Lost Souls

by Michael Knaggs

  He looked around and noted a good few nodding heads.

  “Tom Brown is – or was – a trained killer,” he continued, “just like his friend, John Deverall, who took his revenge on people he believed had been responsible for the death of his mother. You know what they say – ‘they teach these guys how to kill, but when they de-enlist, no-one teaches them how to stop’.”

  Harry was looking at the wall behind the hushed group, stone-faced with the muscles in his jaw tensed and set. After a long time his eyes dropped to look directly at Owen Bradley.

  “I hear what you’re saying, Owen.” His voice was quiet and calm. “And it needed saying, not just because it seems to reflect the views of the people in this room, but also because you are right. We must pursue all lines of enquiry, with equal energy and objectivity, and without fear as to where they might lead us.”

  *

  Tom’s face was wet and sticky and his sight through one eye was blurred. His mouth was open and he gagged on the appalling taste and stench. It took him almost a minute to realise he was lying face down in his own vomit. He pushed himself up onto one elbow, supporting his head inches from the floor with his hand. Screwing up his eyes to ease the pain, he looked along the hallway towards the living room, then, sensing someone behind him, he tried to turn his head to see. The challenge proved to be too great and his head fell forward again into the foul mess on the carpet. Feet approached from the hall and stopped a yard or so behind him.

  “Jesus Christ, Tom. How is it possible for anybody to get that bad in such a short time?”

  He felt hands under his armpits lifting him into an unsteady kneeling position. The hands moved down and strong arms clutched him from behind round the waist, lifting him upright. Tom leaned back against his rescuer, unable to stand. His eyes cleared enough to notice that he was halfway between the outer door of the apartment and the living room door at the end of the narrow hall.

  “It’s Oscar,” the voice said. “You know, the guy you told to fuck off a couple of days ago because you could look after yourself.”

  Oscar walked him into the main bedroom, still supporting him and using his own legs to move Tom’s, like a macabre music hall act. When they got to the bed, he turned Tom around, lowered him gently onto it and let him fall backwards before lifting up his feet to lay him down.

  “Oscar, what the fuck?” Tom’s words came out as a whispered moan. He rolled onto his side.

  “You need to come round and get yourself cleaned up. Right now, you don’t look a lot like someone who doesn’t need any help. Where have you been, for God’s sake? What have you been doing? And how did you get the blood on your shirt?”

  “Don’t know… Don’t know… Don’t know.” Tom gave a muffled laugh, then closed his eyes and seemed to drift off to sleep again. Oscar shook him hard, making him cough until he threw up again onto the bed. Oscar disappeared. Tom heard the sound of running water and Oscar returned with a wet towel.

  “Here, wipe yourself with this.”

  Tom rubbed the towel over his face and round his neck, then he struggled into a sitting position and his eyes cleared a little. He shuffled sideways away from the pool of vomit next to him on the bed and recovered enough to glare at his uninvited guest.

  “So, how did you get in this time?” His strength just about lasted to the end of the question.

  “Dead easy. Same game. You didn’t close the door properly again.”

  Tom snorted a feeble laugh. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. I just found you now – as I was going out.” He looked at his watch. “And I’m late. This may surprise you, but I’ve got better things to do than to keep checking your apartment to see whether you’re still alive. Now, do you want me to help clean up all this mess, or what?”

  “No, but you could get me some water before you leave.”

  Oscar disappeared into the bathroom again and brought out a full glass. He handed it to Tom.

  “You might want this, as well,” he said, reaching into his pocket. He handed Tom a mobile phone. “Yours, I think. I found it on the grass outside the main entrance. You’ll probably need it to phone for an ambulance one day very soon.”

  Tom stared at the phone, trying to remember when he last used it. Oscar walked from the room, turning back in the doorway. “Oh, that’s quite alright, don’t mention it; that’s what good neighbours are for, after all.”

  Tom listened as he left, hearing the apartment door close with the same solid clunk.

  *

  Saturday; 12 September

  A few minutes before noon; George Clancy stood glassy-eyed on the concourse of the small shopping arcade, both arms straining to hold heavy bags of groceries. His wife, a couple of yards away, just inside a shop entrance, was working her way along the 50%-off end-of-season bargain rail. His mobile phone sounded, causing him to inwardly whoop with joy at the break in the monotony. By the time he had balanced the bags on the tiled floor, and retrieved the phone from his pocket, the caller had rung off. George checked the missed call – a landline number he didn’t recognise. He called back.

  “Louise Thornbury.”

  “Oh, hello, Mrs Thornbury. You just phoned. Sorry, I missed the call.”

  “Detective Clancy. Well, actually I rang off. I don’t think this will have anything to do with you, but you gave me your card and … It’s a bit silly, really.”

  “Then, I’m definitely your man,” George said. “I get all the silly jobs. Is it to do with Thursday?”

