Heaven's Door (32 page)

He turned and walked up the steps into the building.

Grace and Jonathan looked down from the second floor window overlooking the scene. In spite of the Press Secretary's closing remark, the crowd of reporters predictably shouted their questions until the doors closed behind him. Once he was out of sight, they turned to each other, exchanging comments and gestures which reflected their excitement at the story, but conveyed none of the sympathy they had been asked to extend to the bereaved.

“Andrew would have made a good reporter,” said Jonathan, absently.

Grace turned to look at him.

“No feelings, just reactions.”

“I think you're being a bit hard on reporters,” said Grace.

They laughed briefly.

“I still think you should have cleared the statement with him, like he asked” said Grace.

“Seemed to slip my mind,” said Jonathan.

They both smiled and sat in silence for a long time.

“What about Midanda?” asked Jonathan, eventually. “You know, about his jumping the queue?”

“Oh, just ignore that,” said Grace. “Andrew will probably forget he even mentioned it, but I'll smooth it out anyway.”

*

“At 3.40 pm precisely today, Mr Hugh Jacob – known as Jack – Tomlinson-Brown died whilst in custody at Guildford Holding Centre. A full investigation into the circumstances of his death is already under way and we will keep you informed of any developments. We extend our sincere sympathy to the family of the deceased, and in particular, his father, Mr Tom Brown, the Home Secretary, his mother, Maggie Tomlinson-Brown, and his sister, Katey. Our thoughts are with them at this extremely difficult time.

“Thank you.”

Edwin Mills turned and walked back through the gates of New Station Yard.

*

Sammo hesitated on the pavement immediately in front of where David was standing and then, glancing up at him, hurried on twenty yards or so, and settled down to wait.

David didn't move for several minutes, during which time Sammo shot him a few anxious looks. Eventually, David left his doorway and walked quickly up to him.

“Got a problem with me, Sammo?” he said.

“How do you know me?”

David grabbed his arm, gripping it tightly.

“I thought I just asked
you
a question,” he said, clenching his teeth.

“Okay,” said Sammo, with a sneer. “Answer to yours is ‘no, I don't have a problem with you'. Now, your turn. The question was – how do you know me?”

Sammo was no bigger than Laser, and not much stockier, but considerably better dressed in designer jeans and an expensive-looking polo shirt under a light-weight Barbour jacket. And, quite clearly, David thought, he had a lot more bottle. Either that or a couple of minders watching over him from close by.

“Duke sent me to get you,” said David.

Sammo's expression changed.

“The Duke,” he said, wide-eyed and in a small voice. “What does he want?”

“He wants to see you; that's all I know. As I say, he sent me to get you.”

“Where is he?”

“He said you'd know; I haven't a clue. He just phoned, told me where to find you and said ‘go get him'. I'm the new guy, see, so I reckon he's still testing me out. Doesn't give me much info. But that's okay, because I'm not sure about him either. Doesn't do to rush in to new business partnerships. Right?”

“You don't look much like a trader,” said Sammo.

David gave a laugh.

“Right on, Sammo. Security and dispatch, that's me. And today, I'm collect as well. Shall we go?”

He gripped Sammo's arm a little tighter and set off to where he had parked his car. Sammo pulled back.

“How do I know you're who you say you are?”

“I haven't told you who I am, Sammo. But you don't need to know. Duke wants me as low profile as possible for now.”

He looked David up and down.

“Low profile! Christ, you're not much fucking good at that part of the job, are you?”

“Look, Sammo, I've been really nice about this so far. But I'm losing my patience now. I don't know about you, but I'm not in a hurry to get on the wrong side of the man. So one way or the other, I'm taking you to him – upright or horizontal – I don't give a shit which. So you decide, before I give all these toe-rags round here a quick demo on how to motivate people.”

Sammo walked along, looking curiously up at him.

“I think it's you who wants to see the Duke,” he said. “Not the Duke who wants to see me.”

They turned into a quieter side street away from the shops. Grabbing the front of Sammo's jacket, David lifted him off the ground and slammed him against the wall. The few people close to them retreated to a safe distance before turning to watch the action.

“Listen, you fucking insignificant little wanker!” David hissed through his clenched mouth. “I don't give a fuck what you think, or whether you think, or whether you live, or whether you die! Duke didn't say anything about delivering you alive; just to deliver you.
Okay
?”

