“There you are then,” said David. “That’s what it was, Omar – an error of judgement. So don’t worry about Jo, but I appreciate your concern. Thanks for the briefing, Geoff and Judy. And now,” he added, “let’s get back to the mean streets.”
The team left the room and he went into his office. Before he had time to sit down behind his desk, Allan Pickford appeared in the doorway.
“Just caught the back end of the meeting, David,” he said. “What are you going to do about Jo?”
“Well, I’d be grateful for any thoughts you have, sir, of course, but if it was just down to me, then probably nothing.”
“I think something has to be said to her, I mean… ”
“What exactly, sir?” David interrupted. “There is nothing that we can say to her that she doesn’t already know. The girl is devastated. I don’t believe there was any indication whatsoever that something like this could happen. If there had been, Jo was more likely to pick up on it than anyone else in my team, including me – and, with respect, you as well, sir.”
“I don’t doubt it, David, but it was pretty clumsy to say the least to leave with a parting shot that they were about to lose their child again. I’m sorry, but if you won’t say something to her, then I feel I must. She’s a good cop, David, and whatever else is said, then that fact should be clearly communicated. But I actually believe she’ll get over this more quickly if she has that conversation with someone – and it would be much better for her if that someone was you.”
Allan turned to leave.
“Think about it,” he said.
“Okay,” said David, with a deep sigh. “I’ll do it. But I’m not sure this is the right time, sir.”
“Do it now, David,” said Allan. “Straight away. I don’t think there is a right time for this, so better to just get it over with. No need for paperwork; nothing to go on her file.”
He left the office, closing the door behind him.
David picked up his notepad and quickly wrote down a few words on it before placing it in his jacket pocket. He looked at the photographs standing on the desk in front of him – six in all. Five of these were facing him and were of his family; two each of his son and daughter – as babies and teenagers – and one of himself with his wife and both children before their divorce ten years ago. The sixth one faced outwards so it could be seen by anyone entering the office. He picked this one up and studied it, smiling at the memory. It had appeared on his desk a few days after an outdoor team-building day and showed him standing next to Jo and towering over her, both of them liberally spattered with mud after a mountain-biking session. The caption at the bottom read:
‘Hobbit meets Cave Troll’
(A scene form ‘The Fellowship of the Ring’)
After looking at it for a long time he replaced it, then scooped up his keys from the desk and left the office, passing through the empty MIT room and out of the building.
Jo was reluctant to let him in at first. It took a lot of persuasive words into the speaker at the front door before she gave in.
“Wait a minute, then,” she said.
It was well over the minute before David heard the buzz of the lock being activated. He pushed open the door into the foyer. He could see a door being opened and left ajar at the top of the curved staircase. He climbed the stairs and went in. The neat apartment in the small complex of Brantingham Villas had a long passageway through to the open plan living room-cum-kitchen, with doors off to two bedrooms, a utility room, and a bathroom. He went straight through to where Jo was half-standing, half-leaning against the back of an easy chair facing the door. Her eyes were red and her face looked sore from wiping her tears, but she had done a good job in composing herself and returned his smile.
“Hi,” she said, in the softest of whispers. “Thanks for coming.”
She turned and sat down on the chair, David taking a seat at the end of the sofa nearest to her.
“Would you like a drink – tea, coffee?”
“On expenses, of course,” said David, extracting a brief laugh. “Yes, I will, but let’s have a chat first. I’m here because the whole team’s worried about how you are, but also officially as well.”
“Oh dear,” she said, quietly, looking down at her clasped hands.
David reached across and put his own hand over them.
“You are the best cop on my team, Jo. Possibly the best I’ve ever worked with” – she looked up at him and smiled – “so let’s get the official shit out of the way quickly. Okay?”
“Okay,” said Jo, tears welling again, knowing the gist, if not the detail, of what was coming.
“Don’t read anything into the fact that I’m going to stop holding hands with you for the time being,” he said, leaning back and withdrawing his hand. Jo sobbed out a laugh this time, tears flowing again.
“Just so long as you’ll hold them again afterwards,” she said.
“I promise. Firstly,” he said, “nothing about what we say will go on your file. It’s just between us – the Boss-man has been absolutely clear on that.”
Jo looked at him, horrified.
“God, the Super’s been involved? Oh, no! What did he say?” She slumped forward into a near-foetal position.
“He said it was important that I spoke to you about the incident, which I am doing; that it was unwise for you to leave the family at a time when they would be confused, if not very distressed, without watching out for them. And I agree with him. That was a mistake, Jo, not putting a watch on the house overnight, especially knowing that they had somewhere else to go.”
Jo had not changed her position, but her shoulders were shaking.
“Having said that, no-one in the world could have anticipated that something like that would have happened. And the Super agrees with me, that if anyone on the team was likely to see the signs, it would have been you. And he also said” – he reached into his pocket and took out the notepad, reading from it – “‘she’s a good cop, David, and whatever else is said, then that fact should be clearly communicated.’” He replaced the pad, pausing to let Allan’s words register with her. “We need you, Jo – this is me again, by the way, but I’m speaking for everybody; you are the beating heart of this team; we can’t function properly without you.”
