Heaven's Door (18 page)

Mags broke down and slumped forward, this time clinging to Tom as he held her to him.

“But,
but
…” Daniel stressed, “there would be no point in their doing that. The drug dealing carries the higher sentence in this case. The
mandatory
sentence.” He looked at Tom. “We are all fully aware of the rationale for certain elements of the NJR, but we're still uncovering the ironies.”

Tom turned to glare at him as Mags again shook herself free of his embrace.

Daniel left soon afterwards, Tom walking him to his car and nodding his goodbye with a brief handshake. The lawyer half got into his car, and then stood up, turning to Tom again.

“Look, Tom, this thing about the death,” he said. “I didn't want to say it back there, but it
could
have an impact on the case if it comes to light. I meant it when I said it was inadmissible, but we might not be able to prevent the Prosecution from mentioning it. At that point, of course, they will be
told
it's inadmissible. But the damage would be done; it would be in the minds of the jury. We'll try to suppress it, of course, but …” He sighed and looked away. “I'm sorry, Tom. I'd much rather be telling you both not to worry, that everything was going to be okay.”

“I know, Dan. Thanks all the same.”

*

Three days later

Week 5; Monday, 20 April…

Grace looked up as her office door opened. The man entering, unannounced and unaccompanied, sat down heavily on the chair in front of her desk and leant across towards her. He seemed very agitated and a little out of breath.

“Andrew. Quite a surprise.” She looked past him towards the door, expecting to see his usual entourage of security personnel, who on this occasion were conspicuous by their absence. “To what do I owe …?”

“Just wondered how you felt about this drug business with Jack Tomlinson-Brown, Grace. Any ideas …thoughts …feelings?”

Grace hesitated.

“Well, they haven't been formally charged yet.”

“No, but we both know they will be; so what do you think?”

“Well, I think it's unfortunate, and I really can't believe …”

“The reality is,” Andrew continued, “this is a massive embarrassment for the Party, whatever the outcome.”

“Whatever the outcome?” Grace repeated. “You don't really believe Jack did this, do you? Surely it has to be a mistake. He's going to get off … isn't he?”

“I don't know whether he'll get off or not,” snapped Andrew. “How the hell
could
I know? It's the sort of question I should be asking you. It will be decided in the usual way; nothing we can …”

“Yes,” Grace jumped in with feeling, “but we all
want
him to get off, don't we? Don't you? You sound like you don't give a shit. For God's sake, surely …!”

“Don't overstep, Grace! I'm just thinking of the bigger picture here. The longer term. There are enough people getting all bristly and wet-eyed on Jack bloody Tomlinson-Brown's behalf. I thought I was going to throw up last Thursday when Gormley made her tear-jerking speech to the House. What the hell was she thinking of?”

“Am I missing something? All she was doing was saying what most of the people in the country will be thinking. That we're all sorry for Tom, after all he's done. What ‘bigger picture'? What ‘longer term'? I thought we were discussing the fate of the Home Secretary's son. Just why
are
you here, Andrew? I should have known it wouldn't be to show empathy with a fellow human being!”

Andrew was silent for a long time.

“You're right,” he said. “I didn't come here to sympathise – or empathise – with anyone. I came to give you
my
feelings about the situation. You see, we are promising the people of this country that we will protect them from harm. We will keep the bad guys away from them until we've got rid of enough to persuade the rest to be good guys. And I think they believe we can do it – so far.

“Now … the bigger picture, the longer term, which, apparently, you have had neither the time nor the inclination to think about. If Jack
is
found to be innocent, it means someone has infiltrated the Home Secretary's home and perpetrated an elaborate frame-up right under the noses of some of the best security personnel in the land. The crème-de-la-crème of the very agencies charged with looking after everybody in the country. At which point that same ‘everybody-in-the-country' could be excused for thinking ‘how the fuck can they promise to look after us if this happens to the Home fucking Secretary; the very person who has designed the fucking system to protect us'. Sorry about the language, Grace, but you know how these common people talk.

