SFOs, watched him stand up slowly and look round again.

  Jocky was already on the radio speaking to his two colleagues in the car near the gates and the four in the van on the side street.

  The man was looking at the headstone again and appeared to be totally engrossed in it. They watched the blue car with lights extinguished crawl silently along the road towards the gates. Moving out of the office to the exterior door of the foyer, Jocky checked the semi-automatic Heckler & Koch MP5 and slipped off the safety. Catherine was at the outer door, ready to open it. Jocky’s radio sounded.


  “One in position; ready to go.”

  “Copy; wait for go,” said Jocky.

  “Two in position; ready to go.”

  Catherine turned the handle.

  “Okay – go to strike!”

  She pulled open the door and Jocky raced through it running silently and low towards the man. As he closed in on him, the figure whirled round, his right arm suddenly extended, pistol in hand and pointed directly at him. Jocky switched on the spotter light on his weapon prompting the same action from the six other officers converging on their target. The night was suddenly filled with roaring voices and beams of light.

  “Police!

  “Drop the gun!”

  “Drop it now!”

  “Get down!”

  “On your face!”

  “Now! Get down!”

  The man spread his arms and released his grip on the pistol butt allowing the weapon to swing and hang from his finger by the trigger guard.

  “Drop the gun!”

  “Get down!”

  “Face down!”

  “On the ground!”

  “Now!”

  He let the gun fall and dropped to his knees.

  They had reached him by now and were pushing him onto his face across the grave; pulling his arms roughly behind him, two holding him down, one applying cuffs, another searching him.

  In less than a minute it was over and they pulled him to his feet, turned him and marched him over to the chapel, where Catherine and Geoff were waiting.

  “Mr Alex Anderson?” said Catherine.

  “It’s a long story,” replied the man.

  They could see he had been crying.

  Back at Parkside, Mr Alex Anderson was relaxed and courteous and cooperated fully with their scanning his fingerprints, taking a sample for DNA testing and taking the usual set of photographs. They removed his belt and boot laces, and placed them along with his other personal items in a labelled plastic bag. Unusually, he carried no wallet and no other form of identification. He had with him only a set of house keys, having apparently walked to the cemetery.

  In the small interview room at Parkside Police Station. Jo switched on the recorders and stated the time, date and names of those present in the room.

  “Mr Anderson – that is your real name, isn’t it?” David began.

  “Yes.”

  “You have the right to legal representation. If you wish to make a call, or we can arrange… ”

  “No, thank you. I’ll wait to see what this is about first.”

  “Very well,” said David. “We have been looking into the disappearance of a Mrs Alma Deverall since her previous address went up for sale without her returning to it after an extended period of absence. Her neighbours were concerned that something may have happened to her. We now know, sadly, that they were justified in their concern and we are trying to piece together the last six months of her life. From what we know already, you were very much involved with her during that period.”

  The man nodded.

  “Would you mind filling in the gaps for us?”

  “Yes, certainly. There’s no mystery. I am a full-time carer with Social Services. I was assigned to Mrs Deverall’s case last year following her second attempt to take her own life. I visited her once a week, always in the evening. She preferred that time because that was the part of the day when she felt most vulnerable from those bastards on the estate. They were the ones that had caused her to try to kill herself. She said at least one evening a week she would feel safe. It’s appalling, isn’t it, that a gentle old lady should live in fear like that?”

  “You say there’s no mystery, Mr Anderson. Then can you explain why Social Services have no record of a carer being assigned to Mrs Deverall? And, in fact, don’t appear to employ anyone called Alex Anderson. ”

  The man gave a brief laugh.

  “I can’t explain it, but it doesn’t surprise me in the least when you see the extent of some of the other administrative cock-ups in the organisation… ”

  “Really?” put in Jo. “I’ve always found them very efficient when I’ve had to deal with them.”

  “Well, perhaps they make a special effort when they’re dealing with the police.”

  “Oh, they did, Mr Anderson, when we asked them about the carer and about your employment with them. They spent a lot of time checking.”

  The man hesitated for just a moment.

  “Well, as I say, I can’t explain it. There are other people who can confirm it, though. I know Alma told the lady next door, if you want to check with her.”

  “We already have, Mr Anderson.”

  “And… ?”

  “Tell us about Mrs Deverall leaving the estate,” asked David.

  “Well, she was still anxious and stressed with it all in between my visits and asked if I could help her find somewhere to stay for a while until she felt better. That was last October and it was coming up to the time of year when she felt most at risk – you know, when it gets dark early during the winter months.”

