Lost Souls Read online

  HOTEL ST KILDA

  LOST

  SOULS

  MICHAEL KNAGGS

  Copyright © 2016 Michael Knaggs

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,

  or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents

  Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in

  any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the

  publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with

  the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries

  concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events

  and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination

  or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons,

  living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Matador

  9 Priory Business Park,

  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: 0116 279 2299

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

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  ISBN 9781785896644

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  For Carol

  Also by Michael Knaggs

  Catalyst

  Heaven’s Door

  For a list of characters featuring in the three books of the Hotel St Kilda series, see the author’s website:-

  www.michaelknaggs.co.uk

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THE SHIANT ISLANDS

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ‘What man of you, having a hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it?’

  Luke 15

  ‘It is better to risk saving a guilty person than to condemn an innocent one.’

  Voltaire

  CHAPTER ONE

  Friday; 28 August

  “Just like in the movies,” the young man said to himself.

  He was of medium height and average build, with longish dark hair; and casually dressed in designer jeans, tee shirt and a tan leather jacket. He was seated on a bench, looking out across the nearly-deserted park at a shining lake where a mother and her small child pitched lumps of bread at a squabbling group of ducks in front of them. Until now, except for one elderly lady walking her border terrier a hundred yards or so away to his right, they had been the only visible signs of humanity in the tranquil grassy oasis close to the town centre.

  He wondered how many times he’d watched this scene play out in spy films and TV dramas. The only thing that was missing was a rolled-up newspaper under the arm of the man who was approaching him. Instead, he was carrying a small day-pack, which he removed from his back and placed between them on the bench as he sat down.

  The new arrival was tall, in his early thirties, with handsome chiselled features and short, dark hair. He was wearing an immaculate charcoal grey lounge suit, pale blue shirt and navy-and-grey striped tie. He also wore a pair of soft leather gloves.

  “Sorry,” the first man said, with a smile which was close to a sneer. “I’ve forgotten the password.”

  The newcomer fixed him with an intense stare from behind his dark-tinted glasses. The first man broke the uneasy silence.

  “I mean, this is all a bit John le Carré isn’t it?”

  The stranger raised his eyebrows in surprise, still remaining silent.

  “Some of us do read things other than the back page of The Sun, in case you’re wondering. Anyway, why didn’t the big guy come himself?”

  His companion looked momentarily confused, and then smiled.

  “You needn’t concern yourself with the chain of command.”

  He nodded towards the bag. The first man unbuckled the single strap, lifted the flap and peered inside. He let out his breath.

  “What if I say no?”

  “Then there’ll be five instead of four.”

  He closed the flap again, fastening the strap and slumping back on the bench, legs out-stretched in front of him.

  The stranger raised his eyebrows again; this time with a question.

  “Okay?”

  The first man nodded, nervous now. It was a long time before he spoke again.

  “When?”

  “Down to you. But a week from today I’ll expect to have read all about it. Then we meet again back here. I’ll let you know when.”

  He got up from the bench, leaving the day-pack and walking away.

  *

  Jonathan Latiffe rose from his chair as his visitor was shown into his office. He reached across the desk to receive the Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State for Prisons with a firm handshake. The Under-Secretary was tall, with an upright posture and a mane of grey hair which accentuated his height. Even so, his physical presence was diminished by the huge figure of the senior man, who was two or three inches taller and with a considerable girth held in place by a mid-grey three-piece suit. His dark blue tie matched the colour of his twinkling eyes. A native Black South African in his mid-forties, his greying tight curls and neatly-trimmed full beard added a distinguished element to his imposing bulk.

  “Good morning, Lawrence.” He beamed at his colleague, waving him to sit down. “It must be the 28th August.”

  “Indeed it is, Minister, and they got underway right on schedule. You’ll want the names again, I presume.” He placed a three-page document on the desk in front of Jonathan.

  “Thank you.” The Minister of Justice scanned the alphabetical list of prisoners’ names, slowing to focus on a few in the middle, before skipping through to the end. “Anyone here I should recognise, be aware of, anything at all?”

  “None that I know of, sir. A mix of street terrorists and dealers, mainly the former. This will take Alpha up to five hundred and ninety-eight – two less than plan because of the two deaths in the first group.”

  “Quite. And the hotel expansion? Any update on Beta? Are we still looking at second quarter next year?”