“Right,” said Sammo, his face contorted with pain.

David lifted him a couple of inches higher then threw him down onto the pavement. Sammo moved to get up but David grabbed him again, hauling him to his feet by his hair. Sammo's hand went into the inside pocket of his jacket. David grabbed his wrist, holding his hand inside the coat. He swung him round to face the wall and crushed him up against it. This time Sammo slumped to the ground without any assistance, eyes half-glazing over. David reached inside the jacket and removed a switchblade knife. He pressed the catch on the handle releasing a serrated six-inch blade, which snapped into position.

“This for your day job, Sammo? Sharpening pencils?”

He closed the knife, slipping it into his back pocket, then hauled Sammo to his feet again and dragged him down the street, now almost running. David rammed him into the passenger seat of the car. Sammo was groaning in pain with his arms wrapped around his chest as if holding his ribs in place.

“Okay,” said David. “Where to?”

Sammo looked across at him. His eyes were watering and when he opened his mouth to speak, the words would not come at first. David reached behind him and took out Sammo's knife, clicking open the blade.

“I hadn't planned to give you this back yet,” he said, “but if you're going to go quiet on me.”

“You've broken my fucking ribs!” said Sammo, finding his voice. “You fucking bastard!”

“That's a shame,” said David, “but your fault. Just tell me where to take you, so I don't have to break what's behind them.”

It took several moments before Sammo could speak again, during which his eyes never left the knife, which David waved like a windscreen wiper in front of his face.

“Just off Grindalls Road,” he said. “Know it?”

“Like I said, I'm new around here. You direct me.”

“Listen, I got a car just round the corner,” Sammo was breathing a little easier now. “I'll go see the Duke. I'll tell him you found me and …”

“No, no, no,” said David, closing the knife again and dropping it into the driver's door storage pocket. “I have to take you. That's the deal. Duke's instructions, not mine. So let's go.”

Sammo hesitated, wincing and holding his ribs again.

“Okay, straight ahead.”

*

David and Sammo looked across the street at the large detached house with its name in stained glass in the arched window above the double front doors; a name David thought was vaguely familiar. The house itself looked a little run-down and in need of a face-lift, but there were cheerful sounds coming through the partly opened sash windows from the brightly lit rooms inside.

“Is this it? The Duke's place?” asked David.

“Yeah, this is it. You coming in?”

“No. Done my job. I'll just wait here to see you get in alright. There are some rough characters around, you know. Wouldn't want to see you get hurt.”

Sammo turned to David with an expression of pure malice. He got out of the car and walked round it and across the street towards the house. David lowered the window.

“Hey, Sammo, you might need this. Just in case Dukey-boy wants some pencils sharpening.”

He threw the knife across the street. Sammo picked it up and looked back at him with the renewed courage that came with the weapon. David casually lifted the replica Gloch so it was just in view, pretending to examine it and passing it from hand to hand as if checking its grip and weight. Sammo pocketed the knife, turned and walked up the three steps and into the house.

David drove on and did a three-point turn at the end of what was a short cul-de-sac before returning to stop in the same place opposite the house. He reached behind him under his seat and took out the retirement present he had received from his colleagues at Parkside station. It was one of his favourite possessions, an item whose full description it had taken him some time to memorise; a Panasonic Lumix 15-mega-pixel digital camera, with 24-times optical zoom.

He lowered the passenger side window and took a photograph of the name above the door. The flash automatically activated in the fading light. He checked the time – 8.55 pm – and settled down to wait, the camera trained on the double doors, and the car engine running.

The front doors burst open and Sammo shot out and down the steps, obviously propelled from behind. Following him closely was a tall, good-looking, dark-skinned young man – David guessed Somali or mixed ancestry – wearing a tee-shirt and jeans. He was clearly very angry and considerably anxious as well. He looked up and down the street.

“Are you fucking stupid, or what? Where is he?”

“There!”

Sammo pointed across at David and the man looked straight at him. The camera clicked rapidly three times, the attendant flashes temporarily confusing the subject. David slipped the car into gear and turned the corner onto Grindalls Road. He stopped at the first opportunity to check the shots he had taken. The images were crisp and clear.

