Heaven's Door (37 page)

She sighed, and then smiled, rising from her chair and walking up close to him.

“Okay,” she pouted, “so here's a test of your resolve and patience. I'm going to the US tomorrow on a four-week diplomatic assignment. If anything comes up in the meantime, do you think it can wait?”

She placed her hand against the front of his trousers.

“I think so,” he said, his voice faltering a little.

“If you're not sure, I could stay,” she said, pressing her hand against him more firmly.

“I
am
sure.” He stepped to one side. “Anyway, I've got to get to work on my Plan B.”

“Plan B?”

“Yes, now Andrew has accepted my resignation, I'll get started on my campaign to fight for the vacant seat in Princes as an Independent. What do you think of that?”

“Well … good luck,” she said, and then smiled again. “But what if you get in? Wouldn't we have a sort of working relationship again? I wouldn't like anything to get in the way of… you know?”

“Don't worry; I'll make sure I major on something else. Improving the postal system, perhaps, so I can free up more of your time.”

She smiled, and walked through the bedroom to the door of the apartment. She turned and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him softly but reaching between his lips with her tongue. He walked her down to the ground floor entrance, this time shaking her hand and kissing her briefly on the offered cheek.

*

Back on the balcony, Tom's thoughts turned to Mags and a feeling of guilt suddenly overwhelmed him. Not for what had just happened with his former colleague, but because he was here, away from the scene of so many harrowing memories; with the real prospect of a new life, one completely detached from his previous existence. Mags and Katey were at home, with reminders of Jack all around them, reinforcing their loss and locking them into their prison of despair. He had escaped and just left them to it. The only linkage to his late son in this new world was the name on the bottle he was reaching for to pour his next drink.

*

Week 13; Thursday, 18 June…

The sound of his mobile woke Tom. He scrambled to find it on the bedside table, knocking his half full shot glass and wristwatch onto the floor.

“Yes,” he rasped.

“Where the hell are you?”

“Tony? What's wrong?”

“What's wrong? I've got half the fucking world's press here waiting to do sound-checks!”

Tom squinted at the display on the phone; ‘09:38'.

“Oh, shit! I'm sorry, Tony. I overslept.”

“Overslept? You sound like you had quite a lot of help. Please don't tell me you're not up yet.”

“Okay, I won't,” Tom groaned, “but you've just happened to hit on the truth. I'll be there in …”

“Twenty minutes? Because that's how much time you've got. Look, whether you're here or not, the cameras will start rolling at ten and the story will be just as big. ‘Tom Brown fails to turn up at his own press conference.' Maybe even bigger.”

“Can't you delay them for half-an-hour?”

“You know how these things work, Tom. All the major news channels have got live airtime scheduled for this. There'll be people getting up at five and six in the morning in the US to hear you. What do you think they'll do – show repeats of South Park?”

“I'm moving, right! I'll be there just as …Jesus!”

“What's wrong now?”

“Like I said – I'm moving. God, I feel like shit. I'm not going to make it for ten, Tony. Half-past, that's the best I can do. Tell them I'm not well. It'll be the biggest understatement they'll get to report this year.”

“Okay,” said Tony. “I'll tell them now and just perhaps they can reschedule the airtime. But ten-thirty – no later – or I'll go live at that time with the truth.”

“Which is?”

“You're too pissed to talk to them.”

“Look, why don't you just tell them that now …”

“No, Tom, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. God knows, you're entitled to drown your sorrows. I was just concerned about you, wondered if you were okay. I'll hold them off. They don't call me Alamo Dobson for nothing, you know.”

“Thanks, Tony; I'll get there as soon as possible. I owe you.”

“I'll collect, don't you worry.”

Tom staggered around the bedroom looking for his press statement. He remembered taking it off the printer sometime during the evening but it had been lost somewhere between the balcony and the bedroom. Or maybe the living room, he thought, finding the first whiskey bottle empty on the balcony table. Did he take the papers through when he went for the second bottle?

Without any more time to waste on the search he went into the bathroom and made a poor and ill-advised attempt at a wet shave, cutting himself under his chin. He abandoned the task and went back to his bedroom in search of a tissue, picking up his watch from the floor and deciding there was no time for a shower.

