Heaven's Door (33 page)

“That's another thing the Chief said, that it was important they get over it as soon as possible.”

“Great minds, you see,” said David.

“That description clearly doesn't include me,” said Jo. “Oh, and he also said something like ‘whatever you do don't tell Maggie you're looking'. I paraphrase but that was the gist. That made me feel
really
bad – like I was deceiving both him
and
Maggie.” She sighed. “Tell you what; let me treat you to dinner as a thank you. I could do with cheering up and you're the best at that of anyone I know.”

“Why, Ms Cottrell, what a lovely thing to say …”

Jo laughed. “You see, you've started already. What about next Thursday?”

*

Three days later

Week 12; Monday, 8 June …

Katey reached into the pocket of her jeans, taking out the crumpled piece of paper John Mackay had given her, one of two letters found in Jack's room at the Centre when it was cleared following his death. She was sitting in front of the window in her bedroom at Etherington Place, looking out over the extensive wooded garden area at the back of the house. She remembered how, when they were very young, she and Jack would chase each other through and around the trees, and how it always ended with Jack jumping out at her and making her cry. She smiled, also recalling that it never stopped her wanting to carry on with the game.

She read the letter again, although by now she knew the words off by heart.

‘To my beautiful sister Katey

‘When you read this I will have left you for ever. I am so sorry for the pain this will bring. But I beg you to try and understand why. You will be thinking what a coward, leaving Jay to face his exile alone. I don't blame you, but please understand I did it for him as much as for my own escape from suffering. He is the best friend I ever had. The way he stood by me in court was proof of that. It was an amazingly brave thing to do. And I know he would have always stood by me in the future and that is why I could not go with him to Alpha. If we had gone together he would have been treated the same as me and God knows what that would be like. What they would have done to me. To both of us.

At least this way he will be able to lead whatever passes as a normal life out there. If there is a chance of a real life, Jay has all the qualities and toughness to make one happen for him. That is as long as he has no baggage to bring him down. So please be generous in your thoughts for me and what I have done. Think of it as me just getting rid of Jay's baggage for him. Please help him to understand.

‘I love you, Short-one. Look after Mum and Dad. They love each other, you know. Please try to make them realise that.

‘Jack'

Katey's sadness was mixed with a feeling of relief that the understanding of his motives brought with it. She could remember him now with the unmitigated love she had held for him all her life.

*

Week 12; Tuesday, 9 June …

In spite of the attempt to avoid public attention, hundreds of wreaths and bouquets of flowers had been placed along the route of the short journey between Etherington Place and the modest little church of St Gilbert's in Weldon-in-the-Vale.

The mourners alighted from the convoy of sombre limousines as the coffin was removed from the hearse. After the short solemn walk down the aisle, the pall bearers gently placed it on the stand close to the altar and stepped back to fade into the recesses of the church. Mags and Tom, clinging to each other, followed them at the head of the congregation and took their places at the front.

St Gilbert's was a typical small village church, with lines of chairs instead of pews, and flowers provided by local residents of the village on the window ledges and around the font. It was the Tomlinson-Browns' usual, if infrequent, place of worship.

The funeral was a private affair, attended primarily by family members along with a few invited friends, including Tony Dobson, George Holland, and John Mackay. Jackie Hewlett, Jonathan Latiffe and Jenny Britani sat together at the back of the church, uninvited but not unwelcome. Also at the service, sitting on either side of Katey, were Megan and Leila Midanda.

At the end of a harrowing thirty minutes during which scarcely a single voice could be raised to sing or join in the spoken prayers, Tom walked slowly to the front, turning to the congregation to pay his tribute to his son.

“There are no words that can dilute our torment on this day. There is no consolation in the knowledge that a wonderful human being has been spared that fearful final crossing into the unknown. There is nothing … nothing … that will cheer us.

“We must try to take strength from the Reverend Alan Gillis's words; draw what comfort we can from the belief that God has accepted our child into Heaven where he may live forever. And as for his earthly journey, at the end of it, in spite of this sensation of unbearable grief, our overwhelming feeling must be one of gratitude; thankfulness that we have had the privilege of sharing that journey with him. For it is far better that we suffer this pain now than to never have known him at all.”

He turned unsteadily to face the coffin.

