Lost Souls

by Michael Knaggs

  “Possibly, but it was the Kadawe death I was thinking of.”

  “Meaning I might have been hit?”

  “Look, let me ask you this. Who do you think the third bullet was intended for?”

  She blinked in surprise. “Well Kadawe, I assume, like the other two. What are you saying?”

  “According to what you told me on the phone, the shots that killed him were about two inches apart in his chest. Is that right?” She nodded. “Pretty good shooting, I’d say. But the third shot hit the ground between his legs on the step where he was standing. So whoever it was couldn’t have been aiming at Kadawe, could they? I’m surprised no-one has thought of that.”

  “Well, to be fair to Harry, he probably has. It’s his case now. But you’re not seriously suggesting someone was trying to kill me?” She found her voice was wavering slightly as she spoke. “Why would anyone do that?”

  “Someone getting rid of everyone responsible for Jack’s conviction.”

  “Oh, come on, David. You can’t have it both ways. A minute ago, Tom Brown was the perp. But he was there, right next to me in the line of fire. He risked his life to shield me from any further shots. In fact, he might have actually saved my life, because I admit the third bullet must have passed very close to where we’d been standing. Surely if he’d set up the hit – whether it was just Kadawe – or Kadawe and me – he’d stay well out of the way.”

  David waited a few moments before replying.

  “Here’s a possible explanation. You met him the evening before, didn’t you, and explained – or Maggie explained – that you’d been working to clear Jack’s name at her request. He might have set up the hit before he knew that and then changed his mind about you as a target after hearing what you’d done; tried to call the hit man to tell him but couldn’t get in touch with him. So he went along to the court, created a confrontation with Mickey so he could get to you and save you. You said yourself he seemed to know exactly where the shots came from even though you were there with him and didn’t even hear them.”

  “But hold on; Tom didn’t know when Mickey was appearing in court until I told him at that same meeting. So how could he have set it up beforehand?”

  “Only if he already knew. If someone told him before you did.”

  Jo opened her eyes wide. “Jesus, David, don’t ever accuse me again of being a conspiracy theorist. I’m just a beginner compared to you. How on earth can you imagine all that could be true?”

  David smiled. “Quite simply because it fits the facts. All the facts.”

  *

  Tom leaned forward in the leather armchair in the living room at Balmaha, elbows on his knees, hands supporting his chin, staring at the unopened bottle of malt whisky on the low table in front of him. His eyes stung with tears as he thought back to the moment a few hours ago when he had abandoned his family – again. Fleeing in a hurt rage, as if he was the injured party, and leaving them alone to face their horrendous disappointment.

  He should have stayed, had the steel to face Mags down and comfort his daughter. It was his duty – and also his right. He had not even given himself a chance to tell them of his attempt to save Jason – ill-conceived and doomed to failure though it was. Surely knowing he had been prepared to take such a risk would have convinced them just how much he cared for them all – including Jason; showing them his willingness to put his own life in danger for their benefit. It was too late now; the opportunity had passed.

  He reached forward and pulled the cork from the bottle.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Four weeks later

  Saturday; 24 October

  Tom awoke midway through the afternoon lying on his back on the floor of someone’s bedroom. He was wearing only his boxer shorts. He knew he had never been in the room before, nor could he remember any of the circumstances that had led him there. Par for the course, he thought; standard routine for his latest descent into the abyss.

  He tried to move, but his limbs would not react. He felt as though he was clamped in his current position.

  “Hello!” he shouted, his voice barely carrying to the half-open door. He rolled onto his stomach, struggling into a crawling position as he felt the foul taste rising in his throat. He scuttled across the room on all fours to what he could see was a small en-suite, but failed to make it all the way and threw up on the tiled floor, sweating profusely and crying in his shame.

  “Oh, God, Tom!” An angry voice behind him.

  He tried to turn to see who had spoken but his neck was reluctant to respond, sending a searing pain up into the back of his head.

  “Who…?”

  “It’s Grace. Here, let me help.” He felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “No!” Tom found his voice. It was loud and aggressive and Grace took a step back.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to shout. But just give me a few minutes, will you? Please.”

  “Okay. But don’t go back to sleep. You need to start getting yourself together.”

  She turned and left the room.

  He began a painstaking but unsuccessful effort to clean the en-suite and emptied a can of air freshener in an attempt to mask the evidence of his multiple visits. When, half-an-hour later, Grace returned and sat down in the wing chair near the window, he was half-sitting up in bed with the duvet pulled up to his waist.

  Grace looked at him, shaking her head.

  “The higher they fly…” she said.

  “Where am I?” he asked. “What time is it?”

  “You’re in my spare bedroom, and it’s…” she checked her watch, “… just after three-thirty.”

  “In the afternoon?”

  “Well, yes.” Grace looked over her shoulder at the window where the sun was streaming in through the thin curtains. “I haven’t moved to Tromso, so it could hardly be the middle of the night, could it?”

  “And what day is it?”

  “Saturday. You haven’t lost a full day yet, and you’re not going to! I’m going to make sure of that.”

