“No, sir.”
“Okay, thanks, Nat. Carry on.”
“As I say, that’s the only corroborated sighting, but there are eight individual reports of Sammo being seen around Woking railway station during last week and three at Cobham station, including one late evening on Wednesday 2nd September. That’s the place and date of the first murder. The man who reported seeing him on that occasion said he couldn’t be sure because his hair was different. The other seven sightings were all in different places.” She scrolled down the list.
“Known associates?”
“That’s the really interesting thing, sir. No-one claiming to know Sammo has contacted us. Either there’s some sort of conspiracy out there, or he’s managed to stay clear of everyone who knows him personally.”
“Okay, thank you, detective. Any questions for Natalie? No? Right, I want the twenty people on that list questioned up close and personal so we can expand the information we already have. And any more we get that Nat puts on her front page. Before that, get the image guys to give Sammo a haircut – a few haircuts, in fact – and get them all to look them over, especially Mr Undecided of Cobham. And let’s put the new images on the website along with the existing ones and the phone numbers. Good stuff.”
He looked round the room, his eyes alighting on a young officer in jeans, tee shirt and a blue linen sports jacket.
“Mr Bradley, CCTV?”
Natalie closed the document on the screen and DC Owen Bradley replaced her at the table in front of the laptop.
“Just before we continue,” Harry said, “you’ve all seen the images of Tom Brown on Delaware that we missed when we checked earlier?” Everyone either nodded or muttered a ‘yes’. “A bit embarrassing to say the least having him pointed out to me by someone I’d brought in for questioning because he had appeared on the same image stream. Please let’s do better next time, okay? Bradley.”
The detective constable opened a folder on the screen which yielded a list of about twenty files, each titled with a date and the initial ‘C’ or ‘W’.
“These are out-takes from CCTV streams in and around Cobham and Woking stations on the three days from a few hours before to a few hours after the times of the murders. Problem is, of course, apart from Sammo Sampson, who isn’t at this stage linked with the actual murders – only with the victims – we don’t know who we’re looking for. However, following on from what you just said, sir, just take a look at this.”
He selected one of the ‘W’s and brought up a still image showing people apparently waiting for a train on a station platform. A click on the small arrow and the picture moved.
“This is just after five-thirty last Sunday evening. Waterloo train just coming in to Woking station. You’ll see someone get off the train … there! Watch him now.”
The man in the picture – tall, forty-something, in dark chinos and a light jacket – stepped over to the side of the platform and stood with his back to the wall studying the crowd of fellow passengers bustling out of the station while the people waiting climbed aboard. He remained, motionless, until the platform was almost empty before walking off camera.
“Recognise him?” DC Bradley asked.
“Tom Brown,” Harry said, half to himself.
“The very same. Not that it’s a surprise his being there, because he was photographed in the station later that same evening and his picture appeared in the morning papers. But he looks okay on the platform here; whereas later he looked decidedly not okay. In some distress, in fact.”
Harry furrowed his brow. “Your point being what, exactly?”
“Well, something had happened to change him in the time between five thirty-five pm and when the photo was taken.”
“But he’d clearly been drinking, hadn’t he?” Jo put in. “Everyone is aware, aren’t they, that it’s pretty much all he does these days.”
“Go on, Bradley,” Harry said.
“You’re right, of course, ma’am, but we also have images of him at Woking station the previous night – Saturday – and – this is more interesting – at Cobham station on Wednesday, late afternoon.”
“Sorry to interrupt again,” Jo said, “but no-one seriously believes that Tom Brown could be involved in these murders, do they? Surely that’s unlikely enough to be dismissed even as a remote possibility.”
Owen Bradley shrugged. “About as unlikely as his son being a drug dealer, do you mean?”
Harry glanced across at Jo to stall any response. “Who knows how a mind in that much turmoil works,” he said. “But I agree with DI Cottrell. I can’t see that at all. I’ve no idea why Mr Brown would take himself off to Cobham, but Jack did spend a lot of time in and around Woking, so let’s follow up by checking out a few of Jack’s regular haunts to see if he’s been there and, if so, why. We could, of course, just ask the man himself – or get the chief to ask him, for that matter. But I don’t want to do that; not yet, anyway. I don’t want him to feel like we’re challenging him or anything. So let’s go softly-softly. Perhaps a couple of you could do it undercover – you know, no badges, just pub chat, that sort of thing. And if we can find out why he’s hanging around Woking, it might also explain why he was in Cobham. And let’s be clear, we’re doing this in order to eliminate Mr Brown from our enquiries. Okay? Good spot, Bradley. Anything else?”
Owen clicked on another file.
“This is Wednesday around half-past midnight – actually, early Thursday morning.” The picture showed a different station, deserted except for a couple seated on a bench and one man standing at the edge of the platform looking down the line. “Cobham – close to the scene of the first murder and close to the time, as well. That guy there could pass for Sammo, with a new hair style.”
He paused the image and enlarged it; the man was almost face-on to the camera. Owen moved the image to one side on the screen and brought up next to it the picture of Sammo released through the missing person appeal.
