Catalyst

by Michael Knaggs

  “I’ll do my best.”

  She left the office.

  Twenty minutes later she was back.

  “Got all three, sir,” she said, looking very pleased with herself. “Two on mobiles – at work, like you said – and one at home. He’s the one who was discharged due to incapacity, the one in Pretherby. Really interesting this – all three remembered Deverall; not one had heard of Lorimar. They all knew of Deverall’s death, and one of them – the one who was injured – he was actually there when it happened – used the phrase ‘blown to pieces’. When I asked him did that mean he had been killed instantly, he said ‘probably the most instantly anyone’s ever been killed.’ It doesn’t sound like he had much time to make a dramatic death-bed speech.”

  “Right,” said David, with some relish.

  Grace took Tom’s call at a little after 5.00 pm.

  “Hello, this is Goody,” she said, as usual.

  “Have you got anything for me?”

  “You’re late phoning,” she said, annoyed at the abruptness of his manner. “Such as what?”

  “You know what, Grace! About the debate?”

  “It looks like it’s going to be big,” she said. “Up to now they have over three hundred people signed up to go from the estate alone. They’ve stopped asking people to put their names down at three of the places where the notices are. And apparently the 3AF secretary is trying to move the debate to the council offices, because everyone in the village is planning to attend as well. Anyway, it’s probably going to be at the Lecture Room in the Town Hall – seats around six-fifty theatre-style. They’re talking about cancelling a concert to accommodate it.”

  “I wish it was one of Portman’s newly-fucking-funded concerts!”

  “I beg your pardon! Please don’t use that language with me!” snapped Grace. “What on earth is the matter?”

  “Sorry, Grace,” he said. “You’re right, that wasn’t necessary. Is it okay to say ‘bloody’ though? Because I’ve had it today with bloody Donald and bloody Hewlett. And I’ve got to stay over for a review meeting with them both first thing in the morning. Saturday, for God’s sake! There goes the surgery again – or some of it. I’ll tell you about it when – or if – I see you next week. That’s assuming I’m not suspended!”

  “Can’t wait,” said Grace. “And bloody Portman?”

  “Not him, he’s okay,” said Tom. “I thought he was bloody good, in fact, though he didn’t do me any favours. Any reaction on the streets to the arrest?”

  “Total dismay, it seems. Everyone’s hoping it’s not the man.”

  “Good,” said Tom. Then, after a pause, “I think so, anyway.”

  After ending the call, he phoned Mags.

  “Hi, sorry but I’m afraid I’m stuck here tonight. Got a meeting with… ”

  “Okay,” she cut in, her voice expressionless.

  “So I’ll see you tomorrow after the surgery. Should be back there around… ”

  “Right.”

  “Shame, because I thought we could…

  “Bye.”

  She ended the call, mentally erasing, he suspected, the points he had gained for the parents’ evening.

  “They’re checking out guys in the same unit around the time of Deverall’s death. I’m worried that if they talk to these people it’s all going to kick off.” Vicky Barrowclough was alerting her boss to the police’s further probing for details concerning James Lorimar.

  “That’s something we didn’t anticipate; something we need to put right,” said Peter. “We have to get to Lorimar fast. I think our man may have to sacrifice himself for the greater good. Pull Granville in for briefing. Let’s hope we’re not too late. By the way, what’s the investigating officer’s name again? They mentioned it on the news.”

  “Detective Chief Inspector David Gerrard,” said Vicky, handing him a sheet of paper.

  “He’s a sharp bastard, I’ll give him that,” said Peter. “Might be an idea to get the name and contact details for his Chief Constable as well.”

  “It’s on there,” said Vicky, pointing to the sheet of paper. “Heather Rayburn; and those are her three contact numbers – office reception, direct line and mobile.”

  Peter smiled. “Thanks, Corporal. You don’t need me at all really, do you?”

  “Well, I hardly expected anything else,” David Gerrard had just been told that the landlord of the Wild Boar had failed to pick out James Lorimar at the identity parade. “They’d probably lynch him if they thought he’d helped us catch their hero.” He looked at his watch for the twentieth time. “Where the bloody hell is Granville? And what could be more important than representing Pinocchio in there?”

  “I don’t know, but he shot off at a rate of knots,” said Jo.

  Geoff Drury knocked on David’s door. He waved him inside.

  “Solicitor’s back, sir. Says he’s ready when you are.”

  David looked across at Jo, eyes wide. “Ready when you are,” he repeated, checking for the twenty-first time. “Seven o’clock. We’ve been ready for six bloody hours.” They rose to leave. “I tell you, Jo, sometimes – like right now – I think I’d like to go down in history as the first DCI ever to beat a solicitor to death during an interview.”

  Jo laughed. “Well, before you do that, sir, let me check the records. I find it hard to believe it’s never happened before.”

  David switched on the recording machines in the interview room and stated the names of those present. He also made a point of stating the time very loudly.

  “Before we go any further,” Clive Granville took the two officers by surprise before they could start, “my client would like to make a final statement.”