  “Yes, but… Well, you know when we were at the park, Ellie and your colleague were feeding the ducks and they were really excited – the ducks, I mean.” She gave a little laugh.

  “And my colleague,” George said. “Yes, I do remember, they didn’t follow you like they usually do and they were flapping and making a real racket under the trees.”

  “That’s right. Well, I think I told you, we had an appointment today at the clinic and we went to the park afterwards. This time when we tried to feed them they didn’t come out at all, they just stayed under the overhanging tree and they were… Well, they seemed frantic about something.” She paused. “Now I feel really stupid. It can’t possibly be anything to do with you. Perhaps you could tell me who to call. You see I do think something is wrong there. There’s a funny smell, for a start.”

  George looked down at the bags of shopping and across to his wife, not yet halfway along the rail. It was an easy decision.

  “No, that’s okay, Mrs Thornbury. I’ll get down there right away and have a look.”

  *

  The police car pulled up on the road next to Middleton Green and two uniformed officers got out and walked down to the side of the lake. They were each carrying a pair of rubber wading trousers.

  “Hi, guys,” George said. He pointed across to the overhanging branches. “Behind there. I think there’s something in the water. If you get down and look from over here.” He walked a little way round the lake and crouched down where it was possible to look through a gap behind the branches. He pointed to where the ducks were flapping over and around something in the water.

  “Looks like a bag of something,” one of the officers said. “Shouldn’t we be phoning the council – Environmental and Waste Department or something?”

  “Possibly, but the ducks seem to think it’s something exciting.”

  “A bag of bread, then. It can’t take much to get them excited, can it? When you think of what they do all day.” He turned to his colleague. “Okay, let’s take a look. Get your tights on, Tommy.”

  They pulled on the waders, crossing the straps over their shoulders, and paddled across towards the area of water hidden by the trees. Tommy turned back briefly as they got closer.

  “Christ, what a smell!” he shouted. “If it is bread, it’s way past it’s sell-by date.”


  They pushed aside the branches and disappeared behind them. Thirty seconds later they reappeared, looking pale and shocked.

  “SOCOs I think, George.”

  *

  The trill of his work mobile was the death knell of Harry’s relaxing afternoon in front of the rugby on TV. Swinging his feet down from the sofa and hitting the mute button on the remote control, he reached for the phone and checked the name on the display before answering.

  “This had better be good, George. They’ve only just kicked off, for God’s sake.” There was silence at the other end. “England and the All Blacks. Don’t you have another life, DC Clancy?”

  “Of course I do, guv. Saturdays I have a job as a pack mule. It’s good steady work…”

  Harry snorted a laugh. “So what is it, detective?”

  “We’ve found Sammo. In the park where Mrs Thornbury saw him two weeks ago.”

  “That’s great! What was he doing, feeding the ducks?”

  “I guess you could say that.”

  *

  By the time Harry arrived, after making the usual calls, the whole of the park had been cordoned off with blue-and-white plastic crime tape, and pedestrians were being diverted to the pavement on the other side of the road which ran alongside the Green. A police crew was in the process of screening off the lake itself with two-metre-high boards hooked onto metal poles held securely in place by guy-ropes. One of the boards had been left to swing open like a door in order to give access to the crime scene. As he walked across from his car, a white overalled figure emerged from behind the screens.

  “Hi, Amy.”

  “Hi, Harry,” said Dr White. “This is a bit of a turn-up, isn’t it? A bunch of ducks beating you to finding Sammo. Will they be giving a press statement or are you planning to claim the credit?”

  Harry smiled. “Not decided yet. How long has he been here, do you think?”

  “I would say a couple, maybe three, days at most. So he must have come back. Plenty of damage to soft tissue from whatever’s feeding in the lake, but not enough to suggest he’s been here very long.”

  “So what happened to him?”

  “Same as the others – back-of-the-head shot – this time I’d say a contact shot, judging from the wound and the burns around it. He – and his killer – went round to the back of the lake through the undergrowth near the wall. I’ll show you.”

  She led Harry through the loose panel and round the side of the lake to where DC Clancy was watching proceedings.

  “Afternoon, guv. Sorry about the rugby.”

  “Hi, George. No problem – we’re probably going to lose anyway.”

  Amy pointed to a long, narrow boardwalk which had been positioned to create a walkway from the bank over the water and through the overhanging branches.

  “You can see the body from this. They went through there.” She pointed further along the lake edge. “The vegetation’s been trampled recently and the team have found fabric and fibres on the thorns and brambles where they must have passed.”

  Amy led Harry along the walkway which wobbled on the uneven bed of the lake. She pushed aside the branches and they looked across at the remains of Randall Sampson, most of which lay below the surface of the water. Just the back of his jacket showed above, along with the bottom half of his legs, which were still resting on the bank. Four SOCOs were searching the grassy area around him.

  “We’re sure it’s Sammo?” Harry asked.

