Portcullis House was a relatively new addition to the accommodation at Westminster, providing more spacious offices than the limited space in the Palace allowed. The Shadow Home Secretary’s office was large and well appointed with matching desk, filing cabinets and bookcases. There was also room for a separate sitting area with a couple of armchairs facing each other over a low table.
“We didn’t drink his coffee,” said Tom. “Shall I go back and get it?”
They both laughed.
“I think the stuff out of the machine will taste better,” said Jackie. “The enjoyment depends as much on the company you keep as the quality of the bean.”
“Why, Jackie,” he said, giving her his best smile, “what a lovely thing to say.”
They laughed again and walked down towards the vending machine.
Their meeting went well and they produced the full skeleton of the presentation. With that complete, they set about applying the flesh, and were ahead on their tight schedule by lunchtime. At 1.00 pm they left the building and went in search of food. They strolled along the Embankment, enjoying the warm midsummer sunshine. Tom took off his jacket and carried it over his shoulder.
“By the way, Jackie,” said Tom, after a while, “what exactly did you mean about getting on the wrong side of Andrew?”
“I wish I hadn’t said that, actually. It seemed pretty disloyal afterwards. After all, he made me what I am – even if it is only a yes-woman. At least it’s a fairly senior yes-woman.”
“You didn’t answer the question,” said Tom.
“It’s nothing really specific. It’s just that he scares me at times. I’m not sure how far he would be prepared to go to get his own way. I think he’s dangerous – and I can’t believe I’m sharing all this with you. Why do you think that is, Mr Brown?”
“Perhaps we’ve both found a new friend,” said Tom, seriously.
“I hope so,” said Jackie. They walked on for a while without speaking, checking out the eating places.
“What about here?” said Jackie, indicating a mobile kiosk with a few chairs and tables spread across the wide pavement. “Hot dog?”
“Excellent idea,” said Tom.
“You sit down over there and I’ll get them,” said Jackie, pointing to one of the two empty tables. “What do you want?”
Tom looked at the limited menu which comprised hot dogs of various sizes, with or without chips.
“I’ll have a Monster-Dog with chips,” said Tom.
Jackie gave a little laugh and walked over to the kiosk, which sported the sign ‘Top Dog’ over the serving hatch. Tom watched her go, appreciating what a good-looking woman she was; trim figure, shapely legs, nice swing of the hips, and a pleasant face. As always, she was immaculately and fashionably dressed; today in a dark suit with a short straight skirt and double breasted jacket. The same age as himself or thereabouts, he guessed; she was someone you would like to be seen with, be proud of, but without pub landlords and sound technicians drooling and fantasising over her.
She headed back towards their table balancing three items, a Midi-Dog, a Monster-Dog and a very large polystyrene tray full of chips.
“If we eat all this,” she said, “we won’t have room for any pudding and we can convince ourselves we declined through self-control.”
Tom laughed.
“Good spin, Jackie. You should be in politics.”
They spoke very little for a while, mainly due to incapacity born of the eating challenge in front of them. When they had done the most damage they could to the dogs and chips, Tom got them two coffees from the same kiosk and they sat relaxed and comfortable with each other’s company.
“What’s your afternoon looking like?” asked Tom.
“Cross-party group meeting with His Highness the Mayor on City of London congestion charges; a review there-of,” she answered. “Thinking of reducing them, believe it or not. Traffic wardens up in arms about potential job losses if we don’t do something to entice motorists back onto the double yellow lines.”
Tom threw his head back and laughed.
“What about you?” she asked.
“I’m going over to the constituency office,” he said. “As you know, I cancelled Saturday’s surgery and I might just pick up a few people this afternoon. They know my car; I’ll stick it outside and they’ll see it and some will no doubt pop in. Actually, the reason for the cancellation was the Lorimar-Deverall thing. I assume you got the whole story – of course you did. I actually know John Deverall really well… we served together, he was a very close friend. My kids call him ‘uncle’ for Christ’s sake.”
