Catalyst

by Michael Knaggs

  They were on the point of turning in, and had just popped their heads round Katey’s door to say goodnight, with much giggling and eyelash fluttering from her friends, when Tom’s mobile rang. He saw that the call was from Jenny Britani and checked the time – 11.10 pm. It had to be something important or urgent or both. He sat down on the bed and pressed ‘answer’.

  “Yes, Jenny?”

  “Oh, Mr Brown, I’m so sorry to call you at this time, but I’ve just made the last check of your voicemails at the office and there’s one from Chief Constable Rayburn, phoned a minute or two before eleven. No message, but she left a number for you to call.” She read it out and he wrote it down on a notepad on his bedside table. “I thought I’d better pass it on.”

  “That’s fine, Jenny. You did the right thing, thank you. I’m sorry that you had to interrupt your Saturday evening.”

  “I don’t mind. Hope it’s nothing bad. Night, Mr Brown.”

  “God, what’s this about?” he muttered, going downstairs to make the call. Afterwards he went back upstairs to Mags.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked, as he appeared, white-faced, at the bedroom door. “Not Jack?”

  “No, no,” Tom re-assured her quickly. “Nothing like that.”

  “What then?”

  “It’s Irene – Irene Holland. She’s been… murdered, shot down outside the pub in Meadow Village. God, poor George – well, poor Irene, of course, but… God… I should go and see… ” although he was not sure what or who.

  “How?” asked Mags. “When?

  “Tonight, not long ago. A big gang from the estate attacked the village. They were after George; apparently Irene just got in the way. Oh, God, I can’t begin to think what George must be feeling. She is – was – a really wonderful lady. Look, I must go to the village tomorrow – can’t do anything tonight. Will you come with me? Please.”

  Mags hesitated, just for a moment.

  “Of course,” she said. “Come to bed. As you say, there’s nothing you can do tonight.”

  “Yes, yes, you’re right.”

  David and Omar arrived at 11.15 pm. The pub was illuminated by the flashing blue lights of a dozen police vehicles and several portable search-lights trained on the area where the action had taken place. As he approached, David’s first impression was that it looked like an out-door disco experiencing a problem with the sound system. In the centre of the scene were three small tents each surrounded by movable posts on circular bases with crime-scene tape stretched between them. SOCOs in white hooded all-in-ones were searching the perimeter whilst others were crawling around close to the tents. Camera flashes added to the light display.

  Omar’s vehicle was stopped 100 yards or so short of the pub then waved through as the police constable recognised the DCI before he had chance to show him his ID. John Lawrence walked over to the car as Omar pulled up alongside one of the police vehicles. The inspector was tallish, well built, and with a friendly face dominated by a large moustache.

  The front of the Dog and Duck was totally wrecked. All the downstairs windows were smashed and several in the living accommodation upstairs. One of the double-doors was lying inside the entrance; it had fallen away when the customers had come out to face the gang.

  “Thanks for coming, sir,” he said as David got out.

  “No, thank you for the early heads-up. You know DC Shakhir?”

  “Yes.” The two men nodded to each other.

  “So take me through the carnage, please, John.”

  The inspector told the story from when the waitress had taken the call right up to the delayed arrival of the emergency forces.

  “What were those things they’d used to block the road?” asked David.

  “They’d rolled about ten big hay bales onto the road from a field and dumped them on their sides. Impossible to get them upright again by hand. Another farmer from the village, Redburn Price – the one who made the call to the pub and the initial one to the police – he ran to his place and got his tractor and shoved them off the road. It’s a good job he did; not sure what would have happened otherwise.”

  “And Mrs Holland? Did you say she died instantly?”

  “No not instantly, but in the ambulance at the scene. They took her away. The other three bodies are still here.”

  “And the injured? How are they doing?”

  “One woman got a shard of glass almost through her throat. She’s lost a lot of blood – touch and go apparently with her. The guy Ben, Alistair Neville’s brother – Alistair’s the one the young kid shot – got hit in the throat. He should be okay, looked a lot worse than it is – bad enough, mind. And two more with minor cuts on face and arms. Seems likely that there could be quite a number of the gang with minor injuries as well – sprayed by the shot that killed the first one. One’s been taken to hospital with eye injuries. We found him afterwards in the car park, staggering around, blinded and screaming. Paramedics couldn’t say whether it would be permanent; they won’t know for a while.”

  “And the young kid who fired the last shot?”

  “Yes, we haven’t got a full name yet. They called him ‘Jokey’ – presumably a nick-name. We think he’s the brother of the one doing all the talking – the first one who was killed. If that’s true then, obviously, once we ID one of them, we’ll know the other. We’re all over the place down there right now.” He pointed in the direction of the estate, where on the skyline the usual orange glow was supplemented by blue flashes.

  “Quite a few seem to know who they are but won’t give us a name. But they reckon the young lad is eight years old.”

  David shook his head sadly.

  “What sort of reaction are we getting on the estate?” he asked.

  “Too early to tell, really. Shock and disappointment, so far, but not sure how they’ll react when it comes out that one of the villagers has killed two kids.”