He dressed hurriedly, putting on his suit over the boxer shorts and shirt he had crashed out in the previous evening. He pulled on socks and shoes, and grabbed a tie from the rack in the wardrobe, trying twice with the knot before leaving it loose and untidy after the second attempt. He checked his watch again – 10.20.

He fumbled, optimistically, with his car keys, dropping them onto the floor and kicking them under the dressing table in frustration. He couldn't have driven, anyway, he knew, and set off unsteadily down the staircase and out onto Victoria Bridge Road launching himself into the traffic to stop a taxi and almost colliding with a cyclist he had failed to see in the inside lane.

He all but fell out of the taxi a couple of minutes after 10.30, and the media group watched in disbelief as he patted his pockets looking for money that wasn't there to settle the fare. Tony rushed across and paid the driver, and Tom turned slowly and dizzily round to face the gathering.

There were audible gasps of astonishment as he mounted the small stage in Riverside Walk Gardens and clutched the lectern for support. The trickle of crimson which was still clearly flowing from beneath his chin was causing a stain to spread along the collar of the crumpled shirt. His hair was uncombed and he had failed to tie the lace of one of his shoes.

He looked around the sea of faces, blinking his eyes into focus and attempting a smile which was more like a crooked grimace.

“Ladies and gentleman of the press …”

Tony stepped up beside him. “Just a moment, Tom, let's get the mike sorted first.”

He clipped the radio mike onto his lapel as Tom gave a loud, unnatural laugh which ceased abruptly as the pain shot through his head. He turned to Tony.

“Are we on camera yet?” It was supposed to be a whisper but was loud enough for all to hear. They exchanged baffled and worried looks as Tom straightened up again and Tony stepped slightly to one side.

“Ready to roll,” he said. “Give Mr Brown his cue.”

“Ladies and gentlemen of the press,” said Tom, his eyes glazed and rolling. “I just want to say …thank you. That is, thank you for coming here today and … for everything else. You know, like reporting all I've done over the years. Because without you, there would be no Tom Brown. And without no Tom Brown … I mean … without Tom Brown, there would be no New Justice Regime. Just remember that.”

He wagged his finger limply at the group. No one was taking notes.

“And I want to thank everybody for their support at this difficult time. Well, not everybody – but I won't say any more about that. I'll just say this; I didn't want to resign, because now I've got nothing.
Nothing
. But … well … you know how it is.”

He was breathing heavily, struggling with his balance.

“I haven't decided what I'm going to do next. There's one or two things, I suppose but – well – whatever. But I'll keep you all informed as and when – if anyone's still interested.”

He laughed again, looking round the sea of blank faces. Then he seemed to slip and gripped the lectern tighter.

“I'm okay,” he snapped at Tony, who had taken a step forward to support him. “Just fine.” He turned back to the reporters. “Now, any questions? Just ask away, that's what I'm here for.”

There was a general shaking of heads, except for one reporter at the back. A young woman with short blonde hair, wearing a pink jacket and black trousers held up her hand. Tom didn't see her but Tony stepped up beside him.

“Over there,” he said, pointing.

“Clara Lewis, Network Thames,” she said. “Mr Brown, in the light of what has happened, do you have any regrets about extending the expulsion provisions to drug dealers?”

There was a deathly hush as the whole group of reporters turned to look at her in disbelief. Tears sprang to Tom's eyes. He caught them with the thumb and forefinger of one hand. There was a long silence.

“Oh, yes,” he said, his voice barely audible. “Most definitely, yes.”

He turned and stepped down from the stage.

*

Tom went into the bathroom, seeing himself in the mirror for the first time since he had staggered away from it earlier to find a tissue to deal with his cut. His eyes filled briefly with tears again at the depressing sight in front of him, before he splashed water onto his face and went into the bedroom to change his bloodstained shirt. He picked up the half-empty bottle of whiskey and joined Tony in the living room.

“Could I ask you two big favours, my friend?” said Tom.

“Go on.”

“Firstly, don't say anything to me about what just happened, at least for the rest of today. Suffice to say, I'm really sorry. You deserved a lot better. Okay?”

“Okay. And the other favour?”

Tom held up the bottle.

“Stay and help me finish this. That way, I'll only drink half of what's left. If you go. I'll drink the lot.”

Tony thought for a moment.

“On one condition. We eat first, and drink later. Okay?”

“Okay.”