“On the other hand, if handsome Jack-the-lad is found
guilty
, along with his little ethnic pal, of generating a bit of extra cash to supplement the inadequate spends bestowed on him by his rich and beautiful parents, then I believe people will
not
perceive this as a massive breach of security – just the work of a clever little bastard who no-one could have reasonably suspected. In fact, those same agencies of law and order will get quite a bit of kudos for sorting out the ungrateful little shit.

“So now, here's the dead easy question, Grace. Which outcome is best for us – and the country, of course – guilty or not guilty?”

Grace's expression betrayed her mounting horror at what she was hearing.

“Don't look so bloody shocked, Grace. You're not exactly whiter than white when it comes to manipulating justice.” His voice was rising now.

“Manipulating justice! What exactly are you suggesting?”

“I'm not suggesting anything, Grace. Heaven forbid. As I said, there's nothing we can do to influence it. Well, there's certainly nothing
I
can do. I mean it would be totally out of the question for
me
to interfere in the process of justice, wouldn't it?”

“Andrew, if you're asking me to get involved with a view to…” she almost shouted at him.

“Grace, I haven't asked you to do anything. I've simply stated, very objectively, the outcome that I believe would be best for the country as a whole. As I said, whichever way it goes, it's a major embarrassment. I just think an embarrassment is enough of a setback, without an attendant crisis of confidence in this government. That's all.”

“I'm still not sure. …” Her eyes suddenly blazed with anger. “This is Tom Brown we're talking about. The hero of the NJR, as you recently called him. And this is how you recognise this man's loyalty?”

Andrew thrust his face close to hers.

“This man! This man! Do you mean
this man
who you've been spying on for me for the past four years? Have you forgotten all those years of pretending to be his strong right hand, when all the time you were feeding back to me every single word
this man
had spoken to you in confidence? I shouldn't be in too much of a hurry to set yourself up as a loyalty consultant,
Miss Goody
!”

Grace glared back at him then dropped her eyes.

“If Jack
is
innocent,” Andrew continued, backing off a little, “of course I wouldn't want him to be exiled. But I repeat – it would not be a disaster for
us
– this government – if he were found guilty. I am not suggesting we should – or could – do anything to bring about such a verdict, but neither let us expend any time or energy pushing for a ‘not guilty' vote. We should clearly declare our sympathy for the Tomlinson-Browns, but
not
our support. Our support must be for our new system of justice. We have to be transparently objective throughout. Do we understand each other?”

Grace nodded.

“What I will say, though,” he continued, “is that if the verdict
is
guilty, then I want the process from that moment fast-tracked to completion. If they have to jump the queue to get them onto Alpha quickly, then I want you to make it happen. Okay? There will be no benefit in having this thing dragged out.”

As he rose to leave, he leaned across to Grace again, this time offering his hand. She looked at it for several seconds before standing herself and taking it limply. Andrew smiled.

“Let's not fall out, Grace. We're soul mates, you and I. Haven't you always felt that?”

*

“It's not official yet,” said Daniel, “but the police will be charging Jack and Jason tomorrow. That's the latest they can do it after taking advantage of the full seven days for questioning, and they've let us know their intention in advance.”

They were sitting exactly where they had been seventy-two hours ago when Daniel had outlined the case against Jack and Jason to them, and he, as before, was pacing the floor in front of them.

Neither Tom nor Mags were able to speak.

“Nothing's got any worse over the past six days,” Daniel went on. “We pretty well knew they'd be charged as soon as we saw the evidence, didn't we? So this isn't a backward step. We'll request bail, of course, but this will be turned down. We have also let them know we will be asking for the maximum six-week extension before the trial. They have indicated that we are likely to be granted just two extra weeks, giving us four to prepare. But that's fine; we'll be ready.

“Our counsel will be Lorna Prentiss. She's very good, excellent record and very happy to take the case, which is a good sign. Barristers with good reputations who can pick and choose who they represent don't readily accept cases they think they'll lose.”