  “How did I get here? I don’t remember anything.”

  “Probably a blessing. You were in the Penny Farthing last night, very much the worse for wear. Mouthing off as usual – the manager said – about your plans to free Jason. Very interesting – you must share them with me some time. Anyway, he asked you to leave and offered to call a taxi. Instead, you gave him my number and he called me.” The memory of it seemed to further darken her mood. “No problem – it was only two-thirty in the morning, so naturally, I just jumped into my car – as you do when a really important fare comes along. By the time I arrived you had been moved outside and were sitting in a neat little pool of puke in the gutter.”

  “Grace, I’m so sorry…”

  “And you should be,” she snapped back, holding up her hand with thumb and forefinger a couple of millimetres apart. “I was that close to doing the fastest three-point turn in history and going straight back home.”

  “I wish you had,” Tom had pulled the duvet up to his chin as Grace was relating the story, like the defensive action of a little boy being told off for doing something really naughty.

  “Well, that’s gratitude. You’d probably have died if…”

  “Better that than you seeing me like this. Did you undress me?”

  She sighed and rolled her eyes in exasperation.

  “No, I phoned Oxfam and asked if they could come round and collect some clothes. I didn’t tell them somebody was still wearing them, so they took them off you when they arrived. Saved a wasted journey.”

  “You’re too bright for your own good – and certainly for mine,” said Tom, trying to smile and managing a grimace instead.

  “Yes, of course I undressed you. You were covered in sick, for a start…”

  “Oh, please! Sp
are me the details. Hey, you didn’t take advantage of me, did you?” It was his best stab at a joke.

  “What do you think? I’m the ice-maiden, remember? And anyway, the only thing of any use to me certainly wouldn’t have been working.”

  Tom tried another smile and was more successful this time. They remained silent for a while before Grace spoke again.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee or something? A sandwich?”

  Tom winced.

  “Please don’t mention food,” he said, “but I’ll take the coffee, thanks.”

  “Black?” Grace stood to leave the room.

  “White, no sugar, please. Oh, and where are my clothes? Did you manage to save them?”

  “All washed and dried. Ready when you are.”

  “What, my leather jacket as well? You didn’t wash that?”

  “Of course, and it was fine until I put it through the mangle and then … well, I’m sure you’ll be able to claim on the insurance – and for the mobile phone.”

  “You are joking?”

  “Look,” said Grace over her shoulder as she left the room, “If you’re going to continue asking me stupid questions then I’m not going to answer at all.”

  She closed the door behind her. Tom half-expected to hear the sound of a bolt sliding into position on the other side.

  *

  When Grace arrived with the coffee, Tom was in the shower. She put the tray down on the dressing table, noting that his clothes were still where she’d placed them – his jeans neatly folded on a small clothes maiden with his socks, and his shirt, clean and pressed, on a hanger on the back of the bedroom door. She sat down again in the wing chair to await his emergence from the en-suite.

  In spite of herself, she found it impossible not to be impressed with his physique when he appeared, looking much fresher now and the well-defined muscles in his arms and shoulders flexing as he dried his hair with the hand towel. Even after months of neglect for his fitness and general condition, he remained well toned and with only the slightest hint of surplus weight around his waist.

  She was aware also that Tom had recovered enough to notice what she was wearing – a low off-the-shoulder summer dress, short enough to reveal a great deal of bare flesh below as well as above it. His eyes seemed to be all over her and she noted that his boxer shorts were totally inadequate to hide the involuntary reaction to his appraisal. Lifting his jeans from the maiden, he turned away to step into them, hopping clumsily around before succeeding in pulling them on into place.

  He sat, bare-chested, on the dressing table stool to drink his coffee, trying hard to look as though he was enjoying it. He managed half the cup, screwing up his face with every sip before standing up and reaching for his shirt.

  “Thank you, Grace – for saving my life. I really am grateful, you know. And – of course – I’m sorry for all the inconvenience and… mess.” He nodded towards the en-suite.

  “Well, I won’t say you’re welcome in case you take that literally and do it again. And anyway, before you disappear, someone’s got to clean my car – inside and out – and it ain’t gonna be me, pal!”

  “Oh, God!” He flopped back down onto the stool, his shirt still unbuttoned.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “Only teasing. I had it valetted this morning, but you can pay for it at least. He charged me twenty and I gave him thirty. He deserved it, given the appalling working conditions.”

  Tom closed his eyes, as if trying to avoid picturing the scene.

  “Look, I’d best be going,” he said, fastening his shirt and tucking it into his jeans. “Can I have my un-mangled jacket, please? My wallet’s in there – I’ll give you the thirty – and the taxi fare, of course.”

  She gave him a long look while Tom sat down again and pulled on his socks, grimacing each time he leaned forward.

  “Tell you what,” she said, finally. “I know you can’t face the thought right now, but you will need to eat something. Why don’t you stay – relax – watch TV – whatever. I’ve got work to do this afternoon, so I’ll be leaving you for a while, but I’ll get something light we can share later when I get back. After your exertions last night and today, you can’t have anything left in your stomach at all.”

