Lost Souls

by Michael Knaggs

  They half-carried, half-supported Tina, her legs barely touching the ground, as they retreated from the now burning car. Jo turned back to watch, her eyes wide in disbelief.

  North Turret had ceased to exist. The two rows of apartments, which a minute ago were joined to it, now ended abruptly in jagged projections of smouldering masonry. Where the corner block had been, a pile of rubble spouted huge flames and dense smoke. The three-storey building had collapsed into itself when the explosion blew away the ground floor.

  Jo began to shake. In spite of the intense heat all around her, she felt herself go cold at the thought that, had they arrived on time, right now she and Tina would be lying dead underneath all that. She turned away, noticing for the first time the thin young man standing a couple of yards to her right, staring wide-eyed in horror at the scene of devastation in front of them.

  She’d seen him before – a few months ago – sitting outside a courtroom.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Friday; 18 September

  “Officially, we’re still examining the site for clues as to the cause of the explosion,” the Chief Superintendent was saying. “As far as the public – and the Press – is concerned, we suspect a gas explosion, and that fits – very fortunately – with the fact that they’ve been working on a gas leak two streets away for the last couple of days. However, it’s hardly fair on National Utilities to spread that concern when we know that’s not the truth. Especially in the case of fatalities.”

  The other two people in the private room off the main A & E ward nodded their agreement. Tina was sitting up in bed, having been kept in overnight for observation, but was looking fresh and alert, in spite of the heavy dressing around her head. Jo was sitting at the side of the bed, with both her hands bandaged, facing John Mackay on the other side.

  “The truth being,” Jo said, “that this was a targeted attack designed to kill the four witnesses in the block.”

  “Or,” Tina said, “to kill all six people who were expected to be in the building at that time. I mean, if we hadn’t been delayed…” She gave a shudder.

  “Thank God for The Fastway,” Jo said. “Even so, I can’t see how anybody could have set this up to include the two of us as well. The only person who knew we were going at that time and who was there in the building beforehand was Denny Croswell.” She looked at the sergeant. “You know him, don’t you, Tina? What do you think?”

  “I would say there’s absolutely no chance it was Denny. He’s not a personal friend but I’ve had quite a few dealings with him. He’s a quiet, helpful… administrator. It’s unthinkable he’d get involved in anything like this.”

  “You get the feeling though, don’t you,” John said, “that when we do get to the bottom of all this, whatever’s gone on is going to seem unthinkable?”

  No-one spoke for a few moments. John Mackay broke the silence with a loud sigh.

  “Look, I accept that this latest incident could be linked to the five recent killings in Cobham and Woking. It would be ridiculous not to seriously consider that a possibility – and also that the obvious link is the Jack and Jason case. It seems there may well be a vendetta against the people whose evidence – or simply whose actions – led to their conviction. The question is who and why … You’re shaking your head again, DI Cottrell. You must try to get out of that habit.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that…”

  “Detective Sergeant, what do you think?” John turned to Tina.

  She paused to gather her thoughts.

  “Well, sir. It’s hard to believe it’s the same person who’s done this even if there is a link. The circumstances are so different. It would be fairly easy to take out four – five, including Sammo – unsuspecting people who are out on the streets a lot of the time, and mostly alone. But even we didn’t know where these four guys were holed up until Tuesday – less than three days ago, so that information must be limited to relatively few people.”

  “An excellent point, DS Ramirez,” John said, “but that assumes they haven’t told anyone about where they’re staying. From what I hear, they’ve not exactly been keeping their heads down. It may be general knowledge out on the streets. So it’s quite possible that the people who had easy access to the first five victims knew exactly where to find these four. The most likely scenario is that someone is sending out a clear warning to anyone considering cooperating with the police against their own.”

  “You’re assuming Jack and Jason were part of ‘their own’ as you put it, sir?” Jo said.

  “I am assuming that until we have reason to assume otherwise. DI Waters will pick up these murders as part of his current ongoing investigation. I expect you to confer with him – obviously – but your task, DI Cottrell and DS Ramirez, is to check out what Mickey Kadawe did – and why – at Etherington Place on the night of the party. That’s all. So is everyone clear on that?”

  “Good,” he said, acknowledging the nods of ascent, and standing up ready to leave. “You two take it slowly for now. You’ve had a hell of a shock on top of your actual injuries. But if you think you had a lucky escape, what about Billy Wade? When you hadn’t arrived at six o’clock, he waited for ten minutes then popped out for cigarettes. Smoking didn’t kill him, did it?”

  The two women laughed.

  “Where is he now, sir?” Jo asked.

  “They’ve moved all the residents, including Wade, from the combo to a Premier Inn, apart from three who are still in hospital with cuts and minor burns. Billy’s got a guard on him twenty-four-seven now. What about Mr Kadawe? Is he settling in? We’ve had him for – what – nearly twenty-four hours now.”

  “Not spoken to him yet, sir. He refused to talk to us without his lawyer when we first brought him in. And since then… we’ve been a bit tied up.” She raised her hands. “Well, bandaged up, anyway.”