*

David picked up the A3 and raced back to St Herbert's Street. He attached the camera to his laptop and downloaded the images into a file, including the picture of the house name. As the camera screen had shown, they were clear and well-defined. He wrote a brief email to Jo and attached the file. Then he phoned her mobile.

“Hi,” he said. “Feeling okay?”

“Not really, but I'll be fine.”

“Did you phone Maggie?”

“Yes, but no answer. Hardly surprising. I left a message. Are you okay? Where are you?”

“Back at Linny's. And I've got a present for you. A photo of Dukey boy.”

“Wow, you do move fast for an elderly detective. Where did you get it?”

“Outside his house. It's called Manston Grange; it's on Sharp Street, off Grindalls Road in Woking.”

He heard her gasp.

“Say that again,” she said.

“Manston Grange, on Sharp Street, off Grindalls …”

“Oh, my God! ”

Week 11; Friday, 5 June …

“I
am
sorry, sir,” said Jo, “but I wasn't sure what to do. The case was closed; I was moving to Leicester; there was obviously very little time, what with their starting on passage next week.” She paused, swallowing before she continued. “In fact, as it turned out, there was less time than I realised – than any of us could have realised.”

John Mackay had been staring down at his hands clasped tightly together on the desk in front of him. Then he looked up at Jo, seeming to snap out of his melancholy.

“The weight of evidence is so damning, Jo. You cannot begin to imagine how much I wanted us to be wrong, hoping we'd find nothing, that it would all prove to be a big mistake. But it
wasn't
a mistake, because with all the different strands of evidence, even if you did uncover some sort of set-up, that wouldn't prove that Jack wasn't a dealer. It's much more likely to be one dealer setting up another than…”

“The framing of an innocent?” added Jo.

“Exactly,” said John. “I mean, just let's recap your conspiracy theory. You're saying that Kadawe, knowing that Jack frequented Delaware Street, sent a string of users to approach him in view of the CCTV cameras so we'll suspect he's a dealer. Kadawe – this is your theory – would bank on the fact that, because we regularly trawl images from that area, we were bound to see him. Well, for a start,
why
would he do that?”

“If you mean why had Mickey got it in for Jack and Jason when they all seemed to be very close friends, I haven't a clue. But if you mean in the context of a conspiracy why would he do it, well, as part of an accumulation of evidence. If we can now establish links between Mickey and the guys who actually came
forward
…”

“If there
are
links.”

“Well, we have
definitely
established one between him and one of the guys caught on camera with Jack. And remember, it's more than a link, sir, it's a loop. Jack to Laser, Laser to Sammo, Sammo to Kadawe, Kadawe to Jack. If we can trace some more of these guys back to Kadawe, then surely there's a real chance Jack was set up. And Jason.”

“But if Jack and Jason were into drugs, then you'd
expect
them to all to know each other, whether they're dealing soft or hard. Jack's standoff with Laser on Delaware could have been because Laser was after the soft stuff and Jack wasn't into that. That fits a hell of a lot better with everything else we know,
including
the type of stuff we found in his room, than with a complicated conspiracy. And let me remind you that we watched Kadawe for seven months last year, on suspicion of illegal drug dealing –
and
small arms dealing, as a matter of fact – and we came up with nothing. Zilch with a capital zero.”

Jo remained silent, deep in thought.

“Okay,” said John, “so let's go back to the other ‘why'. Motive. Why would someone go to that much trouble to frame two of their best friends?”

Jo shrugged.

“What is Kadawe's background, sir?” said Jo. ”Family and such like.”

John reached down and took from a drawer in his desk a battered manila file with an elastic band stretched to its limit holding it together.

“How much do you want to know?” he asked. “You heard quite a lot from the Prosecution's cross-examination at the trial. This is all stuff I collected myself when we were doing the surveillance. Lots of detail about personal history.”

“I
would
like to know about his background if possible,” said Jo.

“No problem,” said John. “All this stuff's on e-file,” he tapped the folder, “you can access it yourself; but I can give you a whistle-stop tour if you like.”

“Yes, please.”

John put the file back in the drawer.