  “No, really, I must…”

  “I insist. The least you can do is be polite and accept. And anyway, you don’t know where I’ve hidden your shoes.”

  Tom smiled.

  “Okay, thank you, I accept. But only if you let me pay for whatever you force-feed me with. Deal?”

  “Deal,” she said. “Just stay out of my drinks cabinet while I’m out.”

  They engaged in an awkward smiling hand-shake and she left him to change her clothes before leaving for Marsham Street.

  *

  He sat for a long time in the chair she had vacated in the bedroom, trying to piece together snippets of memory from the previous evening. He remembered arguing with one of the barmen in the club – something to do with his annoying a young couple sitting next to him at the bar. Then a noisy confrontation – much later – with two doormen, leading to his being asked to leave, soon after which the request had been physically enforced. And, in between, meeting someone he knew – or thought he recognised – but whose identity escaped him for the moment. As the pieces fitted together, an excruciating picture of embarrassment and indignity emerged.

  After a while, he moved through to the living area in an attempt to arrest the mental reconstruction, worried about what it might fully reveal. The room was large and rectangular, one end furnished with an expensive oak dining suite and bookcases in the same polished wood along the whole of the end wall. In the other half of the room, three easy chairs and a long sofa – of different styles but in the same fabric design – were positioned round a low rosewood coffee table. Two large floor-to-ceiling windows looked out onto the Thames and the London Eye directly opposite.

  He wandered around, studying the collection of Peter Brook limited-edition prints on the walls and examining ornaments, with no real interest in them other than their ability to distract. Eventually he came to rest in a wing chair next to the coffee table on which was a selection of fashion magazines along with a single book; one he instantly recognised.

  He picked it up.

  “The Meek’s Inheritance by George Holland,” he read allowed. He turned it over to look at the author’s picture on the back cover. And then it came to him. It had been George – last night – the person he hadn’t been able to remember. He screwed up his face in a frown. George in the Penny Farthing! Surely not? He stared at the photograph, the sight of his friend’s face reminding him of their penultimate meeting three weeks ago…

  Jad’s funeral had been a brief and unremarkable affair. It seemed ironic to Tom that a man who had once – and relatively recently – been just about the most famous person in the country should have so few in attendance at his final appointment in this world. It made sense to keep it quiet, of course, rather than prompting the Press to manufacture a wave of emotion to sell a few more papers. He was, after all – officially anyway – just a convicted murderer who had died in prison after a long illness. But even so, the occasion seemed inappropriately understated for the stature of the man to whom they were bidding goodbye.

  It was also the last time he had seen his wife and daughter, although he remembered at the time he had not felt in any way that he was actually with them. They stood together – he, Mags and Katey – but they could have been on different planets. Tom was tearful and morose; Katey – understandably, perhaps – mostly indifferent; but Mags seemed to be in a world of her own, deep in thought and, it appeared, totally removed from the ceremony she was attending.

  The service had taken place at the same chapel close to where, three years ago, Jad had been arrested when he was visiting his mother’s grave. Others prese
nt at the small gathering included the brigadier who Tom had met on his first day as Home Secretary, a Captain Drake, and an attractive young woman accompanying a young man in a wheelchair – all associates of Jad in his professional role, he was informed. All four appeared unaffected by the occasion and Tom put this down to their attending through a sense of duty rather than a genuine feeling of bereavement. The only person there – other then himself – who appeared to be truly moved by the loss was George Holland.

  A week to the day following the funeral, Tom and George had been the only mourners present when Jad’s ashes were interred in Alma’s grave.

  Now he remembered. It wasn’t George he’d seen last night – the man in the bar area standing on his own and watching him. Tom had picked his way through the crowd and greeted him loudly, only to be told he was mistaken.

  “It’s not George, it’s Mike,” the man had said, “but I know who you are and I’m very pleased to meet you.”

  “Have a drink, anyway,” he’d said to Mike.

  “Just going actually, but perhaps some other time.” They’d shaken hands, and the man had turned and left before Tom could respond.

  He looked at George’s photograph on the back cover again. Then he turned the book over and opened it at the first page, which featured just the title. In the middle of the next page was the dedication:

  ‘For, and in eternal memory of, my beloved Irene.’

  He turned to the Foreword. The book was a copy of the first edition, and this section comprised, verbatim, Jad’s speech from the dock at his trial at the Old Bailey three years ago.

  He thought back to those early formative months of the New Justice Regime. Jad’s killing of the Brady brothers – leaders of the brutal Cullen Field gang; the euphoria on the estate that followed their demise; the way that it had snowballed in the national Press; his own exploitation of the mood to further his ambitions for changes in the justice system. He recalled the passionate – albeit, one-sided – ‘Justice or Law’ debate at the council offices where 1,600 people had crammed into the three function rooms, and which had launched George Holland on his national tour to engage people’s support for radical change. Then, the tragedy of Irene’s death, caught in the wrong place and accidentally gunned down outside the Dog and Duck in Meadow Village by the same Cullen Field gang, bent on revenge and targeting George for his outspoken condemnation of them and their kind.