Heaven's Door (16 page)

Tom nodded and rose from his seat, taking the prime minister's offered hand.

*

“Same again all round?” Jack asked the five people sitting with him in the Cross Keys beer garden. The large open area behind the pub was crowded with young people clustered around the dozen or so wooden tables. A number of unhealthy-looking potted plants in a variety of tubs, were dotted around between the tables, all hung with strings of lights. Music could be heard from inside in the public bar, the whole creating an unlikely party atmosphere for a Monday lunchtime.

“Yes please,” said Jason, pushing his empty pint glass across the table towards him.

“He means ‘no thanks',” said Katey, standing up and grabbing Jason under the arms, pulling him to his feet.

Jason stretched and sighed in resignation, smiling broadly. Just nineteen and a fraction under six feet, he was slim and broad shouldered, with a handsome face which featured shining eyes and a wide smile. His hair was short and styled, but retained some of the natural curl which was his Kenyan birthright.

“We're leaving,” said Katey. “Come on, you're taking me to the movies.”

“I love it when you beg,” said Jason.

The others laughed.

“See you later,” said Katey, over her shoulder, as they walked away, arms around each other.

The group had met up on Monday lunchtime as usual. They were reviewing Friday's festivities and sharing claims about the amount each of them had drunk on the night.

“Tell you what,” said Jack, “if this random sample of six is typical – consumption-wise – of the wider population, then I haven't a clue where all the booze came from.”

“Well it can't be truly representative, can it,” one of the two girls present pointed out, “because one of the sample wasn't there at all.”

“Okay, Jade, sample of five,” said Jack, turning to Mickey Kadawe. “Yes, come to think of it, you haven't come up with an excuse for not attending. Have you got an absence note or anything?”

“Now don't try and embarrass me, Jack,” said Mickey. “You know I don't like parties …”

The other three jeered.

“Oh no. I forgot,” said Jade.

“Come on, Mickey. I'm serious,” said Jack. “What could possibly have been more important than spending an evening with a bunch of beautiful women? Like Megan and Jade, here.”

He waved an arm towards the girls. They were similar in appearance; slim, with long blonde hair tied back in ponytails and wearing tight denim jeans and loose tops over tee shirts.

“Yes,” said Jade. “Come on, tell us.”

“Unless, of course,” put in Megan, “it was because of just
one
beautiful woman somewhere else.”

“Okay,” said Mickey, raising his arms in a gesture of surrender. “Guilty as charged. It wasn't a date, though; it was someone over from Jo'burg, a friend from my mysterious past. I gave her a lift to Heathrow and her flight was delayed for a couple of hours. So I stayed with her to keep her company. It was after eleven-thirty when I got back. I was far too wasted to start boogying at that time.”

“What do you think?” Jack asked the girls. “Do we believe him?”

“Mmm…” Jade wasn't sure.

“Slightly more believable than him not liking parties, I suppose,” said Megan.

“That settles it, then,” said Jack. “You're off the hook, Kadawe. Just this once. So, I ask again, same all round?”

“My turn,” Jade raised her hand. “Sex equality, and all that.”

“I accept,” said Jack. “Just because I'm a rich kid, doesn't mean I have any pride. Double whisky and lemonade, please.”

“Same here,” said Mickey. “In fact, make it a treble. Oh, and some crisps as well…”

Jade stood up.

“Okay, that's two halves of Stella. And what would you like, Megan?”

“Orange juice, please.”

Jack and Mickey looked at each other and shrugged in mock disappointment.

“Worth a try,” said Mickey.

*

Jo had an excellent first day, spent mostly in the company of her new boss. He had an easy charm which made her feel both relaxed and attentive as he showed her round the Centre, introduced her to her colleagues and went through the fundamentals of her new position, in particular the differences from her previous experience as an Area Detective Inspector.

“I think the biggest challenge,” he said, “will be integration with the local Forces. Everyone is aware that you people are, in effect, an elite group. As Tom Brown put it, you are to the police what the SAS is to the army, the SBS to the navy. And, like that analogy, we take only the best from the main Force.

“The big danger, of course, is in the breeding of resentment. Because where the analogy with the Special Forces breaks down is that you won't be doing anything different from what the Area Force is doing. You are there to help, to provide additional manpower, and special qualities and skills. You'll build respect and gain your acceptance over time, with positive contributions and excellent results. I have absolutely no doubt about that. But I think it could be rocky to start with. I think you might feel you're piggy-in-the-middle between the law and the lawless for a while; hopefully not for long.