“Our Jack. Our little wolverine. The words have not been invented yet that can express how much we love you; how much we will miss you; how deeply and unwaveringly proud you have made us for each precious moment of your life. We will think of you every second of every day of every year for as long as we live. And our love and pride will endure undiminished.”

A loud gasp jerked his whole body and he seemed momentarily incapable of moving. Then he reached out to the coffin and his knees buckled. He collapsed into a kneeling position beside it. His two brothers rushed from their seats to help him.

Mags got there first, driven by a protective instinct which was out of her control. She crouched behind him, her arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders and chest, hugging him to her, exactly as she had done when he had his last nightmare.

*

Week 12; Wednesday, 10 June…

The door to the room stood open and the two guards waited respectfully outside for them to say their last goodbyes.

“You know what, Katey; I don't think this is the end for you and me. I can't believe it is; I
won't
believe it is. In spite of what is happening, where I'm going … Somehow, I
know
we're going to meet again, and then it will be forever. You and me, like we always said, just as it's meant to be. I'm not just saying that, Katey; I really do believe it. And I want you to have faith in that, too.”

He looked deep into her eyes. The expression on his handsome, ebony face reinforced the words, his own eyes shining with a desperate hope and drinking in his final mental picture of the beautiful girl he held in his arms.

“You'll do that for me, won't you? If you believe it, it will happen. Say you will, and just trust me.”

“Oh, Jason, I will, I will, I will …”

He pulled her to him again and they clung to each other for the last two minutes of their life together. Then they kissed passionately and Katey withdrew, backing away from him out of the room as his shape became increasingly indistinct through the torrent of her tears.

“Believe, Katey,” he said, “and it will happen. Hold on to that.”

*

Along with six other detainees, he was escorted, handcuffed, into the back of the prison transit vehicle. The windowless passenger compartment had a row of four seats along each side, facing inwards. The individual seats were separated from their neighbours by two-foot deep floor-to-ceiling panels.

The seven prisoners were strapped in with conventional seat belts, which were then locked in place preventing any movement from the seats or contact with other passengers. One armed prison officer sat with his back to the bulkhead watching the group, out of reach of the two nearest prisoners' seats. On this occasion, one of these was unoccupied; Jason was in the other.

Outside, the rest of the five-vehicle convoy manoeuvred into position in readiness for the journey; at the front, a police motorcycle, followed by two police cars, sandwiched between which were the transit vehicle and a smaller van carrying the prisoners' personal belongings.

As they pulled away from the Centre for the twenty-mile drive to Heathrow, Jason looked across at the vacant seat and thought about the letter Katey had read to him and about his final statement to the court which many people believed had sealed his fate. As his sense of loneliness grew, the gesture now seemed worthless and naïve.

The journey took fifty-five minutes during which time no one in the transit vehicle spoke, including the two officers in the driving compartment. The motorcade eventually stopped and, after several minutes, the back doors opened letting in more of the sound of revving aircraft engines close by. The driver and his colleague released the first prisoner, who was led away by two other guards into a prefabricated single-storey building. One-by-one they followed, joining a larger group of around fifty inside, all of whom were given a drink of coffee or water, and a package containing a sandwich, a piece of fruit and a cereal bar.

Jason looked round the room at his travelling companions, an assortment of young males varying in age from eighteen to mid-twenties. Different in size, shape, colour and background but all with expressions of hopelessness and disbelief. They were seated theatre-style, still handcuffed, facing the end of the room, where a senior officer strode onto a small stage to address them.

“In a few minutes, you will officially start your passage into exile. We shall be boarding a flight which will take you to Humberside Airport at Kirmington in Lincolnshire. From there you will go by coach to the port of Immingham and then by boat to Bull Sand Fort. Unlike on Alpha, security guards will also be present on the fort, but this experience of simulated segregation is designed as a first step in the preparation for your final destination.

“At every transfer stage you will each be accompanied by two officers, both of whom will be armed and authorised to use their discretion in reacting to any problems of disorderly behaviour or violence. Please, let's not have any bravado, which may lead to someone getting hurt.

“The flight will take around forty-five minutes and as you will not be allowed to leave your seats during that time, should anyone need to use the toilet, they should go now. Please raise your hand if you do.”

