Lost Souls

by Michael Knaggs

  “Right again.”

  “So, in this theory of yours, how far is he – or they – likely to go? You gave evidence for the Prosecution – are you a target?”

  “Of course not.” Jo shuffled, impatiently. “I was set up as well, along with Harry, Johnny Mac, Doctor what’s-his-name and the other legitimate prosecution witnesses. We were deceived into believing stuff that led to the convictions.”

  “Your hypothesis, then, is that the perpetrator of this deception is in the process of eliminating anyone who might change their story and, as a result, raise a doubt.”

  “Correct.”

  “But these guys who have been murdered don’t have a story to change. They have never given evidence – never been asked to.”

  “Not so far, but they could have provided new evidence if they’d been questioned; if we’d got round to asking them like you asked Laser, then…” Jo stopped.

  David sighed and looked down at his hands resting on the table.

  “You’re reading my mind,” he said. “If you are correct about who is behind all this, then if I hadn’t grabbed Laser, then Sammo, and forced him to take me to Manston Grange, Mickey Kadawe might never have felt threatened, and four ordinary, harmless people would still be alive today. Quite frankly, Jo, I don’t want to believe there is anything in this other than a coincidence. I don’t want my dreams haunted by Laser’s expression of wide-eyed hopelessness and the knowledge that my exploitation of that hopelessness led directly to his death.”

  Jo placed both her hands on his. “David, I’m sorry.”

  David looked up into her eyes. “Right now, it’s okay because I believe you’re wrong and that there is no link, and I’m not anxious for you to prove otherwise. Okay?” Neither spoke for a few moments until David broke the uneasy silence. “And here are a couple of thoughts which I probably am allowed to have. Firstly, if Kadawe is behind these killings, it’s more likely to be to avenge his friends. Certainly it’s way outside street protocol to contact the police with complaints against dealers. That sort of thing will get you shot, and if Mickey is lashing out, he might just see the guys who approached Jack on camera as legitimate targets.

  “And, secondly, on the subject of revenge, here’s another thought you are definitely not going to like. What about Tom Brown? A trained killer, off the rails, distraught with despair and anger, and almost certainly with access to all the details of the case including names, addresses, background of those involved. And, if he believes Jack to be innocent, then he would see the guys who approached him on Delaware as part of the frame and, as such, people deserving of retribution. Right?”

  “I really can’t believe that – and even Harry…”

  “So it’s already been raised as a possibility?”

  “More accurately dismissed as a possibility – by Harry at a meeting with his MIT.”

  “Anyway,” David continued, “neither of the revenge scenarios – be it Mickey or Tom – points to a wrong verdict. Just a powerful person getting back at the people who helped put Jack and Jason away.”

  The waiter appeared at the table with their meals and two bottles of lager.

  “Thank you,” they said, in unison, as he withdrew. He gave Jo his special smile again, returned with less enthusiasm this time. They sat in silence for a few moments, staring at their plates.

  “So,” Jo said, “it seems that if I’m right you will be forever haunted by a feeling of guilt, and if you’re right, the former Home Secretary may be heading for prison. Let’s hope we’re both wrong.”

  David reached for his lager. “I’ll drink to that.” Jo clinked her bottle against his.

  The sky clouded over as they ate and a seasonal chill in the air sent them inside for their coffee and a large Jack Daniels each. Police work was deleted from the agenda and David had just started teasing Jo about her toy-boy sergeant when her mobile sounded. She frowned at the name on the display.

  “Hello, Harry.”

  “Hi, Jo. Just wanted to let you know, we’ve found Sammo – dead – shot in the head like the others. I’m scrambling some of the team, but this is just for your information. Seems you were right about the connection.”

  “Where?”

  “In the park where he was seen two weeks ago, but that’s not when he was killed. Doc White says two or three days ago.” Jo remained silent, and Harry continued. “Jo, I can hear those cogs turning from here. Trust me, this doesn’t mean anything in relation to the other case – no more than the first four did. So have a good weekend and I’ll see you Monday.”