  “That’s right, sir.” He paused as if choosing his words carefully. “But it’s a tight schedule and, if I may be so bold, Minister, I think what we are missing right now is a Tom Brown to push from the highest level. I know the Prime Minister is determined that the new regime must manage itself without parliamentary interference, but the Home Secretary was so hands-on in getting the first platform completed. That high-level involvement is conspic
uously absent, however hard the current team is pushing.”

  Jonathan sighed. “Well, I’m afraid there is – or, perhaps, was – only one Tom Brown and from what I hear, he’s hardly in a fit state to manage himself right now, never mind anything else. I think the sooner the PM gets round to appointing a successor, the better – even though he or she won’t have the same focus on the Exiles.”

  “Will it be you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  Jonathan smiled. “When I checked this morning, I was still second favourite at five-to-two, well behind Hewlett at seven-to-four on.”

  “I’m really surprised she’s emerged as the front runner – you know, after resigning from the shadow position.”

  “Well, remember that was in the aftermath of the abduction of her daughter, and it was nearly three years ago. But it’s the Press that are pushing for the appointment. She won a lot of friends when she gave up the Shadow Cabinet role to concentrate on her own constituents – which was the official reason for her resignation. And our leader likes the Press on his side – God knows he’s used them to good effect often enough in the past – so he might just go with popular opinion. You can bet he’ll look at all the angles.”

  “And would it bother you if you didn’t get it?”

  Jonathan hesitated. “I guess it would in a way. Not for me personally, but it would send out such a powerful message if we had a black Home Secretary.” He smiled. “It would be ironic, wouldn’t it, if the Minister for Diversity prevented that happening by getting appointed herself?”

  “I think the Press would love it,” Lawrence chuckled. “In fact, that might be the very reason why they’re pushing for it to happen.”

  Both men laughed.

  “Anyway, we’ll see,” Jonathan said. He stood up to signal that the meeting was over and his colleague got to his feet. “Thank you, Lawrence. Just remind me when the next lot will be leaving.”

  “Four weeks from now, Minister, on the 24th September. And it will be the maiden voyage of PTV2 with two hundred on board. Then we wait for Beta.”

  *

  Monday; 31 August

  Delaware Street was alive with young people, mostly students, bustling in and out of the cafes, bars, takeaways and amusement arcades which, along with a few charity shops and estate agents, lined the pavements on both sides. They chatted and laughed in small groups, which spilled across the road almost blocking the thoroughfare to traffic. The man standing in one of the charity shop doorways looked – and felt – very conspicuous.

  At a couple of weeks shy of his fifty-sixth birthday, David Gerrard was over twice the age of any of the people milling around him. Not only that, but he was dressed very conservatively in a dark blue blazer, white open-necked shirt, grey trousers and black lace-up shoes. It would not have been his chosen outfit for this venue had he not decided to go there directly from a pre-term meeting of staff at the local College of Higher Education close to where he lived in the small village fifty miles away.

  He completely filled the doorway of the shop which, at 6.30 on a Monday evening, was closed. Its small entrance served to accentuate his huge two-metre-tall frame and massive shoulders and upper body. He felt very much like the proverbial sore thumb, even though, he had to concede, no-one seemed to be taking any notice of him.

  It was the fourth time he’d been on this street, and on each occasion he had been looking for the same person. His second and third visits had been during the previous three days when his feeling of self-consciousness had been offset slightly by what he believed was more appropriate kit of tee shirt, jeans, leather jacket and trainers.

  The first time had been exactly three months ago.

  A small group of people burst noisily from one of the bars across the street. Two young men and a girl, all around twenty or so, were arguing with a man in his forties who looked as out of place there as David. He was clearly the worse for drink, his hair long and uncombed, his face a mass of stubble. But his clothes, though casual, looked expensive and fashionable. He was tall and slim and, apart from his unsteadiness, looked in good shape.

  One of the two young men stepped right up to him so their faces were just inches apart.

  “Look, just fuck off! We don’t want you in there. Fucking whining and asking questions, trying to take over the place.” He pushed the older man in the chest, causing him to stagger just a little, more from the effect of alcohol than the actual shove. He recovered quickly and stepped forward, pushing back hard. The young man went shooting backwards, falling heavily, his legs flying up in the air almost sending him over in a backward roll.

