Lost Souls

by Michael Knaggs

  Kade sighed and looked down at his hands clasped together in front of him on the table.

  “Barely a week passes without me thinking back to that day.” He looked across at Tom. “You know the story from Deverall?”

  “His side of it.”

  “Then you’ll know we were part of Operation Ptarmigan, ostensibly flushing Taliban out of the mountains. In reality, they were impossible to find; too dispersed and not that many of them left there after Anaconda. There were two groups that day forming one patrol – SEALS and Royal Marines – Major John was with your lot and I was in overall command. We hadn’t seen anything all day so we split into our national teams and went on separately. I guess you know all this, right?”

  “Go on.”

  “I’d had my orders from above that we must report in before engaging in any action and I’d passed that on to the Brit leading your group – can’t remember his name now. I got a call through from base about half an hour after we split to say that Abu el Taqha had been located in the area – I passed this on to the Brits and we both headed for the coordinates of the sighting. They got there well ahead of us and their guy contacted me. They’d got el Taq in the cross-hairs and could they shoot?” Kade paused and looked down at his hands again. “This is where it gets painful.”

  “If it eases the pain at all, Major, John Deverall had nothing but good things to say about you.”

  Kade looked up at Tom and smiled. “Well, yes it does, but I’m not sure I deserve it. I told them ‘no, we need VTI’ – verification of target identity. I just made it up, to give me time to check back with High Command. They said get there quick and make sure it’s us and not the Brits that take him down. So we can tell the folks back home – ‘we got him!’” Kade snorted a laugh. “It’s easy to sneer at it now, but it was less than a year after 9/11 and that sort of hands-on retribution seemed real important.”

  He shrugged and reached for his untouched glass, throwing half of its contents down his throat before placing it back on the table.

  “And the rest is history, as they say,” he went on. “Thankfully, little-known history. When we got there the target was already about a mile away in a speeding jeep, disappearing in a cloud of dust. In my worst dreams I still see the expression on Major John’s face. I thought he was going to shoot me.”

  “He told me it did cross his mind.”

  All four men laughed before Kade’s face clouded over again.

  “The other thing I have nightmares about is the carnage that came afterwards in Bali, Madrid, London, Istanbul – all supposedly involving Abu el Taqha. If I could go back, I’d just say kill him, and take the consequences. I bet Major John had his own demons to deal with. Right?”

  They sat in silence for a while.

  “Hindsight, Major,” Tom said. “Not worth thinking about. There are one or two things I’d do differently if I could go back just six months.”

  He reached for his drink, a prompt for the others to do the same. Four empty glasses went down in unison on the table and Sergei reached for the bottle and replenished them.

  “The answer to your question about the price of Jason’s life is ‘whatever it takes’,” Tom said, “and the answer to ‘do we go ahead?’ is ‘yes’. And I guess that’s meeting closed. Here’s to success.”

  He raised his drink, reaching across the table. The four glasses came together with a dull, non-crystal clunk and a chorus of “to success”.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Tuesday; 27 October

  Mags let the phone ring five times before ending the call. She didn’t leave a message, knowing the person always picked up the missed call and phoned back, usually straight away. Less than two minutes later she was proved right.

  “Hi, Maggie. Sorry, couldn’t find the phone.”

  “That’s okay. Where was it?”

  Jo laughed. “Usual place – right in front of me on the desk, but buried under half a rain forest. I don’t know about this legendary entity ‘the paperless office’, but there’s more paper than office visible here right now.”

  “This is to do with your move, I guess. I got your text.”

  “That’s right. Most of this is for the shredder – just cross checking everything’s on e-file. Anyway, what can I do for you? I was going to phone later.”

  “Well… actually, I’m worried about Tom.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it, Maggie, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  “The thing is, I don’t know where he is. I’m at the apartment in SW1 – came yesterday and stayed overnight. Only he really should be around right now because a week today he’s due in court, but his lawyer’s not been able to contact him. He was here on Sunday – definitely – but his car’s gone and it looks like he might have packed a bag recently – you know, drawers pulled out and such – and there’s no sign of keys, wallet, mobile.”

  “Could he be with his family do you think?”

  “No, I’ve spoken to them. Wish I hadn’t; I’ve got them worried now. I know this is a massive imposition, Jo, but I wondered if it would be possible for you to come to the apartment and go through it with me again. You’d know what to look for in terms of clues as to what he might be doing, where he might have gone. If it’s not possible, then I fully understand, but…”

  “No, it’s okay. I’m sure we can arrange something. I’m moving up to Leicester tomorrow, actually. I won’t be able to make it into London today and I’ve got an appointment with someone at midday tomorrow, but I could fit it in after that.”

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all, Maggie, but I have to say, the police should know by now that he’s not contacted his lawyer. Perhaps it’s time to make it official. You could always speak to John Mackay first.”

  Mags paused.

  “I probably will, but not yet. I know you’re walking on eggshells, Jo. John still doesn’t know about you and me – you know, being friends. You must feel a bit uncomfortable.”

