Heaven's Door (9 page)

*

“Come in!”

The DI was already pacing round the office when the sergeant entered. The man was around ten years younger than his boss, medium height, stocky and with close-cropped fair hair.

“Something you might actually
want
to hear for a change, sir.”

“Bring it on. God knows I need it.”

“We can't find any link at all to the death of the Johnson kid. Different gangs, different locations. No reason to believe there's any connection.”

“Except for the obvious one.”

“Well, yes,” said the sergeant, “but that could be coincidence.”

“As you know …”

“You don't believe in coincidences.”

“That's right.” He paused. “But in the absence of anything else bringing succour to my life at the moment, I'll waive my beliefs for now and accept this morsel of solace.”

“Very poetic, sir, if I may say so.”

Both men smiled and were silent for a while.

“Will we go to strike on this, do you think?” the sergeant asked.

“Certainly. Have to.”

“In which case, I'd like to apply for a transfer to traffic; at least on a temporary basis.”

“No vacancies. I've already asked.”

They smiled again.

“Don't worry,” said the DI. “I think the big guy's going to use one of his Farts for the main event.”

“Excellent decision,” said the DS. “I always had a feeling they'd come in handy.”

The senior man raised his eyebrows.

“In spite of everything you've said to me about them?”

“Well, I can waive
my
beliefs as well, can't I?”

They laughed this time.

*

“Bit of a detour this morning, Joe.”

Tom's Saturday driver opened the rear door of the BMW.

“Okay, sir. Anywhere exciting?”

“Well, not so now, but it's where all the excitement started. I'll join you up front, if that's okay.”

“Okay with me, sir.”

Tom put his briefcase in the back and slipped into the front passenger seat. They set off for the office in Marlburgh with the back-up vehicle, as always, following fifty yards behind. As they neared their destination, Tom directed Joe down a road off to the right.

“Short diversion,” he said. “Every so often I like to remind myself of where it all kicked off.”

They turned again at Cullen Hall shopping mall onto the main road through the estate.

“When they created this constituency five years ago,” said Tom, “they stuck together some of the best and worst neighbourhoods imaginable. Some of the highest priced properties outside the City itself, along with one of the worst FSIAs in Greater London.”

“Cullen Field Estate?”

Tom nodded.

“Weren't you Princes and Marlburgh's first Member of Parliament, sir,” Joe asked.

“That's right.” He pointed to a road off to the left. “Just down there is the Wild Boar, where John Deverall went to find the Brady brothers. Just turn in here and then first right.”

The manoeuvre brought them onto a minor road which left the estate and soon reached a dismal area consisting of old factories and warehouses.

“Right, stop here, Joe, across the end of this street.” He pointed down the cul-de–sac towards the iron gates across the end. “That's where they cornered him and that's where he killed them.”

He sat in silence for a full minute looking down the street, then turned to his driver.

“Right, Joe. Let's get to work.”

Tom's constituency residence was the top floor of a large three-storey Edwardian detached house on Westbourne Avenue, a quiet leafy street overlooking a small park on the opposite side of which was Parkside Police Station. The constituency office was at the other end of the same road.

Jenny Britani, Tom's PA, was seated in the reception area, laying out numbered cards to hand out to the constituents to establish the order for the meetings. Jenny was a small, attractive, twenty-something Somali, with an irresistible smile, large laughing eyes, and dark brown hair in natural tight curls. She was wearing a short yellow dress and black leggings – her Saturday gear – as she called it – in contrast to the smart two-piece trouser suits she wore through the week.

Tom checked his watch; it was 8.35 am.

“Jenny, shouldn't you be crashed out and hung over somewhere? It's Saturday morning, for goodness' sake.”

“And good morning to
you
, Home Secretary,” she replied. “There's really nowhere I'd rather be. I thought you knew that.”

He laughed.

“Well, it's very much appreciated, but I'll say what I say every week; you really don't need to be here this early. However, it's nice to see a happy, smiling face at this ridiculous time on a weekend.”

