Lost Souls

by Michael Knaggs

  “So what’s the problem?” Beth asked. “I would have thought he’d get a lot of sympathy here, because of Jack. In fact, isn’t that why he comes?”

  “I don’t know why he comes – you can’t get any sense out of him when you ask. But Jack was real popular here and a lot of guys blame his dad for what happened to him. And remember this is the age group that’s most targeted by the new laws. Not these actual people – there are no drug dealers or – what did Tom Brown call them? – ‘domestic terrorists’ in here – but they can still identify with the ones who are getting shipped out.”

  While they were talking one of the girls who had been sitting with Tom had come up to the bar. They could hear her in conversation with Duane.

  “Just one more, Duane, and then he promises to go. He’s given me the number to ring for a taxi for him.”

  “God, Megan, don’t you think he’s had enough. Can’t you persuade him to go now?”

  Jonnie leaned across. “Give him just a single, Duane. And let Duane have the number, Megan; he’ll phone for the cab. Where’s he going?”

  “Back to the station. God knows how he’ll get home from there on his own.” She handed the barman a piece of paper. “Thanks, Duane.”

  The landlord nodded to the two men in black jeans and tee shirts who were standing just inside the door. They nodded back. Beth and Owen exchanged a quick glance.

  “This could go either way,” Jonnie said, “when Megan turns up with a small whisky. Just playing it safe. I would not like to get on the wrong side of this guy in a fight – not one-on-one – thank you. He was in here last week mouthing off about how he was going to get all the people who had been involved in Jack’s conviction. It was a bit chilling listening to him, to say the least.”

  “When was that?” Owen asked.

  Beth glared at him. “What’s that got to do with anything?” she snapped.

  Owen looked suitably chastised. “Nothing,” he said. “Just wondered. What with seeing him in the paper…”

  The landlord glanced from one to the other, the suspicious look returning. He walked away to where Duane had just ended his call.

  “Taxi in ten minutes,” the barman said. They looked across to the corner. The single whisky was untouched. Tom Brown had passed out with his head on the table, arms hanging straight down so that his bloodied knuckles touched the floor.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Friday; 11 September

  Kim Lacey showed Grace into the Minister’s office just before 8.00 am and returned three minutes later with two china mugs and a cafetiere on a silver tray, which she placed on the desk. Grace wore a navy suit with a short, straight skirt, and a cream shirt with a striped silk scarf in both colours loosely tied around her neck. Her eyes were soft and friendly behind her light metal-framed glasses. They shook hands with genuine warmth.

  “Well, should I say congratulations or commiserations?”

  “A bit of both, I guess,” Jonathan said. “I must admit I would have liked the Home Secretary position, but at least Andrew’s taken Justice out of the Home Office again so, obviously, I’m pleased to get full cabinet ministerial status. And I’m pleased for Jackie – she’ll do a good job, I’m sure.”

  Grace gave a little scowl. “I’m not convinced I’m afraid. But, we’ll see. I was hoping it would be you.”

  “Well, thank you, Grace. Over here, I think.” The room was large and high with a desk and chair suitably proportioned for its substantial occupant. At the side away from the window was a square conference table with eight chairs upholstered in green leather round it. In front of the floor-to-ceiling window itself were two wing chairs, one at either side of a small circular table. He waved a hand towards them, picking up the tray and placing it on the table as they settled themselves into the chairs.

  “So, how was the assignment? I’ve missed you.” Jonathan’s wide smile was returned in kind.

  “Why, Jonathan, what a lovely thing to say.”

  They both laughed.

  “It was fine,” Grace said. “I’ll get the full report to you by close of business today, but there’s nothing in it to surprise you. There was a lot of interest on the impact of the NJR, of course, and – sadly – Tom’s situation as well. He was virtually a cult figure over there, as you know, so his demise has left a lot of people sad and confused.”