“One way we've mitigated these concerns,” he went on, “is by keeping accountability – and hence over-riding authority – with the local Area Forces. So wherever you work, anywhere in the UK, your assignment boss will be a local DCI or, more likely, Detective Super. That way, the focus – and the credit – will stay within the area.”

“And what about the blame, sir?” Jo was relaxed and confident enough to make a joke. “If things don't go to plan.”

John laughed.

“We'll make sure they get that as well.”

*

Tom watched the gates slowly open as Paul turned off the lane and their escort car sped away. Mags was waiting for him on the porch.

“What are you smiling at?” she said.

“I'm just happy to be coming home to the world's sexist woman.”

“Well, I know
that
. But there's something else. It's sort of satisfied going on smug, I would say.”

“That's an excellent description, actually. Because, after a meeting with Andrew which was full of the unexpected, including an attack on my ability to do my job, the greatest surprise of all is how little I care about what he said. I've been thinking about the plans we made on the rug in front of the fire in Knoydart, and wondering whether five years is too long to wait.”

Mags smiled at him. “Well, we should talk about that – but later perhaps. In the meantime, I've been thinking about the other things we did on the rug in front of the fire in Knoydart.”

She took his hand and led him inside.

*

Tom looked at the clock on his bedside table – 11.30 pm. He could hardly have been asleep for more than a few minutes. He gently untangled himself from Mags, trying not to disturb her.

“What's wrong?” she said, blinking herself awake.

He swung his legs out of bed.

“Has Jack come in?”

Mags sat up. “I don't think so.”

He got up to check, looking along the corridor towards Jack's room. Katey's head appeared, peering out from her own room further along and looking back towards him.

“Did you hear something?” she asked.

“I thought I did. A mobile, was it? I thought it might be Jack's.”

“It wasn't his phone,” said Katey. “I didn't recognise the ring tone.”

“He's not back, is he?” asked Tom. “I thought he was out tonight.”

Tom knocked on Jack's door. No answer. He opened it and they both went in. There was no one there. The bed had been half-made after the previous night, but it was clear that it hadn't been slept in since.

Mags appeared in the doorway.

“What's going on?”

“We thought we heard a phone,” said Katey.

“Should we check downstairs?” asked Mags.

“I'll go,” said Tom. “You two wait here in case it rings again.”

Ten minutes later he was back.

“Nothing,” he said. “Anyway, if it was a phone, it was definitely up here. I must have dreamt it.”

“It must have been
something
,” said Katey. “We can't both have dreamt the same thing.”

“Well, whatever it was, there's nothing we can do,” said Mags. “Night, Katey.” She gave their daughter a brief hug and they all went back to bed.

Tom and Mags wrapped their arms around each other and Mags was asleep again within a couple of minutes. Tom lay awake for a long time.

*

Two days later

Week 3; Wednesday, 8 April…

“No sign of life.”

The voice crackled over the radio. The Wildcat dropped low to make sure, dipping into the huge box formed by the accommodation blocks round the sides of the platform, and out of sight of the second aircraft.

“Okay to go.” The same voice, as the helicopter rose into view again, climbing vertically to hover a few hundred feet above the highest point of the fence.

The EC135 moved in below it, the winch man already descending towards the bodies on the wire. When he was level with the highest one, he signalled to the chopper which moved him laterally until he could reach the lifeless form. He slipped a harness onto the body, securing it under the arms and crotch, then unclipped a pair of heavy-duty wire-cutters from his belt and got to work.

He needed only half a dozen cuts to release him from the wire, and they swung away from the fence as the Eurocopter pulled clear and started to hoist them up. He turned his head away from the horrifying sight hanging closely in front of him, the shredded remains of the young man's face only inches from his own. A crew man pulled the body into the helicopter and released the harness.

“You okay?”

The winch man swallowed and nodded; and set off down again.

*

“A call box! Who the hell uses a call box these days?”

“Well, apart from people who don't have a mobile or a house phone, sir, anyone who wants to get rid of the phone afterwards. You just walk away from it,” said the DI. Today it was his turn to be sitting down watching someone pacing the room. A large man in a senior officer's uniform.

“Yes, silly question.”

“We found the box, lifted some prints; hundreds of them, in fact. So, don't hold your breath, sir. There's nothing we can use.”

“Doesn't matter anyway. It's the message we need to focus on, not the caller.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that was very specific.”

“Yes, sir.”

They were both silent for a moment. The senior man stopped pacing and leant on the back of his chair. He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully.

“Right. We've been very diligent with this, Harry. Very meticulous, very critical, treating with suspicion every bit of evidence as it's come in. More so than in any normal case – and for good reasons. But that stops
now
, with this latest piece in the puzzle. From this moment it
is
a normal case and we do what we do as well as any bunch of cops anywhere. We go by the book and get a result. I want you on target two; I'll get one of the FRTs to take target one. We'll go early next week.”