  John snorted a laugh. “That’ll teach you to stand me up for a meeting.”

  After he had left, Jo and Tina sat in silence for a long time with their separate thoughts.

  “One thing that puzzles me,” Tina said.

  “One thing?”

  “Okay, one of the things that puzzles me…”

  “Go on.”

  “If these guys were under police protection for their own safety, why would they not keep a low profile? Why – if the chief is right – would they let people know where they were?”

  Jo paused for a moment. “Why do you think?”

  Tina shrugged. “Because, in spite of what they’d done, they didn’t believe they were in any danger.”

  *

  Saturday; 19 September

  Grace picked up her desk phone, checking the time on the display – 10.45 am.

  “Your visitor is here. Shall I ask him to wait?”

  He was fifteen minutes early, a reflection, she hoped, of how much he was looking forward to their meeting.

  “Two minutes, Georgia. Then please ask him to come in.”

  She got up from her chair and made a final assessment of herself in the long mirror on the wall next to her desk, twisting her body to the right and left. She opened another button on her thin silk top and hitched her tight-fitting skirt up just a fraction more at the waist before walking over to stand in front of the window.

  The door opened and Georgia stepped inside the room. “The Under-Secretary, ma’am.”

  Lawrence Harding was wearing a light grey lounge suit, navy shirt and pale blue tie. Grace always thought that he wore his steel grey hair just a little too long, but otherwise she couldn’t really find any fault with his appearance. He was clearly appreciative of Grace’s efforts, too. She remained at the window just long enough to see his eyes open slightly wider as they dropped to appraise her breasts in the back-light. She turned briefly on the spot to give him the benefit of their profile before waving him to a se
at. They both stepped over to the desk and shook hands, Grace holding on long enough to make something more of the customary gesture.

  “I really appreciate your giving up your time to see me, Lawrence. It’s very kind of you.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” he said. “As always.”

  He seated himself in one of the wing chairs and Grace perched on the front edge of the desk close to him. She crossed her legs and leaned back supporting herself with her palms flat on the desktop.

  “I hope what I’m going to ask isn’t going to make it hard for you,” she said, with the slightest flash of her eyes, “but I need you to do something with me that must stay between just the two of us.”

  She squirmed a little as she spoke aware of Lawrence’s struggle to keep his eyes on hers.

  “I think transparency is very important, don’t you?” she continued, seeing his gaze drop just a fraction as he considered the question. “But, goodness me! Where are my manners? I trust you’d like some coffee – yes? This might take some time – if that’s okay with you?” She opened her eyes wide as she spoke.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “To the coffee and the time.”

  “Excellent.”

  She twisted where she sat and rocked back to pick up the desk phone, her legs lifting and parting slightly as she did so.

  “Georgia, could you bring us some coffee, please and – wait just a moment.” She looked at Lawrence with the same wide eyes. “Would you like something to nibble on?”

  “Yes again.”

  “And some cakes and biscuits as well, please, Georgia.”

  She repeated the manoeuvre to replace the phone and turned back to him. “That’s sorted, then. Let’s get down to it.”

  *

  Sunday; 20 September

  Catrina entered her code into the pad at the entrance to the small apartment block in Leatherhead. Dagger was standing behind her, looking nervously around as she opened the door. As they were about to step inside, a black Porsche Boxter pulled to a halt in front of the building, the driver’s dark-tinted window descending as it stopped.

  “Cat!”

  They almost leapt into the air as they turned to where the shout had come from. The occupant stepped out of the car and walked towards them.

  “Jeez, Katey!” Dagger shouted. “What the fuck are you trying to do – scare us to death?”

  “Sorry, Dags,” Katey said. “Didn’t mean to startle you. But I’ve been trying to speak to Cat for three days now.” She turned to the singer. “If you’d just answer your phone… What’re you so scared of, anyway? And where have you been?”

  “Staying with Dags,” Cat said, now looking around herself. “How did you know where to find me?”

  Katey followed her eyes, wondering what she expected to see. There was nothing and no-one.

  “Well, you live here, don’t you? Sort of. I’ve been round half-a-dozen times since Thursday. I didn’t realise you’d moved out.” She looked from one to the other of them. “And that you and Dags were…”

  “We’re not. Dags is just looking after me for a while.”

  Dagger nodded, looking disappointed.

  “What do you want, anyway?” Cat went on.

  “You know what I want. To talk about Mickey. Can we go inside?”

  Cat and Dagger looked at each other. Cat pushed open the door and the three of them stepped through into the small hallway then up the stairs to the apartment which occupied the whole of the second floor.

  “Do you want a drink, Katey,” Dagger asked. “A brew, I mean.”

  “Thanks. Coffee would be great.”

  He went in to the kitchen. Cat waved Katey through into a large lounge, with low black leather sofas and whitewood coffee tables. The cream thick-pile rugs, positioned perfectly between and around the furniture on the light oak floor, gave the place a feel of luxury. Katey spent a couple of minutes walking round the room, taking in the colourful abstract paintings on all the walls. She smiled her appreciation at Cat and they sat down, on different sofas, at right-angles to each other.