  “Well, they were ecstatic enough when Deverall killed three of them. Why would this be different?”

  “It might not be; just waiting to see. It would be a shame if the good feeling between the village and the estate was to end. One thing for certain, there seems to be a massive amount of sympathy for Irene and for George. He’s a real popular figure there; he’s said a lot of good things about Cullen Field since the Brady thing.”

  “Let’s hope it’ll be enough to get the honeymooners through it with their marriage intact,” said David.

  He looked around at the scene.

  “Can we move the bodies now, sir?” asked the Inspector. “Do you want to see them first?”

  “No, I don’t want to see them, but I guess I should.”

  He looked briefly into the three tents. It was something he had never got used to.

  “They can go now,” he said. “We’ll just have a mosey round.”

  The ground was marked out to reflect the last act with its shattering climax. David recognised one of the SOCOs.

  “Hi, Karen,” he said.

  “Oh, evening, sir,” said Karen Eccleston, standing up and pushing back her hood to reveal a mass of blonde hair tucked down the back of her suit. She was small and sturdy, with a round, pretty face. “Bad job.”

  “You said it. Where does everything fit?” he asked looking round.

  “Well, that’s where Ben Neville was shot, and he crawled over to his brother there,” she pointed as she spoke to a pool of blood spread over a large area, where Ben had initially gone down, and a trail leading to one of the tents.

  “That’s where Mrs Holland died,” Karen went on, indicating another pool of blood. Then she pointed to the tent covering the first youth who had been hit. “That guy lost half his head,” she said, “It’s all around here.” She swept her arm round the gory mess close to the tent where tissue from the scalp and head cavity mingled with the splashes of blood.

  “And that’s where the second kid was clubbed,” she explained, indicating the third tent. David gave a shudder.

  “If you t
hink this is bad,” said Karen, “I suggest you give the pub a miss. A poor woman in there nearly had her head taken off by flying glass. Blood’s about a foot deep.”

  “Thanks, Karen; we’ll take your advice. Thanks for the sightsee.”

  “You’re welcome, sir.”

  They walked round to the back of the pub, crunching over broken glass. A crate had been placed on its side against the fence to provide a step for the police and SOCOs to climb over it. He eased himself over, followed by Omar, and they walked up the field to the brow and looked down onto the estate below. The scene was similar there, with police vehicles in many of the streets nearest to them, blue lights strobing everywhere. He turned and looked back down to Meadow Village along the route the attackers had taken, visualising the tranquil country scene in the gently fading light, suddenly transformed into a battlefield running with rivers of crimson.

  David looked at his watch.

  “Midnight,” he said aloud. It triggered a thought. “Lost souls in the hunting ground,” he added.

  Omar looked at him questioningly.

  “Meatloaf,” said David.

  “Oh, right,” said Omar, nodding his head vigorously, as if that explained everything.

  The oldest fifty or so cottages of Meadow Village dated back about 250 years. Between then and the present day, more than three times that number of houses had been added to the early settlement, but they had, in effect, just filled in the spaces between the original buildings. So the village had not grown in area, just in density, and the houses themselves had been tastefully integrated into the surroundings. In addition to the Dog and Duck public house, the village also boasted a church, community hall, shop-cum-post office, and a few small working farms. All these were clustered together in a tight residential area and surrounded by fields, which were used mostly for grazing sheep, cattle and horses.

  Tom and Mags’s visit to the stricken village on the Sunday morning was intended to be brief, personal and unreported; a plan which seemed naïve in retrospect for two people with such a high profile in the public eye. They drove there immediately after an early breakfast, leaving a note for Katey who, along with her friends, were still asleep upstairs.

  They arrived just before 10.00 am. The police, recognising Tom, waved them through the barrier at the top of Settlement Lane, and they pulled up outside the pub in almost exactly the same spot where the taxi had dropped him off when he met George just before the 3AF debate. The memory brought a sick feeling to his stomach and standing tears to his eyes. Mags reached across to him and squeezed his hand as they opened the doors to get out.

  The village was overrun by people. There were still four police vehicles there and a team of SOCOs had returned to view the scene in the daylight. In addition, there was now the expected media circus, this being an extension to the headline chronicles of the past couple of months and an incident which brought together the two previously parallel-running stories in a dramatic collision. Several huge vans representing all the major TV news channels were parked at the side and back of the Dog and Duck. Many reporters and technicians were standing around chatting and drinking coffee – supplied by the pub – whilst even more were setting up equipment. Newspaper journalists were out in force, along the full length of Main Street, the village end of Settlement Lane, and were hurrying around intercepting residents for interviews.

  Mercifully, the area outside the Dog and Duck had been hosed down and there was none of the graphic evidence of the slaughter from the previous evening. The shattered windows were boarded up except for one where the pane was already being replaced. Jed Smithers was directing operations and did a classic double-take when he looked across at the new arrivals.

  “Tom – Mr Brown,” he said, recognising him, “I’m Jed Smithers, landlord.”

  Tom smiled and shook the man’s extended hand.

  “Yes, I remember, Jed. This is my wife, Maggie.”

  Jed had not taken his eyes off Mags since his double-take.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mrs Brown,” he said.