Almost all of the prisoners raised their hands and were shown to a line of WCs at the side of the room. The doors were closed when they entered but opened by the guards after a couple of minutes had elapsed if the prisoner had not re-emerged. A few were caught squatting and their privacy quickly restored.

Then they were taken out, again individually, to a waiting 737 in black livery with the words ‘Prisoner Transfer' barely visible in a dark grey lettering along the fuselage.

At Kirmington, the prisoners were escorted onto two separate coaches – around thirty on each, all handcuffed to rails on the backs of the seats in front of them – with half a dozen armed guards assigned to each coach. From there they were driven to a secure quayside area in Immingham dockland where they boarded the large motor launch to take them to the imposing steel and concrete WW1 fortress which had been redeveloped to provide its occupants with a gentle sampler of the isolation to come.

Bull Sand Fort was the larger of two similar structures, the other being Haile Sand Fort. It was situated one-and-a-half miles from shore off Spurn Point, the narrow spit of land which stretched across the Humber estuary mouth from the northern side. The four-storey, sixty-foot high edifice was originally designed to accommodate four 6-inch – and later, 12-inch – guns, and 200 troops whose job, along with their comrades on its sister fort, was to protect the Humber ports from naval attack during the two world wars. The guns, in fact, were never fired in anger, although the forts continued to be occupied by the military until the mid fifties. Now they were subject to Grade II Listed Building status and, somewhat ironically, Bull Sand Fort had been used for a period as a drug rehabilitation facility.

The launch docked and the prisoners disembarked.

Week 12; Thursday, 11 June …

Tom awoke from a shallow sleep at 6.30 am. He went downstairs to the kitchen, making himself an instant coffee, nibbling absently at a piece of dry toast, and contemplating, with a further sinking of the heart, the day which lay ahead of him.

He showered, shaved, dressed and waited for the police car to collect him and take him, still under house arrest, to give his evidence to an investigative committee from PIRA – the Police Internal Review Authority, the NJR's successor to the Independent Police Complaints Commission – which was handling the internal enquiry into Jack's death.

*

Mags waited until Tom had gone before going down to the kitchen. She took the letter from the pocket of her robe. She had carried it on her person since the moment it had been handed to her by John Mackay. Unfolding it, she read it for the hundredth time.

‘My Darling Mum

‘Please, please, please forgive me for what I have done. This must seem to you the most sickening way for me to repay the infinite love and kindness you have given me all my very fortunate life. I don't know how it came to this. I swear to you that I am innocent of any wrongdoing, although I know that you never believed it anyway, that not for a moment did you waver in your faith in me. That has meant so much to me during these final weeks.

‘The reasons for what I did I explained in Katey's letter and I beg you to understand. Not only could I not face the prospect of the inevitable violence and intimidation awaiting me in exile, but I could not make Jason a target for such treatment as well. I had to give him a chance. I do hope Katey accepts this. Please try and help each other understand, and forgive me.

‘As for Dad, it is obvious that you love each other and the worst thing for me would be that you let what has happened drive you apart. I want you to help him with what must be the most unbearable feeling of guilt. It would have been so much easier for him to refuse to help me. It must be one of the most selfless things a father could do for his son.

‘Please show him this note if you wish. I have not left him a separate letter. When I see him today for the last time, I will thank him and tell him how much I love him. You are the most marvellous parents in the world. And you are meant to be together, for ever. Promise me you will be.

‘Goodbye, my most beautiful and caring mum. I love you so much.

‘Jack'

*

George Holland sat in the waiting room drumming his fingers on the arms of the wing chair and wondering why he'd been kept waiting for so long. He was dressed for his meeting later in Whitehall in a modern blue suit with narrow lapels, matching tie and a cream shirt. His neat goatee beard was trimmed very short.

“Mr Holland.”

He looked up to see Jad's consultant smiling down at him. She was a tall, handsome woman in her mid forties, wearing a white overall pulled in by a belt at her narrow waist.

“Could we talk in here?” she said.

She ushered George into a small interview room and they sat facing each other across the table.

“I'm afraid you won't be able to see Mr Deverall today, Mr Holland. He's deteriorated very quickly over the last few days. It was expected, of course, but I think the news about his Godson has probably accelerated the decline. He's getting very near the end now. I'm very sorry.”