  “Okay, Harry. Thanks for letting me know.”

  She ended the call and looked wide-eyed across at David.

  “Sammo?” he said.

  “I’m afraid so. Same MO, it appears.” David’s face clouded over. “But Harry said this doesn’t mean anything,” Jo continued. “No links to the other case.”

  They sat in silence for a few moments. Jo checked her watch.

  “Look, I’m sorry, David. Got a train to catch. You started asking me about Seb; well I’m seeing him tonight – in Leicester. He can’t get away, so it’s just this evening – and overnight. Then I’m seeing Maggie Tomlinson-Brown tomorrow afternoon. Not looking forward to it, to be honest. I’ll now have this Tom Brown thing at the back of my mind all the time – I just know it. But it’s been arranged for some time and I don’t like to cancel. I suppose you could say we’ve become good friends – amazingly, given the only thing I ever did for her was take her son away.”

  She got to her feet and David stood up.

  “Walk me to the station?”

  “Actually,” David said, “if you don’t mind, I think I’ll stay and have another.”

  Jo’s eyes widened a little with surprise. “Okay,” she said. “Good idea.” She put her arms around him and they held on to each other for a long time. “Bye for now,” she said, pulling away. “And please, sleep well. I’m the one who should be having the nightmares.”

  He remained standing as she left, turning briefly in the doorway to give him a little wave, then he walked over to stand at the bar.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sunday; 13 September

  The three huge buildings which comprise the Home Office are joined together by the ‘Street’, a four-storey bridge connecting the first, second, third and fourth floors of each building. The vast ultra-modern structure is spacious and bright inside with a predominantly open-plan arrangement of work areas throughout, designed to encourage cooperation and community.

  The new office of the Ministerial Director of Justice, on the eighth floor of Seacole Building, was large and rectangular, and included two floor-to-ceiling windows furnished with vertical blinds which were currently pulled aside to allow the sun to cast a warm glow into the room. The large mahogany desk, along with the antique tilt-and-swivel behind it and a half-circle of four leather-upholstered wing chairs in front, faced the oak-panelled door and occupied one half of the room. The other half comprised a lounge area with three two-seater, brown-fabric sofas positioned around a square, glass-topped coffee table in front of a black marble fireplace. The walls and ceiling were painted white, giving the room a bright and airy feel, in contrast to the compact wood-panelled office in her suite of rooms at the Headquarters of the Ministry of Defence.

  Grace Goody was standing in front of the window behind the desk, looking out across the Thames at the chimneys and turrets of Lambeth Palace. Right now, mid-morning on Sunday, there were very few people in the building above the level of the Street, and she welcomed the quiet and the opportunity to collect her thoughts as she shook off the last lingering effects of jet-lag.

  At exactly 11.00 am there was a light knock on the door and Georgia Compton, Grace’s PA, poked her curly head into the room.

  “Mr Walcott’s here, Miss Goody.”

&n
bsp; “Thanks, Georgia,” she said,

  Georgia’s head disappeared and Grace’s visitor stepped into the room. He waited until the door had closed before speaking.

  “Hello, darling. Long time, no see.” Grace whirled round to face him. “Oh, please don’t move,” he continued. “Stay exactly where you are.”

  Grace looked down, realising that the bright sunlight shining in through the window was making her thin silk top completely transparent. Her undercut bra would leave little to his imagination. She stepped to one side, instantly annoyed with herself for reacting so quickly.

  “Too late,” the man said. “Captured forever in my memory and filed away with all the other images that keep me awake at night. Not that I waste the time – you know – while I’m awake at night…”

  “You really don’t have to work so hard to disgust me, Jamie. Your just being here does it quite effectively.”

  “I love it when you tease me like that. For the record, did you have any clothes on when we spoke on Wednesday? Just so I don’t file away the wrong image. I like my fantasies to be as real as possible.”

