Heaven's Door (26 page)

Mags began crying again. “Oh, Jack, please let him come back in. I'm sure …”

“It's too late, Mum. I knew
you
would believe me. I never doubted that for a moment. But I guess I always wondered…”

He broke down himself again and they held each other tightly in silence for a long time. Tom turned away and leant against the opposite wall of the passageway, his forehead resting on his folded arms, oblivious to his audience and with tears running and dropping to the floor. He heard Mags' voice again and turned back to the screen.

“Please let your father come back in, Jack. I know he won't if you don't want him to, but I think you should.”

Jack remained still in his mother's embrace for a long time, and then gave a single nod of his head.

“Is that yes?” asked Mags.

Jack nodded again, without speaking. Phoebe rose from her chair and opened the door, inviting Tom to enter without looking at him.

“Ten more minutes,” she said.

He stood just inside the door as it closed behind him. Mags looked across at him and smiled through her tears. He walked quickly across the room and put his arms around them both.

“We've ten minutes left,” he whispered. “Until next time,” he added. “And I do believe you, Jack, I really do.”

Jack sat up. When he spoke, it was to Tom, and his voice was cold again.

“Well, if that's true – I mean if you
really
believe that I'm innocent, then it goes without saying that you must also believe that someone is guilty of setting me up. And, with time running out, I expect you are currently bringing to bear all the resources at your disposal in order to find them. And that being the case, then I won't keep you, Father. Best you leave right away and get on with it before it's too late.”

Tom sat back down on his chair.

“I'm doing what I can. Please believe me. I'm sorry if I let you down today. Your mum is right, though. I love you very much.”

No-one spoke again until the door opened and Phoebe entered the room.

“Time's up, I'm afraid,” she said, adding, “until tomorrow, of course.”

Mags had continued holding Jack and now she slowly stood up looking very unsteady. Tom rose from his chair and stepped over to them, taking Mags's hand again and placing the other on Jack's shoulder.

Jack tilted his head sideways so it lay briefly on his father's hand. It was the smallest of gestures. Mags bent down to him again and placed her arms around his neck, kissing him gently on the forehead.

“Until tomorrow,” she said.

Jack suddenly looked up.

“Where's Katey?” he asked.

“With Jason and his mum,” Mags replied. “She sends her love and said she'll see you soon.”

He nodded. “It had better be
very
soon,” he said, almost to himself, as they left the room.

*

“Hello, Home Secretary? It's Phoebe here, Prison Officer at Guildford. Excuse me for calling you at home, but …”

“How did you get this number?”

“Mr Mackay let me have it. He said you wouldn't mind.”

“That depends,” said Tom. “Is it Jack? Is he alright?”

“Yes, sir, but he has asked if he could see you separately at some time. He seems to want it kept secret from the rest of your family. Perhaps you can give me a time, one morning perhaps in the next couple of days…”

“Did he say what it's about?”

“No, he's just mentioned it now; he said it was private.”

“I see,” said Tom, absently.

“I really think you should say yes, sir.”

“Oh, of course,” said Tom. “I was just wondering why – I mean – it having to be kept secret from … and all. Look, I won't say tomorrow, because I don't want to leave my wife on her own just yet. Possibly the day after. Would you explain that to Jack, please? So he doesn't think I'm just putting him off. I know he worries about his mum, like I do, so I'm sure he'll understand.”

“It would be better if I could tell him
definitely
the next day, sir. It would be good for him to have something certain to be thinking about.”

“Okay, definitely the next day,” said Tom. “What time's best, do you think?”

“As early as possible. Could you make it, say, eight o'clock?”

Tom thought for a moment.

“That's fine,” he said, ending the call.

He heard the front door close. Looking out of his office window, he saw Mags get into her Range Rover and drive off.

*

It was almost 5.00 pm. Jo was planning an early start to the weekend which she had arranged to spend with her friend in London. Someone's outline appeared behind the frosted glass door of her office.

“Come in,” said Jo, before they had chance to knock.

Detective Constable Shana Whitlock entered, closing the door behind her and leaning with her back against it.