Jo had stopped crying but did not move. They remained in silence for a long time before David continued.
“And another thing, Jo – and this is an honest observation and not just for your benefit – if they hadn’t been able to leave, if someone had been there to prevent them, they could easily have done something in their own home. Tablets, gas fire, something. There are easier ways than standing waiting to be drowned.”
Jo looked up as if to say something, but David went on.
“Also – hear me out. Are we absolutely sure they committed suicide? Perhaps they genuinely got cut off and simply saw no way out. So they stood together like that and waited for the good Lord to take them. We don’t know otherwise for certain.”
“Oh yes we do, David,” said Jo, more composed. “They did it deliberately. I’m never going to believe anything other than that and if I’m going to get over this, then that is what I have to come to terms with; not hide away behind something I know isn’t true. But thank you for all that; I can’t tell you how much it means to me.”
“I do really mean it, Jo.”
“I know you do.”
They sat for a while in silence. Jo looked across at him, eyes red but now dry.
“I’m not sure I can come back, sir. People will say it was, quote, ‘just an error of judgement’ unquote. Some will say it to be kind – some will really mean it. But it’s as you’ve said a number of times recently, they come to us for help and we let them down. Those poor people, feeling so bad they… What if they thought I meant we were going to take Jokey away for ever? What if they linked what I said to what they’d been reading in the papers; seeing on TV? They probably felt… ”
“I don’t believe
that for a nanosecond,” said David, with real conviction, reaching forward to take her hands again. “I’d bet my life that they knew nothing of the leak; they didn’t have time. It was less than twenty-four hours since it hit the press – a lot less. They wouldn’t have known. Please, please, don’t be a victim of this thing, Jo. We’ve got loads of victims; we don’t need another one. What we do need are people who can prevent more victims.”
“Could I have time off to think, sir? I don’t think I’d be much use right now anyway.”
David did not answer immediately.
“Okay,” he said. “Compassionate leave – not holiday. You’ll be wanting all your holidays when you come back. Right?”
Jo looked sadly at him, shaking her head.
“Right,” she said. There was a further silence, both wrapped in their own thoughts.
“Now,” said Jo, suddenly, “tea, coffee? Please stay a little longer.”
“On one condition,” said David.
She raised her eyebrows with the unspoken question.
“Biscuits, as well.”
“You drive a hard bargain.”
“Hi, it’s me,” Tom said into the phone.
“I know,” said Mags.
“Just to let you know I’m coming back tonight. Surgery finished early.”
There was no answer.
“Have you seen the news? That poor kid, drowned with his parents.”
“It seems your New Justice Regime has got off to a flying start.”
“Mags, that’s a terrible thing to say. That little guy was eight-years-old. How the hell can this have anything to do with the NJR?”
“The NJR!” she scoffed. “So it’s a coincidence, is it? The new measures for taking children permanently away from their parents are announced, and less than twenty-four hours later one of the prime candidates for separation ends up dead – deliberately drowned along with the parents. Now that’s what I call real impact!”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing!” he said. “There is no way that the two things are connected at all and I don’t believe you think there is either! He was eight, for Christ’s sake – way too young to be affected. And anyway, where do you get the idea from that it was a suicide? The police haven’t said that it was.”
“No, but just about every reporter has on all the news channels. It seems they just stood there and let the sea come in around them…” Her voice had changed, was breaking a little.
“I’m really sorry,” he said, meaning he was sorry she was upset.
“A bit late for that!” she snapped again. The phone slammed down. He called back immediately.
“What!” she snapped, but with a tell-tale hoarseness to her voice.
“Please, Mags,” he said. “I am sorry you are so upset – I hate that, you know it – but please don’t accuse me of being accountable in any way for that young boy’s death. That is so cruel; I am truly devastated, believe me. I’m not trying to duck responsibility for the New Justice Regime; if that’s what you are pissed off with me for, then guilty as charged. But not Joaquin Enderby. It’s the ones we want to put away for good who decided his fate before he was even born… ”
There was a click as the phone went dead again at Mags’s end.
Tom and Mags had dinner in almost total silence; just the two of them. Mags went upstairs immediately afterwards, taking her nearly empty wine glass, and settling into her study-cum-studio. She used this as an office for managing the business and her local campaigning work, and also for her hobby of landscape water colours; there were always two or three easels with partly finished pictures spaced around the room. This evening, she closed the door and sat with a book in the wing chair by the window, facing out over the front drive.
Tom followed her a few minutes later, and knocked gently on the door. There was no response; he opened it quietly and leant into the room.
“Top-up?” he said, waving the wine bottle like a white flag.
Mags turned to him and then immediately away, but held up her glass. Tom walked over, gently holding her raised hand as if to steady it as he replenished the glass.
“I won’t interrupt you if you’d rather be alone,” he said, “but can I just ask you a couple of things.”
She half-turned towards him with an exaggerated sigh.
“Will you come with me to Irene’s funeral tomorrow, please? It’s at eleven; I won’t be going on afterwards to the buffet, or anything; we should be back here for one at the latest.”