  “Well, not so much now. We did meet legitimately when I was preparing to search your home for the rucksack, so we could say we struck up a rapport from there if it ever came out that we kept in touch. I’m not as concerned about that as with how little I can help compared to official police channels. I’m happy to meet up tomorrow, but if anything does surface that was a cause for concern, then it might need to be referred to them anyway.”

  “Yes, I understand that. I do appreciate this, you know. Hold on, though. You’ll be driving to Leicester, won’t you? This is going to put you way out.”

  “No, if we make it, say, mid-afternoon, I’ll leave the car somewhere near the start of the M1 – Romford, perhaps – and go in by train. That’s no problem.”

  “Three o’clock, then? I’ll meet you off the tube at Pimlico.”

  “Okay, see you then. And try not to worry too much. If he’s packed a bag and taken the car, he must have planned this. It’s not as if he just hasn’t made it back home.”

  “You’re right. Thanks, Jo. See you tomorrow.”

  Mags got up from the bench seat on the triangular balcony off the main bedroom. This had been her and Tom’s favourite spot at Balmaha, overlooking the Thames. She remembered the many evenings when the temperature had been totally unsuitable for sitting outside, but they had steadfastly huddled together clutching their drinks, each kitted out in a down jacket over a fleece, determined to beat the cold.

  Right now, at 10.30 in the morning, in just a light jacket and sheltered from a gentle breeze, it was the pain of those memories that drove her back inside. As she closed the balcony door, the phone in the living room rang and she went quickly through to answer it. The name on the display was someone Jo had mentioned a few minutes ago and, for a moment, she wondered whether the call was more than just a coincidence.

  “Hell
o, John.”

  A pause; then, “Maggie! Is that you?”

  “Of course. Which other woman would be answering my husband’s phone?”

  John Mackay laughed. “None that I can think of. It’s just that… you didn’t say anything yesterday. Are you and Tom… you know … together?”

  “Not in any sense of the word, I’m afraid.” She hesitated. “He’s not here at the moment; I’m just waiting for him to sort out a couple of things. Can I give him a message?”

  “Yes, please. When he phoned me on Sunday it was to ask for information about his new neighbour – across the landing. A gentleman who calls himself Oscar Strange. Can you tell Tom we have no record of him at all, and not only that, we can’t find anything relating to the sale or letting of that apartment either. The people who own it are not aware that anyone has been living there.”

  “Sounds very exciting, John. What has this person supposed to have done?”

  “Tom got the feeling he was spying on him – that could have been his imagination, of course. But Jackie Hewlett went to see Tom with her daughter, Lucy on Saturday and – can you remember when Lucy was abducted for a few hours?”

  “I certainly can. I feared for Katey at the time.”

  “Well, they bumped into this man and Lucy thought she recognised him as the same one.”

  “Really? That’s a bit creepy, isn’t it?”

  “Anyway, it seems Mr Strange – or whoever he is – has left. My guess is that Lucy is wrong. It was three years ago and she was only eleven at the time. Well, I’d best go. I hope you and Tom do get together and very soon.”

  “Thanks, John. Bye.”

  “Bye, Maggie. See you in court next week, no doubt.”

  Mags replaced the phone. “Not the way things are looking at the moment,” she said to herself.

  *

  The man with the beard and the white scar over his right eye got out of the front passenger seat of the ancient Volvo 940 estate and slapped the roof a couple of times as ‘goodbye’. He watched the driver do a rapid three-point turn in front of the garage set into the hillside at the edge of the road before speeding away north along the narrow B-road back towards Oban.

  The rusted hinges squealed in complaint as he pulled open the wooden double doors, dragging a couple of small boulders into place with his feet to stop them swinging back. The decrepit condition of its hiding place was totally at odds with the gleaming Audi sports car it concealed. There was just enough clearance for the man to squeeze along the side of the vehicle. With no room to open the door, the hood had been left down and he swung his legs over into the driver’s seat. After pulling the car out onto the road and closing the hood, he shut up the garage again and set off in the same direction as the Volvo.

  Four hours and one hundred and fifty miles later, he parked the car close to the jetty in Ullapool, having run a gauntlet of admiring glances and double-takes as he entered the town and crept along the main thoroughfare in the sleek silver vehicle. He pulled a mobile phone from his pocket, removed the back cover and checked inside it one last time. Replacing the cover, he slipped it into the drop-down glove compartment on the passenger side.

  He got out of the car, locked it and walked away along the quayside. After fifty yards he stopped and leaned on the rail above the harbour. He looked back at the R8 and, with a sigh of regret, dropped the keys into the brown, gently-rocking water below.

  *

  Wednesday; 28 October

  Jo checked her watch again. It was 1.50 pm.

  “And now I really must go. Thanks for meeting me here. It goes without saying I would have much preferred your fan club HQ, but…”

  “That’s quite alright,” David said. “I thought the meal was excellent – and the company, of course.”

  They left the Ciao Bella Italian restaurant on South Street for the short walk of 150 yards or so to Romford rail station where they had parked their cars.

