Lost Souls

by Michael Knaggs

  “Yes, but it’s set to automatically empty every seven days; there wasn’t anything in it at all. Nothing in Spam of any use either – shows that’s working, anyway.”

  Jo smiled. “Okay, let’s get started.”

  *

  She had just abandoned her fruitless search for clues on the internet and was logging off when she heard the cry from Mags. It was more of a squeal, in fact. A squeal of surprise bordering on fright.

  “Jo! In here!”

  She hurried through to the guest bedroom and found Mags staring at the open bottom drawer of the tall-boy. Clothes from the drawer were piled on the floor leaving it empty except for one thing. Jo’s stomach gave a little flip.

  “Is that Tom’s?” Jo asked.

  “It must be I suppose, but I’ve never seen it before. What is it?”

  Jo knelt down to get a closer look.

  “It’s a SIG P-two-two-something semi-automatic pistol. Did you know Tom kept a gun?”

  “No – in fact, I was sure he didn’t. Well, not at the house, anyway, and he swore to me that he didn’t own one at all.” She looked at Jo, still wide-eyed with shock. “Am I being naïve? Do senior politicians keep weapons – you know – for their own protection?”

  “I don’t believe so. Not as a general rule, although if they have a license and a legitimate reason, like being a collector or member of a gun club. I really don’t know.”

  Jo continued to study the gun, then she stood up again and turned to Mags.

  “Maggie, we need to inform the police about this.”

  Mags screwed her face into a frown. “The police, but why? It’s just a gun stuck right at the back of a draw in the ex-Home Secretary’s apartment. What we need to do is what we’re trying to do – find Tom. And then we can ask him why it’s there.”

  “It’s not as simple as that, Maggie.” Jo sighed. “Let’s go back through there and I’ll tell you everything.”

  *

  “Just before we go any further, Jo, can you tell me why you were searching Tom Brown’s apartment in SW1? Just so I don’t look like a complete bozo when I talk to his wife.”

  Harry was speaking on the hands-free en route to Balmaha. Jo had stepped out onto the balcony to take the call.

  “Didn’t Craig explain?”

  “Craig’s here in the car with me – driving it. He told me you were there trying to help Mrs T find out where her husband was. Am I to assume that Leicester Constabulary have taken over my case, because otherwise… Oh, for Christ’s sake!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “We’ve stopped again! This bloody satnav has been programmed to seek out traffic jams and drop you right into them!”

  “Just calm down, Harry. This has nothing to do with your case. Tom Brown is supposed to appear in court next week, as I’m sure you know, but he hasn’t been in touch with his lawyer yet and no-one seems to know where he is. His wife asked me if I would have a look round the apartment to see if there were any clues as to where he might be. In seeking the aforementioned clues, we came across the gun and I phoned you straight away.”

  “But why you? That’s what I don’t get.”

  “I’ll explain later, because right now it doesn’t really matter, does it? I would have thought the priority is to get a team here ASAP – which I am sure you have arranged. How far away are you?”

  “About half a mile – say three hours at this rate. They could be there before us unless they’re using the same satnav. How is she – Mrs Tomlinson-Brown? I assume you’ve told her about our interest in her husband and the reasons why.”

  “Yes I have. Punch-drunk I’d say. She must be wondering what’s going to hit her next. And she’s mad as hell at me.”

  “And the gun?”

  “SIG P-226.”

  “And you haven’t moved it?”

  “Only to shoot out a few light-bulbs. Oh, and I killed a couple of pigeons with it that were crapping on the balcony chairs.” Jo could hear Craig laughing in the seat beside Harry. “But I’ve put it back exactly where we found it.”

  “It’s lucky Belmont is driving or I might have crashed the car, I’m laughing so much. The 226 is a 40-cal, isn’t it?”

  “The standard model is, but – if I’m reading your mind correctly – it’s easy to convert to 9mm with an exchange kit. You just swap over the slide assembly and mag.”

  “You are such a swot, Cottrell! Anyway, we’re here now, just turning into the driveway. Can you let us in?”

  *

  Mags and Jo were seated on the armchairs at either end of the long coffee table in the living room with Harry and Craig on the sofa. The small search team of just four officers had arrived shortly after the two detectives along with someone from the Armed Response Unit who checked that the firearm was safe to handle. At Harry’s request they were in plain clothes and an unmarked car so as not to attract attention outside or add any more to the tension within. Mags had agreed to the search although they did not yet have a warrant. She could hardly refuse, Jo thought, having asked her round specifically to do that exact same thing.

  “This is extremely painful for us, Mrs Tomlinson-Brown,” Harry said, “so I can’t even begin to imagine what you must be feeling. We hope very much that we will be able to eliminate your husband from our enquiries into the deaths DI Cottrell has told you about. But we are duty-bound to follow all avenues of investigation and, by coincidence or otherwise, Mr Brown seems to tick all the right boxes in terms of motive – which he has publicly stated; opportunity – we know he was in the vicinity of at least some of the killings at the right time; and means – he certainly has the skills, background and contacts to carry out the crimes.”