  “That just about sums up my feelings as well,” Jonathan said. “I don’t know whether you’ve been following his exploits while you’ve been over there, but he seems to be self-destructing, plunging new depths every day. I’ve had reports through Eddie Mills of his brawling in the street and in a couple of pubs in Woking. He’s been picked up on three occasions by the police and taken home – when they should probably have charged him with something – and on each occasion he had no idea where he’d been or what he’d been doing – at least, that’s what he said.” He shook his head and sighed. “I just wonder where it’s all going; how it’s going to end.”

  “Has he said any more about wanting to repeal the sentencing law for drug dealers?”

  “I’m not aware that he’s said anything specifically about that. I guess the idea must have died with Jack.”

  “But there’s still Jason. Not that there’s a chance that Andrew would ever agree to it, even if Tom was still in office – unless he was persuaded by his Minister of Justice, of course?”

  Grace raised her eyebrows to turn it into a question. Jonathan shrugged and gave a brief smile.

  “It’s kind of you to suggest that the Prime Minister would listen to my opinion on the subject. No, I think the deed is done and should be left alone. I supported Tom when he proposed it – in the face of a lot of opposition – and I see no reason to reverse it.”

  “You did more than just support him, Jonathan; you virtually carried the meeting and the proposal according to Andrew.”

  Jonathan was silent for a moment. “Most of the time I try to forget that. Because if I hadn’t supported him, it might not have got through. And if it hadn’t got through, his son would have been alive today and Tom wouldn’t be heading for what I believe will be a calamity – if not a tragedy.”

  “You really mustn’t think of it that way, Jonathan. Your loyalty to Tom is legend – the way you accepted and embraced a second tier position in his department, when everyone expected you to get full ministerial responsibility – which you deserved. Whatever has happened since, it would have been much worse without you around looking out for him.”

  “Thank you, Grace.” Jonathan smiled. “I guess I know that, but it helps when someone reminds me.”

  They sipped their coffee in silence for a few moments.

  “I guess when I mentioned Jason,” Grace said, “I was thinking that if Tom had pursued his objective to reverse that decision, it would have given him some sort of focus and perhaps saved him from this… freefall. So what, if anything, has he been saying to people on these wild adventures?”

  “Well mostly the rantings of a soul in distress, I think. He’s been going on about how expulsion is a really bad idea – not just for drug dealers – which is a bit of a worry.”

  “Yes, I heard about that.”

  “And, it seems he’s going to spring Jason somehow, and at the same time wreak revenge on everyone involved in the case against Jack.”

  “Is he now?” Grace said, her eyes glazing over in thought. “How very interesting…”

  *

  The officers were standing around in small groups, some chatting, some watching the morning news on the TV screen, when Harry stepped out of his office into the major incident team room, inhaling the appealing fragrance of coffee, bacon and hotdogs. Someone switched off the set and they all turned to the detective inspector.

  “I’ve been working this out,” he said. “If we can get the bacon butty wagon to set up outsi
de at a quarter to eight, we could start these meetings on the hour, saving fifteen minutes a day; that’s one-and-a-half hours a week, including Saturdays. Times twenty people, that’s thirty person-hours a week. We could let one of you go and not notice the difference.”

  There was booing and hissing all round.

  “Alternatively,” he went on, “you could take it in turns to bring me a bacon sandwich every morning and we’ll say no more about it. Why don’t you start it off on Monday, Bradley? Crispy, no fat – okay?”

  The booing changed to laughter as Harry turned to face the collective mastication of his team.

  “Right, let’s get to it. No talking with your mouths full. Who’s going to start? George?”

  DC Clancy swallowed hard before speaking. “Yesterday afternoon Nat and I called in on Lois Dearing and then Louise Thornbury about the Middleton Green sighting. Nothing new from the interviews, except that Mrs Thornbury remembered the second man had a small rucksack with him which he put down on the bench when he joined the first man. Also, she was certain that the man she saw was Sammo based on the original photo on the misper appeal, and that his hair was long at the time. We showed her the new images but if he has changed his appearance, it seems that it must have been after that date. That’s all, I think. Nat?”