“Wow, what a shock that must have been.” She thought for a moment, and then went on. “Listen, Tom, I don’t know whether you intend telling Andrew this, but if you do, I can only imagine he’s going to want to exploit it somehow. Try to display you as carrying on your friend’s work or something. I know how his mind works. It could get a bit tacky for you. Just a thought; I’m not trying to interfere.”
“No, it’s a good point. I never thought of it, but the job’s done anyway, I’m afraid. He was there when I found out and I just blurted it out. I mean I was really shocked, like you say. Interesting that Andrew never mentioned anything about it this morning. Or saw it as a reason I might not be working over the weekend.”
“Interesting, but not surprising. I’m not sure in which part of the brain the facility for empathising is located, but I’d bet my life Andrew has that part missing.”
Tom laughed. “Anyway, it might be exactly what Jad – John Deverall – would want. Someone acting as his representative on the right side of the law. I guess it will all come out about our friendship anyway whether Andrew takes a hand or not.”
“Yes, I guess it will,” she said. “Anyway, I’d best get going. I’ve enjoyed today, Tom. I didn’t think I would but I really have. Until tomorrow then.”
They stood up. Jackie hesitated before leaving. Tom leant across and kissed her gently on the cheek.
“I’ve enjoyed it, too, Jackie.”
John Alexander Deverall sifted through the selection of Monday’s dailies on the small dining table in front of him, checking that he had read them all. He had followed the Meadow Village story as it was breaking on the local radio the previous day with an increasing sense of shock and remorse. It was an absolute fact, he told himself, that Irene Holland had died as a direct result of his killing the Bradys. The links in the chain connecting the two events might be numerous, but they were laid out in a straight line from one to the other.
He got up from the table and checked his watch – 11.15 am. His visitor was late, but he guessed that punctuality wasn’t a problem for them any more. He looked round his new home. He had to admit, it was a lot closer to an upmarket studio apartment than a prison cell. Although it comprised just one room, which included living, sleeping and dining accommodation, the room itself was a reasonable size and in the shape of a long rectangle, so the three areas were naturally separated. The bathroom off the bedroom was large and more than adequate.
The feeling of incarceration was real enough, however. The three windows were not much more than horizontal slits well above head height designed to let light in, not to let him look out. This was because most of the room was below ground level, and the windows were only just above the height of the ground outside.
He moved across to where a three-seater sofa faced a large wall-mounted TV screen and clicked the remote. The channel was Thames Plus Radio 192. What had shaken him just as much as Irene’s death was hearing yesterday the voices of Tom and Mags being interviewed as they left the Hollands’ house. More guilt consumed him; just as intense. He remembered how he’d discretely watched them both at his funeral service, beside themselves with grief, and how he’d cried himself at their pain. Now his secret was out, he craved the opportunity to see them again; to grovel for forgiveness.
At 11.25, the door opened and his personal warden stepped inside. “Mr Granville,” he s
aid, then immediately withdrew.
“John,” said the solicitor extending his hand limply.
Jad shook his hand, or rather his fingers, and they sat down at the table.
Clive opened a document case and removed some papers. “Some stuff here for you to sign; and some information about what happens next. I have to tell you, the Brigadier is not well pleased.”
“Really,” said Jad. “I thought he’d be delighted.”
The solicitor looked at him over the top of his glasses and raised his eyebrows.
“It was a joke, Clive. You know – sarcasm. I do realise I’m in disgrace; I don’t need you or anybody else to tell me.”
“It’s not killing the Bradys, John. It’s getting caught that’s the issue. I’m not saying that it was okay to do it, of course. It was wrong. An abuse of trust… ”
“If you’re here just to tell me stuff I already know, Clive, than perhaps I can be signing whatever you’ve got there while you’re doing it; seeing as it won’t be necessary for me to listen.”
Clive looked at him and shook his head.
