Catalyst (37 page)

“That's where Mrs Holland died,” Karen went on, indicating another pool of blood. Then she pointed to the tent covering the first youth who had been hit. “That guy lost half his head,” she said, “It's all around here.” She swept her arm round the gory mess close to the tent where tissue from the scalp and head cavity mingled with the splashes of blood.

“And that's where the second kid was clubbed,” she explained, indicating the third tent. David gave a shudder.

“If you think this is bad,” said Karen, “I suggest you give the pub a miss. A poor woman in there nearly had her head taken off by flying glass. Blood's about a foot deep.”

“Thanks, Karen; we'll take your advice. Thanks for the sightsee.”

“You're welcome, sir.”

They walked round to the back of the pub, crunching over broken glass. A crate had been placed on its side against the fence to provide a step for the police and SOCOs to climb over it. He eased himself over, followed by Omar, and they walked up the field to the brow and looked down onto the estate below. The scene was similar there, with police vehicles in many of the streets nearest to them, blue lights strobing everywhere. He turned and looked back down to Meadow Village along the route the attackers had taken, visualising the tranquil country scene in the gently fading light, suddenly transformed into a battlefield running with rivers of crimson.

David looked at his watch.

“Midnight,” he said aloud. It triggered a thought. “Lost souls in the hunting ground,” he added.

Omar looked at him questioningly.

“Meatloaf,” said David.

“Oh, right,” said Omar, nodding his head vigorously, as if that explained everything.

The oldest fifty or so cottages of Meadow Village dated back about 250 years. Between then and the present day, more than three times that number of houses had been added to the early settlement, but they had, in effect, just filled in the spaces between the original buildings. So the village had not grown in area, just in density, and the houses themselves had been tastefully integrated into the surroundings. In addition to the Dog and Duck public house, the village also boasted a church, community hall, shop-cum-post office, and a few small working farms. All these were clustered together in a tight residential area and surrounded by fields, which were used mostly for grazing sheep, cattle and horses.

Tom and Mags's visit to the stricken village on the Sunday morning was intended to be brief, personal and unreported; a plan which seemed naïve in retrospect for two people with such a high profile in the public eye. They drove there immediately after an early breakfast, leaving a note for Katey who, along with her friends, were still asleep upstairs.

They arrived just before 10.00 am. The police, recognising Tom, waved them through the barrier at the top of Settlement Lane, and they pulled up outside the pub in almost exactly the same spot where the taxi had dropped him off when he met George just before the 3AF debate. The memory brought a sick feeling to his stomach and standing tears to his eyes. Mags reached across to him and squeezed his hand as they opened the doors to get out.

The village was overrun by people. There were still four police vehicles there and a team of SOCOs had returned to view the scene in the daylight. In addition, there was now the expected media circus, this being an extension to the headline chronicles of the past couple of months and an incident which brought together the two previously parallel-running stories in a dramatic collision. Several huge vans representing all the major TV news channels were parked at the side and back of the Dog and Duck. Many reporters and technicians were standing around chatting and drinking coffee – supplied by the pub – whilst even more were setting up equipment. Newspaper journalists were out in force, along the full length of Main Street, the village end of Settlement Lane, and were hurrying around intercepting residents for interviews.

Mercifully, the area outside the Dog and Duck had been hosed down and there was none of the graphic evidence of the slaughter from the previous evening. The shattered windows were boarded up except for one where the pane was already being replaced. Jed Smithers was directing operations and did a classic double-take when he looked across at the new arrivals.

“Tom – Mr Brown,” he said, recognising him, “I'm Jed Smithers, landlord.”

Tom smiled and shook the man's extended hand.

“Yes, I remember, Jed. This is my wife, Maggie.”

Jed had not taken his eyes off Mags since his double-take.

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs Brown,” he said.

Mags smiled back at him.

“Terrible business, Jed,” said Tom, drawing the landlord's gaze away from his wife. “Have you seen any of the villagers this morning?”

“Just those passing to go for the papers. People can hardly speak, they're so upset. It'll never be the same again, I don't reckon. Unless you can build a wall round that bloody place.”

He pointed in the direction of the estate.

“Has anyone seen George? I can't begin to imagine how he must be feeling.”

“I saw Fred Dawson earlier. He'd called in to see him. Said he looked just about dead himself. Poor Irene; she was a lovely… ” His voice broke and he turned away.

“Yes, she was,” said Tom. “A lovely lady. We're just going to have a walk round. Which is George's house – just in case we decide to call in to pay our respects?”

“The white cottage with the arch over the gate.”

Tom followed the direction of the landlord's pointing finger.

“Okay, thanks, Jed.”

They walked further into the village, initially escaping the attention of the press. A local radio crew, a girl reporter and male technician, were doing a piece live outside George's house.

“I wonder how long all these have been camped in the village?” said Mags.

“Most of the night, probably,” said Tom, as they came up to George's cottage. “The story's twelve hours old now. We'll call in on the way back,” he added, wanting to avoid the radio crew. Then he seemed uncertain. “Do you think I should? It won't look like a publicity thing, will it?”

“Not if we try to call when there's no-one around, only I think that might be difficult.” She nodded towards the pub where Jed was talking to a few of the television people and directing their attention towards George's house. “He's probably telling them right now that you're here,” she added. “Anyway, if they do ask you for comments, you can say this is a private visit to a personal friend and you have nothing further to say today. I think most people would respect that.”