  “What, another final statement?” asked David. “Oh, I can hardly wait! Who are you this time, Billy the Kid?”

  “My client, Mr Lorimar,” said the solicitor, emphasising the name, “simply wishes to add to his last statement – to complete it, in effect.”

  David sat back in his chair.

  “Over to you, Detective Sergeant,” he said. “I don’t think I can handle another layer of complexity.”

  “Please go ahead,” said Jo, while David sighed loudly and fidgeted in his seat. “And please, Mr Lorimar, do try to finish the story this time,” she added, smiling gently, like someone encouraging a reluctant child to drink his milk.

  “My last statement,” began the man, “stands as made, but, as Mr Granville says, I wish to complete the picture. Following the death of Mrs Deverall I got very depressed – overcome by guilt, you might say. I felt I had let both John and his mother down badly. If I had been more proactive and assertive when the tenancy in Hammersmith ran out and had found her another place, instead of putting the decision on to her, then… well, who knows? The fact is, I didn’t and as a result of that… she’s dead.” His voice showed signs of breaking again as he spoke the last two words.

  “During the week following the funeral I went back onto the estate every night. I watched those Brady bastards out there stirring things up all the time – all over the place. They had this army of young kids who I reckon would walk through walls for them; they never got their own hands dirty. Fires, beatings, vandalism, drug-dealing, and three stabbings – all in those few days. And not one person daring to come out of their house to confront them, or even try to reason or plead with them. Hundreds of people running scared – or rather, hiding scared. It must be like the blitz, except that the enemy is just a few feet away in the streets and actually lives next door. What sort of a fucking life is that?” he shouted across at the officers. “Sorry, ma’am,” he apologised again.

  “So what did you decide to do?” asked Jo.

  “Get rid of them,” the man replied. David sat bolt upright in his chair.

  “And how did you propose to do that?” asked Jo, before he could grab the reins again.

  “Just take a guess, Detective Sergeant,” said the man, with gentle sarcasm.

  The two police officers
were temporarily taken aback. They looked expectantly at the solicitor, who returned their looks calmly, raising his eyebrows as if to invite a question.

  Jo accepted his invitation. “Mr Granville, are you entirely comfortable with your client’s… position?”

  “It is my client’s expressed wish to make this statement,” he replied. “I have alerted him as to the implications of his admitting those intentions and advised him to consider his position carefully, but he is insistent that he wants to say this. And… he is choosing his words judiciously.”

  In fact, James Lorimar had already chosen all the words he was intending to use; he had nothing more to say.

  David walked out of the front doors of Parkside Police Station and down the two steps to street level. He placed the single A4 sheet on the stand and looked around at the gathered mass of reporters and TV cameras. The crowd fell silent.

  “Detective Chief Inspector David Gerrard, investigating officer,” he introduced himself. “I wish to make a statement regarding the ongoing investigation into the deaths of three men in the Cullen Field area two weeks ago. At 8:35 pm today, Mr James Lorimar, a forty-one-year-old Investment Manager, was charged with the murder of Jimmy, Kevin and Karl Brady on the 7th of May this year. The charge was made after due consultation with the Crown Prosecutor. As of now, we are not looking for anyone else in connection with this incident.

  “That is all I am able to tell you at this point in time. We will release further details as and when appropriate. As a consequence, I am not able to take any questions. Thank you.”

  The questions came in a torrent, anyway, as David turned away and walked back into the building, ignoring them all.

  CHAPTER 8

  At 7.30 am on Saturday morning the G4 vehicle arrived at Parkside, along with two police cars, to pick up the prisoner for the short journey to Marlburgh Central Magistrates Court. James Lorimar was taken from the police holding cells in through the rear doors of the vehicle and secured in his seat inside. By 7.50 am, he was being provided with a light breakfast in his new accommodation in the secure basement area of the court building.

  At 9.00am prompt, the same two security officers who had delivered him just over an hour ago, escorted him into the Perspex cubicle in the courtroom to face the three presiding magistrates, seated in a line in front of him. Also present were Clive Granville, his solicitor, Jane Duncan of the Crown Prosecution Service and DS Jo Cottrell. There was no media presence; no-one seemed to have had time to make the connection between the police statement from Parkside and the next sitting of the local magistrate.

  The middle of the three magistrates was a handsome, fifty-something blonde woman dressed formally in a pale blue suit with a cream shirt and loosely-fastened tie striped with both colours. Her two colleagues flanking her were male, in their early forties, and dressed smartly in dark business suits.

  The woman spoke to the prisoner.

  “Could you please state your name and address?”

  “James Philip Lorimar; 18 Barrington Mansions, Hammersmith.”

  “Thank you.” She turned to Jane.

  “Ms Duncan, would you speak for the Crown, please?”

  “Yes, ma’am. The defendant is accused of the killing of three brothers in the Cullen Field area in May. We have evidence which –”

  Clive Granville rose to his feet.