“Hi, Shans,” said Jo. “You look very furtive.”

“Sorry, I know you're trying to get a flyer, ma'am, but there's someone here to see you.”

“Well? Who? Not Leonardo di Capprio!? Oh for God's sake, that guy won't take ‘no' for an answer …”

Shana smiled.

“Do you seriously think I'd be in here telling you if it was? I'd be out there with him, claiming I was you.” She became serious. “No, but it is someone you might want to see. In fact, I'm not sure it would be a good idea to avoid …”

“Okay, okay, I give in.
Please
tell me who it is …”

“Maggie Tomlinson-Brown.”

Jo looked at her, wide-eyed.

“Are you sure? Well of course you are. I didn't mean that. I mean … what does she want?”

“To see you, that's all she'd say. Oh, except could she see you somewhere more private, so she doesn't have to walk through …?”

“Yes, of course,” said Jo, thinking about the circumstances of the only time they had previously met. “Is she angry? How does she seem?”

“Very keen to see you,” said Shana. “You could use the Chief's office now he's gone. I could bring her up the back stairs. She's waiting outside.”

“Okay. I'll go there now and wait.”

Her reaction to seeing Mags was one of shock and disbelief. Jo was sure she would not have recognised her if they had been the only two people in a lift together. She still had the same stunningly beautiful presence, but her face was thinner and her expression reflected the desperate agony of recent weeks. Even so, she was composed and surprisingly gracious, given Jo's role in the current plight of her son. She shook her hand and thanked Jo for seeing her. They sat down, facing each other across John Mackay's desk.

“This is completely off the record, Detective Inspector, so please hear me out. I absolutely promise you that I will not repeat anything we talk about today to another living soul. Unless you want me to, of course.”

Jo nodded slowly. Mags hesitated, as if choosing her words carefully.

“I know for absolute certain that my son is innocent.”

She spoke very slowly and paused after the statement. Jo took a sharp intake of breath.

“You would expect me to say that, of course,” she continued, smiling thinly, “so nothing unusual there. However, what would be much more unusual is if
you
believed he was innocent as well.”

Jo's stomach did a little flip.

“I don't suppose it really matters one way or the other what you believe,” Mags went on. “You catch the bad guys –
suspected
bad guys – and hand them over with the evidence for someone else to decide what to do with them. That's what you've done in relation to this particular case; and done it well, I believe. Certainly my husband thinks so. But that doesn't mean that the right verdict was reached in that courtroom on Tuesday, does it?”

“Mrs Tomlinson Brown …”

“That's such a mouthful,” Mags smiled again. “Please call me Maggie.”

“I was not the investigating officer on the case. In fact, I was not even part of the investigating team. I …”

“That's the reason – well, one of the reasons – I wanted to see you.” Mags went on. “Not the
main
reason, I have to say. The main reason is that I think you might share my feelings about Jack's innocence. Not with the same absolute conviction, of course, but certainly with some strong doubts.”

Jo's stomach flipped again as Mags continued.

“You were there when the stuff was found. You saw Jack before you found it; you observed his reactions afterwards. You must have believed he had no idea it was there.”

She looked into Jo's eyes, searching for some sign of agreement.

“Go on,” she said, blankly.

“And then in court,” Mags continued, “when you were questioned, it seemed to me you wanted to say more than you were allowed to – or say it more
forcefully
than you were allowed to. You wanted to say that if he had been guilty, there was no way –
no way
– he would have behaved like that. The more I go over it in my mind, the more I feel it.”

Mags watched her steadily, their eyes locked. Neither spoke for a half a minute. Jo broke the silence.

“You said something about my not being the investigating officer being the other reason – or something?”

“That's right,” said Mags, relaxing her gaze. “You were one step away from the action. You can take a detached view, with no axe to grind. I couldn't ask you if you had been the officer in charge.”

“Ask me what, Mrs Tomlinson-Brown?”

“Maggie, please,” said Mags.

“Ask me what, then, Maggie?” Jo leaned further forward. Mags clasped her hands together on the desk in front of her.