“Not just
any
happy, smiling face, I hope,” said Jenny, frowning.

“
Your
happy, smiling face, I mean, of course.”

“Well that's alright then,” she said.

Jenny brewed tea and toasted a couple of bagels, and they shared their usual Saturday morning second breakfast together.

“By the way,” said Tom, “I've decided to run away from home.”

Jenny was wide-eyed.

“Nothing exciting,” Tom went on, “Just a state visit to Lochshore and then a few days' holiday in Scotland. Hopefully, Tuesday to Sunday next week. And before that, if possible, a visit to St Bart's. I'll just need you to apply your brilliance for me over the next couple of days to arrange it all.”

“Well, as I've said before, Home Secretary,” said Jenny, eyes now twinkling. “Brilliance I can do any time; it's just for miracles that I need a bit of notice.”

They both laughed, Tom almost choking on his bagel.

*

His last constituent meeting finished at 3.30 pm and they went over the proposed arrangements for Tom's trip again.

“I've left a message with Georgia to call me early Monday to arrange for you to see Mr Deverall. I assume you'll touch base with the PM to sort it with him. I'll circulate the usual list this afternoon so they'll pick it up Monday morning latest.”

“Thanks, Jenny. Now don't you stay too long; take a couple of hours off at least.”

He waved her goodbye as Joe pulled up outside.

*

All flat and nearly-flat surfaces in the family lounge – sofas, chairs, floor, and two large coffee tables – were covered in OS Explorer maps for the west of Scotland from Glasgow north to Cape Wrath, including the Inner and Outer Hebrides. Mags was kneeling on the floor, sitting back on her heels, adding another possible venue to an already extensive hand-written list attached to a clip-board.

“Wow,” said Tom. “I was thinking more of a visit rather than an invasion.”

She smiled up at him and he dropped down beside her, putting an arm round her shoulder and kissing her on the lips. Their mouths opened, tongues pressing together. Tom eased her onto her back and rolled on top of her, crumpling one of the maps. Mags pushed him off.

“Not here, not now,” she said, in a loud whisper. “Katey's back, and anyway, you're creasing my Trossachs.”

“Oh, my goodness!” said Tom. “I'm so sorry; I had no idea …”

Mags giggled and held him tightly to her, winding a leg around the back of his thighs.

Katey walked in and gasped in pretended horror.

“What on Earth is going on here?” she demanded, glaring down at them, hands on hips.

“Just trying out a new map-reading technique,” said Tom.

“Yes, well I think I'll make myself scarce,” said Katey, “before you start practicing roping yourselves together. Have you mentioned it yet, Mum?”

“Not yet. I've not had chance – as you can see!”

Katey laughed, and turned and left the room.

“See you both later.”

Tom pushed himself away, frowning at Mags.

“Mentioned what?”

“Well, I told Katey we were going away and she asked if they could have a party …”

“And you said you'd check with me first?”

“Not … exactly …”

“You said ‘no'?”

“One guess left …”

“You said ‘yes'?”

“You got it! Well done!” Mags clapped her hands.

Tom sat up.

“Listen, Tom. You know what she's like – exactly like you, come to think of it – she can always remember, word for word, what we say to her. When she asked me I started to say, ‘Well, I'm not sure it's a good idea … I don't think Dad will want you to …' and she said, ‘Dad won't mind. Last night he was very clear that we should be open and honest and trust each other – his very words, in fact…' And you did say that, didn't you, darling?”

“What I said was ‘trust each other's
good intentions'
, to be precise.”

“Well, I'd like to hear you try to argue the difference with Katey. On second thoughts, I don't want to be anywhere near when you try to argue the difference …”

“Okay, point taken.”

“So it's okay?”

“What, the party? I guess it will have to be. Although …”

“Come on, Tom-Tom. They didn't even have to ask us, you know. They could have just arranged it without us even knowing. We owe it to them to say yes for that alone.”

