When he woke again, he felt worse. His body now ached all over from being in an unnatural position for… how long? He checked his watch again, which his unknown host had removed from his wrist and placed on the bedside table next to him. It was 1.45 pm, nearly two hours since his last attempt to rise. What was the point in getting up, anyway? He had nothing planned for the rest of the day – or the rest of his life, for that matter.
Then he thought of Katey again and was swamped by a wave of guilt and shame. She deserved better from him than this. She had been a shining light for him and Mags through the darkest passage of their life, supporting them through the pain of her own double loss of a brother and a lover.
“For fuck’s sake, get yourself together!” He shouted the words out loud at the chandelier, slowly sitting up again.
He looked around the room for some clue as to where he had landed. It was large and high-ceilinged and furnished in a regency style with a white marble fireplace and other period features. The luxurious patterned rug left about two feet of polished oak floor visible around the perimeter of the room. The mint condition of the furniture and features gave away the fact that it was a modern replica of the period, but the whole had a lavish and authentic feel about it.
He rose to his feet, noticing for the first time that he was wearing only his boxer shorts. He felt a sudden wave of panic, wondering whether he had been compromised in some way. Then he laughed out loud – such thoughts were part of another life. In this one he had nothing more to lose in terms of status and self-esteem. He took a few seconds to steady himself before walking over to open the large white-panelled door.
“Hello! Anyone there?” he shouted along the short corridor outside the room towards what looked like an open plan living area. There was no answer, not that he expected one. He could feel that the place was empty.
He turned back into the bedroom and went over to the window, pulling up the Roman blind to look outside and blinking in the brightness of the light. Immediately in front of him was the four-horse chariot of the Quadriga crowning Wellington Arch, and across to his right the main residence of the reigning monarch. From the buildings around him, he reckoned he must be on about the fourth floor. How the hell had he got there? He had no memory whatsoever of his movements over the past twenty-four hours… forty-eight hours… longer than that. In fact, the total recall of his recent past seemed to be distilled into a composite image of a bar interior assembled from vague recollections of the insides of numerous pubs he must have visited.
He looked round the room for his clothes, not remembering what he had been wearing and hoping he’d recognise them. They were on a large wicker chair on the far side of the king-size bed he had been occupying; polo shirt folded neatly on the seat and chinos draped, just as neatly, over the back. His loafers were under the chair, one rolled-up sock in each, cream linen sports jacket on a hanger hooked onto the picture rail behind the chair.
The sleeves and front of the jacket were damp. His keeper, whoever he – or she – was, had found the need to sponge something off. He groaned inwardly at the thought, and checked the other items. The shirt was okay, but the fronts of both trouser legs were also wet and one knee was torn.
Jesus, what have I been doing?
He heard a door open and close somewhere in the apartment; footsteps in the corridor outside. He rushed to put on his chinos and shirt, just before the bedroom door opened and a familiar face peered round it into the room.
*
Detective Inspector Joannita Cottrell was leaning forward in her chair, resting her elbows on the L-shaped desk. She was of medium height, with an attractive, shapely figure, and was from dual White British and Caribbean ancestry – ‘three quarters West Indian’, as she described herself. Her black curls with their blonde highlights hung loosely down around her face; her large dark eyes stared down at her hands clasped in front of her. She had been sitting in that position for twenty minutes, since arriving at the station at just after two o’clock.
The desk itself was completely devoid of any signs of activity – no papers, files, journals, not even a cup of coffee. The PC on the short leg of the ‘L’ at her left-hand side showed a blank screen. The knock on the door brought her out of her trance. She looked up.
“Come in!”
DC Natalie Crusoe entered the room clutching a single A4 sheet of paper. “Can I have a word, ma’am?”
“Of course, Nat. Sit down.”
“How were things up in Leicester? Are they trying to entice you away from us again?”
“No, just had to attend court about the case I was working on – for about five minutes – before I got called back. Actually, that’s how long I was at the courthouse before they told me I wouldn’t be needed.”
“So, a wasted journey?” Natalie said, eyes wide and innocent.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Jo said, smiling. “There was other stuff down there to occupy me over the weekend.”
“So how is DS Carter?”
“He’s fine, thank you. As big and as fit as ever. And yet… just as gentle.”
Natalie fanned herself with the sheet of paper.
“Enough, enough! This isn’t doing me any good at all.”
Jo laughed. “Okay, so down to business then. You wanted a word?”
“Well, I’m not sure how all this fits together. Probably no mystery at all.”
“Go on, I’m fascinated.”
“We’ve had four fatal shootings over the past five days. No apparent motive, small-time victims, same MO – back-of-the-head shot – 9mm – same gun for each hit. One yesterday evening – we think around seven o’clock – two the night before – all three of those in Woking – and one last Wednesday night in Cobham.”
“Gang reprisals, do we think?”