“I want you to find who it was who set up my son before it's too late,” said Mags, her now small voice wavering in a hoarse whisper. Her composure left her as her true feelings surged to the surface. Jo instinctively reached across and clasped Mags's hands in hers.

“Mrs … Maggie,” she said softly. “Even if you were right in what you say, they can't re-open the case without further evidence. You must know that, with your legal background. There's nothing I …”

“I'm begging you, Detective Inspector. Somebody
must
do something.
Please!
” She was shaking now, tears falling. “It wasn't your case. You said that. So you could express concern at how it was handled. Say you're not satisfied – or something. Anything! Some day the truth
will
come out. Jack – and Jason –
will
be shown to be innocent. I just want it to be in time. Don't you?”

Two days later

Week 10; Sunday, 31 May…

Tom arrived at the holding centre at 7.35 am for his meeting with Jack, feeling a little easier in his mind. The previous day his son's behaviour had been more stable, with none of the mood swings of the first visit. He was struck by the complete absence of any traffic, until he realised that it was Sunday. He was not even surprised that he hadn't known what day it was, each one now simply representing an equal step in the terrifying count-down.

When he entered the room, he saw that the glass screen had been lifted out of sight and the prison officer with Jack was already activating his door in order to leave. Tom noted that the room seemed to get larger with each subsequent visit as he became accustomed to its confines.

Jack was wearing the same clothes as on previous days, baggy jeans, black tee shirt and loose hooded top. It was clear as soon as Tom entered that he had a specific agenda. There was no exchange of pleasantries, and he was stiff and awkward when Tom went to embrace him. They sat facing each other on the chairs, Tom leaning forward, encouragingly, Jack in a neutral upright posture.

“I just wanted to chat through a few things,” he said. “You know, make sure I've got some memories right.” Tom was aware that his voice sounded mechanical, as if he had carefully rehearsed what he was saying.

“Yes, of course…” Tom began.

“A shame really that such private things have to be listened to by complete strangers,” his voice rising to emphasise the point to those observing outside, and turning as he spoke to stare accusingly into the camera.

“For example,” Jack went on, “you know when you were operating behind enemy lines; you must have felt scared at times about what would happen if you were taken alive. Terrified, probably; I've read a lot about the sort of things they did to members of the Special Forces that they captured.”

“Well, there were a lot of different ‘theys', Jack. Not all of them …”

“I mean the really bad ones. The ones that
did
do those things.”

“What about them, Jack?” Tom asked. “What exactly do you want to know?”

“I guess they're wondering that as well,” said Jack, nodding towards the camera. “Careful what you say, Jack,” he added in a child-like voice. “Don't want to confuse them, do you?”

He laughed loudly, without humour.

“Just tell me, Jack. You wanted me to come and see you on my own. Well, I'm here, and Mum doesn't know, like you asked. So what is it?”

“I'm just interested in your time in the Special Forces.” He was back to the script again, generating the words rather than articulating them. “How you coped with the prospect of capture and all that would follow.”

“It was part of the job, I guess. I don't even know whether I ever did think about …”

“When you were right there, knocking on Heaven's door.”

Tom went cold. Jack started singing, swaying from side to side.

“What … exactly?” Tom stammered.

“It's just a song, Dad,” Jack went on. “But it must have been a comfort all the same.”

“Another time, another place,” said Tom, his voice shaking, “and another person. Not really for …”

“But a concept that's transferable, surely?” Jack was sounding more like himself now. “You know what I'm saying, don't you?” he added.

*

Phoebe escorted Tom from the building and returned to the screen on the wall where she and Jools had observed his meeting with Jack.

“What was all that about?”

“Haven't a clue,” he said. “Let's run it again.”

He pressed the start button on the recorder and they settled down to watch the replay.

“Perhaps he's just a Dylan fan,” he added.

They watched it through and then sat in silence for some time puzzling over the conversation. Phoebe eventually spoke.

“I think we should get Em to watch this and then take it upstairs; let the Chief and the shrink have a look. Probably just the meanderings of the mind of a lost soul. But they can decide that. We'll add it to this morning's meeting with both parents, and then they can look at them together.” She checked her watch. “They'll be here in less than an hour.”