“Not conclusive, but pretty close, we think,” he said.
There was silence for a while as the group studied the two images.
“Agree it’s not conclusive,” said a large, balding man in a grey suit which was in need of pressing. “Not sure I agree it’s close.”
A few more opinions were offered, everyone speaking at once. Harry held up his hand for quiet.
“I think it’s a good spot, whoever picked it out.” He looked round the room. The petite, blonde-pigtailed figure of DC Elizabeth Gordon raised a hand. “I think Beth might have something. Let’s get his hair cut and make the comparison again. Any more?”
Owen closed the misper image and the CCTV picture filled the screen again.
“If we continued with this we’d see the guy – Sammo or not – get on the train that comes in a couple of minutes later – that would be the eleven-fifty from Waterloo – and our friend Lewis Tonkin get off and go to sleep on one of the benches, just like he said he did. Then he wakes up and goes round the back of the station – presumably for his pee – at one-twenty-six am. So his story checks out one hundred percent.
“At this and the other sites, in addition to the immediate proximity, we’ve checked all cameras within a four-hundred metre radius of the death sites from an hour before the earliest to an hour after the latest ETDs. Given that the death sites are close to busy railway stations, that covers one hell of a lot of people charging about, even late evening, making it difficult to follow individuals from camera to camera. So, other than the Tom Brown and the possible Sammo sightings, there’s nothing more, I’m afraid.”
“Okay. So, what next, do you think?”
“Well, as far as Sammo’s concerned,” Owen continued, “we could check the camera records around the places and times on Nat’s list.” There were loud groans from all parts of the room. “But if we do decide to do it, sir, I’m af
raid I won’t be able to help because I’m volunteering to go undercover with DC Gordon.”
The team whooped and jeered as Beth opened her eyes wide in mock horror.
Harry smiled. “Joking apart, that might be what we need to do next if we don’t get anything else. But let’s wait until we’ve spoken to all of Nat’s top twenty. That way we may find we can be more selective before we resort to CCTV again. Has anyone got anything else?” There was a general shaking of heads. “Are the local uniforms still showing mug shots of the victims and Sammo around the two stations?”
Craig Belmont answered. “They are, sir, but not for much longer, I don’t think. ‘Not a productive use of resources’ – I quote. We’ve had quite a number of people recognising them but nothing of any use in the way of information. We’ve done the same on Delaware and in and around all stations on the line as far north as, and including, Waterloo. I think certainly the Cobham trail’s getting a bit cold; over a week now.”
“Agreed, but let them carry on looking until they actually do pull out. Don’t let them off the hook yet.” He turned to speak to the man in the grey suit. “George, I know it’s early days, but how are we getting on with finding the rest of Sammo’s clients?”
“Unfortunately, PROLIST was down on Tuesday, guv, so we only had yesterday. Not found any of them yet and to be honest, I’m not sure what we say to them when we do. ‘Watch out, you’re next’ doesn’t sound very helpful somehow.” There were a few snorted laughs. “What are we supposed to tell them?”
“Well, use a bit of judgement,” said Harry. “We’re simply making them aware of a connection between the killings and the fact that the same connection applies to them. That’s all we can tell them. What they do with the information is up to them. We can’t give them all police protection, that is a fact. Anyone else got any thoughts on that? DI Cottrell?”
“I think, as you say, they must be told, but further than that we can’t advise them what to do. It’s been, what, four days since the last killing, but there were three days between the first and second, so no reason to believe our killer plans to stop at four, unless, of course, the four had something in common which doesn’t apply to anyone else.” She looked at Harry and shrugged.
“Any other thoughts?” he said. “No? Okay let’s carry on looking. We’ve still got two separate searches – one for Sammo and one for the killer. And, in spite of his possible sighting and CCTV catch at Cobham, as far as we know at this stage, those are two different people.”
*
The consultant’s voice on the end of the phone was flat and impassive.
“Mr Brown, just to let you know, Mr Deverall is well enough at present to receive visitors and has asked to see you and your wife together as soon as possible. We’ve informed Mrs Tomlinson-Brown and we’re expecting her to arrive around one-thirty. Could you make it for that time? I think it’s very important that you try.”
“Yes, of course. Is he… any better?”
“I’m afraid we’re very near the end now, Mr Brown. I think you need to treat any opportunity to see him as being very probably your last. So I do advise that you…”
“Yes, yes, I’ll come. I just wondered…”
“To be honest, I am amazed he is still with us. He’s been on borrowed time for the last few months.”
Tom ended the call and slumped onto the sofa, dropping his head into his hands. The doctor was right, Jad was supposed to die back in June – three months ago. That’s what they’d all been told at the time – ‘just a matter of days’. How he wished that had been the case. Following each subsequent visit to his friend it had taken him longer to reconstruct his chosen image of the brave, dashing hero of their time together with the Special Forces – and before; the picture he wanted to keep in his memory for ever. He had no wish to be wrenched back to reality by another painful meeting with a man he barely recognised.