They were silent for a long time before Mags spoke.

“So, as a friend, Dan, tell us what we should do now,” she said. “Pray, do you think?”

Daniel hesitated before replying.

“I can't see that it would do any harm.”

Four weeks later

Week 9; Tuesday, 19 May…

The venue for the trial was one of Guildford's new modern courtrooms in the annexe to the previous older courthouse. Its white walls, strip lighting and beech furniture and fittings were a marked contrast to the sombre dark-panelled rooms next door. Jack and Jason were seated side-by-side a yard apart in the dock, separated by an opaque Perspex screen. They were both smartly dressed in lounge suits, Jack's shirt was open-necked; Jason wore a tie.

The judge, Justice Miles Pendle, was a very large and impressive figure, with a round ruddy face and extensive white side-burns. His size was further accentuated by his flowing gown and wig. Even so, as if these attributes were not imposing enough, he chose to break with tradition by standing to address the court.

“Before we start the proceedings, let me say a few words to all present on two aspects of this case. Firstly, one of the defendants is already known to you. At least, his family background is known to you. Hugh Jacob – known as Jack – Tomlinson-Brown is the son of our Home Secretary, Tom Brown. Mr Brown is a man who has deservedly received much acclaim in recent years across the UK and far beyond; someone who has transcended party-political boundaries in acquiring his popularity and a man, you may think, who has made a greater contribution than any other individual to the betterment of our communities. He is someone for whom we should rightly have the highest regard.”

Tom heard Mags give a half-sob, half-snort beside him.

“Secondly, the charge – which will be shortly read out – has been the subject of much discussion recently. I am sure you are aware of this and I do not propose at this juncture to further expand on it.

“For these two reasons, the case has attracted much attention in the media over the past few weeks, and we must accept that today, and for the duration of the proceedings, we will all be under the spotlight. This places an even greater burden than usual on those in this courtroom to behave with dignity, restraint and diligence in the pursuit of our decision concerning these two young men. As such, I must warn you all that I will not tolerate any extraneous comments or outbursts, and any person or persons disrupting the smooth running of this court will be asked to leave and forcibly removed if they refuse. I trust that is
absolutely clear
to everyone.”

He swept the room with a menacing glare to reinforce his words before sitting down and nodding to the person just to his left in front of him.

“Mr Simpson.”

The Clerk of the Court rose to his feet and looked up briefly at Jack.

“Hugh Jacob Tomlinson-Brown, you are hereby charged under the Misuse of Drugs Act with being concerned in the supplying of cocaine, a class A drug. Do you plead guilty or not guilty?”

Jack was staring at the floor in front of him, head bowed, and when he spoke his voice was barely audible. “Not guilty.”

The judge leaned forward in his seat.

“Could the defendant please speak up so the court can hear his plea.”

“Not guilty,” said Jack, only marginally louder.

“Thank you,” said the judge, with the slightest of sighs, and nodded again to the clerk.

“Jason Louie Midanda, you are hereby charged under the Misuse of Drugs Act with being concerned in the supplying of cocaine, a class A drug. Do you plead guilty or not guilty?”

“Not guilty.” Jason's response was in sharp contrast to Jack's – loud and strong, projecting a clear sense of purpose.

“Thank you,” said Justice Pendle and turned to the Crown Prosecutor. “Mr Forsythe, please proceed.”

Jeremy Forsythe QC rose slowly to his feet and walked over to where the jury was seated, looking round the courtroom as he did so. The Crown Prosecutor was slim and no more than average height, with sharp features, steel-grey eyes and an air of absolute confidence, which, in spite of his limited stature, made for a commanding presence.

“This is a simple case,” he said, addressing the jury. “There are no mysteries, no subtleties, no complex clues to unravel. Yours is a huge responsibility, but on this occasion, we will make your task easier by presenting you with a wealth of evidence pointing clearly in one direction. Over the next couple of days, the testimonies of a number of highly competent and dependable witnesses will lead you unwaveringly towards one irrefutable conclusion – that the defendants standing before you are guilty as charged.