  Grace sat down at her desk. “You could achieve that by just excluding me from them.”

  “I’m not sure that’s true, darling. I know I make you feel uncomfortable, but I think I could make you do a lot of other things if I really wanted.”

  Grace looked at him for a long time. “I think you greatly overestimate your importance, Mr Walcott, and severely underestimate your vulnerability. And as far as you’re concerned, I am ‘Miss Goody’ or ‘ma’am’. I am not your ‘darling’ – except when I have to be – or ‘Grace’ at any other time. Your proximity within a five metre radius is repugnant to me and any pathetic attempt at innuendo relating to intimacy makes me feel physically sick. Do we understand each other?”

  The man smiled and leaned over the desk towards her. “Perfectly, ma’am. I just can’t help myself sometimes. I’ve always had this insatiable appetite for much older women.”

  He pulled himself up straight before dropping into one of the wing chairs. He was breathing heavily and Grace noticed clear signs of his arousal as he fidgeted in his seat to get comfortable. She also observed, not for the first time, what an attractive man he would be if his behaviour matched his looks. Tall, dark and athletic, with handsome features and sparkling blue eyes. Perhaps it was better that he was like he was. In the end, it would make what was inevitable that much easier.

  “There’s been a change of plan,” Grace said.

  The man started a little and leaned forward in his chair. “But everything’s been done…”

  “Okay, let’s call it an extension, then.”

  *

  The two women were seated at a table in a quiet corner of the café area in Avocet Hide at the nature reserve. The viewing platform, which was about six feet deep and four steps up from the café floor, ran the full length of the room, and the low bench seats, in front of the long windows with their shutters raised and secured, were all occupied.

  “Interesting part of the year, this,” Mags said. “It’ll be like Chicago O’Hare out there for the next few weeks, with all the birds arriving and the others leaving. I will never get over the enormity of what they achieve – every year, just as a matter of routine. How they have the strength to make the journeys, how they know where to go and – most amazing of all – how they find their way back to exactly the same place – often the same nest.”

  Jo Cottrell looked round the room, with its square-section wooden pillars, picnic-style tables and exposed beams in the arched ceiling. “This is a really special place,” she said. “And you were responsible for it – you and your group?”

  “Well I was the chair of the Kings Leyburn Redevelopment Committee which raised the money for the project, but we left the design of the site and the Visitors’ Centre to the experts, of course. It’s now an official RSPB reserve, which is what we hoped for when we started. Actually, I chose the name for this hide. I’ve always had a fascination for avocets – it’s always struck me that they’ve got their beaks on upside-down – so when they asked me to name this hide … Tom was always teasing me about…”

  Her voice tailed off and she looked away. When she turned back, she was smiling but her eyes were full of tears.

  “Sorry, Jo.” She nodded towards the viewing area. “Let’s see if we can find a gap in the line of watchers.”

  Jo reached across and placed her hand on Mags’s hand. “Look, if you want to talk about anything, then that’s part of why I’m here – as your friend. I’m so sorry I let you down with the case…”

  Mags gave a little sob, but the smile stayed in place.

  “You didn’t let me down, Jo. Don’t ever think that. You did much more than I could have expected, going out on a limb like that. You and your friend. You took a risk and did your best.” She paused, breathing deeply. “But I haven’t stopped believing Jack was innocent – and Jason. And I never will. Something will surface soon to prove I’m right, I just know it.”

  The two sat in silence for a few moments. Jo withdrew her hand.

  “Look, this is none of my business, Maggie, but I wouldn’t be your friend if I didn’t tell you. Tom has been picked up by the police a few times recently, and got into a few fights.”

  Mags’s eyes flashed. “You’re right, Jo, it is none of your business…”

  Jo held up her hands. “I’m sorry. As I said, I just wanted to let you know, not tell you what to do.”