“You're right. But I'm not taking security off. They'll have to come and go under the watchful eyes of the men in black. That's the deal. And it might be best if you tell Katey that. I don't want to push my luck.” He paused, and then laughed, shaking his head. “Listen to me! I sound like the kid instead of the parent!”

“Well, you are a big kid, really,” said Mags, wrapping her arms around him. “Fancy some more map-wrestling?”

*

“What about this?” said Tom, holding up the DVD. “Been some time.”

The movie
X-Men
had a particular significance for them.

“Well, if I can't have him in the flesh next week, I guess that will have to do.”

“Even so, you must admit it's a bit tame,” said Tom, “compared to our own little drama at the Première. You screaming in agony in the back of a taxi with Jack trying to escape.”

“I'm still not sure I've forgiven you yet for dragging me out before the movie had finished.”

“Well it's a good job I did …”

“Oh, I'd have managed somehow. Kept my knees together or something.”

“I doubt it. You always have trouble keeping your knees together when Hugh Jackman appears on the screen.”

“Just you retract that statement or you're in big trouble, my lad,” said Mags.

Tom laughed. “And the first thing you said when you held our little baby boy –
three minutes
after we'd arrived at the hospital, incidentally – was … well, can you remember?”

“I don't have to remember; you tell me every time we watch the movie. ‘Oh, my little wolverine'.”

“Yes, ‘oh, my little wolverine'. God knows what the nurse must have thought.”

Tom slipped the disk into the player and started the movie. They lay together on the four-seater sofa in the large family room at the rear of the house overlooking the pond. Fifteen minutes into it, the sound of Police punctuated the entertainment. Tom checked his mobile and recognised the number.

“Hi, John, hold on a second,” said Tom, unravelling himself from his wife. He held the phone away from him. “John Mackay. I'll take it through there.”

As he was nearing the end of his conversation with John, the warning bleep on his phone alerted him to another incoming call. When they'd finished speaking he checked the new number. It looked vaguely familiar but was not on his contact list. He phoned back.

“Hi, Tom.” A woman's voice. “It's Sylvie here.”

“Sorry, Sylvie who?”

“Oh, come on, don't give me a hard time.”

“
Me
give
you
a hard time. God that's a bit rich.”

“You
are
teasing me, aren't you? We're still friends, right?”

“You tell me, Ms Hanker. You're the one who changed the rules.”

“Well, it wasn't me, actually. I was told by the big guy – the
very
big guy – Sir Brian, no less – not to give you an easy ride. His exact words, in fact, were ‘the
usual
easy ride'. So, I'm very sorry, but I was just following orders, guv, as they say.”

“And you didn't enjoy it one bit, I could tell.”

“Well … it's the way I am with everyone else
except
you – usually.”

“Anyway, it's not like the Director General to be that hands-on, is it?
And
to take a political stance. In fact, I don't think he's allowed to do that. You should interview him, Sylvie, and put that to him. And don't hold back.”

She laughed. “In fact, it wasn't actually his idea. An even higher authority had pressed him to make sure I gave you a tough time. And don't ask me who, because I couldn't possibly reveal my source. Even if I knew who it was.”

“Okay, I won't ask. Anyway, what makes you think you gave me a tough time. I thought I won hands-down.”

“Only because I let you.”

Tom laughed. “Alright, we're still friends. But I'll be thinking of ways you can make it up to me.”

“So will I. In fact, I've thought of a few already.”

He laughed again. “Can't wait to hear them. Bye, Ms Hanker.”

“Bye, Home Secretary.”

He walked back through to where Mags had paused the movie and was flipping through a walking magazine; part of the impressive anthology she had assembled that afternoon.

“So, what did our favourite Chief Superintendent want?” she asked.

“Well, a career in politics, apparently. He's just given me feedback and advice on the next phase of the NJR, which” – he held up his hands to deflect any response – “I have no intention of even
thinking
about let alone discussing tonight. Not when there are more important things to get my mind – and my arms – around.”