Tom looked up.
“Better make it now, Josh, just in case it’s a firing squad. Thanks for saving my life; I’m not sure about doing me a favour.”
*
The young man was standing at the bars of his cabin door again. The sound of the aircraft engines was long gone and what passed for normality had returned to the prisoner deck. Whatever had been happening out there, it was over; lost to the past, like everything else. Even his identity.
He recalled his arrival at Lochshore three-and-a-half months ago, alone except for the driver and one guard seated beside him in the back of the armoured Land Rover. The two men had treated him with kindness and respect. They had even shaken his hand and wished him well before leaving him in the small anteroom attached to the Director of Operations’ office.
Two minutes later he was standing in front of the Director himself.
“Name?” the man said.
“Jason Midanda.”
Iain Campbell looked down at the sheet of paper in front of him on the desk.
“It says here you are Oliver Wangari.”
“No, sir, I’m…”
“Oliver Wangari. Trust me; that’s who you are now.”
*
They landed as normal at Heathrow. Josh taxied to the holding area where the ground staff waited to manoeuvre the Cessna into its hanger. They passed through security with polite nods from all concerned, in spite of their eyes darting everywhere for a party of running officials bent on arresting them.
“Well, Josh,” Tom said, as they reached the main concourse of the terminal. “From national security threat to a couple of nobodies in just over an hour. What do you make of that? Either something is seriously wrong with all this, or the knock on the door will come later.”
The sound of Every Breath I Take told him his mobile was working again.
“Tom,” Jonathan said. “You’re reachable at last – good. Just to let you know, Jason is on PTV2 on its way to Alpha. Should be nearly there. Only he’s not Jason Midanda any more, he’s…”
Tom ended the call without speaking.
*
Robert Bogata glanced down at his computer then looked into the camera.
“We’ve just received a statement from the police about the incident earlier today outside the magistrate’s court near the Guildford Centre of Justice.”
He looked down again and read from the screen.
“Mr Mickey Kadawe, aged twenty, from Woking, was shot dead on the steps of Guildford Magistrate’s Court on Walcott Street at nine-thirty am today. The weapon used was believed to have been a high-powered rifle fired from the roof of a building close by. Mr Kadawe was about to be charged under the Misuse of Drugs Act and police are not ruling out the possibility that the attack could have been related to this. However, investigations are at a very early stage. Mr Kadawe appeared recently as a character witness for the defendants in the trial of Jack Tomlinson-Brown and Jason Midanda who were both found guilty of dealing in banned substances at Guildford Crown Court on 26th May this year.”
He looked up into the camera again.
“We’ll keep you up to date with this story as and when we receive further information.”
*
Jo Cottrell – along with all other interested parties – family and investigating officers – listened to the statement on the early evening news, noting the irony in the wording of the communication. The media release was absolutely true – in fact, it was the whole truth as far as it needed to go. However, the mention of Mickey Kadawe’s testimony in Jack and Jason’s case appeared to reinforce their convictions rather than cast any doubt over them. His appearance on their behalf now seemed like a case of villains looking after each other, ‘birds of a feather’, a sort of honour among thieves – or dealers, in this case.
She also noted that there was no mention of Jack’s death in custody or of his father’s confrontation with Mickey on the steps of the building; nothing, in fact, that could lead to further questions about the event and a possible link to Tom or the fate of his son.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Friday; 25 September
Chief Superintendent Mackay sat silently in his chair, deep in thought, drumming his fingers on the desktop. Two deaths in custody in the space of four months; angry superiors and disenchanted subordinates; and the chilling echo of his Chief Constable’s words on the day prior to Mickey Kadawe’s arrest. ‘Hold that thought,’ Eddie Mills had said, when he, John, had suggested that getting rid of Kadawe would solve everything. Surely not in any way connected, but coincidental enough to make you think.
He checked his watch. Time to go, he thought – in every sense of the words. In a couple of hours he was due to take his wife, Andrea, for a celebratory meal – their thirtieth wedding anniversary. The table was booked for seven-fifteen. He’d never felt less like celebrating in his entire life.
He reached for the desk phone, buzzing through to his secretary, and starting in surprise when she answered.
“Hi, Janice, I didn’t expect you’d still be here at this time.”
“Well, I’m very hurt, sir. When have I ever left without saying ‘goodnight’ and, on Fridays, ‘have a good weekend’ as well?”
“You’re absolutely right, Janice. I accept the admonishment with grovelling apologies.”
“Well, I should think so, and you’re forgiven. So, what can I do for you, Chief Superintendent?”
“Could you phone the Grand, please, and ask if they can put my dinner reservation back to eight o’clock, and then contact my wife and let her know. She’d shout at me but she’ll be nice to you. I’ve just got a couple of things to do that won’t wait.”
“Very well, sir.”
He replaced the receiver, opened Word on his PC and began typing on the blank page.
