Lost Souls

by Michael Knaggs

  The slight change in the engine tone was enough to stir Tom from his sleep. He looked out of the passenger side window at rolling hills and clusters of trees in neat plantations, illuminated by a brilliant full moon in a cloudless night sky. The Range Rover swept round the large roundabout and swung left in a wide curve towards the low brightly-lit building.

  “Where are we?”

  “Abington Services,” Mike said, pulling the car to a halt away from the other vehicles so it faced a grassy slope rising in front of them to a summit half a mile away. “Welcome to Bonnie Scotland.”

  “Scotland! What time is it?”

  “Just after three o’clock.”

  “Last thing I remember was pulling out of a service station somewhere near Birmingham.”

  “Stafford – that was more than two hundred miles ago. You’ve been sleeping like a baby since then. I bet that’s the longest proper sleep you’ve had for quite a while.”

  “Well, you’re wrong there – I’ve had no trouble at all sleeping.”

  “I said proper sleep, as opposed to a drink-induced coma.”

  Tom shot him a glance. “Oh, I see. So you’re my carer now.”

  He opened the door and slipped out, stretching and yawning, then walked across to the slope, looking up the hill. Mike got out of the car and joined him.

  “Where the hell is Abingdon, anyway?” Tom said.

  “Abington; south of Glasgow on the M74. Shall we grab a coffee and a sandwich?”

  Tom turned and looked across at the welcoming lights. “Good idea.” He set off towards the building; Mike grabbed his arm.

  “You stay here. I’ll get them. Can’t have you being recognised. What would you like?”

  Tom sighed. “Coffee, white, no sugar. Anything in the sandwich.”

  Tom got back in the car and Mike joined him within five minutes carrying a paper bag and two Styrofoam cups in a cardboard holder.

  “Tuna mayo or ham and tomato?”

  “You choose.”

  “Okay,” Mike said. “I’ll take the ham.” He handed Tom the other sandwich.

  “So where are we going? Or are we already there?” Tom asked.

  “Ardnamurchan. And from there – well, that depends on you.”

  *

  Mags picked up the house phone in front of her on the breakfast bar, checking the name on the display.

  “Hello, Dan.” She glanced at the time on the wall clock – 8.45 am. “You’re bright and early”

  “Hi, Maggie, I hope I didn’t disturb you.”

  “Not at all. Is it about the case against Jack? Have you found out anything?”

  “No and no, I’m afraid. No, it’s not about that, because, no, I haven’t found out anything. I am trying hard, though. Actually, it’s about Tom. I know you and he are not… well… together right now, but I wondered if you knew where he was.”

  “I assume he’s still in SW1, but I haven’t seen or spoken to him for weeks now – three or four, I guess. Why, has he gone missing?”

  “I’m not sure, but I need to contact him. We are eight days away from his trial and we haven’t even talked about it yet, let alone prepared his case. I saw him six weeks ago and since then I’ve phoned him God knows how many times, and turned up three times at the apartment for pre-arranged meetings. He either wasn’t there or he just wasn’t conscious. I don’t know what to do. Sorry to put this on you, Maggie. It can’t be easy for you.”

  “Look, I’ll make a few phone calls and get back to you. And please keep pushing with the other thing. They can’t just ignore what they found out about Kadawe just because the little shit got himself killed.”

  “I will, Maggie – I am, in fact – but there’s a strong message of ‘case closed’ coming from all directions. And to save you time with the phone calls, I already spoke with Tony Dobson and George Holland over the weekend. Dobson hasn’t seen him for six or seven weeks, and the last time George was with him was at the interment of John Deverall’s ashes. That was about three weeks ago, wasn’t it? From what I hear Jack’s girlfriend might be a good starting point. He seems to be a regular visitor at her local in Woking. Sorry to involve you, Maggie. I just don’t know what to do.”

  “That’s okay, Dan. I’ll do what I can.”