“To set the scene and put those forthcoming testimonies in chronological context, I call to the witness stand Detective Inspector Harry Waters, the chief investigating officer in this case.”

A man in a creased grey suit entered the courtroom and walked the dozen or so paces to the witness stand. He stepped onto it and turned to face the jury.

“Inspector Waters,” said Jeremy, “could you please share with the court the events leading to our being here today, starting with the first of the phone calls you received.”

*

“I wonder if you can help me. I'm trying to locate a friend of mine. She's in her early thirties, about five-foot-five, three-quarters West Indian, very pretty with beautiful hazel eyes.”

Jo laughed.

“Is this one of those dodgy phone calls?” she said. “Because if it is you've not mentioned really sexy, great figure and legs…”

“Oh, you know her then? That's very encouraging.”

“How are you, David? And what have I done to deserve the call?”

“I'm very well, thank you, and I'm just checking that
you're
okay. When will you be called, do you think?”

“Most likely Thursday, just possibly last witness tomorrow.”

“And you're okay about it?”

“Not really, but I don't have to be, do I? It's just a job.”

“Sometimes that's the best way to look at things.”

“Actually, I was going to phone you later. Can you think of anything significant about the date today?”

David thought for a moment.

“Go on.”

“It was
exactly
three years ago to the very day that we arrested a certain John Alexander Deverall in a cemetery in Hammersmith.”

*

The spectators in the public galleries fell quickly silent under the critical gaze of Miles Pendle as Lorna Prentiss rose to her feet. The Defence counsel was a large, well-made, handsome woman, an inch taller than her opponent and with almost as deep a voice.

“DI Waters,” said Lorna, “how many of the people caught on camera and observed by the police were actually questioned?”

Harry Waters looked slightly uncomfortable. “None, ma'am. But we didn't need …”

“So basically all you have from that line of investigation are images of young people talking to each other in an area of Woking where masses of young people converse every day?”

“Yes, but …”

“No, that's okay, Inspector, just so we know what to expect when the Crown attempts to elaborate; so we don't get our hopes up in anticipation of something meaningful. No more questions for now.”

She resumed her seat and looked down at her notes in a gesture of total dismissal. DI Harry Waters stepped down.

“We will break here for lunch,” said Miles Pendle. “Be back in your seats by one-thirty prompt.”

“Court will rise.”

*

“Thank you for the comprehensive technical description of the security arrangements at Etherington Place, Mr Michaels,” said Lorna, cross examining. “I am sure that if there are any security experts present or listening in today, they will have found the depth of detail very interesting. But am I right in saying that on the night of the party there was a fault with one of the interior cameras?”

Greg Michaels was the last in Jeremy Forsythe's first parade of ‘competent and dependable' witnesses, and the head of the local agency responsible for security at Etherington Place. He was a squat, muscular man with a shaven head and a hard face. He was dressed in a formal suit, shirt and tie.

“Not exactly,” he replied. “The lens of the upstairs camera was sprayed with some lotion. So it wasn't a fault with the camera, as such.”

“No, I understand that, but it wasn't doing its job for a while is what I mean. Did you check it out?”

“Yes, I went to check it later.”

“Later?”

“We didn't want to be heavy-handed at the party – asked not to be, in fact – so we waited until it was a bit quieter and …”

“Wasn't that a bit of a risk?”

“Not really. The cameras are there primarily to pick up any intruders, not to spy on houseguests. We'd checked everybody in at the gates, searched them, recorded names and all, so we didn't see the problem as a risk.”

“What did you find when you checked it out?”

“Well, as I said, someone had sprayed this artificial tanning stuff onto the lens.”

“Why would anyone do that, do you think, Mr Michaels?”

“Well, it could have been just for a joke, but more likely to hide the identity of anyone using the bedrooms.”

A chuckle went around the gallery and some knowing nods were exchanged.

“But you don't know that for certain, do you?”