He checked his watch – just after 12.15 pm. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen his car keys. Actually, he could remember – it was on the morning of the Press conference. He recalled having them in his hand, then dropping them, then… well, who knows? But that was – what – eleven, twelve weeks ago? Surely he must have had them since then?
It was academic, anyway. At no time during that period had he been in a fit state to drive. Perhaps it was better that he didn’t find them too soon. So, another taxi-ride then. He calculated the time, working backwards – arrive at St Bart’s at one-thirty; fifteen minutes in the cab – one-fifteen; five to find a cab – one-ten. That gave him just under an hour to transform himself into something approaching a suitable escort for a beautiful woman.
*
Mags was already seated, alone, in the small waiting area along the corridor from Jad’s room. When Tom entered, she looked up briefly from the magazine she was reading, and then dropped her eyes again, as if he had been a complete stranger walking in. She looked, as always, stunningly beautiful, this time in a cream knitted cardigan worn over a knee-length floral dress. Her golden-blonde hair was swept back from her face in a long pony-tail. He sat down on the chair next to her. She shifted her position to put as much distance between them as possible without actually changing her seat.
It was a further ten minutes, during which time not a word passed between them, before the door opened and the nurse entered.
“Mr Deverall can see you now, but you won’t be able to stay more than a few minutes. He loses his strength very quickly. I’m sorry, but I’m sure you understand.”
They followed her along the corridor to Jad’s room and as she opened the door to admit them, Mags took a deep breath and grabbed Tom’s hand. It was unexpected and momentarily exhilarating until he realised it was simply a gesture of solidarity for the sake of the patient. Even with their palms touching, Tom could feel the cold, gaping void between them.
Jad, lying in bed, propped up with pillows, seemed to sense it as well. His initial smile disappeared quickly as he looked from one to the other, as if he could see the discomfort and pain in their eyes. Mags went over and knelt at his bedside, taking one of his hands in both of hers and kissing him on the cheek. Tom reached down and grasped his other hand. Jad was pale and drawn, but not any worse, they thought, than they had seen him at other times.
“Thanks for coming,” he said.
Their shock at the weakness of his voice made them both grip his hands more firmly, as if to prevent him slipping away from them at that moment.
“Don’t talk, Jad,” Mags said, her own voice wavering. “Keep your strength for…”
“Oh, I have to talk, Maggie. That’s why you’re both here – to listen.” He continued looking from one to the other. “I can’t stop thinking about Jack,” he said, finally, tears welling in his eyes as he spoke the words. “I’m so sorry.”
Mags’s head dropped forward so that it rested on her hands, which still held tightly on to his. Jad looked across at Tom, raising his eyebrows with an unspoken question. Tom shook his head.
“Ironic that I kept that piece of Heaven’s door as a reminder of the good times,” he said. He had long since decided that there was no point in Mags knowing their friend’s involvement in Jack’s death.
Jad nodded his understanding, his tears spilling over in a combination of relief and sorrow. Mags sat back up again, the lines of her own tears showing on her cheeks.
“You mustn’t leave us again, Jad. You must fight…”
“And you must fight, Maggie.” He turned to Tom. “Both of you. I know this must have ripped you apart, but you need each other, you really do. You’ve each meant more to me than any other person in my entire life. More even than Alma, and I found out too late how much that was. A dying man always gets a last request – and this is it. I want you to promise me that you’ll stay together, because I know you’ll be lost without each other – and I won’t be aroun
d to save you next time, Tom.”
He managed a chuckle which changed immediately into a fit of coughing. Mags hugged him until it subsided.
“I don’t know, Jad,” she said. “There are some things…”
Jad seemed to sink into his pillows. His eyes closed and he forced out his words.
“Dying man… last request… please, Maggie… Tom…”
His eyes opened again, no more than slits.
“Maggie, Tom…?” He could barely whisper.
“Okay, Jad,” Tom said, putting his hand on Mags’s shoulder. “For you, for all of us.”
He felt Mags stiffen when he touched her, but she did not pull away. Instead, she placed her hand on his.
“Okay, Jad, we promise,” she said.
“Thank you,” Jad said as his eyes closed again.
The nurse came into the room from where she had been watching through the glass partition of the adjoining anteroom.
“That’s enough for now. Thank you for coming.”
Tom leaned over to embrace his friend. “See you soon,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion.
“You bet, old pal o’ mine.”
Tom turned and followed the nurse out of the room.
*
Mags felt Jad’s grip on her hand tighten, preventing her from leaving with the others.
“Something just for you, Maggie,” he said, “no-one else, not even Tom, okay?” His voice was soft but seemed stronger. “Remember, what seemed to happen to me once before turned out not to be true.”
“I don’t understand…”
“I think you will,” he said.
In the doorway, she looked back at him. He smiled a big smile, his eyes now wide open.
Tom was speaking to the nurse when she joined them.
“How long?” he asked.
“Not long at all, I’m afraid. A few days; a week. I know we’ve been saying this for what seems like a long time now. But I can’t see him lasting more than, say, two weeks at the most. I’m so sorry.”
Lost Souls Page 8