  *

  George Street was teaming with the day’s first wave of late-season tourists disembarking from a line of three coaches parked half on the pavement and causing chaos for the local traffic and pedestrians. Horns were sounding and people shouting, the whole scene in stark contrast to the tranquillity of the water and the stillness of the boats anchored in Oban Bay.

  Mike picked their way through the melee to the roundabout and onto the one-way system leading to the ferry terminal. They continued past the large Calmac vessel taking on cars to their right, and out of town by the side of Kerrera Sound. A mile further on, they pulled off the road onto an area of hard standing and stopped at the shoreline facing a small inlet with a slipway in front of them and a stone jetty to their left. A fishing boat with a rust-painted cabin was moored against the jetty.

  Tom got out of the Range Rover and stood looking at the hills behind them, aware that he was within a couple of miles of Lochshore. He thought again about his visit there earlier in the year, the helicopter ride to Hotel St Kilda; the bodies impaled on the wire and, later, his departure for Knoydart and three perfect days with Mags. Mike watched him and waited, as if reading his thoughts. Tom turned back and looked across at the boat.

  “Your transport for the next lap,” Mike said. “The cabin’s cramped and filthy; you can’t see out of the windows, there’s no heating, TV, phone, wifi, galley or cocktail cabinet – just a kettle. Other than that, it’s not much different to any other executive launch.”

  Tom smiled. “I’ve travelled in worse; and with people shooting at me.”

  “Okay, let’s go then.”

  Mike opened the rear door, taking out a small battered suitcase, and passing Tom his hold-all. After locking the car, he led the way along the jetty to the boat. The two men already on board, in hi-vis waterproof coats and black working trousers, were carrying out final checks on the deck-mounted fittings. Neither spoke or even acknowledged their presence. Mike leaned across to Tom.

  “Don’t expect any exhilarating conversation. We’ll be lucky if they tell us where they keep the coffee and milk.”

  They climbed down the metal ladder attached to the side of the jetty and dropped onto the boat. Mike said a cheery “Hi” to their hosts and was rewarded with a muted grunt from one, who even extended them the courtesy of glancing in their direction. They slipped down the five steps into the cabin and sat on the hard benches across from each other.

  “Well, there’s the kettle,” Mike said, nodding towards a shelf at the forward end. “Let’s see if we can find the rest of the essentials.”

  *

  Mags moved the easel round a little to capture more light from the window. She had started the painting of Farcuillin Lodge immediately after their return from Scotland and it had been standing untouched in her studio-cum-office at Etherington Place since the police raid. That was long enough, she thought. Now she was going to finish it.

  The extension phone rang on her desk just as she placed her pallet and brush down on the work table. She checked the name on the display and grabbed the receiver, smearing it with paint.

  “Hi, Dan.”

  “Hi, Maggie. Got your message. First chance to call back. Any luck so far?”

  “Well, it appears he’s still alive and still at the apartment, or at least he was yesterday.”

  “Not today, though, Maggie. He wasn’t answering again, either the phone or the doorbell, and his mobile’s going straight through to voicemail. Who have you spoken to?”

  “Chief Superintendent Mackay
and Jackie Hewlett both talked to him yesterday and Jackie’s sure he was at Balmaha very early on Sunday morning. Well, he must have been because he was calling her back after picking up a message she’d left on the phone there. And he phoned John Mackay from the landline in the afternoon.”

  “You didn’t tell Mackay he was missing?”

  “No, just that he wasn’t picking up my messages.”

  “I just don’t know what to do. That’s the trouble with representing friends. Anyone else, I’d just tell the court I’d done everything reasonable to contact my client. The police would then start looking for him. But I don’t feel I can do that.”

  “Well, your loyalty does you credit, Dan, but you need to be fair to yourself as well. You have to make the court aware of a possible no-show before it happens. You can’t just turn up a week tomorrow without your client.”

  “No, I suppose not. Can you think of anyone else? What about Megan?”

  “Katey reckons Megan hasn’t seen him for a good few weeks. He’s not been to see Leila Midanda again either – he went there the day before Kadawe was shot. I could check out Jenny, his PA – ex-PA. She might still be in touch, I guess – doubt it, though. I’ll get back to you.”