  “A little outside your remit, I would have thought.”

  “Way outside, but she’d come to regard me as a friend – even after just a few visits – and there was no-one else for her to ask.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I looked on a few websites and this apartment sort of jumped out at me. A three month tenancy, fantastic accommodation and – I figured – the chance of a really good deal. I got in touch with the guy and did the business. Mrs Deverall loved it.”

  “Hammersmith was a bit out of the way, wasn’t it? A lot different from what she was used to.”

  “Oh, you’re familiar with the apartment, are you? Well, that’s exactly what I said to her when she said she’d take it. I really thought she’d say no. But that was the reason she did want it. Because it was a complete change, geographically and… socially, I guess. I think she saw it as a bit of an adventure.”

  “And was she happy there?” Jo again.

  “Absolutely. I was taken off the case – naturally – when she moved, although I know she still thought of me as her carer. But yes, she recovered her health and spirits, and the tenancy was extended by three months, which was a massive bonus.”

  “Did you see her a lot while she was there?”

  “Two or three times a week. I used to know the area very well, so it was a good excuse to go back.”

  “So what happened when the tenancy came to an end?”

  The man’s expression changed abruptly with the question, as if a dark cloud had passed over his face. His voice was hesitant and soft and he seemed temporarily to lose his composure.

  “Well, it all went wrong,” he said, after a long pause. “She became anxious again at the prospect of returning to the estate. Her mood dipped and she got very depressed. I asked her if she’d like me to find her some new alternative accommodation. But she said no; and then she rallied and I thought she was okay again. The next day, two days before she was due to leave, I found her… dead.” He had to force the word out.

  No-one spoke for a long time.

  “I guess you know the rest,” he said. “I’ve visited the grave quite a few times since. There was no-one but me at her funeral. I had no idea who to contact – she had no husband and her son was killed a few years ago – so I was all she had really. She was a nice lady, a brave lady. She deserved so much more.” They both noticed a slight, but definite, break in his voice. “It’s ironic, isn’t it,” he went on, “that the main reasons for her taking her own life were removed three weeks after she died – the fucking Bradys! Sorry, ma’am,” he added, directing the apology at Jo.

  “It’s late,” said David, looking at his watch and noting that it was nearly midnight. “We will need to talk to you some more, Mr Anderson, but we can do that in the morning.”

  “Am I being charged with something?” asked the man. “If not, why can’t I go?”

  “As I say”, replied David, “we need to ask you a
few more questions.”

  “Such as?” asked the man.

  “Well, there’s the issue with the carer record. I hear what you say about admin cock-ups, we have them here as well, but this was a police enquiry and, as you suggested yourself, people tend to dig very deep to provide us with the correct information in those circumstances. So I am not entirely satisfied with your theory about that. And then there is the small issue of your threatening a police officer with a firearm.”

  “It wasn’t even loaded, for God’s sake, and I don’t think you can say I threatened him… ”

  “The officer wasn’t to know it wasn’t loaded, Mr Anderson. And we can spend all night talking semantics, but pointing a gun at someone’s head – in my book – is threatening them.”

  “Okay,” said the man, “but Christ! When someone runs straight at you at night in a graveyard screaming like a banshee… it was a reflex action, I guess.”

  “One that could have got you killed,” said Jo. “And I assume you are aware that the courts are required to give an automatic five year sentence for anyone illegally in possession of a firearm.”

  “Look, I do have a license for the gun and pistol-shooting’s a hobby of mine. I’m very good at it, in fact, and if you want a demonstration, then take me to your shooting range and I promise I will amaze you. If you are just going to charge me with carrying a weapon, then I plead guilty. Can’t I go home and come back to the station in the morning?”

  “I’m afraid not, Mr Anderson,” said David. “You mentioned the Bradys; well I have to tell you that the search for Mrs Deverall was directly linked to our investigations into their murder. And we shall be checking your gun against the bullets found at the scene of the crime.

  “Good,” said the man. “If it all hinges on that, I can’t wait for the results.”

  “Actually, I’m surprised that you haven’t asked why we had armed police waiting for you at the cemetery, Mr Anderson. It’s almost as if you know why… ”

  “Well, I haven’t watched much television recently, Chief Inspector, but I seem to remember that in cases like this, it’s usually the police who ask the questions. I guess I just went along with the accepted protocol.”