“With respect, sir, should we wait?”

“I know what you mean, but in spite of what I've just said, I want one more trawl through everything we've got. And there's no reason to think anything will change between now and then.”

“Very well, sir.”

They were silent again for a while.

“Have you seen the movie
Journey to the Centre of the Earth
?”

“Yes, sir. Brendan Fraser wasn't it?”

“Actually I was thinking of the earlier one – end of the fifties, I think it was. James Mason and Pat Boone.” He sat down and leaned forward with his elbows on the desk. “There's a scene at the end where they're sitting on this huge stone dish with a volcano under them about to erupt. Well, right now
I
feel exactly how
they
must have felt.”

The other man laughed.

“But they survived, didn't they, sir.”

The big man across the desk smiled.

“That's true, I suppose. But it must have been bloody hot on there before they got spewed out into the open.”

*

Week 3; Thursday, 9 April…

The climate in John Mackay's office was very different to that of a few days ago.

“Just one question, sir. Why me?”

“Because you're new, Jo – four days new. You've no history here. You might not think so, but it will be easier for you than for any of the others.”

Jo was silent for a while.

“I hope it's not true,” she said, at last, half to herself.

“I'm one-hundred percent with you there,” said John.

Neither spoke for a full minute.

“Do we have to do it like this, though?” she asked. “I mean, given who we're dealing with.”

“It's
because
of who we're dealing with that it's essential we do. The MO is set out very clearly in Section 7 of the NJR Directive. And what if we didn't? With the evidence we've got to date, if we subsequently fail because we didn't follow procedure, think of the ramifications; the accusations of a cover-up. No, the best case scenario is … we do it by the book; we've got it wrong; there's no case to answer.”

Jo sighed again, shaking her head.

“When, sir?”

“Five days from now. Next Tuesday. 5.00 am.”

“And the other party?”

“The same.”

Five days later

Week 4; Tuesday, 14 April…

Tom was awoken by the sound of loud banging and a ringing bell. Mags was already sitting up in bed, shaking with alarm and looking at the strobing blue lights on the bedroom curtains.

Tom instinctively checked his watch, as if the disturbance might be justified by the hour it was taking place. Three minutes past five. He grabbed hold of Mags, pulling her close to him, whilst his mind raced to take in what was happening. The banging was someone knocking hard on the outer front door and the continuous ringing was the doorbell being pressed in and held. There were voices outside; he went quickly to the window, fractionally pulling back one of the curtains to look out.

Four police cars and two police vans were parked on the drive, line-abreast in a fan formation, each vehicle pointing towards their front porch door. A number of dogs were jumping down from the back of one van, their excited barking quickly silenced by the louder barked commands of the dog-handlers. Three police officers, including a woman in plain clothes, were at the top of the porch steps and a dozen others were milling around, looking up at the bedroom windows for signs of a response to their presence. The twitching curtain was spotted by a couple of the officers who pointed it out to the rest. The woman walked back down the steps, looked up at the window and raised a small loud-hailer to her mouth.

“Mr Tom Brown! Home Secretary! We need to speak to you now, sir!”

“Katey!” Mags gasped. “It must be Katey!”

“It can't be …” Tom started, going back to her and holding her again.

“Oh, God! Please no!” Mags clung closer to him.

“Mags, it can't be anything like that. There's half the bloody Force out there. I'll go and see what's going on. Probably got a call to say someone's snooping around. It's not about Katey; trust me.”

Tom left her again to open the window.

“Okay, I'll be right down,” he shouted. He quickly pulled on his dressing gown and opened the bedroom door. Jack was outside in just his boxer shorts, hand raised, about to knock.

“What the hell's going on?” he asked.

“I'm just going to find out,” said Tom.

He raced down the stairs, deactivated the house alarm and unlocked the inner front door and outer entrance door to the porch. The woman officer held up her ID badge in her right hand and a printed sheet of A4 in her left.

“Detective Inspector Cottrell, sir, Guildford CID.” She lowered her badge and thrust the other document forward. “I have a warrant to search this property with immediate effect. Please let me in.”

“Search the house! For what exactly?”

“Please let me in, sir. We have a warrant to search this property,” she repeated.

“Yes, you've already said that, and I've already said ‘for what?'”

“Please let me in, sir.”

Mags and Jack were watching and listening from the mid-stair landing. Mags had put on a long bathrobe and Jack's arm was round her shoulders; she was still trembling with anxiety as she shouted down.