*

Week 13; Friday, 19 June…

Tom read again the text he had received from Andrew the previous evening.

“Really enjoyed your press conference. Good luck with the campaign.”

It was not until now that he realised its implications and thought back to his conversation with Jackie two days ago. He hadn't mentioned his plans to contest the vacant seat in his statement to the press. Only one person in the world had heard him state that intention.

Four days later

Week 14; Tuesday, 23 June…

John Mackay's agitation contrasted sharply with his relaxed and smiling demeanour at their first meeting exactly nine weeks ago. He had, uncharacteristically, discarded his uniform jacket and loosened his tie and was pacing backwards and forwards, covering the full distance between the large bookcase at one side of his office and the windows overlooking New Station Yard at the other. Even more unusually, his jacket was roughly draped around the back of his chair rather than arranged neatly on its padded hanger on the coat stand. Jo was sitting on one of the two wing chairs in front of the desk watching and listening intently.

“I –
we
– need to get closure on this, Jo. Today – right
now
, in fact. If Gerrard went round intimidating
all
the witnesses and came back from each with what he got from Newhouse, I
still
wouldn't have enough to reopen the case. There's nothing – and there would
still
be nothing – to indicate anything except the usual on-the-street jostling for positions.”

“Yes, sir, I do see that, but …”

“It's the ‘
but
' that you've got to lose, Jo. Nobody doubts your instincts and your intentions, but there comes a point where
judgement
must take over from them. You don't have an axe to grind, a position to protect. I don't understand what is driving you, other than your feeling at the time you made the arrest that he didn't
seem
to know the stuff was there. But if he's devious enough to peddle crack in the current climate, feigning shock and horror to give himself time to think would be a piece of cake.”

“I do understand, sir. I guess I'm just …”

“
And
,” John continued, “something we've hardly mentioned; what about his performance in court? Not a lot of shock and horror – or denial – there, was there? A guilty man resigned to his fate if ever I've seen one.”

Jo sighed. John sat down and leaned across towards her, resting his elbows on the desk.

“Look, Jo,” he spoke quietly now, “I want you back on board one hundred percent. Heather Rayburn told me about your issue with the Enderbys. How you reacted to their drowning; feeling that you were responsible for allowing them the chance to leave their home and take their own lives just after you'd told them they might lose their son again. It wasn't your fault, as I'm sure you've come to realise, but I can understand how it might have seemed that way at the time.”

Jo was staring at him now, eyes wide.

“But this is different…” John went on.

“You bet it is, sir,” Jo interrupted. “I don't see any connection at all. On that occasion it
would
have been avoided if I'd acted differently. That's a
fact
. If I'd just put a watch on them …”

“It's not about the incident itself, Jo.” John held up his hands to stop and reassure her. “I'm talking about the
reaction
. On that occasion, as I said, I can understand how it got to you. But you're a fringe player in this, and yet, increasingly over the past couple of weeks or so, you've been letting this get to you in much the same way. You seem to have assumed the responsibility for Jack and Jason's situation – taken on the blame for their fate.
They
are to blame, Jo.
They did it
, as far as it's possible in this life to be certain of anything. You have to let go.”

Jo didn't speak.

“Look,” said John. “I'm going to tell you something that only two or, perhaps, three people know. That's me, Tom Brown and, just possibly, his wife. When they made the statement in the House about the sentencing of drug dealers, I phoned Tom Brown in an attempt to persuade him to think again. I actually tried to talk him out of it. Can you believe it! I couldn't tell him
why
, of course, because even at that stage, prior to the drugs being found, we already had enough on Jack – and Jason – to make a case against them. That was bad enough
before
the announcement, but suddenly I was faced with the distinct possibility that what we were about to do could result in one of my best friends losing his son forever. And that's exactly what happened, although not in the way anyone expected. Not my fault – but that doesn't make it any easier.

“It was unprofessional of me to speak to him at all, of course. In a conflict of interest like that you should always put the personal issue aside and do what you're paid to do. And it was a waste of time, anyway, as you know. So I failed twice – made the wrong decision, professionally,
and
failed to carry it through. So when it comes to feeling responsible, DI Cottrell, I'm in the gold medal position and you've not even qualified for the final.”

Jo didn't speak for a long time.