  DC Crusoe nodded.

  “Could she tell whether the second man was giving the rucksack to him?” Harry asked.

  “We asked her that, guv, but she couldn’t say. At that point she was leaving the park.”

  “Okay, thanks, you two. You can finish your hotdog now, George.” He turned to DS Belmont who was seated at the table in front of the PC. “Any progress with the haircuts, sergeant?”

  “Yes. This is the CCTV image from last Wednesday at Cobham station. We think this looks pretty conclusive.”

  He moved the cursor and opened a file, projecting onto the screen the still from the camera recording alongside one of the updated images of Sammo with shorter hair. There was a clear likeness, acknowledged by nodding heads and muttered agreement.

  “So, well done, Beth, for spotting that in the first place. Also, DC Grantham took the new pictures to the guy who reported the possible sighting, also last Wednesday at Cobham station. Alice?”

  “The guy who phoned in was a Mr Dave Emerson.” The speaker was a tall, slim woman with a mass of brown curls framing an attractive ebony face. “We showed him the new images of Sammo and he seemed pretty sure that it was him that he saw. He remembered him because they accidentally bumped into each other and Mr Emerson said the other guy seemed really uptight and aggressive.”

  “Thanks, Alice. Has anyone spoken to any of the other callers yet with the new pictures?” There was a general shaking of heads. “Okay, but let’s do it as soon as.” He paused as if to gather his thoughts. “Right,” he went on. “So we now have two independent pieces of information placing Sammo at Cobham station at the approximate time of the first murder. Interesting. Give us a recap on what we know about Sammo, Nat.”

  “Initially into hard drugs – using and dealing – but that was eight years ago – in his early twenties. Four convictions, including one custodial of nine months – five years ago – and since then he’s been a good boy and stuck to peddling the soft stuff. Applied for registration as a licensed street trader after the amnesty and got his license straight away. No recent history of violence, but just after he was released from prison, he was one of a group of five arrested on suspicion of killing a dealer. A man and a woman were subsequently convicted, but the other three, including Sammo, were released without charge.”

  “You say no recent history of violence. Does that mean he does have some in the past?”

  “The custodial was a GBH in a fight involving rival gangs in Lambeth. The dealer who was later killed was from the other gang, which was why Sammo was initially in the frame, particularly as it happened just after his release.”

  “So no previous with firearms?”

  “No, sir – although the dealer who was killed was shot to death. But – obviously – not by Sammo.”

  “Okay,” Harry said, “so we have Sammo meeting someone who – possibly – passes him a rucksack. Sometime in the next few days, he has a haircut – perhaps he just feels he needs one or he does it deliberately to change his appearance. Then he turns up with his new look at Cobham station where he is seen around the time that one of his clients is murdered.”

  Harry spread his arms and raised his eyebrows, inviting any comment.

  “Sammo’s a licensed trader, sir,” Craig Belmont said, “so the most likely explanation for his meeting in the park would be to get supplies. Lawrence Newhouse was one of his customers, so that would explain why they were both at Cobham station at the same time.”

  “That’s true,” Harry said, “but – for whatever reason – during the past ten days, he has not been seen by anyone who knows him or in any of the places where he can usually be found and has not responded to a request for him to come forward.”

  “Perhaps he’s doing the hard stuff again,” George Clancy said, “so he’s gone underground.”

  “Or perhaps,” Natalie suggested, “he’s number five and we just haven’t found him yet.”

  “Or maybe,” DC Bradley said, “there’s absolutely no connection between Sammo and the murders, and he’s away on holiday.”

  There was a long silence before Harry spoke again.

  “Three very good points, all real possibilities; which means we need to keep a very open mind at this stage. Greg, what about ATMs and bank withdrawals – any joy?”