  Mags said nothing.

  “We are aware,” Harry went on, “that you and Mr Brown have not been living together for some time now.” He paused and Mags gave the slightest of nods. “In which case, we accept that you may not be able to help us in any material way. But if you can think of anything that will move us forward and, hopefully, enable us to put an end to this line of enquiry, then…”

  “Why would he kill these people?” Mags interrupted. “Tell me that.”

  Harry shrugged. “If he believed they were complicit in getting Jack convicted, then an act of revenge…”

  “Wrongly convicted. That’s what he believes – as I do. So why would he kill the very people who could clear Jack’s name? It makes no sense at all.”

  “A lot doesn’t make sense, Mrs Tomlinson-Brown, which is why, as I said, as soon as we can eliminate him from our enquiries …”

  “Well I can help you with that, Detective Inspector, because I can tell you for certain that he didn’t carry out those killings. The barbaric acts that DI Cottrell described are the work of a coward – or cowards. And my husband, based on recent evidence, is the bravest man in the world.”

  Harry sighed.

  “I could accept that without question, Mrs Tomlinson-Brown, if the man we are talking about is the same man who existed six months ago. But we have recent evidence, that I’m sure you are familiar with, which shows that is not the case.”

  *

  It was almost midnight when Jo came to the roundabout on the ring road just a hundred yards from her new place of work. She took the third exit, which took her directly away from Leicester Constabulary headquarters, along Kenwick Lane for the three-mile drive into the open countryside to the village of Kenwick itself – population circa 120 and the home of Detective Sergeant Sebastian Carter.

  She reflected on her parting with Mags, shortly after Harry had left with the gun and two spare magazines found in the second-to-bottom drawer of the same cabinet. She was sure they were still friends; they had embraced as she left, although Mags’s face still retained some of the anger which had exploded when Jo had told her about the polic
e’s investigation into her husband. Better that, Jo thought, than a look of abject despair to fuel her guilt at leaving her alone at Balmaha.

  She pulled to a halt behind the Toyota Celica in front of the small terraced cottage with its long front garden, picket fence and gate. Her spirits were lifted by the appearance of a figure in the window, who waved briefly and disappeared from sight. The front door opened seconds later, just as her mobile phone sounded.

  “Hi, Harry.”

  “Hi, Jo, sorry to call so late but you asked me to keep you informed.”

  “Am I going to like this?”

  “I’m afraid not. The gun from Tom Brown’s apartment is the one that killed Sammo Sampson and his four clients.”

  “There’s no doubt?”

  “None at all.”

  “Okay, thanks, Harry.”

  She ended the call as her eyes filled with tears. Seb was waiting in the doorway, his large, muscular frame silhouetted against the light from inside. She got out of the car, taking her suitcase from the back seat. Seb was walking towards her down the path. She dropped the case and ran into his arms.

  *

  Thursday; 29 October

  “Good afternoon, I’m Jocelyn Knox, and our main story this Thursday lunchtime. Police are keen to contact the former Home Secretary, Mr Tom Brown, as part of their investigation into the recent deaths of a number of drug users in the Woking, Cobham and Dorking areas. Detective Inspector Harry Waters, the officer leading the investigation, told reporters in a statement today at twelve o’clock that he believed Mr Brown could provide valuable information relating to the case. He appealed for him to contact the police immediately.

  “Mr Brown, who is due to appear in court next week following the alleged assisted death of his son whilst in custody earlier this year, has not been seen at or near his home on Vauxhall Bridge Road, SW1, since last Friday – 23rd October – and his current whereabouts are unknown. DI Waters said that he may be staying with someone because an overnight bag has been taken from the apartment and his car is missing from its underground garage. The vehicle is a silver Audi R8 soft-top sports car, registration TB 75. Anyone seeing Mr Brown or his car should contact the police on one of the three numbers shown below, or at their local police station.

  “Obviously, we will keep you updated with this story as it develops.”

  *

  Mags activated the main gates as John Mackay’s voice crackled over the intercom. She met him at the front porch door and they embraced awkwardly.

  “Coffee… or something?” Mags asked.

  “Not for me, thanks.”

  She led the way through to the back of the house. “Katey’s here.”

  Katey was sitting in the middle of the four-seater sofa which faced the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the rear garden and large pond, currently illuminated with solar lighting. She got to her feet when they entered and she and John hugged.

  “Katey, I’m so sorry…”

  She nodded as he ran out of words.

  “Please, John.” Mags waved him to the armchair at the end of the coffee table, and sat down close to her daughter, pressing up against her and clasping both her hands with hers in a four-handed fist, their knuckles showing white through the skin. She suddenly felt a wave of sympathy for her visitor. His face was a mask of sadness and anxiety, as if he was reflecting their own despair.

  John checked his watch before speaking.

  “Well, as you probably know by now, we found Tom’s car earlier today in Ullapool, north-west Scotland. In about twenty minutes, at nine o’clock, we’ll be putting out a further statement about the search for Tom. It will include details of what was found in the car and, as a result of that, we shall be mentioning the discovery of the gun at the apartment.”