*

It was just after 9.15 am when he arrived home. Mags was getting up from the morning room table. He could see that she had eaten a reasonable breakfast for a change – there was an empty cereal bowl on the table, two empty eggshells and the remains of some toast. It was encouraging, though surprising, to see her taking her first meal in weeks at such a time.

“Are you ready to go?” he asked.

She looked up at the kitchen clock.

“Fifteen minutes,” she replied, and walked past him out of the room.

*

Jack was leaning back on his chair, legs spread out in front of him looking somewhere between relaxed and indifferent. They both embraced him awkwardly and sat down.

“How's Megan?” he asked, mentioning her for the first time and without much feeling.

“She sends all her love,” said Mags. “She's desperately sorry she can't see …”

“It's okay,” he interrupted.

The time went quickly. Mags did almost all the talking, while Tom looked blankly down at his clasped hands, turning over in his mind his earlier conversation with his son. It seemed a lot longer ago than just two hours. As they rose to leave, Jack looked intently at his father for some sign or guarded words of understanding. Tom produced neither.

“Everything cool, then?” said Jack, looking from one to the other but his eyes finally resting on Tom again.

Mags flashed Tom an enquiring look and then turned back to Jack.

“Sorry,” she said. “I'm not sure I understand …”

“Just man-words, Mum.” Jack gave a little laugh. “No specific meaning, eh, Dad?”

“That's right,” said Tom. “Just between us lads.”

As they left the room, Jack was singing again.

*

David Gerrard was watching a DVD when the doorbell rang. He pressed the ‘Pause' button on the remote; Lee Marvin froze on the boardwalk and Liberty Vallance's death sentence was reprieved, at least for the time being. He opened the front door. The attractive young woman outside held up an envelope.

“Delivery for Private Detective Hercule Gerrard of
deux
Neville Farm Fold.” She pronounced it ‘Gerrar', with emphasis on the second syllable.

David smiled. “Come in, Jo.”

He led them through to the kitchen-cum-dining room and they sat down across the table from each other.

Jo looked round in admiration.

“Very clean and tidy,” she said. “I
am
impressed, unless of course you simply don't
use
the kitchen.”

“Not today – yet. Just been for my Sunday lunch at the Dog, actually,” he said, patting his stomach with both hands. “I can get served there straight away when I don't have somebody with me.”

Jo laughed, then looked round again, this time with a frightened expression on her face.

“Is this the room?” she said in a whisper.

David leaned across to her.

“Yes,” he whispered back. “Right where you're sitting now.”

“Ugh!” Jo gave an exaggerated shudder. “I thought it was cold in here. Is it haunted do you think?”

“Well if it is I'm too insensitive to see anything. And this isn't the room, anyway, in fact. It's upstairs where the bathroom and box room are now. So unless you want to spend a penny, you'll be safe enough.”

“I can't promise,” said Jo, smiling. “Anyway, I bet you didn't expect me to change my mind; not in a million years?”

“Not in a billion,” said David. “Well, I certainly didn't expect a personal visit. I thought a phone call or perhaps an email.”

“Better this way. No audit trail or whatever. As long as there are spies and secrets, I reckon there'll always be a paper industry. So you
did
expect me to change my mind?”

“I thought it was somewhere between just possible and highly likely.”

Jo laughed.

“Why did you offer to do this?” she asked. “Not that I'm not grateful, obviously.”

“Because I'd like to help you put this behind you. I don't think we'll find anything, but you have better instincts than anyone I've ever worked with, so it's worth a look. Anyway, it's your neck on the block if anyone finds out you're sneaking around trying to undo a conviction. So why are
you
prepared to do this? You weren't the investigating officer; you're not responsible for the end result.”

“Yes,” she said, “it
is
my neck on the block and I think someone has just inadvertently loosened the guillotine. I had a visitor on Friday afternoon. Maggie Tomlinson-Brown, no less.”

David listened without speaking as Jo described their meeting.

“So, to answer your question about why I'm doing it, it's because I
have
to; because I promised to. And anyway, if I didn't, I'd always wonder if I should have.”