George was shocked into silence. He thought how much his friendship with John Deverall meant to him, coming after his despair over Irene. The one fresh thing in his life; the symbol of a new existence; and his partner in building a platform for the future.

It took a full minute before he could speak.

“Does this mean I won't … I mean, was that the last time – last time?”

“Not necessarily. We expect him to rally again … maybe. But it's very unlikely he'll get back to how he was before. As I said, it's very close now.”

George slumped forward, his elbows on the table.

“Look, I'll tell you what I'll do,” said the consultant. “Let me have a contact number, and when he's well enough to receive visitors again, I'll let you know. You'd need to get here quickly, though. He's likely to be more down than up for his remaining time.” She waited for a response from George that was not forthcoming. “That's the best I can do, Mr Holland,” she added.

George nodded, took his wallet from his inside jacket pocket and handed over a business card.

“Try the mobile first,” he said. “Unless I happen to be in London for a meeting like today, it will take me the best part of two hours to get here, so please let me know straight away. I don't want to miss saying goodbye.” His voice broke on the last word. He stood up quickly and started to leave before turning back briefly to shake the consultant's hand.

“Thank you,” he said.

“I really am very sorry, Mr Holland.”

*

Tom was interrogated by the panel of three investigators for six hours with just a forty-minute break for lunch. He couldn't face eating anything during the recess, taking only some painkillers with a glass of water for a thumping headache. By the middle of the afternoon session he had started to feel faint and was conscious of becoming less spontaneous with his responses to their questions.

The committee spent most of the post-lunch period probing the source of the capsule. They clearly disbelieved his story of its being a relic of his Special Forces days, reading him a submission by a Professor of Toxicology who was very definite that such a poison could not be that instantly effective after a period of nine years.

“It seems rather pointless you asking me questions if you're only going to believe the answers you want to hear,” Tom said, finally giving way to his anger. “And anyway, I think you're stepping outside your terms of reference. Your task, as I understand it, is to examine the apparent breakdown in the internal security procedure at this Holding Centre and
not
to challenge me personally. I shall be responding to questions about the source of the capsule – which
I have already admitted
to bringing into the Centre – as part of the criminal prosecution I will be facing. It seems to me that you are confusing the two issues and if this line of interrogation persists, I'm afraid I shall have no alternative but to leave the interview.”

The head of the committee was a very large man in a mid-grey suit, which seemed a little tight for him, and a white shirt and dark blue tie. The other two members of the committee – a man and a woman – were small and slight by comparison, and their contributions to the process seemed to reflect their lesser physical stature. They hardly spoke at all but spent their time nodding vigorously as if to reinforce their colleague's questions and taking pages of copious notes, even though the interview was being recorded.

The large man sighed.

“Home Secretary, it is not our intention to cause you any further anxiety or distress after what you have had to contend with during the past week. But we must consider all possibilities or we would not be doing our job properly. One of those possibilities is that you acquired the capsule from an
internal
source, and this line of questioning is designed to eliminate that scenario for the benefit – if I can put it that way – of the staff at the Holding Centre, which I think you will agree certainly
is
relevant to this committee's remit.
And
furthermore
…” he held up his hand as Tom made to interrupt, “we cannot ignore the expert opinion of one of the country's leading authorities on toxicology.”

There was a long silence.

“However,” said the man, “we'll leave it there for now. But we may return to this again. Thank you, Home Secretary.”

As he was driven home, Tom's thoughts went back to the meeting with Jad, and he wondered how soon, if it had not happened already, his visit would come to light and yield its obvious conclusion about the source of the capsule.

*

The house was quiet. Tom found Katey in her study upstairs working at the computer. She turned and smiled at him as he poked his head round the door.

“Hi, Dad. Tough day?”

“No worse than I deserve, Princess,” he said. “Thank God I've got you.”

“No more than you deserve, Dad,” she said, smiling again.

She stood and they embraced, holding on to each other for a long time.

“Listen, Katey,” he said. “I'm going to need your help – I mean
more
of your help. I want you to get Mum and come down to the front sitting room in,” he checked his watch, “ten minutes. That's five-fifteen. I have to talk to you both about … what happened. It can't wait any longer. Okay? Oh, and I'd like to see you separately afterwards, please.”

Katey's face started to crumple as her self-control wavered. Tom pulled her tightly to him again.