“Well, I suppose it's quite a sad story, really. Mickey Kadawe is of dual ancestry – African-Asian – although the identity of his biological father is unknown. His mother, Idabel Matal, was recruited in India by a multinational food company with a small operation in Middlebank, Johannesburg. She moved there, on her own, to be their IT Manager, They set her up in the best part of town – top end of market – walled executive estate; she must have thought all her Christmases had come at once. What?”

Jo was smiling.

“Just fascinated that you know all this stuff by heart, sir – oh, and she probably didn't celebrate Christmas. Sorry, didn't mean to be impertinent.”

“No, it's a fair point about Christmas; and I know all this stuff because, as I said, I collected it myself and spent half of last year going over and over it during the surveillance period. Anyway, a long story short – or shorter anyway – Idabel was attacked and raped one night on returning home from work and as a result got pregnant. Her beliefs wouldn't allow her to consider an abortion so she had to have the child. The gardener on the estate – a Black South African – looked after her; they became romantically attached and married just before she gave birth. The man's name was Milton Kadawe and the baby – Mickey – took his family name.

“That might have been a happy ending to a traumatic year, but the neighbours on the estate didn't like living next door to a poor Black African and they were forced to move away.”

“That really is sad,” said Jo. “Poor woman. And poor man, as well.”

“Actually, that's not the sad bit. They moved to a much more modest place close to where Milton's family lived in a small township called Bonjwane – or something like that – just north of Jo'burg and, it seems, they were very happy there for the next ten years. Mickey thrived at school, and they added two daughters to their family. Then Idabel, who, apparently, was exceptional at her job, was offered a promotion to a senior IT position at the company's European Head Office in Leatherhead. A dream come true – it must have appeared at the time – but that's when it all started going wrong – or soon afterwards, anyway.”

“So where are his parents now?”

“Not here, that's for sure. It seems Idabel and the children settled well in Leatherhead. Idabel got a further promotion within a year and the children – all three of them – did well at school. The problem was dad. Milton couldn't get a work permit and although he didn't
need
a job – Idabel was earning more than they'd ever dreamed they'd have – this was a guy who'd worked long hours – manually, outside – all his life since leaving school at fourteen. He must have gone stir crazy being at home all day.”

“I bet their garden looked nice, though,” said Jo.

John snorted a laugh.

“Yes, I bet. But it clearly wasn't enough to keep him occupied because after two years they separated and Milton went back to Bonjwane.”

“That is such a shame,” said Jo. “And after the sort of fairy-tale start they had.”

“Well, Idabel was interviewed by the police a few times soon after he left, because that's when Mickey started getting into real trouble, and she said they had made a commitment to each other – she and Milton – to get together again some time in the future back in South Africa.”

“People do that, though, don't they,” said Jo, “when they split up. They pretend, to soften the blow – for themselves and particularly if there are children. Or am I wrong? Did they get back together?”

“Well, I can't say whether they're together now, but that's not where Idabel went when she left the UK. Anyway, Milton's leaving turned out to be life changing for Mickey. He was just thirteen years old and getting in with some bad kids. His close bond with Milton had been keeping his life in balance, but once he'd gone – well, you heard it all in court.”

“So what of Idabel and the girls?”

“Idabel did really well – within four years of moving over here she'd got the company's top IT job in Europe. The girls as well – did great at school and had lots of friends in the neighbourhood. But Mickey spent very little time at home. Even so,” John looked thoughtful for a moment, “I got the impression that he still had a lot of affection for his family. Visited them fairly regularly; always took flowers for his mum when he did – at least every time we saw him go there.”

“So what happened? You said she left the UK?”

“Yes, she was head-hunted by a huge conglomerate back in India. Offer she couldn't refuse, I guess. Anyway, she went back home, taking the girls with her but leaving Mickey behind. He was just six weeks short of his eighteenth birthday. Thing is, though, she bought four tickets for the flight. She must have hoped – and had
reason
to hope – that he would be going with her – or at least there was a good chance he would.”

Jo didn't speak for a few moments.

“You're right, sir. It is a sad story. But how did Jack and Katey get involved with him.”