Mags did not answer at first.
“Yes, okay,” she said, eventually.
“Good. Thanks, Mags,” said Tom.
“You said a couple of things.”
“Yes, I’m going to arrange to see Jad. I assume you’d like to come with me.”
“No thank you,” said Mags. She turned back to the window and raised her book to indicate that the conversation was over.
“But why not?” asked Tom, his brow furrowed in surprise. “I thought you’d want to see… ”
“I do, but not this time,” she said, her voice hardening.
“Yes, but why? That’s the question. Why? Not when?” He was now getting frustrated himself.
“I just don’t want to get in the way,” said Mags, turning to him again with the now-familiar blaze in her eyes. “You’ll find it much easier to work out how the two of you can carve up the world without me sitting there, quite possibly – heaven forbid – not agreeing with every syllable you say! Now please, can I get on with this book? You said you wouldn’t interrupt me if I wanted to be alone, and I do!”
“Right! Fine!” said Tom. “Can I suggest we go separately to the funeral tomorrow? I couldn’t stand two hours of silent righteous indignation while I’m trying to concentrate on driving. I’ll leave you the postcode for the satnav and see you there. Okay?”
Tom closed the door, not waiting for an answer.
CHAPTER 16
The funeral of Irene Holland attracted over 800 mourners, almost half of whom were from the estate. In addition, around fifty or sixty members of the press were present, all respectfully inconspicuous. The Meadow Village church, St Mary’s, could accommodate around 150 at a squeeze. The remainder stood reverently outside listening to the service over the loudspeakers organised by Tony Dobson at Fred’s request.
Tony himself, like Tom, was there as a friend and not in his work capacity. In the end, Mags had travelled to the village with Tom, via Westbourne Avenue, where she had spent an hour at the apartment whilst Tom attended an early meeting with his local constituency team. They spent the day under a veneer of shared politeness, an unspoken cease-fire, in deference to the business of the day rather than any mutual empathy. Anyway, they both decided – privately – it was better than the exertions of continuous battle.
They chatted with many of the people – almost all of whom were Tom’s constituents – after the funeral. There was only a brief opportunity to speak to George himself, and they politely declined his invitation to attend the wake at the Church Hall.
The journey back to Etherington Place passed in silence, but this time out of respect for two very nice people – one deceased, one bereaved. Other people’s anguish often serves to put one’s own problems into perspective, and so it seemed that afternoon. As Tom and Mags parted, they exchanged a brief kiss – hesitant, but tender and gentle all the same.
The funerals, four in all, of the rest of the direct and indirect victims of that fateful Saturday took place during the first half of the week following Irene’s. Those for Alistair Neville and Emily Burton at St Mary’s were relatively modest affairs, attended by their families and other villagers. In Alistair’s case, the mourners included his brother Ben, in a hi-tech hospital chair, accompanied by two nurses and a complex collection of tubes and wires to assist with his breathing and feeding, and for monitoring his vital indicators. Denzel Jones’s funeral was also essentially a private event.
The Enderbys’ was very different.
&nb
sp; Hundreds of people lined the streets of Cullen Field as the cavalcade of three hearses – the brothers’ coffins lying heart-wrenchingly side by side in the third vehicle – took the family from their home in Dewsbury Close to All Saints Church near the centre of the estate. Jo Cottrell was present, accompanied by David Gerrard, Geoff Drury and Judy Standitch. George Holland was among the mourners as was Tom Brown, who had attended all three previous funerals, subsequent to Irene’s, in a semi-official capacity. His was a feeling of relief that this depressing sequence was over, as he left the still thronging crowd at around noon for Westminster to be present for Prime Minister’s Questions. The morning had been unseasonably cold, dark and wet; a suitable backdrop for the final act of such a dreadful series of tragedies.
Except, it was not quite the final act.
After the public’s overwhelming endorsement of their leaked plans, Andrew had ceremoniously torn up his prepared denial. It was a hollow and over-dramatic gesture, Tom and Jackie agreed afterwards, given that the document was set in e-concrete on his hard-drive. Eight days after the leak, Jackie gave an exceptional performance in the House, presenting the main points of the official version of the Opposition’s proposals at the scheduled debate on urban development.
The following day, Friday 23rd July, the House started its summer recess. Before they went their separate ways, Andrew, Tom and Jackie, along with Grace, met in the Shadow Cabinet room in the Palace of Westminster.
“Well, with apologies to Richard the Third,” said Andrew, “I think that ‘now is the summer of our content.’ All the more satisfying, I would suggest, because Gormley and Co will be agonising over this oil supply crisis. Almost makes you believe in God, doesn’t it? Only worry is we get recalled to help them out.”
“And what will you be doing?” asked Tom. “Where has Isobel decided you’ll be taking her on holiday?”
Andrew smiled benignly at Tom, not allowing anything to spoil his mood. “Probably a private beach somewhere, at a very expensive hotel. As long as I can relax and read, I don’t really care. I think I’ll take Jackie’s speech from yesterday with me. It doesn’t get much better than that.”
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