  The stocky, bespectacled, and suited figure of DC Gregory Branwell consulted his notebook. “No withdrawals, sir, at cash machines or over the counter since well before the sighting in the park. No deposits either. A total of four direct debits paid over the past week – usual stuff – and no standing orders. Other than the DDs, he seems to work exclusively with cash – like all traders.”

  Harry shook his head. “Can we check any posts or tweets during the same period – I assume he’s on Facebook and Twitter. Also Instagram. Perhaps…”

  “Already checked, sir,” Greg said. “Nothing in the last ten days and nothing out of the ordinary before that.”

  “Mobile phone?”

  “Found in his apartment in Byfleet. This is the one included on his PROLIST file. Last calls made and received on that were over a month ago. So he must have a new one he hasn’t registered yet – for whatever reason.”

  The DI sighed. “We’re running on empty here. To Owen’s point, let’s check flights and ferries and tunnel passengers during, let’s say, the past four weeks. Also hospitals, walk-in centres – he just might have checked in or been taken in and given a false name. And let’s have some ideas and scenarios for the four o’clock meeting.”

  He looked across to Beth and Owen. “Well, Bonnie and Clyde, any luck tracking Mr Brown?”

  “Well, we did get lucky, in fact,” Beth said. “We started off on Delaware at the Bear Pit where Chief Inspector Gerrard had seen him a couple of times recently. We got there around six-thirty and stayed until just before eight. Didn’t get much out of anybody except a universal feeling that he’s an effing nuisance. After that we went to the Cross Keys on Grindalls, very close to Mickey Kadawe’s house where Jack and Jason seemed to spend most of their time. Turns out they spent a lot of time in the Cross Keys as well, particularly Jack. Anyway, when we arrived – guess what – Tom Brown was actually there, pissed as a newt and causing quite a disturbance. He’d just been in a fight with another guy and had come off rather the better of the two. The other guy got thrown out and Mr Brown calmed down, but passed out soon afterwards. They put him in a taxi at… it would have been around quarter to nine, I guess.” She looked at Owen for confirmation and he nodded.

  “Did you get where he was going?” It w
as DS Belmont asking the question.

  “To Woking station, apparently,” Owen said. “We stayed at the pub for a bit after he left, chatted to a few people, then we drove to the station ourselves, just to see if he was still there and okay. But by then there was no sign of him, so we assume he managed to get on a train for home – or wherever he was going. I wouldn’t mind checking the station tapes for last night just to see how he coped when he got there.”

  “So what did you find out at the pub?” Harry asked.

  “Well, for a start he spends quite a bit of time there,” Beth said, “and, to use the landlord’s words, ‘is getting to be a bit of a liability’. Gets into arguments and fights quite frequently. But one very interesting piece of information; sometime last week – although we don’t know exactly when – he was threatening to sort out all the people who were involved in the case against Jack and Jason.”

  Muttered comments and knowing looks passed between some of those present. Harry cut off the debate.

  “Now let’s not try to fly before we can crawl. Here’s a guy who has recently had to deal with incredible despair and guilt, was presumably – as Beth put it so genteelly – ‘pissed as a newt’, mouthing off to whoever would listen, and who, quite probably, wouldn’t even remember what he said the next day. And these guys – the victims – were not involved in the case. Not directly, anyway. They could hardly be described as legitimate targets for retribution. So let’s not pretend, in the absence of anything else, that this is some sort of meaningful lead. Okay?”

  The statement was greeted with blank faces and a few shaking heads. After a long pause, Owen Bradley seemed to capture the general mood.

  “With respect, sir, this feels a bit like déjà vu. I think I speak for everyone in this room when I say no-one wants to believe Tom Brown has sunk low enough to be exacting this sort of revenge on innocent people. It’s a depressing thought. But if there is evidence to support that as a possibility, however unlikely, surely we can’t dismiss it? This must come under your heading of ‘very open mind’. And when I say déjà vu, I mean, of course, the case against Jack and Jason – Jack, in particular – when we were desperate to disbelieve the evidence of our own eyes and ears.”