  Mags wiped her hands on a cloth and searched through the battered notebook on the desk next to the phone for Jenny Britani’s mobile number. There was no reply, so she left a message asking her to phone back. Five minutes later, Jenny obliged.

  “Hi, Mrs Tomlinson-Brown,” she said, with obvious pleasure. “How are you?”

  “Fine, Jenny. And you – what are you doing with yourself these days? Who’s your lucky boss now?”

  “I’m fine and keeping my fingers crossed at the moment. I’ve applied for my old job – PA to Mrs Hewlett. Been through all the tests and just waiting to hear.”

  “You mean you have to be tested to see if you can do the job you’ve been doing brilliantly for two years! That’s ridiculous.”

  “Well, thank you,” Jenny laughed. “You’re very kind. But it’s policy when there’s more than one applicant – and there are loads for this position. But I’m hopeful.” There was a pause. “Even though it won’t be the same. No disrespect to Mrs Hewlett.”

  “It will be great, Jenny. She’s a lovely person and I know the ex-Home Secretary would be delighted if you got the job.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And speaking of the ex-Home Secretary – it’s a bit embarrassing this – I don’t suppose you know where I could contact him. Things between us have not been all that good recently.”

  “I know and I’m really sorry about that, Mrs Tomlinson-Brown. I do hope it works out. But I’m afraid I can’t help you. In fact, I’ve tried to contact him myself a few times. Just before he resigned, he said he’d be happy to be a referee for me. Perhaps he was just having a joke.”

  “I’m sure he meant it, Jenny. He’s just been difficult to pin down recently. Can you remember when you last saw or heard from him?”

  “It was a long time ago. Just hold on, please.” Mags could hear the sound of fingers on a keyboard. “It was on 12th June, the day he was charged with… you know. He came along to the office in Marlburgh. Sorry I can’t help.”

  “Thanks anyway, Jenny, and if you do hear from him, please let me know.”

  “I will – oh, I just remembered. I was talking to Josh Wilcox last week and he mentioned he’d seen Mr Brown on the day that drug dealer was killed. He said he’d taken him somewhere – didn’t say where. I guess that was a long time ago as well, though, wasn’t it?”

  “It was, but it’s worth a phone call to Josh. Thanks, Jenny – and keep me posted about the job.”

  “I will. Great to talk to you.”

  “You too. Bye.”

  Mags picked up the notebook again.

  *

  DI Cottrell jumped to her feet as John Mackay entered his office.

  “Jo, please.” He waved for her to sit down again. “Janice is following close behind with coffee and toasted teacakes.” He beamed across the desk at her as he sank into his chair. “Might as well fuel my addiction before I have to give it up.”

  She gave him a sad smile.

  “Don’t look like that,” John said. “My decision, remember.” He sighed and shook his head, his face clouding over. “To be honest, Jo, I’m ready to go right now – today. I should be pulling out all the stops to help put this case of Harry’s to bed before I leave. It does bother me that there’s no push from any direction to get a result – certainly not from above. A multi-skilled serial killer on the loose and apparently no urgency to catch him. No progress at all for four weeks. Having said that, you’re aware who’s emerging as a prime suspect?” He took a deep breath and swallowed hard. “We’ve been checking his movements over the period of the killings from police and press reports but, to be frank, I’ve no stomach at all to take up the chase. Not after my role in what happened to Jack.”

  “You were only doing your job, sir,” Jo said. “Anyway, I find it impossible to get my head round the fact that Mr Brown could be involved. There’s no evidence other than circumstantial. No material links to any of the deaths.”

  “I agree, but as Arthur Conan Doyle said – through his great detective – ‘when you’ve eliminated the impossible, what remains, however improbable, must be the truth’. I know we’re not at the stage yet where we’ve eliminated everything else, but I have no desire to be around if and when we get there.” He looked across at Jo. “Does that sound cowardly?”

  “Not at all, sir. You’ve had a lot to deal with.”