  Mags smiled back at him.

  “Terrible business, Jed,” said Tom, drawing the landlord’s gaze away from his wife. “Have you seen any of the villagers this morning?”

  “Just those passing to go for the papers. People can hardly speak, they’re so upset. It’ll never be the same again, I don’t reckon. Unless you can build a wall round that bloody place.”

  He pointed in the direction of the estate.

  “Has anyone seen George? I can’t begin to imagine how he must be feeling.”

  “I saw Fred Dawson earlier. He’d called in to see him. Said he looked just about dead himself. Poor Irene; she was a lovely… ” His voice broke and he turned away.

  “Yes, she was,” said Tom. “A lovely lady. We’re just going to have a walk round. Which is George’s house – just in case we decide to call in to pay our respects?”

  “The white cottage with the arch over the gate.”

  Tom followed the direction of the landlord’s pointing finger.

  “Okay, thanks, Jed.”

  They walked further into the village, initially escaping the attention of the press. A local radio crew, a girl reporter and male technician, were doing a piece live outside George’s house.

  “I wonder how long all these have been camped in the village?” said Mags.

  “Most of the night, probably,” said Tom, as they came up to George’s cottage. “The story’s twelve hours old now. We’ll call in on the way back,” he added, wanting to avoid the radio crew. Then he seemed uncertain. “Do you think I should? It won’t look like a publicity thing, will it?”

  “Not if we try to call when there’s no-one around, only I think that might be difficult.” She nodded towards the pub where Jed was talking to a few of the television people and directing their attention towards George’s house. “He’s probably telling them right now that you’re here,” she added. “Anyway, if they do ask you for comments, you can say this is a private visit to a personal friend and you have nothing further to say today. I think most people would respect that.”

  “Most people,” Tom repeated. “This is the press, not ‘most people’. But that’s a good idea, Mags. Let’s go.”

  He turned back suddenly, putting an arm round Mags’s waist and steering her behind the reporter through George’s gate. He heard her say, “A couple, as I speak, are going up the path presumably to pay their respects to the bereaved campaigner. Just a minute, I do believe… ”

  Tom turned to her as she spoke and put his right forefinger to his lips in a request for secrecy. The reporter seemed taken by surprise and stopped in mid-sentence.

  “I’ll just check that out,” she said, recovering quickly but not giving away the visitor’s identity.

  Tom mouthed ‘thank you’ and turned to the door, pressing the bell.

  Fred had not exaggerated when he described George’s appearance to Jed. His face was ashen and his eyes were red. He really did look more dead than alive. He seemed not to recognise Tom at first, not expecting to see him on his doorstep like this, but when he did, he managed a weak smile and stepped back with a whispered, “Come in.”

  Their visit was brief and personal, as intended. Tom introduced Mags, wondering, albeit too late, whether her presence would accentuate George’s loss. However, he seemed comforted that she had taken the time to visit. They did not speak of the incident; George seemed incapable or unwilling to refer to it. They sat mainly in silence with their own thoughts. After several minutes he offered, half-heartedly, to make them tea or coffee and seemed relieved when they both declined. They left after about ten minutes, which seemed a lot longer. Tom and George shook hands and then embraced, a little self-consciously, and Mags kissed him gently on the cheek. Tom said the only thing he could think of.

  “If you need anything, George, please get in touch.”

  As they parted at the door, George spoke hoarsely, fighting back his tears, “They won’t get
away with it, you know. I’ll do it for Irene. I’ll make sure they get what they deserve.”

  Neither had time to respond as he closed the door quietly behind them. As they walked through the gate, the radio reporter stepped up to them. She was in her late twenties, tall and slim and casually dressed in a brown fleece jacket and faded jeans. She had a pleasant rather than pretty face and her dark hair was tucked into a fleece hat which matched her jacket. She wore no make-up, unlike her counter-parts interviewing for television.

  “Excuse me, Mr Brown. I haven’t reported that you’re here and the mike is turned off at the moment. I don’t want to intrude, but would you mind very much if I asked you just a few questions on air? I’ll tell you what they are beforehand, of course. I promise there is nothing political about them. They’re just about this dreadful incident.”

  “Yes, very well,” said Tom, sighing but feeling the girl deserved some response just for sensitively respecting his position. She must be new to the job, he thought cynically. “Go ahead and ask; I’ll trust you to be gentle with me.”

  His winning smile, even diluted by adversity, was enough to make her blush a little.

  “Thank you,” she gave him her widest smile back. She checked a large watch hanging like a pendant round her neck. “Back live in… six seconds. Jez, count down for transmission, please.”

  “Three, two, one… go.”

  “This is Clarisse McCarthy, reporting for Thames Plus Radio one-nine-two. I’m in Meadow Village outside the cottage of Mr George Holland, the campaigner for community reform, whose wife was so tragically shot dead last night. It seems Mr Holland himself had been the intended victim, and his wife was hit by accident as she stepped forward to protect him.

  “With me now is the Member of Parliament for Princes and Marlburgh, Mr Tom Brown, whose constituency includes Meadow Village, and his wife, Mrs Maggie Tomlinson-Brown.