  “We’ve lifted him once. Can’t confirm from facial recognition – you’ll see why soon enough – but we removed a wallet from the jacket. It’s definitely Sammo’s wallet, so unless this is someone who stole it from him, then yes, it’s your man.”

  “Is it too soon to decide why he’s in that position – I mean, with his legs still on the bank?”

  Amy called across to one of the team. “Rory, can you tell how he came to be lying like that?”

  Rory Jarvis got to his feet.

  “Still checking, Doc, but it looks like he knelt down here,” he pointed to some indentations in the soft ground about half a metre from the edge, “and shuffled forward. So I’d say he was kneeling down when he was shot. That would explain why his legs aren’t in the water – you know, if he’d just fallen forward from that position.”

  “Like an execution, you mean?” Harry asked.

  “Possibly, I suppose.”

  “A bit chilling, don’t you think?” Amy said. “Forcing him to walk through all those thorns just to kill him. You’d think he’d take his chances and make a break for it.”

  “Not if he didn’t know what was going to happen,” Harry said.

  “But why else would he think they were struggling through this lot; and why would he kneel down at the edge like that?”

  Harry shrugged and called across to the SOCO.

  “What are the chances of finding the bullet, Jarvis? Or is that a silly question?”

  “Not necessarily, sir. It depends how he was kneeling when he was shot. If he was leaning forward and the angle of the shot was more or less straight downwards, then virtually no chance at all. It would be buried deep in the mud at whatever depth. If he was kneeling upright and the shot was close to the horizontal – say, just slightly downwards – then it would have been slowed as it entered the water and could be just nestling on the bottom. That way we might have a chance.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  Harry and Amy turned round carefully as the boardwalk rocked a little and stepped slowly back to dry land. George had been joined by DS Belmont and DC Crusoe.

  “Hi, you two,” said Harry. “I guess you won first prize, Nat.” Natalie frowned. “Number five and we just haven’t found him yet,” Harry quoted.

  “Oh, yes. Not that I wanted to be right. Same MO, sir?”

  “Looks like it. Might have a hard time confirming whether or not it’s the same gun. Search for the bullet’s not going to be easy.”

  “Sir!” One of the SOCOs near the front of the lake called across to them. “You’re not going to believe this.”

  *

  The courtyard of the Ye Olde London public house on Ludgate Hill was bathed in warm sunshine. The tables were filling rapidly and many of the diners wore shorts and light tops or vests, lending a mid-summer feel to an end-of-summer day. Jo wore a short, yellow, off-the-shoulder dress and David a cream lightweight linen suit over a pale blue tee shirt.

  “Do you remember the first time we came here?” she asked him.

  “You ask me that every time we come here,” David said.

  “Yes but I’ve no way of knowing if your memory’s gone yet, have I? It’s just a health check.”

  “Well I do remember. It was the day before Mr Deverall was given his life sentence three years ago. I seem to remember you saying you were going to visit him in prison in the hope that he’d take you out when he was released.”

  “That’s right, and you said he probably would take me out because after eight years inside he’d be desperate enough for anything – or something equally complimentary.”

  David chuckled. “So why haven’t you visited him? Or have you?”

  “Well, I’m afraid our avenging hero is terminally ill in St Bart’s. I think I told you some time ago. It’s not been in the Press in case he’s still a target for some sort of retribution – or even a vigilante rescue attempt.”

  “You told me he’d been moved, but not that he was terminally ill.”

  “Well, he is, I’m afraid. Great shame – and not just because I won’t get to go out with him, in case you’re wondering.”

  David smiled. “Never crossed my mind. Shall we order?”

  They called the waiter across.

  “A plate of your famous fish and chips for me,” Jo said.

  “And for me,�
�� David said, “and same again for drinks, please.”

  The waiter hurried away, flashing a smile at Jo. She smiled back at him then leaned across the table towards David.

  “So, any thoughts at all about the killings?”

  “Uncle Harry made it quite clear I wasn’t allowed to think about them. But I can understand you putting two and two together and getting the same answer you always get – irrespective of the actual calculation.”

  Jo leaned back and away from him, frowning and pouting. “That is so unfair, David. I am never anything but totally objective. But, really, don’t you believe there just might be a connection with Jack and Jason’s case?”

  David thought for a moment. “There might be – but there probably isn’t. There’s a fine line between being focused and being blinkered, you know. I accept that it’s a bit of a coincidence that four of the guys who were seen talking to Jack are the same four who have been shot. But it makes no sense to me, in the context of the other case, why they should be targeted. So, you tell me.”

  “Well,” Jo leaned forward again, “now the deed is done – Jack and Jason have been successfully framed – and the dust has settled, whoever framed them can start to cover their tracks.”

  “By getting rid of everybody who provided evidence – directly or indirectly – against Jack and/or Jason at the trial.”

  “That’s right. The guys who came forward after the phone calls are still under police protection – for another month at least, I think – so he’s hitting the soft targets first.”

  “After which, he’ll go after the ones who phoned in?”