David shook his head. “Not good,” he said. “Puts a lot of pressure on you, doesn't it?”

“Well, no more than before, really. I mean, my mind was already some way down that road.”

“Yes, but that was just
you
checking things out. For Jack's mother, it's so much more than that. I know which way you're leaning at the moment, but I think it's much more likely that you'll satisfy yourself that they're guilty than convince yourself that they're not.”

“Well, I'm not sure I agree …”

“I know that,” David interrupted, “but
if
you were to satisfy yourself it was the right conviction, then that would be enough for you; but it sure as hell won't be enough for Mrs T.”

Jo didn't reply, showing in her face the first sign of doubt.

“I'm just saying,” David went on, “that it would be better for you if you didn't have the responsibility now of meeting Mrs Tomlinson-Brown's expectations. Finding the truth isn't the measure of success any more – now, it's freeing Jack. The goalposts have moved big-time and that's what I mean by it putting pressure on you.”

“So do you think I should have refused to help Maggie?”

David thought for a long moment. “Yes, I do,” he said, finally, “but I doubt if
I
would have done.”

Jo smiled and they were both silent for a while.

“So, what have we got?” he asked. “But before that, can I get you a drink – tea, coffee, Southern Comfort?”

“Nothing for me, thanks,” said Jo. “Starting my first assignment as a Fart tomorrow – in Leicestershire. Got to get there for an early start in the morning, so can't stay long. But I'll take a rain-check on the moonshine for the next time I come.”

She opened the envelope and emptied its contents onto the table. There was a collection of documents and several glossy A4 photographs of a thin, slightly-stooping white man of average height, showing him face-on, side-face, some with him wearing a hood and four very grainy CCTV stills in which he was talking to a tall, good-looking young man in a street somewhere.

“This is one of the guys caught on camera; known to the police, but … well, impossible to find, apparently. I'm afraid it's too risky going after any of the ones that came forward. They'd be easy to contact but they were guaranteed police protection for a period after the trial. Can't have you being picked up by the filth for harassing people. Think of your pension. Anyway, they'd obviously been very well briefed and it's not likely to be easy to get them to change their story.”

“Except that they could have been telling the truth, of course. You now seem to be coming at this from the point of view that it was definitely a set-up.”

“No, but we have to assume that it
might
have been, or there's no point in doing any of this?”

David thought for a moment and then nodded. “So what have we got?” he asked again.

“One Lawrence Harvey Newhouse – known as Laser – aged thirty-one; unemployed, serial user, both soft and hard; since the amnesty, as far as we know, just soft. Twelve separate convictions for theft, including aggravated robbery with an offensive weapon – twice – a screw-driver each time. One ABH, in addition to these cases, making unlucky thirteen overall. Lives in Cobham, officially, but dosses all over the place. Four of the offences, including the ABH, took place in Central London, in or just outside a tube station. Done time twice, short stretches, each of six months.”

“Six months for ABH?”

“Pre-NJR. And it was one of his earlier offences; also some mitigation; self-defence, provocation, six-of-one – that sort of thing.”

David sighed. “Carry on.”

“Address and phone number of the place in Cobham where he's registered for benefits.” Jo handed David a single sheet of paper. “The property isn't in his name, not surprisingly. It's a small guesthouse run by an elderly aunt or something. The Nook, Ivygreen Avenue. Apparently he's very rarely there, although he's seen fairly frequently near the rail station.”

“I wouldn't have thought there'd be much action in Cobham,” said David.

“Well, none of the action has actually been
in
Cobham – at least none that's come to our attention. Two of the four incidents at tube stations have been at Waterloo, which is where the main line from the town links with the underground. Most of the other incidents have been close to stations on that line. So he seems to spread himself around – or along – when it comes to his day job.”

“Jason lives in Cobham, doesn't he?”

“
Used
to live there, you mean,” said Jo. “Yes, Copley Road, on a small estate on the Byfleet side. I doubt that's significant, though. As I said, this guy, Laser, is hardly ever there, according to his aunt, so it's unlikely he and Jason have ever met. There's a big age difference as well.”