  “So… what exactly?” Cat started to ask.

  Katey leaned forward.

  “Mickey has been arrested, as I am sure you know. In fact, I got the distinct impression when I spoke to you on Thursday that you knew quite a bit about it. I don’t know how and what you know, but I want to understand what happened. And why that fucking police bitch seems determined to get rid of everybody who means anything to me.” Her voice had risen with the last comment as her anger took over. “So what’s the score, Cat? I want to know!”

  Dagger walked in at that point, carrying a tray with three coffee mugs, which he placed on one of the tables.

  “You’d better be sure you want to know,” he said to Katey. “And don’t start having a go at Cat. You’ve no idea what she has to put up with from that bastard.”

  Katey frowned and looked from one to the other.

  “Which bastard? The police woman?”

  “No. Mickey,” Cat said. “Mister-fucking-wonderful!”

  Katey looked shocked.

  “Mickey? Why, what’s he ever done to you, except get you all this?” She looked round the apartment.

  Katey could see the fury in Cat’s face as she rose from the sofa and began to pace the room.

  “Oh, and I guess Cat’s done fuck-all,” Dagger snarled. “She’s a crap singer, after all; no presence on stage, face like a fruit bat. Yes, Kadawe’s a fucking genius helping her succeed with all that shit to deal with!”

  Katey jumped to her feet.

  “I’m sorry, Cat. Dags is right; that was out of order.” She went over and gave her a hug. “I was just a bit surprised that’s all. I really don’t understand. Mickey’s been great with me. He calls me every day just to see…”

  “Of course he’s great with you!” Dagger snapped. “He’s planning on fucking you, isn’t he?”

  “Dags, please,” Cat said. “Katey, come and sit down again… here.”

  Cat returned to her seat and patted the space next to her. Katey sat down beside her.

  “That just isn’t right,” she said, speaking to herself. She was lost in thought.

  “It’s true, I’m afraid, Katey.” Cat took both her hands in hers. “I’ll tell you everything I know, and what I believe. But it’s going to hurt. Please don’t hate me; I’m just the messenger.”

  *

  Jo looked at the closed door of her office. The major incident team room beyond it was empty, its lights switched off, making the place feel unfamiliar without the voices and bustle accompanying the usual shadowy shapes thrown against the frosted glass of the door panel.

  She checked her watch – 7.15 pm. She’d been there for eight-and-a-half hours preparing – or, more accurately, failing to prepare – for the next interview with Mickey Kadawe. Sifting through records of Jack and Jason’s trial, and replaying recordings of Mickey’s conversation with Cat and the three stumbling hour-long interviews they’d already had with him over the past couple of days. It made for embarrassing listening. They’d been going nowhere; Mickey had been quick to realise and had thoroughly enjoyed exploiting their lack of a game plan.

  She was also aware that none of this was going down at all well with Harry, and right now she needed his help. She gritted her teeth and phoned him on his work mobile.

  “Harry, sorry to call at this hour on a Sunday, but I need your help.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Harry, are you there?”

  “Must be a bad line; can you repeat that?”

  “Technically, it’s not a line at all,” Jo said. “It’s mobile to mobile and…”

  “Crap signal, then. Just repeat what you said.”

  Jo sighed.

  “I need your help, Ha
rry. Please.”

  “Help with what, exactly? Hairdryer packed in? Need a light-bulb changing?”

  “What’s all this about, Harry?”

  “Well, it’s Sunday night, Jo. It can’t be police work, surely. Unless you’ve just solved my case as well as yours.”

  “Look, I know you’re pissed off with me about this Mickey Kadawe thing…”

  “Just a bit. Anyway, are you okay? I hear you got your fingers burnt. I was expecting it, but not like that.”

  Jo laughed. “Yes, it was a bit scary. What’s even more frightening is the thought of what could have happened.”

  “You’re not kidding. Is Tina okay?”

  “She’s fine, thanks.”

  “So this help you need?”

  “I’d like you to listen to a CD with me, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Is this in return for me inviting you to the movies? What is it, this CD? Soft music? Shall I bring a bottle round?”

  “You can if you like, but I think I ought to tell you a couple of things first. One, it’s not soft music; it’s a recording of the conversation between Kadawe and the singer just before we picked him up. I’d like you to listen for anything in there that leaps out at you. And two, I’m in my office?”

  “At the station?”

  “The very place.”

  “What the hell are you doing there, trying to beat Monday’s rush hour?”

  “No, I’m failing to get a break-through with this investigation. No doubt that piece of information will make your weekend.”

  “You don’t mean you want me to listen to it now… this evening, do you?”

  “No, of course not. In the morning.”

  “Okay, what time?”

  “Seven o’clock okay? Give us plenty of time before your meeting?”

  “Jeez! Monday morning, as well. Yes, okay.”

  “Thanks again, Harry. Night.”

  “Night, Jo. And go home, for Christ’s sake.”