“Most people,” Tom repeated. “This is the press, not ‘most people'. But that's a good idea, Mags. Let's go.”

He turned back suddenly, putting an arm round Mags's waist and steering her behind the reporter through George's gate. He heard her say, “A couple, as I speak, are going up the path presumably to pay their respects to the bereaved campaigner. Just a minute, I do believe… ”

Tom turned to her as she spoke and put his right forefinger to his lips in a request for secrecy. The reporter seemed taken by surprise and stopped in mid-sentence.

“I'll just check that out,” she said, recovering quickly but not giving away the visitor's identity.

Tom mouthed ‘thank you' and turned to the door, pressing the bell.

Fred had not exaggerated when he described George's appearance to Jed. His face was ashen and his eyes were red. He really did look more dead than alive. He seemed not to recognise Tom at first, not expecting to see him on his doorstep like this, but when he did, he managed a weak smile and stepped back with a whispered, “Come in.”

Their visit was brief and personal, as intended. Tom introduced Mags, wondering, albeit too late, whether her presence would accentuate George's loss. However, he seemed comforted that she had taken the time to visit. They did not speak of the incident; George seemed incapable or unwilling to refer to it. They sat mainly in silence with their own thoughts. After several minutes he offered, half-heartedly, to make them tea or coffee and seemed relieved when they both declined. They left after about ten minutes, which seemed a lot longer. Tom and George shook hands and then embraced, a little self-consciously, and Mags kissed him gently on the cheek. Tom said the only thing he could think of.

“If you need anything, George, please get in touch.”

As they parted at the door, George spoke hoarsely, fighting back his tears, “They won't get away with it, you know. I'll do it for Irene. I'll make sure they get what they deserve.”

Neither had time to respond as he closed the door quietly behind them. As they walked through the gate, the radio reporter stepped up to them. She was in her late twenties, tall and slim and casually dressed in a brown fleece jacket and faded jeans. She had a pleasant rather than pretty face and her dark hair was tucked into a fleece hat which matched her jacket. She wore no make-up, unlike her counter-parts interviewing for television.

“Excuse me, Mr Brown. I haven't reported that you're here and the mike is turned off at the moment. I don't want to intrude, but would you mind very much if I asked you just a few questions on air? I'll tell you what they are beforehand, of course. I promise there is nothing political about them. They're just about this dreadful incident.”

“Yes, very well,” said Tom, sighing but feeling the girl deserved some response just for sensitively respecting his position. She must be new to the job, he thought cynically. “Go ahead and ask; I'll trust you to be gentle with me.”

His winning smile, even diluted by adversity, was enough to make her blush a little.

“Thank you,” she gave him her widest smile back. She checked a large watch hanging like a pendant round her neck. “Back live in… six seconds. Jez, count down for transmission, please.”

“Three, two, one… go.”

“This is Clarisse McCarthy, reporting for Thames Plus Radio one-nine-two. I'm in Meadow Village outside the cottage of Mr George Holland, the campaigner for community reform, whose wife was so tragically shot dead last night. It seems Mr Holland himself had been the intended victim, and his wife was hit by accident as she stepped forward to protect him.

“With me now is the Member of Parliament for Princes and Marlburgh, Mr Tom Brown, whose constituency includes Meadow Village, and his wife, Mrs Maggie Tomlinson-Brown.

“Mr Brown, what is your reaction to the terrible events of last night?”

“Well, I think, Clarisse, that our reaction,” he put his arm again around Mags's waist, this time to very clearly include her in the response, “is the same as any civilised human being, that it is frightening that a pleasant evening among those closest to you could end in such an appalling loss of life.”

“And you are, I think I'm right in saying, a personal friend of Mr Holland?”

“That's correct. I have a great personal liking and respect for the man, and his wife was a very lovely lady.”

“You have just been to see Mr Holland. How is he coping with his tragic loss?”

“Very much as you'd expect, I think. He seems stunned and confused. But I believe he will come through this with an even stronger determination to combat these forces of evil which he has clearly set himself bravely against.”

“And do you support his stance in this campaign, Mr Brown? The permanent removal of these forces of evil, I mean?”

“This is a private visit to a personal friend, Clarisse. I have nothing further to say today,” Tom replied, repeating Mags's exact words.

Clarisse silently mouthed the word ‘sorry'; Tom nodded that it was okay. The reporter then held out the microphone tentatively towards Mags, raising her eyebrows, questioningly, about a possible response. Mags nodded and leant forward.

“Have you anything you would like to add, Mrs Tomlinson-Brown?” said Clarisse, picking up the cue.

“Only to endorse what my husband said. We are shocked and dismayed at what has happened. Mr Holland is a brave and good man, and it must seem to him right now that there is little justice in this world.”

Mags leant away to indicate she had finished.

“Thank you both for taking the time to talk to us. This is Clarisse McCarthy for Thames Plus Radio in Meadow Village.”

She indicated three-two-one silently to her technician with a diminishing display of fingers on her left hand. He cut the sound on cue.

“Thank you, Mr Brown, Mrs Tomlinson-Brown. Sorry if I stepped outside our contract. Must be an occupational disease.”

“An occupational requirement, not disease,” said Tom. “Now you can do us a favour, if you don't mind. You see that silver Audi parked outside the pub?” Clarisse nodded. “Could you go and get it for us, please, and drive it over here so we can make our escape? That way we won't have to talk to any other reporters and you get an exclusive; and I get to tell everyone that Clarisse McCarthy drove my car. What do you think?”