  “Yes, but I’m paid to deal with a lot, Jo. I’m a big boy.” He leaned back, forcing a smile and patting his stomach with both hands. “Too big, in fact… And this isn’t going to help. Come in, Janice!”

  The door opened and Janice backed through it, pulling a small trolley bearing a cafetiere, two cups and saucers, a milk jug, sugar bowl and a large plate covered in foil, which she removed to reveal the teacakes. John’s secretary was in her mid fifties, petite, and with a pretty face under a neat bob of greying hair. She put the plate on the desk.

  “Is this instead of lunch or will you be ordering that later?” she said, with a stern look which demanded the right answer.

  “That rather depends on how many of these I get to eat myself.”

  Janice looked at Jo. “Please do him a favour and eat all of them.”

  The two officers laughed as Janice left the room. John poured the coffee and they each helped themselves to a teacake.

  “Anyway,” he said, “the reason for my wanting to see you is to let you know that your next assignment will be the same as your last one. Chief Superintendent Wallace has requested you back as soon as possible, and I have told him that you are available with immediate effect.”

  “But, sir, I’ve been working with Brighton…”

  “I know, and I’ve cleared that with them. I feel we owe it to CS Wallace given that we reclaimed you almost immediately after you’d started there. It would look bad if we sent you somewhere other than back to him – look bad for the whole principle of flexible resources, in fact. I’m afraid, as much as we all like having you around, your job, for the most part, is to be somewhere else.”

  He leaned forward and smiled, his eyes twinkling and his whole body seeming to become lighter.

  “And if you tell me you don’t want to go, I’ll have a quiet word with a certain detective sergeant in Leicester and then you’ll have some explaining to do. Now do me that favour and eat a few more of these.”

  He pushed the plate over towards her.

  *

  It was late afternoon and the light was fading when the boat nudged up against the stone jetty next to the ramp at the Kilchoan ferry terminal on Ardnamurchan. One of the crew climbed up the four iron rungs on the jetty wall and
secured the boat forward and aft with ropes thrown to him by his companion. Neither had spoken a word to their passengers throughout the trip, spending all five hours on deck, leaving Tom and Mike below with their coffee and their thoughts.

  “There’s our man.” Mike nodded towards the figure in jeans and a light bomber jacket standing at the end of the narrow concrete walkway in front of them. As they set off towards him, he turned away, heading past the miniature grey-stone ticket office with its slated roof to the small car park beyond it on the left. They followed him to where he was waiting next to a battered dark-green Land Rover Defender.

  The man was the same height as Tom and of a similar age and build. He had thick dark hair and the classic features associated with Hollywood movie stars in the nineteen-fifties and sixties. But most notable of all about his appearance were his eyes – ice-blue and unsettlingly intense. His greeting, nevertheless, was warm enough.

  “Colonel Brown.” He spoke with a refined American accent and held out his hand which Tom shook. “Welcome to the middle of nowhere. Please, climb aboard.”

  Mike had already got into the back of the vehicle and Tom climbed into the front passenger seat, placing the hold-all on the floor behind his feet. The man got in next to him, started the engine and turned the car left onto the road to the village.

  “Excuse me,” Tom said. “You are?”

  “Kade.”

  Tom waited. “Well, that’s a start, I guess. Kade who or who Kade?”

  “Just Kade.”

  Tom gave a little laugh. “A bit John Wayne, isn’t it?”

  The man didn’t reply, focussing on the road ahead.

  They drove through Kilchoan – “the most westerly village on the mainland,” Mike informed them – continuing for about five miles in the descending gloom along a single-track road, lined for much of the way by shrubs and trees which the headlights seemed to ignite, creating a blaze of brilliant early-autumn colours. A mile before reaching Ardnamurchan lighthouse they turned off north along a road which was little more than a track and which deteriorated rapidly from that point. It was a relief when they finally stopped at a wooden cabin a few yards off the road overlooking a white sandy beach. Tom could just about make out the shape of an Archer Class launch anchored fifty yards off shore in the small bay.