“Tom, what? Katey?”

Jo heard the question.

“Nothing to do with your daughter,” she said quietly to Tom.

“It's not about Katey,” he shouted up to Mags, stepping back a little from the doorway. Jo edged on to the threshold.

“They want to search the house,” he added. He turned back to Jo.

“I'll ask again,” he said, this time with the hint of a threat in his voice. “What are you looking for?”

Jo stood her ground, now just inside the porch door. Mags and Jack had descended to the hallway.

“I didn't want to have to say this, sir, given that it might sound a bit facetious, but under Section 7 of the NJR provisions – I quote – ‘the police shall have the right of access and search in such circumstances as they think appropriate given a weight of evidence, as set out in the notes to Section 7 below'…”

“Yes, you're right,” Tom interrupted, “it does sound facetious.”

“‘
Without
the requirement to disclose either the details of that evidence or the purpose or objects of their search'. I believe you wrote those words, sir, or at least you approved them. So I say again, please let me in.”

Tom sighed and stepped back.

“Very well, Inspector …?”

“Detective Inspector Cottrell, sir. Thank you.” Jo walked through the porch and into the hallway. She nodded to Mags.

“Mrs Tomlinson-Brown, I won't take up any more of your time than is necessary, but I need to search the whole of the property, including outbuildings if necessary. And I'd like to start right away.”

Jack turned and went back up the stairs.

“Follow him, Sergeant,” said Jo. “You know where to start.”

Tom watched as she followed the sergeant up the stairs, with a dog-handler and his long-haired cocker spaniel immediately behind.

Mags turned to Tom, anger now taking over from anxiety.

“This is outrageous!” she shouted. “Don't they even know who you are –
what
you are? This is the Home Secretary!” she yelled after them, and to the other officers now filling the hallway. “Your
boss
!”

“Let them get it over with, Mags,” said Tom. “It's some sort of mistake, obviously,” he said loudly for all to hear. “I can't wait to see all the red faces in a few minutes time.”

As he spoke he was heading up the stairs after Jo and the others.

“Inspector Cottrell,” he shouted, “refresh my memory. Is there anything in the provisions that prevents me accompanying you on your search? Perhaps I could help by pointing out the most likely places where the arms and explosives are stashed.”

Jo ignored him. She and her two colleagues were focused on following Jack, who turned off the upstairs corridor into his room, locking himself in. The dog sniffed enthusiastically at the bottom of the door.

“Please open the door, Mr Tomlinson-Brown,” said Jo, banging on it with the palm of her hand.

“Just a minute!” Jack's voice from inside. “Just making myself decent.”

“Don't worry about that. You'll do as you are, thank you. Open up, please.
Now!
”

Tom had arrived at the door.

“Can't you give him a couple of minutes, for God's sake, just to get dressed? Here, you can start in our bedroom. The hand-grenades are in the top drawer of the dressing table and the rocket launcher is behind the wardrobe.”

“That is neither funny nor helpful, sir. We are just doing the job
you
gave us. Now this door is about to be opened, either by your son, or by us.”

“Jack, open this bloody door, will you. This is not helping …” Tom added his weight to the request.

“Just a couple of minutes …”

“
Now!
” Tom and Jo shouted in unison. They could hear a shuffling inside, like things being moved around.

“Okay in there,” Jo shouted, “stand away from the door; we're coming through it now!”

She signalled to one of the officers further back along the corridor. He stepped forward carrying a two-handled battering ram and positioned himself ready to swing it at the door. Tom stepped across it facing the officer and shouting over his shoulder.

“
Jack, open this fucking door!
”

The movement inside ceased and the door opened. Jack was still dressed in just his boxer shorts. Jo looked him up and down.

“Why, Jack. You must be the slowest dresser in the world,” she said.

She looked around the room. A wardrobe door was open and in front of it was a sports holdall into which had been stuffed a large number of magazines. There were a few more of the same still inside at the bottom of the wardrobe. It was clear that Jack had been removing them from there.

“What exactly were you doing?” asked Jo.

“Nothing,” said Jack, “just tidying up …” His voice tailed off.

All eyes were on the spaniel, which was half into the wardrobe giving little yelps and vigorously wagging its stubby tail. Its front legs were scraping at the pile of papers as if trying to dig through them.

“Easy, Jilly; good girl; sit.”

The dog handler pulled her gently back. One of the other officers knelt and peered into the wardrobe. He turned to Jo.

“SOCOs, ma'am?”

Jo nodded, removing her radio from her pocket.

“Andy, bring them up, please.”

