Lost Souls

by Michael Knaggs

  She went to the bar, where the landlord was looking across at her companion, shaking his head.

  “Jonnie, can I have…?”

  “Yes, I heard,” he said. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” Megan said.

  Jonnie Denver scooped some ice into a glass and tipped two measures of Glenlivet onto it before pouring Megan’s juice. She reached into her bag.

  “It’s his round, Megan,” Jonnie said. “Or on the house if he doesn’t offer.”

  “Thanks.” She smiled at him and took the two glasses across to where Tom was sitting with his eyes closed and his head drooping on to his chest.

  “There you go, Mr Brown.”

  She placed the whisky on the table in front of him. He opened his eyes with some effort and reached out in slow motion to grasp the glass. Then he lifted it up level with his eyes and glared at it.

  “Ice! Did I say anything about ice? You don’t drink malt whisky with ice! What sort of a fucking place is this?” He slammed the glass down on the table hard enough for some of the contents to spill out over his hand.

  “Mr Brown, please!” Megan shouted at him, taking him by surprise. He turned towards her, seeing the tears running freely down her face. He froze, not moving a muscle for several seconds, then he reached out to her and they held on to each other. When they broke off the embrace, Tom’s face was wet with his own tears as well as Megan’s, and he was more calm and lucid.

  “He wasn’t guilty, was he?” she said in a small voice.

  “No, of course, he wasn’t,” he said, in not much more than a whisper. “And I’ll tell you what, Megan…” loud and angry now “…people are going to pay for what happened to Jack – and Jason. Not one single person is going to get away with what they did.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Thursday 3 September

  Craig Belmont was grateful to find that there was very little blood. The Detective Sergeant was of average height and build with a boyish face which made him look younger than his thirty-one years. If someone was going to die violently, he thought, he didn’t feel any guilt about hoping they’d die quickly, so the heart didn’t have time to pump them dry. Nothing wrong in thinking that, he told himself. A humane, Christian thought, and nothing to do with the fact that, after twelve years in the force, the sight of a lot of blood still impacted on his stomach every time, sometimes to the point of emptying it.

  The man sitting in front of him on an upturned crate, holding a cigarette in a shaking hand, had just sobered up faster than he had ever done before in a decade of almost continuous drinking. Ten yards away, a technician was attaching a couple of free-standing spot lights to a portable generator, while the scene-of-crime officers were taping off the area around the body.

  “Are you alright to talk now, Mr Tonkin?”

  Lewis Tonkin drew hard and long on the cigarette then nodded his head. He was also in his early thirties, small and wiry, with lank, dark hair and a few days stubble. He wore a pair of blue jeans, a long-sleeved tee shirt and trainers. They were all of good quality but had seen better days.

  The detective called across to his colleague who was chatting to one of the SOCOs. “Nat! Ready now.”

  Natalie Crusoe walked across to join them. She was the same height as her colleague, slim and athletic, with short, light-brown hair and a round, friendly face.

  “Mr Tonkin, I’m Detective Sergeant Belmont and this is Detective Constable Crusoe. Let’s start by you telling us why you were hanging around at the back of Cobham Station at one-thirty on a Thursday morning.”

  “I wasn’t hanging around. I wanted a piss. Toilets on the platform were closed. So I just – you know. When you gotta go…”

  “The point of the question, is why the station at that time, irrespective of what you were doing there?”

  “Been out for a few beers with the lads in Lambeth. Got the last train back.”

  “Which gets in at about half past midnight. Am I right?”

  “I was pretty rat-arsed. I fell asleep on the train and nearly missed the stop. I must have fallen asleep again on the platform.”

  “So where had you been – with the lads – in Lambeth? Can you remember?”

  “Not all the places. White Hart, Crown, Scooters, Slug and Lettuce.” He paused, frowning, deep in thought. “No that’s all. Can’t remember the others.”

  The two detectives exchanged glances. “That’s a pretty impressive haul without the others,” Natalie said. “When did all this take place?”

  “Started around five; got the last train back, as I said. Leaves Waterloo at about ten to twelve.”

  “And there are people who will confirm this – that you were with them during that period in those places?”

  Lewis smiled and took another drag on the cigarette. “Landlord at the Slug certainly will; he had to ask us to leave. We were being a bit – you know – noisy.” The smile disappeared. “Hey, just a minute, you don’t think I did the bloke in?”

  “We didn’t say that,” Craig said.

  “Then why do I have to account for where I was? If I’d done him, I wouldn’t be calling the police to report it, would I?”

  “Not unless you were trying to be clever. No, we don’t think at this moment that you did it, but we do have to eliminate you from our enquiries, don’t we? So, if the time of death turns out to be sometime when you were with your friends, then that’s you off the hook. Okay? But right now you’re the only one we can definitely place at the scene of the crime. So tell us how you found him.”

  “Well, just as I’d finished – pissing, I mean – this car went past on the road behind the station and the headlights sort of swung round through the bushes and lit up the alley, just for a second or so. That’s when I saw it. I thought it was a pile of clothes. Some people throw some great gear away, you know.” He lifted up his right foot. “I found these trainers in a waste bin just up the road, can you believe? Anyway, it wasn’t a pile of clothes… was it?” He drew on the cigarette and his hand began to shake again.