  “If I may interrupt, ma’am, with apologies to Ms Duncan. If it would expedite the process, I can confirm that we shall not be requesting bail for Mr Lorimar.”

  The other two magistrates leant in so all three could confer. They spoke for less than a minute then settled back in their seats

  “Is Mr Lorimar intending to enter a plea?” asked the woman magistrate.

  “No, ma’am.”

  There was more conferring, this time for an even shorter time.

  “Very well, the decision of this court is that Mr Lorimar be remanded in custody pending trial at Crown Court, the date and venue to be set within twenty-four hours of this hearing. You may take the prisoner away.”

  James Lorimar was escorted from the box and taken back to the court cells to await his onward journey.

  When Tom finally arrived at his constituency office at 10.50 am that morning, the press – having picked up on the previous evening’s statement – had already gathered in substantial numbers in front of the building. He was not in the greatest of moods. Traffic accidents and roadworks had more than doubled the time it would normally have taken him to make the journey from SW1 to Marlburgh on a Saturday morning. He pulled into the small parking area at the side of the building and got out of the car.

  “Mr Brown. What are your feelings this morning on hearing the news of the arrest?” The reporter was a small attractive woman with straight blonde hair, wearing a short blue dress and white jacket. She smiled sweetly at him as she stood at his side so that the TV camera could get them both in shot.

  “Well, if this man is the perpetrator of this crime,” said Tom, addressing the crowd in general, “then obviously I’m pleased that he has finally been found and I congratulate the police on what, hopefully, will be the resolution of a very difficult case.”

  “You have said more than once that you have sympathy with the residents of Cullen Field, and have admitted that this man has done them a favour. Are you not a little saddened that he is likely to receive a long custodial sentence for what in effect is just a good deed?”

  “Well, firstly,” said Tom, “we do not know yet if this is the man who committed the crime, so let’s not get ahead of ourselves by speculating about a sentence. Also, we have no idea at this stage why the killer – whoever he is – carried out this crime. What we do know, is that it was to the benefit of the community. But we should be wary of assuming that this is why he did it; of making him a hero before we know his personal motivation for the act.”

  “But if he did do it specifically for the benefit of one, or some, or all of the community… ” Someone else called out the question from the back of the crowd.

  “It would be unfortunate if this person carried out the crime because he felt it was his only recourse to justice. That is why I have said, on several occasions, we must have in place a means of addressing this sort of issue within the law. To do that, we need to review our current practices and, if necessary, take some serious decisions about the way we approach the problem of intimidation and violence on our streets.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a number of meetings scheduled which I must get to right away. Thank you.” He treated the woman to a friendly smile before going inside.

  The reporters turned away, some to get to their next story, some to remain for further comments when he left later. Tom went straight to his office, saying his usual breezy ‘good morning’ to his PA, Jenny Britani, on the way. He checked his watch – 11.00 am. Better late…

  Grace popped her head round the door. She was wearing one of her ‘dress-down-Saturday’ outfits, as Tom liked to call them. A short yellow flared dress, low cut and belted at the waste, and black leggings. Her hair was free of constraints and fell naturally and lush onto her shoulders. The dark-rimmed glasses had been discarded in favour of contact lenses.

  “Good morning.”

  “Good morning. What are you doing here?” he asked, feeling suddenly better.

  “I work here,” she said, and then read from a small post-it note stuck on the palm of her hand, “Message from Mr George Holland – about you chairing a meeting or something. He phoned just after nine o’clock – when you should have been here. Here’s the number.” She placed the note on his desk in front of him.

  “George Holland,” said Tom. “That name rings a bell… ”

  “Chairman of the 3AF in Meadow Village. The group that are doing the debate.”

  “And is that the meeting he wants me to chair?”

  “He didn’t say; just asked for you to phone him. But it seems likely, don’t you think?”

  “Mmmm… yes, I guess
it must be. If it is, what do you think? Should I do it?”

  “I think it could be a good thing,” said Grace. “It would mean you’d have to be absolutely neutral, of course, assuming that you’re actually capable of that,” she added, with a critical smile.

  “Don’t you start on me as well,” said Tom. “Andrew had a real go this morning after that exchange in the House yesterday. Do you know what his opening gambit was? ‘You’re not in the bloody Marines now, Tom. You don’t have to take spontaneous decisions on the ground when the official chain of command is clearly visible and sitting right in front of you!’”

  The sudden tinkling of very girlish laughter took him by surprise. He raised his eyebrows at her.

  “Well, that’s a reaction I’ve never been able to squeeze out of you,” he said. “I must get Andrew to chastise me more often. I’ll get you a ringside seat next time.”

  “I’ve absolutely no sympathy,” said Grace, recovering her poise but still smiling at him. “I’m not sure how he could have put it any more plainly to you beforehand – if what you told me was true – that he didn’t want you challenging the government over their public disorder record.”

  “I wasn’t challenging their record – I was challenging their budget for further funding.”

  “Well, I watched you on last night’s House Calls and I have to say, I couldn’t tell the difference.”