  “No, I’m sorry. God knows I need a friend right now. A proper friend who will say what I need to hear. Not someone pussy-footing around my sensitivities. So tell me; what’s he been up to, other than making the front page of the nationals?”

  “Just what I said. He’s been wandering around, drinking heavily, and he’s got into a few fights and arguments. Our guys have picked him up and taken him home a few times – not charged him or anything. Just looking after him.”

  Mags’s eyes flashed again. “Because I’m not? Is that what you mean?”

  Jo looked back at her. “I can pussy-foot if you like, Maggie. If that’s what you’d prefer.”

  Mags smiled this time. “Point taken. Put it down to my being an only child, Jo. Always got my own way – never any competition. That’s something else Tom was always pointing out.” She paused for a long time, deep in thought. When she spoke again, it was in a hushed voice, full of emotion. “In my more rational moments, I worry like mad that something bad is going to happen to him. I can even understand why he did what he did – you know, gave Jack the capsule.” Her voice broke a little. “But I can’t take him back. Probably not ever. It would be like – you know – backing down. And I’m not sure I can do that. I can’t ever remember having had to do that. In a way, what’s happened to me is what happened to Jack. I’ve been tipped out of a cushioned existence where I’ve never had to worry about anything into a situation I’m totally unequipped to deal with. The fact is, Jo, I simply don’t know what to do.”

  The tears ran freely now. Mags bowed her head to save her embarrassment and they clasped each other’s hands in the middle of the table. It occurred to Jo that Mags was crying for Tom this time – or for herself and Tom as an entity – and not for Jack. That had to be a good thing, she thought. They stayed like that for a long time. Mags recovered her composure and smiled across at Jo.

  “I think I needed that,” she said.

  Jo nodded. “I’ll tell you what I think you ought to do right now?”

  Mags opened her eyes wide in anticipation.

  “There’s a family moving out,” Jo continued, looking up at the viewing area. “I think you should lead the way up there so we can both give those avocets a good looking at.”

  *

  Monday; 14 September

  There was more of a buzz than usual in the MIT room. T
he hotdogs, bacon sandwiches and coffee were all in evidence as normal, but today, instead of small groups of detectives spread around the room, they were clustered together, ready for the briefing, with all eyes focused on the DI’s office door. Harry eventually made his entrance with Amy White to murmurs of anticipation.

  “Morning, everybody. You all know Dr White. I’ve asked her along to cover the autopsy details arising from the latest developments.” Amy smiled and nodded to the group. “As you know,” Harry continued, “on Saturday our ace detective Sherlock Clancy, with the help of some ducks, finally found our missing trader, Randall Sampson.” There was some applause and cheering from the team. “Well done, George. Saturday afternoon I got some of the team together and we started looking at a way forward, and yesterday we got the Doc’s initial report. So just for the benefit of those of you who skived off for the full weekend, George, can you briefly run through the events for us. Then I’ll ask the Doc to give us feedback from the autopsy.”

  George stepped to the front and turned to face the group.

  “Much as I’m tempted to take the credit, I have to say, the person we should be thanking is Louise Thornbury. She’s the lady who spotted Sammo with the tall guy two weeks ago and it was her noticing the ducks’ behaviour on Saturday that led us to the scene. I got a call from her around midday and went to the park to investigate. I guess you know the rest from the guv’s phone calls and the local news, and the Doc will fill in the details. But just to recap, we found Sammo at the back of the lake, face-down in the water with his feet still on the bank, but out of sight of anyone in the park itself. Right now the park is still closed and the lake cordoned off.

  “Mrs Thornbury came in yesterday to work with the image guys and we’ve got an e-fit for Mister Tall-dark-and-handsome. Here he is.” He held up a sheet of A4. “Pretty, isn’t he? We’re already showing this around the area close to Middleton Green, and we’ll be checking the CCTV footage again at the stations on the nights of the murders right after this meeting.”