  “So what did you do then?” Craig said.

  “I phoned you lot, didn’t I?”

  “Did you check whether he was dead? Did you touch the body?”

  “No, I…”

  “Why not? How could you know he was dead?”

  “Well it was fucking obvious. There was blood on the ground under his head.”

  “How was he lying? On his front or on his back?”

  “On his back like he is now. Look, I’ve told you I never touched him!”

  “Okay, if you say so, Mr Tonkin,” Natalie said. “We have to be sure, you see.” She nodded towards where the SOCOs were working. “Because if you did, those guys will be able to tell, and, of course, if we find out from them that you did touch him now you’ve denied it, we’ll wonder why you haven’t told the truth. You do understand, don’t you?”

  Lewis was looking from one to the other, his eyes wide and anxious.

  “Also,” Natalie, went on, “They’ll know how he was lying when he died; whether it was face-down or not. Okay? We’re just making you aware of what we’ll find out in the next few minutes, so you have the chance to remember exactly how you found him and what you did.”

  Lewis’s body sagged and he dropped the spent cigarette onto the ground.

  “Okay,” he said. “He was lying face down. I turned him over.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Well… just to see if I knew who he was.”

  “So why didn’t you tell us that?” Craig asked. “Why did you lie?”

  Lewis shrugged. “Thought I’d get into trouble. You know – interfering with a crime scene or something.”

  “Or was it because you turned him over to check his pockets?” Natalie said. “And before you answer, they
can tell if anything you have on your person right now has been removed from the body.”

  Craig shot her a quick glance, smiling to himself. Lewis sighed and reached into the back pocket of his jeans, removing a small wad of notes. He tossed them onto the ground in front of him without speaking.

  “Not doing very well so far, are we, Mr Tonkin?” Natalie continued. “Do you want to tell us now why you killed him and save us a lot of trouble?”

  Lewis held his head in his hands and was silent for a long time.

  “Look, I didn’t kill him. I saw the body – it scared the shit out of me, by the way – and I turned him over and checked his pockets. He had forty quid in his wallet – three tens and two fives.” He nodded at the notes in front of him. “That’s all. I thought, well, it’s no use to him any more, is it? I didn’t take anything else.”

  Craig’s mobile rang and he walked out of earshot to take the call.

  “Hi, Alice.”

  “Hi, Sarge. Your man checks out okay. A couple of drunk and disorderlies and one threatening behaviour whilst drunk and disorderly. Nothing else.”

  “Okay. Seems he’s got a good alibi, anyway. We’ll get a few names you can check with just to rule him out officially.”

  He stepped back to rejoin them.

  “Apparently Mr Tonkin is not a psychopathic killer after all,” he said to his colleague. “So no more lies, eh, Mr Tonkin. Let’s see if you can get your story straight before our boss arrives. Okay?”

  Lewis nodded.

  “Do you recognise the man?”

  “I’ve seen him on the train a few times. Don’t know his name.”

  “Always on the train?”

  “Yes, but only a few times, as I said. Probably once every couple of weeks at the most.”

  “Sergeant!” A tallish, sturdily built woman wearing a white hooded all-in-one called them over.

  “Stay here,” Craig told Lewis. The two detectives went over to where Doctor Amy White was ducking out of the taped-off area, pulling off her surgical gloves.

  “Where’s the DI?” she asked

  “On his way,” Craig said. “Been at a mason’s dinner in Kensington; was supposed to be staying overnight. He’ll be in a great mood. So, what have we got, Doc?”

  “Single shot, back of the head from very close range. Fell forward – his face is smashed up a bit – so someone turned him over afterwards. Your guy?” Craig nodded. “Clean exit wound so the bullet will have carried God knows how far along the alley. Very little chance of finding it tonight. And I’d say, with the amount of rubbish lying around on the ground, it’s hard to imagine the killer could have crept up on him without making a noise, so I reckon they probably walked down the alley together – one behind the other, perhaps.”

  “For what, I wonder – sex, drugs…?”

  “Rock’n’roll?” Natalie offered. The others snorted a laugh.

  “We’ve found a bit of billy on him,” Amy said, “but nothing much. Wallet contains benefits card, weekly rail ticket, Visa debit card, but no cash.”

  “The cash was removed,” said Craig nodding across to Lewis. “We’ll get the SOCOs to bag it, and we’ll need to fingerprint our lying little friend there. So we have an ID – from the cards?”

  “Yes, your stiff is one Lawrence Harvey Newhouse of The Nook, Ivygreen Avenue, here in Cobham.”

  *

  Saturday; 5 September

  The young man stepped through the double front doors of his home, pausing to look anxiously up and down the street. It was a habit he thought he’d kicked some time ago, but which he’d slipped back into during the past few days. Mickey Kadawe was tall, dark-skinned – from a Black South African father and Indian mother – well-dressed and good-looking; and twenty years old.

  He walked down the steps and across the street. His black BMW Series 3 Coupe was waiting for him where the other car had been parked, three months ago, on the day Sammo Sampson had come bursting into Manston Grange with a rambling story about a guy who’d brought him round to see Mickey.