“We’re still on the same side, John – and that’s the same side as Henshaw as well. Don’t lose sight of who your friends are.”
Jad didn’t answer; just looked away.
“Okay, let’s get it over with,” said Clive, pushing the documents across the table and placing a pen in front of Jad.
After he’d signed them, Jad stood up and stretched. “Is that it?”
“Yes, that’s it. Except to say it’s been decided that we won’t release details of your illness yet. We think it’s best to wait until your profile has diminished somewhat. At the moment it’s even bigger than your ego. Thank God we don’t have to wait for that to reduce in size.”
He put the papers back into the case and rose to leave. There was no proffered hand this time, limp or otherwise. He pressed a button at the side of the door, the warden opened it and he left with deliberate haste.
Jo was already waiting at her desk when David arrived at Parkside. She followed him into his office, checking her watch – 8.15 pm.
“Christ, Jo. We might as well move in here permanently. What have we got?”
“A Mrs Gayle Lucas got in touch with Romford police this afternoon; this was even before we’d put out the kids’ names. Said she was worried that the boys might be her nephews. Apparently, eight weeks ago her sister and brother-in-law – Mary and Winston Enderby – had asked for the use of their caravan at Long Beach Caravan Site near Southend and had turned up at her house without the children to pick up the key. She asked where the boys were and was told they were staying with friends. It seems her sister was very vague about it, but Mrs Lucas knew about the problems they’d had with the children and thought perhaps they’d been taken into care or custody or something and that her sister just didn’t want to tell her. Then with the news over the weekend about the two brothers, along with their descriptions, she put two and two together.”
“And we’ve picked them up?”
“Yes, they’re already here, waiting in Room Four. I spoke to Sergeant Clark Morden, the detaining officer at Romford. They picked them up at the caravan at… ” she checked her notes “… 7:10 this evening. They hadn’t heard of the Meadow Village thing, and Morden said that when he explained the circumstances, they seemed more upset at being found than being bereaved.”
David shook his head. “Okay, we’d best get down there to talk to them. Have they had coffee and such?”
“Yes, they’ve been made as comfortable as possible.”
They joined the couple in the same room where they had interviewed John Deverall, and made the appropriate introductions. The Enderbys were both small and slim, and dressed casually in lightweight outdoor clothes, as if they had been planning an evening stroll when the police had picked them up. They looked a picture of total despair, each with a frightened, apprehensive look in their eyes; nothing like the troublesome neighbours that Jerry Grainger had described.
“Would you mind if we recorded this?” asked Jo. “It saves us a lot of writing and you a lot of reading later.” The couple nodded.
David and Jo didn’t need to ask many questions; the words came pouring out of Mary Enderby.
“We knew something like this was going to happen. It was the only way it was going to end.”
“What was… ?”
“Dillon. The way he was. Completely out of control. We tried everything, didn’t we, Winston? He was really bright at school. At first he used to read, do his homework, everything. We did our best to encourage him and get him interested in hobbies and the like – sport mainly. Winston took him fishing, to football matches; even got him interested in climbing – he was a good climber, wasn’t he Winston? And he got really in to fishing when he was Joaquin’s age – entered a couple of competitions – for juniors, like.
“But as he got older, he got ridiculed and bullied for doing that sort of thing. Winston kept trying to encourage him, didn’t you Winston?”
“Like pissing in the wind.” Her husband so far had been sitting with his head bowed in a posture of abject misery, and didn’t move to answer his wife.
“But Dillon just turned on him. Actually pushed him away and punched him when he was trying to talk to him.” She reached across and took her husband’s hand. He gripped it tightly. “Anyway, he joined the gang about a year or so ago, for his own protection as much as anything, at the time. But soon we were hearing all the bad things he was doing… ”
She broke down and the tears came. Winston sat up and put his arm around her. “What can you do,” he said, “when trying to get them doing something useful actually puts them in danger? Parents are supposed to make sure their children are safe.”