  Katey gave a loud sob. Mags’s expression stayed neutral.

  “I wanted to tell you both,” he went on, “before the rest of the country hears about it; and to give you the opportunity to ask me any questions. I don’t have to say, do I, how absolutely sick I feel about the whole thing? I’m sure you know that already.”

  “We know,” Katey said. “Please go on.”

  “In the back of the Audi, behind the seats, we found some wire along with a couple of detonators. It’s impossible to be certain, but we believe it to be the same type of equipment used in the bombing of the apartments in Dorking. This is part-circumstantial based on what we already know, but it fits an emerging picture; because this links Tom to those killings just as the gun links him to the others. And all the victims can be linked back to Jack and Jason.”

  “Well, I’m glad they’re dead!” Katey’s shout took them both by surprise. “But if Dad had decided to kill them, no way would he do it like that. He’d confront them; make sure they knew why it was happening to them. Not sneak up behind them…”

  “We don’t know he did that,” John said, “or whoever killed them did that. He might have confronted them, then made them turn round.”

  “I think he’s run away so he doesn’t have to go through with the court case about Jack’s death. That will be why.”

  “I don’t think so, Katey.” John said. “He seemed pretty relaxed – as much as he could be – about that. He said he was pleading guilty and was keen to get it out of the way. He told me and Mr Hastings.”

  “Well I’ll never believe he did it. Innocent people could have been killed in that explosion – it’s a miracle they weren’t. You know him better than that.”

  John sighed. “Who knows anything anymore?”

  “What John means, Katey, is what DI Waters said yesterday at the apartment. We’re talking about the man we knew six months ago. I know part of that man still exists – know it for a fact – but I’m not sure I could vouch for him all the time now like I could then.” She turned to John. “So what else will they say in the statement?”

  “Apart from the information about the detonators and the gun, we’ll ask anyone to contact us if they see him, like we did earlier. And we’ll say not to approach him. I don’t believe for a second he’s a danger to the general public, but we have to say that.”

  They sat in silence for a long time before John spoke again.

  “The Ullapool connection just doesn’t make any sense to me. There’s nowhere to go from there, except the Outer Isles – and the Atlantic. It’s just about the end of the world. There’s no bag in the car, so he must have his clothes, wallet and stuff with him. But why would he leave his phone behind?”

  “Possibly because he might be traced through it,” Mags said. “You can do that, can’t you?”

  “Yes, of course,” John said. He paused to think for a moment. “Which means he’s probably moved on from there. The police have checked all the B&Bs, guest-houses, hotels – and campsites and hostels – within five miles of the town. No sign of him at all. They’ve also been checking passenger lists on the ferries between Ullapool and Stornoway. Nothing there either. Where could he be going? Have you any idea, Maggie”

  Mags shook her head, disguising the glimmer of understanding that had just come to her.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Sunday; 1 November

  In the pale light of morning with a hazy sun rising behind them below the canopy of cloud, the five men stood in a tight group on the towering cliffs of Mingulay, looking out to sea into the teeth of the westerly gale. Four of the men were trying to carry on a conversation, shouting to make themselves heard above the howling wind. The fifth member and leader of the group looked with ice-blue eyes and calm dismay at the pitching seascape in front of them.

  This storm had not been forecast until a few days ago but was hardly out of character for the time of year. He had known from the beginning the problems in managing small craft to and from this particular island in anything other than near-perfect weather conditions.
That was the reason it was uninhabited, which was why he had chosen it for their purpose. So having taken the decision – and hence the risk – to use it as their starting point, he could hardly complain. He wondered, not for the first time in the last few days, whether they had left it too late.

  “No chance!” he shouted above the roar. “Pray for tomorrow!”

  The men turned away from the cliffs and began the walk of just over half a mile back to their base. With the gale at their backs, they could breathe more easily and were able to cover the ground quickly.

  When they arrived at the beach they looked eastward beyond the dunes at the two Archer Class boats anchored a hundred yards out in the bay, lurching violently in the swell. They each bore the initials BOSV on their sides and superstructures. A smaller craft was secured with chains to the deck of one of the boats, under a winch near the stern. This strange-looking vessel had the appearance of a large casserole dish, flat-bottomed and oval-shaped, with a transparent domed ‘lid’.

  “I’m sure the Oceanographic Society will wait one day more for such important work,” said one of the men. They all laughed and turned to enter the prefabricated building, which was to be their home for a sixth day, and to join the other three members of the party.

  One man hesitated in the doorway then turned and walked back to where they had been watching the boats.

  “You coming in, Colonel?” the leader shouted across to him.

  “In a minute.”

  “Briefing starts in ten.”

  He went inside and closed the door.

  *

  The square wooden table in the centre of the main room in the building was for now – according to Kade – not a table but a replica of Alpha, which was why each leg was supported by an upturned metal crate which lifted it off the floor so the full height of its legs could represent the extent of the columns above sea-level. Around the edges of the table top, cardboard boxes had been placed to symbolise the lower floors of the ten-storey accommodation blocks, which surrounded and enclosed the main deck of the platform.