“It'll be alright, Princess. Really,” he said. “Honestly it will.” He moved her gently away from him still holding onto her. “Go now. Please.”

She ran off, like a little girl, wiping her eyes.

Tom went downstairs to wait for them. He was standing looking out of the window as they entered the room together. They were holding hands. Katey smiled at him whilst Mags refused to meet his eyes, staring towards the sofa where she went to take a seat, pulling Katey down beside her.

“Mags,” he said.

There was no response.

“Mags, please.”

Katey gave her a nudge. “Mum, this is really difficult for Dad, for all of us. Remember what Jack said …”

Mags snatched her hand away.

“That's between me and Jack,” she said. “Just me and Jack.”

“What did Jack say?” asked Tom, addressing the question to his daughter.

“Don't say anything,” Mags snapped at her. She stared down into her lap.

Katey shrugged helplessly at Tom.

“Perhaps later,” she said, taking back Mags's hand in both of hers. “Go on, Dad.”

“Look, just tell me.” Tom's voice was raised.

“Dad, tell us what you have to. You said it couldn't wait any longer. And, Mum, you better listen to what he has to say. Right?” There was an edge to her voice now, like that of a parent trying to deal with two sulky children.

“Yes,” said Tom after a brief silence. “Right … okay.”

Katey nudged Mags again, harder this time. Mags looked up and across towards Tom, her eyes cold and neutral, seeming not to see him at all.

“Mags, please,” he said. “For Katey.
Please
.”

Her eyes came to focus on him.

“For Katey then,” she said.

He sighed and pulled the wing chair closer to the sofa.

“As Katey knows, today I've been to …”

“I know where you've been,” Mags interrupted. “You've been telling the police how you helped kill our son.”

Tom slumped back in the chair. Katey leapt to her feet.

“You take that back!” she screamed at Mags.

“Alright! Alright!” cried Mags. “I take it back.”

Her eyes had dropped again and she stared at her hands, clasped tightly together on her knees.

“Katey, I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't mean to upset you.”

Katey sat down on the sofa again, this time well away from Mags with her back half-turned to her.

“Look,” said Tom. “Let's just get this over with. It's clear then that
you
know what happened when I went to see Jack that last time.” He directed the statement at Mags, and then turned to Katey without waiting for a response. “What about you, Princess?”

“Well, I guess so. Jack left me a letter.”

“A letter? Saying what?”

“Well, explaining why he did it.”

“How could he write a letter explaining
why
, when he didn't even know
if
?”

“Well, that's obvious, isn't it?” Mags volunteered, taking them both by surprise. “He would write the letters beforehand and leave them in his room. If he didn't get the chance to … to … do it, then he would have just destroyed the letters.”

“Yes, of course,” said Tom. “You said letters. There was more than one?”

“Yes, one for me and one for Mum.”

“And me? Did he leave one for me?”

“No.” Mags's reply was cruelly succinct.

“But he explained why in Mum's letter.” Katey was quick to add.

“Well?” He looked angrily at Mags.

“He said he just couldn't be bothered,” she sneered back at him.

“Mum!” Katey was on her feet again. “I don't want to take sides in this unless I'm forced to, but if you carry on like this…”

Mags looked away, apparently unmoved.

“Right!” said Katey “If that's the way.”

Mags turned back to Tom.

“He said in his letter that he would be telling you personally what he wanted to say when you met, so he wouldn't need to write to you.” She looked at Katey. “Okay? Satisfied?”

No one spoke for a while. Katey sat cross-legged on the floor close to her father's chair. At last Tom broke the silence.

“Look, I just want you both to understand what happened in the visiting room that day. If you know already, then that's okay. But there's going to be a press statement about what happened – what I did – what Jack did.”

His head dropped onto his chest as he choked on the words. Katey reached across and squeezed his hand.

“Tell us, Dad. We're listening.”

He sat up again, his eyes glistening.

“I just wanted you to hear it from me first.”

He stopped, looking across at Mags.

“Go on,” she said, meeting his eyes more gently this time.

He spoke quickly at first, desperate to get it over with.

“I had a meeting with Jack – just the two of us – at his request. He asked me about providing him with … a way out. You know, if things got really bad. It made me feel sick just to think about it, but what could I do? What would you have done? It was the very last thing that any of us could do for him.”