  “Look,” Jo said, “I don’t suppose you want to come along with me, do you? It will make it even less official if you were there as well. You know, we were having a meal together, Maggie phoned, asked if I could meet her, so, as it wasn’t actual police business, we both went along. Another pair of eyes, another brilliant mind – that sort of thing.”

  David snorted a laugh. “And what if you did find something and it did have to become official, how are you going to square my being there with DI Waters? I seem to recall the last time we met he more than just put me on hold.”

  “Yes, you’re right. To be honest, I’m getting tired of telling lies – to Johnny Mac, to Harry – to Maggie now that Tom’s a suspect. I feel like I’m trapped in a giant porkie.”

  They walked under the railway bridge and turned right towards the station.

  “When is your train?” David asked.

  “They’re every ten minutes; takes about half an hour into Liverpool Street. Then Central Line to Oxford Circus and Victoria from there. Plenty of time.”

  They turned to face each other at the entrance to the station, slipping naturally into an embrace.

  “Hope it goes well with Maggie,” David said. “And safe journey to Leicester. You’ll be staying at the same B&B as last time, I suppose,” he added, with a serious face.

  Jo laughed. “No vacancies, I’m afraid. But I know the owner of this other place…”

  “Well, you take care.”

  Jo walked through the station entrance, turning once to give him a little wave.

  *

  The living room at Balmaha was luxuriously furnished in a modern style with squared black leather chairs and sofas on a polished oak floor, and glass and chrome dining furniture and cabinets. The walls were plain white and hung with a selection of Mags’s paintings. The artist herself was sitting on one of the armchairs and Jo on the end of the sofa closest to her.

  “So, where are we up to?” Jo said.

  “Well…” Mags placed her cup on the coffee table in front of her and leaned forward “… I’ve been through the post, nothing much there except the final summons asking him to acknowledge his intention to attend court next week – that was unopened, by the way. Checked incoming calls and messages – no clues at all, although I know he responded to at least one recently – Jackie Hewlett. He also phoned John Mackay on Sunday asking for some information about our new neighbour across the landing – now our ex-neighbour it seems. The other outgoing calls over the past couple of weeks have been mainly for taxis.”

  “Going anywhere in particular – I mean regularly to any one place?”

  “Well I’d need to check with the taxi companies, I guess.”

  “Yes, of course…”

  “There were only a few anyway. Tom actually enjoys the tube and the train.”

  “Right. Anything else?”

  “A lot of unread emails on his PC but nothing of any real significance; from Jackie Hewlett and his lawyer mainly. A few from Katey but she stopped trying a couple of weeks ago. As far as emails sent, none at all for five or six weeks.” Her voice faltered a little and she paused to recover. “Except for one to Josh Wilcox – a pilot we know – three weeks ago. An apology for something.”

  “Are you okay, Maggie?” Jo frowned, placing her cup on the table and reaching across to take her hand.

  “Yes, just being silly and thinking of the last time Tom and I were together with Josh.” She smiled at Jo, her eyes moist. “Anyway, as you can see, I’m no good at this detective game.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. You’ve checked all the right things – not your fault if there’s nothing to find. You said car keys, wallet and mobile phone are missing?”

  “That’s right, and the car’s gone from the basement. So, where do we look next?”

  “Just to get one silly question out of the way, you have tried his mobile �
� I mean, a number of times?”

  “Yes, the last time was when I was waiting for you at the tube station. Straight through to voicemail every time.”

  “I did say it was a silly question. And you said that drawers were open and clothes had been taken out?”

  “Well, I assume so. There’s a bag – a hold-all – missing that he took from the house some weeks ago. But there was stuff everywhere in the bedroom…” she looked round, “… and this room as well. I’ve tidied it up and I’m thinking now perhaps I shouldn’t have. You know, it might have been better if you’d seen it as it was.”

  “I don’t think so, Maggie.” Jo smiled. “It’s not a crime scene, is it? What about Tom’s passport? Did you find that?”

  Mags opened her eyes wide. “God, I didn’t think of that. I do know he took it when he moved here, because it’s not with mine at home.”

  “Would he usually carry it with him?”

  “No, he never did, except when he specifically needed it, of course. He always kept both of them – mine and his – in a drawer buried under some clothes, for whatever reason. I don’t think he knew himself.” She gave a little laugh.

  “Well, that’s something else we can look for. Can you tell what clothes he took – whether they were summer clothes, outdoor clothes, whatever?”

  “Difficult to tell. He moved here in June and he hasn’t taken anything from home since then – oh, except a change of clothes when he stayed the night after you came to tell us about Mickey Kadawe. That’s when he took the hold-all. He has a full wardrobe here but I’m not sure I could tell you what’s missing. I don’t come very often.”

  “Okay, let’s start with the hunt for the passport. Turn out all the drawers and cupboards, pockets in his jackets, coats, trousers. If you do that, I’ll have a look at his PC and check out any websites he’s accessed recently. There may be a clue there. Did you check the Trash folder for any emails he might have deleted?”