“Through Jason – he was a friend of Mickey's since junior school. So Katey got sucked in first, through her relationship with Jason. As for Jack, pretty much as Mickey described in court. One evening, Jack and Jason were playing pool at Rocco's Ball Room in Leatherhead. Jason left first to get a taxi to Cobham; Jack finished his drink, left about five minutes later and found Jason in an alley surrounded by a gang of five yobs threatening him and telling him to stay away from Katey. Jack was about to wade in and probably get done over himself when Mickey turned up at the other end of the alley. The swift change in odds from five-against-one to five-against-three must have caused them to think again, because they ran off.

“It was Tom Brown who told me that, in fact. When we started the surveillance on Mickey and realised that Jack and Katey were spending so much time with him, we told Tom, and that's when he told me the story. I think he wanted to believe that what Jack felt was just gratitude rather than real friendship.”

“Interesting, story, sir, and one hell of a coincidence, don't you think?”

“What do you mean?”

“This Rocco's is in Leatherhead; Mickey lives in Woking, and he just turns up at the critical moment to save Jack – and Jason. What an amazing piece of luck, or something else.”

“You're starting to see conspiracies everywhere, Jo. Mickey goes to Rocco's from time to time, so it didn't stand out as anything other than a lucky coincidence. I think they were just fortunate that he was passing and tipped the balance. There's absolutely no reason to believe it's anything other than that.”

“Possibly,” said Jo.

John was silent for a moment before he spoke.

“Look, Jo, I wanted you as part of my team because your Chief Constable felt that, among many other things, you had exceptionally good instincts. And I need you applying those in the right place.” He held up his hand as Jo started to speak. “So what I'm prepared to do is sanction you looking further into this, but on your own – not with any outside help, which means you've got to call off your hound-dog. And the reason I'm agreeing to that is because I'm
convinced
that there is no set-up, no conspiracy; and I'm equally convinced that if you apply yourself objectively to the task, you will reach that same conclusion.”

“Thank you, sir, I'm really …”

“However,” interrupted John, “that does
not
mean that I'm re-opening the case, so, for the time being this is just between you and me, which means you don't go interviewing people; you just trawl the records for now. You will need an awful lot more than Mr Gerrard has uncovered to date for me to take seriously any suggestion of a set-up. Okay?”

“Okay, sir. Thank you.”

“I am sure that Tom and Maggie believe Jack was innocent, but ultimately, I'm afraid they will have to accept the unthinkable, and the sooner the better. I would hate to raise their hopes even for a short time only to have them dashed again. So this is completely unofficial, otherwise it could get back to them. Okay?”

“Okay, sir.”

“Keep me posted,” said John. “That's all – for now.”

He stood and offered his hand as Jo rose to her feet.

“Good to have you back, Jo, even though the circumstances couldn't have been any worse.”

“Good to be back, sir.”

*

David pulled over to the side of the road to take Jo's call.

“Poirot ici.”

“Bonjour, Hercule,” said Jo. “Just had a chat with Johnny Mac. He seems to think that what we've got reinforces, rather than casts doubt on, Jack being guilty.”

“But he didn't convince you?”

“Well, no, of course not.” She paused. “Although I have to say he did make a good point.”

“Which is?”

“Well, if Jack
had
been a dealer in that area, then Sammo, Kadawe, Jason and Jack – they would have all known each other, anyway. Right?”

“That's right. In fact, I'm not sure the link to Kadawe has any real significance at all. For me, the main points of note are the way Laser was introduced to Jack – this ‘don't tell him I sent you' stuff – plus the fact that Jack – according to Laser – didn't seem to know what was going on. Those are the only causes for any doubt in my opinion.”

“I understand what you're saying, but I just
feel
Kadawe's involved in some way.”

“Okay, fair enough. Anyway, what next? I'm on my way to Auntie's right now to renew my acquaintance with Lawrence H Newhouse.”

“Well, the other thing I need to tell you is that I'm banned from working with you, so you're not to get involved any more. Mackay said I can dig around in the records but that's all. So you're on sabbatical for the time being.”

“On full pay?”

“I think I can guarantee there'll be no reduction in salary.”

David laughed.

“Okay, I'll tell Laser he's got time off for his good behaviour yesterday. And look, Jo, don't let this get to you. I know you feel you've got some obligation to Maggie, but if Johnny Mac – and the justice system – are right, then the sooner the better for her and Tom Brown to get to grips with the fact that they didn't know their son as well as they thought. Your promise to Maggie was to look, not to find.”