“Not for certain, but someone at the party actually told me that was why it was done. And it's happened before at other places I've covered on similar occasions.”

Lorna sat down with an inward sigh.

*

Mags was sitting on the far side of their bed with her back to him. Tom could see her shoulders shaking.

“Mags, are you okay?”

She didn't answer for a long time.

“Who was that young man in the courtroom?” she said eventually in a small voice. “I didn't recognise him.”

Tom went quickly to sit beside her and put an arm round her shoulders. She stiffened for a moment then all but collapsed against him.

“I don't know,” said Tom. “Not our little wolverine, that's for sure.”

Mags sat up and stared ahead.

“The truth is he has no notion of self preservation, has he? And it's our fault.”

“But Mags, we've done everything we could – for both our kids. If he's going to get through this, he has to stand up for himself. He's nearly twenty years old and …”

“But that's the point,” Mags interrupted. “He's spent his whole life in a cocoon; one that we made for him. He's never had to do anything for himself. We've left him totally unequipped to confront adversity of any kind.”

*

Week 9; Wednesday, 20 May…

The sun streamed in through the high windows along the wall opposite the judge's dais on the morning of the second day of the trial. The two counsels were conferring as the jury filed in and people settled in their seats in the public galleries. Technicians set up recording equipment and carried out their sound checks for the Legal Live broadcast. The defendants were escorted to the dock and at precisely 10.00 am Miles Pendle swept into the room to start proceedings.

“As you've already heard from DI Waters and his colleagues,” Jeremy Forsythe said to the jury, “over a period of ten days, seven users phoned the police all with information about supplies of cocaine, which had caused them to be ill. They also gave descriptions of the suppliers of those drugs. Subsequently, four of these were persuaded to come forward and meet with the police. We have taken statements from all four and I am quite prepared to ask each of them to take the stand. However, as we are tasked with expediting these proceedings, I would like to call just one of these and have the statements of the other three read out to the court.”

Miles Pendle nodded and turned to Lorna with the unspoken question.

“I am happy to agree to that, m'lord, with the proviso that any of them can be questioned if we perceive any anomalies or irregularities in any aspects of the statements.”

The judge nodded again and turned back to Jeremy. “Proceed.”

“Thank you, m'lord. I call William Wade to the stand.”

A thin white man in his early twenties walked in, looking round and grinning as he approached the witness stand. He took the stand and gave a little wave to someone in the public gallery. He looked reasonably presentable, albeit uncomfortable, in an open-necked pale blue shirt and light grey suit, the formality of his clothes off-set by a pair of bright white trainers.

“You are William Torstein Wade of Manvers Street, Byfleet?” Jeremy asked.

The witness grinned again. “I guess.”

Miles Pendle roared at him from three yards away. “You
guess
! Well are you or aren't you?” He turned to Jeremy. “Mr Forsythe, I hope you are not going to waste the court's time by producing witnesses who are not sure of their own name!”

“No, sorry, m'lord. Please allow me to ask the witness again. Are you William Torstein –
known as Billy
– Wade?”

“Definitely,” said Billy Wade, still grinning.

“Thank you, Mr Wade. Could you please tell the court how you came into possession of the cocaine which made you ill?”

“Sure. I got it from that guy over there.” He pointed to the dock.

“Which of the defendants do you mean, Mr Wade?” asked Jeremy.

“The white guy – Jake. He was the one.”

“And how did he deliver the cocaine?”

“Same as always. Jordan Street in Woking. Round the back of Delaware. Same place, same time every other week. I phone him and we meet.”

“Can you remember the number you phone to arrange the meetings?”

Billy grinned again. “You bet, I'd just about die if I forgot that.” He said the number, pausing briefly between each digit, whilst Jeremy checked it against a note he held in his hand. He repeated the number, reading it from the note.

“Let the court know,” he said, turning to the jury, “that this is the number of the phone found at Etherington Place on the night of the raid, and that records confirm that calls were made to that number from Mr Wade's own mobile phone.”