Tom looked across at his son who was sitting on the bed, elbows on his knees and head in hands staring unfocussed at the floor a couple of feet in front of him. Tom turned to Jo who looked back at him with eyes full of sadness.

“Home Secretary, we'll need to spend some time in here. In the meantime, I suggest that you and Mrs Tomlinson-Brown and Jack get dressed. I can't allow anything to be touched in this room. I'm sure you can find Jack some clothes from somewhere. Constable Marsh, here, will accompany you.” She nodded towards one of her officers. Her voice was suddenly gentle and kind.

He and Mags dressed and went downstairs to the front sitting room off the large hall, Constable Marsh remaining outside the door.

“This is unbelievable!” Mags was shouting. “Can't you just throw them out, for God's sake? Charge them with trespassing or something!”

“They're just doing their job, Mags.”

“Oh, of course! Their bloody job! Trampling all over people; abusing their new powers!”

Tom sighed, recognising the old barriers being raised. Jack entered the room, looking sheepish and avoiding their eyes.

“Well, Jack,” said Tom. “Anything to say at this stage?”

Jack looked at him briefly and then turned away again.

“Sorry,” barely audible.

“Sorry!” shouted Tom. “You wouldn't like to tell us sorry for what, would you?”

Mags turned on him.

“There's no point in shouting at Jack!”

“No point in …! Have you any idea what this is about? Would you like to enlighten us, please, Jack, or would you rather we just listened in when you explain it to the police?”

“Explain what to the police?” Mags stared at Tom, eyes blazing in anger.

“Look, I'm really sorry,” said Jack, the calmest of the three by a long way. “I was going to get rid of them.”

Tom wrinkled his brow.

“Get rid of them? Get rid of what, exactly?”

“The magazines. The porno mags, for God's sake. It's not like they're hardcore or anything. I can't believe …”

“For Christ's sake, Jack! How long have you lived on the planet Earth? This isn't about bloody lads' mags. They don't send trained dogs to sniff out pornography – hard
or
soft. But can you think of something they
do
use sniffer dogs for? I'll have to rush you on this one, I'm afraid!”

Mags gasped. “Drugs!” Her voice was a hoarse whisper. “Jack?” She turned to her son.

Jack laughed mirthlessly. “Drugs! There are no drugs in there. I had the last of the paracetamol on the morning after the party …!”

“You think this is a joke?” shouted Tom. “Perhaps the dog's mistaken!”

“It is if it thinks there are any drugs in there,” Jack shouted back, losing his cool. “I can't believe you think that of me. Thanks a lot, Dad.”

Mags began to cry. Both Tom and Jack went immediately to console her. Jo Cottrell appeared in the doorway. They all turned towards her.

“I'd like you all to come with me, please,” she said.

Jo led them up the stairs and along the corridor to Jack's room. She stepped aside to let them through the door.

Half a dozen officers in white hooded overalls and surgical gloves were gently searching through drawers and picking items from shelves. The wardrobe door was still open and the police sergeant waved his arm in a gesture inviting them to look in. The magazines had all been taken out and the base panel removed, revealing a cavity about four inches deep below it. In the space, about three feet long and two feet wide, there were forty-eight clear plastic bags of white powder.

The phone rang in Tom and Mags's bedroom further along the corridor, but no-one seemed to hear it.

*

Jack sat alone, ashen-faced, in the rear of the police car staring in front of him at the back of the driver's head. Tom was talking to Jo at the bottom of the steps up to the front porch entrance.

“You do realise this is a big mistake, don't you, Inspector? Trust me, my son had no idea that stuff was there. All that locking the door and such – he was worried about the magazines.”

“I'm sure the truth will come out very soon,” said Jo, with the merest smile.

“When can we see him?” he asked.

Jo checked her watch.

“Give it a few hours,” she said. “We'll need some time with him. Say ten o'clock. Bring him some spare clothes, toothbrush, that sort of thing. Just in case we keep him for a while.”

Jo went to get into the car.

“By the way, Inspector, how did you get through the gates, and past security?”

“Not my responsibility, sir,” Jo replied. “That was taken care of before we arrived. But don't forget that your security people work for the same boss as me. Their orders came from the same source. So please don't think they let you down or anything.”

He nodded as she slipped into the back of the vehicle next to his son. Jack turned his head towards him as it pulled away, but his eyes were glazed over and he seemed to see nothing. Tom went back to their room, where Mags was lying on the bed in a state of utter despair. The phone rang again. She picked up the handset and he could hear Katey's voice shouting in panic.

“Mum, oh, Mum!”

Tom took the receiver gently from Mags and pressed the ‘speaker' button so they could both share the conversation.

“Katey, what's wrong?” he said.