“Almost certainly not. These were loners – the only link they have to each other is how they died and the weapon that killed them. Plus… one other…” She paused.
“Yes?”
“The records show that you personally accessed all their files a few months ago.”
Jo reached across the desk and took the piece of paper out of Natalie’s hand. She looked at the four names.
“Jesus!”
“Ma’am?”
“One other link,” Jo said. “These are all customers of a street trader called Sammo Sampson.”
“I know Sammo – know him well. Trades in Woking, doesn’t he? He’s an arrogant little shit, can be violent as well, but I’m not sure he’s capable of murder.”
“I don’t know, Nat, but he’s the common denominator, or one common denominator. I think you need to speak to him.” She paused to think for a moment. “And if he’s not capable and he didn’t do it, then our little shit might be in deep shit himself. Either way, we need to get him off the streets, quick!”
Natalie stood up. “I’ll get him picked up right away.” She started to leave and then stopped in the doorway. “So do you know any reason why they should all be dead?”
Jo remained silent for a while before answering.
“Yes, I think I might. Get the hunt for Sammo started then come back in here.”
“Okay.”
Jo took out her mobile and wondered which one of three people to call. It took her less than five seconds to choose; and to decide she needed to see him rather than phone; and see him before Natalie came back.
*
Tom went through into the living area feeling much better mentally and physically after a long, hot shower. The sight of the full cafetiere in the middle of the dining table made him feel better still. His host lifted it up as Tom sat down.
“Shall I be mother?”
“Yes, please,” Tom said.
Tony Dobson pressed down the plunger and filled two mugs. Tony was a youthful thirty-two, average he
ight, slim and with a pleasant, friendly face. As a young reporter learning his trade, he had been one of Tom’s fiercest critics, but over recent years their growing mutual respect had turned into genuine friendship.
“And talking about you being mother, I’m dreading to hear how you’ve been looking after me for the past – how many hours – days?”
“Well, if you’re absolutely sure you want to hear,” Tony said, giving him a grim smile. “Just how much do you remember? Last night you only just about recognised me.”
Tom shook his head. “If you assume I can’t remember anything, that will be exactly right. In fact, at this moment, I have no recollection of where I’ve been for God knows how long. Who was it who said ‘a couple of weeks ago I went onto a whisky diet and I’ve already lost three days’? I used to think that was funny.”
Tony snorted a laugh. “Bad as that?”
Tom looked round at the open-plan surroundings. In contrast to the bedroom, they were ultra modern. The eat-in kitchen was large and square with plain white gloss cabinet doors and black granite worktops round three sides. In the middle, where they were seated, was a chrome, tubular-frame, glass-topped dining table with six matching chairs. The fourth side of the room was open and led through to an enormous living area where three black leather sofas and a rectangular coffee table of a similar chrome-and-glass design were positioned in front of a modern tiled fireplace. The rest of the room was filled with other clusters of easy chairs and tables and modern standard lamps. The ceiling was as high as that of the bedroom, but instead of a chandelier, the kitchen and seating areas were served by a series of spotlights angled out of suspended horizontal chrome tubes.
“Well you can start by telling me exactly where I am now,” Tom said. “And how you can afford a place like this.”
Tony smiled. “You are currently in one of the most expensive apartments in the Capital, in Grosvenor Crescent, Belgravia. You were in the third bedroom, by the way; the other two are about twice the size and have a view of Hyde Park. And the answer to your second question is I can’t afford a place like this. It belongs to an Arab friend of mine; someone I did an article about last year which made Times magazine and described his role in a recent business issue rather more sympathetically – and accurately – than had been the case to date. It opened quite a few doors for him in the West and he has since shown his gratitude by allowing me to use this place whenever he’s away. Which, I’m shamelessly happy to say, is most of the time.”
“Well, it’s very impressive, although a little inconsistent with its décor. What period – or periods – is it meant to be?”
Tony laughed. “I think of it as a time machine. You live all day in the twenty-first century then go to sleep two hundred years ago.”
“Well, whatever, I’m very glad to be here and very grateful. So what happened? I guess I’ll have to find out sooner or later.”
“I got a call last night around nine o’clock from a guy I know. He’d found you asleep on a bench in Woking railway station. He didn’t know what to do so he called me, knowing that you and I are friends. I suggested he put you on a train and I’d meet you at Waterloo, but he didn’t think you’d be able to find your way to where I suggested we should meet. In the end he stayed with you until I picked you up in Woking. I brought you back and – well, here we are.”
Tom leaned his elbows on the table and put his head in his hands. “Jesus, Tony, I’m really sorry. Woking? What the hell was I doing in Woking? What possible reason would I have for going there?”
“Well, that’s where Jack used to spend a lot of his time.”
“Yes, but why would I…?”