  “So why has he brought you round?” he had asked Sammo.

  “Well, he was sent to bring me here,” Sammo said.

  “Sent by who?”

  “By you.”

  “So let me get this right. This guy met you and said I’d sent him to bring you here. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why the fuck would I do that? You’ve got a phone haven’t you? Why wouldn’t I just call you?”

  “Well, I…”

  “And he’s out there now?”

  Mickey had gone straight out into the street, pushing Sammo ahead of him through the doors and down the steps. Sammo had pointed out the huge man sitting in the car holding a camera. There were three quick flashes and the car had pulled away, turning the corner onto Grindalls Road with a screech of tyres.

  There had been no sign of the man since then at or near the house, and the passage of time had all but erased him from Mickey’s memory; until the last few days. Sammo had somehow dropped off the edge of the world. It was a week ago from last Thursday when he had last seen him. It was Saturday today, so that was nine days. And right now he needed to know that things were okay.

  He checked his watch. Just after midday. There was somewhere he needed to be – in fact, he was late. At least that would take his mind off it for a while. He opened the car door and slipped behind the wheel.

  *

  The Sweet Rock Hall was part of one of the huge leisure complexes that had been the main feature of Phase Two of Gerald Portman’s Urban Redevelopment Initiative during his final year as Home Secretary in the previous government. In recognition of his enterprise, the complex had been named Portman Palace and boasted four cinemas, two gymnasia, an outdoor training centre with a twenty metre high climbing wall, an Olympic-size swimming pool, eight fast food café/restaurants and the concert venue itself.

  Inside the Hall, for the third time that day, the girl, with a brief apology, walked off the stage to seek the refuge of her dressing room. Technicians, musicians and stage hands sighed and fidgeted with frustration.

  “What the fuck’s wrong with her?” The stage director stormed up from his seat in the front row and kicked over one of the mike stands. “She might as well fuck off home if she’s going to be like this all day!”

  “Fuck off yourself, Malc! There must be something wrong; she’s not usually like this.”

  Dagger-Zee, lead guitarist of Abattoir Ratts, leaped to her defence. Malc backed off.

  “Yes, okay, Dags, you’re right,” he said. “It’s not like her, but, we’ll be right in the shit if his royal fucking highness…”

  The door at the back of the auditorium swing noisily open and both men looked round.

  “Oh, fuck! Speak of the devil. That’s all we need,” Malc said, half to himself.

  The new arrival strode down the aisle to the stage.

  “Don’t let me interrupt,” he said, looking round. “I trust the rehearsal’s going well. Where is it, incidentally? I thought it was here.”

  “She’s not well,” Dagger said. “Not herself at all. I’ll go and tell her you’re here.”

  “No you won’t,” the man said. “Is she in her room?”

  They nodded.

  “How far have we got?”

  Dags and Malc looked at each other.

  “Simply the Best,” Malc said. “Just polishing it up then…”

  “Simply the Best! Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that the opening fucking number?”

  He set off towards the dressing room area, then stopped and turned back.

  “Has anybody seen Sammo?” he shouted.

  Everyone shook their heads.

  “Fuck!” He disappeared
from the stage.

  *

  The girl leant with her hands on the table in front of the mirror, staring far beyond her own reflected image, as if looking for a solution to her dilemma. Every instinct pointed her in one direction, but the feeling of self-preservation had blocked the way so far.

  The door crashed open behind her as if it had been kicked in from outside. She jerked upright with a start as his angry reflection appeared in the mirror.

  “Sorry. Didn’t hear you knock, Mickey, or I’d have shouted ‘Come in.’ She spoke without turning to face him.

  “What the fuck’s going on? What’s wrong with you, for Christ’s sake?”

  “Just not feeling great. Thank you for your concern,” she said. “Got a lot on my mind, right now. A lot to think about.”

  His expression changed. He spoke quietly and slowly, with more than a hint of menace.

  “Oh, yes. Such as what? Anything to do with me, by any chance?”

  She hesitated, regretting what she had said.

  “Well, let’s have it?” his voice was rising. He repeated, “Anything to do with me?”

  “Not unless you shagged me when I wasn’t looking,” the girl said.

  “What?”

  “No, nothing to do with you,” she said. “I think I might be pregnant, that’s all.”

  He stared at her in silence for a long time. “That’s all. Oh, what great news. Congratulations. I’m sure you’ll make a wonderful mother – or, should I say, would have made a wonderful mother.” He walked up behind her, his icy look holding her eyes in the mirror, and placed his hands on her shoulders close to her neck.

  “The only problem is,” he continued, “it doesn’t exactly fit with our plans, does it?” His fingers reached forwards and upwards, tilting back her head and stroking her throat. “What with the three-month tour I’ve just taken a fuck-load of trouble setting up starting in, let me think now, four weeks’ time. And they’ll be expecting to see all this exactly as it is now, right?”

  As he spoke he ran his hands down the front of her body, touching her breasts on the way and pinning back her arms against her sides. His left hand caressed her bare midriff, gently fingering her navel, whilst his other hand reached further to just inside the top of her leggings.