“I'm sorry, sir,” she said, “I guess I didn't realise just how close … Okay, no more ‘buts'. There's nothing I want more than to move on from this – really. And I appreciate your concern about me and for giving me time out to plough my own furrow, as it were.”

John was silent himself for a few moments. Then he leaned back in his chair.

“Good,” he said, suddenly more relaxed. “I know you can't just throw a switch and turn it off.”

“No, sir, but I
can
start to rotate the knob on the dimmer.”

John laughed out loud. “From what I've heard about him, that sounds like pure Gerrard.”

Jo smiled. “I'll take that as a compliment.”

“Something else you should know that I didn't share with you before. When we set up the surveillance on Mickey last year, we had what we thought was rock solid evidence that Manston Grange was the centre of an illegal drugs market. We assumed, because of his background, that Kadawe was the main man – the centre of the activity; the hub of the wheel. As you know, we watched him, pretty much day and night, for seven months; and got nothing.

“We called off the operation, went back over all the information we'd collected beforehand and
still
couldn't understand how we could have got it wrong. So we kept a watchful eye going forward and, lo and behold, Jack and Jason – as Jake and Jasper – came onto the radar. We'd been seeing the Grange and Kadawe as pretty much one and the same entity. It seems certain now, that we were looking in the right place but at the wrong person.”

Jo was silent for a long time.

“So why didn't you share this with me before, sir?” she said, eventually.

John got to his feet and started pacing again.

“I didn't tell you because I secretly hoped – almost prayed – that you
would
find something. I desperately wanted you to be right and all the rest of us wrong; even though it would have been a massive embarrassment to us and now, of course, too late for Jack.”

He turned to Jo.

“But you can't find what isn't there, even if you look for ever.”

*

Jo walked out through the main gates to a small park a couple of streets away where she sat on a bench overlooking the duck pond. She gazed absently at the rippling water stirred by a gentle breeze, then took out her phone and clutched it tightly on her lap for a long time. Eventually she looked down at it and scrolled through her list of contacts.

*

Week 14; Wednesday, 24 June…

For a long time, the dishevelled figure sat on the parapet above the central arch of Vauxhall Bridge, his feet swinging over the side above the Thames. His hair was uncombed, and his clothes creased; the collar of his sports jacket was turned inwards and the tail of his crumpled shirt was half sticking out at the back. People passed by within a couple of feet of him, pretending he wasn't there, not giving him a second glance.

It was hardly surprising then that no one recognised him. If they had looked more closely, they might have noticed that the clothes were expensive, and the face under the mop of hair and behind the stubble was strikingly handsome, with pale-blue, intelligent eyes.

The man looked down at the water forty feet below, churning in the wake of a passing launch, and wondered what it would be like. He was a strong swimmer; he could make it downstream to the flood barrier and back – easily. So, he wondered, would an instinct for survival override his objective? Would his first mouthful of water throw some sort of switch in his mind and activate a natural bid to stay alive? After all, he thought, it wasn't like jumping from a high building or cliff, where the leap itself was the terminal movement. Once
that
step was taken, what followed was inevitable; as certain as Heaven's door.

He looked up and across to the Palace of Westminster, with the sun glinting on its golden highlights, and thought about the man who had delivered a landmark speech to the House on a Wednesday exactly thirteen weeks ago. A man who he realised no longer existed; who had somehow mutated into something else, something worthless. He looked down at the water again and eased himself slightly forward.

“Are you okay?”

He turned quickly at the sound of the voice. The girl was tall and slim, with long, straight, white-blonde hair. With the bright sun behind her he couldn't make out her features, and just for a moment he thought he recognised her. But, of course, he knew it couldn't be her. She hadn't been in touch for some time now; except for just the one text last night.

“I'm fine,” he said to the girl.

“You're sure?”

“Yes, honestly.”

“Okay.” She smiled.

He watched her walk away, and then shouted after her. “Thank you!”

She looked back and gave a little wave. He took his mobile from his jacket and read the text again.

‘Mum needs you very much NOW!'

He shook his head. Wrong, he thought. Whatever it is, I would only make it worse.

He turned to look along the bridge where the girl had gone. He couldn't see her. Could it
really
have been his daughter, he wondered, reaching out to him in his troubled mind?

He sat deep in thought for a full minute without moving, thinking about the girl. Then he swung his legs back over the parapet, dropped on to the pavement and walked off the bridge.