Wesley W Wallace
Chief Superintendent
Leicestershire Police
Dear Wes
I hope you are well. I appreciate that this is not how the new system of flexible resources is supposed to work, but I wonder if you would consider…
He stopped. He needed to think carefully about this. Putting it in writing might be unwise. He highlighted the text and pressed delete. But something else couldn’t wait. He began to type again.
Edwin J Mills
Chief Constable
South Thames Region Police
Guildford
Dear Edwin
After much thought regarding recent events and my
general feelings towards the position I have been so privileged to hold these many years, I have reached a painful, but inevitable decision…
*
Sunday; 27 September
Mags heard the faint tell-tale clang of the two heavy-duty bolts retracting on the main gates. She looked up from the newspaper, spread out on the breakfast bar in front of her, at the small monitor screen on the wall and watched as the camera followed the silver Audi R8 through onto the gravel drive and up to the house.
Tom let himself in and shouted from the hallway.
“Mags!”
“In here.” She made her voice as light and friendly as she could manage, expecting to see that reflected in his face as he stepped through into the kitchen. Instead, she noted his sagging shoulders, lined features and an expression of something close to fear in his bloodshot, sleepless eyes. She slipped down from the bar stool and took a couple of steps towards him. He raised his hands to stop her.
“Tom, what?”
He rolled his eyes upwards and his lip trembled as he spoke.
“Mags, oh, Mags, what on Earth can happen next? What else can go bad?”
“For God’s sake, tell me what’s happened?”
“It’s Jason.” His voice was barely audible. “He’s gone
.”
“Gone! Gone where?”
“To Alpha. They took him there three days ago; on Thursday.”
She froze, then rushed forward, her arms raised, ready to beat him as hard as she could. But she was moving in slow motion. Tom’s desperate attempts at comforting words were receding in a hollow distant echo, and then she was falling, into his safe arms, into a strong protective embrace, before the blackness overcame her.
It was over in a few seconds and she pushed him away, regretting the enforced intimacy of the moment, feeling he had somehow taken advantage of her. She turned and leaned against the breakfast bar, her shoulders hunched, her head hung forward.
“Please go,” she said, in a whisper. “I’ll tell Katey when she gets up. I’m not going to wake her, so there’s no point in you staying.”
“Mags, please. I’m so sorry.” He stepped up behind her and she felt his hands gently gripping her shoulders. She shook herself free and moved quickly away from him.
“Just go!”
“She’s my daughter as well, Mags. I want to be here when she hears the news. She will need both of us…”
“We don’t need you!” she hissed. “I am asking you to leave because I know it will be best for Katey if you do. Don’t you think you’ve done enough to destroy this family?”
She saw his eyes open wide in shock and pain. He turned and rushed from the house.
*
Jo followed David through the main bar to the restaurant as he ran the gauntlet of smiles, cheery greetings and a few clutching handshakes. They took their seats at what the waitress referred to as their ‘usual table’ and ordered drinks as she handed them a couple of menus.
“You seem to have a lot of admirers here, David.” Jo gave him a mischievous smile.
“Yes, rugged good looks and perfect physiques seem to be very popular with the ladies of the village.”
Jo smiled even wider. “But even so, they seem to like you as well.”
David shook his head and rolled his eyes. “The things I have to put up with just to have lunch with a beautiful woman.”
“Why, David…” Jo fluttered her eyelashes.
He looked at his watch. “In fact, she should be here any minute…”
Jo laughed. “Touché!”
The Dog and Duck in Meadow Village, where David now lived, was the venue for their frequent catch-up meetings. The pub dated back to when the village was first established around 250 years ago, although it had been extended a number of times since then, with the addition of a smaller bar at the rear and a large dining room to the right where Jo and David were now seated. There were open fireplaces in both bars and the dining room and the place retained its late eighteenth century feel throughout. It was friendly and lively and very much a ‘local’ for the four hundred or so residents of the village, a large proportion of whom, like David, had moved there in retirement. He leaned across the table as the waitress left with the menus and their food order.
“So how is Uncle Harry getting on with his hunt for the serial killer – or killers?”
Jo sighed and shook her head. “Hit a brick wall so far. He now accepts – has to accept – a connection between the shootings and the explosion, and the obvious link to Jack and Jason’s case. And even the possibility that Kadawe was a key figure, which is a big climb down for him. But that completely destroys the focus of the search. We’ve no single MO to work with, and I can’t think of a case on record where we have a murderer who takes out people with a neat head shot in lonely places on the one hand, and blows up buildings in rush hour on the other. Can you?”
“There must be good CCTV coverage at the place in Dorking – it being used by Witness Protection. Nothing from that?”
“Nothing helpful. They’re all serviced apartments – the whole complex – so there are people going in and out all the time. Cleaners, wardens, maintenance workers and the like. Ironically, there was a routine inspection by someone from Witness Protection earlier that same day to review how the four guys were coping and to inspect their apartments – for drugs, weapons and such, I guess. He obviously wasn’t looking for the right thing.”