David shook his head. “I don’t know, Mr Enderby. I don’t know what you can do. I’m so sorry.” After a pause he went on. “And Joaquin. What about him?”
Mary composed herself. “He just idolised Dillon. Wanted to be like him. You know, all the kids on the estate looking up to you and that. He’d do exactly what Dillon told him, even though sometimes you could tell, he’d just want to stay home and play.” She began to cry again.
“What did you do about the children?” asked Jo. “Did you try and get some help with them? Report what was happening to anybody?”
“We didn’t have to,” said Winston, bitterly. “We had half the neighbourhood reporting them.”
“Well, it must have been bad for them all,” said Mary. “All the noise; you and Dillon fighting. The police always round… ”
“Aye, and me pissed all the time,” said Winston, quietly, fighting back his own tears.
No-one spoke for a while, then Jo asked, “I understand the boys were away from home quite a lot?”
“All but left home,” said Winston. “No idea where they were most of the time. We went to the police ourselves, you know. They said they couldn’t do anything unless we could show that they’d done something wrong. I mean – Joaquin was seven yours old, for fuck’s sake! Oh yes, and they told us they just needed a firm hand. What a joke!”
“As if it was all our fault,” said Mary. “Anyway, we’d just about given up, couldn’t face it any longer. So we asked Gayle – my sister – if we could borrow her caravan. We tried to find the boys – we planned to take Joaquin with us – but they were nowhere… ”
“We thought if we got Joaquin away from the estate, there might still be a chance for him,” said Winston. “You, know, while there was still time. But we couldn’t find them, and, well, we went anyway. We just meant to be away for a few days, but… Everyone is going to think we’re really bad parents aren’t they?” His voice broke. “I just don’t know what else we could have done.”
“For what it’s worth, Mr Enderby,” said David, “I for one don’t think you are bad parents. And, like you, I don’t know what else you could have done.” He only just managed to stop himself from adding, ‘but there was a bloody lot more that we could have done.�
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“As Winston said, we only intended to go there for perhaps a week at the most,” said Mary. “But it was so peaceful. We managed to get passes so we could go walking on the island, Winston did some fishing – even got a little job down by the jetty at Shoeton Point helping with the boats – repairs and such. And another thing,” she went on, “he hasn’t touched a drop since we’ve been there, right love?”
Winston nodded. “That’s right.”
They were all silent again for some moments.
“Would you be able to provide us with names and addresses of Dillon’s and Joaquin’s friends?” asked Jo. “We’ve probably seen them already in the door-to-door enquiries we’ve been making, but it would be useful to know anyway.”
Mary and Winston looked at each other. There was no hiding the anxiety in their eyes. “No, I’m afraid we don’t know their names,” said Winston. “They never mentioned any one in particular, and anyway, they all seemed to live out on the streets.”
David and Jo said nothing, hoping the silence would encourage a different response. “Okay,” David said at last. “If you do think of anything or anyone, please call me or Detective Sergeant Cottrell.” They each handed over a card with their contact details. “In the meantime, we’ll take you home and request that you stay there until we find Joaquin. It could be that without Dillon, he may try to return home. And speaking of Dillon, I’m afraid I’m going to require you to identify your other son at the morgue. Either one or both of you will be fine. I’m very sorry to have to ask.”
“No, we understand,” said Winston. “I’ll do it right away, if someone could stay with Mary until I get back.”
“I’ll do that, Mr Enderby,” said Jo. “We’ll take Mrs Enderby home and drive you there afterwards.”
It was after 10.00 pm when David and Jo finally left the station. To end the day, they each drove the couple of miles to Meadow Village and parked round the back of the pub.
The Dog and Duck had been externally resurrected with new window panes and replacement double doors at the front. Inside it felt like the morgue David had just visited. Not that it was deserted – there were quite a number of people in the main bar – but no-one was talking. People were sitting around, with glazed expressions directed at full pints most of which, given the lack of anything that looked like a decent head, must have been standing there untouched for some considerable time.
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