Tony held up his hand to stop him. “It’s not the only time you’ve been there, Tom. I’ve heard of sightings on Delaware and at the Cross Keys. Both places where Jack used to hang out. Both in the past week.”
“Sightings? Are you having me watched?”
“No, but I might do for your own good after what’s just happened. There are always guys around taking pictures. Most end up on YouTube or Facebook, but some of them aim higher and try to get into the official press. I’m always getting offered stuff to use, and probably would have used it five years or so ago before I became respectable – thanks in part, to you, of course. I’ve been contacted a few times with reports and pictures of you.”
“So I’ve been hanging round Woking this past week? What was I doing?”
“Not exactly winning lots of friends. Bit of a fracas on Delaware, but not really your fault, according to my source. A bit aggressive with some girls in the Cross Keys but, again, nothing major. In fact, one of them was Jack’s girlfriend – Meg, is it?”
“Megan. Oh, God! What have I been saying to her?”
“Well, apparently, you had a friendly chat with her but only after you’d scared away a bunch of her friends. No harm done, so nothing to worry about except, of course, that you can’t remember any of it. That should really worry you.”
Tom was silent for a long time before speaking. “Listen, Tony, I’m really grateful. God knows what could have happened…” His voice broke.
“Well, you’ve survived so far. But, as your temporary mother-substitute, I’m telling you that you’re grounded for tonight. You can stay here until tomorrow and remind yourself what it’s like to wake up without a hangover. You just might like it.”
“Don’t know about that,” Tom said with a weak smile. “Was it the same guy who said ‘I feel sorry for people who don’t drink…”
“’Because when they wake up in the morning that’s the best they’re going to feel all day’. Yes, I’ve heard it before and it is a joke, remember. It’s not real life.”
“Okay… Mum… I’ll do what you say. And I must get in touch with your friend to thank him.”
Tony sighed and shook his head. “Well, before you go gushing all over him, I have to tell you he’s not so much a friend as an associate.”
Tom frowned. “Meaning?”
“A member of the Press. You might as well see these now as later.” He pushed a couple of morning papers across the table to Tom. “The Mail and Mirror must have been on their toes to get this into their first editions.”
The Mirror’s second story at the bottom of the front page had the headline ‘Then and Now’ above two pictures of Tom. The ‘Then’ picture was a reproduction of the image of him making his statement to the Press shortly after his resignation as Home Secretary and Member of Parliament for Princes and Marlburgh, which made the front page of all the dailies the following day. It showed him dishevelled and unkempt, his eyes struggling for focus, gripping a lectern with one hand to steady himself, and wagging a limp finger at the camera. The ‘Now’ image was of a man seated on a bench on a railway platform, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees and his head in his hands. His hair was uncombed and his clothes creased. It was not obviously him because the man’s face was not visible, but Tom recognised his own clothes and had no reason to believe it was other than who the story claimed it was. Under a brief description of the two pictures were the words ‘What Next?’
The Mail’s message was similar although it only featured the latest picture in the railway station.
“I’m sorry, Tom. He did warn me he was going to use the picture and I tried my best to talk him out of it. But I can understand his point of view. It’s going to sell papers, and that’s his job. What he did point out, though, was that when that first picture was published, it generated a wave of sympathy. And he’s right about that. This is more likely to do the same than to damage you in any way.”
Tom’s initial flash of anger changed rapidly through despair to indifference. He looked up into his friend’s sad eyes with a blank expression.
“To be honest, Tony, I don’t really care. It couldn’t get any worse, that’s for sure.”
*
“And this means exactly what, Jo? How does it fit with anything that’s gone before?”
Jo Cottrell looked surprised at the question. “Well, there’s very clearly a common denominator here, isn’t there? Going back to what we discussed some weeks ago…”
“And dismissed some weeks ago.”
“Yes, but this puts a new spin on it surely, sir?”
“Okay, tell me then, what is this very clear common denominator?”
“Well, Mickey Kadawe, of course. What or who else could it possibly be?”
John sighed. “Okay. Explain to me how and why he is involved with the deaths of four nobodies in Woking and Cobham.”
“Well, isn’t it obvious?” Jo spread her hands in exasperation.
John shot forward, leaning a long way across the desk, taking Jo by surprise.
“It’s not obvious to me, Detective Inspector,” he growled, “or I wouldn’t be asking you to explain it.”
“No, sir. Sorry, sir. The four deaths were all users whose main source was Randall Sampson – known as Sammo. He was the one who led David Gerrard to Mickey Kadawe. Kadawe is Sammo’s supplier.” Jo opened her eyes wide and shrugged, as if she had just explained everything.
“And why would Mr Kadawe, who we believe has a shrewd business head on his shoulders, choose to start bumping off his own clients? Or his client’s clients, anyway.”
“Well, because of their links to Jack. Each of these users approached Jack on Delaware.”
“Along with four others who, as far as I am aware, are still alive.”
Lost Souls Page 4