“And I’m sure you’ve got an explanation as to how Mickey could have blown up the place while he was in custody.”
“By proxy – like the other killings. Set up before we picked him up. Catrina said he would never do stuff like that himself. That makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“I guess so. What about the handsome stranger in the expensive suit?”
“Not shown up anywhere on camera. The only evidence we’ve got that he exists at all is one woman’s description, based on a couple of glances. Harry’s desperate enough to be checking his e-fit picture against known associates of Kadawe.”
David shook his head. “So tell me about this insatiable desire of yours to get yourself killed.”
Jo opened her eyes wide in surprise. “I don’t know what you mean. Just an accident of timing…”
“I’m not just talking about the explosion. I mean the Kadawe thing, as well. Two narrow escapes in the space of a week.”
Jo frowned. “You’re not suggesting they’re connected, are you?”
“Well, you’re the conspiracy expert; you tell me. If they’re not, then it’s an unlikely coincidence. And explain how Mickey’s death fits with your perversion theory?”
Jo took a long time to reply. “I can’t. But from what Catrina told me about him, and from how scared you said Sammo was of him, and from what I saw in his eyes when I arrested him, I bet there’s any number of people out there who would prefer him dead.”
“There’s a big difference between preferring him dead and actually killing him with a high-powered rifle from a few hundred yards.”
“True, but if someone did want him dead, they might see that as their last opportunity. It could have been someone who was worried Mickey might do a deal for clemency by naming other dealers – that sort of thing. Desperate times call for desperate means and since the recent change, being caught dealing is as desperate as it gets.”
“So you don’t believe there is a direct link between Kadawe’s death and the other killings?”
“Well, no. How could there be?”
David leaned further across the table so their faces were close together.
“I’m going to give you an alternative theory, which puts all the deaths together, including Kadawe’s. Ready?”
Jo frowned. “This is the Tom Brown connection again, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but actually it’s only an extension of your own theory. Let’s accept as a fact that Mickey Kadawe set up Jack and Jason. You say he set out to kill all the guys who helped him so they can never give him away, and his own death is just a coincidence. The alternative theory – based on the same fact – is that someone is looking to avenge Jack and Jason, in which case all those same guys would be on his hit list, plus Kadawe himself. In fact, he’d be top of it, wouldn’t he?”
“I guess, but…”
“We now have three methods of execution. Close quarters head shot, explosive charge and long-range hit. So, Detective Inspector, who do we know who…” he counted on his fingers, “… believes Jack and Jason were victims of a set-up by Mickey Kadawe, has publicly promised to get all the people who were involved in it, was caught on camera close to the site of the murders in Cobham and Woking around the time they happened, and is capable of carrying out – or has the right connections to arrange to carry out – killings as diverse as the ones in this case?”
Jo remained silent with her thoughts for a long time before speaking.
“I probably shouldn’t tell you this – although, God knows, I’m telling everybody things I shouldn’t tell them at the moment – but Mr Brown is formally a suspect in Harry’s case. He now constitutes an official line of enquiry.” S
he paused and shook her head. “Even so, I just can’t see it. I mean, what you say makes sense, but I can’t believe Tom Brown would do that. For a start, during the period of the killings he didn’t seem to know what he was doing half the time.”
“That’s what he says. Nobody can be sure it’s true.”
“It’s easy to believe, though, when you see some of the pictures and read the reports.”
“Okay then, have you heard of dissociative amnesia?”
“Of course, but that’s when people shut out part of their life after a traumatic event or experience. A defence mechanism when they can’t cope with a memory – or something like that. It doesn’t apply to someone conveniently forgetting bad things they’re doing on a regular basis. He’d have to know what he’d done, wouldn’t he, to remember who he’d ticked off his list and who was next?”
“Actually, recent research suggests that it can be relevant in such cases, where events are temporarily shut out and recalled later. I’m not saying it applies here but…”
“How do you know this?”
“I spoke to one of the other lecturers at the college.”
The waitress arrived with their lunch plates.
“Anyway, time-out for now,” David said, “in the interest of doing justice to the food, which I expect…” he beamed at the waitress “… will be as superb as always.”
Jo gave an excellent impression of someone enjoying their meal, her mind all the time turning over David’s comments in a failed attempt to dismiss them. As they sat with their coffees, he leaned forward again and patted her hand.
“Listen, young lady, going back to what I said about this desire to get yourself killed. Joking apart, I want you to promise me you’ll be careful.”
She smiled at him, touched, as always, by his concern. “That’s very sweet, David, but I am always careful. That explosion thing – that was just bad timing, as I said – and it could have been much worse timing, in fact. That must have been set up before it was known Tina and I were going to be there. Don’t you think?”
Lost Souls Page 27