  “Don’t you ever put your hands on me!” the older man shouted at him.

  He got to his feet, but chose to stay a safe distance away and say nothing more. A number of people had followed them out of the pub and were watching the action unfold. A few were shouting obscenities at the older man and some were taking photographs on their iPhones.

  The girl stepped forward, putting a friendly arm around him. “Look, just go – please. No point in getting into any trouble. Sorry about all that…” She nodded towards his assailant, who hadn’t moved or spoken. He shrugged himself free of the girl’s arm and strode off down the street to a chorus of laughter and jeers. The girl watched him go and shook her head, her forehead creased in a frown.

  David had seen the same man there last Friday and had barely recognised him at first. What he still didn’t know was why he was there. He set off to follow him.

  The pursuit did not last long. A black cab was disgorging a group of students further down the street. The man put on a spurt and stopped the cab just as it was about to pull away, slipping into the back. A few seconds later, it did a quick three-point turn and sped away.

  *

  The black cab pulled into Grindalls Road, stopping immediately in front of the beer garden of the Cross Keys public house. The rear nearside passenger door opened and Tom Brown almost fell onto the pavement. He steadied himself against the cab, fumbling with his wallet.

  “Eleven pounds fifty,” the driver said, without looking at him.

  Tom pulled out a clutch of notes, looking for a five to go with one of the tens. He didn’t have one. He reached into the pocket of his jeans, grabbing a fistful of change, all of which spilled out of his hand onto the ground. He watched glassy-eyed as the coins rolled in all directions.

  “Fuck!” he said to himself. “Got any change?”

  “No, sorry, mate.”

  “Well, what a surprise!” Tom said. He pulled out a twenty and threw it onto the seat next to the driver. The cab pulled away almost before Tom had extracted his hand.

  “Bastard!” he yelled as it disappeared round the corner. He turned towards the pub ignoring the cash scattered around at his feet.

  The beer garden was bathed in light from the low sun. It comprised a large area of decking, separated from the pavement by a low wooden picket fence, with twelve picnic style tables, each accommodating up to six people. All available seats were taken and everyone was looking at him. He raised both arms in the air.

  “Good evening, everyone!” he shouted. “Please, treat me as an equal. No autographs, but you may touch my garments as I pass.” He laughed and set off across the decking towards the open double-door entrance, colliding with a couple of tables on the way. Most of the drinkers continued to watch him with a sort of sad fascination; others looked away in disgust.

  He blinked several times until his eyes became more accustomed to the relative darkness of the interior. There were less people inside with only a few of the tables occupied and a line of four young men on stools at the bar. One of a quartet of girls in the far corner seemed to recognise him and nudged the one opposite her whose back was towards the door. The second girl turned round and got to her feet.

  “Oh, Mr Brown,” she said. “You’re here again.” />
  Tom screwed up his eyes in the direction of the voice, eventually focussing on its source.

  “Megan? Is that you, Megan?” he said, then shouted, “Wonderful to see you! How’re you doing?”

  “Not great, actually. What about you?”

  “Not great either,” he said, “but, hey, let me buy you girls a drink.”

  Megan’s three companions had got to their feet. “We were just going, actually,” said the girl who had first seen him, “but thanks all the same.”

  “One drink!” Tom’s voice carried to all corners of the room. Two of the men at the bar got down from their stools and turned towards them. Tom gave the girls his best attempt at a friendly smile. “How often do you get an offer like that from an ex-Home Secretary?”

  “It’s really nice of you, but…”

  “No-one leaves here without having a drink with me,” Tom’s voice carried genuine menace now.

  “Are you sure about that?” One of the men at the bar shouted across to him. Tom spun round, a little too quickly for his own good and staggered a couple of paces to his left. Megan caught his arm.

  “Mr Brown, I’d like to have a drink with you, but my friends have got to go. They were just about to leave when you came in.”

  Tom shook himself free of her hand and flopped on to a chair. Megan nodded to her friends who left hurriedly. The men at the bar sat down again.

  “I’ll have an orange juice, please, Mr Brown. What about you?”

  Tom looked at her for a long time. Megan was breathing fast, clearly very nervous.

  “Malt whisky,” he said, almost in a whisper, then very loudly. “A large malt whisky; in fact, a fucking huge malt whisky!”

  “Okay, I’ll go and get them. You just wait here.”